The Andre Norton Megapack - 15 Classic Novels and Short Stories

to fry the bacon?” Fredericka asked a little stiffly.
    “Granted.” Peter answered, darting her a quick sideways glance.
    A moment later she said: “I’ve learned lesson number one—the one contained in your bible—so you can take your book home now. If it’s so desperately important, you may miss it.”
    Peter began to whistle tunelessly and Fredericka’s annoyance evaporated. By the time they sat down at the table by the kitchen window, she was able to laugh happily, and to enjoy their early morning meal during which they did not once mention murder, marriage or allied subjects. For that hour they talked only of unimportant and pleasant things, and for that hour, they were both content.
    Chapter 10
    Promptly at nine o’clock on that Wednesday morning of the week following the death of Catherine Clay, Chief Carey put in his appearance at the bookshop. He was very official and businesslike and it was obvious that he had expected to have to rouse Fredericka as he had on his first visit. He was therefore somewhat taken aback to find her hard at work. And, for Fredericka, his arrival was a distinct anticlimax.
    It had been seven-thirty, or shortly after, when Peter had left, and the hour and a half since then had dragged away slowly. She had given Chris his coffee when he appeared at eight and had tried to talk to him but he had been quiet and uncommunicative. After several abortive attempts to find out what people were saying in the village, Fredericka decided that it would be best to give up this early morning attempt to be Dr. Watson and put Chris on to the attack on the shrubbery as a way to work off his obvious anxieties.
    Fredericka had then gone back into the house and wondered what to do next. Hours ago it seemed, she had washed the breakfast dishes and straightened the office so that all evidence of her night’s visitor had been removed. Now, with Chris at work in the yard, the long day lay ahead and the kitchen clock said definitely that it was only a few minutes past eight. Work had been the answer for Chris, very well then, she would take the medicine she had so readily prescribed. She would forget the whirling merry-go-round of evil happenings in which she had been caught, she would even forget Peter Mohun. Yes. She would tackle the last issue of the Publisher’s Weekly and check through it for orders.
    But though she managed to look busy, the medicine wasn’t working. The pages blurred before her eyes, a fly buzzed angrily against the window screen, and she was acutely aware that she was very short of sleep. If ever this wretched business was over—but she must get to work at something. Thane Carey would be coming. She couldn’t go back to bed at this hour. And then, scarcely aware what she was doing, she reached for a large pad of clean yellow paper. Her pencil hung over it for a moment and then wrote the word Suspects. After that the list of names followed easily. It began, inevitably with Catherine’s immediate family. Mrs. Sutton? Could anyone be less likely? And yet might she not have killed Catherine to save her from herself? Roger? Possible, and by his own evidence he had hated his sister and for good reason. Philippine? Equally possible, but why? She might have wanted to marry James and it had certainly looked that way. Yes, and James obviously had the same idea in mind, but Philippine would never have needed to murder Catherine to achieve this when James was as good as hooked already. James? As she wrote his name, she saw again his sensuous face. A very likely suspect but she mustn’t be prejudiced by her own personal feelings about him. In the bright light of day she was able to persuade herself that James Brewster had probably wanted nothing more than a little evening’s entertainment. Well, perhaps he got it with Philippine. Yes, he certainly had preferred Philippine to Catherine but surely a man like James could slip out of any entanglement—unless, of course, he was secretly married to Catherine. That was an interesting idea for Dr. Watson to suggest to Sherlock Holmes. Yes. And James had seen Catherine dead and had not told anyone. Mrs. Hartwell? Very unlikely. A gossip and a busybody—possibly as a cover-up, though, for the real Mrs. Hartwell. She could be spiteful and scheming. It showed in her face. But what motive except the universal hate? Margie? —
    Fredericka put down her pencil and stared at the backs of the books on the shelf over the desk. Margie had hated