Jack took my hand, and held it hard. “It’s a ghastly thing to think about, but there it is. Laura Twining has been murdered, Lola, her body burned. Ghastlier still. I’m convinced I know who’s back of it.”
I only looked at him.
“In all her many talks with the French police,” Jack said carefully, “Mrs. Coatesnash has consistently omitted one important fact—the fact that the woman who started to Europe with her never arrived there. That’s significant, isn’t it?”
“But how…”
“Do you recall,” Jack asked, “the day the Burgoyne sailed? Do you remember the Coatesnash car passing us on the road? Who was in the car besides Laura?”
Before me rose the unforgotten scene. It was a sunny February afternoon. I saw an ancient limousine rush past us and away toward New York. I saw baggage heaped in the car, saw Mrs. Coatesnash’s cold still nod, saw an English mastiff crouched on the floor, saw Laura Twining’s averted profile. At the wheel, facing his task with obstinacy and ignorant conceit. I saw a third familiar figure.
I said, “Silas was driving.”
“Well?”
A series of possibilities paraded through my mind. Like scenes from a motion picture, rapid and chronological: A decrepit limousine halted on a deserted backwoods road; a terrible struggle occurred in the car with a strong and sullen man in the leading role; a body was carried back to a big white house and hastily buried; a proud old woman pursued a predetermined plan, traveled on to New York, and sailed alone.
The events which might have occupied that sunlit afternoon seemed clear enough, but I hit upon no motives. What motive had Mrs. Coatesnash for the murder of her companion? What motive had Silas?
I considered the relationship between Silas Elkins and Luella Coatesnash—the hired man’s serf-like demeanor toward the lady, her bland acceptance of it. Assuming that Mrs. Coatesnash desired to hurry Laura Twining from the world, I was almost ready to assume that Silas could be bullied, persuaded or ordered into assisting the bloody purpose. Almost—not quite.
Logic faltered when I weighed his character and particularly his cowardice. Silas had the physical stamina, the strength for murder. Had he the courage, the cool and steady nerves, the will? The unknown whom I had encountered in the storeroom must surely be the murderer. That person had possessed to an extraordinary degree cunning, determination and intrepidity. Silas hardly possessed such attributes. Or did he? Could I have struggled with Silas and failed to recognize him?
Chin sunk in his palms, forehead knotted, Jack also pondered the string of evil possibilities. On the chair Reuben stirred and moaned. Jack stroked the dog’s head. Slowly his expression changed.
“We’ve been overlooking something damned important. Reuben.”
“Reuben?”
“I thought it was Silas who was at the big house tonight, scaring you to death, vanishing with the bags. Well, it wasn’t. This fellow here lets him out,” Jack said ruefully. “Reuben wouldn’t have barked at Silas, in the first place—under any circumstances. And in the second place, Silas wouldn’t have needed to maltreat his own dog so he could escape from us into the house.”
That logic was unanswerable. Reuben hated strangers, but was always friendly to those he knew. But if it had not been Silas in the big house—and eventually we decided it had not been—it was still possible that he suspected someone else was there and for Mrs. Coatesnash’s sake meant to shield that person from our curiosity. Did Annabelle Bayne also suspect? Who was the mysterious third person?
Abruptly Jack turned and faced me. “What do you think of Franklyn Elliott as a candidate? Maybe he was on the hill tonight. He has courage, imagination, subtlety, all the talents of the top-flight criminal.”
I said dryly, “A pretty conclusive definition of a man you’ve seen exactly twice.”
“Twice was plenty. Elliott knows more than he’s told, a good deal more. Here’s something else. His profession is against him. He is a lawyer”—here Jack developed a favorite theory of his own—“and successful lawyers are notoriously the most lawless class on earth. They’re trained to consider evidence in a special light, as something to use, or something to hide and destroy. They make fortunes in contriving evasions of justice. Elliott would probably stop at nothing to assist a rich client. And the Lord knows that Mrs. Coatesnash is rich.”
I thought Franklyn Elliott would stop at digging up and burning the body of a murdered woman—to oblige Mrs. Coatesnash or any other client I said so.
“It’s nonsense, Jack. I don’t trust Elliott, but we’ve no real proof he isn’t a reputable lawyer. Nothing beyond a lot of vague suspicions.”
“He ducked the inquest and made that secret call on Annabelle Bayne.”
“That’s true enough, but…”
“This isn’t vague!” Jack rose suddenly from his chair. “Do you remember Elliott’s telling us that he went down and saw Mrs. Coatesnash off to Europe? Laura wasn’t aboard the Burgoyne; she couldn’t have been. Has Franklyn Elliott said one word about her absence? You bet he hasn’t. He’s let us all believe that Laura was safe in Paris.”
It was long past three o’clock. A distant rooster crowed shrilly. I wasn’t sleepy. I was confused, dissatisfied, bewildered.
What we had learned at Hilltop House, what we had inferred, appeared to lead not toward, but away from, the original mystery. How could the events which had taken place that night be connected with the murder of Hiram Darnley? Superficially the grim-faced wealthy lawyer (our first victim) and the penniless spinster who had drunk our tea seemed worlds apart. I accepted that Darnley had been slain for money. Laura had no money. She was dull, colorless, unprovocative. So far as I could see there was nothing about her to invite murder.
Luella Coatesnash was the single link between the dual mysteries. Hilltop House belonged to her; Darnley had been her legal representative; Laura had been her companion, her closest confidante.
Presently Jack roused from his own thoughts. “I’ve been busy trying to tie up Darnley and Laura. Maybe I’ve got somewhere. I don’t know. I’ve been wondering if there might not have been a motive for Darnley’s murder other than that money.” He gave a short laugh. “I’ll admit that Mrs. Coatesnash would hardly conspire to kill a man for money. The money which Darnley carried must fit in of course, but if Mrs. Coatesnash had him murdered it must have been for another reason. I’ve thought of one good sound reason, and only one, why she might have wanted Hiram Darnley and Laura Twining out of the way.”
“What is it?”
“Think it out yourself, Lola. Concentrate on Mrs. Coatesnash, on the kind of woman she is. How could you hit at her? How could you bring her to the point of murder?”
“You’ll have to spell it out for me,” I said slowly. “Unless—” I hesitated. “—unless you’re thinking about her grand old family name.”
Jack smiled his satisfaction. “That’s it precisely. As I see it, you could hit at Luella only through her family, her infernal pride of race. Now let’s go on from there. Suppose Laura Twining and Hiram Darnley shared a piece of information, a secret, a shameful secret that concerned the Coatesnash family. The honor of the family sounds unmodern, old-fashioned, but Luella doesn’t live in a modern world. She belongs to the generation which cheerfully faced death before disgrace.”
“Still…”
Jack waved aside the interruption. “Wait a minute. Luella learns those two know the secret. Maybe Laura and Darnley threaten her with it. She sees disgrace, a grand old family toppling in the mud; she can’t bear the village knowing, snickering, whispering behind her hack. She…” Suddenly Jack’s eyes blazed. “The daughter, Lola! Jane—remember Jane? Remember the curious drowning? Darnley headed the search. Could he have learned something then, something about the girl, something kept quiet for years, but something hot enough to be news today in Crockford?”
“But where and how and when did Laura and Darnley meet? We have no knowledge they ever did. Laura came to Mrs. Coatesnash after Ja
ne’s death. Darnley hadn’t been in Crockford since then until the other night. Or we don’t know he had.”
“Laura has been in New York.”
“Darnley was a hard-headed business man. If he actually had a secret, why would he choose a chatterbox like Laura to confide in?”
“They may have discovered it simultaneously. The thing for us to do is to establish a friendship if we can. Find out how well they knew each other. Find out everything about them both.”
Shortly afterward Jack belatedly telephoned to the police. He disliked the task of outlining our evening’s questionable activities, but I for one was happy to delegate my own share in any further speculation. I was intolerably weary. Also I have a pragmatic mind, and though Jack’s theory was ingenious, I wanted some solid, substantial evidence to support it.
Standish could not be raised by repeated ringing, but eventually Jack roused Lester Harkway. The young policeman asked excited questions, and promised to leap into clothes and come out at once. As Jack replaced the telephone, the clock on the mantel struck four. Four long silvery notes. Someone began to pound at the cottage door.
I looked at the clock. I looked at Jack. He went quickly to the door, called out, “Who’s there?” A moment later he returned with Dr. Rand. The physician was haggard and worn; his coat was a mass of wrinkles; his shoes were caked and muddy. He walked wearily, gratefully to the fire.
“It’s a lucky thing for me you artists and writers never go to bed. I saw your lights from the road and chanced your being up. Do I smell coffee?”
“Will you have some?”
“Will I! Two cups, if it’s handy, no sugar, but I favor lots of cream. Also I’d like to borrow a gallon of gas. My car ran out down the road a piece. Second time I’ve been caught in twenty years. Not bad, considering…but maybe after all we should have stuck to the horse.”
He took a chair near the fire and yawned prodigiously.
“Babies have a talent for selecting inconvenient hours to make a start in life. It’s a wonder their mothers put up with it. I wonder I do myself.” He rubbed his fingers through his skull-white hair. “I had a nasty shock tonight. It comes to me I’m getting old, damned old—senile, practically. An hour ago I brought Alice Shipman’s baby into the world; eighteen years ago I brought Alice into the world. That’s bad enough, but it’s not the worst of it. The first baby I delivered in Crockford was Alice Shipman’s mother. Thirty-eight years ago almost to the day—thirty-eight years! Does that qualify me for the firing squad, or doesn’t it? No man should be permitted to outlive his arteries.” He yawned again. “There’s no money in babies; there never was. People have them, doctors deliver them, and no one seems to make a penny out of it. Did you ever read Swift’s Modest Proposal? Swift suggested that Irish infants be substituted for pork in the retail markets. I’ve often thought his notion should be applied in Crockford. God, I’m tired. Will you tell me why any sane man takes up a country practice?”
We couldn’t tell him. I brought the coffee. He drank three cups, instead of the threatened two. His shoes were muddy. He borrowed a tea towel and polished them. He fell to discussing the inquest. He said heatedly that Annabelle Bayne should be ducked as a public nuisance. He regretted the passing of old New England customs which had possessed a certain social value.
The clock struck the half hour. The physician glanced at it. “Good Lord, is it that late? What were you kids doing up? Don’t you ever go to bed?” He eyed Jack disapprovingly. “You were knocked unconscious less than a week ago. You should take care of yourself. You’re looking pale around the gills.” The sharp gaze was transferred to me. “You look a little peaked, too.” He peered into my face, felt my wrist, wagged his head. “Saffron eyes at twenty. A jumpy pulse. Wretched color. If you youngsters don’t start sleeping occasionally, when you get my age you’ll have no nerves worth mentioning.”
“It’s fortunate we didn’t turn in tonight,” Jack said at once. “We’ve covered a lot of valuable ground. Most of the credit is due to Lola, but between us we’ve practically worked out a theory for Hiram Darnley’s murder.”
Immediately the physician lost interest. “After drinking your coffee and toasting my feet at your fire, I probably shouldn’t criticize. However, one of the advantages of age, one of the few, is offering unsolicited advice. Polite young people feel obliged to listen. If I were you, young man, I’d pick something better to occupy my time.” He sniffed. “The village is overrun with amateur detectives, poking and prying and chattering among themselves. Ghouls, the lot of ’em! Why class yourself and your wife with a collection of morbid louts? You look normal. So does she.” Jack grinned. “Sure I’m normal. So normal that I actively resent the possibility of being arrested for a murder I didn’t commit.”
“Bosh! If Standish had planned to arrest you, you’d be behind bars now. So long as you behave yourself, you’re safe. Safer than you’ll be if you begin sticking your fingers in a policeman’s pie. When they want your help, you can be sure they’ll ask for it.”
I poured oil on the troubled waters. “You don’t get the point, Dr. Rand. Jack and I are outsiders, and we’ve been made to feel it. We’ve been questioned and harassed and spied on and the rest of it, and Mrs. Coatesnash has gone scot-free. Anywhere else—in New York, say—she’d have been forced to come back from Paris.”
“In a measure I agree. If I had charge of the investigation, Mrs. Coatesnash would have been ordered home. She ought to be here. There’s no question of it. However, I gravely doubt that murders are solved by youngsters who sit up till five in the morning celebrating. They’re solved by evidence and by policemen who go out and dig it up.”
The physician’s thorny mood did not invite an account of our evening. I changed my tactics. I called on guile. “Anyone has a right to be interested where his own safety or convenience is at stake. As ours is. And the case has been badly handled. This evening, for instance, Jack and I have been discussing a person never mentioned in connection with it. Laura Twining. We think that Laura should have been interviewed by the French police.”
Dr. Rand chuckled. “The French are a smart race. The chef de Sûreté—or whatever you call him—probably took a good look at Laura and decided to save his eardrums.”
“She was a great talker. She used to come here afternoons and wear us out.” I added innocently, “Have you known her long?”
The physician studied me severely. “What are you up to, young woman? I suspect I’m being pumped. Of course, I’ve known Laura Twining long. Met her ten years ago when she started working for the old lady. She—Laura, I mean—has the worst sinuses and frontals I’ve ever seen. I’ve treated her for years. Would you like a report on the hay fever attack Laura had in nineteen-twenty-seven?”
“Skip it, please.”
Dr. Rand was again thoroughly aroused. “Curiosity is a curse; even legitimate curiosity is. It has broken more hearts and opened more graves and caused more trouble, I do believe, than all other human emotions combined. What tree are you barking up now? Why these questions about Laura Twining? Are you supposing that anemic, dried-up old maid could tell you anything about Darnley’s death?”
“Lola,” said Jack, endeavoring to interpret my remarks, a habit of his which I detest, “was merely using Laura as an example of the mismanagement in this case. If Laura had ever met Hiram Darnley, and she probably had, the French police should have questioned her.”
“Why, in the name of heaven? The police can’t question everyone who had a nodding acquaintance with Hiram Darnley.”
“Then she did know him!”
“Trapped, by God!” Dr. Rand made a sound, half exasperated, half amused. “Certainly Laura knew Darnley. Quite well. He got her the job with Mrs. Coatesnash, recommended her from New York. Anyone in the village could tell you as much.” He rose from his chair. “I see I must flee for my life. You will be demanding professional confidences next. The fact that Laura and Darnley were acquainted adds up to nothing. Sensibly, it doe
sn’t.” He looked from Jack to me. “But then you don’t appear to be in a sensible mood. Either of you!”
Irritated as he was, Dr. Rand remembered his need of gas. While Jack was siphoning a gallon from our car, Lester Harkway rode up to the cottage and joined the two men in the garage. Preferring to hear our story without an auditor, he restrained his questions.
“Good morning, doc. You’re out early.”
The physician chilled at the “doc.”
“The Storms have been good enough to entertain me a while. They’re bright young people. Somewhat nosy, but then detective work takes nosiness. I should warn you they’ve gone in for sleuthing. If you don’t solve your murder soon, they may beat you out of the glory.”
Harkway smiled a shade smugly. “Anyone who cracks the case will earn my gratitude.”
“How’s Standish? Where’s he? Usually you two are thick as thieves—never see the one without the other.”
“John’s out of town. He went yesterday to Osage, New York, to interview Darnley’s wife. That’s why I’m here.”
“Oh! So you were expected.”
Dr. Rand gave Jack a straight look. He refused a lift to his car. “I like the exercise.” He picked up the gasoline and plodded toward the road. Jack and Harkway watched him vanish in the distance, the tin bucket bobbing at his side.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Missing Annual
Over coffee Harkway heard the story of our evening. Directly afterward we started for the Coatesnash house. It was six o’clock.
Dawn was rising in the east, like the spreading of a slow stain. A bleak, colorless dawn. We climbed the pasture path. The rocks and trees and turnings that by night had been so fearsome were now merely gray and dull and ugly. Clothed in naked trees rose Hilltop House, cupolaed and hideous. The Lodge squatted in close attendance like a meek and anxious servitor. Unchallenged, we wound past the smaller building and on to the grape arbors.
Harkway had pocketed the key to the cellar door. We went there first. Quite undramatically the policeman thrust the key into the lock, twisted it. The lock grated, but did not budge. Again the lock grated. Harkway frowned.
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