Читать книгу Wheels within Wheels - Carolyn Wells - Страница 7

Table of Contents

Doctor Avery lumbered downstairs again.

“Mrs. Howland’s mind is very much affected,” he said, as he joined the group in the living-room. “After the death of her child, it hovered in the balance, but for years she has been practically all right. This new tragedy, however, has, I fear, unhinged it, and she doesn’t know what she is talking about.”

“How did she learn of her husband’s death?” asked Sally Peters, curiously.

“I told her,” replied the doctor, a little shortly, and not adding that Mary had said she already knew it. “Better leave her alone for the present; Lane is looking after her.”

“But how does she seem? Is she quiet,—or violent?” Sally persisted.

“Perfectly quiet. Melancholy,—not really alive to the situation at all. I’ll watch her carefully, but she must see no one but the nurse just now.”

Then Mason, the county physician, arrived. He had come from the county-seat, five miles distant, and was eager to hear the details of his strange summons.

The two doctors went to the library, and Avery awaited with interest the opinion of his colleague.

But Mason was as puzzled as himself, and the two men stared at one another and at the face of the dead man.

“The countenance, slightly cyanosed as it is, hints at poisoning—hydrocyanic,—for choice. But there’s positively no odor on the lips or on the body. It’s not a plausible explanation. Yet there’s no real symptom of heart failure,—it certainly is not a stroke of any sort,—I think we must report to the police.”

“Oh,—the publicity—the—do you mean murder, Mason?”

“That’s what it looks like to me,—though I can’t fathom the means. Yet an autopsy may show the introduction of a long, fine, pointed instrument, hatpin, say, or very slender dagger.”

“But in that case, there would be—”

“Oh, I know, Avery. I only say that I cannot learn the cause of this death without an autopsy. And I prefer to report to the police first.”

“Better, of course. Shall I call the Station at Bannerton?”

For the peaceful little village of Normandale had never had enough wrongdoing in its community to support a local police force.

Mason agreed and then he began to look about the room.

“Know any of the details?” he asked. “Howland likely to have been killed?”

“Good Lord, no!” Avery broke out. “There never was a man less likely. And I don’t for a minute believe he was. We’ll prove a natural death.”

“Hope so, I’m sure, as you’re so anxious. How’s his wife?”

“Bad,—very bad. Always nervous and easily upset, this thing has just about finished her mentality.”

“Off her head?”

“Practically. But quiet and amenable,—so far.”

Doctor Avery did not at all like the county physician. Mason was a much younger man than himself and had the flippant manner and cocksure air of the newer generation. He eyed the dead man and Doctor Avery alternately.

“Don’t keep anything back, please,” he said.

Avery started. “I’m not,” he returned, angrily. “Why should I?”

“Don’t know, I’m sure, but you look uncommonly like a man with a doubt of some sort.”

“I’ve a good many doubts, but the principal one is whether this death is a natural one, or—”

“A suicide?”

“No! not that! That’s impossible. Ralph Howland had no motive for suicide, but if he had, he’d never be coward enough to do that,—nor would he so cruelly harm his wife.”

“Maybe not—maybe not. By the way, what’s this?”

Mason drew the other’s attention to a very small cut or scratch on the dead man’s cheek.

“Can’t see any importance in it. Probably cut himself while shaving.”

“Not just the right place for that. And, besides, it’s too fresh a scar. That cut occurred not more than a minute or two before the man died.”

“At any rate, it couldn’t have caused his death,—if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“It’s a queer cut,—like a little circle.”

Doctor Avery scrutinized the wound.

“The merest scratch,” he said; “might have done it with his finger nail.”

“True,” agreed Mason.

Then Chief Weldon and two of his men made a somewhat dramatic entry. A crime of any sort was of such infrequent occurrence in the neighborhood that it was met with an awed excitement not wholly unpleasant.

“A murder? A dastardly murder?” Weldon inquired, in a stagey whisper.

“We don’t know that,” said Doctor Avery, testily, “but the case must be looked into.”

“Yes, yes, indeed,” and Weldon rubbed his hands in anticipation of conducting the looking-into process.

But by noon, though the autopsy had been completed, the Chief of Police was as far from certain of having a criminal case on his hands as he had been at first.

In the living-room and in the presence of the assembled household he heard the report of the doctors.

Although Mason was in charge, Avery was a physician of far wider experience, and the two had not quite come to an agreement.

Both declared that there was absolutely no condition or symptom of the body incompatible with a simple, natural death, but neither was there any hint or indication as to the cause of death.

The stomach contained no trace of poison, nor was there any on the lips or tongue, nor had any been introduced by injection into a vein.

Moreover, there was no stab wound or shot, there was no bruise or abrasion of the skin, with the exception of the tiny scratch on the cheek; and that, both doctors averred, was not infected or serious and could not by any possibility have brought death about. Indeed, they agreed that it had doubtless come as the man’s head dropped forward on the desk.

“But,” said Doctor Mason, “I submit this opinion. I assert that when the autopsy was begun, the initial incision in the chest brought to my nostrils a sudden, fleeting whiff of the odor of prussic acid. This Doctor Avery did not notice, and he thinks I am mistaken about it.”

“I do not say Doctor Mason is mistaken, I merely say I noticed no such odor,” Avery said, quietly.

“Is it essential?” asked Weldon, wonderingly.

“No,” said Avery, quickly, but Mason said, “Pardon me, I hold that it is. If such an odor was present, it indicates poisoning,—if not, we have no reason to suspect poisoning.”

“Then look for some other cause,” said Doctor Avery, curtly, “for I am sure that odor existed only in my learned colleague’s imagination.”

Seeing there was more or less of a personal issue just here, Weldon asked further questions as to other possible explanations of Ralph Howland’s death.

And the two doctors were at one in their positive assurance that there was no symptom, no hint as to the manner in which death came.

“It’s a strange thing,” Rob Peters burst forth, “that two experienced physicians, after an autopsy, can’t learn the cause of a death!”

“It is a strange thing,” agreed Doctor Mason; “I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a case before.”

“However,” and Austin Magee spoke with very evident relief, “I think we can dismiss the idea of crime and consider the death a natural one, since there is no evidence otherwise.”

“I agree to that,” said Leonard Swift, and he too seemed relieved.

Indeed they all were, for while death is bad enough, it is far worse to feel that it was brought about by human agency.

Sally Peters’ face lost its look of horror and was merely sad; Miss Mills stopped crying and tried to still her quivering mouth.

Rob Peters was frankly relieved and said so.

But Chief Weldon said, “Not so fast,—not so fast. Negative evidence is far from conclusive. Justice demands its own, and until we can prove the death a natural one, we must look further,—even if we fare worse.”

Magee cast a quick look at the chief, and concluded that he was rather anxious than otherwise that the matter should turn out to be a crime. But he did Weldon injustice there. The man was honestly trying to do his duty, and he felt that this was too soon to turn down the case as finished.

“There are other means of discovery,” Weldon went on. “Investigation may prove a willful crime, even if the results are not at first discovered by the physicians. At any rate it will do no harm for me to make inquiry as to the details of the matter. Will some one tell me the history of the case,—if I may call it that,—in a few words.”

“I will tell you,” began Leonard Swift. “As my cousin’s heir and successor to this property and to most of his business affairs, it devolves on me to make the statement.”

“You are his heir?” asked Weldon. “Has his will been read?”

“No; but I am familiar with its provisions and I know I am the principal heir of Ralph Howland’s estate.”

“But he left a wife?” said Weldon, wondering.

“She is amply provided for, but she is incapable of taking charge of the business matters and the property estates, which have been left to me. My late cousin knew that I would carry on his business interests and attend to his various enterprises, which, of course, a woman could not do. However, that’s neither here nor there. You can read the will for yourself.”

Swift had risen, and it was with rather a benignant air that he looked about at the listening group. He seemed to have taken up the reins of government at once, and his appropriation of Ralph Howland’s estate was, apparently, to him a matter of course.

“Where is the will?” asked Weldon. “Let us read it now.”

But the detective who had come with the chief, one O’Brien, was anxious to learn further details of the events of the night before, and said so.

“Ask some questions, if you like,” Weldon directed, a little relieved at the idea of assistance in his unfamiliar task.

“Who saw Mr. Howland last?” O’Brien began briskly, and his sharp eyes darted round the room.

“That’s hard to say,” Rob Peters remarked. “I had an interview with Mr. Howland in his study about eleven o’clock, and when I left him Mr. Magee was with him.”

“I stayed half an hour or so, and when I left him Mr. Swift was with him,” the secretary narrated, and there seemed a tinge of satisfaction in his voice at thus shifting the responsibility.

“Yes, I had a talk with him,” Swift agreed, “and I left him about midnight. He said he should sit up an hour longer, as he was not sleepy, and he had some matters to think over.”

“He seemed well?” the detective asked.

“Perfectly,” returned Swift; “never better. We discussed his will, in fact, he showed it to me, and when I said I hoped it would be many a long year before that document was called into use, he laughed and said he was sure it would.”

“Where is the document?”

“In the right-hand upper drawer of his filing cabinet.”

“Not in a safe?”

“I only know where he put it last night,—after we had talked it over.”

“All right. Now no one else present saw Mr. Howland after the hour of midnight?”

There was no response for a moment, then Miss Mills said:

“Mrs. Howland came downstairs after that.”

“How do you know?”

“I heard her.”

“From your own room?”

“Yes; I have especially good hearing, and I always hear any movements in the house after it is still for the night.”

“Where is your room, Miss Mills?”

“On the same side of the house as the library, but back,—at the rear.”

“And from there you can hear people going up or down the carpeted staircase!”

“Miss Mills has really abnormal hearing,” Sally Peters broke in. “Yes, she can hear,—as she describes.”

“I can,” Miss Mills repeated, calmly, and as she raised her big gray eyes to the detective’s face, he was inclined to believe anything she might say.

“Why would Mrs. Howland go downstairs so late?” asked O’Brien, as he carefully watched the various faces.

“To begin with,” Miss Mills vouchsafed, “Mrs. Howland is erratic and is quite likely to wander over the house at night if she is wakeful. Also, last night there were several thunderstorms. Mrs. Howland is afraid of these, and she doubtless went down to seek her husband. I know she started to do so earlier, while Mr. Swift was with him, but hearing the men engaged in conversation she came back upstairs without going into the library.”

“You saw all this?”

“Yes, I stood in the upper hall waiting to see if I could do anything for Mrs. Howland. But when she came up she only said good night and went to her room.”

“What time was this?”

“About twelve o’clock—I don’t know nearer than that.”

“But you heard Mrs. Howland go down again later?”

“Yes.”

“At what time?”

“I can’t tell you. I was wakeful myself and was lying in bed, in the dark, so I don’t know the time exactly. But I should say it must have been at least one o’clock. Perhaps half-past one.”

O’Brien turned to the doctors.

“What time do you figure that Mr. Howland died?”

“About twelve or one o’clock,” Doctor Mason said.

“It’s impossible to say,” the older doctor put in. “We medical men are not clairvoyant. We can deduce from symptoms as to the approximate time, but we cannot say positively within an hour or two.”

“Well, we must be sure that he was alive when Mary went down,” Sally Peters said quickly; “if he hadn’t been she would have raised an outcry.”

Doctor Avery bit his lower lip,—with him a sure sign of deep agitation. He alone knew that Mary Howland had said she already knew it when he informed her her husband was dead. What line of conjecture this might open up he was afraid to think.

“That’s what I say,” he put in, abruptly. “It’s not possible to state these hours exactly. Miss Mills is not sure of the time Mrs. Howland went downstairs, Doctor Mason and I cannot be sure of the exact hour of Mr. Howland’s death, nor can we make a good guess at it until we know what killed him. So, I hold that Mrs. Peters’ point is well taken. At whatever hour Mrs. Howland went downstairs, it was before the death of her husband.”

“As to the house,” asked O’Brien. “Was it locked up for the night?”

Leonard Swift answered this question.

“We never lock up for the night,” he said, with a slight smile. “In this peaceful community robbery is a thing unknown. Never in my experience has Howland House had a key turned or a window fastened at night.”

Chief Weldon nodded his head. “Nobody does around here,” he said. “If you suspect an intruder, O’Brien, there was doubtless ample chance for one to enter.”

“Indeed, yes,” Swift assented. “The front door is never fastened, and when I left Mr. Howland the library windows were all wide open.”

“But it was raining,” objected the detective.

“Not then. The showers were fitful and slight,—mere dashes of rain with rumbling thunder and sudden sharp flashes of lightning. And, too, the wide verandah roof shelters the porch so that no rain ever reaches the windows. It was warm and close, the steam heat was going in the house, and the night was sultry and oppressive, so all the library windows were open,—of that I’m sure.”

“Yes, they were,” Magee said. He spoke almost mechanically, his eyes fixed on the questioning detective.

O’Brien returned his gaze, and said, suddenly, “In what mood was Mr. Howland when you left him, Mr. Magee?”

“Angry,” said Magee, succinctly.

“At you?”

“No.”

“At whom?”

“Oh,—nobody in particular—at circumstances—”

“He was angry at me,” Rob Peters broke in. “I had been talking to him and trying to interest him in a business proposal. He was very angry.”

“Since Mr. Peters admits it, that is the truth,” said Magee, gravely.

“Was Mr. Howland still angry when you talked to him, Mr. Swift? After Mr. Magee had left you?”

“He was getting over it,” said Swift, speaking slowly, as if choosing his words. “He was, I think, only temporarily anonyed at Mr. Peters’ persistence.”

“Oh, Mr. Peters persisted, did he? On what subject?”

“I wanted Mr. Howland to put some money into a mining project,” Peters said; “he did not see it as I did, and we discussed it. I think the matter has no further interest for any of us now.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” and the questioner looked at him keenly, “Call in the butler, or whoever first discovered Mr. Howland in the library this morning,” Weldon decreed.

Both Martin and Charles were summoned. They gave a detailed account of their discovery and awaited further questions.

“This Conrad,—who is he?” asked O’Brien, interested at once.

Doctor Avery responded. “He’s the village halfwit. A poor harmless boy, who moons about doing nothing most of the time.”

“Boy?”

“He’s about thirty, but he has so little intellect that every one speaks of him as a boy. I have known him all his life, and he has no homicidal mania, nor would he have intelligence to wreak real harm on any one.”

“Oh, I don’t suspect him of murder,” said Weldon, “but it seems queer for him to be here, so far from his home, at all hours.”

“He has always done so,” Avery returned. “His vagaries are inexplicable. But if any one is kind to him, and the Howlands always have been, he haunts their homes,—wanders in and out as he likes, and no one seems to mind him.”

“I mind him,” said Edith Mills. “I can’t bear him. He gives me the creeps. He was prowling about this house all night long. I heard him.”

“I suppose, though, his evidence would be of no value?” asked O’Brien.

“None at all,” said Doctor Avery, positively. “If he answered a question his answer could not be depended on as truth. He is the son of the undertaker of the village, and one of his deep-seated notions is to get work for his father. He spends much of his time in his father’s shop and for the rest he wanders about aimlessly.”