Читать книгу Sleeping Dogs - Carolyn Wells - Страница 6

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Sergeant Downing turned his attention to the secretary.

“As one who is not a member of the family, I wish to ask you, Miss Mercer, if you know of any episode or occurrence that may have made Mrs. Abercrombie despondent or desperate?”

“You mean a quarrel with someone?”

“Not necessarily that, but had anything happened to disturb her of late?”

“Mrs. Abercrombie was not in the habit of making me her confidante. I know of nothing that might have disturbed her.”

Downing moved about impatiently. He felt that he had a hard row to hoe. Nobody seemed inclined to help him investigate this case, and that of itself struck him as suspicious.

He grew a little more definite.

“Please understand, Miss Mercer, that I am endeavouring to get at the salient points of this affair. The circumstances seem to indicate a mysterious death, and it is my duty to inquire into details. As secretary, you were cognizant of all Mrs. Abercrombie’s correspondence, and I ask you if you have written for her any letter that might indicate anger in her heart toward anyone or if, to your knowledge, she has received any letters that might be called unpleasant or threatening.”

Miss Mercer sat for a moment looking steadily at him. Her big blue eyes were unwavering and her fair pale face gave no hint of embarrassment. With a gesture that was habitual with her she smoothed back her rebellious red hair and squared her strong-looking shoulders.

She was wearing a simple house dress of black-and-white silky material, and her rather large hands were crossed idly on her lap.

“No,” she said at last, “no, I cannot help you. I never read the personal letters that came to Mrs. Abercrombie, unless, that is, she wanted me to answer them. And I never saw any that could by any possibility be called threatening.”

She pronounced the last word with a decided note of reproach, as if it was utterly beyond contingency.

“Perhaps not quite that, but was there none that could cause her bother or worry?”

“Not to the extent of seeking relief in suicide. Like everyone else, Mrs. Abercrombie had problems that required thought and judgment, but she was more than capable of wrestling with such problems.”

Downing sighed. This secretary person seemed hopeless. Were they all in league to prevent his learning anything helpful?

He demanded the presence of the principal servants.

Fetter, the butler, looked like one of the graven images that the Second Commandment forbids us to worship. He had acquired this demeanour by long and careful practice and was justly proud of it.

“Who prepared the meals that were taken to Mrs. Abercrombie’s room?” the sergeant flung at him, plunging at once, he hoped, into the heart of the mystery.

“The cook, under my superintendence, sir,” Fetter replied, his calm quite equalling that of the secretary or the master himself.

“You would have known, then, if any injurious element had been added to the dishes?”

“There was no opportunity for such a thing.” Fetter’s big bishop-like face indicated horror, but his tone was decided.

“Who carried the trays to the lady?”

“Often I did, myself, or, if I had other duties, I sent James, the second man.”

“And who received them?”

“Corinne, the maid.”

Corinne, being recalled, declared no deleterious substance could by any chance have got into the food, and indeed it did seem impossible, unless the servants were guilty, and there was no reason to surmise that.

The coroner arrived at this point, and Downing willingly took a back seat, prepared to listen while Dr. Garrett did some questioning.

Coroner Garrett was a gaunt, lantern-jawed man who shambled physically but whose mentality was alive and alert.

He began with Abercrombie, and spoke his questions with curt dispatch.

“When did you last see your wife alive, Mr. Abercrombie?” he shot at Hugh, a latent accusation in his tone.

“Monday, that is yesterday afternoon.”

“Where?”

“In her boudoir. She was somewhat indisposed, but nothing to make me feel alarmed for her. We chatted for a while, and I asked her if she would be able to dine with us. She said she thought not as she was suffering from a disordered stomach.”

“Did she mention any definite symptoms?”

“She spoke of intermittent pain in the abdomen, but said she was free from it at the moment. When I left her she was comfortable enough. But she sent word later she would dine in her room, and I didn’t see her again.”

“You didn’t go to her room?”

“I went to the door directly after dinner, but Corinne said she was resting, so I didn’t disturb her.”

Garrett looked closely at the speaker. He was an astute reader of character, and he wondered just how regretful Hugh Abercrombie was at his wife’s death. Deciding on a bold stroke, he said sharply:

“Were you and your wife on good terms?”

Hugh jerked up his head as if at a spear thrust. His eyes blazed for an instant and then, as suddenly, his icy calm returned to him, and he relaxed his grip on the chair arms as he replied:

“Perfectly so. We have been married ten years and have never had an unpleasant word between us on any subject.”

“That is a record. You are acquainted with all of your wife’s friends?”

“I think so. Some perhaps only slightly, but I do not think she had any friends entirely unknown to me.”

“Then you can think of no one who would have intentionally brought about or connived at her death?”

“Most assuredly not. I cannot believe it was the work of an enemy. I am sure the poison was taken into her system through some mistake.”

“You are also sure Mrs. Abercrombie had no reason for taking her own life?”

“I am positive of that. My wife was an exceptionally fine character, and among her traits were extraordinary courage and bravery. Had she had grave trouble she would have met it victoriously; she would never have chosen the coward’s way out.”

“You did not, then, enter Mrs. Abercrombie’s bedroom after leaving her on Monday afternoon?”

“I did not.”

“What were your movements?”

Hugh Abercrombie paused in thought. He looked no whit embarrassed; he seemed only anxious to command his memory.

“After leaving my wife,” he said, “I thought something of going for a round of golf. But the afternoon was well along, so I merely took a stroll round my own gardens and returned to the house.”

“Did you meet anyone on your stroll?”

“No, except one or two of the gardeners or their workmen.”

“Did you stop anywhere?”

“I went in for a few moments to the Japanese tea house. It is a cool and pleasant place, and I remained perhaps a half hour or so.”

“There was no one there with you?”

An almost imperceptible pause delayed the answer. Then it came clearly and without hesitation:

“No, I was alone.”

“Then you came back to the house?”

“Yes.” Hugh showed no resentment at this catechism. “I sat on the porch for a time—there were several people present—and then I went to my room, dressed, went to dinner, and spent the evening in my library.”

“And retired, when?”

“Early. About ten, I think, though I didn’t notice exactly.”

“You didn’t go again to inquire after Mrs. Abercrombie’s health?”

“I have told you I did not. I had no idea she was seriously ill.”

Garrett was about to say something further when a newcomer walked into the room.

This was Eric Redmayne, partner and long-time friend of Abercrombie.

Hugh’s eyes showed a gleam of pleasure at seeing him, and he beckoned him to a seat at his side.

Redmayne was a tall, slim chap, with the air of an athlete. A mane of fair hair and a pair of smiling gray eyes gave him a decided charm and he gave Hugh a warm handclasp as he sat down beside him.

Words were unnecessary between these two understanding friends, and Redmayne turned his attention to the coroner.

Garrett was suddenly struck with the idea that this might be an opportunity to get some disinterested information.

“Your name, sir?” he said curtly.

“Eric Redmayne,” with a disarming smile. “I am the business partner of Mr. Abercrombie; we are a firm of stock brokers in New York City.”

“Yes, yes. And you were acquainted with the late Mrs. Abercrombie?”

“Oh, yes, we have long been friends.”

“Just so, just so. Now, Mr. Redmayne, what sort of woman was she?”

“The finest type possible, in every particular. As an American woman, wife, and mother, Mrs. Abercrombie was just about one hundred per cent, perfect.”

“You are enthusiastic.”

“No more so than the subject calls for. And no more so than her hundreds of friends would echo.”

The vitality and energy of Redmayne impressed all present.

Even Troy Loring lost his sulky look and seemed to thaw under this radiant goodwill.

The imperturbable secretary gazed at him with open curiosity, for they had never met, and Miss Mercer quickly sensed his powerful personality.

“In your judgment, Mr. Redmayne, was Mrs. Abercrombie a woman likely to take her own life—given sufficient reason?”

“I cannot conceive of sufficient reason for anyone taking his or her own life,” was the grave response. “But Mrs. Abercrombie would be the last one I should think of in such a connection.”

“What, then, can you suggest, was the reason for her being poisoned?”

Redmayne looked thoughtful.

“Remember,” he said slowly, “I have just come here. I have heard only the barest facts of the matter. I am scarcely the one to express an opinion, but if I am to answer your question I can only say that I can think of no explanation but that it was an accident. I suppose you have thoroughly investigated the possibilities of that.”

“To the extent of feeling certain that there is no scrap of evidence for an accident. That doesn’t preclude the fact that it may have been accidental, but we have also to consider other possibilities. As partner of Mr. Abercrombie, have you any knowledge of any affairs or any business troubles that might indirectly affect his wife?”

“Good heavens, no!” and Redmayne almost laughed. “Hugh Abercrombie has no business troubles—on the contrary, his business conditions never were in better shape. And, too, if he had met with reverses of fortune, I suppose that is what is in your mind, he wouldn’t burden his wife with the details.”

“Then had Mrs. Abercrombie any troubles or perplexities in regard to her own business matters, for I understand she had money of her own?”

“As to that I have no knowledge of any sort whatever,” was the reply, and this time Redmayne lost his hovering smile and looked decidedly stern.

“Such questions, Mr. Coroner, should be addressed to me,” Loring said, a little pettishly. “As Mrs. Abercrombie’s lawyer and trusted friend I and I alone have authoritative knowledge of her financial affairs.”

“And were they in satisfactory shape?”

“I can’t think what you mean by shape.” Loring was purposely provoking. “But if you mean were they in order, they were. If you mean had she lost money of late, she had not. If you mean was she a rich woman, she was.”

Downing would not have been flustered by this ironic vein, but Garrett was. Somewhat inexperienced as a coroner, he wasn’t quite sure of the limitations of his field of inquiry, and he hesitated as to what to say next. But he longed for more light, and he blurted out: “Then she had no reason to be downcast or despondent because of money troubles, eh?”

“Not in the least or slightest degree.”

“Had she any reason to be downcast or despondent?” Garrett said this merely because he didn’t know what else to say, and he was astounded at the answer he received.

“Not unless it was some secret reason, locked in her own heart.”

“Do you know of any such?” Garrett pounced on him.

“If I did it wouldn’t be a secret, would it?”

“Do you?” was the dogged repetition.

Loring gave a quick glance at Hugh Abercrombie. The eyes of the two men met and clashed, and a queer crestfallen look settled over Loring’s face as he said slowly but clearly, “I do not.”

“Does anyone?” asked the coroner, looking around the room. “I ask you all, in the interests of justice and humanity, if you know of any sorrow or trouble in the life of Mrs. Abercrombie that seems to you of a serious nature. Please respond, anyone who can.”

Redmayne’s quick darting eyes scanned the faces of those about him.

A glance at Hugh showed a still, motionless figure, with bowed head and lowered eyes. Miss Mercer was equally still, but her keen blue eyes were as alert as Redmayne’s own. Dr. Garth, always a noticeable personality, seemed a bit dazed.

This struck Redmayne as strange, and he let his attention stay with the medical man.

Why, he thought, hasn’t he cleared up the matter as to accident? He must know whether she had any such stuff in her possession.

Getting no response to his plea, Garrett half-heartedly interviewed a few of the other servants.

The chauffeur, a young man named Platt, was inclined to be voluble.

He was asked, among other things, to what stores he had driven Mrs. Abercrombie lately when she had been out in the car alone.

He was uncertain at first, but gradually recollected certain shops she had stopped at, and among them was a chemist and dispensing druggist. Here, Platt said, she had called on several occasions. There had always been small parcels, like bottles, to take home, but he had no idea as to their contents.

This amounted to little, unless, of course, the chemist could tell them of these purchases.

The coroner turned his attention back to the members of the immediate household.

“What other guests have been here during the last few days?” he asked.

No one replied, so he repeated the question, this time addressing Hugh.

“Several, I think,” was the answer. “Mr and Mrs. Carmichael were here for a few days, and Mr. Robertson. There were others, I think, but I don’t remember when they came and went. My daughter would know.”

“Who are the Carmichaels?”

“Friends from Grovecliff. They went home on Thursday or Friday.”

“And Robertson?’

“A friend of Mrs. Abercrombie’s from New York. I don’t know his address. It is doubtless in some address book.”

Hugh spoke wearily, as if the whole matter was of no moment. But Redmayne took it up.

“I know Robertson,” he said. “I’ll get you any addresses you want, Dr. Garrett.”

“No matter now,” the coroner told him. “In fact, I think I have done all the questioning I want to for the present. This, of course, is merely a preliminary inquiry. The inquest will be arranged for. But now there are other matters calling for immediate attention.”

He rose, and with a nod to Dr. Garth he left the room.

Garth followed, and a sudden silence fell as those who were left realized what impended.

Miss Mercer sprang into action first, and dismissed the servants.

She then turned to Hugh Abercrombie with a half-hesitating air.

“I’m wondering,” she said, “if I may not be dismissed. I mean entirely.”

“Leave the house?” asked Hugh, looking at her inquiringly.

“Yes, I was, of course, engaged by Mrs. Abercrombie and now I can see no reason for my remaining here at all.”

“But,” interposed Eric Redmayne, “it is not at all certain that the police will let you go.”

“The police! What have they to say about it?”

“Probably a great deal,” put in Troy Loring, who could seldom keep out of any controversy. “At any rate, I’m sure they won’t excuse you until after the inquest.”

“But I know nothing about the matter.”

“You’ll know more before you are allowed to depart.” Loring laughed a little unpleasantly, and Miss Mercer turned back to Hugh.

“Don’t you think I can go? Now—to-day?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure,” he said with a kindly intonation. “Perhaps you might ask Dr. Garth when he returns. He can advise you better than I can.”

“I don’t think you’ll be allowed to go, Miss Mercer,” Redmayne said decidedly. “As Mrs. Abercrombie’s secretary, you probably have knowledge that the authorities will want. I’m sure they’ll keep you here a few days. Why not make your mind up to it and stay contentedly?”

His smile met stony blue eyes, and Miss Mercer looked a little stubborn. It was plain to be seen she didn’t have her red hair for nothing.

But she only said, “Very well, I’ll speak to Dr. Garth about it,” and walked slowly out of the room.

Hugh, Redmayne, and Loring were left alone.

“Let’s face this thing squarely,” Redmayne began in his decided way.

“I’ll say so,” Troy Loring agreed. “Better talk it over with me, Mr. Redmayne. As Eileen’s lawyer, I know a lot more about her affairs than her husband does.”

“Very likely,” Redmayne agreed, but his tone was cold. He didn’t like Loring and never had, but after all he was the lawyer, and he must be considered.

“It isn’t a question of Eileen’s business affairs,” Hugh observed. “We know, Troy, you keep those in apple-pie order. It’s a question of how the thing happened. I don’t think the police are overly quick-witted about it, but I suppose they are doing their best.”

“I think they are, Hugh,” his partner told him, “and you must remember they’ve just begun, and they have very little to work on. Besides, I daresay they have an idea that nobody here is particularly ready to help them.”

“Just what do you mean by that?” Hugh asked. “Did I do anything I oughtn’t to have done?”

“Not at all. But you seemed to give them no information. As to Eileen, I mean.”

“I told them all I knew. I’ve very little information myself. Honestly, I don’t know what ailed her. I thought she just had her usual attack of indigestion. I still think that is the case; and this poison stuff she somehow took by accident. It’s not unprecedented. Say, two bottles in the medicine cabinet. Same size and appearance. One could easily pick up the wrong one.”

“Yes,” Loring said, “but all that will come out in the evidence. If there are two such bottles and it can be shown that such a mistake was or could have been made, that will give something to work on, you see. But, as yet, we have no evidence, no clues.”

“Clues!” and Hugh shuddered. “You make it sound like a murder mystery.”

“That,” Loring said slowly, “is just what it is.”

“Stop it, Loring,” commanded Redmayne. “Haven’t you any better sense than to talk like that? Can’t you see Hugh’s all in? Have a little common decency!”

“I’m not worrying about Hugh’s backbone. He can pull himself together. And he may as well get used to it. He’ll hear a lot before the matter is finished.”

Abercrombie looked at him. His hands were gripping rather tightly the carved arms of his chair, and his steel-blue eyes were cold as he gazed into those of Troy Loring.

Then after an instant his face lost its sternness and he spoke.

“Have a heart, Troy. Remember, I’ve lost Eileen. Show me a little bit of consideration—I’m not utterly callous.”

“No?” said Troy Loring. “No? I thought you were.”

With a light laugh he rose and paced the floor of the small room.

Suddenly he turned to the others.

“All right, Hugh. I will show you consideration. I want to. Now, about Eileen’s will. Oh, damn, here comes the kid!”

Maisie and Percy Van Antwerp came together through the open French window.

“Sorry I played baby game,” the girl said apologetically. “But all those fool questions got on my nerves. I’m all right now. How do you do, Mr. Eric Redmayne? Are we in a mess down here, or are we not?”

“As you look at it, Miss Maisie,” Redmayne returned. He didn’t much care for the girl, but he was always pleasant to her for her mother’s sake. Like everyone else, he had admired Eileen, and was deeply grieved at her tragic death. “If it is decided, as it probably will be, that your mother’s death is the result of an accident, you will, of course, be in deep sorrow, but not in what you term a mess.”

“Yes, and if it is decided, as I think it will be, that it was not an accident at all, then, Mr. Eric, we’ll pretty much have the devil to pay.”

No one liked Maisie’s manner, no one liked her loose and slangy talk, but no one could deny her beauty and charm. Small, almost elfin, she was such a graceful, bewitching little figure and her saucy, piquant face was so full of allurement that she said and did just what she chose and feared no one.

Her mother had spoiled her. Eileen, herself lovely of manner and speech, had only laughed at Maisie’s rude ways, or had chid her in a half-hearted way that meant nothing at all. Mother and daughter were devoted friends, chummy companions, but not at all in filial relationship.

Maisie had ruled her mother with a rod of iron, and Eileen, herself a ruler, had loved it to be so.

And now, her mother dead, Maisie was full of grief and sorrow, but her perverse nature made her purposely appear gay and light-hearted.

Van Antwerp, deeply in love with the girl, followed her round like a spaniel, never daring to contradict her, always trying to apologize for or defend her.

Her attitude toward her stepfather was that of a good comrade and chum.

Often she would submit to his gentle advice when she would spurn the same reproof from her mother.

But for the most part she ran wild, made her own laws, and fought her own battles.

She went now and sat on the arm of Hugh’s chair, one slender arm flung round his shoulders.

“Poor Daddy,” she said, “poor Bobbo,” going back to her childish name for him. “Well, never mind, dear, now you can marry Lorna.”