Sunday, November twenty-fourth. Two more inches of snow fell during the night, When Qwilleran carried the wicker hamper to the main house on Sunday morning, the bronze bells in the tower of the Old Stone Church and the tape-recorded chimes in the Little Stone Church were announcing morning services, Mr. O'Dell, who had attended early mass, was busy with the snowblower.
"Sure, I'm after clearin' the driveway and parkin' lot for the party tonight," he said, "It won't snow any more today, I'm thinkin'."
Qwilleran turned up the thermostat in the house and was preparing the cats' breakfast when he heard the back door open and slam shut. It would be O'Dell, he thought, looking for a hot drink on a cold morning. When no one appeared, and when he heard a whimpering in the back hall, he went to investigate.
"Mrs. Cobb!" he exclaimed. "What are you doing here? What's happened to you?"
Her face was haggard and drained of color; her hair was wild; she was leaning weakly against the back door. At the sight of Qwilleran she burst into tears, covering her face with her hands.
He led her into the kitchen and seated her on a chair. "How did you get here? You've been walking in the snow. Where are your boots?"
"I don't know," she wailed. "I just ... ran out. I had to get away."
"What went wrong? Can you tell me?" He pulled off her wet shoes and bundled her feet in towels.
She shook her head, and a sob turned into a groan. "I've made — I've made a terrible — mistake."
"I don't understand, Mrs. Cobb. Can't you tell me what's happened?"
"He's a monster! I married a monster! Oh, what shall I do?"
"Are you hurt?"
She shook her head, scattering a torrent of tears.
Qwilleran handed her a box of tissues. "Did he abuse you physically?"
"Oh-h-h-h! I can't talk about it!" She put her head down on the table and shook convulsively.
"Was he drinking heavily?"
She managed a tremulous yes.
"I'll make a cup of tea."
"I can't — it won't stay down," she whimpered, "I've been throwing up all night."
"You'd better drink some water, at least. You're probably dehydrated."
"I can't keep it down."
"Then I'm calling the doctor," He dialed the home telephone of Dr. Halifax, and the nurse who took care of the doctor's invalid wife said he was at church.
Qwilleran hurried outdoors and flagged down the houseman. "An emergency, Mr. O'Dell! Rush across to the Old Stone Church and get Dr. Hal. Look for a white head of hair, then walk down the aisle and beckon to him."
"I'll take the snowmobile," Mr. O'Dell said with a puzzled frown.
He roared away on the two-seater, and Qwilleran returned to the kitchen in time to See Koko rubbing against Mrs. Cobb's ankles. When she reached down to touch him, he jumped on her lap. She hugged him, and he allowed himself to be hugged, flicking his ears when her tears fell.
As soon as the noisy machine returned, Qwilleran went to the back door.
"Nice timing," said the old doctor. "You got me out right before they took up the offering. What's the trouble?"
Qwilleran explained briefly and directed him to the kitchen. In a moment Dr. Hal returned. "Better drive her to the hospital. Where's your phone? I'll order a private room."
"I don't know what it's all about," Qwilleran said in a low voice, "but her husband might go looking for her. I think you should specify no visitors."
He helped Dr. Hal walk the patient to the back door.
"I'll need —some things," she said faintly.
"We'll pack a bag and send it to the hospital. Don't worry about a thing, Mrs. Cobb." Qwilleran would never be able to call her Mrs. Hackpole.
The houseman brought the car up, and Qwilleran said to him, "While I'm gone, would you go to the Little Stone Church and catch Mrs. Fulgrove when the service is over? Ask her to come and pack Mrs. Cobb's personal things for a short hospital stay."
The drive to the hospital was done in silence except for an occasional sob. "I'm so much trouble for you."
"Not at all. You were wise to come back to the house."
When he returned from delivering the patient, Mrs. Fulgrove was bustling about with importance. "I packed all what I could think of," she said, "which it ain't easy seein' as how I never been in hospital myself, God be praised, but I put in what I thought was right and the little radio near her bed, and I looked for a Bible but I couldn't find one, which I packed my own and it should be a comfort to her."
"Had Mrs. Cobb asked you to work tonight during the reception, Mrs. Fulgrove?"
"That she did, but seein' as how it's Sunday-which I don't do work on the Lord's day-I couldn't take money for it, but I'll help out and pleased to do it, seein' as how the poor soul is in hospital and I'm thankful for my health."
Qwilleran asked the houseman to deliver Mrs. Cobb's necessities to the hospital. "Do you think we can manage the reception without her, Mr. O'Dell?"
"Sure an' it's our best we'll be doin'. The club ladies will be after needin' help with the punch bowl and the likes o' that. And should I take the little ones across the yard before the party starts, now?"
"I don't believe so. The cats enjoy a party. Let them stay in the house."
"When the club ladies leave for the concert, I'll be lockin' up and goin' to the church for a little, but I'll be comin' back before it's over. Mrs. Cobb was for turnin' on all the lights and lightin' all the fireplaces. Too bad she won't be enjoyin' it now. What is it that's ailin' herself?"
"Some kind of virus," Qwilleran said.
Around noon the telephone rang, and a thick voice demanded, "Where is she? Where's my wife?"
"Is this Mr. Hackpole?" Qwilleran asked. "Didn't you know? She's in the hospital. She had some kind of attack, they say."
With an outburst of profanity the caller hung up. Phoning the hospital in the afternoon, Qwilleran learned that the patient was resting quietly and holding her own, but no visitors were permitted, by order of Dr. Halifax.
In the afternoon Susan Exbridge and her committee arrived to prepare the punch and decorate the punch table. At the same moment Polly Duncan arrived with her overnight bag. The women greeted each other politely but not warmly, and the committee seemed surprised to see Polly on the premises.
On the way to the Old Stone Mill for dinner Qwilleran said to Polly, "I see you know Susan Exbridge."
"Everyone knows Susan Exbridge. She's in every organization and on every committee."
"She thinks I should join the theater group."
"You would find it very time-consuming," Polly warned him testily. "If you're serious about writing your book, it would definitely interfere."
She spoke with an acerbity that was unusual for her, and Qwilleran refrained from mentioning Mrs. Exbridge again.
At the restaurant the customers were standing in line, and Hixie was frantically trying to seat the crowd. She had no time for banter. Qwilleran and his guest had to wait for a table and wait for a menu. Judging from the tenor of the conversation in the dining room, everyone was headed for the concert, and everyone was thrilled.
Qwilleran said to Polly, "My mother used to sing in the Messiah choir every Christmas. My favorite number is the 'Hallelujah' chorus, especially if they pull out all the stops. I like that two — second rest before the last hallelujah — two seconds of dead silence and then POW!"
Hixie handed them menus with an apology for the delay. Clipped to the folder was a small card suggesting a ready-to-serve Concert Special. Clipped to Qwilleran's menu was another small card scribbled in Hixie's hand: "Want a private talk. Call you tomorrow."
Shortly after six-thirty the restaurant emptied, and the diners converged on the Old Stone Church. The lofty sanctuary was filled to overflowing, both the cushioned pews and the folding chairs in the side aisles. The first three pews were roped off, and the audience was mystified. Guesses and rumors circulated. The anticipation was palpable.
"Do you object to sitting in the back row on the side aisle?" Qwilleran asked Polly. "I want to leave right before the last note, so I can check the museum before the guests arrive."
At seven o'clock Mr. O'Dell slipped into a folding chair nearby, and the two men exchanged nods.
Then the performers appeared — first the orchestra in gray livery. The chorus filed in wearing powdered wigs and pastel costumes — the women in lace fichus and voluminous skirts; the men in knee breeches, waistcoats, and stocks. Finally the soloists made a dramatic entrance in jewel-toned velvets, creating a stir in the audience.
The conductor turned to face the expectant listeners. "Ladies and gentlemen, all rise for His Majesty, King George."
The doors at the rear were flung open, and while the orchestra played coronation music, the royal party moved down the center aisle in dignified procession — a panoply of red velvet, ermine, white satin, and purple damask. The audience gasped, then murmured in wonder, then applauded with delight.
Qwilleran whispered to Polly, "I wish my mother could have seen this. She would have flipped."
The church was noted for its excellent acoustics; the chorus was well rehearsed; the soloists and instrumentalists were professionals; the pipe organ was magnificent. It was a performance Qwilleran would never forget — for more reasons than one.
Toward the end of the oratorio Mr. O'Dell slipped out, giving an explanatory nod to Qwilleran. The orchestra played the opening bars leading up to the first explosive and spine-tingling hallelujah. The king and his royal party rose; the audience rose; and Qwilleran lost himself in the majesty of the music and his own personal nostalgia.
The hallelujahs built up with mounting intensity and joyous celebration, ascending to that dramatic moment — that breathtaking pause — the two seconds of hollow silence!
In that fraction of a fraction of time Qwilleran heard a false note — the wail of a siren. Bruce Scott, seated several rows ahead, slid out of the pew and scuttled up the aisle. Two other men made quick exits. Qwilleran scowled. It was unfortunate timing for the fire siren.
The "Hallelujah" chorus ended, and an aria began. Then a door behind Qwilleran opened, and an usher tapped his arm and whispered.
Qwilleran was out of his seat instantly, running across the narthex and down the steps. On the other side of the park the museum was aglow — not with light but with a red glare.
"Oh, my God! The cats!" he yelled.
He dashed across the street, dodging traffic. He cut through the park, plowing frantically through deep snow.
Flashing red and blue lights surrounded the building. More sirens were sounding.
"The cats!" he shouted.
Black-coated figures were unreeling lines and hoisting ladders. “Stay back!" they ordered.
Qwilleran dashed past them. "The cats!" he bellowed. , The red glare spread to the second-story windows. Glass exploded and tongues of flame licked out.
"Stop him!"
He was headed for the back door, nearest the kitchen.
"Keep him out!"
Strong arms restrained him. He looked up and saw the glare spreading to the third floor. Ladders went up. Windows shattered, and black smoke billowed out.
Qwilleran groaned in defeat.