Читать книгу The Furthest Fury - Carolyn Wells - Страница 6

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The rocking chair Phalanx at Gray Porches massed itself on the veranda that faced the Woodbine cottage and breathlessly watched the proceedings. And they were kept busy, for arrivals were continuous and each newcomer seemed worthy of note and comment.

“There’s Coroner Fraser,” announced Mrs. Appleby, who as one of the older “regulars” had the best rocking chair and the most advantageous position, “and Sheriff Rankin with ’im! Well, they’re two tip-top men, and I rather guess something’ll be doing now. You see, Mrs. Endicott and Mrs. Trent,” for she had annexed these two newcomers with a shrewd eye to their possible social importance, “I know everybody up here, and I can tell you.”

The others were duly grateful, and listened to their informant, while watching with eager eyes the strange scenes before them.

Neighbors had gathered, of course, and the Woodbine porch overflowed with curious humanity. Also people from more distant homes were arriving. Country people who had been marketing in the village, aristocrats from the Hill section, in their big cars, children on their way to school, delivery boys, all sorts and conditions of men had paused at the pretty white house, and stood in groups, wondering and asking questions.

“Looks like an auction, ’ceptin’ they ain’t no red flag,” said one of the Gray’s waitresses, for the great occasion had more or less broken down the barriers of convention.

“Seems ’sif I must go over there,” and Mrs. Appleby half rose, but fell back again as Mrs. Gray advised her to stay where she was.

“Better not, Mrs. Appleby, they won’t let you go into the house, I know, and you can see everything from here.”

Sarah Gray was right, no one was allowed inside the house, but the authorities. County Sheriff Rankin was a capable man, and in this case, he had hurried over from his home in a nearby town, not willing to trust a matter of such importance to his deputies.

“Bad business, Fraser,” he said to the Coroner, as they started their examination of the premises.

“Righto,” returned Fraser, a sharp alert chap of few words, and those usually slangy.

“And whoever killed these people did it mighty cleverly,” Rankin went on; “so far I’ve seen no clues.”

“Smart Aleck, sure,” agreed Fraser, who was darting about the rooms on the upper floor. “No footprints, no fingerprints—”

“Oh, you can’t be sure of that yet. But one thing is certain, they both put up a stiff fight for their lives.”

“I’ll say that,” put in Doctor Duncan, who was silently looking on. “Lawrence’s attitude is that of one who was shot just as he prepared to make a lunge at his assailant.”

“Yep, keeled straight over back,” assented Fraser. “And as to Mrs. Sayre,” the doctor went on, “she fairly fought like a tiger! Her outstretched arms, and her tensed muscles show it, as well as the fact that her silk robe is torn and her hair disordered. Strange nobody heard anything.”

“Maybe they did,” said Rankin. “We haven’t begun to question people yet.”

“And that’s what we’d better be up to,” said Fraser. “Gawpin’ around here ain’t going to help much.”

“Hello, Fraser, may I come up?” called a voice from the stairs, and some well brushed dark hair and a pair of blue eyes appeared in view.

“That you, Stanhope, where’d you drop from? Yes, come along up. You know Doc Duncan and old man Rankin, don’t you? Now, give us the benefit of your gigantic on this matter.”

Dave Stanhope, who had heard the news at the post office, came up and shuddered as he saw the dreadful details of the scene.

His quick eyes turned from the pitiful, still figures and took in the rooms and furnishings.

The two largest and best bedrooms were those occupied by the unfortunate victims of the tragedy.

On either side of the house, each had its own bathroom and each was quite evidently furnished with a care to the tastes of its occupant.

Mrs. Sayre’s room was decorated in tones of Jonquil yellow, which with white painted woodwork and furniture made a soft, cool looking effect. The chintzes were harmonious and the latticed windows were draped with yellow chiffon curtains with tiny ruffles, which blew in and out like shimmering veils. The dressing table was elaborately appointed and well kept, with a spray of small yellow roses in a Venetian glass vase for decoration.

In a bay window was a sewing table and a low rocker, and the window seat was piled with lacy pillows.

Everything betokened quiet good taste, and showed beside an individual charm that reflected the character of the woman who had planned it all.

And that woman lay, a dreadful sight, with torn kimono, disordered hair and crimson stained night dress, her features drawn in fear and anger, her arms stretched to full length toward the corner of the wall near which she lay.

Reverently, yet with intense interest, Stanhope turned back to this figure.

“She fought bravely,” he said; “see, where she backed against the door—”

“What? How do you know that?” cried Rankin.

“Look at that,” and Stanhope pointed to a few scratches on the white enameled paint of the door that gave into the hall. They were at the height of his shoulder and as he pointed to them he said, “those were made by that comb that you see in her hair now. She stood like this,” he stepped to the door, “and fought off the attacks as long as she could.”

“By jingo, you’re right,” and Fraser looked his admiration. “I always said you were a born detective, Dave.”

“Not at all. But I read a lot of detective yarns and it makes me deductive, I suppose. Anyway I’m sure about this thing. In a room like this those disfiguring scratches would not have been permitted to remain on that immaculate door.”

“Well,” put in Rankin, “I don’t see as that’s much help. I observe Mrs. Sayre is wearing a sort of comb—barrette is what they call those things—and like as not it did make those scratches, but what of it? They’re not finger prints and they don’t get us anywhere, do they?”

Stanhope was kneeling over the prostrate form and with great care was lifting the shreds of torn silk and lace, and scrutinizing them.

“I trust you, Mr. Stanhope,” Rankin said, “not to disturb any evidence. I’ve seen all I want to, and I think Fraser, you’d better get at the inquest. Come along, Doctor Duncan. I’ll send a couple of men up here to stand guard.”

Stanhope was left alone as the men trooped downstairs, and being interested, he continued to gaze on the still beautiful face before him. He noted the long braid of dark hair, held at the top by the barrette of shell with a decoration of cut steel. He noted the hands were scratched and bruised and the waves of hair about the face were so tangled as to indicate a physical battle.

Just as he heard the steps of the officers Rankin had sent up, he noticed what looked like a cobweb on the carpet. Half unconsciously, he brushed it up and rolled it flimsily between his fingers.

He continued to examine the details of the dead woman’s clothing, but beyond observing that her night dress was of fine batiste with a touch of lace at the neck and short sleeves, and that she wore no jewelry save a wedding ring, he left the bedroom and went to the other one.

One of the policemen had now taken a seat in each room, but beyond a salutation they said no word to Stanhope, and he felt free to do as he chose. There was nothing to do, however, except to observe the furniture, yet try as he might he could find nothing that seemed to be a clue.

The room of Nevin Lawrence, though quite different in effect, was as well appointed as the other. The predominant coloring was old blue, and the walls were plain gray with white painted woodwork. His brushes and toilet appointments were of the best but not of an ornamental type.

There were no fripperies or trinkets about, yet the room had an air of being well cared for. Even the arrangement of a few chicory blossoms in a silver vase seemed to show a more appreciative eye for harmony than Emma Lily could boast, and Stanhope concluded that Mrs. Sayre was a devoted sister and looked after her brother’s aesthetic pleasure as well as his creature comforts.

In this room there were no signs of a struggle. As had been already concluded, doubtless Nevin Lawrence was awakened only to meet his death an instant later. His apparent resistance was probably immediate and instinctive, but quite useless against this determined murderer.

As assumed, it was quite probable that Mrs. Sayre, hearing this shot had flung on her kimono as she started for her brother’s room. Had been met at her own door by the desperate marauder, and had, after a short, fierce struggle, been herself shot down.

Only one act of vandalism, which was doubtless an accident, Stanhope assumed, was to be seen in Lawrence’s room.

A small terra cotta statuette lay on the floor broken into a score of fragments.

“A Tanagra Figurine!” exclaimed Stanhope, picking up the bit that showed the face of the little figure. “And a corking fine one. Wonder how the murderer came to upset only this valuable bit of bric-a-brac. But it must have been accidental, for if he had known its value he would have appropriated it himself. Wonder if it could be mended by an expert.” He was about to pick up the pieces when the officer on guard stopped him, with a courteous reminder that nothing was to be touched.

“And that’s right,” Stanhope agreed, “there may be finger prints on those pieces.”

Pausing only a moment longer to look over the names of the books on a reading table, Stanhope made his way downstairs.

Coroner Fraser, who was brisk of action, already had his inquest well under way. It was rather a preliminary inquiry than a formal inquest, but Fraser was too anxious to ask questions quickly, to allow of any delay. So he was interviewing the servants first, with a wary eye out for any hint as to which way to look next.

As a matter of fact, the man was nonplussed. He knew Nevin Lawrence slightly, though he had never met Mrs. Sayre, and he could conceive of no reason any one could have for killing either of them, unless it had been a burglar. And burglars were unknown in this part of the country. Never had there been so much as a robbery in New Midian, and, moreover, so far as had yet been learned, nothing had been stolen. The silver was on the sideboard, Mrs. Sayre’s jewelry was in her dresser drawer, and though the pearl pin had not been found, it might yet turn up.

So Fraser went ahead, methodically, hoping something would occur to give him a hint of the truth.

George Bailey, a clean cut young chap of twenty-five was being questioned when Stanhope reached the living room, where the inquiry was held.

Bailey was the chauffeur, but he lived at home, and only arrived at the Woodbine each morning about nine o’clock or so.

His story was of no evidential value whatever, for he only declared that he had gone home the night before at six o’clock, and not being wanted in the evening, had not returned until the next morning.

“Where were you last evening?” asked Fraser.

“Home to supper, spent the evening with my girl, and home and to bed about ten,” was the succinct reply.

“Any witnesses to this?” Fraser snapped.

“Father, mother, and the rest of the family.”

“Who is your girl?”

“Rosie Gale. She works for Mrs. Lee, but she’s home evenings.”

The young man’s manner was straightforward and unembarrassed. Fraser was a pretty good judge of human nature, and he saw no reason for the slightest suspicion of the chauffeur. But he said:

“You always on good terms with Mr Lawrence?”

“Best ever,” Bailey replied.

“Mrs. Sayre, too, of course?”

“She was an angel, if ever there was one,” exclaimed Bailey with tears in his eyes.

And then, Fraser suddenly remembered that he ought to get the Doctor’s report at this juncture. As a coroner he was inexperienced, but he had a clear head and a fairly good idea of relative values.

His informal jury of seven or eight citizens had been hastily recruited, but he wanted to give them all possible data to work on.

Doctor Duncan in his grave, impressive way told of his findings. He said the brother and sister had been shot at nearly the same time, that both were killed at or near the hour of two in the morning, that each died as the result of a bullet fired from a Smith & Wesson hammerless revolver of thirty-eight caliber. Both were shot through the heart at very close range, and the logical assumption was that both were killed by the same weapon and by the same person or persons.

“You think Mr. Lawrence was shot first?” Fraser asked.—

“I do,” returned Doctor Duncan. “Naturally the first shot would awaken the other sleeper, and as Mr. Lawrence was killed in his bed, I hold that the obvious conclusion is that the intruder shot him, and thereby awakened Mrs. Sayre, who arose and ran to his assistance. Then she was met at her own door and shot, probably because she was a dangerous witness to the crime. Had she not appeared, the murderer might have left without further delay. This, of course, is only surmise.”

“You think both these victims fought for their life?”

“I don’t think they had much opportunity for a fight; at least, Mr. Lawrence didn’t. It was a deliberate, cold-blooded assassin who attacked him, who stood near and shot with a calm and unswerving aim.”

“Yet he was not shot in his sleep?”

“I should say the approach of the murderer waked him, or maybe he was not asleep, yet saw the danger too late to ward it off in any way. Mrs. Sayre, however, fought desperately. She evidently attacked her assailant, and was only killed after a wild fight.”

“Yet the noise of this did not arouse the neighbors.”

“That is the strange part of it all. None of the guests at Gray Porches next door seemed to be disturbed. This might lead to the surmise that the murderer was not a stranger to the victims.”

“Bring in that servant,” said Fraser abruptly.

At a nod of summons the house-keeper came in from the kitchen.

“What is your name?” the coroner said, looking at her severely.

“Emma Lily Stagg,” and the words snapped out, while the straight, strong woman stood with folded arms, looking like a grenadier.

About forty, Emma Lily was the type of wiry strength and tireless capability so often seen in New England kitchens. She was above instruction, beyond advice; she claimed to know it all, and usually made good her claim. She resented any interference in her own domain, but was quite ready to invade the domains of others.

Janet Sayre had been annoyed at some of her idiosyncracies, but had found her services so indispensable, that any little misunderstanding was quickly patched up.

“How long have you worked for Mr. Lawrence?”

“ ’Bout two years.”

“You found him a kind master?”

“Couldn’t be better. Both of ’em—white clear through.”

“Paid you good wages?”

“All I asked.”

“And had Mr. Lawrence or Mrs. Sayre made any provision for you by will?”

“Yes—sir—ee! They each of ’em bequested me a thousand dollars, and that’s the only ray o’ sunshine in this vale of tears!”

“Ah, they each willed you a thousand dollars! That seems a great deal.”

“Yep, it seems so to me, too. But it’s the truth.”

“And you’re glad to have the money—you were in haste to get it—”

“Now, see here, Mr. Coroner, don’t you go to flingin’ no aspersions! If you mean did I kill these two people to get that money, I didn’t, and nobody can prove I did.”

She looked round the room with a belligerent air, which was not entirely devoid of fear. Her face was white and her small black, shoe-button eyes darted from one face to another as if she found herself up against some unexpected menace.

“I say, nobody can prove I did!” and this time her tone was truculent.

“Nobody’s trying to prove anything but the truth,” said the coroner. “Now just tell us all you can of the happenings of last evening. Were Mr. Lawrence and his sister alone at dinner?”

“Yes, they wasn’t no comp’ny. Not that we often do have comp’ny—jest now and then a few neighbors, but only now and then.”

“And after dinner?”

“Why, after dinner, lemmesee, I did up the dishes, and I set on the back porch a spell—Miss Busby, she ran over for a minute—and then I went to bed fairly early.”

“No callers?”

“No—oh, yes, young Hazelton, he came—’long ’bout nine, I should judge.”

“How long did he stay?”

“I don’t know. They never required me to stay to tend door in the evenings. I did let Barker Hazelton in, but I don’t know when he went away. Mrs. Sayre, she went out a few minutes, just to run over to the liberry to change her books, and then, after Lizzie Busby talked to me, she went in the house for a few minutes, and then soon after that, I let Bark Hazelton in and then directly I went up to bed. My room is in the extension, and from it I can’t see anybody comin’ or goin’ nor hear them neither.”

“Well, Emma Lily, you’ve mixed me up a little. Now, was Miss Busby your caller or Mrs. Sayre’s?”

“Why, both? She ran over from her house, and passed the time with me on the back steps where I was settin’ and then she says: ‘The folks in the house?’ and I says yes, and she went through the kitchen and along in. It was just about then I seen Mrs. Sayre go out to the liberry.”

“All right, and then young Hazelton called?”

“Yes, in a few minutes or so; I dunno exactly. Miss Busby she was there when Barker came in.”

“And after you went to your room, you heard no unusual or suspicious sounds all through the night?”

“Not a bit of it. Of course, my room is on the far side of the house, I mean away from the neighbors and from the village. Anything I’d hear would be somebody coming along the road from the other way.”

“And you didn’t?”

“Nothin’ that I noticed. Mighta been a motor car or two, or some spoonin’ couples walkin’ out. But I didn’t notice nothin’.”

“And then, this morning?”

“Well, this morning everything was just as always, till they didn’t come down, and I waited and I called, and I couldn’t hear no sounds, so I ran up—and I saw ’em.”

“All right, Emma Lily. Now just one question more about last evening. When Mr. Hazelton called, what sort of a temper was he in?”

“What sort of a temper!” the woman’s face went white. “Land! You don’t suspect Bark of the murder, do you?”

“Don’t ask questions, answer them,” Fraser said sternly. “And tell the truth.”

“Well, then, he was kinder mad. He had a quiet, still look on his face that was like he was just determined ’bout somethin’.”

“What did he say to Mr. Lawrence first?”

“Good land, how do I know? I ain’t a reporter—”

“Answer my question.”

“Why, I s’pose he said How de do, or somethin’ like that.”

Fraser looked at her steadily. He was a man of quick intuition, and he sensed the woman’s reluctance to speak. He even shook a threatening forefinger at her, as he said, “No more of that quibbling, tell me what he said.”

“Well, then,” Emma Lily was cowed into submission, “he said, ‘I’ve come to settle that matter once for all, Mr. Lawrence. You’ve got to put up or shut up.’ But the boy didn’t mean anything by that.”

“Never mind what he meant, stick to what he said. Then what did Mr. Lawrence say?”

“He said, right pleasantly, ‘sit down, Hazelton, let’s talk it over,’ and that’s all I heard, by that time I was goin’ through the door to the kitchen.”

Emma Lily’s story seemed finished, but before Fraser could proceed there was an interruption.

Someone had arrived at the front door who insisted on admittance.

“I must see her,” a hollow, quavering voice said. “I must see her!”

And then they heard hesitating, unsteady steps ascending the stairs. Stanhope from his seat in the living room, commanded a view of the hall and to his utter amazement, he saw that the man on the stairs was the white-faced man he had seen on the train coming up from New York the day before.

“Now what does that mean?” he asked himself; but, trusting to the discretion of his assistant policemen, Frazer paid no attention to the incident and called his next witness.

In a moment, Stanhope saw the man come back downstairs, and with bowed head go out of the front door and walk slowly along the country road that led away from the village.

His face was of the same chalk-white that had attracted Stanhope’s notice so strongly, and as he went out, through the door, he said softly, to somebody, “no, it ain’t the one I thought it was. It’s a terrible thing, but I don’t know these people.”

“A queer old duck,” Stanhope said to himself. “And it’s none of my business, but if I were a coroner or a sheriff, I’d ask a few questions of that whitefaced man!”