Fire Will Freeze

11

“My heart,” said Mrs. Vista, “is not what it used to be. I feel I must have a cup of good strong tea.”

Mrs. Vista’s heart had never been what it used to be and this announcement failed to electrify anyone. Only Joyce Hunter bothered to reply, and then it was the kind of reply that Mrs. Vista found most unsatisfactory.

“If you want some tea,” Joyce said moodily, “make it yourself.”

Mrs. Vista, still seated at the head of the dining-room table, surveyed her regally.

“You are a rude young snippet.”

“I don’t know what a snippet is,” Joyce said coldly.

“You don’t have to know, you are one.”

“Well, if I’m a snippet, you’re a... a paramour.”

“A paramour!” Mrs. Vista clapped a hand to her heart and made a little bleating noise. This forced Maudie to make a little bleating noise, too, since she had her status as invalid of the party to maintain. The competition was getting lively when Isobel precipitated herself into the room and slammed the door violently behind her.

Chad Ross said, “I told you you shouldn’t go out. We’ll all have to stay here until she’s moved into the library.”

Mr. Hunter rose from the table and helped Isobel to a chair. Then he sat down beside her and patted her hand and made soothing sounds of sympathy.

“Was it terrible?” he whispered.

She nodded, half-angrily, and took her hand away. “They’re all taking it so... so calmly. No, not calmly, but as if they don’t care what’s happened.”

“Why should we?” Mr. Hunter said in surprise.

“But she’s dead — murdered! Don’t you feel anything at all?”

“It’s a pity, of course, but I barely knew the woman, and one can’t expect total strangers...”

“But if you saw her?”

“Precisely,” said Mr. Hunter dryly, “why I don’t want to see her. It’s not unlikely that you’re the one who is wrong. You are making the worst of a bad situation by allowing yourself to become emotional about something you can’t do anything about.”

He coughed primly and stroked his mustache. “It is far, far better to spend one’s emotions on oneself, like Mrs. Vista and Mrs. Thropple, or not to have any emotions, like Joyce.”

“Or to close your eyes, like Mr. Hunter,” Isobel added.

Mr. Hunter smiled benignly and said nothing.

“And I can do something about the situation,” Isobel said. “Perhaps you’d like to come into the library with me?”

“No, no thanks. I am happier here. What do you want in the library?”

“There’s a book there I’d like to see. It’s on local geography and we might be able to figure out exactly where we are and do something about it.”

“I prefer to wait for the rescuers,” Mr. Hunter said blandly.

Isobel glanced at her watch. “It’s ten o’clock. The rescuers are taking their time, aren’t they?”

Mr. Hunter was beginning to be annoyed. “Kindly lower your voice. You wouldn’t like to put the women in hysterics, would you?”

“I’d love it,” Isobel said through her teeth.

“You’re a very odd woman,” Mr. Hunter said. She had gotten up from the chair and was looking down at him with contempt. “I earnestly advise you to stay in here with the rest of us.”

“Your daughter has more spunk than you have,” Isobel said witheringly.

“I’m sure of it,” Mr. Hunter replied with sorrow. He watched Isobel move towards the door. There was a noticeable reluctance in her step, but once the door was opened she swung out into the hall, almost gaily.

She felt better in the hall, even with Floraine there, even with Crawford in a savage mood.

The others, encased in their four stone walls of indifference, irritated her. They aren’t human, she thought, except Gracie and Miss Rudd and maybe Crawford. Even Paula Lashley, who seemed like a nice girl, could not disentangle herself from her own mesh of problems long enough to act human.

“You back again?” Crawford said. He had propped a kitchen chair against one wall and was leaning back, with the bottle of brandy in one hand. Isobel saw with a shock that the brandy was nearly half gone and that Crawford was actually smiling.

Crawford noticed her glance. “I am quietly getting a snootful, Isobel. I’d ask you to join me but I have already drunk from the bottle and I don’t approve of women drinking. Cuts down my supply.”

Isobel edged along the opposite wall, carefully avoiding Floraine’s body.

“Where are you going, Isobel?”

“To the library,” Isobel said coldly.

“For a good book to read. I agree, there’s nothing like a good book when you find yourself cooped up with one, maybe two, homicidal maniacs, and a cold-storage corpse.”

“Getting drunk isn’t going to help.”

“Sure it’s going to help, it’s going to help me. The rest don’t matter.”

“A very refreshing viewpoint,” Isobel said and turned her back on him. But she didn’t hurry into the library.

“Except possibly,” Crawford added thoughtfully, “you. You may matter. I shall try to find out.”

“Don’t bother.”

“No bother at all,” Crawford said graciously, and took another drink. “I have always had difficulty with my women. I think the reason is that I’ve never done enough reconnoitering. Take a gun, for instance. When you buy a gun you don’t go into a store and pick out one because it has such a cute little trigger. No ma”am. You scout around first.”

“Thanks,” Isobel said. “I’ll remember that.”

“Do.”

“By the way, where is your gun?”

“Here.” He patted his pocket. “Snug as a bug.”

“What’s your real name?”

He grinned and looked at her owlishly. “Now, Isobel. You’re plying me with liquor to make me talk. I won’t talk, Isobel, but you may have my card. Have a bunch of them, take them home to your friends.”

He tossed some cards across to her. She stooped and picked them up. The first one said, “M. R. MacTavish, Insurance Adjustor.” The others included an Oriental Rug Dealer called Marink, a Mr. Kelly who ran a Finance Company, and a Mr. Hugh Henderson whose business was not stated.

Isobel let the cards fall to the floor. She said dryly, “A man of many moods, apparently.”

“That’s me,” Crawford said. “Never a dull moment. And think of it — if you marry me you can pick your own name. Not many women have such a glowing opportunity. Which name do you like best?”

“I’ll have to think it over,” Isobel said.

“Pick any one you like,” Crawford said with a vague sweep of his hand.

Isobel gave the cards a kick and walked rapidly into the library. Her face was flushed and she felt warm and a little shocked at herself because Crawford had made her forget Floraine.

She sat down in one of the sheet-covered chairs and thought about Crawford-Kelly-Marink-Henderson-MacTavish. After a time her face cooled, and she noticed that the room was very cold and thought suddenly about the furnace.

She rushed out and told Crawford. Crawford said he personally felt very warm but if Isobel would like to fix the furnace he offered no objections.

“Why should I have to fix it?” Isobel cried. The house is practically swarming with able-bodied men and I have to do everything! It’s not fair.”

“I know it isn’t,” Crawford said and took a gulp of brandy. “It’s a damn shame. But it’s life,” he added sadly, and waved her away.

She strode angrily down the hall and flung open the door into the kitchen. She found Mrs. Vista trying to make herself some tea on the stove, but she swept past her without speaking and hurled herself down the cellar steps.

“Really,” said Mrs. Vista pensively, “how very strange everyone else is.”

Isobel opened the heavy door that led into the furnace room. She expected a gust of warm air to meet her, but instead there seemed to be a very cold draught sweeping across at her and the cellar was quite bright.

She looked and saw that the door at the head of the short stairway leading outside was open.

There was a man standing in the doorway. He was watching her, motionless, as if he had frozen there.

Isobel took a step back. Neither of them spoke. The man, outlined by sun, seemed enormous and sinister. He was dressed in skiing clothes and he still had his poles strapped to his wrists. He moved suddenly and leaned against the door as if he were unutterably weary. One of the poles slipped off his wrist and clattered down the steps.

The man stared at it a moment, then he began to lumber down the steps after it, hanging on to the wall.

“I’m... I’m lost,” he said huskily and fell on his knees. Crouching there, he looked up at her with wild eyes.

Dazed with shock she didn’t move forward to help him.

“Don’t be frightened,” he said, trying to smile. “I’m cold. I can’t move very well. Close the door.”

She went automatically up the steps and closed the door. With the sun shut out the cellar was dim.

“Now come down here again,” the man said, and even though his voice was feeble and he was too ill to stand up, he had authority. She recognized it and came down the steps and stood a few feet away from him, like a child awaiting instructions from an adult.

She saw that he had a very dark skin and black eyes and she knew he was a French-Canadian from his intonations. He wasn’t as tall as she had thought, and a great deal of his bulk was clothing, layers and layers of it.

He began to take it off, holding out his arm to her when he needed help.

“Fingers numb,” he said. “Been out — a long time.”

She pulled his heavy jacket off. She saw him staring at her clothes.

“You live here?” he said.

“No.” She hesitated, wondering how to explain the whole crazy chain of events to a stranger. “No, we’re lost, too. There are quite a few of us here.”

“Who owns the house?”

“A Miss Rudd,” Isobel said. “She’s... she stayed here with her nurse.”

“Sick?”

“No... No, she’s a little peculiar,” Isobel said and began to giggle. The man just stared at her and waited until she had stopped.

“I’m sorry,” Isobel said in a muffled voice. “I guess I’ve had — too much excitement.”

“Yes?” He had a sharp alert voice. “What kind?”

“Miss Rudd, and the cat and... and everything. You’d better stay down here in the cellar for a while and I’ll bring you some food and blankets.”

“Yes? Why? Why should I stay here?”

“There’s something in the hall you’d better not see. I mean, I’ll explain everything later...”

He put his hand gently on her wrist. “No. Now.”

“It’s... a... a... body.”

“In the hall? A body?” He smiled slightly. “You’re not Miss Rudd yourself, are you?”

She turned her head away. “No. Miss Rudd killed her nurse.”

She felt his recoil and thought, he thinks I’m crazy. She said, “I didn’t want to tell you now. You made me tell you. I know how incredible it sounds.”

“I’m sure you don’t,” he said grimly. “You’re not making this up to get rid of me, are you?”

“I’ll go upstairs and bring you something...”

“No, wait.”

She paused at the door and looked back. He was standing up again gazing at her warily.

“I’ll come with you,” he said.

“No. I’ll have to tell the others you’re here. They’ve had so many surprises and one of the women faints...”

He brushed her words away with a gesture.

“I’ll come with you,” he said again and walked toward her, limping on one foot. When they came to the stairs he said, “Go up first.”

“No...”

“Go up first. I want you in front of me.”

“I’m not crazy.”

“Neither am I,” he said. “That’s why I want you in front of me.”

“How dare you order me around like this?” she said shrilly. “How dare you think I’m... I’m crazy!”

In the kitchen Mrs. Vista said with a sigh: “Miss Seton appears to be shouting about something. Shall we ignore her?”

“Yes. Quite,” said Mr. Goodwin.

“I agree. So much better in the long run. Tea, Anthony?”

Mr. Goodwin took his cup and settled down beside the stove. The door from the cellar opened and Isobel Seton emerged slowly. Her face was white and her hair was wispy and she looked at Mr. Goodwin with glassy eyes.

“Look what I found,” she said in a low voice.

“You found something?” Mr. Goodwin said. “Well, well.”

He stared with his mouth open as Isobel proceeded through the kitchen, followed by the limping man. They went out into the hall and the man turned and shut the door again carefully. He had barely glanced at Mrs. Vista and Mr. Goodwin.

“Extraordinary,” said Mr. Goodwin hollowly.

“Most unconventional,” Mrs. Vista agreed.

“Makes one doubt the senses, don’t you think?”

“You’re quite right,” Mrs. Vista said thoughtfully. “And once one doubts the senses what is there left for one?”

“Nothing,” said Mr. Goodwin, and sipped his tea.

Outside the door the man had stopped and grabbed Isobel’s hand.

He said, “This is the hall, is it?”

Isobel nodded wordlessly.

“Do you see any body?”

“No,” Isobel said in a strangled whisper.

“Did you ever see it?”

“It was there. Someone must have — taken it away.”

“What is this game?” the man said quietly. “If you simply want to get rid of me I’ll be delighted to leave. Have I accidentally stumbled on an insane asylum?”

“Mr. Crawford must have put the body some place. He was waiting for it to thaw.”

“To what?”

“Thaw. It was frozen.”

The man stared at her a moment, his face strained and puzzled.

“Madame,” he said, “you were correct. The cellar’s the place for me. I shall stay long enough to get warm. And don’t bother coming with me. I can find my way.”

He turned.

“You imbecile!” Isobel hissed. “Can’t you see the water on the floor? That’s where she was lying. Mr. Crawford was just waiting for her to...”

“Thaw.” Crawford’s voice whipped down the hall. He was standing in the library doorway, still holding the brandy bottle.

There was a sudden screaming silence, then Crawford’s voice again, calm and dry:

“Isobel, you’re being true to me yet? Or can’t you help yourself?”

The man coughed and said, “Sir, I am sorry to disturb you but I was lost and came upon this house. I think my foot is partially frozen.”

In spite of his words there was the same air of authority about him that Isobel had found disconcerting. He didn’t sound sorry, but challenging, and his intense gaze, fixed on Crawford, was half-puzzled, half-insolent.

Crawford began to walk towards them. He wore the ugly little smile that was now familiar to Isobel, and his eyelids were flickering.

“Yeah?” he said. “Your foot’s frozen?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“What do you want me to do, amputate it?”

“No, that won’t be necessary,” the man said coolly. “All I require is some food and shelter for a time. You seem to be a stranger in these parts. No doubt you are unfamiliar with the laws of French-Canadian hospitality.”

Isobel didn’t like the way they were looking at each other. She said hastily, “Of course. I’ll see about the food...”

Crawford’s voice cut in. “Is that a fact? Maybe I’m not interested in the laws of French-Canadian hospitality. Maybe I don’t care if your foot falls off at the hip.”

“I do, however.” The man held out his hand to Crawford. “My name is Dubois. Rene Dubois. Perhaps you have heard of me?”

Crawford took the hand but didn’t shake it. He looked at it, turning it over as if it were a piece of fish.

“Can’t say I have,” he said in a bored voice.

The man’s eyes were hard and glittering. “You are too old to learn politeness, Monsieur, but not too young to see that it is sometimes necessary to feign it. I am feigning it. Be so good as to do the same.”

Crawford said nothing, but he looked sulky.

“Who are you?” Isobel said quickly.

“You are not interested in skiing?” Dubois said, smiling. “I am a cross-country endurance skier. Unfortunately the blizzard caught me yesterday and I was forced to abandon some of my equipment and spend the night in a maple sugar shed.”

Crawford had another lightning mood change. He said easily, “Don’t let this fellow win you away from me with mere words. I, too, can ski.”

“Give him the rest of the brandy,” Isobel said sharply. “Here, Mr. Dubois. You’d better take off your shoe. Come into the sitting room.”

“I rarely drink,” Dubois said, “but on this occasion, I think I might.”

“I might have known it,” Crawford said and handed him the bottle. “On two bottles of this stuff you’ll be able to ski in the fourth dimension, but I hope you get all my diseases.”

Dubois drank from the bottle. He was completely at ease. Neither Crawford’s cracks nor Isobel’s fluttering ministrations made a dent in his self-assurance. He followed Isobel into the sitting room and even while he limped, his walk had something swaggering about it.

He sat down and took off his one shoe and sock and examined his foot.

“It is not frozen,” he said.

“Gee, I’m glad,” Crawford said elaborately.

Isobel said, “I didn’t put coal on the furnace, Mr. Crawford. Would you oblige?”

“You always win eventually, don’t you?” Crawford said sadly and went out.

“He is a strange fellow,” Dubois said, tying up his shoe again.

“If you think he’s strange, wait until you meet the rest of them.”

“I must apologize to you, Madame.”

“Isobel Seton.”

“Miss Seton, I must apologize for doubting your word.”

“That’s all right,” Isobel said. “I doubt it myself sometimes. Would you prefer to have your food here or go in the dining room with the others?”

“Here,” Dubois said, showing a row of glistening white teeth. “I shall feel better able to meet the strange people after I have eaten.”

Isobel went back into the kitchen. Mrs. Vista greeted her vaguely.

“My dear, that was a man you had with you, wasn’t it?”

“It was,” Isobel said. “May I give him some of your tea?”

“A little, perhaps. Where did you find him? Really, how extraordinary going down into a cellar and finding a man. It’s never happened to me. But then, I rarely visit cellars.”

“This is the first time I have ever found a man in a cellar,” Isobel said coldly. “Where is the bread?”

“Over there,” Mrs. Vista said, with a sweep of her hand.

Isobel cut bread and buttered it and put some marmalade in a dish while Mrs. Vista followed her about the kitchen. Mrs. Vista said that human adjustments were extraordinary, really. At first she was utterly confused when she saw the man, she confessed, but now she had adjusted to him.

“Frightfully handsome, in a rugged way, wasn’t he, Anthony?”

Mr. Goodwin’s adjustments came slower, apparently, for he said he didn’t remember.

“I think,” said Mrs. Vista, “that a new face is just what we required in this house. One tires of the old faces, though I find mobile faces less tiring than still faces. I think Anthony has a very mobile face.”

Mr. Goodwin obligingly grimaced.

“See, Miss Seton?” Mrs. Vista said. “That’s what I mean. Mobility. I feel it’s everything in a face.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Isobel said with an appraising glance at Mr. Goodwin. She picked up the dishes and as she passed Mr. Goodwin, she said, “Give it a rest, brother. Nobody’s looking at you but God.”

She swept out the door and kicked it shut with her foot. I must not talk like Crawford, she told herself sternly, I must ignore Crawford, Crawford is a louse.

“Yoo hoo,” said a voice from the stairs, and Gracie Morning’s face appeared over the banister.

She was looking, Isobel noticed, very pretty and neat. Her hair was a halo of bronze ringlets and her face was freshly made up.

Isobel stopped still.

“Where’s Miss Rudd?”

“Miss Rudd?” Gracie said, swinging down the steps. “Oh, yes. Well, I looked for her but she wasn’t around so I decided to fix myself up a bit in case we’re rescued. I was a wreck, no kidding.”

“You mean you didn’t even find her?”

“That’s what I said,” Gracie said pleasantly. “Don’t throw a fit. She’ll be all right.”

“She’ll be all right!” Isobel cried. “What about us? We thought you had her upstairs, we thought you were keeping her quiet up there!”

“How could I keep her quiet if I couldn’t find her?” Gracie asked reasonably.

“You let her out. It’s your responsibility to find her again. She’s dangerous. Don’t you understand?”

“Well, to tell you the truth, I’ve been thinking it over and I decided that I was right in the first place. She’s not dangerous.” Gracie arranged herself comfortably on the bottom step and smoothed her skirt over her thighs. “I decided that she didn’t kill Floraine at all.”

“Indeed?” Isobel said ominously. “Who killed her?”

“Nobody,” Gracie said with a bright look.

“Indeed?”

“Don’t keep saying, indeed. It’s so silly. All you have to do is think about it and it all comes clear. Floraine wasn’t murdered at all. She committed suicide because she was crazy.”

“She was crazy,” Isobel said. “Go on. Miss Rudd is perfectly sane, of course.”

“No, I wouldn’t say that,” Gracie said cautiously. “But she’s not as crazy as Floraine was. You see, I got to thinking about my aunt again. Then I thought about my uncle, my aunt’s husband. And anyway, it turned out that he was crazy just from being around her. So I think that’s what happened to Floraine. She felt herself slipping and decided to end it all.”

Gracie got up and brushed off her skirt. “Do you think we ought to go and tell the others now? They”ll feel better.”

“I don’t think they will,” Isobel said sadly. “I think they”ll feel much, much worse. You keep it to yourself, Gracie.”

“Sure, if you really think I ought to.”

“You ought to,” Isobel said.

“I’m certainly glad I figured it out. We can let Miss Rudd do as she likes. Imagine — for a minute there I was scared of her, seeing that foot sticking out of the snow. Boy, was I nuts!”

“Boy,” Isobel said, “are you nuts.”

She turned away and began walking, not too steadily, towards the sitting room.

Gracie called after her. “Say, are you having lunch already?”

“No, I’m taking this food to a man. I found a man.”

“That’s swell,” Gracie said enthusiastically. “I knew you could do it, even at your age. Which one is it?”