The Alan Ford Mystery MEGAPACK®

by Carolyn Wells

  Then the man who had been sent to search for the jewels returned. He reported that he had not been able to find any trace of them, but brought a note he had found on Mr. Stannard’s writing desk.

  Coroner Lamson read the note, and passed it over to Inspector Bardon.

  Eventually it was read aloud. It ran thus:

  Goldenheart:

  You have a strange power over me—you can sway me to your will when I am in your presence. But now, alone, I am my own man and my better self protests at our secret. You know where the jewels are hidden. Take the emeralds, if you like, and forgive and forget

  Eric.

  The note fell like a bombshell. Everybody gasped at this revelation of the artist’s intrigue with his model. Joyce turned white to her very lips, and Barry flushed scarlet.

  “Call Miss Vernon,” commanded the Coroner, abruptly.

  Natalie came in, looking lovelier than ever, and quite composed now. Without a word, Lamson handed her the note.

  The girl read it, and returned it. Except for the trembling of her lip, which she bit in her endeavour to control it, she was calm and self-possessed.

  “Well?” said the Coroner, as gentle toward her now as he had been fierce before, “what does that note to you mean?”

  Natalie turned the full gaze of her troubled eyes on him. If her angel face was ever appealing, it was doubly so now, when her drooped mouth and quivering chin told of her desperate distress.

  “It is not to me,” she whispered.

  “That’s right,” Bobsy Roberts thought; “stick to that, now. It’s fine!”

  “It was written to you, and left in Mr. Stannard’s desk. Where are the emeralds? Where are the other jewels hidden?”

  “I do not know. I tell you that letter is not mine.”

  “Not yours, because you didn’t receive it. But it was written to you, and before it was sent, the writer told you, in so many words, the purport of it here in this very room, and in a rage, you killed him.”

  Natalie stopped her accuser with a gesture of her hand. Her rosy palm lifted in protest, she said, “Why do you believe Mrs. Stannard’s story and not mine? What I saw in this room was the jealous wife, cowering in an agony of fear and terror at sight of her own crime.”

  Lamson paused. He remembered that the testimony of the two disinterested witnesses, Mrs. Faulkner and Blake, went to show that these two women were both there, near the victim, within a brief moment of the crime itself. Who should say which was guilty, the jealous wife or the disappointed girl?

  And another point. Mrs. Faulkner and Blake had told in detail the succession of events at the critical moment of the turning off the lights, of the cry for help, and of their entrance; might not Joyce have timed her story by this, and claimed an entrance at the same moment? And, also, might not Natalie merely have patterned her recital after that of Joyce? Which woman was guilty?

  CHAPTER V

  Blake’s Story

  The sapient gentlemen of the Coroner’s Jury concluded, after a somewhat protracted discussion, that Eric Stannard met his death at those convenient and ever available hands of a person or persons unknown. They could not bring themselves to accuse either Joyce or Natalie, because for each suspect they had only the evidence of the other’s unsupported story. And Public Opinion, as represented by the citizens of Rensselaer Park, would have risen in a body to protest against a verdict that implicated either or both of these two women. And yet, there were many exceptions. Many of those whose voices were loudest in declaring the innocence of Joyce and Natalie, expressed private views that stultified their statements. And some, wagged their heads wisely, and whispered a thought of Blake. But most stood out strongly for the burglar theory, ignoring all obstacles in the way of the marauder’s entrance, and repeatedly insisting that the non-appearance of the jewels was sufficient proof of robbery.

  It may be that Barry’s self-confessed scratching of the paint on the window-frame turned the trend of thought toward a possible burglar or blackmailer, even if he gained entrance some other way; and it may be this was the loophole through which the two suspected people escaped accusation.

  But the interest of the police in these two was strengthened rather than lessened, and their life and conduct were under close scrutiny.

  Captain Steele, who had been assigned to the case, declared that he was glad of the verdict, for it was better to have the suspects at large, and he was a firm believer in the principle of giving people sufficient rope and allowing them the privilege of hanging themselves.

  Captain Steele was at The Folly, as the house was always called,—in spite of the Stannards’ attempts to use the more attractive name of Stanhurst,—on the day after the inquest, and Detective Roberts was also there and one or two other policemen and reporters.

  Steele had appropriated the small Reception Room next the studio for his quarters, and was going over with great care the reports of the proceedings and evidence of the day before.

  “You see, Bobsy,” he said, “the burglar stunt won’t work. I’ve tried, and Carter, here, he’s tried, and we couldn’t come within a mile of getting in or out among that art junk in the window, without making noise and commotion enough to wake the dead.”

  “I know it,” assented Bobsy. “Knew it all the time. Let’s cut out Mr. Burglar. Also, Blake was on the door all the evening, and he would have looked in the studio in case of a racket.”

  “Sure. Now, I want to fix the time of the stab act. They all say about half past eleven, but nobody knows exactly.”

  “Of course they don’t. People in evening togs never know what time it is. Why should they? They don’t have to punch a clock. I think the footman would just about know, though. Servants have their hours, you know. And anyway, let’s get that man in here.”

  Blake was summoned, and, though impassive as usual, seemed ready to answer questions.

  He retold his story, with no appreciable deviation from what he had testified at the inquest.

  “Are you sure it all occurred at half past eleven?” asked Steele.

  “Yes, sir. I heard the chimes in the studio just before the light went out.”

  “How long was the light out?” Roberts put in.

  “I should say, not more’n a minute or so. I was that scared when I heard the sounds, I can’t tell about the length of time properly. But it wasn’t two minutes, I’m sure, between the studio light going off and me turning it on.”

  “Would you have turned it on, if Mrs. Faulkner hadn’t told you to?”

  Blake considered. “I can’t say. I think, yes, for I heard that ‘Help!’ distinctly, for all it was so faint. And I think, if I’d been on my own, I’d ’a’ gone ahead. At such times a servant has to use his judgment, sir.”

  “Right you are, Blake,” said Bobsy, who had taken a liking to the footman. “Now, tell us all you know of the whereabouts of every member of the family—of the household.”

  “I don’t know much as to that. You see, I was on the hall, and I could only see those who passed through it.”

  “Well, go clear back, to dinner time, and enumerate them.”

  “Before dinner, everybody was in the Drawing Room, that’s over the dining room, at the East end of the house. Then they all came down the grand staircase to dinner, and of course I saw them then. After dinner, the ladies had their coffee on the Terrace and the gentlemen stayed at the table. Then, when the men came out of the dining room, they pretty much scattered all over the house. Everybody was in the studio at one time, and then some went to the Billiard Room or in this Reception Room we’re now in, or up to the Drawing Room. Then, about eleven, Mr. and Mrs. Truxton went home, and I showed them out. And Mrs. Faulkner and Mr. Wadsworth were in the hall at the same time. But after the Truxtons went, Mrs. Faulkner and Mr. Wadsworth went up to the Drawing Room. You see,—er——”

  “What, Blake?”

  “Well, if I may say it, sir, he’s—er—sweet on her, and they two went off by themselves.”

&nbs
p; “I see,” and Bobsy smiled. “Now, as to the other ladies, Mrs. Stannard and Miss Vernon?”

  “Of those I know nothing, for they didn’t come around where I was.”

  “Nor any of the men?”

  “No, sir. Well, then, next, Mr. Wadsworth, he came down, and I let him out. He says, ‘Good night, Blake,’ sort of gay like, and I thought perhaps Mrs. Faulkner had smiled on his suit, sir.”

  “Very likely. And then, Mrs. Faulkner came down?”

  “Yes, but you see, just the moment before, I had heard this queer noise in the studio, and I was listening at the crack of the door. I meant no harm, and no curiosity,—but Mrs. Faulkner came in sight of me just then, and she spoke to me. Then, the lights went out——”

  “Why, you said they were out before the lady spoke to you.”

  “Oh, yes, that’s right, they were. Well, it’s small wonder I get mixed up. They were, sir, because I told Mrs. Faulkner they were, and she said it wasn’t my place to comment on that. And she was right, it wasn’t my place, to be sure; but I was worried, that’s what I was, worried, and then we both heard the cry of ‘Help!’ and she told me to turn on the studio lights and I did.”

  “Do they all obey one switch?”

  “Yes, sir, that is, there’s one main key right at the door jamb that controls all. So when I turned it on, the whole room was ablaze.”

  “And of course, you couldn’t help seeing the exact state of things. Well, Blake, which lady do you think did it?”

  “Oh, sir,” and Blake’s solemn face grew a shade more so, “I couldn’t say. I’m sure I don’t know. But, it must have been one of them, there’s no getting around that. When I saw the three, as you might say, almost in a row, and the two ladies, sir, both near to Mr. Stannard, sir, and both looking—oh, I can’t describe how they looked! Why if they were both guilty they couldn’t have looked different.”

  “They weren’t both guilty!” cried Roberts. “It couldn’t have been collusion, eh, Steele?”

  “Nonsense, of course not,” returned Captain Steele; “one stabbed him, and the other came in at the sound of his voice. The terror and shock of the culprit and that of the innocent one would both be manifested by the same expressions of horror and fright.”

  “I believe that,” said Bobsy, after a minute’s thought. “Now, Blake, as to the actual means of getting in and out of that studio. Let’s go in there.”

  It was rather early in the morning and the members of the household were as yet in their rooms. It was not the intention of the Police to intrude upon them until after the funeral, but it was desirable to make certain inquiries and investigations while the matter was fresh in the minds of the servants.

  Roberts intended to interview others of them afterward, but just now Blake was proving so satisfactory that he continued to keep him by.

  In the studio, both Steele and Roberts examined carefully the marks on the West window casing.

  “Idiot boy!” exclaimed Bobsy. “To think he could fool us into believing this was professional work!”

  “It shows a leaping mind on his part, to fly round here and fix it up so quickly,” said Steele, a bit admiringly.

  “That’s what Mr. Barry has, sir, the leaping mind,” observed Blake, as if pleased with the phrase. “Often he jumps to a conclusion or decision that his father’d take hours to reach.”

  “Mr. Stannard was slow, then?”

  “Not to say slow, in some things. He was like lightning at his work. But as to a matter, now, that he didn’t want to bother about, he would put it off or dawdle about it, something awful.”

  “And you see,” Bobsy went on, “there are only three doors and three windows in the place. Now we have accounted for——”

  “What’s the gallery for?” asked Steele, gazing up at the gilded iron scrollwork of the little balcony.

  “Just for ornament, sir,” Blake returned. “And I’ve heard Mr. Stannard say, it was necessary, to break up that wall. You see, the ceiling is some twenty feet high, and no windows on that side, being next the main house.”

  “It’s all one house,—there’s no division?”

  “No real division, sir, but this end,—the studio and Billiard Room on this floor, and the rooms directly above,—are all Mr. Stannard’s own, and in a way separate from the rest of the house.”

  “His sleeping room is above the studio?”

  “Yes, sir; and his bath and dressing-room and den. Mrs. Stannard’s rooms are next, over the Reception Room, and all the other bedrooms are over the dining room end, and in the third story.”

  “Listen,” impatiently cut in Bobsy. “There are six ways of getting in and out. Now nobody could have entered at the hall door where you were, Blake?”

  “Oh, no, sir. I was there all the evening, and the hall lighted as bright as day.”

  “All right. That’s one off. Now we’ll go round the room. The North window is out of the question, eh?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Blake, as the query was to him. “It only opens in those high, upper sections, by cords, don’t you see?”

  Blake showed the contrivance that opened and shut the upper panes, and it was clear to be seen that there was no possibility of entrance that way.

  “Next is the West window,” Bobsy went on, “and that’s settled by a glance. Why, look at the chalk dust on the floor. How could any one walk through that and leave no track?”

  This was unanswerable, so they went on to the door to the Billiard Room.

  “This is where Mrs. Stannard came in. No other person could have entered this door unless she had seen him. Now, we come to the East window. This was open, I am told, but the wire fly-screen makes it safe. Also, Mr. Courtenay sat on a lawn bench, looking this way, when the light went out. Had a person climbed in at this window before that he must have seen him.”

  “He couldn’t climb in, sir, ’count of the screen,” said Blake. “It’s not a movable screen. We put them up for the season, and take them down the middle of October. They all come down next week.”

  “This door, the last,” and Bobsy paused at the door to the Terrace, “is the one at which Miss Vernon entered. If any one else had come in here she would have seen him. That completes our circuit. No one could have gained access to this room except the ones under consideration. Now we are faced by the fact that one of those two women committed the murder, and it’s up to us to decide which one.”

  “There’s the fireplace,” suggested Steele.

  “There was a fire there that night,” Blake asserted. “That is, there had been, for the evening was a little chilly, and too, Mrs. Stannard is fond of an open fire. It was burned out when—when it all happened, but the embers were smouldering when I came into the room. And no one could come down the chimney, anyway. It’s a crooked flue, and it’s full of soot beside.”

  “No one ever comes down a chimney,” said Roberts, “but it’s always well to look into it.” He peered up into the blackness, but the even coat of soot showed no scratches or marks.

  “Then there’s no ingress other than those we’ve noted,” Steele mused. “There’s no skylight, no cupboards, no doors up in that balcony place,” he ran up and across it, as he spoke, tapping on the wainscoated wall. “Solid,” he said, as he came down the other little stair. “Now, is there any trap door?”

  They lifted rugs and hammered on the floor but the oak was an unmarred surface, and no opening was there of any sort.

  “I wanted to be sure,” said Roberts, as, a little shamefacedly he pounded on the floorboards around the West window. “Now, I am sure. We have only the two doors to deal with. The door from the Terrace and the one from the studio. Let’s look at them both.”

  Stepping out onto the beautiful covered Terrace, the men paused to take in the glories of the scene. The splendid lawns sloping down to even more splendid gardens were the plan of an artist and a Nature lover both. The October foliage was alight and aglow, and the Autumn flowers were masses of gorgeous bloom. But after a whiff
or two of the sunlit morning air, they returned to their quest.

  “On this terrace Miss Vernon and Barry Stannard sat until after eleven,” Roberts said; “I got that from young Stannard himself.”

  “Don’t put too much faith in those people’s ideas of time,” warned Steele. “He may think it was after eleven and it may have been much earlier.”

  “You’re right, there. Well, anyway, he sat here with her, in the dark,—he told me he had turned off the Terrace light,—and then he went off to give the dogs some exercise. I believe they go for a trot every night, don’t they, Blake?”

  “Yes, sir; Mr. Barry almost always romps about with the dogs of an evening.”

  “Well, that leaves Miss Vernon alone here for an indefinite—I mean, an indeterminate time. Now, why doesn’t Mr. Courtenay see her, as he sits on that lawn seat yonder?”

  “Too dark,” said Steele, laconically.

  “That’s right. She was back, we’ll say, under the Terrace roof, and the night was dark. Moreover, the Studio was brightly lighted, also the Billiard Room, which threw the Terrace even more in shadow. Well, then,—I’m sort of reconstructing this,—Miss Vernon sat here, until, as she says, she heard the noise in the studio.”

  “Or saw the light go out,” and Steele shook his head. “Nobody seems to know which happened first, the sudden darkness in there or the queer sound.”

  “No one knows, except the murderer,” said Roberts, seriously. “The murderer knows, because he—or she—turned off the light, but the others, who are innocent, are uncertain about it, as one always is about a moment of unexpected action.”

  “That’s it,” and Steele looked at the detective in admiration. “Mighty few can give a clear account of sudden happenings, unless it’s a cut and dried account.”

  “And yet—” Bobsy frowned, “you know both Miss Vernon and Mrs. Stannard became confused about the lights.”

  “That’s because they both tried to copycat the footman’s story. You see, the one who really killed Stannard, did shut off the lights, and when she tells her story, and has to stick to it, she gets mixed up about the sound and the lights, because she was in the studio all the time, and not where she says she was, at all. Then, on the other hand, the other of the two, being innocent, gets confused, because she really can’t tell just how things did happen.”