Evidence of Things Seen (5 page)

“Of course we're coming.”

“There's a disappointment, though; Gil Craye can't be with us. We won't get any bridge.”

Hunter took his cup of tea from his wife, and settled himself more deeply in his chair. “I regret the bridge,” he said, his mouth curving up at one corner, “but I shall survive the absence of Gilbert Craye. He has been what I can only describe as underfoot this summer.”

Fanny said: “He's lonely. It must be awful not to be able to use one's eyes.”

“Well, my dear, he uses his freely—except for purposes that I really think are not essential to his happiness. He can play bridge.”

“Poor Gil, he adores you; don't be mean about him.”

Hunter said gently: “I don't wish to be mean about him; and if he presumes a little on his disability, I don't much blame him; but I can't help hoping that Clara is prepared to take him more or less off our hands. Do you like our poor little rich boy, Clara?”

Clara replied that she and Gamadge were rather fond of Gil Craye, but that they didn't see much of him in town, and she had thought Stratfield too far for them to see much of him here.

“I must confess,” said Hunter, “that I sometimes wish Stratfield were farther. You know, I'm afraid that if Pope had known him, Pope would have taken his pen in hand and produced something memorable.” Hunter joined his fingertips, closed his eyes, and murmured:

Then, opening his eyes and smiling at the ceiling, he murmured: “Something of that kind, perhaps.”

“Oh dear,” said Fanny, laughing, “is that Pope?”

“Pope? Great Heavens, no! Only me,” said Hunter, “and a feeble imitation too; and quite unfair to our friend. But satirical couplets don't succeed by being generous.”

“I'm glad you admit it's unfair!” Fanny shook her head at him.

“Unfair, but only because so little bliss of any kind can be obtained in this imperfect world without money. Mine can't, yours can't, Clara's can't. Gamadge's couldn't—it cost money, Clara, to produce someone whom Gamadge could love.”

“He talks like that,” complained Fanny with a pathetic look at Clara, “and mixes me all up.”

“I don't intend to mix you up, my dearest,” said Hunter. “I thought I was clarifying the matter.”

“Henry clarifies things for me, too,” said Clara, “and mixes me up frightfully.” She was trying to think of some way to gain reassurance from her friends without making too much of the situation at the cottage. She plunged: “I hear that Miss Radford—at the farm, you know—owns our cottage. I was so surprised.”

“Surprised?” Hunter raised an eyebrow. “I could have told you that; in fact, I believe I did mention it to Dick Heron. Or didn't I? I dare say I only gave him the name of the agent. Why should you be surprised?”

“Well, it's so pretty and so nicely done over, and I've been buying eggs of her. I thought she was just a farm woman.”

“She is an ordinary farm woman,” said Hunter, “but she came into money.” He glanced at his wife, who looked rather uncomfortable, Clara thought, and went on: “She probably took advice about the cottage, since she wanted to rent it to summer people; but she did the farm over to suit herself.”

“She must be a disagreeable old thing,” said Fanny. “They told me at the hospital that it wasn't any use to ask her for a contribution, though she's so rich, because she always says she only gives through her church organization.”

“Well, my dear,” said Hunter, “these magnates must stick to their budgets or they'd be swamped. You must remember, besides, that it's the first time any Radford—except the sister who married the button man—has had any cash to spend. They've had that farm,” he told Clara, “almost as long as we've had this one.”

“I think her money must have made her a little crazy,” said Clara. “She's put that great fence up, and she has those awful dogs.”

“She's probably in the process of becoming a real old-fashioned New England recluse,” said Hunter, while Fanny again glanced nervously at him and away. “Our farmer, who keeps us informed of local gossip—if you can call it local—tells me that she hasn't set foot in her church since the sister died. Gives to those organizations, you know, but won't go to meeting. The minister, I believe, has wrestled with her in vain. Hang it all, even I have to go once in a summer; it's expected of us. My father dragged us all into the family pew every month, and my grandfather sat there twice every Sunday.”

“Mrs. Groby says she's a recluse already,” said Clara.

“Oh, you've met the Grobys?” Hunter smiled.

“Horrid, horrid little man,” exclaimed Fanny. “I hate to stop for gas at his filling station.”

“But I understand that he's most accommodating,” said Hunter, “if people run out of gas or wear out a tire.”

“He said something to me,” admitted Clara.

“How does he dare?” wondered Fanny.

“My dear,” said her husband, “I'm sure that there was no witness to the conversation; there never is. Don't waste horror on Groby; his type will always bootleg something or other, and think it commendable business enterprise.”

“Mrs. Groby is coming to call on me,” said Clara. Fanny moaned, and Hunter laughed. “Of course she'll call,” he said. “She's called on Fanny. She drove all the way up from Avebury once, a good ten miles, to solicit a contribution to
her
war fund.”

“I wasn't in,” said Fanny, “thank goodness.”

“I was.” Hunter, lighting Clara's cigarette and his own, smiled at the memory. “I thought her vain and strident, but oddly sensitive in her own way. I knew her history. The only Radford son, Alvira's brother, was a traveling salesman, and he married a waitress somewhere in the West. Mrs. Groby was the sole result of the union.”

“Now I understand her better,” said Clara. “I thought she was a funny kind of niece for Miss Radford to have.”

“I understand that Alvira doesn't see the joke; Colley says she doesn't care for the Grobys at all.”

“They were calling on her this morning, though.”

“Of course they were; Alvira inherited one hundred thousand dollars, if rumor can be believed.”

“A hundred and six thousand,” said Clara, while the Hunters laughed. “Mrs. Simms and her hired man told us. Can she possibly be keeping it in the house? Can that be why she has the fence and the dogs?”

The Hunters said nothing. Clara, after an irresolute look at their faces, went hastily on:

“I know you know something about Miss Radford, and about that money, and about the sister's death. I know there's something queer about it. Mrs. Simms knows what it is, and Web Hawley knows, and I'm sure Mrs. Simms has told Maggie. I wish you'd tell me; I don't mind a bit about the sister dying in the cottage, it can't be that; there's something more.”

There was a pause, during which Fanny looked distressed and Hunter thoughtful. At last he said: “She'll get it from somebody else, Fanny.”

“Oh, Phin, but it can't be true; why repeat it?”

“Well, it was through us that Dick Heron heard about the cottage.”

“Because he was inquiring about a place here for themselves and the Gamadges. It isn't our fault. Clara, we never heard a word of it until after Dick had signed the lease, and it's all nonsense, and we hoped you'd never hear of it either. Mrs. Hickson died of something that happened to her after she had intestinal flu, and Dr. Knapp, who's perfectly reliable, signed the certificate. He wouldn't have done that if there had been the slightest question. It's all just country spite.”

Clara put out her cigarette. “They're saying that Miss Radford poisoned her sister for the money?”

Hunter, after a troubled look at her, spoke gently: “The thing seemed to me too farcical a notion to bother Dick Heron with; if I had thought there was a grain of truth in it I should have written to him. As Fanny suggests, it was very trying for the neighbors—Alvira's sudden acquisition of wealth; I don't think the Radford sisters were too popular. I believe they were considered a trifle close-fisted, even in a community of traditional cheeseparers. But even if the thing were a fact, Clara, Alvira Radford wouldn't poison you, you know. You're a source of income. However, perhaps you'd better, after all, come up to us; Gamadge might prefer it.”

Clara asked: “Is she afraid they'll mob her, or something? Is that why she put up the fence and got the dogs?”

“I'm not at all sure that she's ever heard the gossip, or ever will before it dies out of its own ineptitude. She's bought herself a few sticks of new furniture, perhaps, or put in new piping; she probably overvalues her possessions. She's dizzy with her hundred and six thousand.”

“If she has heard the story and didn't poison Mrs. Hickson, all she would have to do would be to dig Mrs. Hickson up.”

Hunter burst into uncontrollable laughter; Fanny cried: “What a ghastly idea! Clara, how can you?”

Hunter was, after another paroxysm, able to address his wife: “You forget, Fanny; Clara is married to Henry Gamadge. She sups on horrors; she takes an exhumation in her stride.”

Clara said stolidly: “If she's so eccentric that she put up the fence just to protect plumbing and chairs, she may be eccentric enough to come and stare at the cottage.”

“Stare at the cottage?” Fanny stared too—at Clara.

“Some woman in a sunbonnet comes out of the woods behind us and stands and looks at the cottage.”

“Well, but, Clara, couldn't it be just anybody? Country people are so curious about us.”

“I don't know who she could be, and that trail she comes and goes by doesn't end anywhere; except,” added Clara lightly, “at the Avebury cemetery.”

“Good Heavens,” said Hunter. “We seem to be getting very funereal. How often has this woman in a sunbonnet come and looked at the premises, Clara?”

“Three times; last Thursday—the day after I came, and Sunday, and yesterday.”

“At three-day intervals; she seems to be on a schedule,” said Hunter. “Unless she's come at other times, and you've missed her.”

“She always seems to come at sunset.”

“Dear me.” Hunter considered, his eyes vague. “Alvira may be turning into a ‘case,' one can't tell; but I should have said that curious or not, she'd be mortally afraid of intruding; just as she, and all her type, are mortally afraid of being intruded upon.”

“I don't think it
is
Miss Radford, somehow. She doesn't seem like Miss Radford. The sunbonnet hides her face, but I don't think Maggie thinks it's Miss Radford, either. Maggie's seen her, too.”

Fanny said that Clara ought to speak to the state police.

“It would seem so silly—just on account of a woman in a sunbonnet.”

“And that trail is probably a right of way. Still,” said Hunter, “I might mention the thing to Eli, or old Duckett at Avebury.”

“I'll let you know if she comes again.”

How, Clara wondered as she rose to go, could she ever explain to these friends, to anybody but Gamadge, that the matter was perhaps to be looked at from a different point of view? She couldn't face the look that would come into Fanny's eyes, into Hunter's eyes, if she began to argue the question of the attic door and the attic itself. She couldn't ask them to consider whether the woman in the sunbonnet mightn't have been dead a year.

T
HE WALK HOME
down the Ladder was invigorating; more invigorating was her encounter with Eli the Indian, who took it entirely for granted that she would stay on with Maggie until the others came. He did not think it wonderful that two women should live alone in a cottage, within sight of other houses, and with a telephone on the premises. Miss Radford had lived there entirely alone for years, until her sister came back after the button man died.

Maggie greeted her cheerfully from the porch, there was a smell of baking, the waterfall splashed and hummed. This was what she had promised Gamadge—his own place, not a visit in a formal house. This was what he was looking forward to.

She got out her sketching things, and prepared them for work tomorrow; she meant to paint the sycamore below the cottage—if she could. Then she had a bath in the pool, and a large supper. She went to bed early and slept well.

Friday was a day of furious preparation, since Maggie had her own ideas about a style of entertainment suitable for the Hunters. Flowers must be everywhere, the blue downstairs bedroom must be arranged as a powder room for Mrs. Hunter, the green bedroom next it adapted to Mr. Hunter's requirements, if he had any. The turquoise bathroom must be fitted out with all Clara's best assortment of towels, toilet waters and soap; they were unfortunately pink, and did not match the bathroom; but fortunately they matched one another.

Clara was sent out early in the car to see whether Miss Radford had flowers. She drove to the farm, blew her horn, and allowed Miss Radford to come to the gate. She had no wish to be escorted to the front door by two dogs, sniffing at her ankles as she had seen them sniff at Mrs. Groby's.

“I don't get a minute to grow flowers,” said Miss Radford. “When I need flowers I get them in the field. It's full of black-eyed Susans now.”

“I'll just drive in to Avebury then, Miss Radford. There's a nice-looking nursery there.”

“Seems a pity to buy flowers, with all those ramblers on your porch.”

“The Hunters are coming to dinner tomorrow, and I thought I'd like a variety—something for the table.”

“Seems a pity. I'm going to get some black-eyed Susans tomorrow, and some ferns—for the cemetery. I might bring you some, if you haven't time to pick.”