Murder is Grim. Samuel Rogers
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had replied affectionately but had said that she could not come. She had not seen June Gladstone in four years, and remembered her as a dumpy girl whom everyone ignored and who had seemed to go her way in rather morose indifference until the afternoon when Kate discovered her lying on the grass behind the summerhouse, her body shaken with sobs. It was because she was lonely, June explained, after Kate had coaxed her to talk, because everyone despised her. Kate had put her arm around her, had quieted her at last, and got permission from Miss Spencer to take her to Johnson’s for a chocolate sundae.
After that, for the rest of the year, June had dogged her footsteps to an almost embarrassing extent, never talking much, never making any demands, but glaring like some fierce dark little animal at any girl to whom Kate paid much attention. Just before the end of the spring term she had been mysteriously expelled, and when Kate, who had come to feel rather responsible for her, had questioned the headmistress, Miss Barstow had explained that some ‘bad books’ had been found in her bureau drawer. ‘To do June justice,’ she had gone on, ‘her family background, from what I can gather, isn’t at all what it should be. I feel very sorry for her. I’m quite sure her parents are more to blame than she is, but there was nothing else to do, for the sake of the school.’
Kate had smiled to herself, with some indignation, at the thought of poor little June’s corrupting her so much more sophisticated schoolmates. She had thought at the time, and she still suspected, that the books, whatever they were, had been planted in June’s drawer by one of the girls who disliked her, who were jealous of the way that Kate had taken her under her wing; but June had already gone, there would be no way of proving such a plot; and in the letters Kate and she had exchanged for the next two years, letters which had grown more and more scarce, neither one had ever alluded to the affair.
Kate had refused this summer’s invitation chiefly because she was so eager to get home, to see Mother, to bask in the sun on the long white beach; but she had felt a little guilty and more than a little curious. June had never spoken a word to her of any sort about her family. During Kate’s year in Woodside she had heard rumours of the Gladstone estate out by the river, and the ‘things that went on’ there. A week after June’s letter, she had received one from Mr. Gladstone himself, urging her to come; she had accepted then, though without committing herself as to how long she would stay, because she knew that if she refused, her conscience would bother her all summer.
She folded June’s letter now, put it back in her purse, and took out Mr. Gladstone’s, frowning a little as she tried to decipher once more the bold careless-looking script.
Dear Miss Archer,
God knows I detest people who interfere with other people’s business, and I think my record is pretty clear on that score. My excuse for writing you now is that you can tear this up, if you like, and not give it another thought. I’d be the first to sympathize with you.
The fact is, June is so desperately disappointed that you won’t visit us that I said I’d see what I could do. Let me give you an idea of the general set-up. We live in what might be described as the deep country, out by the river. There is no suitable person approaching June’s age in the neighbourhood, and she is terribly lonely and restless. I should mention, perhaps, if she hasn’t, that she has an older sister, about your age. If June were different and if Clotilde were different, that might fix things up – but you know what families are. Or perhaps you don’t. If not, you’ll learn when you have one of your own.
I can quite understand that a month’s tête-à-tête with a girl like June may not seem too exciting for a girl four years (so June tells me) older than she. Let me reassure you that in the first place it will not be a tête-à-tête. We’re quite a little group out here, and if we’re too old to suit a girl of sixteen, I’m sure that some of us won’t seem too senile for a young woman of twenty.
But if what June says about you is true, the inducements to dangle before you are not the things you may receive but the things you may be able to give. You can give June, I believe, a period of really intense happiness, which she will appreciate all the more because that is something, I’m afraid, that on the whole she hasn’t known very much of. One of my reasons for urging you is no doubt that, as a father, I haven’t been a startling success. Naturally the easiest way to quiet my paternal conscience is to find a friend of hers who might to some extent compensate for my shortcomings. Since you have known June, you don’t have to be told that when she wants something she wants it very much indeed, and I can truthfully say I’ve never known her to want anything so much as to have you visit her.
Sincerely (and hopefully) yours,
Norman Gladstone
It was a queer letter. She did not like it very well, but certainly Mr. Gladstone was eager for her to come. It would be wholly unreasonable to send her such a letter as this, and then follow it up with an anonymous warning to keep away.
A knock at the door startled her so that she dropped her letter on the rug. After she had picked it up, she glanced once more out of the window. An empty car was parked in front of the house, a magnificent grass-green convertible than which nothing could be less sinister. ‘I’m afraid I’m not meant to live alone’, she thought.
She walked quickly to the door, opened it, and smiled at the man who stood in the doorway. He had a real face, there was no doubt of that; he was medium-sized, about forty, with blunt features, thin hair, and a neat brown moustache. As a matter of fact, everything about him looked exceptionally neat – his dark blue suit, his black necktie, the very way he stood, easy and erect and somehow shipshape. His brown eyes looked softly and brightly into hers.
‘Is this Miss Archer?’ he asked, and his voice seemed to fit his appearance – gentle, firm and efficient.
‘Yes, it is,’ she said, ‘and I suppose you’re Mr. Gladstone.’
He smiled. ‘Far from it’, he exclaimed. ‘I’m just the chauffeur, the gardener, the man of all work. My name is Felix Brownell.’
Kate noticed now that his dark suit, his tie, had the suggestion of a uniform or livery. She felt embarrassed. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ she said, ‘Mr. Brownell.’
‘Don’t apologize’, he told her. ‘It’s a compliment. As a matter of fact, I’ve been with the family so long I almost feel as if I was part of it. And by the way, of course you must call me Felix.’
‘Oh, well – yes, I will’, Kate said, still rather self-conscious. She suspected that for some time at least she would call him only ‘you’.
‘I assume these are your bags, miss?’ He stepped into the room and picked them up easily. She was sure that he had added the ‘miss’ simply to put her at her ease.
‘I’m afraid they’re very heavy.’
‘You should feel Mr. Gladstone’s, or for that matter, Miss Clotilde’s. I’ll be taking them down. If you have anyone to say good-bye to —’
‘No, there’s no one’, she said. She took a last glance at the room, shut the door quickly, as if she were shutting her nervousness inside, and followed him down the stairs.
It gave her a luxurious feeling to step into the big shiny car. As she settled back on the dark green leather cushions it seemed to her that she could not imagine a more comfortable seat.
‘If you’d prefer to sit in the back,’ Felix said, ‘I can put up the top, but otherwise, I’m afraid, it would be too windy.’
‘I’d much rather sit here’, she said. ‘That is, if you don’t mind.’
‘Personally, I always prefer company when I’m driving’, he said in a courtly tone. ‘Which reminds me: June said be sure and tell you she’d have driven in with me, except that I left this morning right after breakfast. I’ve been doing the week’s marketing, and selling stuff from the farm.’
He started the car so smoothly and the motor was so silent that Kate was surprised to see that they were already moving. In ten minutes they were out of town, had skirted the end of the lake, and were driving