Evidence of Things Seen (6 page)

“Or why shouldn't I get you some, when I get mine? I'd love to give you a bunch for the cemetery, nice big ones, gladiolus perhaps, or stock.” Clara thought: Sunday is the day they put flowers on graves. It's Mrs. Hickson's anniversary—at least Monday is, but Miss Radford would decorate the grave on Sunday. She wouldn't dare to, if… Or would she have to, on account of the neighbors?

Miss Radford was politely refusing Clara's proposed gift, on the ground that the other things lasted longer. “I'll just go up to the woods along your road and take a pail. Ferns there—they last a month in a pail.”

Clara drove to the nursery in Avebury, and ordered a dazzling assortment, principally of sweet peas, to be cut and delivered the next morning. When she reached the cottage again she hastily collected her sketching things and went down the road to a point below the sycamore, but a melodious honking brought her back around the bend. A magnificent car, low and shiny as a motor launch, stood humming at the foot of the path; Mr. Gilbert Craye sat in it among gadgets like semi-precious stones, the sun glinting on his thick-lensed spectacles.

He was a study in brown; his checked suit being an almost perfect match in both its tones for his thin, freckled face and his sun-bleached hair. He was always laughing, which perhaps accounted for the deep wrinkles around his eyes and from his nostrils to his chin: certainly they did not come from age—he was barely thirty. He was fragile-looking but wiry, always meticulously groomed, and oddly placative—a man, one would have said, unsure of his welcome.

It is true that he had had to outlive a certain reputation. A neglected child, a wild boy, he had married ridiculously and very young. There had been disagreeable publicity over his divorce, over the death of his only child, a boy; it had died in infancy, at his house at Stratfield, while he was away somewhere. The divorced wife had made a frightful row. For the last half-dozen years he had lived alone—except for a stream of supposedly unpresentable friends—in his old house at Stratfield, in Florida or on his California ranch; but just of late he was supposed to have quieted down, and people were inviting him to dinner again.

Gamadge had known his family, called him by his first name, and had never ceased to see him occasionally in New York. Craye was plainly an admirer of Clara's, but always treated and addressed her with formality—as though he wished the Gamadges to know that he could behave correctly when he chose.

He now said, smiling as usual from ear to ear, “I'm terribly sorry about tomorrow night, Mrs. Gamadge; brought you a couple of peace offerings.” He got out as Clara approached, and extricated two large market baskets from the rumble.

“Oh, Gil, it's too much!” Clara gazed in rapture at garden lettuce, a duck, a pound of butter, a jar of thick cream, and an assortment of vegetables.

“I know what the markets in Avebury are like, and the farmers separate the milk almost before it's out of the cow. Thought you might want to make ice cream, or something.”

“Maggie! Maggie! See what Mr. Craye brought us.”

Maggie came out, all smiles for Craye, and refused help with the baskets. While she lugged them into the dining room he continued to rummage in the car, lifted his head at last, and gazed at Clara in consternation. “Damn. I forgot the flowers.”

“I've ordered flowers.”

“I'll go back.”

“You'll do no such thing. I've ordered flowers in Avebury. Gil, you really are an angel; the trout on Wednesday, and now all those lovely things.”

“They're all off the place; I caught the trout myself. I hope Gamadge will want to help me fish my stream.”

“He will, and so will I.”

“You're going to ask me over again, aren't you?”

“Of course. When the Herons get here we'll have lots of bridge.”

“How's Mrs. Hunter? I thought she was looking tired the other day when she was in Stratfield; too much hospital work.”

“She's all right. Alonzo's gone.”

“Oh, Lord. I'm cutting down on the gardens myself, like everybody else. You know you haven't been over to look at the old place yet. How about now? Jump in; stay to lunch.”

“I can't today, Gil, thank you.”

“It's not much of a run if we take the reservation road; worth a few bumps to cut off the extra miles.”

“I really mustn't, today.”

His light eyes observed her keenly through his glasses. He said: “It's perfectly O.K., you know. All the dowagers come, and matrons of all ages. They drop in to lunch whenever they feel like it.”

“Of course. I'll do it soon.”

He got back into his car, and sat surveying the yellow front of the cottage. “Very nice,” he said. “Old Alvira had them do a good job on it. It used to be a forbidding kind of little witch's den. How do you like her?”

“Miss Radford? I like her well enough.”

If Craye were really one of the ephemera, he was at least not dull-witted. He heard the uncertainty in Clara's voice, and looked at her sharply. “Any reason for not liking her?” he asked.

“Oh dear; I suppose that story has got as far as Stratfield.”

“My dear girl,” said Craye, but he did not look at her now; he turned his head and stared at the trees that hid the stream. “My dear Mrs. Gamadge, the old creature has friends in Stratfield—charming women. Sewing and snooping done cheap.”

“Well, I think it's dreadful that they should spread such a story about her, just because she came into money.”

“Story about
her
? What are we talking about?” Craye looked quickly around at Clara again.

“I thought we were talking about people saying that poor Miss Radford poisoned her sister for her money.”

Craye gazed at her for a moment with his mouth open, and then burst out laughing. “Do they really say that? I'm tickled to death!”

“Why? And what were
you
talking about before?”

“Nothing. Forget it.” He slowly backed the long car until it reached the widening in the road; then, facing her, he asked: “Seen your friend Schenck lately?”

“Not very lately. He's out of town so much since he's been with the F.B.I. He's so happy—it was his dream.”

“I imagine he and Gamadge must have some wonderful powwows about secret missions and stuff?”

“I don't think they tell each other anything, and they certainly don't tell me!”

Craye, laughing, said that no doubt it was all very hush-hush, turned the car, and drove rather slowly away. He always drove carefully; he could not afford to jeopardize his license. He had never had an accident in his life.

The rest of the day passed pleasantly, Clara spending most of it getting purple patches into her study of the sycamore. She had another uneventful evening and night, and woke on Saturday morning feeling very cheerful. There was no malignant influence in this charming place, she had been completely mistaken to think so. She had simply allowed herself to build up a series of unrelated facts into a morbid whole. Maggie had unlatched the attic door and forgotten it; the dress and sunbonnet in the wardrobe upstairs were nothing like the dress and sunbonnet worn by the harmless stroller on the ridge; or if they were, why should they not be? There were probably not so many patterns of cotton print to be had in Avebury. Perhaps it was rather startling, after all the rest of the happenings, to learn that Miss Radford was being accused of doing away with her sister; but Phineas Hunter said she hadn't done away with her sister, and in that case none of the rest of it meant anything. Certainly Clara was not going to let morbid fancies spoil this paradise for her.

In the afternoon she arranged her flowers. She had filled the last vase, and was gathering up string and scissors from the porch, when the sun began to sink behind the topmost branches of the trees across the road. The Hunters would be along soon; they liked plenty of time for cocktails, and a late dinner. “Dinner, thank God,” said Hunter, “is not a picnic. It requires artificial light.”

Miss Radford's antiquated rig came slowly down the road. She sat erect as usual under the hood of the buggy, ferns and black-eyed Susans massed about her feet; the gray horse plodded along demurely, as if conscious that he must not allow a drop of water to spill out of the pails.

He approached, Miss Radford gave her tenant a stiff bow, and Clara bowed in return. She was about to say something about the vegetation in the buggy, had indeed opened her mouth to say it, and then everything seemed to happen at once; in what order, Clara was never afterwards able to remember. But the whole thing was over in thirty seconds; the old horse had checked, swerved, and reared, his feet pawing the air; the buggy was going over, a shaft broke with a noise like a pistol shot, the gray went down with it. He was lashing out, entangled in his reins, as Clara, with one blinding look over her shoulder to see what had frightened him, dashed down the path.

The look was enough. It stood at the corner of the house, gaunt and menacing; a flat brownness showing between the limp sides of the sunbonnet, a hand, brown and shriveled as a withered leaf at the end of an outstretched arm. Its skirt or apron was flapping; it might have been a scarecrow, blowing in the wind.

It was there, it was gone. Clara had no time for it, not now; Miss Radford was somewhere in the wreckage of the buggy, perhaps within reach of the gray's heels. He was kicking wildly, as Clara rounded him and began to drag Miss Radford out from under a cascade of yellow daisies, ferns and water. Maggie appeared, and without a word took over. Clara loosened traces, tore at buckles, and had old Bill on his feet. He stood docile. She led him free of the broken shaft, and he walked mildly away from her up the yard.

Clara ran back to the recumbent figure in the road. Maggie had dipped a corner of her apron in the water remaining in one of the pails, and was bathing Miss Radford's face; it was bleeding.

“Is she dead, Maggie?” Clara was panting as if she had run a mile.

“Dead? Why would a fall like that kill her? I don't know that she's even hurt. She's fainted from the shock.”

“Her cheek is bleeding.”

“Just a bit of a scratch. Wait, now, is her foot right?”

Clara, her teeth chattering, inspected a black, laced shoe. It lay flat on the road. “I think her ankle must be broken.”

“We'll get her into the house and call the doctor. Get one of the straw mats off the porch, ma'am, and slip it under her legs.”

“Ought we to move her, Maggie?”

“We can't leave her here in the dust, and her bleeding. We'll put her on the green bed—it's all made and ready.”

Clara got one of the small stiff mats from the porch, and slid it under Miss Radford's legs. It was easy to lift her, easy to carry her up the path. Old Bill, who had been peacefully cropping long grass, lifted his head to watch them go by. He had detached himself, he would forevermore remain detached from the accident.

“What in wonder scared the beast?” asked Maggie. “Or was she trying to turn short, or what?”

“Didn't you—didn't you see it?”

“Not a thing did I see, till I heard you screaming and crying for me.”

“I didn't even know I called you.”

“Indeed you did, and I ran out, and you were dragging the old lady out of the ferns and water, and the horse with his foot through the dashboard.”

Maggie backed against the screen of the dining-room doorway; Miss Radford's filmy eyes opened, and she began to struggle.

“It's all right, ma'am,” said Maggie.

“No! No!”

Clara said: “Maggie, she doesn't want to go in the cottage.”

But Maggie went on backing, and Clara had to follow or drop her share of the burden. They entered the dining room, and Maggie resolutely backed on. “She's not herself, ma'am.” And indeed Miss Radford seemed to have fainted again.

“She's fainted again, Maggie.”

“Why wouldn't she, with the pain of her ankle?”

“Not in that bedroom, Maggie. The other one.”

“The first one is the right one, and I wouldn't have her on the blue spread for anything, with the blood trickling down.”

As they entered the little green room with the door that went nowhere, Clara thought: It's just like a nightmare. I can't do anything. The horse saw it, and so did Miss Radford. I mustn't leave her alone. I'll make Maggie stay with her while I telephone.

Miss Radford was laid on the bed, and Maggie got dry clothes for her, towels and cold water. When she returned, Clara went and called up Dr. Knapp at Avebury.

He answered in person. “I'll be right out, Mrs. Gamadge. Did she hit her head, do you know?”

“My maid says there doesn't seem to be any sign of it, Doctor.”

“Don't move her again till I come. You think her ankle's broken?”

“Yes.”

“Too bad. Too bad. Give her a pillow, and don't do another thing till I get there. I'm glad you have somebody to help you. We're short of nurses, you know.”

“I know. I've done a little hospital work, and my maid is splendid.”

“I couldn't get one out there tonight for love or money, but tomorrow I'll have an ambulance there if I have to drive it myself.”

“She—she came to for a second, Doctor; she doesn't want to be here.”

There was a short pause, and then the doctor's reassuring bass came over the wire again: “She'll have to stay tonight. She ought to be glad you're willing to look after her. I'll bring what I have on hand, but I'll want a prescription filled later. Have you anybody to send to Avebury?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Hunter are coming.”

“Good; Hunter will drive in for me. I'll be with you in fifteen minutes.”

Clara went back to the bedroom. Miss Radford lay under a blanket, her eyes open, and her face set in an expression of grim endurance.

“It's all right, Miss Radford,” said Clara. “Doctor Knapp is on the way.”