Authors: Elizabeth Peters
The room into which he bowed her showed the signs of Kathleen’s renovations, and also the years of neglect that had followed. The furnishings were all in excellent taste, but sun had faded the blue damask hangings and the upholstery of couches and chairs was badly worn.
There were five people present. The young woman perched stiffly on the edge of her chair had the same curly dark hair and gentle profile with which Jacqueline was familiar from Kathleen Darcy’s photographs. She had to be—yes, she was—Kathleen’s youngest half-sister, Sherri. The name didn’t suit her; she should have been called Jane or Mary, something as plain and demure as she appeared to be. She murmured wordlessly in response to the introduction, but did not look at Jacqueline. Her eyes remained fixed on the old woman who sat on the sofa next to the fireplace, with a knitted shawl across her lap and another around her shoulders.
If Jacqueline had not known better, she would have supposed it was Kathleen’s grandmother, not her mother. She looked eighty-five instead of the sixty-odd she really was. Her hair was snow-white, her crumpled pink face was fixed in a rather silly smile, and her blue eyes remained slightly out of focus even when she greeted Jacqueline with a soft “How do you do?”
Behind the sofa, in a stiff row like wooden soldiers, stood three men. The one on the left had a head of beautiful snowy-white hair and a luxuriant matching mustache. The hair of the man in the middle shaded from brown to gray, and his mustache was more restrained. The last of the three was smooth-shaven, with hair of dull, lifeless brown. They were obviously members of the same family; in fact, they might have been images of the same man at three different stages of life. They wore identical three-piece dark suits and white shirts. Granddad and grandson sported ties of discreet burgundy and gray. The tie of the man in the middle was bright blue—a touch of rampant individualism that stood out like a neon sign.
St. John introduced them: Ronald Craig, Senior; Ronald Craig, Junior; and ditto the Third. The family lawyers.
Jacqueline sat down and accepted a glass of overly sweet sherry. The assemblage was not so much formidable as annoying; she had hoped to concentrate her wiles on St. John and his doting mother, who had been described as a sweet, soft-spoken little lady. So far the lawyers had said nothing, but Jacqueline felt sure they would in time. Where was the other heir? There were two half-sisters, the offspring of Mrs. Darcy’s third, and surely last, marriage. Three husbands… She had more stamina than I have, Jacqueline thought cynically. She glanced at the seeming octogenarian, wrapped in woolly shawls like a giant cocoon, and her skin crawled with a chilly reminder. “Death hath closed Helen’s eyes.…” Okay, fair enough; it happens to everyone and is thus endurable, if only barely. But this ignominious interval between golden youth and dissolution, this descent into living decay… Not fair, not fair.
She was about to inquire after the second sister when the door opened and not one but five people entered: a woman in her mid-twenties and a stocky man who was obviously her husband, and the father of the three children: a dark-haired, sub-nosed girl aged about eight or nine; a younger girl; and a male toddler who promptly pulled his hand from his mother’s grasp, trotted out into the middle of the floor, squatted, and fell into a pose of profound concentration. It had been a good many years since Jacqueline had had to deal with such a situation, but the signs were those no mother could forget: eyes screwed shut, muscles tensed, cheeks crimson. A rich and well-remembered aroma rose gently into the air.
The color of St. John’s face rivaled that of the infant. He flapped his arms and gobbled with rage. “Oh, God, how disgusting! Get him out of here. Do something. I told you not to bring the children!”
“I’m sorry, Sin-John,” the woman said. “Benny, baby, you shouldn’t… Come to Ma.”
Having finished what he set out to do, the toddler easily eluded her, scampering on all fours and chuckling fatly. He was captured by his elder sister, who hoisted him onto her shoulder. “I’ll take him in the kitchen, Ma.”
“Not in the kitchen!” St. John screamed.
“Take him upstairs, Mary Bea,” her mother said in a lazy drawl. Mary Bea, or Marybee—it had been pronounced as a single word—complied, and her mother sank into a chair. She looked exhausted. No wonder, Jacqueline thought. The younger girl, whom she judged to be about five, looked like another Benny. Her father grabbed her as she headed purposely for a plate of hors d’oeuvres.
Jacqueline raised her glass to her lips to hide their quivering. The obligatory touch of humor, she thought. It had removed the last vestige of her nervousness; her only problem now was how to keep from howling with laughter. Poor St. John; he had struggled so hard to create a genteel ambience. Her eyes caught those of the children’s father. Fascinating, how many different shades of red the human countenance could turn when embarrassed or angry.
He was dressed in work clothes, clean and neatly mended, but worn. Embarrassed
and
angry, Jacqueline thought. She lowered her glass and gave him a broad, uninhibited grin.
The hot color faded from his face. “How do, ma’am,” he said. “I’m Earl Smith, Laurie’s husband.”
“You’re late,” St. John snapped. “And I told you not to bring—”
“I’m sorry,” Laurie said again. “Earl’s ma couldn’t watch them, she was going to the stores, and the kindergarten gets out at noon, that’s why we were late, and I thought, better bring Marybee too, she can help take care of them.”
Earl obviously didn’t want her to apologize. “You was the one insisted we come, St. John.” He pronounced it as his wife had done—Sin-John—but while hers had been an earnest, if unsuccessful, attempt to imitate her brother’s accent, Earl’s tone suggested that he was engaging in intentional parody. He went on, “Don’t see why you want us anyhow. I hadda take time off work.”
St. John began, “You have a voice—”
“No, we don’t. Leastwise, I don’t. And Laurie don’t know no more about this writing business than I do.”
Craig Senior cleared his throat. “The will clearly states that all the heirs must be consulted before any decisions are made in regard to the disposition of the assets of the estate. This book is a very large asset indeed; you stand to gain a great deal of money from its sale.”
Earl didn’t like Craig Senior any better than he liked St. John. “My wife, not me. It’s her money—if anything comes of this, which I can’t see as how it will. We don’t need it anyhow. I make a good living.”
“What do you do?” Jacqueline asked.
The Craigs turned identical looks of astonishment on her, but she didn’t care, she was genuinely curious. She liked Earl Smith: A fine upstanding figure of a man he was, if a little too short for her tastes. She liked his bluntness and his resentment of patronage.
“Bricklayer.”
“Ah,” Jacqueline said, pleased to have her Sherlockian deductions confirmed. Those characteristic callouses on the palms and the insides of the fingers of the left hand… (In fact, few professions leave unique marks of that sort, but Jacqueline, and Conan Doyle, enjoyed their pretense.) “That’s a skilled trade, Mr. Smith.”
The young man expanded. “Yes, ma’am, it is. I can do just about anything in the building line. One of these days I figure on opening my own business.”
“That’s great. But really, Mr. Smith, something will come of this book business—with me, or some other writer—and there’s a lot of money involved. You may not need it now, but with three kids to raise and educate, it could come in handy some day.”
“Oh, sure.” He spoke directly to her, ignoring the others. “I’m not turning it down, I’m not stupid. But all this…” Words failed him. Jacqueline was tempted to supply one, but decided it would not be polite. “This stuff gets me rilled up. I’m not about to stick my nose in what I don’t understand. Any more’n I’d appreciate somebody telling me how to do my job.”
“If you and Laurie don’t want to participate, you don’t have to,” St. John said stiffly. “I have done my duty. I have consulted you.”
“Yeah.” Earl tugged at his earlobe—obviously a sign of profound thought. Then his face took on a look of pure mischief that made him look five years younger and confirmed the fact that Benny was indeed his father’s son. “So we’ve got a vote? Okay, we vote for her.” A calloused forefinger indicated Jacqueline. “That’s settled. Come on, Laurie, collect the kids and let’s go.”
“Aren’t you staying for lunch?” St. John asked, obviously hoping they were not.
“No. We’ll stop someplace for burgers. That’s more our am-bee-ants, right, honey?” Jacqueline herself could not have bettered the sarcasm in his voice.
Laurie heaved herself out of her chair. “Nice to have met you, Miz Kirby,” she said. “Earl’s right, this is no place for the kids. I’m real sorry about Benny.”
“Please don’t apologize, Mrs. Smith,” Jacqueline said. “You have a fine family.”
After they had gone, Jacqueline glanced at the plate of hors d’oeuvres. How the little girl had managed it she could not imagine; Earl had never relaxed his grip on her. But half the crackers were gone and there were grubby fingerprints on several pieces of cheese.
St. John’s eyes bulged with fury when he noticed, but he wisely decided to forget the whole thing. What was most astonishing to Jacqueline was the absence of response, supportive or critical, from Mrs. Darcy and her youngest daughter. Neither had spoken a word to the Smiths.
She had begun to suspect Mrs. Darcy must be suffering from a physical disability as well as some form of gentle senility when Marjorie appeared and announced abruptly, “Soup’ll get cold if you don’t come eat right this minute.”
Mrs. Darcy leapt up, scattering woolly shawls, and bolted for the dining room. Her son tried to intercept her, but he wasn’t quick enough; the old lady flung open a door and scuttled through.
Jacqueline was beginning to feel sorry for St. John. She had to admire him for his dogged pursuit of the amenities in the face of one disaster after another. Without turning a hair he advanced ponderously upon her and offered a bent elbow. She accepted it, managing to keep a straight face. As he led her to the table he murmured, “ ‘Oh! what a noble mind is here o’erthrown.…’ I wish you had known her in her prime, Mrs. Kirby.”
“She seems happy,” Jacqueline said. It was true; Mrs. Darcy, already seated, was spooning up soup with the rapidity of a machine. Her face wore a blissful smile.
“It was the… the sad event which has, after due passage of time, brought us all together.… The cause, I mean to say, of her tragic decline. She has never recovered.”
“It must have been a terrible shock for all of you.” Jacqueline took the chair he held for her.
Craig Two—Jacqueline had decided it was easier to distinguish them by number—sat down across the table from her. “It wasn’t only the shock, Mrs. Kirby. Kathleen kept her mother mentally alert—talked to her, waited on her hand and foot, amused her.”
St. John bristled. “I’m sure, Craig, that you do not mean to imply that I have failed—”
“Not at all.” The lawyer’s voice was smooth as butter. “Nor was I criticizing Sherri. She was only thirteen when Kathleen… went. Too young to supply the comfort and companionship her mother’s condition required.”
Sherri’s lips parted a fraction of an inch, but if she had intended to speak she changed her mind. She had her sister’s eyes—big and velvety brown, with little flecks of green.
Craig had not expected a comment; he went on without pausing. “And you, St. John, had been away from home for years. You didn’t return until after Kathleen’s book had been published.”
“Of course I returned.” St. John turned to Jacqueline. “I gave up my own business, Mrs. Kirby—a very successful business—to rush to Kathleen’s side when she needed me. I cannot imagine how she could have managed without my experience and skill. She had no business sense whatever, and she was a very trusting, naive person. Typical of you literary geniuses, I suppose.”
Jacqueline laughed merrily. “Some of us, Mr. Darcy. Some of us. Not all of us.”
Craig Two choked on his soup and raised his napkin to his face. I can deal with him, Jacqueline thought. He’s not stupid, and he has the rudiments of a sense of humor. Wonder where he got it? Not from his father, the old buzzard’s face hasn’t cracked once. And Grandson appears to be a chip off the older block.
Marjorie removed the soup bowls and served the main course, and old-fashioned, uncompromising platter of pot roast with accompanying vegetables. St. John served his mother first and she fell to. As the other plates were being passed, Jacqueline said winsomely, “I know it’s not good manners to discuss business at lunch, but since you’ve introduced the subject, Mr. Darcy, and since you are all busy people with many demands on your time…” The silent presence at the end of the table, its entire mind and body concentrated on the absorption of food, made the words stick in her throat. There was no need for her to continue; St. John was ready and willing to talk.
“Quite, quite, Mrs. Kirby. Your consideration in coming here is appreciated, I assure you. For a number of reasons it seemed the most practical way of doing this. My mother’s health, the difficulty of transporting the entire family to New York—a city I personally find distasteful—”
Craig One glanced ostentatiously at his watch. “I have an appointment at two-thirty,” he rumbled. “Explain the situation to Mrs. Kirby, or allow me to do so.”
“Certainly.” St. John cleared his throat portentously. “My chief concern—I should of course say our chief concern—is the book itself. We must have a work that maintains, though of course it cannot equal, the literary standard of
Naked in the Ice.
”
The old woman at the end of the table stirred and murmured fretfully. The only audible word might have been “hated.” Jacqueline was surprised to hear it echoed by the hitherto silent girl sandwiched between Craigs One and Two. “Kathleen hated that title.”
They waited for her to go on, but she relapsed into silence, her eyes lowered. After a moment Jacqueline said, “I know. She wanted to call it
Kingdoms of the Ice.
A much better title, I agree. But there’s a cynical old saying in publishing that the word ‘naked’ in a book title will sell an additional fifty thousand copies.”