“No,” Isobel said huskily. “With fingers.”
“How long ago?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t touch her.”
“She was still warm,” Mr. Goodwin said. He went away, looking impatient because death had interfered and made him step out of character.
Crawford looked down at Isobel. “You know what this means?”
“Yes.”
“One of us killed her. One of us killed Floraine.”
“Yes.” She stirred under his steady gaze.
“I think now you were right,” he said. “We must try and get help. One of us will have to try it.”
“Mr. Dubois...”
“Can we trust Dubois?” Crawford said.
“I don’t know. I think so.”
“I don’t. He might go off and not come back and not send anyone for us. How do we know he came here by accident?”
“Someone could go with him,” Isobel said. “There are the snowshoes and Dubois could ski slowly, perhaps. We’ll have to trust him. And even if — if we can’t — you have a gun.”
“A gun?”
“You could take the snowshoes. If you had the gun he wouldn’t try to leave you behind. You could shoot at him.”
He said, “Well,” with a grim little smile.
Isobel flushed and said, “I meant, as a last resort. What do you carry a gun for if you look so shocked when someone suggests using it?”
“Not shocked. Surprised. At you.”
“I don’t care. Something has to be done.”
“I’ve never been on snowshoes,” he said.
“Yes, but it’s a bright day and not noon yet. And surely Dubois will know something about directions if he’s really a skier.”
“If.”
“And there’s no one else who can go with him. You know that.”
“I’ll talk to him,” Crawford said. “If he refuses to talk shall I shoot him?”
“Don’t joke about it.”
“I’m not,” he said dryly.
When he had gone she stood for a minute staring blindly at the floor. Then she turned and walked slowly into the dining room.
Mr. Goodwin had said nothing about finding Miss Rudd, for the others were still speculating on where she could be.
He’s a coward, Isobel thought, he’s left it to me. And I won’t tell them, I won’t...
But then Joyce looked up with a malicious little smile and said, “Well. Where’s the loot?” And Isobel found herself saying, “In the cellar. She was in the cellar.”
“But we looked all over the cellar,” Paula said, frowning.
“Not in the trunks.”
“Trunks?” Gracie repeated. “But you told me before they were empty!”
“They were,” Isobel said, “before.”
“You mean she’s dead?”
“Yes.”
“I told you,” Gracie said hoarsely into the silence that followed. “I told you she wouldn’t hurt anything. She was a harmless old lady. She never hurt anything.”
Gracie began to weep quietly. Everyone else seemed incapable of moving or talking.
“I knew,” Gracie said, her voice muffled with a handkerchief. “I knew it wasn’t her that killed the cat. She wouldn’t have put it on my bed. She liked me. She... she even gave me a present.”
“Who killed it then?” Isobel said quietly.
“Floraine. She did it. She wanted to make sure we went away. She wanted to get rid of us by scaring us.”
I believe her, Isobel thought. I believe Floraine killed the cat.
Why was she so anxious to get rid of us? Was she afraid we’d find the bus driver? Was she afraid of one of us? Was she expecting someone to come here that she didn’t want us to see?
Of course. Dubois.
She was waiting for Dubois. And when he came Floraine was dead.
And who had killed her?
Isobel looked around at them, one after another: Gracie crying behind her handkerchief, Maudie twisting her thin hands, Mrs. Vista whispering to Mr. Goodwin, Herbert and Mr. Hunter grave and pompous in the face of death but utterly unmoved, Chad Ross, in a corner with Paula and Joyce, far too unhappy at his own plight to think about Miss Rudd.
Gracie was talking again. “I knew Floraine killed the cat because she shot at us, trying to keep us away.”
“Funny,” Isobel said, frowning. “Why didn’t she keep on shooting?”
“She didn’t want to kill anyone, just to scare us off.”
“Or gain time,” Isobel said. “She delayed us fifteen minutes at least that way, long enough to get rid of the bus driver.”
“Oh, stop this gruesome talk,” Maudie cried. “I can’t bear it.”
“If you want to go up to your room,” Isobel said clearly, “there’s nothing to stop you now. Miss Rudd is dead.”
“When one looks at it in an impersonal light,” said Mrs. Vista, “Miss Rudd’s death improves the situation. We can now move freely about the house, confident that no one will spring at us.”
“Can we?” Isobel said.
“What a pessimist you are!” Mrs. Vista said acidly. “Who else is there to spring at one?”
“With Floraine and Miss Rudd both dead, it leaves things among ourselves, doesn’t it?”
Mrs. Vista frowned and turned to Mr. Goodwin. “She’s an uncomfortable woman, Anthony. I feel it best to ignore her in word, thought and deed.”
“Oh, yes, yes, quite,” said Mr. Goodwin.
At any other time Isobel might have laughed at Mrs. Vista but the woman’s attitude, more than her words, whipped up Isobel’s rage. She faced her.
“Has it ever occurred to you that you are as likely a suspect as the rest of us, you could have killed both of them?”
“Oh, nonsense,” Mrs. Vista said feebly, but she moved uneasily under Isobel’s stare.
“And that goes for all of us,” Isobel added. “Mr Crawford is trying to arrange to go and get help for us. We can’t stay here together another night.”
“Well, who on earth wants to?” Paula said.
“You do,” Joyce said sweetly.
“Oh, dry up,” Chad said, “both of you.” He turned to Isobel. “Why Crawford? And how’s he going to get help?”
Isobel explained, but before she had finished Crawford himself appeared and said that his arrangements with Dubois were completed. They would leave directly after lunch, as Dubois said he wasn’t able to leave immediately.
Isobel went over to Crawford and whispered, “How did he take it?”
“All right. Seemed anxious to oblige, in fact. He’s asleep again.”
“How do you feel?”
“I feel swell,” Crawford said dryly. “There’s nothing like the prospect of being frozen to death to cheer you up. How would the ladies like to rustle up a little food for the hero?”
“What hero?” Chad said.
“Me, Redhead. And if I didn’t want to conserve my energy...”
“Sure, sure. You’re tough.”
“Maybe I don’t need to conserve my energy,” Crawford said slowly. “Come over here and let’s find out.”
Isobel deftly stepped into Chad’s path. She said severely, “Don’t look for trouble, Mr. Ross. No more personal feuds. We want to get out of this place sometime today.”
Spurred on by the hope of rescue, most of the ladies moved into the kitchen. Paula stayed in her corner, looking white and angry. When Chad came over to her she flung off his hand from her arm.
“Don’t be loathsome,” she said. “And childish. And stupid.”
Chad smiled wryly. “It’s a tall order, but I’ll try. Why so glum? I thought you’d be very glad to get out of here and back to Mamma.”
“I shall.”
“Cheer up. I won’t track you down. This time.”
“That’s obvious. You’re already making a fool of yourself over that girl.”
“Why not?” Chad said. “Do you think I’m going to sit around until Mamma Lashley decides I’m worthy? Of course technically we’re married, and I could be damned unpleasant over a divorce.”