Gracie lowered her eyes and said uneasily, “Yeah, I think she was.”
“And he killed her because he — well, he might have just been angry with her. He didn’t need a better reason than that.”
But there was something that didn’t quite fit in and for a minute she couldn’t remember what it was.
Then she thought, of course, it’s the way he acted when he found Floraine, and brought her into the house. He was shocked, that’s the word. After he killed Frances he acted almost normal, he seemed happy in the excited way Frances herself was happy when she brought the newspapers to Gracie as a present.
She remembered him looking down at Floraine when she was lying in the hall. He had looked savage and frightened and his voice had been rough: “My nerves are bad and when my nerves are bad I want action, any kind of action...”
He had come over and kissed her then, and his mouth had been hard and cold.
He was afraid, Isobel thought, that’s what fear does to me, it makes me cold all over. What was he afraid of?
She remembered then when she had stood outside Miss Rudd’s door and listened to see if she was asleep. It had not been Miss Rudd in that dark room. It had been Floraine, talking to Crawford: “Don’t lose your nerve. She can’t do a thing to spoil it...”
They were talking about me, Isobel thought. And if I had rapped on Crawford’s door then as I intended to, I would have found out he was in there with Floraine. But Joyce came along and interrupted. And Joyce had said, “Don’t rely on Mr. Crawford.”
Isobel thought, when he came over and kissed me in the hall he was afraid of me. That’s why he did it. He had always to come and meet danger more than halfway. That’s why he paid so much attention to me — he thought I had killed Floraine.
Gracie said, “There you go thinking about him again. I can tell.”
“Yes, I was.”
“Just asking for trouble.”
“I believe I am,” Isobel said slowly. “I think I’m going to ask for trouble.”
She got off the bed and straightened her skirt. Her head felt too light and her legs too heavy, but she found she could walk.
“Where are you going?” Gracie said.
“Just downstairs.”
“Do you want me to come?”
“If you’d like to.”
“I don’t think I will,” Gracie said. “I’m getting damn well sick of that crowd.”
“You could do your hair again,” Isobel said dryly, “and I have some nail polish in my purse you could have.”
Gracie brightened. “That’d be swell.”
The purse and nail polish were found and Gracie settled happily down in her room. Isobel went downstairs.
Except for Chad and Joyce Hunter, who were still outside, the group was gathered in the sitting room. Herbert and Mr. Hunter had built a fire in the grate on the theory that the sight of a nice hearth fire would enliven their spirits.
Unfortunately the only sight of the fire the others had was obtained by peering around Mrs. Vista’s broad and unbeautiful backside. For Mrs. Vista was not one to consider the comfort of others, and having lived in England all her married life she was well acquainted with the strategy of hearth fires, which is to get there first.
She rubbed her hands together and said there was nothing like a hearth fire, and when Maudie acidly inquired, “Where is it? What fire?” Mrs. Vista merely thought how ungracious she was. Coarse and ungracious.
She was rather annoyed to find herself being jostled from the rear and still more annoyed when she discovered that the jostler was Isobel Seton. For no matter how charming Miss Seton’s exterior, Miss Seton was a troublemaker and Mrs. Vista felt unable to cope with any extra trouble at the moment.
“I want to talk to you,” Isobel said.
Mrs. Vista closed her eyes firmly and tried to pretend that Isobel was not there.
But Isobel was there and she proved it by clasping Mrs. Vista’s arm, not at all gently.
“Did you hear me?” Isobel said.
“I suppose I did,” Mrs. Vista said sadly.
“You had the room beside Crawford’s, didn’t you?”
Mrs. Vista said, yes, it was impossible to forget that because Mr. Crawford had snored off and on all night and she hadn’t had a wink of sleep.
Isobel said, “You were in your room when you heard Floraine scream?”
“Yes, I don’t care to think about...”
“And Paula was in the bathroom?”
“Yes.”
Paula had overheard and come over to join them. “Why?” she said frowning. “Why all this?”
“Did you hear Crawford snoring?”
“Yes, of course. You couldn’t miss it,” Paula said. “That’s why I decided to wake him...”
Her voice died suddenly and she blinked her eyes.
“And if he was sleeping,” Isobel said, “he wasn’t pushing Floraine off a balcony.”
“I won’t listen,” Mrs. Vista said. “I will not listen to anything more. I simply refuse.”
Paula and Isobel looked at each other. Then Paula blinked again and said, “Very likely I was mistaken about hearing Mr. Crawford snore. I can’t be sure.”
“Of course you can’t,” Mrs. Vista cried. “Nor can I. My nerves... I’m a very suggestible type. Aren’t I, Anthony?”
Mr. Goodwin said, “Oh, yes, yes, yes.”
Mrs. Vista turned back to Isobel and said bitterly, “You cannot leave well enough alone. You are a troublemaker, there is no other word for you!”
Isobel cried, “And you — you are a...!”
But what Mrs. Vista was to Isobel was not revealed, for a sudden shout rang through the house and Joyce came bursting into the door.
“A snowplow!” she shouted. “There’s a snowplow coming!”
Mr. Hunter, who was acquainted with his daughter’s little experiments in psychology, said, “Now, Joyce. You’re sure? You’re positive?”
“I,” Joyce said, “am always sure.”
She dashed out of the door again, and the rest followed her, with Mrs. Vista wobbling along in the rear.
Only Paula and Isobel remained, looking at each other quietly.
“You know you heard him,” Isobel said at last.
“I didn’t want to excite everyone,” Paula said. “Mrs. Vista is rather silly sometimes, but in this case I think she was right. Leave it alone until we’re out of this house.”
Isobel shrugged and said, “All right. Shall we go and look at the snowplow?”
“No.” Paula turned her face away. “I’m not sure I want to see it. I’m not sure...”
Isobel went out and met Gracie plunging down the stairs trying to talk and blow on her nail polish to dry it at the same time. They went out onto the veranda and watched the snowplow come slowly along the road and almost up to the veranda steps.
The whirl of snow stopped and two men got out of the truck. One of them was in uniform. He waved his hand and then began plodding his way through the snow towards the house. They seemed to move with inexorable slowness, like two fates.
“Ahoy!” Mrs. Vista shouted, and the man in uniform raised his arm and smiled. “Ahoy! You the Lodge people?”
Joyce stood apart from the rest of them, her dark eyes taking in their faces one by one, almost absently.
She knows, Isobel thought, watching her. She knows it wasn’t Crawford. She’s waiting for one of us to crack...
But no one did crack, not even Maudie, who, faced with the choice of fainting from excitement or powdering her nose, powdered her nose. Mrs. Vista tucked in a few stray wisps of hair. Mr. Hunter stroked his mustache thoughtfully. Gracie admired her nails. Mr. Goodwin had retreated into the vast chasm of his own mind.
And Isobel stood with her eyes fixed on the snow and for a minute she thought she saw Crawford poised against the sun, a strange glittering man who fled from hell to hell and had no peace anywhere.