Margaret Millar - Fire Will Freeze

“What do you mean?”

“Come on down to the cellar and see for yourself.” She put her hand on the doorknob, then removed it and said curtly, “I suppose I can trust you, can I?”

“As much as I can trust you,” Isobel said, annoyed.

Joyce turned on the flashlight and opened the door.

The hall seemed interminably long. On either side the doors were shut, and, as she passed each one, Isobel thought, he may be in there. Or there. Or this one. He may be watching us.

Joyce turned the flashlight briefly on the last door and put her hand on the knob.

“This is the kitchen,” she whispered. “You go down to the cellar from here.”

Isobel followed her into the room pausing a moment to look behind her. Then she closed the door silently and followed Joyce down the steps to the cellar. A queer pungent odor came up at her, the smell of whitewash and rancid food, and damp cement.

“Nothing in this room,” Joyce said, “but a bag of rotting potatoes and a couple of trunks. The trunks” — she added pointedly — “are both empty.”

She was fumbling with the latch of a heavy door reinforced with bars of iron. There was a padlock on the door but it hadn’t been locked.

They stepped into the next room. It was smaller and the air was warmer and quite dry. To the left was the furnace and beside it the coal bin well-stocked with coal.

“Here,” Joyce said, “take the light and hold it over here.”

Isobel kept the light fixed on the coal bin. Joyce picked up a poker and began to prod the coal. Finally she bent over and picked something from the floor. Then she held out her hand to Isobel and in the palm of it lay the metal monogram covered with soot.

“M. H.,” Isobel said slowly, remembering the nameplate in the bus, M. Hearst.

“Hold it,” Joyce said. “I found it and hid it again.”

Isobel took the monogram in her hand and stared at it. Joyce began prodding in the coal again. When she straightened up she had something else, a black button and a narrow band of leather.

“His hat band,” she said in a grim voice. “And a button from his coat. The monogram was on his hat band.”

Isobel turned away with a shudder and fixed her eyes on the furnace.

“Where’s the rest of him?” she said in a hushed voice.

In the faint light Joyce’s face looked pale and very childish. She’s scared, Isobel thought fleetingly. All her words and actions are just putting up a front.

“I don’t know.” Joyce bit her lip and seemed suddenly ready to cry. “They — couldn’t have put him in the furnace?”

Because Isobel herself had been thinking of the same possibility, she spoke rather sharply. “No, of course not! Don’t be silly. We have no reason to think he was — he was murdered.”

Joyce looked silently down at the hat band she was holding.

“I mean, it’s so silly,” Isobel added desperately. “He wouldn’t have gotten out of the bus and come here just to be murdered. It’s insane.”

“So,” Joyce said, “is Miss Rudd.”

They looked at each other, then Isobel dropped her eyes and turned away. “I’m going to look around a little bit. There’s a workbench over there, you can sit on it and wait for me. I might find something... something reassuring.”

Or damning, she added to herself.

But, except for the hat band and the monogram and the button, the cellar seemed an average one. There were pieces of broken furniture along one wall, a work table with a few simple tools, a disemboweled couch and a shelf containing paints and brushes. From the shelf she picked up a can and turned the light on it.

“What’s that?” Joyce asked.

“Ski wax,” Isobel said. “A fresh can of it.”

“That’s funny. You wouldn’t expect Miss Rudd to ski and Floraine couldn’t very well leave her alone.”

“Besides,” Isobel said, “there are no skis. Come over and hold the light, will you?”

Joyce held the flashlight while Isobel examined the shelf and took the lid off the can of ski-wax.

“It’s been used once or twice,” Isobel said. “And look at the shelf. It’s dusty but there isn’t a spot of dust on the can. It must have been put here very recently.”

Holding the can she turned decisively towards the door.

“Come on. I’m going upstairs and demand an explanation from Floraine.”

“We can’t demand anything,” Joyce said. “It’s her house, we haven’t a right...”

“She shot at us with a rifle. That’s right enough for me! Are you coming?”

It was Isobel who led the way and Joyce who trailed behind. When they reached the first floor Joyce said that whatever demanding had to be done would be done by Miss Isobel Seton alone and unaided.

“I’ve had enough for tonight,” she said with a wan smile. “Get Gracie to go with you. You may take the flashlight and I’ll stay down here with Mr. Goodwin.”

So Isobel, armed with a flashlight, a button, a hat band and a monogram, went upstairs to enlist Gracie’s aid.

She opened the door of the room and stopped short.

Gracie moved restlessly under the covers and muttered that she felt cold.

Isobel said nothing.

“The blankets seem so damp,” Gracie complained. “Probably the roof leaks.”

“No,” Isobel said in a faint voice. “It’s the cat.”

“The cat?” Gracie opened her eyes.

“The cat.” Isobel gulped. “Dead.”

“Oh, you must be dreaming.” Gracie paused. “You are dreaming, aren’t you?”

“Don’t be fatuous,” Isobel said. “Look for yourself.”

So Gracie raised herself on one elbow and saw Etienne lying with his soft throat slit and his blood soaking into the blankets.

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.”