The Late Clara Beame Read online

  When they had gone, David turned to John Carr. “Well, what do you think?”

  “I know what I think. Why ask me?”

  Henry stirred. Then started upright. “Laura!”

  “Relax,” David told him. “Laura’s all right. Alice won’t leave her.”

  Henry rose, only half awake, and without another word stumbled out of the room, moving like an elderly man. They heard his slow and heavy progress upstairs.

  David murmured in a low voice: “Things are moving faster than I expected.”

  “They seem to be,” John Carr replied, and gave him a grim smile.

  Chapter 7

  After the sun rose, there was another lull in the storm, and suddenly the sky was the color of blue tile and the snow sparkled in the brilliant light. The big house stood isolated, half drowned in an ocean of rolling whiteness. Every room glittered with sunlight, but every window was a sheet of ice and the only warmth could be found near the fireplaces.

  “Pretty day,” Mrs. Daley remarked, as John Carr came into the kitchen, yawning wearily. “It’d be nice if any of us could appreciate it. And it’s the day before Christmas, too. Happy holiday.”

  “It could be worse,” John told her. “How about giving me a cup of that hot chocolate to get the frost out of my bones?”

  Mrs. Daley poured a cup for him, and he sat down at the kitchen table and looked about the warm and pleasant room. “I never did get over liking kitchens better than any other rooms in a house. That was because of my grandmother’s kitchen. All brick walls, and brick floor, and copper pans hanging on the walls, and big, leaded windows with window seats, and a fireplace an ox could stand up in, easily, and probably did at one time, and rocking chairs, and brick and iron stoves — two of them — always simmering with something.”

  “Don’t sound like any kitchen I ever saw,” Mrs. Daley declared. “Don’t sound efficient, either.”

  “It was in Ireland. The Irish prefer peace to efficiency. That’s why they live to be so old and remain chipper until they just dry up and blow away like ashes.”

  “I thought you was a Southerner,” Edith said, turning from the sink to look at him.

  “Well, I was born in Baltimore. By the way, is anyone up this early except me?”

  “Early! Why, Mr. Carr, it’s almost eleven!”

  “So it is. Well, where is everybody this fine morning?”

  “Nobody’s been down yet. After last night.” Mrs. Daley lowered her voice. “We got everything to get ready today, and I could fall on my face and sleep for a week. Mr. Carr, I’m all shivery. Did — I mean, did Mrs. Frazier really get — ”

  “Poisoned? I’m afraid so, Mrs. Daley. But what the poison was Dr. Gates himself isn’t quite certain yet. There have to be some tests.”

  “You think she took it, herself?”

  John helped himself to a warm doughnut from a plate on the table. “Do you, Mrs. Daley?”

  She shook her head vehemently. “No sir, I don’t! I’ve been thinking it over. I couldn’t sleep. Mrs. Frazier is very religious. She’d never even dream of such a thing, no matter what. She was alone three years after Miss Beame died, and drooped around and cried most of the time, but she never once ever talked of dying, herself. And after she met Mr. Frazier, and they got engaged and married, why it was all the sun out for her again.”

  “That was quite a while for a young girl to be alone,” John said.

  “Well, we wasn’t up here, except in the summer. We stayed in the house in New York. Then Mrs. Frazier met Mr. Frazier at a party Dr. Gates was giving for Mrs. Bulowe and Mr. Bulowe — she was Miss Gates then — and they had just got engaged. It was love at first sight.”

  “Mrs. Bulowe is a very beautiful woman,” John stated, holding out his cup for more hot chocolate.

  “I wasn’t talking about Mrs. Bulowe, I mean Miss Gates, then. I was talking about Mr. and Mrs. Frazier. They met at Dr. Gates’ party. That was just before he went to the Clinic, in Cleveland. It was a big offer. They’d heard of him. He’s mighty smart.”

  “He is, indeed,” John said drily. “Very, very smart.”

  “I like him.” Mrs. Daley was loyal. “He’s one fine young man. Never did see why Mrs. Frazier didn’t marry him. He was crazy about her.”

  “Is that so? Well, we can’t always win, can we?”

  “That don’t mean Mr. Frazier ain’t as good,” Mrs. Daley went on. “It was just that Dr. Gates and Mrs. Frazier seemed so suited. Dr. Gates wouldn’t let Mrs. Frazier, if she was his wife, mope around so much. But then nobody cared anything about her until Miss Beame brought her up here. Mr. Carr, are you going to make your breakfast out of those doughnuts, you’ve had three now, or do you want me to fix you some ham and eggs?”

  “I’ll have the rest in half an hour, thank you. This is a warmup.”

  “And you so thin, too. My, if I ate a warmup like that, and then a regular breakfast, I’d be as big as a house.”

  “You are, already,” Edith giggled.

  Mrs. Daley gave her a fierce look, and John reached for another doughnut. Apparently Mrs. Daley had the eyes of Hydra, for she turned swiftly and removed the plate from temptation. She hesitated. “Mr. Carr, if it was poison, then Mrs. Frazier either took it herself or — or — ”

  “Or somebody gave it to her,” John finished genially. “Excellent deduction. Have you any ideas who’d like to see Mrs. Frazier dead?”

  There was a shocked silence in the kitchen. A big copper kettle sang on the stove. Then Mrs. Daley asked: “Why, what do you mean? Somebody try to kill Mrs. Frazier? Why, that’s crazy, Mr. Carr!”

  “It’s always the husband,” Edith remarked, nodding her head. “I read all the murder mysteries Mrs. Frazier gets, and it’s always the husband or the nephew or the secretary.” Her aunt stood speechless, staring at John. “But all Mrs. Frazier’s got is the husband. Do you think he did it?” Edith added.

  “Oh, shut up!” Mrs. Daley cried in a savage voice. But she did not take her eyes from John. She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Do you think — that — that somebody wanted to kill that poor little thing?”

  “It was poison,” John said reasonably. “She took it herself, or it was given her deliberately to kill her, or she swallowed it accidentally. Did she eat anything, or drink anything, before she came down to dinner?”

  “Not a thing!” Mrs. Daley exclaimed. “She didn’t touch her breakfast. Edith brought down the tray.” She put her hand to her large bosom. “Mr. Carr! I don’t believe — ”

  Then she stopped. “And somebody tried to kill Mr. Frazier, shooting at him. I’d forgotten about that, after Mrs. Frazier got sick. Who’d want to kill them both?”

  “Your ideas are as good as mine.” John rose and looked longingly at the distant doughnuts. “I don’t know any of these people very well. I met Mr. Frazier about two weeks ago; he’s my lawyer. I never saw Mrs. Frazier, Mrs. Bulowe or Dr. Gates before. You know them better than I do.”

  “I know!” Edith burst out. “It’s Mrs. Bulowe!”

  “Edith!” Mrs. Daley was aghast. “Don’t mind her, Mr. Carr. Why, those girls grew up together in this house. Like sisters. I was here.”

  “But Mrs. Frazier got all her aunt’s money,” Edith pointed out.

  “I told you to shut up, Edith! What if she did? Miss Beame used to say to me ‘Molly, Alice will always be able to take care of herself, but Laura won’t.’ It wasn’t that she didn’t like Mrs. Bulowe — ”

  “Well, what else, then?” John asked. “She could have divided the money, couldn’t she? Share and share alike, as the lawyers say. Why didn’t she?”

  Mrs. Daley opened her mouth, then closed it primly. “I couldn’t say.”

  “I can,” Edith said gleefully. “And you told me about it yourself, Aunt Molly. Miss Beame got so she co
uldn’t bear Mrs. Bulowe, and you know it. I bet that it’s Mrs. Bulowe all the time.”

  “But Mrs. Bulowe isn’t one of Mrs. Frazier’s heirs, is she?” John asked.

  “She sure is!” Edith reported happily. “Now, Aunt Molly, you slap me just once again and I walk out of this house, snow or no snow. Just before she went to New York last, I heard her call her lawyers and tell them she wanted a coddy or something, in her will.” She paused, basking in the attention she was receiving from the others.

  “A codicil,” John corrected. “Go on.”

  “It was to be a secret. Nobody was to know. Mrs. Bulowe was to get two hundred thousand dollars in the codi — codicil?”

  “That’s right. Codicil. Please, Mrs. Daley, let the girl talk. How did you know about that call, Edith?”

  “Well, I was just going to use the phone, myself, downstairs, and there was Mrs. Frazier on the upstairs extension, in her bedroom, and I heard it.”

  “I thought you promised me not to listen in on people’s talk!” Mrs. Daley cried. “And now you done it again, always poking in other people’s business.”

  John ignored her. He smiled winningly at Edith. “I like to know other people’s business, too; I’m a born gossip, though I won’t repeat what you’ve told me, Edith. You wouldn’t know, by the way, what Mr. Frazier said about that codicil, or did he suggest it, himself?”

  Edith shook her head. “She said it was to be a secret, even from Mr. Frazier. She was afraid, she said on the phone, that he would be hurt, her not telling him first, but she wanted it to be quiet, from everybody. She kind of talked as if she didn’t know, herself, why she didn’t want nobody to know.”

  “Then nobody knows, except Mrs. Frazier and you, Edith?”

  “Nobody,” she declared emphatically. John grinned. “I think I’m ready now for my breakfast.” He went into the dining room where the little oil stove was burning, and sat down, staring before him thoughtfully. There were faint sounds of angry words in the kitchen, but they failed to bother his thoughts.

  At six in the morning David had gone up to Laura’s room and ordered his sister to go to bed. Alice stood up, pallid with exhaustion, nodded, and left without a word. David wrapped himself in a quilt and watched the sleeping girl intently. She was pale, but she was breathing naturally. Very gently he felt her pulse. A little weak, but steady.

  Candlelight flickered in the room, and the storm was beginning to abate. After a while David went into the adjoining bathroom, carrying a candle with him.

  He opened the door of the medicine cabinet. The usual things were there: Henry’s electric razor and shaving lotions, a bottle of aspirin, a cough syrup, which he sampled delicately with his tongue, a jar of baking soda, another of boric acid, which he also tasted. There was also a bottle of the sedatives he had prescribed for Laura last summer. Five of the thirty capsules remained. His skillful physician’s fingers opened the capsules; he touched the contents of each with the tip of his tongue. Pure barbiturates. He put the capsules together again. There was, of course, no arsenic in the cabinet. He had not really expected to find any. He looked in the wastebaskets in the bathroom and in the bedroom, knowing it was useless. He carried the candle back to the table and put it down, and sat again in the big wing chair, thinking.

  He had fallen asleep just as the sun rose, during a lull in the storm. He awoke suddenly, to find the room bright and Laura, awake, staring at him with wide eyes.

  “David?” Her voice was weak.

  “No one else,” he said, yawning. “How do you feel?”

  “Awful. Weak. Where’s Henry?”

  “Don’t be frightened,” he said in the professional voice which always soothed his patients. “I sent him to another bedroom in this mausoleum to get a little sleep. Laura, I’ve got to ask you a few questions. Did you eat anything or drink anything, anything at all, before going downstairs to dinner last night?”

  “No.” Her voice seemed a little stronger. “Not a thing. You gave me a drink, David. Was there something wrong with it?”

  “There might have been,” he answered evasively. “Something poisoned you.”

  “Poison — ?” David hardly heard her whisper the word.

  “Ptomaine, probably,” he said. “A bad thing. It can kill, sometimes. Or am I thinking of botulism?” He yawned again, elaborately. “You didn’t have anything at dinner except what we had? No different wine? No separate side dish?”

  “Nothing. Is anyone else sick?” she asked in alarm.

  “I wouldn’t say anyone in this house is feeling exactly on top of the world this morning. Now, poisoned — food — doesn’t always have a revealing smell or taste. In fact, the deadliest poison can’t be detected that way at all. However, some people can take as much of one — poison — as another, and they might get a little queasy or have no reaction at all, and someone else, more susceptible, could die of it. It was probably that way with you.”

  She nodded her head against the pillow. “I did think the water had a funny taste. You know how it tastes in New York and other places. Chlorine?”

  “But you have your own well water, don’t you, Laura?”

  “Yes. Artesian. Sometimes it does taste — off, you know.”

  “But you don’t use chlorine in the water here, do you?”

  “No.”

  “And you tasted chlorine last night?”

  “No.” She frowned, trying to remember. “It was a distinctly different taste. Like metal, I think. I’d slept in the afternoon, and somehow I’m always desperately thirsty when I wake up. So I drank the water the first thing at the table, and then Edith refilled the glass when she came in with the soup.”

  “Like metal? Did the second glass taste the same?”

  “It left a very unpleasant aftertaste,” Laura told him tiredly. “That’s why I drank another glass as soon as Edith brought it. The second glass was better.”

  “Did your stomach bother you after dinner?”

  “Yes.” Her voice was faintly uneasy. “I thought once, while I was reading, that I was going to be sick; I felt a little nauseated and very sleepy. But that was because of the sedative Henry gave me earlier. It was half a capsule of what you gave me, yourself, last summer.”

  David nodded seriously. “You didn’t notice any particular symptoms after he gave you that half capsule?”

  “No, just after I drank the water.”

  “Did the water look clear to you?”

  “Yes. I don’t know. There was only candlelight. I don’t think I noticed whether it was clear or not. David! I hope you’ve told Mrs. Daley not to use the well water!” She sat up, frightened.

  “What do you suggest we use for water, then?”

  “We get big cases of spring water, for use when the well isn’t tasting right and we are waiting for it to be tested. Please tell Mrs. Daley to use that!”

  “I shall, indeed, though the water didn’t upset anyone as much as it did you. Now, stop getting so excited. You’ve got to rest. Have you forgotten this is the day before Christmas and tonight is Christmas Eve?”

  Laura groaned. “Oh, what a mess I’ve caused! I had everything planned so wonderfully! David, do give me something, so that I can go down to dinner and join the celebration.”

  “You won’t need anything. But you had a bad — attack. There was blood, Laura, which I could see clearly, even by the candlelight from the bedroom. Now, I want you to listen carefully. Don’t take any medicine, not even that soda in your bathroom, or anything else, until I’ve sampled it. I want to be sure that everything you eat and drink is all right. And keep under those covers. I can’t see for the life of me,” he said irritably, “why you didn’t install an auxiliary system in this outpost.”

  “You’re so kind, David.” Laura smiled at him. “Poor Henry. Did he have a terrible
scare? I don’t know what I’d have done without him during all that.”

  “In what way?”

  “Well, his holding me so tight, when I was being so sick, and whispering to me, and everything.” Her pale cheeks colored a little.

  “Good for old Henry,” David said. He hesitated, then patted her hand. “I’ll bring up your breakfast tray, personally. Alice can take over later.”

  He went into the freezing hall, and looked at Henry’s closed door, wondering if he were downstairs. Cautiously he turned the knob and looked inside. The room was empty. He heard water running in a bathroom, and closed the door. That could be the explanation. Shrugging his shoulders, he went downstairs, eager for a cup of coffee.

  But Henry was not in the adjoining bathroom. He had made certain that John Carr was having his breakfast, and had listened to him joking with Mrs. Daley in the dining room. Then he had gone into John’s room, closing the door behind him. I’m not used to this sort of thing, he thought. He opened the clothes-closet door where John’s clothes were hanging neatly on the hangers, and felt one pair of trousers. They were wet. Bending down, he examined a pair of shoes, which were black and stained with moisture. He stood up, trembling violently. The suitcase was on its rack, but closed. He hardly expected it to be unlocked, but it was. He lifted the lid quickly. A gun lay on top of a couple of books and a robe which had not been taken out. The gun was heavy and smelled faintly of cordite. He examined the cylinder. There were five bullets; the sixth was missing. He ejected one of the bullets. It was a forty-five, and looked exactly like the one which had been fired at him.

  He dropped the gun back into the suitcase and slipped out of the room. There was no doubt about it. John Carr had fired that gun at him; he had climbed out of the window of the room in the attic. Reaching the corner of the house, he had only to brace himself against the roof and half-turn to see the woodshed. Henry had made a perfect target. The bullet had missed him by a few inches. John Carr had tried to kill him!