Fire Will Freeze

5

When Gracie screamed the whole house sprang into action, as if it had been waiting for something to happen and was ready, holding its breath.

Bedroom doors began to open and people spilled out into the hall, clutching lamps and coats and blankets. They herded together, disheveled and frightened, asking almost in one voice: “What is it? What’s happened?”

Then Gracie herself tottered out into the hall. She was fully clothed except for her shoes, and her stockings were stained dark red at the feet.

Charles Crawford pointed at the stain, and there was an instant’s hush before Maudie began to scream. “Look! Herbert, I’m going to faint. I’m — going — to...”

So Maudie, who had been on the verge of fainting for twenty years, finally accomplished it and was bundled back into the bedroom by Herbert. Paula Lashley went with him to give Maudie first aid.

Crawford came over and took Gracie’s arm. “What happened?”

“That cat,” Gracie said through her teeth. “Miss Rudd killed it on my bed. Will somebody help me get these damned stockings off?”

Nobody offered. So Gracie, balancing herself by clinging to Crawford’s arm, got the stockings off, rolled them into a ball and tossed them back into the bedroom.

Crawford looked inquiringly at Isobel.

“It’s true,” Isobel said sharply. “Go in and look.”

“Tut, tut, tut, tut,” said Mr. Hunter stroking his mustache. He caught Isobel Seton’s scornful eye on him and wished there was something he could do, something positive, or heroic. But after all you can’t wake a fellow at eleven o’clock at night and expect him to be a hero about a dead cat.

Chad Ross was scowling at Gracie. “You think the old lady killed it?”

“Who else?” Gracie said in exasperation. “My feet are cold.”

Mrs. Vista mysteriously produced an enormous pair of fur mittens. “Here, put these on. I shall have to go down and break the news to Anthony. He is extremely sensitive.”

At that moment Miss Rudd’s door opened and she darted out into the hall. She was wearing a large grey flannel nightgown which was only partly buttoned and showed her black dress underneath. She seemed very cheerful and sang out:

“Good morning. Good morning. Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Crawford said hastily. “Where’s Floraine?”

Instead of answering Miss Rudd threw back her head and began to bellow, “Floraine! Floraine!”

Floraine’s door opened. “Stop that noise, Frances.” She came out into the hall, her eyebrows raised at the gathering. She wore a well-tailored wool bathrobe and her hair hung in two braids. She looked like an older and more sinister Pocahontas.

“What is it?” she said. “Go back into your room, Frances.”

Miss Rudd gazed at her mulishly.

Floraine grasped her arm and tried to push. “Go into your room!”

“... you, you tart, you whore, you Jezebel...”

Floraine slapped her across the face. Isobel opened her mouth to protest, but before she could speak Miss Rudd shambled off down the hall, holding her hand to her face, and moaning.

“What’s happened?” Floraine said brusquely, paying no more attention to Miss Rudd.

Crawford said, “Etienne’s throat has been cut. He was found on Miss Morning’s bed.”

Floraine stood with her hands folded in front of her, her black eyes impassive though her voice was full of surprise. “Etienne? But that’s impossible.”

She went into the bedroom. When she came back she was paler and worried-looking. “But she was very fond of Etienne. I can’t understand it. And I hid the scissors from her. I put them in my desk and locked the drawer.”

“Maybe he committed suicide,” Isobel said.

Floraine stiffened. “Frances has never raised her hand against a living thing. If she has done this it is because you’ve upset her. Mr. Crawford here has particularly upset her. He bears some resemblance to Miss Rudd’s younger brother, Harry. So I must ask you to go back into your rooms, all of you, and stay there for the night. Directly after breakfast I expect you to leave.”

She went back into the bedroom, and when she came out again she was holding Etienne, now a bulky parcel of grey wool, under her arm. She walked toward the head of the stairs. Finding she had no light she unceremoniously took the one Crawford was carrying and made her way downstairs. Crawford grimaced, but Isobel noticed he didn’t do any objecting.

She made a quick decision and started down the steps after Floraine.

“May I come, too?”

Floraine paused and turned around at the bottom of the steps. “Why?”

“Because,” Isobel said clearly, “I wanted to talk to you. What are you going to do with the cat?”

She too had reached the bottom of the stairs and the two women stood gazing at each other. They were the same height, both tall, but Floraine was heavier.

“I’m going to put him in the furnace,” Floraine said, spacing her words evenly. “If you’d care to come and watch...”

“I wouldn’t put him in the furnace, if I were you.”

“Why not?”

“It seems so unnecessary, and — and cruel.”

“Cruel? He’s dead, isn’t he?”

Isobel felt the blood rushing to her face. “Couldn’t you put him out in the snow and then bury him afterwards? After all, he was her cat and she must have — loved him once.”

“I liked him, too,” Floraine said levelly. “I don’t like sentimentality. Do you still persist in coming with me?”

“No,” Isobel said. “I’ll wait here for you.”

“You still want to talk? Very well. I’ll be back shortly.”

Isobel sat on the bottom step. She found that her limbs were shaking. I’m letting it get me, she told herself. It isn’t just the cat, it’s everything. She could have put the driver in the furnace, too — if she cut him up first...

She let out a little giggle, then quickly put her hand up to her mouth to stop it. Here she was, Isobel Seton, thirty-five years old, who had never done anything more exciting than attend first-nights — here she was, sitting on a step waiting for a woman to come and tell her what else had gone into that furnace beside a cat, waiting to hear about a man called M. Hearst who had entered a house and vanished in an hour.

Floraine came back, cool and unperturbed. The grey parcel was gone.

“You wanted to see me?” she said. “Come up into my room.”

“No, thanks. I think my room would be just as convenient,” Isobel said.

“That’s all right.”

Floraine led the way upstairs. Gracie Morning was not in the room, having been pressed into service for the fainting Maudie.

“Sit down,” Isobel said to Floraine. “I have something to show you.”

She picked up the articles Joyce had found in the cellar and thrust them in front of Floraine.

Floraine blinked. “What on earth is that? You’re being very mysterious, Miss Seton. And before we go any further may I remind you that I’m not responsible for what happens to you or the rest of them? I’m responsible for Frances Rudd.”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“I didn’t know there was a subject,” Floraine said dryly. “You’re showing me some junk...”

“The junk belongs to the bus driver.”

“Oh, really!” Floraine shrugged impatiently and made a move towards the door.

“I’m not through,” Isobel said sharply. “So far you’ve been able to deny everything. You say you saw no driver, we have to believe you, temporarily. But what about those rifle shots?”

“What about them?”

“Is it the usual thing in this part of the country to shoot at strangers?”

“No...” Floraine said softly.

“You wouldn’t give Miss Rudd a rifle to play with. I presume the rifle was yours.”

“Quite right.”

“And you did the shooting.”

“Right again. But I wasn’t shooting at strangers. I thought I was shooting at Harry, Miss Rudd’s younger brother.”

“Even that,” Isobel said grimly, “is unusual enough. You nearly killed Mr. Goodwin.”

Floraine laughed. “But I didn’t kill anyone, and I have a license for the gun and you were trespassing on private property. As far as I can see I don’t need to give you any explanation. But if it’s really worrying you, I have warned Harry off a number of times in the same way. He’s a persistent creature and Miss Rudd is afraid of him and I can’t have him here. He has been trying to put her in an institution. You mustn’t think that because Frances is a little peculiar she doesn’t know what’s going on. In some ways she’s very shrewd.”

“Who pays your salary?” Isobel asked.

Floraine frowned and said, “Really, you’re getting into things that have no concern...”

“Someone must manage Miss Rudd’s money.”

“I do, if that’s any of your business. I am Frances’ cousin, and I have the power of attorney for her affairs. I am fond of Frances. She wasn’t always the way she is now.”

Isobel fingered the monogram M.H. After a time she said, “I’m going to keep this as a souvenir of one of the best liars I’ve ever seen.”

Floraine smiled and said, “You’re very tired. I’m sure you’ll see things differently after you’ve had a good rest.”

She spoke very convincingly, and for an instant Isobel felt that she must have imagined the whole thing. Then her eyes fell on the can of ski wax.

“What about the ski wax?” she said.

“Where did you get that?”

“In the cellar.”

“Your prying is very thorough,” Floraine said stiffly. “The wax belongs to Harry. He left it here some time ago. I put the can in the cellar yesterday morning because Frances thought it was something to eat. She ate some of it so I hid it from her.”

She can explain anything, Isobel thought desperately.

Floraine said from the doorway, “Is there anything else I can relieve your mind about?”

Isobel looked up and met the impassive black eyes. “No,” she said wearily. “No, thank you.”

“Well, good night.” She went into the hall again. Miss Rudd had come out of her room and was waiting for her.

“I thought I told you to stay in your room, Frances.”

“Oh, I can’t sleep with Harry in the house! You tell him to go, Floraine. You tell him he can’t steal any more of my...”

“Go into your room,” Floraine said harshly. “I’m going to lock you in.”

“No! Oh, no! Oh, don’t lock me in!” The voice faded, and there was the bang of a door and the clicking of a lock.

Sometime later Gracie came back and crawled into bed, still wearing Mrs. Vista’s fur mittens on her feet. Isobel was too depressed to move. She sat in a chair beside the windows, huddled inside her coat.

I don’t believe a word Floraine said, she thought, except what Miss Rudd confirmed, that there is someone called Harry and that he looks something like Charles Crawford.

She took a pack of cigarettes out of her pocket and lit one. The radiator began to bang again and she thought of Etienne in the cellar burning...

She got up and tossed the cigarette away and stepped on it. I’ve got to talk to somebody, she thought. I can’t sit here and think about that damn cat and the bus driver.

She flung her coat over her shoulders again, reassured herself that Gracie was sleeping, and picked up the lamp.

In the hall she stopped a minute before Miss Rudd’s door and tried the knob. Floraine had kept her word and Miss Rudd was locked in for the night and the light was out. She stood, listening to know if Miss Rudd had gone to sleep. Then she heard a faint muffled whispering from the room and bent her ear to the keyhole.

But it was not Miss Rudd talking there in the dark room. Even when she whispered, Floraine could not conceal the nasal accent that identified her.

“... be all right. Don’t lose your nerve. She’ll be gone in the morning.”

There was a faint murmur in reply.

“She can’t do a thing,” Floraine said. “Nobody can do a thing to spoil it.”

The murmur again, obviously protesting. Then a movement of feet inside the room.

Isobel walked away on tiptoe and made for Mr. Crawford’s room. She had her hand up ready to knock when Joyce appeared beside her, materializing out of the darkness.

“What are you doing?” Joyce said in a low voice. “You’d better go back to your room. You don’t want to stir up trouble.”

Isobel said, “I can’t stay in that room. I want somebody to talk to.”

“You heard what Floraine said about Miss Rudd,” Joyce hissed. “Do you want us all to be murdered?”

“I can’t...”

“Don’t be a baby! And don’t—” Joyce narrowed her eyes — “don’t rely on Mr. Crawford.” She turned on her heel and went back to her room. Isobel noticed that she had taken off her shoes and moved silently as a cat.

What a queer girl, Isobel thought. But there had been something very convincing in her voice and Isobel went reluctantly back to her room.

She put a chair underneath the doorknob, and taking off her coat, she lay down beside Gracie. Her head ached and her cheeks burned from the wind and whenever she closed her eyes images dangled in her mind. The cat bleeding on the blanket. Miss Rudd holding the cheek Floraine had slapped. The cat again, wrapped in the grey blanket and tucked under Floraine’s arm.

“She’ll be gone in the morning,” Floraine had said. Who was “she”? What could she do to spoil anything for Floraine and the person with the murmur?

She couldn’t have meant me, Isobel thought. I can’t do anything except ask questions.

But perhaps that was what she meant. Perhaps she was really disturbed by one of the questions, if not all of them.

Gracie gave a little snore and turned on her other side, dragging the blanket with her. Isobel tugged at the blanket until she regained half of it and settled down again to think. But the images kept coming too fast and gradually they distorted beyond recognition and Isobel slept.

In a room across the hall, Mrs. Vista lay on the bed, a mountain of blankets twitching like an incipient volcano. She occupied exactly two-thirds of the bed — she had measured the amount scrupulously — but even this did not seem to be enough now that she had had a short nap.

She flapped around for a while like a walrus on ice, then she sat straight up and looked over at Paula Lashley to see if she was sleeping.

Paula’s eyes were closed and she lay very quietly.

“Are you sleeping?” said Mrs. Vista loudly.

No answer.

Ah, youth, youth, thought Mrs. Vista with sadness. No nerves, no indigestion, not even any feelings, when you come to think of it.

“At any rate, I have lived, Mrs. Vista murmured, and thought of Cecil, the supplier of her name and fortune, and purveyor of virility.

Mrs. Vista, then Evaline Smith of Cincinnati, had gone to Europe on an organized tour. She didn’t return for fifteen years and then she had defied tradition by not creeping back like a wounded animal but arriving by Clipper swaddled in mink, diamonds and smiles. She threw herself into culture. At a meeting of her Poetry Club she met Mr. Anthony Goodwin and because he was English and alone and defenseless among Americans who misunderstood him and printed shocking lies about him in the papers, Mrs. Vista took him up. Cecil had, unaccountably, heard of this new interest, for he sent her a friendly cable telling her to watch her step or he’d send the King’s Proctor after her and how was she, anyway?

No one else but Cecil would do a thing like that, Mrs. Vista thought with nostalgia. She flipped over again on her side. Paula made a funny little noise which sounded like a sob.

“Why, you aren’t sleeping!” Mrs. Vista said with great reproach.

“I am so!” Paula whispered savagely. “Leave me alone.”

Mrs. Vista usually acted inversely to the wishes of other people. She raised herself on one elbow and squinted over at Paula. The tears were rolling down Paula’s cheeks.

“Well, really!” said Mrs. Vista. “What are you crying about?”

“N-nothing.”

“Nerves?” Mrs. Vista diagnosed. “I’m a great sufferer from nerves myself.”

“It’s not nerves,” Paula said into her pillow. “I just want to go home.”

Mrs. Vista sighed, “So do we all. A few more hours yet and we’ll be on our way.”

“I don’t want to go to the Lodge. I want to go home.”

“What did you come for, in the first place?”

Paula rolled her head back and forth and sobbed into the pillow.

Mrs. Vista sighed and thought, she looked so quiet and thin. What a mistake! I should have taken a room to myself but this house seemed so eerie.

“I think you should go down to the bathroom and wash your face and stop this nonsense,” she said firmly. “There’s nothing like a dash of cold water...”

“Oh, be quiet,” Paula said angrily and sat up and wiped off her tears with a handkerchief. “If I’m disturbing you, I’ll go some place else. I’ll go downstairs.”

“You can’t. Mr. Goodwin is sleeping down there.”

Paula rolled off the bed. Like the others, she had not undressed and she looked very funny standing there dressed for skiing, her hair tousled and her eyes red from crying. Mrs. Vista began to laugh, holding her sides and rocking back and forth on the bed. Her laughter was punctuated by the banging of the radiator and the snores of Crawford coming from the next room.

Paula sat down again on the bed and tapped the floor with her foot. Mrs. Vista stopped laughing and said, “What time is it?”

“Midnight,” Paula said shortly.

“What were you making all that fuss about?”

“Nothing. Homesick, I guess.”

“Well, you didn’t come here alone. Your cross young man...”

“He’s not my young man. I’ve just known him since we were children. We’re just friends.”

Her eyes flickered, and even Mrs. Vista, who was no observer of human nature not her own, decided she was lying.

Paula rose and yawned. “I think I’ll have that dash of cold water now. I have to take the lamp with me.”

“Don’t be long,” Mrs. Vista said. “And close the door behind you.”

Paula went out with the lamp. She was too engrossed in her own troubles to be nervous about the dark or to remember the dead cat.

She opened the bathroom door and went in. A trickle of pinkish brown water escaped from the tap. She dashed some on her face and dried it off with her last clean handkerchief.

She had her hand on the knob to go out again when she heard a faint scream. It seemed to come from nowhere. It was just there, like the howling of the wind, and then it was gone again.

Though it lasted only a second and was barely audible above the other noises, the scream was full of terror. It seemed to be torn from a throat that wouldn’t scream again.

Her legs shaking, Paula walked quickly out into the hall. The doors were all shut, the house undisturbed and dark. No one else heard it, Paula thought. Perhaps I imagined it, or it was an animal outside...?

But she knew she had not imagined it when she went back to her room and found Mrs. Vista standing at the window, her face pale with fright.

“Did you hear it?” Mrs. Vista whispered huskily. “Did you hear someone scream?”

Paula nodded wordlessly.

“Someone died,” Mrs. Vista said, putting her hand over her shaking mouth. “I feel it. I feel that someone is dead.”