“And most becoming, Sir Galahad!” She turned and stroked Sydes’ temple. “Wonder if Stan’ll be handsome when he gets grey.”
“I promise you, Goddess,” declared Sydes, “I’ll be unutterably fascinating.” He leaned over her. “And now, for the last time—”
“I always get seasick. I’ll seek my treasure nearer home.”
“Maybe I will too, if you spurn my invitation.” Sydes’ tone was fretful and aggressive.
“What do you think this wild man wants, Joan?” Miss Naesmith explained banteringly. “He insists I sail with him to Cocos Island and go diving for the treasure of the Mary Dear in Wafer Bay.”
“Oh, that would be wonderful!” There was pathetic longing in Joan Rexon’s voice.
“You dear, sweet child.” The older girl’s tone softened. Then she went upstairs, and Sydes followed.
A while later Marcia Bruce came out. “You may run along home, Ella. I’ll take our darling in charge.”
Vance rose.
“And I’ll see Miss Ella home.”
I knew he had great compassion for the girl who had no part in the gay sophisticated life about her. And I knew why he wished to walk with her to her father’s cottage. He would strive to cheer and amuse her, so that the sting of Miss Naesmith’s words might be forgot.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Inquest
(Friday, January 17; noon.)
THE CORONER’S INQUEST increased the tension of the situation. Ella Gunthar had spoken urgently to Vance as soon as she arrived at the Manor that morning. She was fully cognizant of the time and place of the inquest and determined to be there. Vance sought to dissuade her, but finally abandoned the effort. He realized there was some deeper reason than mere curiosity, and arranged to take her with us in O’Leary’s car.
At the bend in the roadway where it joined the main highway O’Leary signaled sharply on his horn. The sound found a prolonged echo in the archaic midday siren reverberating over the estate and weirdly following us like a mechanical nemesis as we drove on. The Lieutenant offered assurances to Vance’s unvoiced concern.
“It won’t take us more than ten minutes to get there. Brander’ll wait for us.”
The small room in the Town Hall at Winewood was well filled with townspeople and workers from the Rexon estate; but there were no guests from the Manor itself.
At one end of the room on a low platform was a long table at which a heavy-set, red-faced man with blinking eyes presided.
“That’s John Brander,” whispered O’Leary. “A reasonable man. Local real-estate lawyer.”
At the left of the table, partitioned off by a railing, sat the jury, simple and honest men of the conventional type one would expect to find in a country town. A constable, with an ineffectual air of importance, stood beside the witness stand.
Eric Gunthar was called first. He explained briefly how he had come upon Lief Wallen’s body on his way to work, and had returned to the Gulch with Old Jed, Darrup and Vance. Under adroit questioning, his trip to the summit of the cliff with Vance was brought out; but when Gunthar became too voluble regarding the blood spot, he was somewhat abruptly dismissed, and Darrup was called. He appeared cowed and had little to add to Gunthar’s testimony. Old Jed proved a somewhat pathetic figure on the witness stand, and Brander wasted no time on him.
Vance was called next. Brander’s questions elicited largely repetitions of the testimony already given; and despite the coroner’s obvious attempt at caution, the blood stain by the scrub oak on the cliff was necessarily gone into at considerable length. Brander seemed to attach no particular importance to it and contrived a subtle suggestion that the blood might have been other than human blood. I myself was conscious of a fleeting mental image of some boy or amateur huntsman shooting a rabbit scurrying over the snow.
“Were there footprints anywhere near the spot?” Brander asked.
“No. No footprints,” Vance answered. “There were, however, vague impressions in the snow.”
“Anything definite?”
“No.” And Vance was permitted to step down.
Doctor Quayne was then sworn in. His dignity and soft manner were impressive. The jury listened with patent respect. The doctor’s testimony was perfunctory and technical. He told of the condition of the body when he first saw it; estimated the time of death; and hastened over the findings of the autopsy. He emphasized, however, the peculiar skull wound over Wallen’s right ear.
“Now, this skull wound, doctor,” the coroner interposed. “Just what was peculiar about it?”
“It was somewhat sharply outlined and depressed, running from the right ear for about four inches toward the temple—not exactly what one would expect from even violent contact with a flat surface.”
“There was snow where Wallen struck?”
“About an inch, I should say.”
“Did you examine the ground under the snow for a possible projection?”
“No. It would have been visible had it been there.”
“But there are projecting rocks on the cliff between the upper ledge and the ground, aren’t there?”
“Slight ones. Yes.”
“Is it not possible, then, Wallen’s head glanced one of these rocks in falling?”
Doctor Quayne pursed his lips. He expressed considerable doubt.
“However,” persisted Brander, “you couldn’t say definitely—could you, doctor—that this particular injury was wholly incompatible with the fall?”
“No. I couldn’t say that definitely. I merely state that the injury seemed strange in the circumstances; one hardly to be expected.”
“But still,”—Brander leaned forward with marked courtesy—“you’ll pardon me, doctor, if I insist on the point. Such an injury would have been possible in an accidental fall from the cliff?”
“Yes,”—Doctor Quayne’s tone showed annoyance—“it would have been possible.”
“That will be all, doctor. Thank you for your clarity and help.”
O’Leary was then called. His testimony, brief and businesslike, served merely to corroborate that of preceding witnesses. As he stepped down there came an unexpected and dramatic interlude. Guy Darrup suddenly leaped to his feet.
“You ain’t doin’ fair to Lief Wallen, Mr. Brander,” he shouted righteously. “You ain’t askin’ for the things where truth lies. I could tell you—”
Brander struck the table with his gavel. “If you have evidence to give,” he said with acerbity, “you should have stated it when you were on the stand.”
“You didn’t ask me the right questions, you didn’t, Mr. Brander. I know plenty about poor Lief.”
“Swear him in again, Constable.”
“Not comfortin’ for us,” whispered Vance to O’Leary.
“Brander has no choice.” O’Leary, too, was apprehensive.
Darrup took the oath a second time.
“Now give us your withheld evidence, Darrup.” Brander’s biting tone was wasted.
“Maybe you don’t know, Mr. Brander, the queer wrong things that goes on over there at the Squire’s.” Darrup spoke like a zealot aroused. “Mr. Gunthar’s always a-bullyin’. An’ he drinks too much to suit the Squire. He’s been warned, he has. An’ it was Lief Wallen that was gonna step in his boots—just like he stepped in Old Jed’s boots. An’ Lief wanted to marry that pretty girl of his—the one down there who looks after Miss Joan.” Ella Gunthar drew back as he pointed. “Lief had a right. He’da made her a good honest husband. But Mr. Gunthar didn’t want it. I guess he’s got his own ideas.” Darrup contorted his lips into a shrewd smile. “An’ the girl didn’t want it neither. She thinks she’s better than us. An’ there’s been plenty o’ trouble about it all—Lief wasn’t a boy who’d give up easy…”
Darrup breathed noisily, and hurried on.
“But that ain’t all, Mr. Brander—not by a long ways. Nothing’s right up there at the Squire’s. There’s funny things goin’ on. Deep, dark things—things you ain
’t taught about in the Bible. What’s the girl doin’ down in the Green Glen at night times, I’d like to know? I’ve seen her sneakin’ to Old Jed’s hut. There’s plottin’. Everybody’s lyin’. Everybody’s hatin’. An’ Old Jed’s queer. He don’t talk to nobody. But he’s up to something, always lookin’ up at the trees, an’ lettin’ the stream water run through his fingers, like a kid. An’ then, just when young Lief’s about to step into Mr. Gunthar’s job, he goes an’ falls off the cliff. Lief knew his way about the grounds better’n to do that. Anyway, what’s he doin’ up there that time o’ night when he’s supposed to be watchin’ round the Manor?”
Brander’s patience gave out. His gavel smashed down.
“Did you come here to vent your hates, man? That’s not evidence. That’s old women’s talk.”
“Not evidence!” shrieked Darrup. “Then ask Mr. Gunthar’s girl why she was runnin’ down the slope from the cliff at twelve o’clock that night when Lief fell over!”
“What’s that?”
“You heard me, you did, Mr. Brander. I was workin’ late in the pavilion, fixin’ things for the Squire’s party. An’ here she comes runnin’ down the slope an’ turned right by the pavilion. An’ she was cryin’, too.”
I looked at Ella Gunthar. Her face was white, her lips trembled. There was a subdued commotion in the room. Brander hesitated, looked uneasy. He rustled through some papers before him. Then he looked angrily at Darrup.
“Your statements are irrelevant.” He paused. “Unless, perhaps,”—there was jocularity in his tone—“you’re accusing a mere girl of hurling a big fellow like Wallen over the cliff. Is that what you mean?”
“No, Mr. Brander.” Darrup lapsed again into sullenness. “It wasn’t her as could’ve done it. I’m only tellin’ you—”
Again the gavel descended. “That’s enough! This inquest is not for the purpose of injuring a young woman’s reputation. It is merely to establish by what means Wallen came to his death, and, if by criminal means, at whose hand. Your speculations are, therefore, not helpful to this investigation. Step down, Darrup.” Darrup obeyed, and Brander turned quickly to O’Leary. “Any more witnesses, Lieutenant?”
O’Leary shook his head.
“That’s all then.” Brander spoke briefly to the jury. They filed out. In less than half an hour their verdict was announced:
“We find that Lief Wallen met his death by an accidental fall, under suspicious circumstances.”
Brander was startled. He opened his mouth, was about to speak, but said nothing. The inquest was over.
“There’s a verdict!” O’Leary scoffed to Vance as we drove back to the Manor. “No sense whatever. But Brander did his best.”
“Yes—oh, yes. Not strictly legal, perhaps. Could have been worse. However…”
Ella Gunthar sat in the corner of the back seat beside me, a handkerchief pressed to her mouth, staring, unseeing, over the quiet winter landscape.
Vance took her gently in hand when we arrived. “Was Darrup telling the truth, my dear?” he asked.
“I don’t know what you mean…”
“Were you running down the slope that night?”
“I—No. Of course not.” She raised her chin defiantly. “I was at home at midnight. I didn’t hear anything…”
“Why are you fibbing?” he asked sternly. She compressed her lips and said nothing. Vance went on with tenderness. “Maybe I know. You’re a brave little soldier. But very foolish. Nothing’s going to hurt you. I want you to trust me.” He held out his hand.
Her eyes searched his face a moment. A faint smile showed on her lips. Then she placed her hand confidently in his.
“Now run along to Joan—and let that smile come all the way out.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Secret Plans
(Friday, January 17; evening.)
THAT EVENING, SHORTLY after dinner, I stood with Vance on the veranda, looking out over the shadows on the skating rink. Echoes of music and gaiety drifted out to this secluded corner from the drawing room. Vance was in a serious, contemplative mood and smoked a Régie in silence, with a faraway expression.
Before long, however, there was the sound of approaching footsteps behind us, and Vance turned to greet Carlotta Naesmith.
“Brooding over your sins, Sir Knight?” the girl asked as she came up. “It really doesn’t help. I’ve tried it… I sought you out to ask a most important question—tu-whit, tu-who: Do you skate gracefully?”
“At my time of life!” Vance pretended dejection. “But your query’s flatterin’. I’m duly grateful.”
“I was hoping you did skate. We do so need a Master of Ceremonies.” She prodded him playfully. “You are hereby elected.”
“It sounds interestin’. Explanat’ry instructions in order.”
“It’s like this,” Miss Naesmith readily complied. “All the inmates of the zoo, barring the decrepit, are throwing a party for Richard tomorrow night. A sort of farewell celebration. It’s to be on the rink out there… I’m hostess pro tem, you know. Originality expected from one so brilliant. Hence skates—that being the best idea the brain could conjure up.”
“Sounds jolly,” said Vance. “And my duties?”
“Oh, just to keep things going. Be officious—you can. Announce the animals. I’m sure you get it: every animal act has a ringmaster.”
“Must I supply liniment?”
“You wrong us, sir!” she chirped indignantly. “We all skate amazingly well. I understand the bar will be temporarily padlocked.”
“That could help, y’ know.” Vance smiled.
“We’re planning it quite seriously,” she ran on. “We’re even going to practice on the lower rink tomorrow. And we’re going to Winewood in the morning to scout for costumes… Sounds a bit horrible, doesn’t it?”
“Oh, no!” Vance protested. “Sounds jolly. As I said.” He looked at the girl searchingly. “Tell me, Miss Naesmith, why did you try to hurt Ella Gunthar yesterday?”
Miss Naesmith’s mood changed. Her eyes narrowed. She shrugged noncommittally.
“It doesn’t take both my eyes to see that she and Dick are attracted to each other. They always were as kids.”
“And Sally Alexander?”
She laughed without mirth. “Dick didn’t speak to her all day. But let Ella worry.”
“And it doesn’t take both my eyes”—Vance did not shift his gaze—“to see that you will never pine away if Richard is diverted.”
She pondered that a moment. “Dick’s a nice boy. It’s Papa Rexon’s idea, you know. And who am I to upset his fondest dream?”
“Is it nice to be bitter?” Vance brought out his cigarettes. Miss Naesmith accepted one, and he lighted one himself.
“Oh, it’s done in the best circles,” the girl said facetiously. “And anyway, it’s not the man’s place to walk out. That’s my prerogative.”
“I see. Mere technique of etiquette at fault. Well, well.”
The girl blew Vance a kiss and went back to the noisy drawing room.
“As I thought,” he murmured, as if to himself. “Neither wants it. Richard makes the fact evident. Ergo, pique. Evinced by a display of cruelty. Ancient feminine sequence. However, nice girl at heart. It’ll all arrange itself. Poor papa. Yes, the Rexon dynasty is crumblin’. Same like Bruce predicts.” He looked out over the shadowy rink, drawing deeply on his Régie. “Come, I’ve a wishful idea.” He spoke irrelevantly as he turned suddenly and went inside.
We found Joan Rexon in her own sitting room across the hall. She was on a divan by the window, and Marcia Bruce was reading to her.
“Why aren’t you in the drawing room, young lady?” Vance asked pleasantly.
“I’m resting tonight,” the girl replied. “Carlotta told me there’s to be a big party for Dick tomorrow night, and I want to feel well, so I won’t miss any of it.”
Vance sat down. “Would it tire you too much if I talked to you a few minutes?”
“Why, no. I�
��d love it.”
Vance turned to Miss Bruce. “Mind if I speak with Miss Joan alone?”
The housekeeper rose in resentful dignity and went to the door. “More mystery.” Her tone was hollow. Her green eyes flashed.
“Oh, quite,” laughed Vance. “A dark plot, in fact. But I can complete my dire machinations in ten minutes. Come back then, what? There’s an angel.”
The woman went without a word.
“I want to talk a moment about Ella.” Vance drew up his chair beside the slight reclining figure of Joan Rexon.
“Dear Ella,” the girl said sweetly.
“She is a dear, isn’t she?… I’ve wondered since I’ve been here why I never see her on the rink. Doesn’t she skate?”
Joan Rexon smiled sadly. “Oh, she used to love skating. But I guess she’s lost her interest—since I fell.”
“But I know you love to see others skating and being happy.”
She nodded. “I do. I do. I’ve never forgot what fun I used to have myself. That’s why Dad kept up the rinks and the pavilion. So I can sit on the veranda and watch the others. He often brings famous skaters up here just to perform for me.”
“He’d do anything he thought would make you happy,” said Vance.
She nodded again, emphatically. “And so would Ella… You know, Mr. Vance, I’m really a very lucky girl. And I do have wonderful times just watching others do the things I’d love to do.”
“That’s why I thought Miss Ella might be doing your skating for you, so to speak.”
The girl turned her head slowly toward the window. “Maybe I’m to blame, Mr. Vance. I’ve often thought that.”
“Tell me about it,” Vance urged softly.
“Well, you see, when I was a little girl, just after my accident, Ella went out on the rink and skated—she was a beautiful skater. I watched her and I was very selfish, I think. Just the sight of her skating seemed to hurt me. I don’t exactly understand it. I was such a baby. It—it—”
“I understand, my dear.”
“And when Ella came back to the veranda I was crying… After that, for several years, I saw Ella only at intervals. She was at school, you know. And we never spoke again about her skating.”
The Winter Murder Case Page 4