Читать книгу The Bride of a Moment - Carolyn Wells - Страница 8

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From the church, Detective Ferrall went to the Swift home.

It was ghastly, as he had anticipated, to see the caterer’s men taking away the chairs and decorations. The laden tables in the dining-room had already been denuded and the waiters dismissed. Many people were in the house, standing in groups in the various rooms, some of them still in their gala attire.

On a sofa near the front window were Bob Keene and Betty Stratton, who had been one of the bridesmaids; they were talking earnestly in low whispers.

Ferrall joined them, hoping to pick up stray information of some sort.

But neither of the young people was at all cordial and Ferrall went on in search of Mr. Swift.

He found him in the library, and behind closed doors the men sat down for a serious talk over the tragedy.

Ferrall told frankly his suspicions of Stanford Bingham. At first immeasurably shocked, Mr. Swift listened more and more intently to the detective’s reasoning, and at last said:

“It’s unthinkable, it’s well-nigh impossible, and I can’t and won’t believe it, and yet,—and yet, there was something between Bingham and Ethel that I never quite understood. We all knew that the man must marry before he was thirty to inherit his father’s fortune, but he and Ethel had been engaged a long time, and we were all satisfied that, while he desired, naturally, to be wed before the prescribed-time, yet they would have been married had there been no complication about the money.”

“How long had they been engaged, Mr. Swift?”

“Let me see; it’s June now. Well, they were engaged last Summer, I think, about July or August.”

“Why weren’t they married sooner?”

“Bless my soul! I don’t know. I suppose because they didn’t want to be. Probably Ethel wanted a June wedding. I know she wanted every furbelow or gimcrackery there was. That chorus choir, for instance, and an orchestra here at the house. Well, I’m glad now that I denied her nothing. I let her have it all just as she chose. She was the orphan child of my favourite sister, and as I’ve never had any daughter of my own, I indulged her as I would have my own child.”

“Did Mrs. Swift feel the same affection?”

“Almost, I think. Of course, Ethel was my niece, not hers, but she was always kind to the girl, and they never had any differences that I know of.”

“And your son. Were he and your niece friendly?”

“Very, indeed. In fact, at one time I thought Warren was in love with her. But I think it was only a cousinly attachment. They were always good chums, though, and as he was best man, I fancy his heart wasn’t broken beyond remedy at her marriage. But now, the poor boy is nearly prostrated. Both he and my wife are suffering intensely from the shock and nervous prostration.”

“Miss Moulton was a great belle, I’m told.”

“Yes, Ethel was always a heart-breaker. I don’t know how many men have asked me for her hand, but she never favoured any one as she did Bingham. I sometimes thought it was because he was rich. My niece had most extravagant tastes.”

“Had she money of her own?”

“Some. She inherited about twenty-five thousand dollars from her father, but the interest of that was not enough for her to spend. Or, at least, she thought not, and I was glad to give her what more she wanted.”

“She was fond of dress, then?”

“Yes, and of jewels, and of running about travelling here and there. I indulged her, as I say, because I had no daughter, and my wife and I have rather simple tastes.”

“Was your niece,—pardon me,—was she what could be called a flirt?”

“She was, indeed! Ethel would flirt with a messenger boy if she chose! It was all harmless flirting, she was as good as gold, but she could no more help flirting than she could help breathing. Every man in town will tell you that,—and many out of town. We always joked her about it, but she only laughed and said it was the spice of life to her. Her aunt and I hoped she would get over it and settle down after she married Bingham.”

“You’ve known Mr. Bingham long?”

“Yes, for years.”

“You admire him?”

“Indeed, yes. He’s a fine man, a splendid man, in every way, and yet,—this is confidential, Mr. Ferrall, there seemed to be something of late that made me uneasy about him and Ethel.”

“In what way?”

“I don’t know how to tell you; it is so intangible. It almost seemed, at times, as if he wanted to back out of the wedding, and yet, I know that couldn’t have been so.”

“Why couldn’t it?”

“Why? Oh, bless my soul! Bingham’s not that sort of a man. No, I must have imagined it, I suppose. But there seemed a constraint between him and Ethel that became more and more noticeable as their wedding day neared.”

“Did you speak of it to them?”

“To Ethel, yes; never to him. She laughed at me, and said if Stanford were any more devoted to her than he was, she couldn’t stand it.”

“What did she mean by that?”

“Between you and me, I think she was bluffing. I think he was not so demonstrative as Ethel would have liked, and her proud spirit wouldn’t admit it, and even went to the extreme of overdenying it.”

“Then you really think, in your heart, that Bingham did not want to marry your niece?”

“Mr. Ferrall, I have never gone so far as to say that to any one, not even my wife; but since I know you ask in the interests of law and justice, I will confess to you that that thought was in my mind as I walked up that church aisle to-day. And I cannot help thinking it was in Ethel’s mind, too. She was nervous and unstrung more than the occasion demanded. I have never seen her so distraught before. My wife didn’t notice this as I did, because she was in the pew while I was right with Ethel and beside her all the way. And I tell you, Mr. Ferrall, that girl was afraid of something. Of something not definite, perhaps, but she was conscious of a vague danger of some sort.”

“Then, Mr. Swift,—I don’t wonder you’re shocked,—but you can not be so greatly surprised when I tell you I have reason to suspect Mr. Bingham of being in some way responsible for his wife’s death.”

“I wish I could feel more surprised, but I am forced to admit, Mr. Ferrall, that I have been haunted by that suspicion, myself. I can’t see how it is possible, I hope and pray that it is not true, but I can think of no other living human being who had the least reason to desire Ethel’s death. It is absurd to think for a moment that any of the many men who admired her would be so desperate at thought of her marriage to Bingham that one of them could go so far as to murder her in cold blood.”

“Who were some of these men, Mr. Swift?”

“Let me see; in fact it would be easier to think of men whom she had not had affairs with. Two of the ushers, Stone and Benson, have both been refused by the dear girl. Eugene Hall is another who was hard hit at the news of her marriage; and Guy Farrish and Chester Morton,—but it’s too absurd! Not one of these men would have harmed a hair of her head! Nor can I really think Stanford would. But what else is there to think? It is impossible that it could have been an accident. And then, again, how could Bingham have done it? The doctors agree that the assailant probably stood several feet away, and the bridegroom was no more than two or three feet away at the utmost”

“But that sort of thing is uncertain, Mr. Swift, and as the shot entered through her hair, we cannot know—”

“Oh, heavens, man! It isn’t possible! I can’t, I won’t believe that any man on earth could be black enough of soul to stand there and shoot the woman he had just married! It is unspeakable!”

“Most murders are unspeakable, Mr. Swift. And think what the man had at stake! To get his million dollars,—I understand the fortune is a million or more,—he had to be married before next month, when his thirtieth birthday occurs. It would be practically impossible for him to break with Miss Moulton and arrange to marry any one else in the meantime,—this is supposing for the moment that he loved another,—so he married Miss Moulton, and then, if, as you fear, he did not want her for a wife, except to secure his fortune, what cleverer way could be devised to rid himself of her? Had they gone away on a wedding tour, his deed must surely have been discovered. How plausible, then, for the villain to think that this way, this fiendish way, was the safest and surest for himself?”

“You sound convincing, Mr. Ferrall, and yet, now that you put it into words, I cannot believe it. It is too incredible!”

“I’m not urging you to believe it, Mr. Swift. It is my duty, as a detective, to try to get at the truth of this dreadful affair. I have my suspicions, I must ascertain if they are true or false. You must help me in any way you can, not to prove my theories, but to learn the truth. But, of course, you must see that what you have told me goes far toward confirming my belief in Mr. Bingham’s guilt, though as yet I cannot imagine just how he accomplished his awful purpose.”

A tap at the library door interrupted their conversation.

It was Betty Stratton, the pretty little bridesmaid, and Bob Keene, the reporter.

“We’ve found out something!” Betty announced, as she entered the room, followed by Keene.

“Of importance?” asked Ferrall, frowning slightly, for he had little use for the discoveries of these “youngsters.”

“Yes, it is of importance,” answered Keene. “It’s a distinct point, anyway. You have all decided, haven’t you, that the shot was fired from the east side of the church, whether inside or outside?”

“Yes, of course,” said Ferrall; “as the bride faced the altar, her right side was toward the east, and as the wound is in her right temple, why, it inevitably—”

“But that’s just it!” cried Keene; “she didn’t face the altar! You see, she had turned, the bride had, for Miss Randall to adjust her long, heavy train, and as she turned, toward the other aisle, the west aisle, her right cheek came around toward the west, and when she was shot she had turned and was really facing the back of the church, ready to walk down that west aisle. She was expecting the bridegroom to join her as soon as he had spoken with the minister,—all this was rehearsed, you know,—and,—well, the point is, that the bride had turned round, and was standing with her right side to the west when she was shot!”

“H’m, all very fine, but how do you know it?” demanded Mr. Ferrall.

“I’m the one who knows it,” put in Betty Stratton. “You see, it was this way. All us bridesmaids were looking forward to catching Ethel’s bouquet when she threw it, later on, of course, as brides always do when they go away. Well, when I went back to the altar after they had taken Ethel away, I saw her bouquet lying where she had dropped it as she fell, and it made me feel so awful! I thought at first I ought to pick it up and carry it into the other room where Ethel was, and then I just couldn’t do that! You know what it means to pick up a bride’s bouquet! Well, then, I noticed that it lay right on the chalk mark that had been mine! I mean, the place where I had to stand, quite west of the bride. And don’t you see, Ethel couldn’t have dropped it there, unless she had turned round! So doesn’t that prove that she had turned, and that the shot came from the west side of the church?”

“I see what you mean,” said Mr. Ferrall, slowly. “If you will, I’d like you to go back to the church with me, and show me exactly where you stood.”

So Bob Keene and Betty went back to the church with the detective and showed him. It was certainly as Betty had said. The bride, in order to have let her bouquet fall on the mark that designated Betty’s place, must have turned round, preparatory to leaving the church.

The bridal party had walked up the east aisle to the altar, and expected to go back down the west aisle. The exact mode of procedure had been carefully rehearsed, and each one knew just where he or she was to stand and in what order to proceed.

“You see,” explained Betty, “every bride has her attendants stand just as she wants them. Ethel had us placed with two bridesmaids and two ushers on each side of her and Mr. Bingham. Of course, Eileen, the maid of honour, was at Ethel’s left hand, and the best man, Mr. Swift, at the bridegroom’s right. Well, after the ceremony, we all stepped back a little to let Ethel’s train get by, and as I was directly behind her, she must have already turned round, to have dropped her bouquet right on my chalk mark!” And Betty broke into sobs at the recollection of the awful scene.

“That’s right!” said the detective, thinking deeply. “The bride must have turned to have dropped the flowers there as she fell. Unless, that is, somebody moved them afterward, inadvertently.”

“They didn’t,” said Betty; “I know, because I saw Ethel fall, I was very near her, you know, and I was so paralyzed I couldn’t move or speak, but I can see it all as clearly now as if it were photographed on my brain. Ethel sank, all in a heap, and the bouquet fell just where I had stood during the ceremony. And I kept my eyes on those flowers, I don’t know why, but they seemed to fascinate me, and nobody touched them till some time after, when Doctor Van Sutton picked them up and carried them in—in where Ethel was.”

“Get the dominie over here,” said Mr. Ferrall, briefly, and Bob Keene ran over to the parsonage for him. The two returned shortly, and Doctor Van Sutton corroborated all Betty had said.

“Yes; it must be so,” said the reverend gentleman, “I know the bride had turned away from me, I was then speaking to the bridegroom, and in order to drop the bouquet just there, she must have turned fully around. And it was from that spot that I picked up the flowers,—of that I’m certain. I had no definite reason for picking them up, except that it seemed more decorous than leaving them there on the floor. And, being a little uncertain what to do with them, I laid them on the breast of the bride. I thought of handing them to Mrs. Swift, but she was already so overcome, that it seemed inadvisable.”

Doctor Van Sutton was a mild-mannered, typical clergyman, and he was bowed with grief not only at the horror of the tragedy, but that it should have occurred in his church. Such things as crime and mystery had never come into his life before, and he was bewildered at the details to be considered.

“Then we must conclude the shot was fired from the west and not the east,” said Mr. Ferrall, looking greatly perplexed.

“That opens up again the question of a window,” said Bob Keene; “a window on the other side, of course. I’ll skip out and look for footprints.” Ferrall smiled as the young man hurried out of the church. “Trust an amateur detective to fly after footprints!” he said; “Keene has a sleuthing instinct, and he’s bright enough, but this mystery is not going to be solved by any of the usual means. I tell you, Doctor Van Sutton, it’s a big case. I’m not at all sure we’ll ever catch the criminal, but if we do, it will mean some clever work. Well, Keene, what luck?”

“There are footprints,” said Keene, joining them, “by that first window on the west side, there are footprints in the soft soil that’s banked up around the roots of the ivy vines. And they’re the prints of only one person. I’m sure but one person stood there.”

“Well, and what about it? Are you such a Sherlock Holmes that you can go out in the street and pick out the man?”

“No, I’m not; but I’ve always understood that if a detective had good clear footprints, he had—”

“Go ‘long, Keene; you understand your own work better than ours. Stick to reporting and don’t dabble in detecting. It’s a hard enough job for the experienced, let alone amateurs.”

“Well, you might be grateful for the help we’ve given you. I think it’s pretty good detective work on the part of Miss Stratton to prove to you that the shot came from the west side of the church, whether fired by some one inside or out.”

“That’s true; and I am indebted to you, Miss Stratton. You have given me a clear and graphic description of the few moments preceding the shot, and it may be of great help to know from which side it was fired.”

“Anyway, it lets old Bingham out!” declared Keene, who was a friend of the bridegroom.

“Not at all,” said Ferrall, “it may merely prove that he had an accomplice!”