Murders for Sale. Andre NortonЧитать онлайн книгу.
to her own taste. Miss Hartwell might be scatterbrained but she certainly knew books.
Her find of the morning was in the small secondhand books section in the room opposite the office—a shelf of the long out-of-print novels of Mary J. Holmes and several other Victorian women writers that Fredericka had been trying to track down for months. Now, if only she wasn’t too busy getting settled, she could get to work on her own reading and writing almost immediately. This thought cheered her so much that, somewhat to her own surprise, she began to sing through her short repertoire of hymns. The incipient cold did not help them, but Fredericka had forgotten that she had ever thought of a cold, or been depressed. The Hartwell Bookshop had suddenly become paradise on earth.
She worked through the three rooms carefully and ended up in the Lending Library which she found in good order, as were the papers neatly stacked on the office desk. There was also a pile of books with a note in Miss Hartwell’s large scrawl that was now all too familiar to the bookshop’s new manager:
These are for P. Mohun. Ordered ages ago. He’ll want them sooner than at once. Margie can take a note over to the college for him, or he’ll be in.
Fredericka looked through the titles with quickened interest. It seemed that Peter Mohun—Colonel Peter Mohun—bought books on American military history before the Civil War—Indians and frontier fighting. Was that the subject he taught in the college then?
There were two other books, each with a note on top. Kathleen Winsor from the lending library marked with the name “Catherine Clay” and Carl Van Doren’s Life of Franklin, marked “Roger Sutton.”
Well, Fredericka thought, that ought to tell me something about the son and daughter of the first family of South Sutton. And, also, of course, a little more about this interesting man, Colonel Peter Mohun.
A hesitant ray of sunlight flashed across the desk and as quickly retreated. Fredericka got up and went to the window. Yes, patches of blue sky. Perhaps it would be sensible to go out. What had Philippine Sutton said about the inn? Good food. A look at the kitchen clock showed Fredericka that it was already late for lunch and one should certainly feed a cold but not make the effort of cooking for it. She hurried upstairs to change her clothes to the tune of “Abide With Me.”
Fredericka found the Coach and Horses as attractive as Philippine had promised. It was certainly early nineteenth century, a colonial white wooden house with brick ends and wide chimneys, and it had been well preserved. The doorway with its fanlight and side windows was unspoilt, or perfectly restored. The grass that edged the curved driveway was neatly cut and the beds bright with flowers.
Fredericka found the door ajar and went in hesitantly. To her surprise, she stepped directly into a comfortable living room with large chintz-covered chairs and an air of being used and homelike. A log fire was burning in the great fireplace directly opposite the door and Sunday papers lay in untidy patches on the scattered tables and chairs.
Fredericka saw at once that the room was empty and that the clock on the mantelpiece said ten minutes past one. She walked across to the fire and stretched out her hands. How odd to be grateful for this warmth after yesterday’s midsummer heat. She stared at the flames absently and then became aware that someone had come quietly into the room behind her. She turned quickly and found herself staring into the face of a woman. The eyes that regarded Fredericka were violet-gray and beautiful, but cold as a foggy winter day. And then the woman spoke and the lovely colourless mask of her face was suddenly creased and spoilt by age and petulance.
“You must be Miss Wing. Miss Hartwell said to be on the lookout for you.” She extended a white hand which Fredericka took with instinctive reluctance. “I am Mrs. Clay—Catherine Sutton Clay.” She pronounced the middle name with obvious pleasure.
“Oh, yes,” Fredericka murmured. So this was the Sutton daughter who had been married and divorced, if that was what Chris meant by saying that she was not married just at present! The limp hand in her own had unexpected strength. And then, remembering her manners, Fredericka added: “How do you do?”
“Not too well, thanks,” Catherine answered unexpectedly. “I’ve left New York too long and now the slow decay of South Sutton has set in. I don’t suppose you’ve felt it yet. But you will…”
Fredericka could think of nothing to say and the woman shrugged impatiently. “You’d better get lunch if that’s what you came for. Chicken on Sunday and the longer you wait, the less there is of it!” Then she muttered under her breath; “If friend James doesn’t come soon we’ll get cold ham.” She sank down into a chair and waved an expressive hand toward the dining room.
I mustn’t dislike any of these people, Fredericka thought miserably as she muttered a word of thanks and moved toward the sound of rattling plates and cutlery that she could hear through the door at the far end of the room. But I don’t like her, and I have a hunch that I never will, customer or no customer.
The dining room seemed to Fredericka’s overwrought nerves to be crammed with people who all looked up to stare at the newcomer as she stood hesitant in the doorway. But when the hostess had greeted her pleasantly and shown her to a quiet corner of the room, she looked around with some surprise to discover that, in fact, very few of the tables were taken. The first person she saw was Colonel Mohun who, as yesterday, looked directly at her with intent appraising eyes. And then when she stared back, as though hypnotized, he smiled, and the severity vanished from his face. Fredericka also smiled and then looked down at the menu in confusion, as she felt her cheeks flame with sudden telltale colour. The typed card was not worth serious attention since there was no question of choice, but it gave Fredericka a chance to recover and, after a moment, she was able to look around the room, if not in the direction of the distracting Colonel Mohun.
There were several large tables round which sat husbands, wives and children who looked as though they might be professors’ families. They had an unmistakable “Sunday treat after church” look about them. Fredericka now realized that the noise which had greeted her entrance came from one of these tables, where a young man of about two in a high chair was producing tom-tom beats of spoon against bowl, and bowl against cup, in a manner that he found most satisfying.
“All he needs is a brass band in support,” a deep voice said, and Fredericka looked up to see Colonel Mohun standing over her. “Please forgive me for introducing myself in this informal way but we are informal about introductions around here and, of course, having been primed by dear Lucy Hartwell, I had a good idea who you were when I first saw you yesterday at the Junction. I want to ask about some books I’ve ordered but perhaps I ought not to trouble you now.”
Fredericka mumbled a few words about the books which she hoped sounded adequate, but instead of moving away, this strange man said quietly: “I was just finishing my coffee. Would you mind if I joined you for a few moments? Lucy asked me particularly to give you a welcome.”
Fredericka now became acutely aware that the small boy’s tom-tom had stopped beating and she could imagine that not only his, but every other pair of eyes was regarding them both with interest. She stared stupidly at her plate and could not bring herself to look up. Then she heard herself say in what seemed a very loud voice: “Of course. Please do.”
“We’re a small town in every sense,” her visitor went on easily, when he had rejoined her with his cup of coffee. “I mean, there aren’t enough of us to begin with. We gossip; we regard any new arrival with excitement and—yes, I admit it—suspicion; we’re clannish; but on the whole we mean well.”
Fredericka felt warmed by the solicitousness of his words and the friendly sound of his quiet ordinary voice and, all at once, she found her shyness gone and heard herself speak to this stranger as though he were a childhood friend. “I’m sorry if I’ve given the impression of unfriendliness to any of you,” she said, thinking guiltily of her morning encounter with Margie. “It’s all a little bewildering after New York—or perhaps bewildering isn’t the right word. ‘Frightening’ is more like it. For some reason you’re all larger than life-size, as though I were seeing you through a magnifying glass.”
“Yes, I know exactly what you