Fair Warning (21 page)

“Yes, he does,” said Marcia thankfully.

The nurse became businesslike.

“Well, you’ve got to sleep some. Want me to give you a massage?”

“No, thank you.” She closed her eyes obediently, but long into the night, was conscious of the shaded light over the dressing table, the nurse’s white figure on the chaise longue.

She must have slept eventually, slept and dreamed straight along the course of her thoughts so it did not seem she was asleep. But she roused fully about dawn, for the light was turned out and the room was gray and the nurse was again at the window looking down upon the garden and the Copley house. Looking down so intently that she did not hear Marcia stir and turned, startled, when she spoke.

“What is it?”

But it was nothing. Miss Wurlitz rubbed her eyes and yawned.

“I thought I saw somebody down there in the shrubs. Bent over—guess I was wrong. You go back to sleep, young lady.”

She settled down again on the chaise longue. And it was then that, quite suddenly and altogether unbidden, an ugly thought entered Marcia’s mind. If Rob had murdered Beatrice because of the letter and in order to get possession of it and to silence Beatrice—then he would have been forced to do exactly as he had done when Dr. Blakie questioned him about it. Pretend he’d forgotten the letter altogether in his anxiety over Marcia, in the confusion and excitement following Beatrice’s murder.

But he hadn’t murdered Beatrice. He hadn’t. Not Rob. She clung to that.

Queer, the method of the two murders was the same. A casual instrument in daily use, easily traced to the household. The only difference was that Ivan had had that skull fracture, and they said the fracture occurred before the murder. How could they tell? Or was it mere conjecture?

At eight o’clock Miss Wurlitz bustled out of the room and presently in again with a breakfast tray and the morning newspaper.

“I guess it’s all right for you to look at it,” she said and stood at Marcia’s elbow, balancing the cream jug and craning her neck to read the headlines.

“Good gracious!” she said. “They say they’re about to make an arrest.”

I
T DID SAY THAT
, in great black headlines.

But they made, that day, no arrest.

Although, so far as the liberty of suspects was concerned, they might as well have been arrested, so rigid was their guard. Even Verity, coming in about ten to see Marcia, complained of that surveillance. “They’re everywhere,” she said. “Popping up from shrubs, peering at you around corners, behind every door you open. I got out a small automatic I’ve had for years and had forgotten and put it on my bedside table, but had to put it away again for fear I would take a policeman for the murderer and shoot him. And small loss for all the good they’ve done. How are you, Marcia?”

She, too, had seen the papers. And she looked, in spite of her brisk manner, years older. But she kept up a rather strained chatter and would not let Marcia talk. She was still there when Ancill knocked and asked the nurse respectfully if Mrs. Godden would give cook her orders.

“Tell cook,” said Verity, “that there are no special orders and Mrs. Godden isn’t well and would be obliged if she’ll carry on for a day or two. Right, Marcia?”

Marcia nodded gratefully, but Ancill demurred and asked to speak to Mrs. Godden himself.

Admitted, he looked over Marcia’s shoulder, said he hoped Madam found herself better this morning and that he thought she’d better know that the goldfish had all died.

“Goldfish!”

“Yes, madam. You’ll remember Miss Beatrice had me put them in the pool.”

There was no faintest expression as he mentioned Beatrice’s name, though Verity looked suddenly pale and rigid, and Marcia had a curious sinking sensation in the bottom of her stomach. Beatrice—it wasn’t possible that she was dead. That she would no longer plan every smallest detail of that household. That her pale face and thick, brooding black eyebrows would no longer dominate that house. “What,” thought Marcia suddenly, “am I going to do when this is over? Shut up the house and leave? Dismiss the servants? They’ve thought of it all, probably. But it isn’t over—there’s the inquiry—Rob’s letter …” The tentacles of it caught her again, enmeshing her. She looked at Ancill, forced herself to think of the matter at hand. What was it? Oh, yes, Ivan’s goldfish.

“It was probably too cold for them,” she said.

Ancill looked subtly of a different mind.

“Yes, madam. Although it was very warm yesterday, if you’ll remember. And all the fish died. They were floating—”

Marcia said quickly, “Well, it must have been the change. You can have the pool cleaned.”

Again he hesitated. Marcia wondered suddenly what he thought of it all below that smooth, ever-respectable demeanor. If he grieved for his master, he showed no signs of it. His face had no expression at all; his whole aspect was undisturbed. Except that he was trying to tell her something. Trying, rather, to make something apparent to her. He said, looking at the wall, “I thought they might have been poisoned. ”

“Poisoned!”

“That’s what I thought possible. You see, with the arsenic missing—the arsenic, you know, that came from the hardware store some weeks ago—”

He stopped and Verity said, “Arsenic” in a dazed way, and the nurse uttered a short, sharp scream and stood there with her eyes bulging, staring at Ancill as if he’d suddenly broken out with smallpox.

“I was only wondering,” said Ancill softly, “whether or not the police ought to know.”

Verity shot a blue glance at Marcia, opened her mouth and closed it again. Miss Wurlitz gulped and looked at Marcia, too.

“Why, certainly,” said Marcia. “Is that all?”

It was. He backed away, asked if she would need the car today, was assured she probably would not, and vanished.

“Well!” observed the nurse with some emphasis and went to the door and looked out. “He’s really gone,” she said. “Well!”

“There was some arsenic lost,” said Marcia, impelled to explanation by the nurse’s round eyes.

“So I judged,” said she. “How long has it been missing?”

“Nobody knows. It was bought about four weeks ago.”

“And hasn’t been seen since?” said the nurse. “Well, all I hope is the goldfish got it all.”

“You can’t be sure they got any of it till the water’s analyzed,” said Verity. “Miss Wurlitz, I want to talk to your patient.”

“All right,” said the nurse cheerfully. “I’ll go and call up the doctor for orders.” At the door she paused, looked back at them, hesitated for an instant and then went to her bag. Rooting for a moment in its depth, she drew out a small and rather efficient-looking revolver, which she examined coolly. “Loaded,” she said. “You ought to have one of these, Mrs. Godden. They are very simple to operate. All you have to do is be sure it’s loaded. It almost shoots itself.”

She held it nonchalantly for their somewhat stunned examination and slipped it into her pocket; it sagged, and she removed it and put it in the top of her stocking.

“There,” she said, patting her skirt. “Now if anybody comes creeping up on me with any scissors—” She waved cheerfully.

“And I’m not sure she isn’t right,” said Verity into the waves of silence left in Miss Wurlitz’s vigorous wake. “After all—” She went suddenly to sit on the foot of the bed, clasping her small, strong hands around her blue linen knee and looking at Marcia with eyes as blue as cornflowers. “Rob sent me,” said Verity.

Marcia sat upright, clutching the blanket around her and looking, Verity thought, about sixteen, with her light hair ruffled, and her eyes wide and dark and a shabby, yellow wool bathrobe pulled over her white shoulders and rumpled little batiste nightgown. There were faint purple marks under her eyes, and her mouth was a little too set.

“What did they do last night? What do they know of the murder? Is Rob all right?”

“Rob’s all right,” said Verity. “They turned the house inside out last night as well as the suspects. And they know nothing of the murderer. At least so far as we know.”

“What did they tell the police? And—Rob’s letter, Verity, have they—”

“No. Not yet.” Verity’s hands clasped each other so tightly the knuckles grew white. “We’ve got to get hold of that letter. Marcia—I’m going to search Beatrice’s things myself. You see, that letter will mean Rob’s conviction. There was some chance for him before, even if they got hold of it. There’ll be no chance now.”

Her eyes darkened, and her face was as white as the pillows, and her nose jutted out sharply. “Nobody had the motive for killing Beatrice that Rob had,” she said. “If the police once know about the letter—and know that Beatrice had it and was using it as she did—” Verity’s voice was rough and difficult, but she kept on to the end—“if that is known, no jury on earth would acquit him.” She stopped and cleared her throat and made herself continue: “And there’s this thing Gally told them last night, to make it worse. He says Beatrice said she could have solved the murder herself. That she had strong evidence against somebody. I suppose she meant the letter. And that’s what they’ll think. You see for yourself—don’t look like that. I’m not blaming you.”

“Oh, Verity—”

“I know. I know. But it happened. Evidently she hadn’t concealed it anywhere about her or it would have been found. So it’s somewhere in this house. Which is Beatrice’s room?”

“I’ll go with you,” said Marcia and scrambled into slippers.

“There are policemen in the library,” warned Verity. “I don’t know what they are doing. Better be quiet.”

Somebody was smoking, and the odor of it floated upward. It was a dark morning, and faint gray light drifted through the stained glass at the landing of the stairs.

“This is her room,” said Marcia, whispering.

No one was there, although someone had been there, for though it was orderly and everything was in its place, still there was an air of things having been recently moved and replaced but not exactly. The bed was not quite smooth; a rug before the fireplace not quite straight; the reading lamp at the wrong end of the table.

“But the letter is flat and small,” whispered Verity stubbornly. “And they didn’t know about it and would have been giving the room only a routine search.”

Marcia thought of the remarkable thoroughness with which they had gone through the house during the previous day and that that was probably what they called a routine search. She did not say so, however.

No one came to interrupt them, although they were afraid of it and listened tensely the whole time, whispering and making no sound. “Have you looked in that drawer?” “How about this box?” Luckily, Marcia thought once fantastically, Beatrice had been very orderly and very efficient. It made their task easier. But they had to give up after Verity had looked over every inch of the mattress for loose stitching and Marcia had searched the linings of Beatrice’s expensive hats, made to order on account of that black coronet braid.

“But there’s her study,” said Marcia. “I’ll tell the police I’m looking to see if anything’s been stolen. I’ll get Fitterling if they won’t allow it.”

“You’d better get some clothes on,” said Verity.

Miss Wurlitz was reading the newspaper in Marcia’s room, and there was an odor of cigarette smoke but no cigarette.

“I telephoned the doctor,” she said. “He’s coming in about noon. Soon as he can get away from the hospital. He told me to stay on the job—do you want me, Mrs. Godden?”

“Yes,” said Marcia thankfully.

She helped her dress—swiftly and asking no questions, though her eyes were bulging.

Again no one stopped them, though there were voices coming now from the dining room. Two policemen were standing at the front of the hall talking, and they turned to look at them, and Marcia walked boldly around the stairs and toward the back of the hall. But when she reached the door she stopped abruptly and heard Verity behind her give a sharp, stifled gasp. For Jacob Wait sat in Beatrice’s chair and was placidly looking at papers on the desk.

“Oh,” he said, looking up. “There you are. I thought you’d be down presently. Come in, Mrs. Godden.”

Marcia, frozen, didn’t move, and he said again, “Come in. Good morning, Mrs. Copley. I want to see you sometime today, if you’ll be so good. But not,” said Jacob Wait quite coolly, “now.”

He closed the door almost on Verity’s nose and told Marcia she could sit down. She did, mesmerized. What had he been looking at there at the desk? Household accounts? Letters? But she could see no single folded piece of white note paper with black writing on the inside.

Jacob Wait’s eyelids drooped a little. She was a pretty thing, obviously upset; why did she keep looking at the desk? Yes, very pretty but pale. Nobody knew better than Jacob Wait what trouble pretty things could cause. He was a direct man; simply and instinctively deferent to biology. Motherhood would have improved her, he decided; broadened her body and her resistance. Still, she might have plenty of resistance; you couldn’t always tell; he’d better handle her easy; she had a sort of sensible look when she wasn’t scared to death. She’d probably murdered her husband; or if she hadn’t, she had a pretty good idea who had.

He began, “Glad you’re better this morning.” This was a concession. He went on before she could say she wasn’t and didn’t want to see him. “I’ve been wanting another talk with you, Mrs. Godden. This is a good time.”

“What are you doing here?” said Marcia.

“Huh?” His eyelids flicked open in surprise and immediately dropped again. “I’m trying to find out who murdered your husband. And his sister.”

“You have no right to look through these papers,” said Marcia. “Not until I’ve looked myself. You should have asked my permission.”

“Come, come, Mrs. Godden. There’s no reason for you to take that stand. I’m here, as I said, to find a coldblooded, particularly cruel and vicious murderer. You don’t wish to prevent my doing so, do you?”

“You have no right to search my house.”

“Well, as it happens, I have a warrant. And—oh, come, come, let’s talk of this sensibly. I’m sure,” said Jacob Wait, “you are as anxious as I am to find the murderer—so let’s try to get at a better understanding of each other. You are unstrung just now and—”