Читать книгу Behind Closed Doors - Anna Katharine Green - Страница 10

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Mrs. Olney’s indignation against the detective Harrison did not last long. Once relieved from the constraint of his superior’s presence, he showed himself so respectful and considerate that her prejudices were soon vanquished and he had more than one opportunity to approach that quarter of the room over which she had promised to hold such a jealous watch.

It was at one of these times,—while he was waiting for Mrs. Olney to drink the glass of water he had brought her, I believe, that he discovered the fact in regard to Miss Farley’s garments of which Mr. Gryce made mention in his interview with the coroner; and had it not been for Dr. Molesworth’s watchful eye and open ear he might have gleaned other information still more useful; for Mrs. Olney had nothing to conceal and much to impart, and Mrs. Olney dearly liked an appreciative listener. But as it was, he had no sooner beguiled her into conversation, than some movement of the doctor attracted the good woman’s attention, and stopped the flow of speech into which she had been betrayed. And once when he thought he was really on the point of learning some important fact, that same grave and determined individual boldly interfered with the remark that Mrs. Olney had better not tire herself as she would need all her strength to answer the coroner’s questions on the morrow.

It was therefore with something like relief that in the early morning he heard the bell ring and saw the coroner enter followed by a woman, whose kind, motherly face did not deceive him as to the part she was to play in this drama. The long struggle with the severe, gloomy-browed doctor, who had the faculty of making his presence felt in a heavy, oppressive kind of way even when he did not speak or appear to hear, was over at last, and he would now have the opportunity to gather such fragments of information as he knew would be acceptable to Mr. Gryce.

But for some reason or other it was destined that he should not shine in this affair. Though he had a merry time down-stairs and went in his search for knowledge as high as the room in which the unhappy girl had lodged, he gleaned but little of interest; so that when Mr. Gryce came, he had really nothing to report beyond the slight fact of which I have already made mention.

When therefore the elder detective announced to the coroner that he had all the girl’s past history to learn, he was stating nothing but the simple fact, and it was to this task he addressed himself as soon after leaving that official as circumstances would permit.

His first attempt succeeded as well as could be expected, Mrs. Olney receiving him in his real character with as good a grace, and telling him all she knew in as candid a spirit as if he had not so basely played upon her credulity the evening before.

Her story as volunteered to him and doubtless to the coroner before him, was as follows:

Mildred Farley was an orphan, her widowed mother having died about a month before in the very house and in the very room which she herself was occupying at the time of her own untimely end. This mother was a very attractive woman of the gentle, retiring type, whose melancholy eyes told of a life of mingled love and sorrow. Her daughter who had appeared to idolize her, sacrificed everything to her comfort, and it was mainly on account of this mother’s ill health that Mildred worked so hard at a trade manifestly beneath her capacity and breeding. For Mrs. Farley had been brought up in luxury and had many wants which could only be satisfied by means greater than those usually acquired by a young girl in Mildred’s position. But work and self-denial will do much, and Mrs. Farley never had any reason to complain. Nor with her death had Mildred’s exertions ceased. Though the necessity for such severe labor seemed to be past, she had shown no disposition to indulge herself. From early morning till late at night she had sat at her work, finishing one beautiful dress after another till Mrs. Olney was fain to believe that she had some new object in view and would ere long unite her fortunes with those of her fellow-boarder, the doctor.

But though the young people were to all appearance very good friends, meeting constantly at table and frequently in the parlors as well, the anxious landlady was soon assured by the physician’s abstracted and reticent air and as she thought by Mildred’s uniform look of indifference, that her fond desire was not to be realized. When, therefore, Mildred informed her one morning that she was going away for a little visit, the good woman never thought of the doctor in connection with her departure, nor did she then or afterward harbor any suspicion that her bright young boarder was contemplating marriage with any one, least of all with him. For if this busy girl had broken in upon her usual habits, he had not, nor was there anything in his bearing or conversation to lead her to suppose that he meditated any change in his mode of life.

The news of their proposed marriage with all the tragic developments which had immediately ensued, had therefore awakened in the whole household the greatest feeling of surprise; nor could Mrs. Olney for one, realize that the young and blooming girl upon whom the labor and sorrows of the last few months had left scarcely a trace, had succumbed in a moment to the temptation of suicide, no matter by what sickness she had been seized.

“I know that folks are taken dreadful sudden sometimes,” the old lady remarked at this juncture. “But I cannot reconcile such an end with what I knew of Mildred. It isn’t in keeping with her character. If she had loved the doctor more or hated him more I could perhaps have understood it. But she was healthy in body and soul, a frank, young, hopeful girl, and I don’t see—” She said no more but her lips took a grim line and Mr. Gryce perceived that his suspicions, vague as they were, were not altogether unshared by this warm hearted woman and true friend of Mildred Farley.

He therefore started with good hope upon a line of questions by which he expected to reach some clew that would help him to the end he felt rather than saw before him. But though his skill was great the result was meagre, and after a lengthened conversation the only facts he thought worth recording in his mind were these.

That there had certainly been something peculiar in the young girl’s actions of late; a certain reticence about her work for instance, such as she had never before displayed. Though she had made several handsome dresses during the last month (as the scraps lying about her room sufficiently testified), she had never shown them to her landlady as she had previously been accustomed to do, but kept herself and them locked up in her room till the time came for taking them home. And yet these dresses were certainly for other people and not for herself, she having been seen carrying them out in a great box many times during the four weeks she had kept herself such a prisoner.

That the person for whom they were destined was rich, for she came several times to be fitted, and always in a carriage.

That the place to which Mildred had gone on a visit was not known to her landlady, nor as far as could be learned, to any one else in the house.

That Mildred was invariably well and had never to all appearance stood in need of a doctor’s prescription.

That Dr. Molesworth had been Mrs. Farley’s physician and in this way seen much of the daughter. But that he had never appeared to take advantage of this fact, nor could Mrs. Olney recall the least token of an existing affection between them. If lovers, they had been very circumspect, too circumspect as it now appeared; such seeming indifference could cover nothing good.

That contrary to their usual open relations they had been seen just once whispering together on the stairs. But even then it was not as lovers whisper, rather like persons who have some business to settle.

That no one in the house ever linked their names together in speaking of them; nor were they ever the subject of jokes among the boarders.

A poor array of seemingly unproductive facts, it is true; but Mr. Gryce was not discouraged. It was from some chance word or petty revelation he expected his clew, not from the open details which every one knew.

His next interview was with the woman who had come with the coroner and whom he as well as Harrison, recognized for an expert female detective. She had taken Mrs. Olney’s place beside the dead girl and from her he hoped to gather a fact about which he was very anxious.

“Well, Mrs. Roberts,” he exclaimed, upon seeing her, “did you get the line I sent you?”

“I did, sir.”

“And what have you to say?”

“That you are all right. There is a mark of fresh paint on the back of her gown between the shoulder blades.”

Mr. Gryce drew a deep breath expressive of great satisfaction. “I thought so,” he cried. “And what was its color, Mrs. Roberts; to a shade, mind?”

“As near as I could judge in the light I had, it was brown but of a very bright and peculiar tint.”

“Right again. I am much obliged to you, very much obliged to you. Does any one else know about this spot!”

“Not to my knowledge,”

“Very good; it is immaterial. ‘Twill take more than one of us to discover where that paint came from, I imagine.”

“Any more questions, sir?”

“One. What do you think of Dr. Molesworth?”

“A brooding, dark-browed man with something on his mind beside grief. I cannot make him out, but this much is certain; you won’t get anything out of him till the law makes him speak. He is never off his guard and will neither make a slip nor forget his dignity. Indeed, I have begun to admire him in the short space of time we have been in the same room.”

“Humph! and do you think other women likely to share that sentiment?”

“Yes, sir; I understand what you mean and I say unequivocally, yes. He is a man without one handsome feature; he is also a man without much softness of soul or appreciation of woman, but he has a dangerous eye, and you will find if you search his history close enough, that more than one woman has been broken against his hard nature. I know the sex and I know the men dangerous to it and he is not one of the least.”

Mr. Gryce was astonished. Dr. Molesworth was the last man he would have thought likely to be agreeable to women; a conclusion which shows, as he afterwards said to himself, how wise it is now and then to take a woman into one’s confidence. “You probably think, then,” he remarked, “that it was love which drove Mildred Farley to her death? But Dr. Molesworth expressly said in my presence, she had chosen death in preference to marriage.”

“He did? Well, Dr. Molesworth should know. I would trust his judgment in such matters implicitly.”

“Would you trust your life with him if he were angry?”

“O, now you want to make use of my woman’s intuition. I cannot allow you to, sir, the matter is too serious. Stick to facts, Mr. Gryce, no man can handle them better.”

He smiled as he turned away.

“And is not woman’s intuition a fact?” he asked. “I have usually found it so.”

From Mrs. Roberts he passed to the servants and from them to Mildred’s room. All these investigations had been made by Harrison, but in a mysterious matter like this, Mr. Gryce trusted no one’s inspection but his own. As a result, he added the following paragraph to his list of facts.

That this young dressmaker’s time was not entirely devoted to sewing. On her table were various books of study, all bearing the marks of use, and in the desk which contained nothing else of interest, was a copy-book full of French phrases, evidently written by her hand.

He confiscated a leaf of this book.

On his way down stairs he heard loud talking; it came from one of the rooms on the third floor and was carried on by two female voices. He quietly stopped a moment to listen. One woman was saying:

“Too bad, too bad; but I always said no good would come to that girl, after I met her on the stairs so late one night. She was out again and again. I used to listen—just out of good-will towards her you know, just out of good-will—and it was twelve o’clock more than once, twelve o’clock! And this was when her mother was so sick, and since too.”

“But her work? She had to take that home, you know.”

“Her work! It was only a blind. She used to carry that great box empty, I am sure of it, for she set it down once in the hall to tie on her veil more securely, and I was there and laughingly lifted it up. It was very light, Harriet; very light.”

“But—”

“Don’t talk to me; don’t talk to me. There was a secret in that girl’s life and her violent death will prove it. She may have been engaged to the doctor, she may have been going to marry him, but if any one should ask me my opinion I should say that that good man found her out at last and the shame of it unsettled Miss Mildred, and—”

“But the doctor declares he went to the hotel to marry her. He even took Mr. Pease with him, which he surely would not have done if he had not expected to need his services.”

“But Dr. Molesworth is a man in a thousand. He is capable of doing any generous thing. If you had appreciated him as you ought—”

“Mamma, have I ever said I did not appreciate him?”

“Two more fools,” was Mr. Gryce’s inward comment; but he had gleaned still another paragraph to add to his list:

Mildred Farley had some interest which kept her out late nights. It was not altogether connected with business, as she sometimes resorted to subterfuge to account for her absences.

And connected with this came the mental interrogation,

“Could Dr. Molesworth, convinced of her ill faith, have placed before her the two alternatives of death or the public exposure of her fault? Or, darkest surmise of all, could he have taken the matter in his own hands and robbed her of life rather than fulfil his promise of marrying her?”