Читать книгу Spooky Hollow - Carolyn Wells - Страница 7

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“Oh, Antan!” Rosemary cried, starting back in horror. “Oh, Uncle Homer, what is it?”

Vincent put his arm round the terrified girl and they both gazed on the dreadful sight. Both were white-faced and trembling, and though Homer Vincent strove hard for composure, it was a few moments before he could even speak.

Then, still holding Rosemary close, he spoke to the others.

“Mellish,” he said, “Miss Vincent is dead. She has been killed. That’s all my brain can take in at present. I am stunned—I am heartbroken,”—and the man’s enforced calm gave way as he sank into a chair and buried his face in his hands.

Then Mrs. Mellish stepped nearer to the bed, gave one glance at the awful sight and turned shuddering away.

“Leave the room,” she said to the trembling Francine. “You’ll be flying into hysterics in a minute. I know you. Leave the room.”

“What shall I do? Where shall I go?” the French girl cried. “My place is here—beside my mistress.”

“She’s right,” and Mellish showed surprised approval of Francine’s self-control. “You stay in this room, Francine, and don’t you get to blubbering. Keep your head, and you can be of good service. Mr. Vincent, shall I call a doctor?”

“Why, yes,—do, Mellish. Poor Anne is dead, but—yes, I’d like you to call Doctor McGee. And—and Mellish, I suppose we ought to notify—”

“Do nothing, sir, until Doctor McGee comes. He’ll know just what to do.”

Mellish departed to telephone the Doctor, and Homer Vincent, lifting his bowed head, rose and began to assume his usual place at the helm.

“I can’t seem to think,” he said, as he brushed his hand across his brow. “Rosemary, who could have done such a thing? Who could harm such a dear lady?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Uncle,—did—did somebody kill her?”

“Unless she took her own life—she wouldn’t do that, would she, Rosemary?”

It was strange the way the strong and self sufficient man seemed to appeal to his niece. Mrs. Mellish regarded him solicitously. She had never before seen Homer Vincent troubled.

“There now, sir,” she said, in kindly fashion, “you can do nothing for the poor lady now. Come down to the breakfast-room, sir, and take a cup of coffee and a bite of breakfast. Come now, Miss Rosemary, let Melly fix you out.”

The girl often called Mrs. Mellish thus, to distinguish her from her husband.

“Oh,” exclaimed Vincent, suddenly, “that man, that Mr. Johnson! He must be already down in the breakfast-room, and no one to look after him! Run down to him, Melly.”

“Come you, too, sir. And Miss Rosemary. The man must be told,—best you should do it, Mr. Vincent.”

“Yes,” and Homer Vincent rose, with a determination to do his part, however hard it might be. “Rosemary, will you come with me, or will you have your breakfast taken to your rooms?”

“I’ll go with you, Uncle. Perhaps I can help. Who is Mr. Johnson?”

“He’s a man who came yesterday on business, and I asked him to stay the night. I asked him to stay on, but I hope he’ll go this morning.”

“Oh, he surely will,—when he hears—Uncle Homer, I can’t believe it!” she looked again at the silent, pitiful figure on the bed, where Francine was lightly laying a fine handkerchief over the face of poor Anne Vincent.

“That’s all right,” Vincent said, slowly, “but don’t touch the body otherwise, Francine. It—it isn’t right to do so.”

“No, sir,” and the maid nodded, comprehendingly.

“Come now, sir,” Mrs. Mellish urged him, and with a backward glance of grief and bewilderment, Vincent followed Rosemary from the room.

But Mr. Johnson was not in the breakfast-room. “He has overslept,” Vincent said, glancing at the clock. “For I told him breakfast at eight and he said he would be prompt. I shouldn’t send for him, otherwise,—but—as things are, don’t you think, Melly, you’d better call him?”

“Yes, sir; shall I tell him—what’s happened, sir?”

“Yes—no,—well, tell him that there is trouble in the household, you might say sudden illness—oh, I don’t care what you say, Melly, but can’t you hint that he’d better go right after breakfast?”

“Yes, sir, surely,” and Mrs. Mellish went on her somber errand.

Uncle and niece took their places in the bright and cheery breakfast-room. The weather had cleared, and the sun shone with a glowing warmth as of Indian Summer.

“Eat your breakfast, Rosemary,” Vincent said, “that will best help you to meet the trying times before you.”

Habit is a compelling thing, and Homer Vincent went about his own breakfast methodically, as usual, chipping his egg with his customary care and attention. It was characteristic of the man that even in the nervous stress and strain of the occasion, he gratified his physical appetite with apparent relish. Yet this was purely a matter of habit, and indeed, he was almost unaware of what he was eating or even that he was eating.

The girl, however, could eat nothing. Her excitement was so great, her nerves so wrought up, that she found it impossible to swallow a mouthful.

“At least drink a cup of coffee, dear child,” her uncle urged, as he solicitously proffered cream and sugar.

At this moment Mrs. Mellish returned, her round face showing a look of amazement.

“The gentleman isn’t in his room, sir,” she said. “I—”

“Then he’s out in the grounds,” interrupted Vincent, impatiently. “Go and hunt him, Mellish.”

Now, Mrs. Mellish’s place wasn’t in the dining-rooms at all at breakfast, a maid assisted the butler. But today the maids were demoralized and Melly was trying to help things along all she could.

The news of the tragedy had, of course, flown like wildfire through the servants’ halls and they were even now in huddled groups in corridors and pantries.

“But, Mr. Vincent,” Melly resumed, “the gentleman didn’t sleep in his bed! It hasn’t been touched since it was turned down for him last night.”

“What?” Vincent stared at her incredulously.

“No, sir; his hat and coat’s there, but his clothes ain’t—”

“Oh, then he’s spent the whole night prowling round the house. He was daft over it and hated to go to bed. I left him wandering round the upper floors. I hope he didn’t go out on the leads and fall over. What a bother he is! But go and find him Mrs. Mellish. Get some one to help, if you like,—but get Mr. Johnson! He’s maybe fallen asleep in some Tower room.”

Mrs. Mellish departed and Rosemary asked, “Who is this man, Uncle?”

“An ordinary person, dear. I never saw him before,—he came to see me in regard to a business proposition, and your Aunt and I grew interested and promised to decide the matter today.”

Tears filled his eyes as he realized there was no today for poor Anne Vincent.

“But why wouldn’t he go to bed?” Rosemary persisted. “Do you mean he spent the whole night wandering round the house?”

“I don’t know, child, but he was mad about the place and most curious to visit every nook and cranny of it. I showed him about a lot, then, as he seemed inclined to explore for himself, I told him to do so.”

“What room did he have?”

“The south room, above your Aunt’s. He’s a decent chap, but not quite our own sort. Ah, Mellish, did you get the doctor?”

The butler shook his head. “No, sir, he’s away on an important case, out of town, sir. Shall I call some one else?”

“Oh, I don’t know what to say or do—” and Vincent seemed to be at his wits’ end.

“I wish I could help you, Uncle,” Rosemary said, gently; “you have such an awful burden to bear. Shall I call Bryce over—”

“No; I am indeed in trouble, Rosemary, but I can bear my own burdens. I ask no help, at present. But when the time comes, I shall get help—skilled help—to solve the mystery of your aunt’s death and to bring the murderer to justice.”

Vincent’s voice rang out sternly and Rosemary marvelled at the fiery depths of his eyes.

He seemed to pull himself together anew, and said: “I think, Mellish, you’d better call up the County Physician. He must be notified anyway, and if he gets here before Doctor McGee, it will do no harm. We must have some medical man, as soon as we can. Call Doctor Archer—and then, Mellish, for Heaven’s sake find that man Johnson. It’s unpardonable for him to act like this!”

The calm, even-tempered man was getting nervously upset. Nor could it be wondered at, for in all his life before equability and composure had never deserted him. But never had there been such provocation. For a man who lived but for his own pleasure, whose every thought and act were definitely directed toward the achievement of his own comfort and happiness, for a man like this to be brought suddenly face to face with a tragedy that tore his very heartstrings was enough of itself to shatter his nerves.

But when, in addition, he must meet the terrible situation, must even assume direction of the horrible events consequent upon it, must stifle and suppress his own grief in order to preserve sufficient calm to take charge of the proceedings,—this was overwhelming, and Homer Vincent almost sank beneath the blow.

But he was made of strong fiber, he was possessed of an indomitable will and ability to cope with an emergency.

Conquering his jumping nerves, he said: “We must all help, Rosemary. You must try to take your Aunt’s place so far as you can; look after the household matters, assist Melly, and be ready to see visitors,—for as soon as the news spreads there will be many callers.”

Rosemary shuddered. “Must I see them, Uncle? I’d hate it—”

“Some we can refuse to see. But many must be met,—and I thought, dear child, you’d do that to help me. I have many painful matters to see to myself.”

“Of course, I will, then,—and—if I could have Bryce—”

“Oh, Rosemary, just this once,—I beg of you, don’t bring up that subject—”

Vincent looked so distressed that his niece said quickly, “No, I won’t,—but—if you only would—”

She was interrupted by the return of Mellish. Having summoned Doctor Archer, he had himself taken up the command of the search for the missing guest.

“We can’t find that man anywhere,” he declared, looking completely mystified. “As my wife says, he didn’t sleep in his bed, and what’s more, it doesn’t look to me as if he was in his room at all after dinner. There’s nothing put about, no chair out of place, no cigar ashes or that,—his night things all undisturbed, just as the maid laid them out. It’s mighty queer, sir,—ay, it’s mighty queer!”

“His hat and coat are up there—in his room?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then he hasn’t left the place,—then he must be somewhere about.”

“Yes, sir,—it would seem so, sir. But he isn’t,—he just isn’t. We’ve looked everywhere. We’ve called out, and we’ve rang bells, and we’ve searched the whole place. He’s nowhere about—alive.”

Vincent started at the last word.

“What do you mean?” he cried.

“Nothing, sir, only whoever done for poor Miss Anne may have done for him, too.”

“That’s so,” and Homer Vincent dropped his face in his hands as if this new phase of trouble was more than he could bear.

“Mellish,” he said, at last, “I can’t take it all in. It’s too much for me. I must have help—”

“Oh, Uncle Homer,” and Rosemary spoke involuntarily, “if you’d only let Bryce—”

“Hush, Rosemary, don’t add to my troubles. No, much as I hate it, much as I dread it, I see I must call in the police. We’d better wait, I think, until Doctor Archer comes, but I am sure he will send for them at once. It is inevitable.”

“The police! Oh, no, Uncle Homer!”

“I fear it must be so, Rosemary. And, dear, until they come is the only time we may have to ourselves. I mean, once they start investigations, the whole house will be upset and they will be entirely in charge.”

“How awful! Must we have them?”

“Yes,” he spoke abruptly. “Oh, Rosemary, I can’t stand this another minute! I shall go to the organ,—Mellish, when the Doctor comes let me know.”

No one was surprised, a few moments later, to hear the long, low, mournful notes that pealed through the stricken house. It was the habit of Homer Vincent to find solace in music if anything troubled him, but never before had his troubles been more than some slight, momentary disturbance of a trifling sort.

And as he played, he recovered his poise, he regained his courage, he felt enabled to cope with the, trials that he must endure.

One who knew him could judge from the deep, dirge-like strains or the troubled crashing chords, which phase of the tragedy was at the moment uppermost in his mind, the death of his sister, or the imminent horror of the consequent and necessary investigations.

The servants were in a state of chaotic excitement. The two Mellishes had their hands full to keep quiet and decorum in their domain.

Francine, however, showed her best side, and proved that she had a fine and efficient nature.

She put Miss Anne’s rooms in order, weeping silently as she disposed of the clothing the poor lady would never wear again. She was careful to disturb nothing that might be useful as evidence, for Francine fully realized the gravity of the case, and wanted to help, if only by letting things alone.

She found Rosemary in her room, weeping her very heart out in an agony of woe.

“Poor child,” thought Francine, “not a soul to go to for sympathy or comfort!”

“Mayn’t I send for someone, Miss Rosemary?” she offered. “Wouldn’t you like Miss Eaton, or—”

“No, Francine,” the girl looked at her fiercely; “you know well there’s only one person I want to see,—and I’m not allowed to see him!”

“No,” and Francine nodded, understandingly: “but don’t stir up your uncle about that. He’s got all he can stagger under.”

“So have I!” Rosemary cried out. “Don’t you suppose I’m as much broken up by Antan’s death as Uncle Homer is? Don’t you suppose I want somebody to comfort and love me even more than he does? He has his music—that always quiets and soothes him, while I—I have nothing—nobody!”

The lovely face, torn with emotion and grief, was mutinous; the scarlet lips were trembling, while the white, tear-stained cheeks and the stormy eyes showed rebellion seething in Rosemary’s heart.

“But wait,” counseled Francine. “All is now so—so excitement, so—tornado!” In moments of stress, Francine forgot her English. “After a little, after some small few of days, the trouble will clear somewhat,—the suddenness will be forgotten,—Monsieur will find himself, and, who knows, mademoiselle, all may be well for you—and yours.”

Francine had never before spoken with such familiarity, but Rosemary did not resent it. She was too stunned, too helpless, to resent anything.

“Tell me about that man, Francine,” she said; “did you see him?”

“Yes, when Miss Anne called me to get her a wrap. Oh, he was dreadful!” A French shrug betokened how dreadful.

“But how? In what way?”

“So black, so sneering,—so dictating,—yet not a gentleman.”

“What in the world did he want? I wish Uncle Homer would tell me about him. Where do you suppose he is, Francine?”

“That is not hard to guess.” The French girl smiled a sardonic little grin,—like a wise sibyl.

“Why, what do you mean? What do you think?”

And then came a peremptory summons for both girls to appear below.

Doctor Archer had arrived, and, almost simultaneously, the local police.

The Law was represented by Lane, the Sheriff of the county, and two eager-eyed detectives, who were so flabbergasted by the beauty and grandeur of their surroundings that they seemed able to detect little else.

Doctor Archer, the County Medical Examiner, was in charge, and was firing questions right and left. He had never before had such an opportunity to stand in the limelight and was making the most of it.

“The lady was murdered,” he informed his hearers, in a deep bass voice; “most foully murdered. She was stabbed with some sort of dagger or long-bladed knife.”

“Carving-knife?” asked Brewster, one of the detectives, and Rosemary smothered a shriek.

“Not necessarily,” replied Archer, “a long-bladed jackknife might have been used, or a regular dagger. Anyway, it required a long blade, for it went in her chest and pierced her heart. It was just one swift, deft blow, and death was instantaneous. Now, Sheriff, what do you make of that?”

“Murderous intent,” answered Lane promptly. “Murderer concealed in the room, like as not, all afternoon.”

“Ah, h’m, and how did he get out?”

“Door locked?” and Lane looked up quickly. He had not heard all the details yet.

They were gathered in the living-room, a delightful room on the first floor, back of the dining-room. It looked out on the terrace, and on over the lagoon and fountain to the Greek Temple that was a Mausoleum.

Lane was an artist at heart, a lover of the beautiful, and like many other visitors, he was overcome with the sights about him.

They were to visit the room of the tragedy later, but Vincent had requested that the preliminary inquiries be made in some other place.

“Yes,” Archer said, “door locked on the inside.”

“Windows?” asked Brown, the other and lesser detective.

“You must look into those things for yourselves,” Archer said. “I’m merely making my medical report. Then we’ll get a line on the time and all that and then we’ll go upstairs and take a look about.”

Homer Vincent cringed at the matter-of-fact tone and the business-like air of the men, and Rosemary, shocked at the whole proceeding, shivered so that Mrs. Mellish went and sat by her side and held her hand.

Grateful for even this human sympathy, Rosemary forced herself to listen to the inquiries now being made.

Francine, composed and alert, answered readily all that was asked of her.

So far as could be gathered, she was the last person known to have seen Miss Vincent alive.

“Tell us all about it,” Brewster said, listening eagerly.

“There’s not much to tell,” the French maid averred. “Miss Vincent spent a time after dinner in the Tower room of Mr. Vincent, her brother. There was also a Mr. Johnson with them, a dinner guest of the house. Miss Vincent left them and came up to her room at about half-past ten. Mr. Vincent came with her as he always does, to say good night and to measure her medicine. After Mr. Vincent had gone downstairs again, I assisted Miss Vincent to get ready for the bed, and I gave her her drops, arranged the coverlets, and put out the lights, all but the ones she wished kept burning. Then I said good night, and left her to herself.”

“She had then gone to bed?”

“Oh, no; it was always her custom to sit up and read for a time. I left her sitting in her armchair, her reading light at her side, her books on a small table. Always I leave her thus at night. Then, when she tires of her books, she arises from her chair, locks her door, puts out her reading light and goes to bed. This, monsieur, is her invariable routine.”

“She seemed well, in her usual spirits?”

“She seemed well, but much er—preoccupied. As if in deep—serious thought over something.”

“Over the discussion with her brother and the strange gentleman, perhaps?”

“It may be. She said no word of what was in her mind.”

“Was she irritable? Cross?”

“Miss Vincent was never that. No, she was most courteous and kind, as always, but deeply thoughtful. When I left her, she said merely ‘good night,’ not adding, ‘sleep well, Francine,’ as is most usual.”

“But this only indicates thoughtfulness, not disturbance or worry,—eh?”

“So it seemed to me. Also, she seemed rather satisfied with her thoughts, as if, after all, the matter was satisfactorily adjusted.”

“You gathered quite a bit from her manner,” Archer remarked, dryly.

Francine caught his tone and flared up at once.

“I know—knew Miss Vincent very well, mon sieur! I knew well her moods and the phases of her mind. It was not much that I should read her satisfaction from her air and manner! Surely I could tell that she was contented and not worried or disturbed! That is not so amazing!”

“No,” said Archer.