Читать книгу The Affair at Flower Acres - Carolyn Wells - Страница 7

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If Ezra Goddard had followed the sea, he would have been the sort of sailor who is dubbed able seaman. If he had chosen the ministry as a career, he would have been known as an eminent divine. Had he pitched on the legal profession, he would have been spoken of as a noted lawyer. Or had he been an author, he would most certainly have attained the rank of celebrated novelist.

Moreover, if he had bent his talents and energies to the science of sleuthing, he would have risen rapidly to the height of Transcendent Detective, and would have become famous.

But detective he was not, for though possessed of the necessary perspicacity and perspicuity, he had had no training or experience, and knew little or nothing of finger-print work or of third-degree practice.

So it was really owing more to his inherent generalship than to his deductive ability that he stepped forward and assumed control of the entire situation. Moreover, no one else seemed ready or willing to take that step, so it seemed to Goddard that he simply had to.

His efficiency in emergency was well nigh 100 percent, and within fifteen minutes of the discovery of Douglas Raynor’s death, Goddard had sent word to the family physician, the county medical examiner and the local police. And within an hour they had all arrived.

Doctor Saxton came first. Though he was the family physician, he had rarely been called to Flower Acres, for there had been little illness in the household. When Douglas Raynor began to get faddy about his diet, he sought advice from various well advertised books, and, later, had decided on the employment of a resident dietitian. Miss Turner was by no means the first of these; indeed she was merely the present incumbent, and was already slated for dismissal by her patient.

But, being present, and being a graduate nurse, Doctor Saxton immediately spoke to her professionally, and seemed to rely on her assistance.

She came to him tremblingly, and with an obvious aversion to touching or even looking at the dead body of her late patient.

“Shot through the heart,” the doctor said, after a brief investigation. “Who did it?”

To this direct question there was no answer. Miss Turner compressed her lips into a straight, unspeaking line, while the others present, who were huddled round the sides of the sun room, gave only aghast, wondering looks at the doctor.

Held by some fascination of horror, they had all remained in the presence of the dead. Goddard had advised it, and the rest had inertly obeyed.

Nancy, her hand clasped in her brother’s, was half reclining in a long chair, while Miss Mattie sat bolt upright, eagerly watching everything that transpired.

Malcolm Finley sat, with folded arms and a calm, inscrutable face, his gray eyes moving slowly from the dead victim of the tragedy to the living wife, and back again.

From his scrutiny of the livid face and contorted muscles of Raynor Doctor Saxton at last lifted a puzzled countenance to, the group of anxious spectators.

“There are strange conditions here,” he said, “most peculiar, inexplicable conditions. Had Douglas Raynor any enemies?”

He glanced round the room, and as no one else spoke, Ezra Goddard said:

“In view of the fact that some one shot and killed him, I think we may logically assume that he had.”

The tinge of irony was slight, but quite enough to annoy the doctor.

“Not at all, sir. It is perfectly possible that the shooting might have been an accident, or—a suicide.”

“Oh, was it? Do you think that?” Nan spoke rapidly, in jerky accents, as if surprised but not displeased at this suggestion.

“I can’t say yet, Mrs. Raynor. On the face of it, it looks as if he had been shot down by the hand of another, but until after a more detailed examination, I prefer not to give a definite opinion. And for that, I want to await the arrival of the medical examiner. When he comes, I must ask that we be left by ourselves, except that I wish Miss Turner to remain with us in her professional capacity.”

“I’d like to say a word—” began Malcolm Finley, but Goddard stopped him peremptorily.

“Not a word, Mal. Surely you know better. This is not the time or place for any revelation, theory or suspicion. In fact, I ask all of you to say nothing definite or vital until the examiner and the detectives get here.”

“I shall say what I choose,” announced Nan, “and I say—”

“My dear Mrs. Raynor,” Goddard spoke quietly, but looked at her with a steady gaze, “just reflect a moment on the fact, that quite aside from yourself, what you would say might affect others in a way for which you would be sorry.”

“What do you mean?” she said, her face drawn by an agonized frown.

“It doesn’t matter what I mean, but it might matter a great deal what you say, so I ask you, I beg of you, to say nothing.”

His insistence won the day, and Nan said no more, except now and then in a whisper to Orry, which was unheard by the others.

And so, when Doctor Fraser, the examiner, came, everybody was turned out of the room except Nurse Turner.

From her expression it might be gathered that she would have preferred to go also, but as both doctors directed her to remain, she had no choice in the matter.

The others filed into the large living room, and seated themselves. Malcolm Finley almost gave way to his strong desire to sit by the side of Nancy, but compelled himself to conquer it, and crossed the room to sit beside Miss Mattie.

She, however, was so pointedly cold and distant of manner, Finley turned aside and began talking to Goddard.

“I hope a fairly decent detective will be sent,” he said; “for this is not a case to be bungled.”

“It is not, indeed,” Goddard assented; “I only hope the doctors can prove it a suicide.”

“Why?” cried Nan, resenting, as always, any aspersion on her husband. “Suicide is the deed of a coward,—and Douglas was never that!”

“No, he was not,” Goddard said; “yet I wish it might have been,—for a murder mystery is a long, hard road to travel.”

“It’s a murder,—but it’s no mystery.”

These words were spoken by Miss Mattie, and were intoned in a sepulchral voice that was in itself an indictment of the one she had in mind. Nor was the identity of that one long in doubt. She looked straight at Nan, and though she said no more definite word, it was easily seen that already she accused Nancy Raynor of the death of her husband.

“But Nancy didn’t shoot him,” the spinster added, and Nan looked up quickly, to see the stern old face as accusing as ever, and the sharp old eyes glaring at her.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, wearily, and leaning back in her chair she closed her eyes, and her brother watched her affectionately.

“I wish Nan would go to her room,” Orville Kent said; “she can be of no use to-night, and when the policemen come it will drive her frantic.”

“She ought to be driven frantic,” Miss Mattie’s cold voice declared. “Of course she can’t go to her room, Orville; she must be questioned with the rest of us.”

Notwithstanding the awfulness of the occasion, it was quite clear that Miss Mattie looked forward to the questioning not without relish. She had always been a devoted sister, she sincerely mourned her brother, and she greatly desired to have his murderer, if there were one, found and punished, but beneath all these natural emotions was an irrepressible enjoyment of the anticipation of the inquiries and revelations that must soon take place.

Moreover, she desired that all the actors in the drama take their parts, and if Nan should drop out of the ranks, half the excitement of the thing would disappear.

Miss Raynor did not formulate all these thoughts, even to herself; indeed, she would probably have disclaimed them had she been taxed with them; but, nevertheless, they were the workings of her subconscious mind.

At last, to her satisfaction, the police arrived. The others, too, felt a certain sense of relief, for action of any sort is better than idle suspense.

The chief, whose name was Pell, remained in the sun parlor with the physicians, but after a few moments there, the detective came into the living room and looked inquiringly about him.

“I am Ezra Goddard,” said the self-appointed spokesman, “a friend of the late Mr. Raynor. This is Mrs. Raynor, and Miss Mattie Raynor,—a sister.”

The others were introduced, both Finley and Kent acknowledging their names by the slightest of nods and some servants were designated.

Detective Dobbins sat down and as he rolled his beady black eyes from one to another he rubbed his hands as if in active enjoyment of the situation.

As indeed he was, for when one is a detective, and month in and month out one gets nothing of any importance to detect, what can be more satisfying than a first-class mystery in the home of first-class people?

And Dobbins was quite confident of his ability to prove himself a first-class sleuth.

Personally, he preferred the word sleuth to detective, as it seemed to him to connote more daring work, and also he deemed it less hackneyed. To his sleuthing, then, he applied himself.

“Who was the last to see Mr. Raynor alive?” he began, in a most workmanlike way.

Goddard, who was firmly determined to answer all questions that were addressed to nobody in particular, and some that were definitely addressed, said:

“That is the regulation question, Mr. Dobbins, but, as usual, it is almost impossible to answer. If Mr. Raynor was shot by the hand of another, that individual was, of course, the last one to see him alive. Now, of that we have no knowledge. If, on the other hand, Mr. Raynor committed suicide—”

“Suicide!” cried the astounded Dobbins. “I have not been told that there is any suggestion of that!”

He looked like a man suddenly defrauded of his rights.

“It’s not a question of suggestion, Mr. Dobbins,” Goddard went on, suavely, “but of investigation. And a rational investigation must consider all possibilities.”

“Quite so,—quite so.” Detective Dobbins began to wish that Mr. Goddard had never been born.

“Well,” he resumed, after a moment’s thought, “let us put it this way, then. Which ones of you were among the last to see Mr. Raynor alive?”

“Ah, that’s better,” and Goddard smiled approval. “I can answer that for all of us. We were all together on the terrace having tea. After tea we still sat there until dusk began to fall. Then several neighbors who were with us started for their homes. And we, the members of the family and household, dispersed to our rooms to dress for dinner.”

“All of you here present were at tea with Mr. Raynor?”

“Yes,” said Goddard, and others nodded.

“Who left the group first?”

“The guests from the neighboring houses,” Goddard replied.

“And next?”

“I did,” Orville Kent said; “I went with one of the guests, a young lady from the Fay place, next to this.”

“And after Mr. Kent?” Dobbins queried, his black eyes taking in the expression on each face.

“I think I went off next,” Finley said, “unless Miss Turner, the nurse, preceded me. Of that I’m not quite sure.”

“I’m sure,” Nan said; “Miss Turner did go before Mr. Finley,—she went to the pantry to see about some malted milk for my husband. And then Mr. Finley went away, and then Miss Raynor, and then my husband rose and went himself into the house.”

“And from the house into that room—that sun parlor, I believe you call it.”

“Yes,” Nancy agreed, “that is, he must have done so. But when he left me he went into the house.”

“You were then alone at the tea table, Mrs. Raynor?”

“The tea table had been removed, Mr. Dobbins, some time since. But, yes, I was then alone on the west terrace, where we had had tea.”

“What did you do?”

“Do? Why, nothing. I sat a moment, thinking I must go and dress for dinner, but delaying a few moments to enjoy the soft evening air and the fragrance of my flowers.”

“And you sat there until—”

“Until—” Nan repeated, a far-away, reminiscent look in her eyes.

Just then, Goddard gave a loud and emphatic “Ahem!” and Nan looked quickly at him.

No one could mistake the look on his face for anything but a sharp glance of warning, which, indeed, it was intended to be.

Whereupon, Nancy Raynor drew herself together with a visible effort, and began to speak glibly.

“Why, yes,—what was I saying? Oh, yes; I sat there until I heard that shot,—yes, until I heard that shot, Mr. Dobbins.”

“You are sure of this, Mrs. Raynor?”

“Yes, yes, perfectly sure,—until I heard the shot—”

“Yet, until Mr. Goddard attracted your attention just now, you were going to give me a different reply.”

“No, I wasn’t,—oh, no, I wasn’t! Why should I?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure. Now what time was it when you heard the shot?”

“I can’t say, exactly. I didn’t look at my watch. But of course I know, in a general way, that it must have been a little before seven. For I always go upstairs to dress by seven,—or a very little later. Yes, I should say it might have been nearly seven.”

“Quarter before?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. You know yourself, Mr. Dobbins, nobody can fix a time exactly if they’re not thinking about it.”

“No, that’s true. Well, then, you heard the shot,—did you know at once where it came from?”

“I knew from which direction it came, and, of course, I ran that way.”

“Into the sun parlor?”

“Yes,—that is, no,—not into it,—but to the door, the west door, and looked in.”

“Yes; and after you went into the room what did you see—”

“My husband—but I told you I didn’t go into the room!”

“You must have to have seen your husband, for as he lay on the floor, there was a large table between him and the west door,—you couldn’t have seen him from the doorway.”

“Oh, yes, I did,—I’m positive I did.”

“I think, Mr. Dobbins, you will gain little by questioning Mrs. Raynor further to-night. She is greatly unstrung—”

“Excuse me, Mr. Goddard, I think I shall gain a great deal by questioning Mrs. Raynor to-night. I must ask you not to interfere.”

“Then, will you not let her rest a few moments, and return to her later?” Goddard’s manner showed only concern for Nan’s comfort.

“Yes, I will do that. I will talk to Miss Raynor, and Mrs. Raynor can pull herself together. Tell me anything you can of the matter, Miss Raynor.”

“I went upstairs to my room, and I sat a while looking out of the window. I saw Mr. Kent and Miss Dolly Fay cross the lawns toward her home, and I saw Mrs. Lewis, who lives in another direction, also start to walk home. I could see no others, but I heard Mr. Goddard go to his room, across the hall from my own, and I heard Miss Turner moving in and out of the pantry. I heard my brother’s footsteps as he went into the house and out again to the sun room, and I heard Mr. Finley go out on the east veranda.”

“You have acute hearing, Miss Raynor.”

“It has always been good, and I am not yet old enough for it to become impaired. Then, as I thought it getting late, I turned on my lights and looked at my clock. It was nearly seven.”

“How near?”

“I don’t know,—ten or fifteen minutes of seven, I think. Then I heard the shot, and I didn’t at first think anything was wrong. I thought of somebody cleaning a gun, or shooting a bird,—not definitely, you know, but those thoughts went through my mind. I went out in the hall, but it was so nearly dark I couldn’t see anything. As I reached the stairs, a light appeared downstairs, and I hurried down.”

“What did you see?”

“Miss Turner just going into the sun parlor—”

“Or coming out?”

“Oh, I never thought of that! Yes, she might have been coming out—”

“Think carefully now; I want to find out who was in the sun room about that time.”

“Well, if she was coming out, she was backing out. I—I think she was, now I recollect the scene. Why, you don’t think she shot him, do you?”

“I don’t think anything yet. Go on. Who else were there?”

“Oh, Nan was peering in at the west door, Mr. Finley was just inside the east door, and Mr. Raynor, my poor brother, lay on the floor in a dreadful heap—”

“Who came next?”

“In a few moments Orville Kent came in at the back door, the south one, and he looked after Nan,—Mrs. Raynor. But I must tell you that Mr. Finley had the pistol in his hand, and I can’t see what further evidence you want than that!”

With the expression of a Nemesis on her sharp, shrewd old face, Miss Raynor sat back in her chair and glared at Malcolm Finley.

“Will you speak for yourself, Mr. Finley?” said Dobbins. “What have you to say?”

“Only this,” Finley replied. “I was on the east veranda—”

“What were you doing?”

“Nothing,—except finishing a cigarette, and thinking that as soon as I had finished it I would go up to my room.”

“Do you know what time it was then?”

“I only know that it was shortly before seven. I couldn’t say how many minutes before.”

“Did you finish your cigarette?”

“I don’t know. I heard a shot, and I daresay I tossed the cigarette away unconsciously as I ran in the direction of it.”

“Ran?”

“Yes, or walked very swiftly. At any rate, I reached the west door of the sun parlor in a few seconds, and going in I found Mr. Raynor on the floor, a pistol by his side. I picked up the weapon—”

“Don’t you know that was a wrong act?”

“I didn’t stop to think of right or wrong. I picked it up almost unconsciously; at any rate, involuntarily. It was almost dark, I could with difficulty distinguish what had happened, and then, suddenly the lights came on, and Miss Turner stood in the house doorway.”