The Weak-Eyed Bat

Recognizing the symptoms, Prye said hastily: “You’re bearing up wonderfully, as I expected you would.” He turned to Hattie, who was still sniveling intermittently. “Hattie, you should take a lesson from Susan.”

Susan did not beam but she looked less mournful. “We must be brave, Hattie, as Dr. Prye says.”

This suggestion did not appeal to Hattie. As long as she was not brave Susan did a considerable part of the housework. Hattie was not lazy but she was an opportunist. She redoubled her cries.

Susan threw her a long narrow look and said to Prye: “Perhaps we had better go into the sitting room.”

“Why not come for a stroll instead? It will do you good.”

Susan flushed and said she would like to come, but first she would have to see if her father was all right.

“He’s all right,” Prye said dryly. “Confine your sympathies to Jakes.”

“Who is Jakes?”

“Constable Jakes is interviewing your father.”

“What on earth for?”

Prye took a deep breath. “When a murder is committed a policeman is assigned to find out who did it.”

“But surely they don’t suspect us, her own family!”

“Murders are frequently family affairs.”

He held the door open for her and they went down the small path that led into the grove of birches.

“Do you remember, Susan, when you had a kind of chair built between two trees somewhere near here?”

“Of course. It’s still here. I used to sit there when I wanted to be alone with God, but I... well, I don’t go there any longer.”

“Why not?”

“Because Joan used it. She met Tom Little there. I know because I fol—” Her teeth bit the word in two.

“You followed her?”

“I did,” Susan said with defiance. “I wanted to see, I had to see, if she was committing sacrilege.”

“Do you mean what I think you mean?”

“Probably not,” she said coldly. “By sacrilege, I meant if she were using a consecrated place for secular purposes.”

“Well, that’s one way of putting it,” Prye said dryly. “How long has your mother been dead, Susan?”

“There is no death, Dr. Prye.”

“All right. When did she change her status?”

“When I was five.”

“Dream of her often?”

“Very often. Why?”

He ignored the question. “Ever dream of your father?”

“Sometimes.”

“Did you ever buy a red dress?”

“A red dress! What on earth does it matter? I never have, of course.”

“Why of course?”

“Because it wouldn’t be suitable. I don’t believe in calling attention to myself.”

“How much do you weigh, Susan?”

“You’re making fun of me! It isn’t very kind of you to make fun of me with my sister not yet cold in—” She turned her head away abruptly. “But I forgive you.”

Prye grinned. “Don’t forgive me yet. I have one more question. Last night after dinner you went out of the house. Where did you go?”

“I wanted solitude so I went down to the lake about seven-thirty. I must have gone to sleep on the beach because it was ten by the time I got back.”

“What were you wearing?”

She frowned, but her voice was patient. “I cannot understand your interest in my clothing, but I was wearing a grey dress.”

“With short sleeves?”

“Yes.”

“Will you roll up your sleeves for me, please?”

She hesitated, looking down at her black dress with a puzzled expression. “What’s wrong with my dress? You’re not— You couldn’t be looking for bloodstains!”

Prye sighed heavily. “No. Don’t be afraid, Susan. I’m harmless.”

She flushed and slowly rolled up her sleeves and revealed her thin white arms. Prye glanced at them briefly.

“You’re a very lucky girl, Susan.”

She stared at him a moment, paling, and then she started to run back down the path and into the front door of her cottage.

“Good God,” Prye said, “she’s going to tell Papa what a cad I am.”

He started for his own cottage, stopped suddenly, and then went back to the Frosts’. Hattie was alone in the kitchen.

“Have you any mosquito oil in the house, Hattie?” he asked.

“Miss Joan had some in her room,” Hattie said after a pause.

“What about Susan?”

“She hasn’t any. She never puts anything like that on her face or hands. She doesn’t believe in it. Not even powder,” Hattie marveled.

“So the only mosquito oil is in Joan’s room?”

“I’m positive.”

“Thank you, Hattie,” Prye said, and went out. Almost absent-mindedly he loitered near the screen door. In less than a minute he heard Susan come back into the kitchen.

“What did he want?” she asked Hattie.

“Something about mosquito oil. I guess he wanted to borrow some.”

“You fool!” Susan hissed. “You little fool! What did you tell him?”

Hatties voice shook. “I just told him Joan had some. I said you didn’t believe in stuff like that.”

There was a silence and then Susan’s voice again:

“You’re not to say anything, anything at all. You are to keep your mouth shut. Do you understand?”

It was unfortunate that Nora chose that moment to come walking up the path to the Frost cottage. At the sight of Prye crouching beside the back door and gesticulating wildly she called in a loud, clear voice:

“What are you hiding there for?”

Nora and Susan reached the veranda at the same time and stared coldly at Prye as he got to his feet and brushed off his trousers.