“If you talk like that, then I must admit everything points to Bingham. He had motive,—not only his love for Eileen, but his natural desire to inherit the money; he had perfect opportunity, he could have done the deed adroitly and unnoticeably; his actions since have been mysterious and a little aggressive; and then, there is the disappearance of the diamond and its subsequent reappearance in Bingham’s possession.”
“He said that was not the same one.”
“Yes, but it must have been. That diamond business is the worst thing against him to my mind. If he could take and secrete the gem at the moment of his bride’s murder, he was cold-blooded enough to commit any crime.”
“I’m not sure but that the matter of the diamond is the best thing in Bingham’s favour.”
“Tell me why. I don’t want you running this case with a lot of mysterious theories and deductions that you refuse to share with me. I asked you down here not only to solve the mystery, but to let me work with you, or at least know of your work as you go along.”
The Professor spoke peevishly, and Ford smiled. “I’ll confide in you, Jim, when I’ve anything to tell. But I’m not going into this thing as into a game. It’s too big, it’s too serious. It’s the biggest mystery I’ve ever come across, and I’m going to ferret it out if I can. I don’t mind, to you, the apparent conceit of saying that if anybody can do that, I can. It is a case in my own class. I’ve studied so long and so hard on this class of crime, that I believe I am specially well equipped to work in this instance.”
“I know it, Alan, that’s why I sent for you. Of course, there’s no use in making a secret of our attitude,—Eileen’s and mine. If Bingham is guilty, I want to know it. If he isn’t, I want him to marry Eileen. That’s all there is about it. He adores her. He wants to marry her as soon as it’s decent. But I will never consent until the veriest shadow of doubt is cleared from his name. I, myself, do not believe he killed Ethel, but lots of people do, and I think he is in a fair way to be openly accused very soon. If you can prevent that, or refute it when it does come, you are a friend indeed. As to fees, I am not rich, but my bank account is yours if you succeed.”
“Don’t bother about that part of it. I am enough interested in the case to go into it on my own account What about the uncle and aunt? Are they not anxious to discover the murderer?”
“They profess to be satisfied to leave it all to the local police. But underneath there is the glimmer of fear that their son, Warren, is the criminal. They haven’t admitted this, but I know it is true.”
“Yes, you told me about young Swift’s flight, and he has returned, you say?”
“Yes, came back last Tuesday. Now it is Saturday; just nine days since the wedding. A nine-days’ wonder, indeed! But destined to be a longer one, I dare say.”
“Not much longer, if I can help it. Now that Miss Randall is absent, tell me more of the victim,—the bride. Was she of fine character?”
“It’s hard for me to say. The Swifts are among the first families of the town. They move only in the best circles. Ethel was their niece, but she seemed of a different calibre, somehow. She was sly, and well, she was a sort of vampire. Now, my Eileen is fascinating, she can twist any man round her finger, but she is honest and steadfast in her nature. Ethel was engaged half a dozen times before she tied up with Bingham. This is all hearsay, you understand, for I’ve only lived here since last September, but through Eileen I’ve heard all the young people’s gossip, and Ethel Moulton was never liked by the girls but was always a favourite with the men.”
“She was engaged to men of this town? Who were they?”
“I’ve heard since her death that she has been engaged to young Hall, and to Chester Morton, and to her lawyer, Farrish. Also that she refused Mr. Stone and Fred Benson. These are only reports, but from the people who have long lived here, so I’ve no doubt they’re true.”
“Enough to show the girl’s fickle nature at any rate. Now I want to meet Mr. Bingham and young Swift without their knowing I’m a detective. Will that be possible?”
“I’ll make it so in Swift’s case. But Bingham knows of you. By the way wouldn’t it be better to keep the fact of your profession a secret from everybody else in town?”
“Yes, except the authorities. I’d rather they’d know. I’ll guarantee not to antagonize them or let them resent my connection with the case.”
Stanford Bingham came over that evening, un-summoned, so Ford had an opportunity of meeting him casually.
The talk soon turned upon the all-absorbing topic of the murder. It had been noticed by many that Bingham never shunned this subject, but was always willing to talk of it, or to listen to new theories or discuss possibilities. Some argued that this implied his own guilt, others the reverse.
Ford paid deep attention to the two telegrams found in Ethel’s room, and which had been received the morning of the wedding. The originals were in the hands of the police, but Eileen had copies.
“This clearly proves,” said Ford, “that the bride expected some misfortune or tragedy on her wedding day. This explains why she was so perturbed and nervous both before and during the ceremony. Had she ever mentioned these fears to you, Mr. Bingham?”
“No,” said Bingham, fidgeting nervously; “no, of course not. But I couldn’t help noticing her extreme pallor and her painfully agitated demeanour when I met her at the altar.”
Alan Ford looked at the man curiously. If he were, indeed, the murderer, he was endeavouring, not very successfully, to appear at ease; if not, he was surely excessively embarrassed about something.
The talk became desultory, seeming to get nowhere, and yet, had they but known it, Alan Ford was skillfully leading it, so that at every fresh turn of the conversation he learned something. At last, when the two elder men became involved in a psychological discussion, Bingham and Eileen slipped away for a stroll in the garden.
“Your father’s friend is a clever detective,” said Bingham, “but he can never fathom this mystery.”
“Why do you speak so hopelessly, dear? Mr. Ford has scarcely begun his work yet. He may discover what we have never dreamed of.”
“No, Eileen, the secret of Ethel’s death can never, must never be learned. It is better for us all, that it should not be.”
“Stanford, don’t have secrets from me! Tell me what you mean by that speech.”
“Don’t ask me, Eileen. You promised you wouldn’t. Just let me forget all these troubles while I am with you. I shall not see you, often, dear. I’ve decided it’s wrong to ask you to link your dear young life with mine. Even though I’m never convicted of this crime, never even openly charged with it, there are scores of people who believe me guilty, and Alan Ford is one of them.”
“Mr. Ford! Then, Stanford, show him you’re not!”
“I can’t, Eileen. I can’t prove that.”
“But you can tell him so, in a way that he must believe you.”
“No, I can’t even do that.”
“Stanford, dear, you’re nervous and worried over it all. Let’s not talk of it any more to-night. Let’s just be happy together,” and in the shadow of an arbour Eileen let one soft, rounded arm steal about his neck and murmured a caressing word.
“Eileen, you drive me crazy!” and Bingham drew her to him in a convulsive clasp. “I must have you, dearest, I must have you for my very own. And I can’t, while this shadow hangs over me! A shadow I am powerless to remove.”
“Tell me one thing, Stan; I promised never to ask you if you did do it—but would you have done it,—for me?”
“Siren! How can you ask such a question as that! But since you ask, I will tell you! Yes, my beauty! My queen! I would have committed, I will yet commit, any crime if necessary, to win you! You, you glorious girl! You goddess! You Queen of Hearts!”
Eileen gave a little cry and nestled closer in Bingham’s arms. Neither dreamed that Alan Ford was listening to their impassioned words. For a time they were silent, happy in one another’s n
earness, and then Ford spoke, as if he had just reached the scene. “Ah, are you there, Mr. Bingham? May I speak to you?”
As if in no way intruding, Ford stepped into the old arbour, and the two moved apart, thinking themselves unseen in the gloom.
There was a little chat, and then Alan Ford proposed to walk home with Bingham, and after taking Eileen back to the house, the two men walked away.
CHAPTER XIV
A Musical Cipher
“THAT boy is scared out of his wits, but he’s no murderer,” said Alan Ford, as Warren Swift left the Randall house. “I don’t altogether understand his extreme fear of my investigation of this case, but I am sure he didn’t kill his cousin. He is too inept, too weak-willed to accomplish such a deed. And the motive is insufficient. He knew from Farrish he could not inherit his cousin’s money, after she married, and the chance of stealing the diamond was too uncertain for him to take such risks. I don’t believe his running away from town that night had anything to do with the matter in hand, unless, indeed, he was actuated by sheer, unreasoning fear. But one thing he said is of decided interest. That his cousin, on the morning of her wedding day, said to him, ‘In case anything happens to me—’ She went no further, but that seems to add proof that Miss Moulton anticipated disaster of some sort.”
The interview between Ford and Warry Swift had taken place in the library of the Randall home. In accordance with the detective’s previous instructions, father and daughter had casually left the room, and Ford had ample opportunity to learn all he wished of the young man’s connection with the mystery.
“And so,” he went on, “assuming that the bride was fearful of tragedy, we can understand her excessive agitation and her frightened glances, told of by her uncle, by the minister, and by others. So, working on this knowledge, we must search for the man or woman of whom she was afraid.”
“And how will you begin?” asked Eileen, her eyes sparkling with interest.
“By looking for the motive. A crime like this one is not committed without a strong motive. It was no impulsive, unpremeditated crime, it was the outcome of a fiendish and carefully contrived plan, which could only have originated in the fertile brain of a desperate, hardened sinner. The casual wedding guest does not carry a pistol in his clothes, unless for a definite purpose. The man, I cannot yet see a woman’s hand in it, came to the church and deliberately carried out his premeditated scheme. His success was partly due to his own clever timing of the deed, and partly to the fact that no one looked for or could dream of such a happening. Now, in the absence of material clues we must probe for motive, and that, I feel sure, can best be done by examining the victim’s papers or other belongings. We could learn more, I am sure, from a few minutes’ work in Miss Moulton’s own room, than from a day’s examination of the church.”
Eileen went with Ford to the Swifts’ home. When the detective assured Mrs. Swift that he had no shadow of suspicion of Warren, that lady was entirely willing that he should go to Ethel’s room. She herself begged to be excused from participation in the ordeal, and Eileen and the detective went there alone.
“It seems a sacrilege to open Ethel’s private papers,” said Eileen, “yet it is in the effort to avenge her death, so it must be done.”
Alan Ford stood, looking about the ornate room, with eyes that seemed to miss no detail of its furnishings.
His fine face was tense and a trifle stern. Apparently he was forming judgments, not lightly, but with a merciless justice and a keen sense of values.
“The lady was vain of her good looks,” he said, at last.
“Why do you think so?” asked Eileen, who was looking a little in dismay at the bundles of notes and papers with which the desk was stuffed.
“Her toilet implements and aids are practical, and have been much used. Some women have these contraptions merely as conventional belongings, but these were her daily servants. How old was she?”
“Twenty-six, but she looked older. I do not say this in a catty spirit, but Ethel, though a very handsome girl, was of the type that ages young, and she never took care of herself in a sane way, but would disregard all laws of health or beauty, and then try to make up for it with creams and cosmetics.”
“Yes, that is what I meant. Now, for the secrets of the desk.”
“It is a general jumble, Mr. Ford. I doubt if we can find out a thing from it. You know the detective, Mr. Ferrall, has been all through it and found nothing to work on as a clue.”
“Well, let us see. Here are diaries, for the last few years. Surely they ought to tell us something.”
But a glance through the little books showed nothing of interest. Engagements for parties of all sorts; appointments with dressmakers, photographers, dentists, and beauty parlours filled the pages, but no mention was made of personal thoughts or feelings, as is so often the case with journal confidences.
Here and there among the papers they found bits of music, evidently written with a pen, sometimes on ruled music paper, sometimes with the staff lines also pen drawn.
“Was Miss Moulton musical?” asked Ford, studying these slips.
“Yes, very. And, by the way, Mr. Ford, there was a paper with a few bars of written music found tucked in her glove, after—after they picked her up that day.”
“In her glove?”
“Yes; it seems somebody sent it to the minister, Doctor Van Sutton, to be given to Ethel just as she was about to start up the aisle. I saw the sexton give it to her, and she read it and tucked it in her glove.”
“Was she affected by it? Did she seem to consider it important?”
“I don’t know. She was so nervous, anyway. I suppose it was some sentimental reminder from some of her beaux. You know there were several men pretty much cut up by Ethel’s marriage.”
“She was a heart-breaker, you say?”
“Yes, indeed! There never was a girl of my acquaintance so attractive to men as Ethel Moulton.”
“Yet her beauty was waning?”
“Oh, not really. She was so careless of herself, she resorted to a little artificial help, but it wasn’t really necessary. Ethel was a beauty, and more than that, she had a wonderful, an almost magical charm, a fascination no one could resist.”
“Yet Mr. Bingham did?”
Eileen blushed. “Mr. Ford,” she said, simply, “Stanford Bingham and I were made for each other. By a mere chance of fate he was engaged to Ethel when we met. He acted only the part of an honourable gentleman. He told her the truth and asked her to release him. She refused most positively, so there was nothing for him to do but to marry her. She asked me to be maid of honour, solely to humiliate me and rouse my envy and jealousy. I accepted the post because my pride forbade me to refuse and give her opportunity to gloat over my misery. I practically managed all the wedding details. I was bound she shouldn’t think I was wearing the willow!”
“And didn’t she think so?”
“I don’t know. We never mentioned Stanford after I had agreed to be maid of honour.”
“Miss Randall,” and Ford gazed deep into her eyes, “you had sufficient reason to desire that woman’s death.”
“I did, Mr. Ford, and I have wondered why no one has voiced suspicion of me. But I did not do it; indeed, the idea is ridiculous; how could I shoot her when I was kneeling at her feet fixing her train, for that’s when it happened.”
“You didn’t do it, Miss Randall, and you will never be suspected. But I feel that you have a motive, and it is motive I am investigating. Now, who had the same motive you did?”
“Stanford Bingham,” said Eileen, bravely; “but, Mr. Ford, if your investigation leads you in that direction, I beg you, I pray you, to stop it! I agreed to have you come here, in hope that you could find the real criminal! Stanford Bingham never did this thing!”
“Your assertions are of little use. Do you really desire to prove the man’s innocence?”
“Do I desire it? I would give my life for it!”
“You needn’t do th
at, but you must agree to help in ways of which you do not yet dream. Could you go through, to use a metaphor, ‘fire and water,’ to prove the innocence of the man you love?”
“I could,” replied Eileen, simply, and her tone was more convincing than any more emphatic protestation could have been.
“Then let us go straight to work. Where is that bit of music that was found in the bride’s glove?”
“I took it home with me. It seemed of no value, and then as I thought it might mean something, I gave it to Mr. Farrish, Ethel’s lawyer. He’s musical, you know, he’s in the choir, and I asked him if he could see anything in it to suggest any clue.”
“And did he?”
“No, he said it was merely a scrap of ordinary music, not an old song or well-known air. I’m not musical myself, and though I could read it well enough to see it was not, ‘Thou hast learned to love another,’ or anything like that, I didn’t know but it might be a bit from the classics.”
“Didn’t you try it on the piano?”
“No, I didn’t think of that. Why, do you consider it important?”
“Can’t tell yet. It may be. Suppose you telephone to Mr. Farrish now, and ask him if he can place it?”
Eileen left the room and returned to say that Mr. Farrish considered it a very peculiar matter.
He said it was not a familiar bit of music, and that he would rather not discuss it over the telephone. If Mr. Ford or Miss Randall would come to his office he would tell them about it, or he would call at the Randall home that evening.
“H’m,” said Ford. “I don’t want to lose time; suppose we go to his office now.”
They started at once, as Alan Ford had examined the papers and letters all he wished to, and had taken a small bundle of them with him. These he sent home by a messenger before they went on their errand.
Guy Farrish received them in his private office, and opened the subject at once.
The Alan Ford Mystery MEGAPACK® Page 12