The Andre Norton Megapack - 15 Classic Novels and Short Stories

hand in the darkness. “Look here, Fredericka, what do you think I’ve been doing these two days? I’ve been at the Farm damn near every minute. If she has been poisoned, she’s not getting any more now. We’ve got special nurses night and day who watch the liquids and medicines like hawks and she isn’t eating anything, of course.”
    “It’s—it’s that bad?”
    “Yes. I promise you that we’re doing all we can. I wanted to take her at once to hospital but her mother wouldn’t hear of it. Mrs. Hartwell was nearly frantic when we found the dope. Now, of course, she’s as near insane as makes no matter. Of course neither she nor anyone else at the Farm dreams of poison, or lets on, if they do. It’s only Thane and I and Dr. Scott and we think it quite possible that we’re madly imaginative on account of Catherine’s death.”
    “Is it wholly like an infection—or ’flu? What does Doctor Scott call it?”
    “Virus. But there are one or two odd things about her. She rolls her eyeballs wildly. I thought it was fear or panic at first but now the pupils are dilated all the time. Well, if she isn’t better this afternoon, Dr. Scott is going to insist that she go into hospital for tests.”
    Fredericka withdrew her hand and put her palm against her hot forehead. She couldn’t talk about Margie any more. “What about the others?” she said quickly. “Do they behave in a normal way?”
    “Oh yes. Perfectly. And they’re all angelic to Margie. Mrs. Sutton has moved her into the spare room and is paying all the bills—the Hartwells are terribly hard up. Margaret practically supports them. Of course we have an eye on the lot of them, but they’re perfectly normal in every respect. I suspect it’s the relief of not having Catherine around the place.”
    “Roger?”
    “Well, of course, he isn’t quite normal at the best of times. But do you know before Margie got so bad he spent a whole afternoon reading to her. He’s about to go back into hospital himself.”
    “Yes. He told me. It’s for another face operation, isn’t it?”
    “Yes. It’s been planned for weeks. There’s no question of doing a bunk or anything.” He stopped suddenly. “Look here, Fredericka, it’s time you went to bed. But before you do, just think over your list of suspects and try to remember anything—even the least important nothing—that might give us a glimmer.”
    Fredericka pressed both hands against her closed eyelids and made a great effort to think. Mrs. Sutton, Roger, Philippine, James, Mom Hartwell, Margie—Chris—
    Suddenly she sat up. “Have you and Thane questioned Chris?” she asked.
    “Yes. Both of us. But no results of any importance. Why?”
    “Oh, it may be my imagination, but I think he has something on his mind—or, at any rate, I think he’s scared. You see he knows them all at the Farm so well. He’s always doing odd jobs for them and he has a kind of dog-like devotion to them all—even Margie. He goes out there every day with the mail, you know.”
    “The mail—now there’s something to look into. I wonder…”
    “Oh, Peter, I do remember something now. When was it? Yes, I know. It wasn’t the Monday after the murder because Chris didn’t come that day. He was terrified, I think. No, it was on the Tuesday. He brought me the mail and asked for a French stamp on one of my letters. It seems he’s a collector. Then he told me with a certain lugubrious pleasure that he had a letter for Catherine Clay with a stamp just like mine—it was an airmail one, I think—and remarked with painful obviousness that she wouldn’t be able to get it because she was dead.”
    “I see. Interesting. A letter from France two days after her death. Very interesting.”
    “Yes. I was surprised. Could it be anything to do with her dope supply, do you think?”
    “Possibly. Anyway, it’s worth investigating. We’re on to the dope business—that is, we’re making efforts to trace it. I may have to go to Washington, but I hope not.”
    “I hope not, too,” Fredericka said, and then could have bitten her tongue out.
    “Well, it may not be necessary.” Peter stood up. “I must be off now, I’m afraid, but I can’t thank you enough for your help tonight. Just talking to you has been a comfort, and now Miss Doctor Watson has really given me a clue—bless her!”
    “There was another thing I thought of. Catherine and James couldn’t have been secretly married, could they? It would give him