“I shall tell the minister,” said Mrs. Shane calmly.
From the pulpit the minister announced that there would be a slight delay and asked everyone to remain where he was. The audience began to murmur. The society editor of the Courier drew pictures on the back of her notebook. The minister climbed down from the pulpit. The vestryman rang up his wife and told her to grab her hat and come down to the church, something exciting had happened.
An ambulance shrieked to a stop outside the church and two white-coated interns shouldered their way through the waiting crowd into the vestibule. Prye helped them put Jane on the stretcher. He whispered something to one of the interns as he covered Jane with a blanket.
Prye turned to Stevens. “You’d better go along.”
“Why me?” Duncan said.
“It’s your sister, isn’t it?”
“Don’t be so goddam superior, Prye.”
“I’ll go, if you like.”
“I don’t like.” Duncan turned and followed the stretcher toward the door. As he passed Nora he said in a thick voice, “Where’s Dinah?”
Nora shook her head. “I don’t know.” She watched him as he went out. He was holding his silk hat to shield his face from the crowd on the steps of the church. Before the door closed again she heard someone yell, “Where’s the bride? We want the bride!” The shout was taken up by the crowd. “We want the bride! Here comes the bride!”
Nora leaned against the door, breathing hard. “We’ve got to get out of here before that mob—”
“I take it you’re standing me up?” Prye said.
“My bridesmaids are gone. Duncan has gone—”
“Take it easy. I’m still here. Is there another way out of this Godforsaken church?”
“Downstairs through the Sunday school.”
“Let s go.”
He gripped her arm hard. They went down into the basement through the Sunday school and the choir room where the black-and-white gowns hung like the skins of giant penguins.
“Got a coat?” Prye said.
“No.”
“Better take one of these. Wrap it around you and pin your dress up.”
“I won’t pin my dress up!” she cried. “I won’t! My wedding dress!”
She began to sob. Prye slapped her, waited a moment, and then kissed her. She stopped crying and blew her nose.
“You damn gorilla,” she said.
“Too true,” Prye said. “You’ve had a lucky, lucky escape.”
She had pinned up the dress and was wrapping the choir gown around her.
“Not pretty,” Prye said. “But less conspicuous. Lead the way.”
The staircase led out to a narrow paved alleyway which ran along the back of the church. Several cars were parked in single file along the alley.
“Recognize any of these?”
Nora pointed. “That’s Mother’s.”
They got in. “Nice of Mother to leave her keys in,” Prye said. “I hate stealing anything from a church larger than choir gowns.”
He swung the car along the back of the alley and came out on University Avenue. The sharp, damp autumn wind whipped the color into Nora’s face. Prye tossed her a package of cigarettes and she lit two and gave one to him. Her hands were quite steady.
Prye turned north on River Road. The rain had stopped and the trees glistened and shook off their bedraggled leaves. The leaves fell steadily, like huge dyed snowflakes.
“Confetti from heaven,” Nora said. “And if that’s not funny, nothing is.”
“Nothing is,” Prye agreed. “Tell me about Jane.”
“What about her?”
“How she acted this morning.”
“I didn’t see her until just before we left the house, about ten-thirty,” Nora said. “I noticed that she looked a bit pink but she’s always experimenting with new make-up so I didn’t say anything. Then when we were getting out of the car at the church she said she felt ill. Her voice was funny.”
The car stopped in front of an old rambling red brick house separated from its neighbors by tall hedges. Two Manitoba maples, still thick with rich red-brown leaves, flanked the house on either side. A flagstone walk led up to the massive stone steps of the veranda.
Nora unpinned her dress and removed the choir gown. She took Prye’s arm and they walked up the flagstones smiling stiffly, like a bride and groom stepping out of an old album. As they reached the top of the steps the front door opened to reveal a stout, middle-aged woman in a green-and-white uniform. Behind her stood a pretty young parlormaid and a short, handsome man in a white coat. They were all grinning and each held a bag of rice.
“My God,” Prye said. “The family retainers. This completes the farce.”
Nora’s hand tightened on his arm. “Mrs. Hogan will be furious. She’s been trying to marry me off since I was sixteen.”
Mrs. Hogan was at the moment incoherent with joy. Her round red face was beaming and the rice rattled in her bag like a happy machine gun. Nora looked at her and burst into tears.
Prye withdrew tactfully into the house. In the library he dialed police headquarters and talked for some time to Detective-Inspector Sands. Inspector Sands’ answering grunts indicated that he was mildly interested in Prye’s story and would appear in person at some future hour, weather permitting.
Prye hung up and called the General Hospital. A female voice informed him cheerfully that Miss Jane Stevens was doing as well as could be expected. No further information was available. So what if he was a doctor? Miss Stevens was still doing as well as could be expected, and good day to him.
Prye uttered a short, descriptive word which could be applied roughly to both Inspector Sands and the female voice and reached in his pocket for a cigarette.
“A match, sir?”
The door of the library had opened noiselessly and the young man in the white coat was standing just inside. He lit a match, applied it to Prye’s cigarette, and sat down casually in a chair.
“Make yourself at home, Jackson,” Prye said.
Jackson crossed his legs, smiling. “Thanks. I think I’m worthy to touch the hem of your pants. Maybe not those pants but your everyday ones. I’m a college graduate.”
“Always glad to meet an old Yale man,” Prye murmured politely.
“Harvard.”
Slightly pink, Prye said, “I’ve often wondered what happened to old Harvard men. Like wondering what happens to old razor blades. Perhaps you’d like a drink, Jackson?”
“Allow me.”
Jackson rose with exaggerated courtesy and went over to the cellarette. “Scotch or sherry, Dr. Prye?”
“Scotch.”
Jackson poured out two drinks, brought them over, and sat down again.
“Cozy?” Prye asked.
“Cozy enough,” Jackson said, twisting the glass in his hand. His smile had faded and he was looking at the floor as if it had done him a personal injury. His frown made him look even younger, Prye thought. He was probably not much more than twenty, and definitely not a servant.
“Just what are you, Jackson?”
“Houseboy,” Jackson said coolly. “A sort of hybrid, half butler, half footman, with a dash of parlormaid.”
“The Harvard touch, I suppose?”
“If you say so, sir.”
Prye set his glass on the mahogany desk and lit another cigarette. “I wish you wouldn’t call me sir, Jackson. In your mouth it’s practically an epithet.”
Jackson did not reply. He had finished his drink and was sitting staring into his empty glass.
“I heard what you said over the telephone,” he said suddenly. “Is it true about Miss Stevens?”
“The library door was shut while I was telephoning, Jackson.”
“I opened it. I saw Miss Shane weeping and I wanted to know what was up.”
“You’re interested in Miss Stevens?”