greenish tinge showed. Her eyes, now wide with shock, were set as if she could not in truth look away.
Miss Elizabeth cried out and slumped, so I had only time to push her into a chair, or her dead weight might have carried me with her to the floor. As I supported her I still watched Anne Frimsbee, wondering if she were about to go into hysterics. The look of her face was like none I had seen before.
There was a sharp exclamation from the man who had opened the coffin. Now Hanno and Irene came closer. Nor could I resist advancing a step or two. Anne’s continued horror-stricken paralysis was too compelling.
Exposed to our view were the head and shoulders of a body, but by no means that of an elderly woman.
Rather a youngish man, black hair tousled about his livid face, a look of surprise frozen in eyes and mouth, lay there. And he was wearing the coat of an early nineteenth-century naval uniform, that bright blue coat disfigured on the breast by an irregular brown stain.
“My God!” The words were jolted out of Hanno. He swept a tall basket of white roses out of his path, with force enough to send it spinning across the floor. “How did this happen?” he demanded of the attendant, who in turn was staring at the contents of the coffin in open stupefaction.
“It’s Roderick!” Irene’s voice scaled up into an eerie shriek.
As if that sound had brought her back to life, Anne Frimsbee whirled. Her hand struck full across her daughter-in-law’s face with a sound almost as sharp as a gun-shot, the blow sending Irene back. As the younger woman stumbled and fell, Anne took a single step in her direction, the green, sick look erased from her face by a crimson flood of wild fury as she shouted:
“Shut your damned mouth, you fool!”
Then, as Irene treid to crawl away, tears beginning to stream down her bruised face, Anne clutched at rags of self-control. She glanced around, saw our attention was on her, and faced us, her chin up, and all the arrogance she could assemble coloring her voice.
“That—is—not—my—son—Roderick. Roderick is dead!” She hissed, before she turned and walked out of the room. We stood, like actors frozen in a tableau, until there came the sound of a distantly slammed door.
Miss Elizabeth moaned and I went to her. Since Irene still sat on the floor, rocking back and forth, crying, her hands cupping her face, and since neither of the men had moved, I was impelled to action.
“Please.” I glanced first to Hanno, who at least looked as if he had muscles needed in this crisis. “Can you help me get Miss Austin back to her room? I’m afraid she is really ill.”
With a muffled ejaculation, he strode over and picked up the old lady, carrying her as if she weighed nothing, taking her upstairs as I hurried along behind. When he laid the now seemingly unconscious woman on her bed, I asked:
“Hadn’t the doctor better be called?”
“Yes. I’ll do it. Call the police too. Since there has been a murder—apparently—”
I blinked. He had been quick to assess the meaning of that stain on the blue coat. But who—and how—and certainly—why?
Hanno went downstairs, heading, I supposed for the phone. I was left alone to unfold the quilt lying at the foot of the bed over Miss Elizabeth. One question to the fore of my mind—Roderick? Who was Roderick? I searched my memory of Theodosia’s outline of the situation, and I did not remember any Roderick—dead or alive—
5
I drew a chair to the side of the bed and sat down. Miss Elizabeth lay crumpled, her breaths coming far too fast, and frightening to hear. How long before the doctor could get here? As for that I had seen downstairs—so I had not been deceived by any bush, shadow, or half-hidden garden statue on the night I had been introduced to the Abbey! I had seen that figure in the garden after all. But who—and why? I shook my head as if in so doing I could shake away those questions.
Now I took Miss Elizabeth’s
Miss Elizabeth cried out and slumped, so I had only time to push her into a chair, or her dead weight might have carried me with her to the floor. As I supported her I still watched Anne Frimsbee, wondering if she were about to go into hysterics. The look of her face was like none I had seen before.
There was a sharp exclamation from the man who had opened the coffin. Now Hanno and Irene came closer. Nor could I resist advancing a step or two. Anne’s continued horror-stricken paralysis was too compelling.
Exposed to our view were the head and shoulders of a body, but by no means that of an elderly woman.
Rather a youngish man, black hair tousled about his livid face, a look of surprise frozen in eyes and mouth, lay there. And he was wearing the coat of an early nineteenth-century naval uniform, that bright blue coat disfigured on the breast by an irregular brown stain.
“My God!” The words were jolted out of Hanno. He swept a tall basket of white roses out of his path, with force enough to send it spinning across the floor. “How did this happen?” he demanded of the attendant, who in turn was staring at the contents of the coffin in open stupefaction.
“It’s Roderick!” Irene’s voice scaled up into an eerie shriek.
As if that sound had brought her back to life, Anne Frimsbee whirled. Her hand struck full across her daughter-in-law’s face with a sound almost as sharp as a gun-shot, the blow sending Irene back. As the younger woman stumbled and fell, Anne took a single step in her direction, the green, sick look erased from her face by a crimson flood of wild fury as she shouted:
“Shut your damned mouth, you fool!”
Then, as Irene treid to crawl away, tears beginning to stream down her bruised face, Anne clutched at rags of self-control. She glanced around, saw our attention was on her, and faced us, her chin up, and all the arrogance she could assemble coloring her voice.
“That—is—not—my—son—Roderick. Roderick is dead!” She hissed, before she turned and walked out of the room. We stood, like actors frozen in a tableau, until there came the sound of a distantly slammed door.
Miss Elizabeth moaned and I went to her. Since Irene still sat on the floor, rocking back and forth, crying, her hands cupping her face, and since neither of the men had moved, I was impelled to action.
“Please.” I glanced first to Hanno, who at least looked as if he had muscles needed in this crisis. “Can you help me get Miss Austin back to her room? I’m afraid she is really ill.”
With a muffled ejaculation, he strode over and picked up the old lady, carrying her as if she weighed nothing, taking her upstairs as I hurried along behind. When he laid the now seemingly unconscious woman on her bed, I asked:
“Hadn’t the doctor better be called?”
“Yes. I’ll do it. Call the police too. Since there has been a murder—apparently—”
I blinked. He had been quick to assess the meaning of that stain on the blue coat. But who—and how—and certainly—why?
Hanno went downstairs, heading, I supposed for the phone. I was left alone to unfold the quilt lying at the foot of the bed over Miss Elizabeth. One question to the fore of my mind—Roderick? Who was Roderick? I searched my memory of Theodosia’s outline of the situation, and I did not remember any Roderick—dead or alive—
5
I drew a chair to the side of the bed and sat down. Miss Elizabeth lay crumpled, her breaths coming far too fast, and frightening to hear. How long before the doctor could get here? As for that I had seen downstairs—so I had not been deceived by any bush, shadow, or half-hidden garden statue on the night I had been introduced to the Abbey! I had seen that figure in the garden after all. But who—and why? I shook my head as if in so doing I could shake away those questions.
Now I took Miss Elizabeth’s
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