great relief the body of Catherine Clay lay exactly as she had last seen it. She stood back behind Peter so that she could not see the staring eyes.
“I suppose she is dead,” Peter said. He took out a flashlight from his pocket and played it over the still form.
Then he began to mutter to himself, “Yes, the eyes and,” he touched her body lightly, “rigor even. I wonder how long she’s lain here. Poor miserable creature.” He turned suddenly to Fredericka. “We mustn’t touch her. I’ll call Carey and we’ll have to let Mrs. Sutton know at once. Here, you come inside and get busy making us all some coffee.”
They went into the house together and in silence. Peter went straight to the telephone in the office and Fredericka to the kitchen where she began to fill the percolator with the careful precision of a sleep walker.
When the coffee had started to bubble and Peter had come back to the kitchen, they sat down stiffly and smoked in a silence which became so oppressive that Fredericka felt she must speak. In a strained voice, she said: “Could you, I mean, would you mind telling me a little more about her—”
Peter turned to her quickly. “You mean Catherine—of course. I’ve just been thinking about her myself because in an odd way I’m not surprised at her death—I might as well think out loud.”
“Please do.”
“Well, it’s mostly gossip but probably fairly accurate. She was married quite young, stayed married two years, got comfortably divorced and then threw all her own and her acquired wealth into starting one of those marble-fronted beauty parlors, or whatever they are, on Park Avenue, and ran through it all in a very short time.” He paused and then went on slowly, “It has even been said that, as a last desperate resort, she began peddling dope to her customers and picked up the habit herself. This was a great financial help to the business for a short time but, in the end, a dead loss due to the unexpected intervention of the police. Now she’s looking—or was looking—for a rich man and a quiet life.”
“That heavy dark man I saw with her at the inn last Sunday—is he—I mean was he, the one?”
“James Brewster. Yes. He’s the family lawyer, works in Worcester but has an apartment here for his weekends. Rumour has it—or had it—that she wanted him for husband number two and that, though attracted by her snake-like charm, he was still able to resist. He’s supposed to be a great one with the ladies and he’s been a bachelor long enough to know how to resist. Also he has money and she had none, which aggravated the situation…”
“Aren’t the Suttons rich, then?”
“They manage now. But the old man died somewhere around the time of the depression, leaving Mrs. Sutton with a life insurance policy that paid his debts and very little more. But Margaret Sutton had guts enough to turn to and develop this herb farm which is now famous all over the country. She sold herbs in little packets with recipe books and what-have-you. And then, after Philippine came, she branched out with this so-called laboratory.”
“I see. Philippine seems to be her mainstay.”
“She is. And old Mrs. Hartwell works for her as bookkeeper and Margie, as you no doubt know, is very energetic in the lab. While all this hard work went on, Catherine played about like a disappointed film star and her brother Roger hid his battle-scarred face from the light of day.”
“It must have been grim.”
“In a way, yes. People get used to things though. But—considering what has just happened—perhaps I’m wrong—perhaps they don’t.”
He stopped speaking and stood up at the sound of a car in the road. Then he said quietly, “It’s helped to talk. Thanks.” A moment later Thane Carey’s quick steps could be heard on the walk, the screen door banged, and he was there, hovering over them as if in accusation.
“What is it, Mohun?” he asked.
“Margie’s prophesy come true. Catherine Clay dead, and in Fredericka’s hammock. Come with me. You stay here,” he added brusquely, turning to Fredericka. But his words were wasted. She had no desire to do anything else.
The two men disappeared through the back door and Fredericka sat still on the kitchen stool listening to the very ordinary sound of the bubbling percolator. Before Peter and Thane returned another car roared up in the road outside and braked sharply. Fredericka tried to get up and go to the door but could not bring herself to move. Presently she could hear voices, and then Mrs. Sutton, Mrs. Hartwell and James Brewster walked in the front door without ceremony.
The events of that evening were to remain in Fredericka’s memory all the rest of her life, but in odd patches as though a whole series of scenes had been lit with bright lightning flashes and then blotted out with the blackness of deep night.
The two men came in from the garden, looking over-life-sized and awkward in the small house. Mrs. Sutton was helped to a chair in the living room. Fredericka gave them coffee. And through it all could be heard, like an orchestral accompaniment, the thundering imperative demands of James Brewster. He stood with his back to the empty grate holding his coffee cup. Fredericka noticed the heavy dark hairs that covered his large hand and crept like caterpillars down each separate finger. He was like a great disgruntled bear roaring at them all. What did he say? Always the same words, over and over. “We must keep it quiet until”—until when? “Family name must be protected.” In those moments Fredericka found herself hating this blustering animal man and wishing that something—anything—would silence him.
And then at last something did silence him—the voice of authority. Thane Carey said quietly: “I have sent for Doctor Scott and, until he comes and has a look at—at her—we can’t have much of any idea of the cause of death. And while we are waiting, I’d like to ask a few routine questions. Do you feel up to this, Mrs. Sutton?”
Margaret Sutton sat forward in the straight chair she had chosen. “It’s true then,” she said. “Oh, I’ve been so frightened of this—and then this afternoon when she didn’t come I was worried—and I asked James to search for her…”
“Really, Carey, this all seems a little unnecessary. We hardly need these police strong-arm methods. My poor Margaret—”
“I’m sorry, Brewster, but I must, as the man in authority, do what seems to me right. I’m afraid you will have to leave my job to me.”
“I don’t see why you have any job, or indeed why you are here at all. I should think Mohun would have called Dr. Scott at once,” James said heavily.
Thane Carey stared at Brewster until the older man turned away with a gesture of disgust.
“You’re a lawyer,” Carey said at last. “Surely you know that one must take precautions in the case of death so sudden and unexpected as this.”
“Precautions?” Brewster flung the word back at him.
“Very well, if you force me to say it. You know as well as I do that there will be an inquest. The police must have the necessary facts.”
“Oh dear!” Mrs. Sutton said quietly. It was hardly more than a sigh, but Carey turned to her at once: “I am sorry, terribly sorry about this and, as a matter of fact there’s no need for you to stay—I can come and see you tomorrow if necessary…”
“Oh no. It’s quite all right, Thane. I want to be here with her. She was—she was so ill you see. No one, not even I, could help her.”
Fredericka, watching Mrs. Sutton’s face anxiously, thought for a moment that the woman could not stand the strain. Then with a great effort her thin shoulders straightened, but when she turned to look up at Thane, Fredericka could see that her face was lined with age and ravaged with pain and shock.
The chief of police became businesslike and his questions followed rapidly, one after the other, until they were broken off by the arrival of Doctor Scott.
Fredericka told simply and quietly the exact story of her movements from the moment