Evidence of Things Seen (7 page)

Miss Radford's voice was the stronger of the two: “I don't know what got into me to let such a thing happen; I don't know what got into Billy,” she said. “I don't mean to stay here and impose on you. Knapp will have to get me home.”

“We'll take good care of you till they can send an ambulance.”

“I can't be sick in somebody else's house. Knapp will have to get me home tonight.”

“It's your own cottage.” Clara met the pale-blue eyes; in them she read amazement, and the determination to conceal it as far as it could be concealed by mortal effort. “Don't worry, Miss Radford,” she went on. “We won't leave you a minute. You'll be right with us, and the Hunters are coming.”

“Where's Billy?”

“Out in the yard, mowing the grass. I'm going out to water him and cover him up till your man gets here.”

Miss Radford closed her eyes. Clara waited until Maggie came back into the room, and then got a piece of clothesline and a bucket of water. She went out, tied the gray to a tree, got his harness off, and gave him a drink. Then she went up to get a rug from the second-floor sitting room. The attic door was wide open, but she did not even wait to close it; it was only another horror among horrors, and her bewildered mind refused to deal with it.

She took the rug from the sofa, and went down and into the yard. As she covered the old horse, straightening the blanket with precision, the Hunters drove up in their open car. They looked very festive, and it was rather funny to see their faces change as they caught sight of the fallen buggy, the broken shaft, and the heap of ferns and flowers.

“Ye heavenly powers,” said Hunter, transfixed, “what's this?”

“There's been an accident,” shrieked Fanny. “Clara, is that Miss Radford's rig? What's happened to Miss Radford?”

“She's hurt her foot,” said Clara. “The doctor's coming. I'm so sorry about dinner.”

“Dinner!” Phineas Hunter helped his wife out of the car, and then came up to Clara and took hold of her arm above the elbow. “You need a doctor yourself. You look very green, Clara; where's your whiskey?”

T
HE HUNTERS WERE
magnificent. They refused to be guests, they took entire charge of the cottage, they would not even consider going home that night. Fanny sat with Miss Radford—who, after one startled look at her radiant nurse's flowered dinner dress and multicolored earrings, shut her eyes and remained in a kind of obstinate trance—while Maggie rescued the dinner from the stove and set a table in the sitting room upstairs. That was Hunter's idea, and he helped place and lay it. Clara, passing through, saw that the attic door had been closed. He detained her.

“Come and sit down a minute, Clara, until Knapp gets here, and tell me how the thing happened.”

Clara felt much better; the arrival of the Hunters had changed the whole aspect of things. She had had a stiff drink of whiskey, and Miss Radford's condition pushed less material anxieties into the background. She found herself able to talk without difficulty, and she was glad to sit down beside Hunter and tell him part of the tale:

“It was that woman in the sunbonnet. She came around the house and frightened the horse.”

“Woman in a sunbonnet?” Hunter looked at her, frowning.

“You know, the one I told you about on Thursday.”

“The one who's been prowling around back of the cottage?”

“Yes. I think her apron had been flapping. I only saw her for a second, but I think she backed off around the corner of the cottage. I was running to get Miss Radford away from the horse's heels.”

“Well, upon my word, this is a little too much! I'll certainly speak to the state police tomorrow. This can't go on—it's more than an annoyance, it's positively a menace. I suppose you didn't have a chance afterwards to go after her? You or Maggie?”

“Maggie didn't see her at all, this time. I was rather worried later; I was afraid she might still be on the premises somewhere.” Clara glanced at the attic door. Hunter, seeing the look, rose.

“I'll soon settle that!”

“Oh—thank you.”

He went up into the attic, came back again, and made a search of the cottage, indoors and out. He even went to the old barn where Clara kept the car. When he came back he shook his head. “Not anywhere.”

“I almost think she isn't real.”

“Isn't real?”

No, thought Clara, I can't say it; I simply can't. But she went on: “There's something so queer about her.”

“We'll soon find out whether she's real or not! She may be a half-wit, camping in the woods; perhaps I'd better call up the barracks at Stratfield tonight.”

“Oh, no; you're here.”

“I certainly am, and now Knapp's here—that's his car.”

The doctor, a short, stoutish man of sixty with a clipped gray beard, began proceedings by giving Miss Radford a shot of morphia. Forty minutes later her broken ankle was set, and she was peacefully asleep with Maggie watching at her side. Knapp, grateful to find a Lucullan feast awaiting him in the upstairs sitting room, sat down at the bridge table with the Hunters and Clara.

“You folks are mighty kind and pleasant about this,” he said, “and as far as Alvira Radford's concerned there isn't a thing to worry about. She's had a shock, but she's a strong, tough woman. I hate to send you in for that codeine and luminal, Hunter, but if she comes out of the morphia—I don't think she will—she'll need it before morning. Trouble is, somebody ought to sit up with her.”

“We ought to be able to manage that among the four of us,” said Hunter.

“Mighty nice of you. I could get Mrs. Simms up, perhaps.”

“Let Mrs. Simms have her sleep; she probably needs it a good deal more than we do.”

Clara said: “She mustn't be left alone a minute—not a minute. I dragged her in here; she didn't want to come.”

Knapp paused with his coffee cup halfway to his mouth. Then he said: “She won't know anything about it till morning.”

“Oughtn't we to move her into the other downstairs bedroom, Dr. Knapp? That one's so near the kitchen and bathroom; she may hear noises.”

“She won't hear a thing, and she can't be moved tonight.” Knapp again looked at her. Then he said: “I'll have to get hold of that Sam of hers. He'll have to tie up those dogs, if the stretcher's to get into the house tomorrow, and I'm not so anxious to be chewed up myself. I'll have to get hold of somebody to look after her; she'd rather be at home, and the hospital's choke-full anyway. Old fellows like me are getting run off our legs. How did the accident happen, Mrs. Gamadge? Did she try to turn short? There's no cut-under to those old buggies.”

“The horse was frightened at something, and tipped her over.” Clara went on, rather quickly: “I was thinking—oughtn't we to notify the Grobys?”

“Oh dear,” said Fanny. “Won't tomorrow do?”

“Not much love lost there,” said Knapp, “but it might be just as well to give them a ring. I wouldn't want Walt Groby to think he had anything on
me.
”

“Perhaps they'll insist on moving her,” said Clara.

This time Knapp allowed her to hold his gaze. He said at last: “She lived on in this cottage a month after her sister died, Mrs. Gamadge; don't you worry about Alvira, she's just like all the rest of the country folks—hates to be sick out of her own home.”

Fanny said, rather uncomfortably, “I think Clara thinks the cottage might have unpleasant associations for Miss Radford.”

“Now my dear,” expostulated Hunter; and Knapp, somewhat crossly, remarked: “Stuff. She lived here a month afterwards. Well, I'd better be moving.”

“I'll go along on foot,” said Hunter. “Tow the old horse down, and help you rout out the hired man. Then I'll come back and get the car and drive in for the medicine.”

Knapp drove slowly down the dark road, Hunter leading old Bill ten paces to the rear. Clara and Fanny washed dishes, while Maggie kept her watch at the bedside. It had already been settled that she, at least, should get to bed promptly at ten o'clock. She had her work to do in the morning.

After a time Hunter was heard starting his car, and Clara told Fanny Hunter that she felt like crying. “You're just angels, Fanny, that's all.”

“Darling, we love helping you. It was an awful upset.”

“I'll get the Herons' room ready for you and Mr. Hunter.”

“If you go on calling him that he says he'll feel too old to sit up and take care of Miss Radford.”

“I do think she hates being here, Fanny.”

“And Dr. Knapp knows it! But what can we do? As he says, she probably won't even be conscious before morning.”

Hunter returned, and delivered his package to Clara. “There you are,” he said. “One of each if she wakes up. Come on out on the porch.” Under stress, Clara was amused to note, his little affectations of speech and manner departed; he was efficient, cool and practical.

When they were all sitting on the bench and smoking, he outlined his plan for the night:

“Now I know you two well enough to know that you won't let me do what I want—put a comfortable chair outside Alvira's door, have a good lamp, and spend the next eight hours contentedly reading, perhaps working. It's nothing to me; I like the small hours.”

“Sit up from ten o'clock to six in the morning? I never heard anything so frightful,” exclaimed Clara. “It's my cottage, and Miss Radford's my landlady. I won't have it.”

“What is your suggestion?”

Clara had been thinking. “We might all play cards very quietly until twelve, and then you could sit up till dawn, and I'd take over after that.”

“Certainly not. I demand the graveyard stretch, and I don't in the least recommend sitting up and playing cards until twelve. We must all get some sleep. Fanny can sit up till twelve—with the lamp and the chair and the book, you know; you can sit up till two, and I will be responsible for the rest of the night. I'll call Maggie in the morning.”

Fanny said: “I don't care how long I sit up, but you must sleep in the other little downstairs room.”

“I had no intention of sleeping anywhere else.”

Clara again felt like crying—this time from relief. She said: “I should have died without you and Fanny; just died!”

“After all,” continued Fanny plaintively, “it isn't as if Miss Radford were an ordinary patient; I mean some people think she's a murderer!”

“Put that stuff out of your mind, put it right out!” Hunter addressed his wife sternly. “It's nonsense, it always was nonsense.” He consulted his watch. “Five of ten; Clara, you and I must soon bid Fanny good night.”

“Oh, Heavens, I forgot the Grobys!” Clara went into the living room, and found the Grobys' number; Mr. Groby answered in a tone of boredom—he evidently did not recognize Clara's voice, and was bored by his wife's friends. He went away and got Mrs. Groby, who sounded impatient.

“Yes? What is it? What is it?”

Clara explained that Miss Radford had had an accident.

“An accident!” screamed Mrs. Groby.

“Yes, her ankle is broken, but she's going to be all right. We have her here in the cottage, and Dr. Knapp's seen her, and he'll have her moved to the farm in the morning.”

“My goodness, Mrs. Gamadge, Walter and I had better come out.”

“You really needn't, Mrs. Groby; the Hunters are here with me, and we are taking good care of her.”

“What on earth happened to her?”

“The buggy tipped over.”

“Well, I think you're being fine about it, and we have this party here—supper and bridge; but Aunt Alvira won't like it if we—”

“She's sound asleep under morphia. She probably won't wake up till morning.”

Clara thought there was a slight scuffle at the other end of the wire; but Mrs. Groby kept hold of the telephone. She said: “I'd insist on coming, if we didn't have these friends.”

At this point Mr. Groby evidently succeeded in shoving his wife aside. He spoke with polite deference: “Good evening, Mrs. Gamadge. This is a kind of a mix-up for you, from what I can hear.”

“Not at all. There are four of us—”

“Mighty kind of the Hunters; mighty kind. Tell him we appreciate it. We sort of feel that my wife's place is at her aunt's bedside; are you sure there are no complications?”

“Dr. Knapp says not, but of course she'll have a thorough examination tomorrow.”

“I'd drive Hattie out, party or no party, but they're business friends; it's business for me. Would it be too much to ask you not to tell Alvira that you called us?”

Clara was somewhat taken aback. “Not tell her?”

“In the morning. She's a little sensitive—touchy.”

“Oh, I see. I won't mention it unless she asks.”

“Well, thanks for everything; see you in the morning.”

Clara, rather annoyed, went into the dining room to find Hunter placing a lamp on the end of the table, not six feet from the bedroom door. She said: “They want me to take the blame for their not coming out tonight.”

“Of course they do,” said Hunter cheerfully. He brought an easy chair from the living room, and placed it parallel to the sick-room door. “There we are. Light placed so that it doesn't shine in on her, chair placed so that we can see her by turning our heads. Snug as you please; we can write letters, do a jigsaw puzzle, compose poetry.”

Mrs. Hunter came down the dining-room stairway, in one of Clara's dressing gowns. She said: “I'm all ready.”

“You won't be lonely,” asked Clara, “sleeping upstairs? One of us will be right down here, and you know Maggie's right at the top of the stairway outside your bedroom.”