Whenever I think of the Mallory household as a normal happy family, as Patrick had opined—and I do mean opined—the moment when little Uncle Victor stood outside the living room door, urging tall Amelia Mallory to enter ahead of him, sticks in my mind.
Because of the suave deep voice I’d heard in the parlor, and the spiders, I had anticipated a tall, elegant man, who might easily be slyly ruthless and sinister.
He was small, very slender, old, with snow-white hair and mustache and a little knot of white whiskers on his small round chin. But he was elegant. His complexion had a greenish pallor and his eyes, though bright, were almost the same color as his skin. He wore a black pinstripe suit tailored in some style which must be continental and which fitted him so tightly that he looked poured in. I learned later that this style had been designed specially for him by a Parisian tailor. The collar of his white shirt was starched stiff. He wore a handsome necktie, probably a Sulka or Charvet, for the design was conservative and the fine quality apparent even by lamplight. His shoes were narrow, black, and highly polished, His hands were white and so small they were like a child’s. Indeed, Uncle Victor dressed to accentuate his smallness.
At first sight he didn’t look like a heart-breaker or even like a man who could ever have had his choice of women, but from the moment he entered our circle he radiated charm and gave us all some special lift. The gruesomeness of the occasion did not depart but it no longer bore down on us.
Amelia, as she stood timidly beside him, towered above him. She must have been close to six feet tall. Her eyes were round and blue. Her small nose turned up. Her face had a girlish sweetness. Her hair, in a bun, was blonde and untidy. Her printed silk dress was years out of style, belonging more or less to that new-look period which, fortunately for all women, soon expired.
She stood there, looking frightened as a wild bird, until Jane Mallory said gently, “Amelia, come sit beside me, dear.”
Amelia glanced at Uncle Victor and then at Bart Wayne who was entering and then at Patrick and me, seeking universal approval before accepting Jane’s suggestion.
Uncle Victor took her elbow, which was about on a level with his shoulder, and guided her to the sofa. Bart made introductions. Amelia smiled a pale smile and said how do you do and Uncle Victor bowed from the waist and kissed my hand and Jane’s in the continental manner. That little tuft of whiskers tickled my skin. As he turned the strange greenish eyes on Patrick—I should say lifted them to tall Pat—I discovered that his chin receded markedly. That white tuft was a godsend to his profile. Deliberate, of course. Like his clothes.
He pulled up a chair and accepted a cigarette. He drew out an ebony holder inlaid with gold and made a production of fitting the cigarette into it. His voice when he spoke again was deep, suave and musical. Nature hadn’t entirely passed Uncle Victor by. He had that mesmerizing voice. He was clever to cash in on his smallness and oddness. And he was an oddity of the first water. I suppose I should have guessed it when I’d heard that he’d got the use of the cabin by keeping black widow spiders in the room Sarah Mallory assigned him in the main house.
He was hardly seated when Seth Godwin came to the door and asked for help. “Mrs. Mallory wishes to go to her room, but refuses to have the police assist,” he said.
“My poor sister-in-law!” Uncle Victor murmured.
He went out with Bart. Patrick followed them.
Amelia stifled a small gasp and looked about to run. At Jane’s suggestion, she took some knitting out of the pocket of her voluminous skirt. She was knitting a jacket for a newborn infant. It was diminutive and exquisite, and in a complicated pattern which would have addled me completely. Amelia worked quickly, with perfection, with her eyes on her work.
“What a lovely thing, Miss Mallory!” I said.
“Amelia,” she murmured. She darted glances about. “I have many,” she said, blushing.
“How nice! May I see them?”
She looked at me eagerly.
“Now?”
Jane said, “Sometime soon, Amelia.”
“You think Mother would approve?”
Jane did not answer. Amelia did not follow up the question but calmly went on knitting. Her handwork apparently settled her mind.
There was that portrait over the mantel. It depicted a handsome woman in the era of around 1910. The hair was blonde and drawn up under a floppy hat. She wore a garden-party dress.
“Is that Sarah Mallory?” I asked Jane.
“Yes. There’s a much grander one in the parlor, but I like this one better.”
“She was very queenly,” I said.
“Is,” Jane said. “She’s just as tall and impressive as ever. Not an ounce of overweight on her and her hair, which she wears as she wore it when young, is white and lovely.”
“She’s my mother,” Amelia announced. She smiled with pride.
I smiled at her and said, “Your mother ought to be wearing a crown, Amelia.”
My remark frightened her. She stopped knitting.
“I must go now. Good night,” she said suddenly. Jane made no effort to keep her with us. She smiled at each of us in turn and left the room. In the door she paused. “I know many important things,” she said knowingly, and almost ran out.
I said to Jane, “Does she have more baby things?”
“No. She’s been knitting incessantly for more than twenty years. Her mother makes her give them to the church bazaars. But she does them very beautifully.” She sighed and said, “Amelia is quite happy. I don’t think we ought to feel sorry for her because she doesn’t understand her own case. Everybody is wonderfully kind. She’s a beautiful character.”
“Was she born like that?”
Jane said, “There are various rumors. The most persistent is that she wanted to marry one of the farmhands and Mrs. Mallory stopped it and that she then had what was called brain fever. There are worse tales than that, too. It isn’t quite so simple. Frankly, I don’t know. None of the stories may be true. I suspect the streak of eccentricity that runs in the family shaped Amelia into her present self.”
She ought to be called Ophelia, I thought.
“That’s expert knitting, Jane.”
Jane ran her pink tongue over her lips.
“In any family where all members had to work Amelia would have done all right. She’s far from being a mental incompetent. Thanks to Ada Rollo, she can cook. She likes to work outdoors with flowers. She loves children and—oh, well, though I may sound cruel, there is no use to get sentimental about her. I think she enjoys herself more than anybody I know. She’ll sit with Uncle Victor by the hour there in his spider room, as we call it. She goes with him on his field trips. She has no fear of the things. They make me creep.”
“They’re not left loose, I hope?” I asked.
“Sometimes.”
“Eek.” I wanted no more of the subject. “Was she fond of her brother, Jane?”
“Crazy about him. And afraid of him, too, because she is a child, really, and could never understand the subtleties of his frequent cruel humor. She’s forty-one and a child.”
“Forty-one?” I thought of the girlish face, soft complexion, round eyes. I glanced at the portrait of her mother. She resembled a feeble imitation of the young Sarah Mallory. A blurred reprint. “No lines, no signs of anxiety and worry. I suppose her character indicates a special tranquility?”
Jane spoke with strong feeling.
“Perhaps she is to be envied. Even her untidiness is enviable perhaps. She never cares how she looks. Mrs. Mallory sees that her clothes are clean and her hair is taken care of, though it always strings down her neck like that. It’s curious in Amelia because she is so scrupulously exact about any kind of handwork. I’m talking too much. It’s a relief. I’ve been so bottled up that I was ready to burst.”
I heard footsteps and asked, in almost a whisper, “Could Amelia do a murder, Jane?”
Jane started and shook her head. But her hands were moving as if from strong emotion when Patrick came back into the living room.
“Seth and Bart and the nurse took Mrs. Mallory to her room. Seth asked me to keep out of her view, but I managed to see her when she wasn’t looking my way. She’s very impressive, Jane.”
“Yes. Does she seem very ill?”
“White and tired. I shouldn’t wonder if she’ll be back in action soon, so now is our chance to sit in on the rest of the inquiry. I spoke to Lieutenant King. He doesn’t mind. How about you, Jane?”
“What do you mean?”
“Will you mind if we are present when you’re questioned?”
Jane lifted a shoulder. “I suppose Seth Godwin means well, but I think his caution is excessive. I don’t need any help, but be there if you’d like to.”
I met Patrick’s glance. He nodded.
“We’re to come back to the parlor now,” he said.
The parlor made my eyes pop. It was a much larger room than the living room, thanks to two large bays, one on the north and one on the west. The long narrow windows were curtained in very fine creamy-white lace and gold satin brocade draperies. In the west bay stood a square rosewood piano, its bench, and a music cabinet with bent legs. A bust of Beethoven stood on the piano along with many of what must be family photographs in gold frames.
In the north bay Lieutenant Rex King sat at a Victorian mahogany table with carved legs heavily decorated with carved roses. It was a very fine piece. King, a big, cold-looking man with a gray-blond crew cut and sharp gray eyes, sat on a chair which matched the table. Beside him, Deputy Hollister was stocky and solemn-looking. He had a face one would hardly look at twice. King was in uniform. Hollister was not. King had a heap of papers in front of him and the young deputy had a notebook and pencil.
To describe the remainder of the furnishings is not quite in order at a time when my attention was taken up with Rex King and others present. But the Victorian room was very elegant. Two handsome parlor sets, also with carved roses, were ranged around a fireplace of pure white marble brushed with gold scrolls. The upholstery was black horsehair. The carpet was rich and deep, moss-green strewn with pink and cream roses. The wallpaper looked like satin and matched in design and color the gold brocade of the draperies. Incidental tables stood about. A whatnot held a collection of Dresden china figurines. A curio cabinet contained shelves of tiny porcelain boxes. Gold-framed landscapes hung on the walls and a full-length portrait in a place of honor was of a young woman in black, very décolleté, very slender, her head in profile. She had thick fair hair and cold blue eyes.
“Sargent,” Uncle Victor murmured, seeing me observe it. He sat down beside me on one of the sofas. His feet didn’t reach the floor. “Done in London on her honeymoon. She was much admired in her day. The Harrison Fisher type. People liked women in those days. Not perpetual girls.” I thought of Denise Clarke.
I wondered if the Sargent had held up. I had heard that many Sargents had degenerated in quality, just as the types he had painted had gone out of style. I was still looking at the portrait when Rex King said, “Where is Miss Amelia Mallory?” Bart Wayne, who sat near Jane Mallory, said, “If I may suggest, you should talk with her in private, Lieutenant.”
“Why?”
“She’s very timid. I’m surprised that she stayed with us as long as she did.”
King groaned. “I certainly have a lot of assistance on this deal. It’s very kind,” he added sarcastically. “I hoped, Mr. Wayne, that when we got Mrs. Sarah Mallory off the scene, we might make progress. But now you choose to give orders. May I suggest that one of you fetch Miss Mallory here?”
“I’ll go,” Jane Mallory said.
“Not you,” King said. He looked at me. “Find her, Mrs. Abbott.”
“She won’t come with a stranger,” Bart Wayne said.
“I’ll fetch her,” Uncle Victor said. He was halfway to the door when King said, “Come back here, Mr. Mallory. Mrs. Abbott may be said to be expendable. The rest of you are not. Sit down. Please go, Mrs. Abbott.” I got up, not knowing which way to go, as he asked, “Where is Miss Clarke? Miss Denise Clarke, please.”
Nobody replied until Patrick said, “If she drives a yellow Cadillac convertible, I think she left in it while Dr. Godwin was taking care of Mrs. Sarah Mallory.”
“Left?” King roared. “My God! What do you people think this is? A cocktail party? Get on the phone and tell her to get the hell back here, someone.” Nobody volunteered at once, and King said to Hollister, “Find her and be damned quick about it. The whole bunch ought to be locked up, but quick.”
The deputy was making for the telephone in the dining room as I reached the top of the stairs in search of Amelia Mallory.
Here was another super-wide hall, like the one on the ground floor. I wondered which room was whose. I tried a door on the left. It was locked. My hand whipped away from the knob as I guessed it might be the room in which Dick Mallory was murdered. It would be directly above the living room. Opposite was a bathroom. There, possibly, Jane Mallory had freshened up and put on gloves to hide the damage done her hands by Dick Mallory. Had she killed him? Didn’t she really know he was dead when she left that fatal room? The hall stretched on back. There were other rooms, other baths, and here was Amelia’s. I knew it at once.
It was like Amelia. Girlish, old-fashioned, with a handsome brass bed, a hand-crocheted white cover laid over an underspread of blue taffeta with a blue ruffle around the frame of the bed which reached to the pale flowered wall-to-wall carpet. There was a wide bay window which would overlook the flowery southern slope to the hurrying moonlit limestone creek. Ruffled curtains were tied back with blue taffeta ribbons, and blue ribbon bows were affixed to the taffeta flounce around the dressing table. The room had its own pure white bath. Towels and washcloths were also sky blue.
Amelia wasn’t in it. Perhaps she had gone to her mother, whose room was downstairs.
A burst of lilac-scented air came from the back of the hall. I walked from Amelia’s room to a screened door on a huge screened back porch. I stepped out. Another door led out on a wide outdoor staircase.
I hesitated. Should I go down? Had Amelia left the house in this fashion? Did they allow her to go about alone?
Well, why not? She wasn’t really a mental incompetent, Jane had said.
I stood there. The porch was high above the back grounds. It overlooked the lilac hedge which screened away Uncle Victor’s log cabin and the garages. The lights in the cabin gleamed out upon the porch, which had a sloping roof in one piece with the cabin roof. The roof was tin, the corrugated kind, which gleamed in the starlight. I could see the dark drapery of the wisteria. It was heavy and rich on the porch where the lights defined it and on the lower part of the roof it lay upward creeping shadows. Fingers of the vine moved toward the ridge of the roof.
There was a great, great silence, broken as I listened by the small sounds of birds and frogs and insects. I heard the bubbling limestone creek.
High and lonely a whippoorwill began issuing its reiterative plaintive sound. For a while it seemed almost as if all other sounds had ceased. I could hear now only the sound of the whippoorwill and the soft purling ripple of the creek below the house. I shivered. I began to feel afraid. This was a strange place. The night seemed haunted by the silent inimical knowledge of the hostile personalities in this household. Yet, with the exception of Sarah Mallory, the family treated us and one another with inborn politeness. Amelia was politeness itself. She was nothing but politeness. She was an automaton geared by forty-one years of drilled-in manners. Uncle Victor’s were studied and endlessly clever. Jane’s intellectual and wise and kind; Bart Wayne’s the same. Denise Clarke had the professional politeness of a publicity-conscious prima donna. Mrs. Rollo, that of her trade.
Miss James? No. The nurse had no manners. The others were encased in the polished carapaces of their class, but the nurse was crude and vulnerable, anxious to be important by pleasing the most powerful, including Seth Godwin, whose own good manners were graced by truth. Seth shone with all that mind and manners stood for. But the others?
Nobody could ever get anywhere with these people. Nobody. Not even with Jane Mallory. In a pinch she’d protect them.
Whippoorwill. Whippoorwill. Whippoorwill.
Suddenly, like a wraith, soundless, hurrying, Amelia Mallory came out of one of the rooms in Uncle Victor’s cabin and quickly drifted toward the far end of the porch. She vanished beyond the cabin. She was carrying something.
I heard the brook.
“Here’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance,” Shakespeare had written. His Ophelia had drowned in a brook.
I hurried down the stairs. There was a flagstone walk which led straight to the cabin through a gap in the hedge. The cabin lights beckoned. I ran, and later on I remembered the heavy scent of the lilacs as I ran through a gap in the hedge.