Rest You Merry

by Charlotte MacLeod

  “I know damn well there are. I may be deaf, but I’m not dumb. Don’t suppose one of ’em killed her out of spite?”

  “That’s a supposition I shouldn’t care to make without something to back it up,” said Shandy. “Er—are you quite sure somebody did in fact kill her?”

  “Christ, Pete, you’ve been sure of that fact yourself, from the moment you found her, and don’t try to tell me you haven’t. I can read you like a book. What was your first impression?”

  “That somebody had been clever,” Shandy admitted. “Smart-aleck clever. The spilled marbles were a piece of utterly tasteless embroidery. I suppose they were supposed to create the impression that she’d been blundering around in the dark, possibly because she’d had one too many at the Dysarts’. Jemima did like a drink, you know.”

  “I ought to. I’ve been accused often enough of driving her to it. But she never got drunk, Pete, not that way. Her face would get red and she’d start telling somebody off or hurling the furniture around. That’s why I’m so sure this scene was staged. She wasn’t clumsy, she was belligerent. She’d have been much more apt to just reach up and rip those lights down regardless of any damage to the woodwork, or else to stomp all over your upholstery in her muddy boots. Where do you keep that stool, anyway?”

  “In the back hall closet. Once in a while, when Mrs. Lomax feels especially put-upon, she gets it out and starts performing some herculean feat that involves a great deal of grunting and groaning and climbing up and down and sloshing soapsuds around. Except for those few times, I don’t believe it gets used very much. I’d wondered about that myself. It did seem out of character.”

  “Damn right it does. More of your tasteless embroidery. I agree with you, Pete. We’re dealing with somebody who’s clever but not very intelligent, which in my opinion includes just about everybody on the goddamn faculty. What do you think, Pete? You know ’em better than I do.”

  “That’s open to challenge. I socialize more than you, because I’d be a lonely man if I didn’t, but I’m not on particularly intimate terms with any but the Enderbles. Why do you think it has to be a faculty person?”

  “Well, hell, Pete, it has to be somebody who knew Jemima well enough to want to kill her.”

  “Yes, but was she killed as herself, so to speak, or for some reason—er—exclusive of personality factors?”

  “How should I know? All right, I’ll grant you she didn’t make the usual distinctions between town and gown when it came to butting in and making a nuisance of herself, but I’m going on the evidence. We have to assume, at least in my opinion, that she was murdered by somebody who knew how steamed up she was over this joke of yours, who knew how to get into your house, and who knew where you keep your step stool.”

  “I’ll grant that. And also by somebody who knew I’d gone away. Since I left in a hurry without notifying Grimble, that does seem to narrow the field.”

  “To some extent, at any rate. I think we can take it as given that every single resident of the Crescent was peeking around the curtains by the time you climbed into that truck. I know I was.”

  Despite his preoccupation with the hypothesis of his wife’s murder, Ames chortled again. “Damn, that was the most amusing afternoon I’ve spent since President Svenson lost his footing while he was showing the Secretary of Agriculture how we make methane gas. It was an awful disappointment when I saw you were carrying a suitcase. I’d hoped we could get together during the evening and enjoy the reactions.”

  “I wish we had!” cried Shandy. “Tim, I can’t tell you how sick I am about this ghastly business.”

  “Hell, Pete, you don’t have to. I expect I’ll feel pretty rotten myself, once I get used to the idea that she’s really gone. After all, damn it, Jemima was my wife. I didn’t like her very much, but I sort of loved her, in a way. Personal feelings aside, I think what we ought to bear in mind is that if you hadn’t provided a convenient parking place for her body, another would have been found.”

  “Then you think the murder was premeditated.”

  “It must have been. Look at this room. Do you honestly believe anybody could have brought Jemima in here alive, bumped her off with the blinds up and all those lights in the windows and God knows how many people milling around outside, gone through that folderol with the step stool, thrown marbles all over the floor, and got away without one person’s looking in and noticing what he was up to? In the first place, Jemima wouldn’t have been all that easy to kill, unless you made damn good and sure to sneak up on her and land one clean blow that did the job. And it had to be done in the right spot, with the right kind of weapon. Even that jackass Melchett would have noticed any real discrepancy between the shape of the wound and the shape of the stool, wouldn’t he?”

  “Yes, and so should I, and there wasn’t. The only alternative suggestion is that there actually was a quarrel and somebody shoved her from in front, so that she fell and struck some hard object similar to the stool.”

  “Who, for instance? Name me one person in Balaclava Junction, except for President Svenson and that behemoth he’s married to, whom Jemima couldn’t have licked with one hand tied behind her back. Anybody who tried to knock her down would have to be mopped up with a blotter.”

  “Er—in any event, the incident would have caused a stir, since it must almost inevitably have taken place in front of witnesses. I see your point. The tidiness of the room and the—er—staging of the scene indicate that Jemima may have been killed elsewhere and brought here sometime after the lights were turned but.”

  “Can you think of any other logical explanation?”

  “I can’t think at all any more.” Shandy slumped down on the sofa and buried his face in his hands. “Dear God, I’m tired.”

  “Sure you are, Pete.”

  Ames whacked his friend on the shoulder. “Why don’t you take a nap? I’ve got to call the kids, then I suppose I’d better get downtown and find out what they’ve done with her. I’ll get back to you later.”

  “Thank you, Tim. I’ll be here.”

  Shandy let his old friend out, locked the door, and went upstairs to his bedroom. He ought to call the Dysarts. He ought to go with Tim. He ought to have his head examined for ever having started this terrible chain of events. What he did was to fall asleep.

  Chapter 5

  PROFESSOR SHANDY SLEPT A good deal longer than he’d meant to. By the time he woke, stiff and chilly, the early dusk was already gathering. So, evidently, was the crowd. He could hear a babble of voices down in the Crescent, and a preliminary ripple of bongs from the chapel carillon. As he lay collecting his wits and easing his cramped muscles, the bedroom was suddenly bathed in multicolored light and those accursed Santa Claus faces began flashing on and off. Grimble must have thrown the switch. Cursing, he sat up and reached for his shoes.

  His intention was to take down those hideous masks and jump on them, but as he reached for the first one to hand, a shrill young voice from below piped, “Aw, mister!” He settled for drawing the blind, realized the cloth would be apt to catch fire from being pressed against the hot bulbs, and had to put it up again. From his folly, there was no escape.

  At least he could flee temporarily to the faculty dining room. Both he and Tim would feel better with a hot meal under their belts. He’d go round up his old friend.

  It was curious, now he thought of it, that the police had not fetched the husband over here this morning, instead of trundling Jemima’s body straight downtown without even letting Tim know where it was. True, he mustn’t have had to look far. Balaclava Junction had only one undertaker, who belonged to the same lodge as Grimble and Ottermole and would surely get the business. Still, they might have asked Professor Ames’s consent before turning his wife over to Harry the Ghoul. The fact was, people did not take Tim seriously as a human being.

  Shandy could understand why easily enough. Ames was not totally deaf. He did own a hearing aid, but peculiar bone formations in his ears sometimes caused the de
vice to act as a built-in scrambler. One never knew whether he was hearing the right words, the wrong words, or a jumble of unrelated sounds. He could lip-read very well, but was so near-sighted that he had to get close to the speaker, and so shy that he didn’t always care to do that.

  Perhaps as a result of his affliction, Ames concentrated so fiercely on his own subject that he was usually oblivious to everything else, thus a natural butt for all the absent-minded professor jokes. Even his appearance was almost risible: diminutive, gnarled, bald on top and hairy everywhere else.

  Jemima, probably not on purpose but out of her own need to be important, had fostered the myth of her husband’s general uselessness outside his particular field. His children liked him well enough as a sort of family pet but never seemed to accord him the respect due a father. Yet Professor Ames was an exceedingly bright, capable, and above all logical man. Whoever had done this dreadful thing to Jemima didn’t know that.

  Shandy couldn’t honestly see that this narrowed the list of suspects much. Not many people did know, aside from himself and President Svenson and perhaps a few of the more observant students. It was always hard to tell what students took in and what they didn’t.

  This was no time for such musings. Shandy put on his good gray overcoat and good felt hat and added a dark red cashmere muffler Alice had sent him, for there was a chill in the air that penetrated the walls of the brick house, probably because he’d set back the thermostat earlier and forgotten to turn it up again.

  He remedied his omission before starting out. Tim might want to come back and sit awhile, and it would be good to have the place comfortable for him. It was too bad they’d have to put up with that lurid glare, but he realized at this stage that his only hope of averting general obloquy was to brazen it out and pretend he thought his decorations handsome. Instead of being obliged to declare open warfare, his neighbors could work off their resentment by despising his rotten taste behind his back.

  That meant he would have no defense next year, assuming he managed to stay, against whichever Illumination stalwart caught up Jemima’s fallen torch and offered to decorate his house for him. It was, he supposed, only a fair price to pay. Perhaps the Singapore Susie would be repaired by then, or he could fly out and spend the holidays with Alice, as she’d been begging him to do ever since she got married. Maybe Henry and Elizabeth would enjoy an expense-paid trip as a Christmas present, instead of the accustomed cigars and jellies.

  He doubted it. They were a pair of contented old fogies, such as he himself had so short a time ago looked forward to becoming. Sighing, Professor Shandy opened his front door and eased himself out into the maelstrom of merriment.

  “Watch it, Professor!”

  He leaped just in time. One of the sleds, carrying a gaggle of shrieking tourists and propelled by a blond Amazon in a bulky red sweater, no pants to speak of, and heavy rib-knit green tights, hurtled down the sidewalk.

  The sled pullers knew perfectly well they were supposed to keep the sleds off the walkways and never let go of the towropes, but the rule was constantly being violated, especially by those of the girls who were pretty enough to think they could get away with anything. Professor Shandy was by no means indifferent to feminine pulchritude, but beefy blondes left him as cold as he would have thought those minuscule pants left them. He would have a word with that young woman if he could ever get her to stand still long enough and if he managed to find out who she was. They all looked much alike in those ridiculous costumes, which were meant to represent Santa’s elves. He wouldn’t even have known this one was female if she’d been obeying another of the rules and wearing the knitted face helmet that was supposed to go with the costume.

  Muttering, he elbowed his way through the strollers and gapers, and managed to reach Ames’s house more or less unscathed. Before he’d even started knocking, Tim opened the door.

  “Hi, Pete. I thought you’d be over. Been watching out the window.”

  “Good thing you were. I’d never have been able to make myself heard above this God-awful racket. It gets worse every year.”

  “You contributed your share. God, that was funny.”

  Ames made the statement automatically, showing no inclination to throw another laughing fit. Shandy could understand why.

  “How did you make out with Ottermole?”

  “All right, I guess. He asked me a lot of damn fool questions about when did I see her last and so forth. Seemed to think I was mentally defective because I couldn’t tell him. But, damn it, that was the way Jemima operated. She’d breeze in and change her clothes or grab a basketful of junk for one of the booths, go charging out again, and stay till the last gun was fired and the smoke cleared away. We’ve had separate rooms since the kids moved out, so how the hell would I know whether or not she came in to sleep? Asked me if the bed was made, for God’s sake. Nobody’s made a bed in this house for thirty-seven years. Well, maybe that’s a slight exaggeration. I guess she used to change the sheets now and then, but you can bet your sweet Alice it wasn’t while the Illumination was going on. You want a drink?”

  “I daresay I could use one. I was going to suggest that we go over to the dining room.”

  Ames snorted. “You sound like Jemima. ‘If you want any dinner, you’d better go up to the college. I have more important things to do than stand around a kitchen.’ Of course she’d spend all day baking those damn fool coconut cowpats for the cookie sale. I never knew why it was she could handle everybody’s job but her own. Now, where the hell did she put the whiskey?”

  He maundered off, searching for a bottle that would likely as not be empty if he ever found it. Shandy didn’t offer to help. He only hoped Tim would tire of hunting soon and they could get out of here. The dismal confusion of the Ames house had always depressed him, but it seemed even deadlier now without Jemima’s boisterous presence actual or impending.

  Could he possibly be missing the woman? He supposed it was possible. Tim had said, “I didn’t like her, but I sort of loved her, in a way.” That was more or less how he himself had felt about her; not love, certainly, nor friendship, but the grudging fondness one had for one’s tiresome but well-intentioned relatives.

  For a wonder, Tim managed to locate not only the whiskey but a couple of clean tumblers. Shandy pretended he was glad to get the drink, because old Tim was so pleased with himself for succeeding at this essay in housewifery. How in God’s name was he ever going to manage here alone?

  “Have you called the children?” he asked.

  “Called the Oceanographic Institute to see if there was any way I could get hold of Roy. They say he’s still at sea, headed for Ross Bay. They’re going to send a wireless to the ship. Best they can do right now. Later they’ll try to set up some kind of radio relay so I can talk to him at the base.”

  “That’s good. What about Jemmy?”

  “She doesn’t think the doctor will let her come. Baby’s due in a few days. Jemima was going to fly out. Had her ticket all bought. All Jemmy could say was, ‘Now Mummy can’t be with me.’ I didn’t think she’d take it so hard. Suppose it is sort of a jolt, ’way the hell and gone the other side of the country with none of her own folks around her.”

  “Why don’t you go on Jemima’s ticket?”

  “Huh? Me? What the hell could I do?”

  “You could be with her.”

  “For what that’s worth.”

  “It might be worth more than you think, Tim. Why don’t you call her back and suggest it?”

  “I wouldn’t even know what to say.”

  “Say you’ll go as soon as the funeral’s over, if she wants you to.”

  “What if she doesn’t?”

  “Then you stay here.”

  “You make it sound easy.”

  “Why shouldn’t it be? She’s your own daughter, isn’t she?”

  “Oh yes, no doubt about that.” A smile flickered across the gnomish face. “Jemima had her faults, but that wasn’t one of them. All righ
t, Pete, if you say so.”

  “Want any help getting the number?”

  “No, I can manage.”

  Ames set down his tumbler and went to wherever the phone might be lurking. Shandy stayed where he was. He didn’t want to hear the hurt in his old friend’s voice if Jemmy turned her father down.

  Apparently she didn’t. Ames came back looking sheepish but happy.

  “She’s tickled pink. Told me when the plane leaves and says I damn well better be on it because Dave’s taking time off from work to pick me up. Laying down the law just like her mother.”

  “I’m glad, Tim,” said Shandy with all sincerity. “It will be a great thing for both of you. I can keep an eye on the house while you’re away.”

  “Hell, she’s got that fixed, too. Some old-maid aunt of Dave’s was there, bringing over her plants. She just got fired from her job or some damn thing and was leaving town anyway, so Jemmy had the bright idea of sending her here to housekeep for me.”

  “Why not? You probably won’t have her underfoot for long. There’s nothing to keep a woman in Balaclava Junction unless she decides to marry you or take over Jemima’s job on the Buggins Collection.”

  That last was a particularly nasty thing to say and Shandy was at once sorry he’d said it, but Tim well knew what a sore point the Buggins Collection had always been with him.

  Back in the 1920s, some distant connection of the founder took exception to the fact that Balaclava Buggins had preferred his first name to his last. In order that the family name might be preserved in college, he bequeathed his personal library to the institution with the proviso that it be housed as a separate unit and known as the Buggins Collection.