Читать книгу The Vanity Case - Carolyn Wells - Страница 6

Table of Contents

MRS. PRENTISS always sat down to her breakfast at half-past eight o'clock. If truth were told, she would have preferred an earlier hour, but Harbor Gardens people were late risers, and eight-thirty was just about the earliest one could breakfast with decency.

Most of the Gardeners liked nine o'clock better, and many were later still.

But Emily Prentiss clung to her early breakfast hour, and was always hoping against hope that her house guests would cling with her.

They never did, however, and try as she would, she could seldom get them downstairs at the appointed time.

This summer, her nephew, one Todhunter Buck, was spending the month of June with her. And as he was a docile and good-tempered chap, whom she had loved from babyhood on, she ruled him with a rod of iron, at least regarding her household appointments.

So Todhunter, whose awkward ancestral name had long since been reduced to Toddy, almost always beamed at his aunt across her matutinal table.

In available weather, this table was laid on the pleasant bungalow porch, which gave on the Western landscape and commanded a fairly good view of the Heath home. Being on the North horn of the crescent shaped harbor, these houses faced South.

"Toddy," said Mrs. Prentiss, as she poured the coffee, "there were queer doings at the Heath house last night."

"So?" said the youth, with a perfunctory showing of interest. "Jazz?"

"No, they're not that sort. Oh, I forgot you don't know them, of course, you having arrived only yesterday. But there's a girl over there that you'll like."

Pretty?" Toddy sat up.

"More than pretty,—a vision of angelic beauty."

"Gosh, Auntie, never heard you rave before!"

"And she's a nice girl, too. Oh, flapper and all that, but with some sense in her silly head. But I was telling you about last night."

"No, you weren't, you hadn't begun."

"Well, I will, if you'll be still a minute. I couldn't sleep—"

"Poor old auntie, I know. It must be awful to be to wakeful."

"It's terrible, Todhunter. You've no idea what it means to lie with wide open eyes and hear the clock strike the hours and half hours all through the night!"

"No. Why have a striking clock?"

"So I'll know what time it is, stupid. Well, last night, I was prowling about my room,—I do that when I just get worn out lying in bed awake—"

"Yes, go on. When does the pretty girl come in?"

"Not at all. Be quiet, will you? The people next door all went to bed some time before twelve o'clock."

"No!"

"Hush. Don't be silly. And then, a little later, say, about midnight, there was a small light, a dim one, in the studio. That's the room at this end of the house."

"H'm. I suppose the pretty girl came down to the library to get a book. They always do that."

"Well, maybe. Then after a short time, there was a big light flashed on—"

"Of course. The hero of the story comes down and finds girl, in bewitching negligee, with her hair down—"

"Will you be still! Well, then, about one o'clock the lights all went out except for two tiny sparks, that looked like two candles."

"And probably were. The two big sparks being the girl and the man."

"Hush. I'm serious, Tod. For after that, oh—half an hour after, the big light was flashed on again, stayed on for a short time, and then went off, leaving the two little dim lights again."

"Got you. Proceed."

"Then, after another interval, comes the big light again, and then, later, that goes out and the two little lights stay there all the rest of the night."

"Till what time?"

"I don't know. I stopped watching and went back to bed about three. The little lights were burning then, and when I awoke it was broad daylight."

"Well, Aunt Em, I don't think you've detailed such a very astounding sequence of events after all. Lights on and off in a house, are not of unprecedented occurrence."

"No. But what were the two little lights that stayed on through all the other ups and downs of the big lights?"

"Night lights, I suppose—"

"Nonsense! I've lived next door to the Heaths since the first of May, and they never burnt night lights before."

"Always has to be a first time. But what do you want me to say? I'll agree it's amazing, alarming, terrifying,—anything you wish. But I don't get it."

"That's just it, Tod. I don't get it either. I think something has happened over there."

"Do you separate the letters of your words when you write, Auntie?"

"You ought to know. I often write to you. Why?"

"Yes, I know you do. I remember now. You write half a word, and then take up your pen and put it down a bit further on, to finish it."

"Well, what of it?"

"Only that it means that the writer has intuition to a marked degree. So my adored Aunt, I believe your assumption is right, and something did happen next door, last night. Your intuition is doubtless correct. What do you suppose the happening was?"

"Toddy, you are a trial. I never know whether you're interested in what I'm saying, or just poking fun at me."

"Both, dear. That is, I'm interested in the pretty girl. Tell me more about her."

"Oh, she has yellow hair and blue eyes and a skin like peaches and cream. She's a friend of Mrs. Heath's, and I think she has bewitched Mr. Heath. She would bewitch any man not totally blind!"

"Yet you like her, Aunt?"

"Yes, she's a dear girl. Sort of homelike and gentle-mannered with older persons, like me. But I expect she's a hoyden among her own crowd."

"She's younger than the Heaths, then?"

"Yes; Bunny is twenty-two. The Heaths are both over thirty."

"Me for the Bunny! Why the kittenish name?"

"Her name is Berenice. But she's always called Bunny."

"Oh, well, I'd just as lief call her that as anything. When can I see her?"

"To-day, probably. They'll all be at the Greshams' this afternoon, and we'll be there, too."

"All right, but I'll hang about outside this morning, and hope to catch a preliminary glimpse of the universal charmer."

Toddy, having finished his breakfast, lighted a cigarette, as he glanced over toward the Heath house.

But he saw no sign of the occupants nor even any servants about, opening doors or windows.

And then, just as aunt and nephew rose from the table, there came to their ears a loud scream from the house next door.

Just one single, terrified shriek, seemingly a feminine voice, raised in sudden, uncontrollable fear or horror.

"Let's rush over!" Toddy cried, putting one leg over the porch railing.

"No, no," his aunt restrained him. "We can't do that. Harbor Gardens people are conventional and reserved. Wait until we hear something more."

But they heard nothing further, and after waiting for a time, Mrs. Prentiss went about her household affairs and young Buck sat on the verandah rail and smoked.

* * * * * * *

The shriek had come from Katie, the Heaths' parlormaid.

This capable and efficient young woman was in the habit of coming downstairs at eight o'clock every morning. For the Heaths breakfasted at nine, and Myra's exactions called for a house in perfect order at that hour.

It was Katie's duty to open windows and straighten things generally in the rooms and on the porches.

She had overslept a trifle this morning, for she had been out late,—indeed, she had come home from her evening out far later than the prescribed hour.

But she came downstairs, trim and neat in her smart morning uniform, and set diligently to work with her brush and duster.

The Lounge in order, she proceeded to the studio, and it was the sight that met her eyes there, that brought forth the wild scream of terror that the neighbors heard.

For there, in the middle of the floor, lay Myra Heath with a candle burning at her head and another at her feet.

Katie looked twice to be sure that it was her mistress, so strange and so changed was the face that she saw.

Then, her hands over her eyes, she stumbled her way back to the kitchen and fell into a chair there.

"What's the matter, Katie?" Cook said, curiously, and the butler came from the dining-room to listen.

"Oh, Mrs. Pierce, oh, Herrick,—it's the Missis,—she's—oh, I do believe she's dead!"

"Dead! Watcha talkin' about?" and Mrs. Pierce, the cook, stared at the excited girl.

"She is—she is! Just you go and look—in the stujo,—on the floor—"

But Mrs. Pierce, and Herrick, the butler, had already rushed through to the studio.

"Fer the love of the saints!" exclaimed Mrs. Pierce, "and the candles burnin' and all!"

"It ain't Mrs. Heath—" Herrick said, greatly puzzled.

"Sure it's Mrs. Heath! But justa look at her! Whatever has she been a doin' to herself?"

For it was a strange Myra Heath they saw. Instead of her usually pale face and colorless lips, they saw a scarlet mouth, of exquisite shape; cheeks delicately rouged, with beautiful effect; eyebrows finely pencilled and showing their true arch; and a hint of color at the roots of the long lashes, that, upturned, showed wide open eyes, fixed in the stare of death.

Yes, unmistakably death, though the vivid coloring was more lifelike than had ever before shown on Myra Heath's handsome features.

"Don't stand there like a ninny, Pierce!" the butler cried out. "We must tell somebody—we must call Mr. Heath—"

"Of course,—of course,"—responded the flustered woman. "You go and tell him, Herrick. You're the one to go."

Herrick considered. He was the one to go, doubtless, yet he felt strangely unwilling. Perry Heath had no valet, Herrick looked after some of his things, the rest were left to the maids. But he couldn't send one of the girls on such an errand as that. No, he must go himself.

So, slowly, Herrick turned away from the terrible yet fascinating sight, and slowly climbed the stairs.

He knocked at Perry Heath's door but heard no response. Repeated knocks brought no word from within, and so Herrick gently pushed open the door.

There was no one there, and the bed had obviously not been slept in.

This was amazing, and Herrick's legs trembled under him,

Nonplussed, and uncertain what to do next, the butler hesitated, and then went along the hall to Lawrence Inman's room, and knocked there.

"Who is it? What's the matter?" Inman called, and Herrick heard him jump out of bed and open the door.

Inman faced the man with a look of surprise, for guests were not called of a morning in this house.

"If you please, sir," Herrick began, "there's—there's trouble below."

"Trouble below?" Larry rubbed his eyes. "What do you mean? Speak out, man."

"Well, sir, Mr. Heath, sir, he ain't in his room."

"Where is he?"

"I don't know, sir. And Mrs. Heath, she's—she's dead, I think."

"What! Herrick, what are you talking about? You been drinking?"

"No sir. But I tell you there's great trouble on. Mrs. Heath, sir,—I tell you she's dead, sir."

Herrick's excitement made him incoherent, and without waiting to dress, Inman flung on a dressing gown, over his pajamas, and pushing the man aside, hurried down the stairs.

He went straight to the studio, and gave a gasp as he looked down at the prostrate figure on the floor.

The two candles were still burning, but they were guttering and almost burnt out.

Myra lay in a composed position, but with strange accessories. Her gown, the one she had worn the evening before, was of white georgette, simply made. But across the bodice, now, was flung the deep crimson scarf that was Bunny's. Round her neck was a heavy string of large, almost barbaric beads, of red and gold.

Instinctively, Inman glanced up at a light-sconce, where these beads usually hung, as a sort of decorative touch.

Their place was empty. Had Myra decked herself in these things?

He gazed at her face. Always beautiful, in her calm pale way, she was far more so now, with the color on cheeks and lips, with the dark touches that made her eyes look large and striking, and with the scarf of American Beauty red, enlivening her white dress.

And the candles,—two of those from the long studio table,—standing in their brass candlesticks at her head and feet, still faintly alight, but just ready to flicker out, these gave the effect of a shrine or a strange ceremonial of some sort.

"Oh, my God!" Larry groaned, as a man will, who does not know what else to say.

"She's been killed, Mr. Inman, sir," said Herrick, as he pointed to a great contusion on Myra's left temple.

This was not noticeable at first glance, for the head was turned to that side, and the hair was a bit fluffed out as if to hide it.

Inman looked, then turned away in horror, and ran from the room.

Herrick followed him, and they faced one another as they stood in the Lounge.

"What must we do, sir?" asked the man, and Inman stared at him speechlessly.

"But we must do something," Herrick urged, allowing himself the familiar pronoun by reason of the great stress of the occasion.

"Yes, yes," Larry roused himself to answer. "Yes, I suppose, we must."

"Where is Mr. Heath, sir?" Herrick went on, anxiously.

"Lord, I don't know. Where can he be? He must be around somewhere."

"No sir, he ain't. Why, he'd be right here, if he was. Now, what about Miss Moore?"

"Miss Moore? Oh, yes,—well, what about her?"

Herrick was disgusted with the man. He had never before been up against such a terrible situation, but he knew his place and he knew his business. A butler must be alert and helpful and capably attentive, but it is not for him to take command. That must be done by the gentlemen of the family, and here was Mr. Inman, whom Herrick liked and admired, falling down on the job.

"Why, sir, she ought to be—er—warned a bit, don't you think?"

"Yes, yes, certainly. Warn her, Herrick, warn her, by all means." Herrick stared.

"It's not for me, sir. I'll send Mrs. Pierce or one of the maids."

"Yes, do. That's right,—Mrs. Pierce or one of the maids."

Herrick shook his head. Mr. Inman was a broken reed. And with Mrs. Heath dead and Mr. Heath absent, what was to be done?

"Do you think, sir," he said, forcing himself to suggest, "that we ought to call a doctor, or—"

"A doctor? Oh, yes,—a doctor. Why,—why, Herrick, she's dead."

"I know it, sir, but it's most generally done in such cases. Oh, I wish Mr. Heath would come!"

"I wish so, too. I'm—I'm no good in a matter like this. I'm no good, Herrick."

"No, sir," said Herrick, sincere for once. "Well, then, suppose I telephone for Doctor Conklin, he's the family physician."

"Yes, do,—do that, Herrick, at once."

"Yes, sir. And I'll send Carter, the ladies' maid, to Miss Moore, and she can tell her, you see."

"I see."

"And you, sir, yourself, you'd better dress, for there'll be people coming, you know."

"Why, yes,—" Inman looked down at himself as if surprised at his garb. "Yes, certainly. I will."

He went off to his room, and, closing the studio door, Herrick went to the telephone.

He summoned Doctor Conklin, who promised to come over at once.

Then, with a swift glance about, Herrick pulled open a drawer in the big table, and from a loose pile of small bills, and a box containing silver coin, he helped himself rather liberally, stuffing the money in his pocket.

He eyed what was left with the air of a connoisseur, decided it was as little as he safely dared leave, and closed the drawer again.

Then he turned his attention to the dead woman, and silently contemplated the strange details of Myra Heath's appearance.

Never before had he seen his mistress with artificial color on her cheeks or lips; never before had he seen her wearing a crimson scarf; never before, to his knowledge, had she worn a string of gaudy beads. It was beyond his powers of divination to fathom these mysteries.

And then, at her feet, propped against the candlestick that stood there, he saw the card which he had seen many times before,—the ornate pen and ink work that bore the legend, "The Work of Perry Heath."

To Herrick this carried no sinister suggestion, he merely thought the card had been dropped there, and was about to pick it up, when there seeped through his bewildered brain a vague memory that one should not touch things on the scene of a mysterious death.

So he restrained his impulse to blow out the last feeble flickerings of the two candles, and, instead, raised the shades of the back windows to let in the daylight.

Then, patting his pocket with a soft sigh of satisfaction, he went out of the room, and sought the other servants.

He found them in the pantry, agog with excitement at the tales of Katie and Mrs. Pierce, but not daring to report for duty until summoned.

Herrick was unstrung himself, but kept his head, and assumed an extra dignity as he issued orders.

"No gossiping, now," he said; "Mrs. Pierce, you go on with getting the breakfast ready. We've no call to neglect our work. Carter, you go up to Miss Moore's room, and—and—well, you do the best you can. Tell the young lady that Mrs. Heath has—has—say, she's had an accident,—yes, that will do, an accident. And get Miss Moore to dress at once, for the doctor is coming and after that goodness knows what goings on there will have to be!"

"Oh,—I can't tell Miss Bunny!" Carter burst into sobs. "Poor Mrs. Heath—are you sure, Herrick, she's—dead? Let me see her."

"No, nobody, must go into that room till the doctor comes,—or Mr. Heath."

"Where is Mr. Heath?" exclaimed Carter.

"I don't know," Herrick said, slowly. "There's a lot to be learned yet. You go along, Carter, get Miss Bunny dressed and take up her breakfast. I'm at my wit's end! Nobody to boss—or, anything! Mr. Inman, he's all flabbergasted like,—I wish Mr. Heath would come back—wherever he's gone!"

Carter obeyed the orders of her superior, and taking a tray with coffee and rolls, started for Bunny's room.

But even as she tapped at the door, she heard the sound of wild sobbing within.

No summons bade her enter, and after another knock, Carter opened the door and went in.

Bunny was huddled in a forlorn heap in the middle of her bed, and was crying bitterly.

"There now, there now, Miss Bunny," Carter said, moved to pity at the sight of the girl's intense grief, "take a sup of coffee, do—"

With an air of bewilderment, Bunny looked up in the maid's face, and docilely took the cup she proffered.

As she swallowed, she looked over the rim of the cup at Carter.

"What is it?" she whispered. "What's all the excitement about?"

"Well,—Miss,—you see, Mrs. Heath, she—she isn't so well."

"Not well! Myra! What do you mean?"

"She's—she's had an accident, ma'am."

"Accident! What sort of accident?"

"She—" but Carter's powers of vague prevarication were limited, and she blurted out, "why, she's dead, ma'am!"

"Dead!" said Bunny, not hysterically, but with an awed, dazed air, her intent gaze fixed on Carter's face.

"Yes, ma'am," the maid returned, ready, the Rubicon crossed, to dilate on the subject.

"Dress me," Bunny said, almost sharply. "Never mind the bath, give me my clothes."

And in utter silence the girl rapidly donned her garments.

"A white frock," she said, with a sudden remembrance of the conventions. "A simple one."

A plainly tailored white voile gown was forthcoming and Bunny put it on, adding a necklace of small jet beads.

"Do you know where Mr. Heath is, ma'am?" said Carter, timidly, but determined to raise the question.

"No, how should I? Isn't he about?"

"No, ma'am, Herrick can't find him anywhere."

"Oh, he's around somewhere, of course. No, I don't want any more coffee. Where is—Mrs. Heath?"

"Oh, ma'am, she's in the stujo—she's—"

"Never mind, Carter, I'll go down now."