Murders for Sale. Andre Norton
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asked.
“I don’t know exactly. I always do lock my door in New York and it’s habit I guess. Also—” She hesitated and then went on slowly. “Well, so many people seem to come and go here and I thought—well—the shop isn’t mine and it is my responsibility.”
This seemed to satisfy Thane who then turned to Peter. “You saw Fredericka lock up. Didn’t that seem odd to you?”
“I didn’t see her, as a matter of fact. I called from the gate because I saw that she was ready and waiting for me just by the door. She came straight along when I called. But I wouldn’t have thought it odd for a city person with the responsibility of someone else’s house, to lock it when she planned to be away for long.”
Suddenly Thane turned to James Brewster who, after his rebuke, had gone to stand at the window with his back to the room in an attitude of childish pique. “Margaret says that, this afternoon, she asked you to go and see if you could find Catherine. When was that, and did you?”
Brewster whirled around and a look almost of madness came into his handsome heavy features. “I refuse to answer your questions. I am a lawyer and aware of the law even if these fools are not.” He turned back to the window.
“Don’t mind him,” Mrs. Sutton said gently. “Surely you can understand that this blow has fallen heavily on him—“James Brewster started to break in but stopped when he turned and saw her face. She went on slowly: “I’m sure we all want to be as helpful as we can, and I believe that honest direct answers are the very least we can give you, Thane. James came to the bazaar just before the supper. He was looking for Catherine and we agreed that it would be a good idea for him to make a thorough search ’round the farm and the neighbourhood. You see—” she hesitated “—sometimes when she was unhappy she took some kind of drug that helped her and then she was apt to—to wander off. We both knew this, and that is why we were worried.”
At this, James turned around again and glared at Mrs. Sutton. “Really, Margaret, do you want the whole town to know these things? How—how can you?”
“I’m sorry, James. I feel sure that Thane knew this already and it wouldn’t do for us to conceal anything that might be helpful. The sooner it is all dealt with, the sooner it will be over.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Sutton. You have been helpful. Very. Now please forgive me if I ask you one more question. Where were, and are, the other members of your household?”
“Roger and Philippine went off early this morning and must have got back while we were at the supper. I didn’t see them and judged they had gone to bed, when I got home. They are usually tired after a day of herb hunting and I didn’t speak to either of them. I heard Margie come in. Wasn’t that about ten, Martha?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure. About then, I expect.” Mrs. Hartwell’s voice sounded querulous. Fredericka, who had had several occasions during the week to observe Margie’s “Mom,” thought how much she looked the part. Even now, though obviously agitated, she was also quite unable to disguise her pleasurable excitement. This was, indeed, more than a titbit, for the Village Gossip. Her fat hands moved nervously in her lap and, as she spoke, she thrust her lips forward hungrily.
It was at this point that the doctor’s car drew up outside, and, a moment later, he entered the room quietly. He was a middle-aged man, running to fat, and with an untidy family-doctor look about him.
“Evening, folks.” He nodded round a little absently as he entered. Then he turned to Thane. “You called me. Where—?”
“Outside,” Thane said, and then: “Come—and you, Mohun, if you don’t mind.”
James Brewster turned once more from his study of the darkness outside the window. “Shouldn’t some member of the family go, too?” he asked abruptly.
“No, I think there’s no need,” Dr. Scott said in his soft reassuring doctor’s voice. “Stay here and we’ll come back presently.”
After the men had left, Fredericka couldn’t think of anything to say to Mrs. Sutton or Mrs. Hartwell, and they sat without speaking. Mrs. Sutton seemed unaware of the presence of the others. Mrs. Hartwell fidgeted nervously and Fredericka felt that the doctor’s “presently” had stretched to a very long time when the back screen door banged and the three finally reappeared.
Dr. Scott cleared his throat. Then he looked quickly at Mrs. Sutton and said: “We’ve had to decide on an autopsy, Margaret. I am sorry—terribly, my dear—but, well, there are certain symptoms that make me unable to determine the exact cause of death.”
Mrs. Sutton’s hands were clenched tightly in her lap but she said in a low voice: “Of course, Ted, if that’s what seems necessary; I’m sure you wouldn’t do it otherwise.”
And then one of Thane’s policemen arrived and moved unobtrusively into the garden. The others stood up to go as if by signal and Mrs. Hartwell said unexpectedly: “Shall I stay with you, Fredericka? I’m sure Margaret can spare me and you won’t want to be alone. I’d be glad to.”
“It’s most kind of you, Mrs. Hartwell,” Fredericka said quickly, “but really I’d rather be alone. The policeman’s just outside and, well—”
“I quite understand.” The usual note of petulance and hurt had returned to Mrs. Hartwell’s voice. It would have made a very good story for the next meeting of the Women’s Guild—a night of terror. It was obvious to everyone that Mrs. Hartwell did not understand, but Fredericka was too exhausted to care.
Fredericka walked to the door and, as she stood for a moment on the walk outside, she saw that the sky was lightening along the horizon with the first hint of dawn. A bird had wakened to make his announcement to the sleeping world, and Fredericka was grateful to him for his note of cheerfulness. Peter dropped behind the others.
“Sure you’re all right?” he asked.
“Quite sure. I’m more than ready for bed.”
“Good.” He put a firm hand on her shoulder for a moment and then hurried after the others.
But when Fredericka returned to the empty house and the soiled coffee cups, a weight of depression fell on her. And when, with determination, she turned her back on the untidiness and went upstairs to bed, she could not sleep. She turned the pillow and moved from one side of the bed to the other, but she could not forget the cold body of Catherine Clay lying below in the garden and the wretched policeman keeping his silent vigil. Why hadn’t they taken her away at once?
Finally, Fredericka switched on the light and got up to put on her bath robe. It was much better, she decided to give up the struggle. She went downstairs, collected the dirty cups and made a fresh pot of coffee. When she called the policeman, he came in and took the coffee gratefully but refused to sit down. He went back to his job, taking his steaming cup with him and Fredericka took hers to the office. Then she opened the middle desk drawer, drew out the notes for her projected book and, with her head in her hands, in a proper attitude of concentration, she began to study them intently. The lives of her three industrious “scribbling women” began to shape themselves in her mind and she reached for a block of paper with eagerness born of her sudden creative impulse and the blessed relief it gave her. It was a long time later that she looked at her watch and saw that it was half past five. Outside, the sky was streaked with crimson and the tentative bird song had now become a mighty chorus. She stood up and stretched. Then, after a moment of indecision, she tiptoed to the kitchen and, with the fascination of horror, stared out at the hammock and the dead body of Catherine Clay. Behind it the figure of the policeman paced slowly up and down like a symbol of grief.
Fredericka had worked away her morbid fears and now, having looked at the body, she felt relieved of the weight of mystery. She could sleep at last and the whole day lay ahead. Sunday. Blessed thought. Unless, of course, the police came to perform their macabre duties and go on with their endless questioning. Surely not that, again. She lifted one weary leg after the other and went up the stairs to bed.
In a few