Free Snow Shadow by Andre Norton Page B

horrid reputation and how hard it was for dear innocent Charles to live it down, being in the service and all. But he was dead—at least that’s what they said—killed abroad in a car accident. And if he’s in the coffin now— where is Miss Emma?”
    “I imagine that is what the police are trying to findout—or one of the things. Roderick was apparently shot—”
    “Shot!” she echoed and shook her head. “But things like that simply do not happen to the Austins—”
    A thick-set man of middle age appeared at the foot of the stairs to look up at us both. He carried the authority of the law in every plane of his heavy, jowled face.
    “Now, Miss Lowndes.” He addressed Leslie. “Weren’t you told to sit and wait in that room?”
    “I was ordered around in my own home without any explanation.” She flared. “You’d get a lot farther with reasonable people if you showed a fraction of common sense, Sergeant or Inspector or whatever you claim to be. I’m neither a moron nor a child.”
    “In the room downstairs— if you please.” He looked as if he meant to escort her every step of the way and then take other measures to insure she stayed there.
    “You, too, miss.” He consulted a notebook. “You are Mrs. Irene Frimsbee?”
    “No.” Perhaps my denial was too vehement. But I had had enough of the Frimsbees and the Austins. “I am Erica Jansen.”
    “Yes.” He consulted the notebook again and nodded. “Well, the lieutenant wants to see you, too. Downstairs, if you please.”
    Leslie went without any other further protest and I followed. We were herded into the breakfast room, and had no chance to exchange comments on the weird happening of the afternoon, as a young patrolman took a seat by the door and so remained an ever-present warning.

    Leslie threw her mink into another chair, lit a cigarette, and went to stand by the window, staring out into the black and white of the neglected garden. I was hungry, the after-effect for me of any emotional upset. So my speculations hovered around as to when we would be released and perhaps allowed to leave the house in search of food. All my contact with police procedures came mainly from fiction. I am devoted to crime novels—mainly of the old-fashioned house-party-butler-in-the-pantry-all-right-with-the-village-gossips school. Which was not much use to me in judging what was going to happen next.
    Were we all under suspicion of shooting, or perhaps using a knife, to bring that black sheep of the Austin clan his present resting place? Had any woman strength enough to effect the exchange of bodies by herself? What had Miss Elizabeth taken part in, or witnessed at two in the morning?
    I did not want to think about that, and I hoped I would not inadvertently betray it in my questioning. It was Miss Elizabeth’s own business, and none of mine. The dragging minutes crawled by, and I felt we had been there for hours. Then the stolid man stood once more in the doorway.
    “Miss Jansen, please.” He summoned me.
    Leslie glanced at me, her annoyance plain. I was divided between the relief of my wait being over, and my apprehension. Thus I found myself for the first time in the library of the house, a solemn room paneled in the darkest of oak, one huge, stained-glass window behind the mammoth desk—giving the impression of a churchand altar. From behind the desk, a man arose to introduce himself as Lieutenant Daniels.
    He was polite and mannered, and because of that, even more intimidating. I sat down in the chair he indicated, and answered the routine questions of name, permanent address, and the reason for my being here. A young man, half in the shadows, took it all down in shorthand.
    “Then you have only been here since Sunday, Miss Jansen?”
    “Really less than that.” I told of my trip with Theodosia.
    “You moved in Sunday morning, you left before noon with Mrs. Cantrell, you returned with her yesterday. Had you any acquaintance with the Austins prior to