“No one came here,” Miss Rudd repeated, nodding her head.
“No one at all,” said Floraine.
3
Floraine turned on a wall switch and the enormous crystal chandelier in the center of the hall sprang into light. It was yellowed with age and the crystals threw grotesque dangling shadows on the gilt ceiling.
“They clink,” Miss Rudd said, pointing. “They clink very prettily.”
“Hush, Frances.” Floraine moved quickly towards a heavy oak door and it opened with a shriek of hinges. “You understand we rarely use these rooms and are not prepared for company. But there is a grate in here. I shall build a fire.”
Miss Seton found her voice. “But what about the driver — and the shots?”
Charles Crawford put a warning hand on her arm. “Why not get warm first?” he said dryly, and pushed her, not gently, through the open door.
In front of the fireplace was a pile of split wood which Floraine began thrusting into the grate. Mr. Hunter offered to help her but Floraine, with a fine show of teeth, said she was quite used to work of this kind.
“Take off your wraps,” she added over her shoulder, “and sit down. Will you turn on the light, Frances?”
Miss Rudd darted to the switch and a second crystal chandelier blazed in the center of the room. There were no lamps although the room was so huge that the chandelier’s light did not reach the corners. On the floor were two Persian rugs faded and worn thin in spots. The furniture was chiefly brown mohair, two well-worn chesterfields with chairs to match. The chairs looked rickety and listed to one side.
What a queer room, Miss Seton thought, and wondered whether it was simply because it was so old and out-of-date and had no lamps. Then she discovered with a shock that there was no furniture at all in the corners, it had all been brought into the center of the room and grouped around the fireplace.
As if most of it had been taken away, she thought. She looked at the walls and saw two gilt-framed oil paintings, in need of cleaning, one of Montcalm, the other of Frontenac. Where other paintings had once been there were pale rectangles on the walls.
They probably had a whole set of historical paintings, Miss Seton decided. The rest have been taken away. Sold? Or destroyed by Frances Rudd?
“Nosy parker,” said Mr. Crawford’s voice close to her ear. “Take time off to give me your coat.”
Blushing, Miss Seton hurriedly removed her coat. Mr. Crawford took it and examined the fur. He said, grinning, “Hmmm. Sable? Where have you been all my life?”
“I don’t know,” Miss Seton said crossly. “But I know where I’m going to be the rest of your life. Missing.”
“Suits me,” Crawford said with a shrug. “No harm in asking.”
“This wing is not used,” Floraine explained again for the benefit of the others. “There are only the two of us, you see.”
“Two?” Mrs. Vista sank down on one of the mohair chesterfields and raised a fine spray of dust. “Two? I thought that Miss... Miss Budd—”
“Rudd,” Floraine said.
“Miss Rudd said there were...”
From the hall came a cackle of laughter and a long drawn out sniffle.
“Miss Rudd is imaginative,” Floraine said delicately.
Mrs. Vista looked out into the hall and then back at Floraine. “Imaginative,” she repeated thoughtfully. “You mean she’s — batty?”
“Oh, a little,” Floraine said. “A very little.”
She went back into the hall. Her voice came through the door, firm but pleasant:
“You promised me you wouldn’t cry today, Frances.”
“Oh, I can’t help it,” Miss Rudd moaned. “It’s so sad. Everything is so sad.”
“You’d better not cry anymore. These people are nice, Frances, quite nice. You must go in and be pleasant to them. They are your guests, and you mustn’t pinch any of them.”
“Just the fat one.”
“Not any of them,” Floraine said sharply. “Be pleasant and ask their names while I make some coffee. Do you understand, Frances?”
Miss Rudd moaned again but Floraine’s brisk footsteps became fainter. They sounded as if Floraine was impatient. With Miss Rudd, Miss Seton thought, or with us?
Company would naturally be a nuisance in such a household. It would be difficult enough to manage Miss Rudd, without additional complications. But there were the two rifle shots. Indicating, Miss Seton thought dryly, a new high in impatience.
“Why do I assume Floraine did the shooting?” she murmured.
“I don’t know.” Joyce Hunter was beside her, gazing at her with her clear cold eyes. “Why do you?”
“Floraine was wearing white,” Miss Seton said in a whisper. “I saw something white move at one of the second-floor windows right after the shots.”
“Yes.” Joyce bit her lower lip and stared pensively at the ceiling. It was her thinking pose. She said at last, “I think you’re right. You’d have to be on the second floor to make those shots.”
“And the driver — if he isn’t here, where is he?”
“Where is who?” Mr. Goodwin asked absently. He was sitting at the end of the chesterfield opposite Mrs. Vista, and gazing meditatively at his hat. “Phenomenal. Phenomenal phate. Peculiar Parca. What were you saying, Miss Seton?”
Miss Seton looked at him in annoyance. “I wasn’t really talking to you but I’ll repeat. Where is the bus driver?”
“Who knows?” said Mr. Goodwin. “We are all ephemeral. Here today. Gone tomorrow. Ephemeral effigies.”
“That’s excellent, Anthony,” Mrs. Vista said encouragingly. “I shall have to remember it.”
“Ephemeral effigies or not,” Miss Seton said acidly. “Even ephemeral effigies have to disappear to some place...”
“Not necessarily,” said Mrs. Vista loyally.
“... and I want to know where. If we don’t find him we’ll have to stay in this house until someone finds the bus and traces us here. That might take days. If you’ll kindly descend to our plane for a moment, Mr. Goodwin, you’ll understand that.”
“Oh, no!” Maudie cried. “Oh, no! I couldn’t stay here. I’m so frightened. That woman. Look at her!”
All eyes turned to the door. Miss Rudd was moving soundlessly into the room with a kind of slithering motion. She skimmed over to the chesterfield, plucked Mr. Goodwin’s hat from his hands and put it on over her white lace cap. Then she skimmed back to the door and closed it. The whole thing was done in ten seconds.
“Odd,” Mr. Goodwin said thoughtfully.
Mrs. Vista found her bellow and used it. “Really! Anthony, your lovely hat! You shouldn’t have let her take it!”
“I think it was a silly hat,” Joyce said. She had given up all hope of being debauched by Mr. Goodwin and was feeling cross. Talk, talk, talk!” She flung herself into a chair. “Why don’t we do something about something? Poppa!”
Mr. Hunter who was bending over the fire straightened up obediently. “Yes, my dear?”
“You’ll have to command that nurse to produce our driver.”
“C-command?”
“Certainly, command. We’ll have the coffee first and then you can tell her very firmly. It will be dark soon, and I for one don’t feel like staying overnight in this house.”
“Besides,” said Herbert from the windows, “it’s snowing again.”
It was also getting dark. The snow had changed and the soft feathery flakes that clung to the window looked grey, like huge particles of dust.
Paula Lashley looked out and shivered. She had not taken off her ski suit but merely flung the hood back from her head. She sat hunched in a chair, with Chad Ross standing beside her like a nasty-tempered but faithful watchdog.