Margaret Millar - Fire Will Freeze

“A small one,” Mrs. Vista decided, always fair, “and perhaps the scrummiest.”

Goodwin announced that he would stay downstairs on the chesterfield and keep the fire lit for warmth, since he practically never slept anyway. Crawford yawned and said he’d take anyone who had a good loud snore and didn’t mind competition.

“I never snore,” Mr. Hunter said hastily.

“Then you take the young man over there who growls,” Mrs. Vista said, “and Mr. Crawford can have a room to himself, if there is one.”

“Thanks,” Crawford said. “And if there isn’t one?”

“Oh, don’t be a pessimist,” Mrs. Vista said easily.

She raised herself from the chesterfield, and creaked and waddled to the door. In the hall Floraine and Herbert Thropple had appeared with several lamps. Mrs. Vista explained the sleeping arrangements to Floraine and Floraine agreed that they seemed the best possible.

She led the way upstairs. The others filed out into the hall and followed her, while the house groaned under the whip of the rising wind.

Joyce, propelled into the hall by her father, stopped at the bottom of the stairs and said she had no intention of going to bed yet. It was only nine o’clock, she had just had a sleep and she felt like staying up to talk to Mr. Goodwin.

“Absolutely no,” said Mr. Hunter.

“Oh, don’t be such a heavy,” Joyce said. “I’ve never really talked to a poet and I’m nineteen and I don’t think you should begrudge your own daughter her chances.”

“Chances to do what?” said Mr. Hunter with a sinister look.

“Oh, Poppa! Your generation is so one-track. I mean, there are things besides sex.” She reached up and kissed his cheek. “Have a good sleep, silly.”

Mr. Hunter escorted her back to the sitting room. Goodwin was pacing up and down the room.

“Hello,” Joyce said brightly. “Mind if I come in?”

“I am composing,” said Mr. Goodwin.

“Oh, that’s all right. You won’t disturb me. Good night, Poppa.”

“Good night,” Mr. Hunter said coldly. “And see here, Goodwin, none of your funny work.”

It was a strong manly exit, and Mr. Hunter, feeling very set up, joined the others on the second floor.

The rooms had already been allotted. There were eight bedrooms on this floor, Floraine explained, and of course the third floor had been shut off for years. The eight bedrooms opened on the hall in pairs, a single mathematical arrangement which fitted in with the way the house had looked from the outside.

There was one bathroom, Floraine added. It was at the end of the hall beside the staircase that led to the third floor. There might be enough water for three people to take baths and if the water should be a rather peculiar color no one was to worry. The pipes were rusted, that was all. On the other hand if anyone turned on the hot water and no water emerged it meant that the pipes were frozen as well as rusted...

“Pleasant dreams!” Floraine said with a sweet smile, and flitted off down the back stairs, holding the lamp above her head.

Isobel Seton stood in the doorway of the room she was to share with Gracie and stared thoughtfully at Floraine’s disappearing back.

“There’s a woman,” she said, “that I could find it very easy to dislike.”

Gracie agreed. “Come on in and let’s get that door locked.”

Isobel came inside and closed the door. “There’s a lock but no key.”

“We can use the furniture.” Gracie stood in the middle of the room and surveyed it. In its heyday it might have been sumptuous, but the heavy rose damask drapes were greyed with dust and age, and the huge mahogany bed was cracked along the headboard. Here, too, there were indications that various pieces of furniture had been removed from the room — marks beside the grate where a heavy chair had once been, rectangular spaces on the wallpaper less faded than the rest. The rug, too, had been taken away and cold air skimmed across the bare floor.

“Hellish little nook,” Gracie said cheerfully.

Isobel sat down on the edge of the bed with her coat draped over her shoulders and shivered. “Don’t look now but did somebody forget to put panes in those windows?”

Gracie pushed aside the damask drapes. “There are panes. And look — a radiator! But it’s cold.”

“Probably frozen,” Isobel said grimly. “Aren’t we going to be cozy under our two blankets! I’m beginning to think we should have stayed in that bus, wolves or no wolves.”

“Funny,” Gracie said pensively. “At the time this seemed the only thing to do. I mean, it was so logical.”

“Exactly.”

“It sort of looks as though we were taken in. Somebody did some dirty work.”

“But why?”

“Oh, nuts,” Gracie said in a different tone. “We’re just tired. I don’t want to stick my oar in. If there’s a mystery I want to keep it a mystery. The only thing to do in a place like this is to get inside a room with somebody you can trust, put the furniture in front of the door and be prepared to yell like hell.”

She came over to the bed and began unfolding the sheets and the two moth-eaten blankets.

“Let’s figure it out,” Isobel said. “We must have stayed in the bus about half an hour after the driver left. We walked approximately half an hour. Miss Rudd delayed us at the door about fifteen minutes. That’s an hour and a quarter. The driver obviously knew where he was going, he couldn’t have taken a chance on finding a house in this part of the country. So, if he knew the route and wasn’t stopped by rifle shots, he probably covered the ground in fifteen minutes. Subtract that from our hour and a quarter and you have one hour. One hour to disappear.”

“I don’t believe he disappeared,” Gracie said. “He’s here, all right. Maybe he and Floraine will arrange something...”

“If he’s here,” Isobel said calmly, “let’s find him.”

“You are nuts,” Gracie said. “If he doesn’t want to be found I’m not the girl to go looking for him.”

“Do you remember what he looked like?”

Gracie had lost interest in bed-making and had picked up Isobel’s hat and was trying it on in front of the bureau mirror.

“This is sort of cute on me,” she said with open admiration. “But then I can wear anything.”

“That’s nice,” Isobel said absently. “I think he was big, wasn’t he?”

“Who?”

“The bus driver. Big, and with a grey overcoat and a visored grey cap and pimples at the back of his neck. It’s his face I’m worried about.”

“Let him worry about his own face,” Gracie said cheerfully. “I’m going to bed. Move off there, will you?”

Isobel stood up and stared at her witheringly. “Do you mean to say you haven’t the nerve to search the house?”

“You guessed it,” Gracie said. “And neither have you.”

“Nonsense. Of course I have. I just thought it would be better if two of us...”

“Not me. Get one of the men to go with you.”

“Men! I never saw such a bunch of ineffectual hag-ridden pipsqueaks...”

“You haven’t been around enough,” Gracie said. “Now, take me. Maybe I haven’t been so many places as you but I sure have covered the ground thoroughly. And what I learned is this: never expect anything from any of them but pretend you do. That’s my system.”

“I have no doubt it’s an excellent one,” Isobel said coldly. “Meanwhile you’d better get into bed. I’m taking the lamp.”

“And leave me here in the dark!” Gracie squealed. “You leave that lamp here!”

“You little coward,” Isobel said, and walked firmly towards the door with the lamp in her hands.