free-will offering …”
“Oh, dear !” murmured Miss Withers, feeling rather as if she had sat herself down in a chair that wasn’t there. This sort of nonsense went out with Sir Oliver Lodge and Margery of Boston and the later writings of the bemused Conan Doyle. Nowadays silly women had psychiatry and canasta and existentialism to make fools of themselves about.
Natalie looked at her almost shrewdly. “I can maybe guess what you’re thinking. But I’m not exactly the gullible type. In some of her trances Marika told me things about my childhood that she simply couldn’t have faked. There was the time with a boy on the high school sleighride—and she also told me about my honeymoon, my second one I mean. I met and married Andy in Paree, you know. Ah, the Tooleries, the Bois, the Champs d’Elysées, Longchamps …”
“Champs, champs, champs the bois are marching,” Miss Withers said, almost aloud.
But Natalie Rowan was back on the topic of Marika again. “… and one night a few weeks ago she went into an unusually deep trance and suddenly I heard a different voice coming out of her throat. A voice that I couldn’t possibly be mistaken about, because it was Emil, my first husband. And he told me, plain as the nose on your face, that Andy didn’t kill the Harrington girl!”
“Oh,” said Miss Withers flatly.
“Maybe you don’t believe in voices from the Beyond? But I heard what I heard!”
The schoolteacher took it in her stride, and said, “The late Mr. Fogel would hardly be considered a pertinent witness to the murder, would he? Unless, of course, he happened to be haunting this house the evening of the murder.”
“But Marika says that the Departed are now all part of the Universal Mind, and know everything that ever was or will be.”
Miss Withers could have pointed out that if this were so, then it was odd that most spirit messages were on the intellectual level of an eight-year-old child. “The dear departed didn’t happen to mention the name of the real murderer?”
Natalie shook her head. “The sitting was over—Marika couldn’t stand any more.”
“And you haven’t been back for another session?”
“I—I’ve been too busy trying to help Andy.”
“I understand. But you really have nothing else, except the message from the grave, to prove your husband’s innocence?”
“Nothing except—well, I talked with him in prison. He finally admitted that his original story about finding the girl’s body planted in his car wasn’t true.”
The schoolteacher sniffled a deep sniff. “Since the police found her fingerprints all over this living room, her cigarettes in the ashtrays, and the marks on the carpet of where her heels had been dragged out of the place after she was dead, it really wasn’t much of an admission, was it?”
Natalie said quickly, “Andy’s telling the truth now, I think. But suppose I start at the beginning. It was a year ago this August, stifling hot night even up there in the country place near Darien I’d rented for the summer. Andy had been nervous and irritable at dinner, complaining about my cooking more even than usual. I wasn’t feeling well, so I went to bed early. I was half-asleep when I heard his car drive away, but I thought he was only going out for a breath of air, so I dozed off. It wasn’t until after midnight that I woke and started calling the police and hospitals. I finally decided he was out with that girl, and must have cried myself to sleep. A little before eight in the morning the maid woke me and told me that the police were downstairs. Then I was really frantic. It was hours later when I looked into the wall safe in the library and found he’d taken all the money.”
“Money?” Miss Withers perked up her ears. “Your money, or his?”
“Ours,” said Natalie loyally. “Around $5,000 or more. I kept that much around because sometimes in those days I used to go out buying antique furniture and old glass, and money
“Oh, dear !” murmured Miss Withers, feeling rather as if she had sat herself down in a chair that wasn’t there. This sort of nonsense went out with Sir Oliver Lodge and Margery of Boston and the later writings of the bemused Conan Doyle. Nowadays silly women had psychiatry and canasta and existentialism to make fools of themselves about.
Natalie looked at her almost shrewdly. “I can maybe guess what you’re thinking. But I’m not exactly the gullible type. In some of her trances Marika told me things about my childhood that she simply couldn’t have faked. There was the time with a boy on the high school sleighride—and she also told me about my honeymoon, my second one I mean. I met and married Andy in Paree, you know. Ah, the Tooleries, the Bois, the Champs d’Elysées, Longchamps …”
“Champs, champs, champs the bois are marching,” Miss Withers said, almost aloud.
But Natalie Rowan was back on the topic of Marika again. “… and one night a few weeks ago she went into an unusually deep trance and suddenly I heard a different voice coming out of her throat. A voice that I couldn’t possibly be mistaken about, because it was Emil, my first husband. And he told me, plain as the nose on your face, that Andy didn’t kill the Harrington girl!”
“Oh,” said Miss Withers flatly.
“Maybe you don’t believe in voices from the Beyond? But I heard what I heard!”
The schoolteacher took it in her stride, and said, “The late Mr. Fogel would hardly be considered a pertinent witness to the murder, would he? Unless, of course, he happened to be haunting this house the evening of the murder.”
“But Marika says that the Departed are now all part of the Universal Mind, and know everything that ever was or will be.”
Miss Withers could have pointed out that if this were so, then it was odd that most spirit messages were on the intellectual level of an eight-year-old child. “The dear departed didn’t happen to mention the name of the real murderer?”
Natalie shook her head. “The sitting was over—Marika couldn’t stand any more.”
“And you haven’t been back for another session?”
“I—I’ve been too busy trying to help Andy.”
“I understand. But you really have nothing else, except the message from the grave, to prove your husband’s innocence?”
“Nothing except—well, I talked with him in prison. He finally admitted that his original story about finding the girl’s body planted in his car wasn’t true.”
The schoolteacher sniffled a deep sniff. “Since the police found her fingerprints all over this living room, her cigarettes in the ashtrays, and the marks on the carpet of where her heels had been dragged out of the place after she was dead, it really wasn’t much of an admission, was it?”
Natalie said quickly, “Andy’s telling the truth now, I think. But suppose I start at the beginning. It was a year ago this August, stifling hot night even up there in the country place near Darien I’d rented for the summer. Andy had been nervous and irritable at dinner, complaining about my cooking more even than usual. I wasn’t feeling well, so I went to bed early. I was half-asleep when I heard his car drive away, but I thought he was only going out for a breath of air, so I dozed off. It wasn’t until after midnight that I woke and started calling the police and hospitals. I finally decided he was out with that girl, and must have cried myself to sleep. A little before eight in the morning the maid woke me and told me that the police were downstairs. Then I was really frantic. It was hours later when I looked into the wall safe in the library and found he’d taken all the money.”
“Money?” Miss Withers perked up her ears. “Your money, or his?”
“Ours,” said Natalie loyally. “Around $5,000 or more. I kept that much around because sometimes in those days I used to go out buying antique furniture and old glass, and money
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