Margaret Millar - Fire Will Freeze

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.”