Murders for Sale

by Andre Norton

  She thought over the questions Thane had asked her and the last remarks he had made before leaving. It was all very well for him to accuse her of thinking up things when it was quite evident that he himself suspected that Catherine Clay’s death was ‘unnatural’. Otherwise why did he suddenly become formal and ask her questions? Why was he so stiff and so obviously relieved when he left her, and was able to say that he had found nothing whatever out of the way in the house? But what had he said about the grounds? “Only a few oddments”—Whatever could he mean by that?

  On a sudden impulse, Fredericka got up, walked down the steps on to the path and began, systematically, to explore the shrubbery and outbuildings as Thane’s policemen must have done.

  It was high time that she had a look around anyway. It had been a very busy morning that Chris had inconveniently chosen to show her the well with its rotting cover and her other visits to the outbuildings had been mainly to the old stable where, as Chris had explained, Miss Lucy stored her “extry books.”

  Skirting the spot where the hammock had hung, she went from the patch of lawn at that side of the house on through the tangle of bushes and weeds until she came to a tall wire fence that must mark the end of Miss Hartwell’s land. She then followed this boundary until she came to the stable storehouse which faced an alley that ran parallel to Beech Street and marked the end of Miss Hartwell’s land at the back. The alley must originally have been the carriage entrance to the stable. Fredericka took the key from its nail by the door, unlocked it and went inside. But she did not stay long. A quick look sufficed to show her that all was in order—at least more or less in order. Her survey told her that the stock needed attention, but the empty packing cases were in the old horse stalls and the books that had been unpacked were in orderly piles on shelves in the large central room. Well, she couldn’t bother with the stock now. She was glad to escape from the heat inside the stuffy building.

  Fredericka next followed the fence as it continued along the alley and was broken by the gate which was the entrance for the back path to the house. About twenty yards beyond the gate she came to an unexpected gap in the fence where the wires had been pressed back and an entrance forced. At this point the shrubbery was especially dense so that the spot was quite hidden. But who would want to force an entrance here when the gate was always open? She looked at the gap carefully and saw that the bent wires were rusted. It was not a recent break then. Some child’s prank perhaps.

  As she pushed her way on through the shrubbery she came suddenly on another building which she had never seen before. It was evidently an old greenhouse with large leaded panes of broken glass over half the roof and one side. She approached the battered door and was aware of a sudden feeling of apprehension. But when she summoned courage to push it open there was nothing much inside. The room was whitewashed but moss had grown over the stones at the base of the walls and the dirt floor looked damp. The place had, in fact, a thoroughly disused look, except for three or four very odd and surprising things. On the wall facing her at the end of the narrow room hung a mirror. Below it was a small shelf and a chair. Fredericka walked across to examine the objects on the shelf and to her further amazement found them to be a complete makeup kit and various and sundry odd bottles containing pinkish and bluish liquids, and on the shelf nearby a pile of old magazines and comics.

  “Exactly like an actress’s dressing room,” Fredericka said aloud and was relieved at the ordinary sound of her own voice. But perhaps a little damp and chill for a real prima donna. More like a playacting child. Yes, certainly, much more like Margie Hartwell. Undoubtedly, these were the oddments discovered by the police. Certainly they were odd, but equally certainly they could be explained away in ten minutes. No doubt Mrs. Hartwell disapproved. She would, of course. Poor Margie. Would any amount of cosmetics ever help that face?

  Of course this would explain the gap in the fence, too. Fredericka was able now to laugh at her senseless fears. She closed the door quietly behind her and stood still for a moment. Yes, it seemed obvious that it must have been Margie who had forced the break in the fence in order to get in and out from alley to greenhouse without being seen.

  There was little more left to explore except the orchard on the other side of the house but Fredericka felt restless and the thought of going back to the empty house depressed her. It would be better to get right away. She took Margie’s quick exit into the alley and turned left to walk in the opposite direction from the town.

  Before long the alley road became a narrow track through a thick wood. Ancient trees reached up on either side to make a leafy screen from the hot afternoon sun. It was cooler in the deep shade but Fredericka was aware of a dank smell of decay as in the crypt of an old church. The air was heavy and after walking on for some time, Fredericka grew tired. In spite of herself, she was oppressed by the silence, and when she saw a break in the trees ahead where a granite boulder crouched like a sleeping elephant, she decided to climb its back and sit down to rest. She found a perch on the top that was reasonably comfortable and shaded by a clump of white birches that seemed to be growing out of the rock itself.

  Perhaps she could sleep here and make up for her broken night and busy morning. She tried to lie down but the rock which looked so like the soft unresisting back of an animal, proved a most resisting and uncomfortable mattress. She sat up again and hugged her knees. Now she could hear the muted forest sounds—birds chattering quietly in the branches overhead, the faint rustle made by some small animal pushing its way through the undergrowth and the gentle creaking of the trees. Even here, sitting still, the heat weighed down on her. It’s as bad as the subway in rush hour, she thought; oppressive like a physical presence. She put her forehead into the palms of her hands and sighed. There was no escape anywhere.

  Then she heard it—the sudden definite sound that could only be a human step. She sat up and listened. Yes. It came again—a heavy crunch, slow and unmistakable.

  Fredericka felt an unreasoning panic. Who could be here, walking like this, with stealthy purposeful steps? They seemed to be coming in her direction. If only she could find a place to hide—or bring herself to make a dash for it and run away. But she could not move and she knew herself to be exposed like a statue on her rock. She must already have been seen. In an agony of suspense she heard herself call out weakly: “Who’s that?”

  Silence.

  Again she called out, trying to keep the panic from her voice.

  Then someone said: “I’m sorry. I’ve frightened you.”

  Fredericka swung around and there, directly below her, through the trees, she saw Roger Sutton. She stared at him without speaking and he looked quickly away. She struggled to find words and finally managed to say: “It’s all right” and then, as if some explanation for her presence was needed, she added: “I—just wanted to get away—”

  “So did I,” he said quietly. Then, almost accusingly, “You found my rock.”

  “Your rock?”

  “I’m sorry. It isn’t mine, of course, but I’ve always

  come here to be by myself ever since I was a kid.”

  Fredericka, on a sudden impulse, said slowly, “Well,

  come and sit here now. I’m about to leave anyway.”

  “No. I’ll just go on.”

  “Please stay for a minute anyway,” Fredericka heard herself say, with some surprise. She felt suddenly sorry for this young man who, though he would never be lost in the woods of South Sutton, was so obviously lost in himself.

  Roger sat down at a lower level of the rock and turned his back to her. “Forgive me if I seem rude,” he said slowly. “It isn’t you. It’s just—I can’t bear being looked at.”

  “I know,” Fredericka answered him quickly. “You don’t happen to have a cigarette, do you?”

  Roger fished a crumpled packet from his pocket and started to toss it up to her. Then, relenting, he climbed up to hand it to her and stayed to light her cigarette and his own. She did not look at
his face and, presently, he sat down near her. They smoked in silence for a moment and then Roger said, “Philippine says my next operation will be successful. Then, perhaps, I won’t be the object of pity—or disgust, any longer. Still, I don’t believe her.”

  “I expect Philippine does know though.”

  “Yes. But she might be trying to kid me. Oh hell, I don’t know—or care much any more. At any rate I don’t look a fright to Philippine. She’s seen plenty worse. She was right through the war in France, you know. Mostly in a concentration camp.”

  “Yes. I heard that.”

  “Already?”

  “It’s a small town. But as a matter of fact, she told me herself.” Fredericka laughed a little self-consciously. “And—I guess a bookshop manager can’t help soaking up gossip like a sponge.”

  Roger’s answering laugh was pleasant and genuine but he stood up suddenly. “I’m sorry but I must go now. I—I can’t sit still for long.”

  “I’m sorry, too,” Fredericka said, and meant it.

  “You’ve been kind,” Roger said. “I don’t know when I’ve talked as much as this to—to anyone—except mother and Philippine.” He stopped abruptly. Then as he jumped down from the rock he turned to say fiercely, “Everything was just beginning to get right. And then Catherine had to come home—”

  The bitterness and hatred in his voice startled Fredericka, but she sensed that if she was to keep him from dashing off into the forest, like the wild creature he was, she must make herself as emotionless as possible. She said quietly, “Please, may I have one more cigarette before you go?”

  “Of course,” he answered her at once and she noticed with relief that the tension of his body relaxed as he spoke. “You must forgive me,” he went on more slowly. “Catherine has made my life a misery from the time we were kids. She was four years older than I and she was a sadist by the time she was ten. She knew all my hidden fears—all my weaknesses—and she hated me because mother loved me in a way she never loved Catherine. It’s the old story, I guess—”

  He stopped, and Fredericka stared at him. A shadow fell across his scarred face as a breeze moved the leaves overhead and, in that instant, Fredericka saw the naked hatred in his eyes and in the set of his jaw. Could this man be the killer of his sister—this man, suffering his own private hell and goaded beyond endurance? Why should he talk to her—Fredericka—a complete stranger—like this, unless he wanted to cover up with a show of honesty. Now she wanted him to go. She stood up, as panic seized her, and then she heard herself say in a voice that was hard and unrecognizable: “I’m surprised you admit these things—now.”

  For a moment Roger stared at Fredericka in his turn and his ugly face became more than ever distorted. He took a step back toward the rock and Fredericka knew that he wanted to strike out at her. But he controlled the mad impulse with an effort that was apparent in every line of his thin body. Then, without a word, he turned away and disappeared as suddenly as he had come.

  The breeze moved again through the branches of the trees and its breath was dank and cold. Fredericka climbed down from the rock and then, fighting a childish impulse to dash to safety, made her way back to the path. But the black demon of her own fear pursued her through the Hansel and Gretel wood until at last she reached the haven afforded by the four walls of Miss Hartwell’s bookshop.

  Chapter 6

  If Fredericka had not been in so compelling a hurry to leave the town for the woods and had turned right instead of left when she crawled through Margie’s foxhole she would have run straight into her friend, Peter Mohun, and James Brewster. They were standing, on that hot Sunday afternoon, at the corner of Spruce Street and the alley, and they were in earnest conversation.

  “Are you really going to build there, Brewster?” Peter asked. He was a little resentful of the fields he was now indicating with a sweep of his right hand. He had been looking for James all morning only to discover him pacing over the great tract of land fronting on this miserable alley. In the search, Peter had missed his lunch and he was now tired, hot and hungry. Moreover, James was still truculent.

  “I can’t think what business it is of yours, Mohun.” James was also hot and tired but he had eaten a large Sunday dinner at the inn and he was not hungry. On the contrary, he was aware that he had eaten too much. He was troubled by indigestion and by his thoughts which were in a state of turmoil.

  “It isn’t my business. But all the town is talking about it so it’s no secret. Better facts than rumours.”

  “I’m sorry not to be more helpful,” James answered sourly. “This town talks too much anyway. And then you and Carey have to go and create scandal that doesn’t exist. You’re a fine one to talk about rumours as against facts.”

  This was better. Peter said quickly: “That’s really what I wanted to talk to you about. Let’s see if we can get a beer at the inn.”

  “There’s nothing more to say after all your fuss last night.”

  “I think there is.”

  Perhaps a beer would help. “Well, anyway, let’s not stand here and broil.”

  They walked along Spruce Street and crossed the road to the Coach and Horses. Peter secured two beers and they went out to sit in the shade of the garden. It was deserted, and a little cooler than inside.

  For some moments they were silent and then Peter said, “You know, Brewster, that if you persist in this attitude, you’re going to become an object of suspicion in the town.”

  “Suspicion of what?”

  “Murder.”

  James put his mug down heavily and the beer slopped over the edge and ran down in little rivers on to the table top.

  “And who, I would like to know, has said anything about murder?”

  “Granted we won’t know for certain until we get the result of the autopsy, but Dr. Scott, Carey and I haven’t liked the look of this from the moment we saw Catherine’s body. There were certain symptoms that looked too much like poisoning—”

  “Poison? Nonsense! She took too much dope. We all knew it would get her if she didn’t stop.”

  “Yes. You all knew. It made a wonderful blind, didn’t it, Brewster?”

  “See here, just what are you driving at?”

  “You tried, last night, to hush everything up. You thought Dr. Ted would let it slip by as you wanted him to. But he wouldn’t have. Even if Carey and I hadn’t been there, he wouldn’t have. He’s no country bumpkin, James. That’s where you miscalculated.”

  James gripped the edge of the table. The beer tasted sour in his mouth. “You’re insinuating things, Mohun. What’s more, you have no grounds whatever for these insinuations—”

  “All right then. You went to look for Catherine yesterday afternoon. Where did you look? If you have nothing to conceal you should be quite willing to supply this information.”

  James’s face was now green in colour. He put his head in his hands and said nothing.

  “You’ve got to come clean, Brewster. You know it as well as I do, and it might as well be now. After the autopsy it will look worse.”

  James began to draw pictures with one hairy finger, tracing the beer across the wooden boards of the table. “All right, then,” he said slowly, as though choosing his words with great care, “I went first to the Farm. Looked all over the damn place. Not a soul anywhere. Back to the fields out there. I suppose the rumours also had it that Catherine and I were going to get married. She had that in mind, too, and she was obsessed with this idea of my building a palace for her—”

  “You weren’t obsessed with it?”

  “No. Hell, I’m not a marrying man, Mohun. You know that. I’m only just this side of fifty—I’ve steered clear this long and I intend to stay clear.”

  “Then what were you doing over in those fields just now?”

  “What? Oh, just having a last look around…” James said lamely. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead.

  “Well—did you find Catherine?”

  “Yes. That
is, I found her body.”

  “What?”

  “Yes. She wasn’t in the fields so I went by the bookshop. She’d said something about taking back that book she’d taken out on Sunday. And there she was—just like you found her—dead in that damned hammock. The book was on the ground. I—I picked it up. And then I panicked. My God, I didn’t want to marry the b—the woman—but I didn’t want her dead.”

  “You’re quite sure about that?”

  “What? See here, Mohun, you’re not accusing me, are you? I’m telling you the truth—though God knows why I am.” James got up unsteadily. “I’m ill. That’s all I have to say. And, what’s more, I’ll stick to it—autopsy or no autopsy. I left the—body—exactly as it was. I’ve got the book in my apartment if you want it.”

  “Yes. I’ll just go back with you and collect it. By the way, Brewster,” he added as he followed the older man out of the inn, “just why didn’t you report this—er—find of yours to the—shall we say since you seemed so insistent on this point last night—to Dr. Scott?”

  “Look here, Mohun, I’ve talked too damn much as it is. But I’ll confess, since I’ve been such a fool already, that I—well—I just plain didn’t want to get involved in this thing. I’ve got my profession to think of—and my position in this town. She was dead. I couldn’t do anything about that. I decided to let someone else find the body. And that is fact.”

  “I see. It’s very clear, Brewster. So you went—where?”

  “Back to my apartment. I didn’t feel like facing the crowds at that damned church do. I had a few drinks. Later I went out to the Farm—now don’t ask me when—I don’t know exactly. But I hadn’t been there long when you called…and that’s every word I’ll say.”

  “Well, thanks then, Brewster. As I said before, it’s all quite, quite clear.”