Fletcher Flora - The Second Fletcher Flora Mystery MEGAPACK™ - 20 Classic Mystery & Crime Stories!

“There are unexpected compensations,” he murmured with a vagueness equal to that of his vision.

“On the contrary, I did expect them, and I had them. I should hardly have married Jason for any other reason. He was poor. He was unscrupulous and rather stupid. He was pathetically transparent even in his attempts to kill me.”

“What!” The Reverend Mr. Culling’s voice escaped its discipline and jumped octaves into an expression of horror. “He made attempts on your life?”

“Twice, I believe. Once with something in a glass of warm milk he brought me at bedtime. Another time with something in my medicine. He repeated, you see, the same basic technique. Jason, like all dull young men, had absolutely no imagination.”

“But surely you reported these attempts to the police!”

“Not at all. What would have been the good? It would merely have destroyed our whole relationship, which still retained from my point of view, as I have indicated, much that was satisfactory.”

The minister, feeling that he was somehow on trial, tried to restrain his emotions. “Do you mean that you did nothing whatever about it?”

“Oh, I did something, all right.” Clara smiled tenderly, remembering what she had done. “I simply explained that I had disposed of my small fortune in such a way as to deprive him of any motive for killing me. Since he would receive no benefits from my death, there was no advantage in trying to rush what will occur, in any event, soon enough. He was like a child. So embarrassed at being detected!”

“Like a monster, I should say!” The Reverend Mr. Culling’s restraint faltered for a moment, and he rattled his teacup in his saucer to show the height of his indignation. “I must admit that your method was ingenious and effective.”

“Was it? Not entirely.” Clara’s tender smile took on a touch of sadness. “It may have deprived him of any motive for killing me, but it also relieved him of any compelling reason for sticking around. Not, as I said, that I have regrets. At least, no serious ones. But I shall miss Jason. Yes, indeed, I shall miss him. I shall certainly keep some small memento around the house to keep my memory of him fresh and vivid. As one grows older, you know, one’s memories fade without the help of mnemonics.”

“He has only been gone for a week. Perhaps he’ll return.”

“I think not.” Clara shook her head gently. “He left a note, you know, saying that he was leaving for good. Besides, he could, under the circumstances, hardly be sure of his reception. In a moment of pique, I destroyed the note. I regret now that I did. I should have kept it to read periodically. It would have served admirably to bring him back in spirit, if not in flesh.”

“You are an astonishing woman, Mrs. DeForest. I am utterly overwhelmed by your incredible charity.”

“Well, it is reputedly a Christian virtue, is it not?”

“Indeed it is. Faith, hope and charity, and the greatest of these...”

The minister’s voice trailed off, not because the rest of the words had slipped his mind, but because he chose not to compete with the front doorbell, which had begun to ring. Clara DeForest, in response to the ringing, had stood up. “Excuse me,” she said, and left the room.

He heard her a moment later in the hall, speaking to someone at the door. He was disturbed and a little confused by her almost placid acceptance of what he considered a shameful and faithless act. He was, in fact, inclined to resent it as an excessive application of his own principles. After all, it was entirely possible to be too understanding and submissive. His head tended to reel with antic thoughts, and he leaned back in his chair and looked for something substantial on which to anchor them. His eyes centered on a vase on the mantel, which made him think of Keats’ “Ode on a Grecian Urn.” Odes and urns seeming safe and substantial enough, he began trying to recall the lines of the poem, but he could only remember the famous one about a thing of beauty being a joy forever, a contention which he privately considered extravagant and dubious. Clara DeForest returned to the room. She was carrying a package wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. Placing the package on a table, she went back to her chair.

“It was the postman,” she explained. “Will you have more tea?”

“No, thank you. No more for me. I was just admiring the vase on your mantel. It’s a lovely thing.”

“Yes, isn’t it?” Clara turned her head to look at the vase, her eyes lingering. “My brother Casper brought it to me last week when he drove up to see me.”

“I heard that your brother was here. It’s a great comfort to have a loved one near in a time of trouble.”

“Yes, Casper came immediately when I told him by telephone that Jason had left me, but it was hardly necessary. I did not consider it a time of trouble, actually, and I was perfectly all right. I suppose he merely wanted to reassure himself. He only stayed overnight. The next morning, he drove directly home again.”

“I have never had the pleasure of meeting your brother. Is his home far away?”

“About two hundred miles. He lives in the resort area, you know. He’s a potter by trade. He made the little vase you have been admiring.”

“Really? How fascinating!”

“It’s actually an art, not a trade, but Casper has developed it to the point where it is also a business. He started out years ago with a little shop where he sold his own wares, but they were so superbly done that the demand for them grew and grew, and he soon had to increase the size and numbers of his kilns to meet it. Now he supplies shops and department stores in all the larger cities of this area.”

“He must be very busy.”

“Oh, yes. Yes, indeed. He was forced to hurry home last week because he had some urgent work to do. He has great artistic integrity, you see. He personally makes all his own vases. It limits his production, of course, but each piece is far more valuable because of it.”

“I know so little about the making of pottery. I must read up on it.”

“You will find it interesting, I’m sure. The pieces are baked, for instance, in intense heat. Have you any idea of the temperature needed to produce a piece of biscuit ware?”

“Biscuit ware?”

“That is what the pottery is called after the initial baking, before glazing.”

“Oh. No, I must confess I haven’t the slightest idea.”

“An average temperature of 1,270 degrees.”

“Mercy!”

“Centigrade, that is.”

“Good heavens!”

“So, you see,” Clara finished humorously, “my lovely vase has been put through quite an ordeal. Don’t you agree it is worth it, though? It is too squat for most flowers, of course, but never mind. I shall keep it for something very special.”

Talk of such heat had prompted the Reverend Mr. Culling to think uneasily of Hell. He preferred talking of it to thinking of it, for silence increased its terrors, but it would hardly do as a topic for this polite conversation, which had continued, at any rate, long enough. He rose.

“Well, I must run along. I really must. I can’t tell you how relieved I am to find you taking things so well.”

“You mustn’t worry about me. I’ll survive, I assure you.”

They walked to the front door and said goodbye.

“I’m so glad you called,” said Clara. “Do come again soon.”

From the door, she watched him to his car at the curb, and then she turned and went back into the living room. At the table, she took up the package with an expression of annoyance. Really, Casper was simply too exasperating! It was well enough to be thrifty, but her dear brother was positively penurious. Not only was the package flimsy and insecurely tied, but it had been sent third class, just to save a few cents’ postage. Of course, one realized that postal employees rarely availed themselves of the right to open and inspect packages, but just suppose, in this instance, one had! It would have been embarrassing, to say the least.