The Andre Norton Megapack - 15 Classic Novels and Short Stories

resolution failed her, and as she hesitated the light went out and only darkness lay before her, velvety black and impenetrable. One knew, of course, that murderers returned to the scenes of their crime. She backed toward the door and then she heard the sound of stealthy footsteps. They seemed to be coming toward her up the garden path!
    Summoning all her courage she called out: “Who’s there? Is that you, Margie?” Her voice sounded thin and frightened. There was no answer and the sound of footsteps ceased. She called again, louder and with a show of courage she did not feel.
    Silence.
    Could she have dreamt it all? Could this be her own wild imagining? She took one step forward, then another; the next took her off the porch. She felt the softness of grass under her feet and then there was a sudden brilliant flash of light directly in her face. She reeled backward, blinded. Then the light was gone and there was only black night and the sound of running footsteps.
    Chapter 8
    Fredericka never remembered how she got back into the house after her midnight adventure. She knew only that she locked and bolted the door and went at once to the telephone.
    A sleepy voice answered when she finally got through to the police station and asked for the chief of police. The sergeant on duty explained that the chief had not been there all evening. Was it urgent?
    Fredericka was about to say that it was urgent—very—and then thought better of it. In the warm circle of lamplight by the office desk, she felt her fears recede. It couldn’t possibly have been anyone but Margie—the mad prank of a mad child. Moreover, Margie or anyone else would certainly by now have put considerable distance between herself, or himself, and the bookshop.
    “No. No, it isn’t important,” she said. “I—I had forgotten how late it is. Could I perhaps have Mr. Carey’s telephone number at home?”
    The voice now had a note of suspicion. “Who is that calling, please—?”
    “It’s—it’s Miss Wing at the Hartwell bookshop.”
    “Oh yes, Miss Wing.” He hesitated. Suspicion had now become solicitude. “Are you quite sure nothing’s wrong? Well then—”
    In the end he gave her Thane Carey’s number and she put it beside the telephone. Then, feeling both virtuous and courageous, she went upstairs, took one of Dr. Scott’s pills and went immediately to sleep.
    When Fredericka woke the morning was fresh and cooler after the rain of the day before. The sun sparkled brightly on the wet green grass when she slipped out on to her back porch to look for signs of her marauder and to sniff the air. The path was trampled with footsteps of all sizes and shapes—yesterday’s rain and yesterday’s visitors had churned the brown earth and flattened the grass. No, there was no evidence. But even in the bright light of day, Fredericka knew that she had not been dreaming. And she was more than ever convinced that her visitor had been Margie. She thought of this as she was cooking and eating her breakfast, and then her mind travelled backwards to the problems that had become crystal clear by the simple process of writing down, as she had in her last night’s letter to Miss Hartwell, the significant events since her arrival in South Sutton.
    As she poured out her coffee and made her toast she thought of this letter and what she had said, and then, inevitably, that she must get it off. She hadn’t bothered with a stamp last night. She’d have to find one and then get Christopher to take it to the post office. If only he would put in his appearance. Why hadn’t he come yesterday? During the first week, she had put him on to full time. Surely he understood this. She had expected him all morning and then, when the afternoon’s visitors had started to appear, she had forgotten him completely. Now, thinking of him, she remembered his perspiring black face as it emerged from the bushes that first afternoon when she had been lying in the hammock. Had there been something sinister about that face? Certainly the events of these last few days were enough to make anyone uneasy and suspicious without cause. Could it have been Chris last night? Of course not. But why hadn’t he come yesterday?
    As if in answer to her question, there was a loud knock on the back door. Startled, and annoyed with herself for being startled, Fredericka got up quickly and went out. Christopher stood on the porch, turning his battered straw hat in his workworn brown hands. He