Читать книгу Faulkner's Folly - Carolyn Wells - Страница 5

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The countryside was in a tumult. A murder mystery at Faulkner’s Folly, of all places in world! Rensselaer Park, the aristocratic Long Island settlement, of which the celebrated house was the star exhibit, could scarcely believe its ears as the news flew about. And the criminal? Public opinion settled at once on an intruder, either burglarious or inimical. Of course, a man of Eric Stannard’s position and personality had enemies, as well as friends, from Paris, France, to Paris, Maine. Equally, of course, his enormous collection of valuable art works and even more valuable jewels would tempt robbers.

But the vague rumors as to his wife or that darling little model girl being implicated, were absurd. To be sure, the installation of Miss Vernon as a house guest was a fling in the face of conventions, but Eric Stannard was a law unto himself; and, too, Mrs. Stannard had always introduced the girl as her friend.

The Stannards were comparatively new people at The Park, but Mrs. Faulkner, whose husband had built the Folly, was even now visiting there, and her sanction was enough for the community. It would, one must admit, be thrillingly exciting to suspect a woman in the case, but it was too impossible. No, it was without doubt, a desperate marauder.

Thus the neighbours.

But the Police thought differently. The report of the Post Patrolman who first appeared upon the scene of the tragedy included a vivid description of the demeanour of the two ladies; and the whole force, from the Inspector down, determined to discover which was guilty. To them the death of Eric Stannard was merely a case, but from the nature of things it was, or would become, a celebrated case, and as such, they were elated over their connection with it.

In due course, the Coroner’s Inquest took place, and was held in the big studio where Eric Stannard had met his death.

Owing to the personality of Coroner Lamson, this was not the perfunctory proceeding that inquests sometimes are, but served to bring out the indicative facts of the situation.

It was the day after the murder and the room was partially filled with the officers of the law, the jury and a crowd of morbidly curious strangers. It seemed sacrilege to give over the splendid apartment to the demands of the occasion, and many of the audience sat timidly on the edge of the luxurious chairs or stared at the multitudinous pictures, statues and artistic paraphernalia. In the original plan the studio had been a ballroom, but its fine North light and great size fitted it for the workroom of the master painter. Nor was the brush the only implement of Eric Stannard. He had experimented with almost equal success in pastel work, he had done some good modelling and of late he had become deeply interested in etching. And it had been one of his own etching needles that had been the direct cause of his untimely death.

This fact was testified to by Doctor Keith, who further detailed his being called to the house the night before. He stated that he had arrived within fifteen minutes after Mr. Stannard—as the family had told him—had breathed his last. Examination of the body had disclosed that death was caused by the piercing of the jugular vein and the weapon, which was not removed until later, was a tool known as an Etcher’s needle, a slender, sharp instrument, set in a Wooden handle, the whole being not unlike a brad-awl. On being shown the needle, the Doctor identified it as the instrument of death.

Blake, the footman, was next questioned. He was of calm demeanour and impassive countenance, but his answers were alert and intelligent.

“Too much so,” thought Mr. Robert Roberts, a Police Detective, who had been put upon the case, to his own decided satisfaction. “That man knows what he’s talking about, if he is a wooden-face.” Now, Roberts, called by his chums, Bobsy, was himself alert and intelligent, and therefore recognised those traits in others. He listened attentively as Coroner Lamson put his queries.

“You were the first to discover your master’s dead body?”

“Mr. Stannard was not dead when I entered the room,” replied Blake.

“No, no, to be sure. I mean, you were the first to enter the room after the man was stabbed?”

“That I can’t say. When I entered—” Blake paused, and glanced uncertainly about. Barry Stannard was looking at the footman with a stern face.

Inspector Bardon, who was present, interposed. “Tell the story in your own words, my man. We’ll best get at it that way.”

“I was on duty in the hall,” began Blake, slowly, “and I noticed the lights go out in the studio here—”

“Was the door between the hall and studio open?” asked Lamson.

“No, sir, not open, but it was a very little ajar. I didn’t think much about the light going out, though Mr. Stannard never turned off the lights when he left the room to go upstairs to bed. And if it did strike me as a bit queer, I had no time to think the matter over, for just then I heard a slight sound,—a gasping like, as if somebody was in distress. As I had not been called, I didn’t enter, but I did try to peep in at the crack of the door. This was not curiosity, but there was something in that gasp that—that scared me a little.”

“What next?” said the Coroner, as Blake paused.

“Just then, sir, Mrs. Faulkner came down the stairs. She was surprised to see me peeping at a door, and spoke chidingly. But I was so alarmed, I forgot myself, and—well, and just then, I heard a distinct sound—a terrible, gurgling sound, and a voice said, ‘Help!’ I turned to Mrs. Faulkner to see if she had heard it, and she had, for her face looked frightened and she asked me what it meant, and she told me to go in and turn on the light. So—so, I did, and then I saw—”

“Be very careful now, Blake; tell us exactly what you saw.”

“I saw Mr. Stannard first, at the other end of the room, in his favourite big chair, and he was like a man dying—”

“Have you ever seen a man die?” Lamson snapped out the words as if his own nerves were at a tension.

“No—no, sir.”

“Then how do you know how one would look?”

“I saw something had been thrust into his breast, I saw red stains on his shirt front, and I saw his face, drawn as in agony, and his eyes staring, yet with a sort of glaze over them, and his hands stretched out, but sort of fluttering, as if he had lost control over his muscles. I couldn’t think other than that he was a dying man, sir.”

“That is what I want you to tell, Blake. An exact account of the scene as it appeared to you. Now the rest of it. Were you too absorbed in the spectacle of Mr. Stannard’s plight to see clearly the others who were present?”

“No, sir,” and the man’s calm face quivered now. “It is as if photographed on my brain. I can never forget it. Behind Mr. Stannard were the two ladies, Mrs. Stannard and Miss Vernon.”

“Directly behind him?”

“Not that, exactly. Mrs. Stannard stood behind, but off toward his left, and Miss Vernon was behind, but toward the right.”

“Show me exactly, Blake, where these two ladies stood,” and Coroner Lamson rose to see his demands fulfilled.

“Oh, sir,” begged Blake, his frightened eyes wavering toward the members of the household which employed him, “oh, sir—Mrs. Faulkner, sir,—she came in with me,—she can tell better than I—”

“Mrs, Faulkner will be questioned in due time. You came in first; we will hear your version and then hers. Be accurate now.”

With great hesitancy, Blake stepped to the spots he had designated.

“Mrs. Stannard stood here,” he said, indicating a position perhaps a yard back and to the left of Stannard’s chair, which was still in its place.

“What was she doing?”

“Nothing, sir. One hand was on this table, and the other sort of clasped against her breast.”

“And Miss Vernon?”

“She was over here,” and Blake, still behind the chair, crossed to its other side, and stood near the outer door.

“How was she standing?”

“Against this small table, and the table was swaying back and forth, like it would upset in a minute.”

“And her hands?”

“They were both behind her, sir, clutching at the table.”

“You have a wonderful memory, Blake,” and the Coroner looked hard at his witness.

“Not always, sir. But the thing is like a picture to my mind.”

“Like a moving picture?”

“No, sir, nobody moved. It was like a tableau, sir—”

“And then,” prompted Inspector Bardon.

At this point, Barry Stannard was again seen to look at Blake with a glance of deep concentration.

“Important, if true,” Detective Roberts said to himself. “Young Stannard is afraid of the footman’s further disclosures!”

Whether that was so or not, Blake suddenly lost his power of clear and concise narration.

“Why, then—” he stammered, “then, all was confusion. I started toward Mr. Stannard, it—it seemed my duty. And Mrs. Faulkner, she came toward him—”

“And the two ladies behind him?”

“They came toward him, too, and Mrs. Stannard took hold of his hand—”

“Well?”

“Well, sir, I couldn’t help it, sir—I blurted out, ‘Who did this?’ And Mr. Stannard—he said—”

“Said! Spoke?”

Attention was concentrated on the footman, and it is doubtful if any one save Roberts noticed Barry Stannard’s face. It was drawn in an agonised protest at the forthcoming revelation. But Blake, accustomed to obeying orders implicitly, continued to tell his story.

“Yes, sir, he spoke—sort of whispered, in a gasping way—”

“And what did he say?”

“He said, ‘Natalie, not Joyce.’ ”

“You are sure?”

“Yes, sir,” answered the stolid Blake. “And he sort of raised his hand, pointing toward the lady.”

“Pointing toward Miss Vernon, you mean?”

“Yes, sir.”

Barry Stannard could stand it no longer. “I won’t have this!” he cried. “I won’t allow this hysterical story of an ignorant servant to be told in a way to incriminate an innocent girl. It’s all wrong!”

The Coroner considered. It did seem too bad to listen to the vital points of the story from an underling, when such tragic issues were at stake.

“Sit down, for the present, Blake,” he said. “Mrs. Faulkner, will you give us your version of these events?”

Beatrice Faulkner looked very white and seemed loth to respond and then with a sudden, determined air, she faced the Coroner, and said, “Certainly. Will you ask questions?”

The beautiful woman looked even more stately in her mild acquiescence than she had done on her first mute refusal. Her large, soft black eyes rested on Joyce with a pitying air and then strayed to Natalie, the little model, who was a mere collapsed heap of weeping femininity. With a deep sigh, Beatrice turned to the Coroner.

“I am ready,” she said, with the air of one accustomed to dictate times and seasons.

A little awed, Coroner Lamson asked: “Do you corroborate the story as just related by Blake, the footman?”

“Yes, I think so,” and the witness drew her beautiful brows together as if in an effort of recollection. Though fully thirty-five, Beatrice Faulkner looked younger, and yet, compared to Joyce or Natalie she seemed a middle-aged matron. “I am sure I agree with his facts as stated, as to our entering the room, but I’m not sure he was able to hear clearly the words spoken by Mr. Stannard. I was not.”

“You were not?”

“No. I heard the indistinct mumble of the dying man, but I am not ready to say positively that I clearly understood the words.”

“You came down stairs just as Blake was peeping in at the door?”

“He wasn’t peeping. He was, it seemed to me, listening. I, naturally, thought it strange to see a footman prying in any way, and I called out his name, reprovingly. Then, I suddenly realised that as he was not my footman I had no right to reprimand him; and just then he turned his full face toward me, and I saw that the man looked startled, and that something unusual must be happening in the studio. He told me the lights had just gone out, and even as he spoke we both heard that sighing ‘Help!’ It was a fearful sound, and struck a chill to my very heart. I bade Blake turn on the light quickly, and then I followed him into the room.”

“Yes, Mrs. Faulkner, that is just as the footman told it. Now, will you tell what you saw in the studio, and what you inferred from it.”

“I saw Mr. Stannard in his arm chair, a dagger or some such thing protruding from his breast, and blood stains on his clothing. I inferred that some burglar or marauder had attacked him and perhaps robbed him.”

“And how did you think this intruder had entered?”

“I didn’t think anything about that. One doesn’t have coherent thoughts at such a moment. I realised that he had been stabbed, so of course, I assumed an assailant. Then I saw his wife and Miss Vernon standing near him, and I had no thought save to assist in any way I might. I cried out to Blake to get a doctor, and then I went to Mrs. Stannard’s side, just as she was about to faint:”

“Did she faint?”

“No, that is, she did not entirely lose consciousness, though greatly agitated. And then, soon, the butler and Miller, Mr. Stannard’s valet, came in, and after that Barry came and—and everything seemed to happen at once. Doctor Keith came—”

“One moment, Mrs. Faulkner, you are getting ahead of your story. What about the words uttered by Mr. Stannard before he died?”

“They were so inarticulate as to be unintelligible.”

“You swear this?”

“I do. If he said ‘Joyce’ or ‘Natalie,’ it is not at all strange, considering that those two women were in his sight. But I repeat that he did not say them in a connected sentence, nor did he himself mean any real statement. It was the unconscious speech of a dying man. In another instant he was gone.”

Though outwardly calm, Beatrice Faulkner’s voice trembled, and was so low as to be scarcely audible. But she stood her ground bravely, and her eyes met Barry’s for a moment, in the briefest glance of understanding and approval.

“Hum,” commented the astute Roberts to his favourite confidant, himself, “the Barry person is in love with the dolly-baby girl, and the queenly lady is his friend, and she’s helping him out. She isn’t telling all she knows, or if she is, she’s colouring it to save the implicated ladies.”

“What is your position in this house, Mrs. Faulkner?”

The faintest gleam of amusement passed over the white face. It was almost as if he thought her a housekeeper or governess.

“I am a guest,” she returned, simply. “I have been staying here a few weeks for the purpose of having my portrait painted by Mr. Stannard.”

“You previously owned this house, did you not?”

“My late husband, an architect of note, built it. Later, it was sold to Mr. Stannard, who has lived in it nearly two years.”

“Where were you just before you came down the stairs and saw Blake?”

“In the Drawing Room, on the second floor, at the other end of the house. I had been entertaining a guest, and as he had just taken leave, I went down stairs to rejoin my hostess.”

“Where did you expect to find Mrs. Stannard?”

“Where I had left her, in the Billiard Room.”

“You left her there? How long before?”

“An hour or so. There were several guests at dinner, and they had drifted to the various rooms afterward.”

“Who were the guests at dinner?”

“Mr. Wadsworth, who was with me in the Drawing Room; Mr. Courtenay, a neighbour, and Mr. and Mrs. Truxton, who also live nearby.”

“Mrs. Truxton, the jewel collector?”

“Yes; that is the one.”

“There was no one else at dinner?”

“Only the family group; Mr. and Mrs. Stannard, Mr. Barry Stannard, Miss Vernon and myself.”

“Once again, Mrs. Faulkner, you attach no significance to the words, ‘Natalie, not Joyce’ which Blake quotes Mr. Stannard as saying?”

Taken thus unexpectedly, Mrs. Faulkner hesitated. Then she said, steadily: “I do not. They were the articulation of a brain already clouded by approaching death. He merely named the people he saw nearest to him.”

“That is not true! Eric meant what he said!”

It was Joyce Stannard who spoke.