“They have not been found in the safe.”
“Then he put them in some simple hiding-place. They will turn up. Unless, of course, there was a real burglar, whose motive was robbery.”
“But you do not think so?”
“Frankly, I do not see how there could have been an intruder, unless dressed as a gentleman. No other could have gained access to the house.”
“The servants saw no stranger, in any sort of garb?”
“They say so,” returned Beatrice, thoughtfully. “Don’t overlook the possibility of an accomplice among the servants. I’ve no reason to think this, but such things have happened.”
“They have indeed, and I assure you we have not overlooked the chance of it.”
CHAPTER VII
Natalie, Not Joyce
But the desired interview with Natalie was not achieved before the funeral of Eric Stannard. It was two days after before the girl would consent to see Roberts, and then, under protest.
“I’ve nothing to say,” she declared, as she came unwillingly into the Reception Room to meet him. “I’m not under arrest, and there’s no law that can make me talk if I don’t want to.”
The lovely face was troubled and the scarlet lips were pouting as Miss Vernon flounced herself into a chair, one foot tucked under her, and one little slipper tapping the carpet. She looked so like a petulant school-girl, it was well nigh impossible to connect her with a thought of anything really wrong. But Robert Roberts was experienced in guile and was by no means ready to accept her innocence at its face value.
“No law ought to make you do anything you don’t want to,” he said smiling; “but suppose it’s to your own advantage to talk?”
The sympathetic, good-natured face of Bobsy Roberts had a pleasant effect, for Natalie’s pout disappeared and a look of confidence came into her blue eyes.
“I wonder if I can trust you,” she said, meditatively, as she gazed at him, with an alluring intentness.
“You sure can,” returned Bobsy, but he consciously and conscientiously steeled himself against her witcheries.
“No, I don’t think I can,” she said, after a moment, and with a tiny sigh of disappointment, she looked away. “Go on; question me as you like.”
“Why can’t you trust me?”
“Oh, I trust you, as far as that goes. But I see you suspect me of killing Mr. Stannard.”
“And didn’t you?” Bobsy believed in the efficacy of sudden, direct questions.
But Miss Vernon was not taken off guard.
“No,” she said, quietly, “I didn’t. But when I say I didn’t, it implicates Mrs. Stannard, and I don’t want to do that. Can’t you tell me what to do?”
“Well, it’s this way. If Mrs. Stannard is the guilty person, you want it known, don’t you?”
“No, indeed! If Joyce Stannard killed her husband, she had a good reason for it, and I’d rather nobody’d know she did it.”
“What was her good reason?”
“Well, you know, Mr. Stannard was—that is,—he had eyes for other people beside his wife.”
“You, for instance.”
“Yes!” and the flower face took on a look of positive hatred, and of angry reminiscence. “I have no kindly thought of Eric Stannard, if he is dead.”
“He was kind to you.”
“Too kind,—in some ways,—and not enough so in others.”
“And his wife was jealous?”
“Who wouldn’t be! He petted her to death one day and the next he neglected her shamefully. I will trust you, Mr. Roberts. Now, listen; if Joyce killed Eric,—I don’t say she did, but if she did, why can’t we just hush up the matter, and pry into it no more? Barry wants that and so do I. And who else is to be considered?”
“The law, justice, humanity, all things right and fair.”
“Rubbish! Let those things go. Consider the wishes of the people most concerned.”
“Then straighten out a few uncertain points. Where are the emeralds?”
“Goodness! I don’t know! That foolish letter wasn’t written to me.”
“To whom, then?”
“I don’t know that, either. Some one of Eric’s lady friends, I suppose. Fancy my wanting him to divorce his wife and marry me!”
Bobsy looked at her narrowly, distrusting every word. This girl, he felt sure, was far from being as ingenuous as she looked.
“But he was in love with you?”
Natalie blushed, a real, natural girl blush.
“I can’t help that, Mr. Roberts. I am, unfortunately, a type that men admire. It is the cross of my life that every one is attracted by my silly doll-face!”
Bobsy Roberts laughed outright, at this naïve wail of woe.
“You needn’t laugh, I’m in earnest. I get so sick of having men fall in love with me, that I’d like to go and live on a desert island!”
“With whom?” and Bobsy looked at her intently.
“With Barry Stannard,” she returned, simply. “We’re engaged, now. We couldn’t be, while Mr. Stannard lived, for he wouldn’t hear of it. Threatened to disinherit Barry, and all that. But now, it’s all right.”
“Miss Vernon, to my mind, that speech clears you of all suspicion. If you had killed Eric Stannard, because he wouldn’t let his son marry you, you never would have referred to it so frankly.”
“Of course I wouldn’t. Now, don’t you see, since I didn’t kill him, it must have been Joyce. It’s been proved over and over that it could not have been a burglar, or anybody like that. And so, I want to stop investigating, and leave Joyce in peace. And then, after awhile, she can marry Eugene Courtenay, and be happy.”
“Does she want to marry Mr. Courtenay?”
“Of course she does. He was in love with her and she with him, before she knew Mr. Stannard. Then Eric came along and stole her,—yes, stole her,—just like a Cave Man. She was carried away by his whirlwind wooing, and—too—he was celebrated, and—well,—you know,—magerful,—and he just took her by storm. She never really loved him, but she has been good and faithful, though he has treated her badly.”
“And if she killed him, it was——”
“It was because she had reached the end of her rope, and couldn’t stand any more. And, too, she has seen a lot of Mr. Courtenay lately, and—oh, well,—she was mad that Eric took such a fancy to me, and so,——”
“Look here, Miss Vernon, just see if you can reconstruct the scene to fit in with a theory of Mrs. Stannard’s guilt.”
“How do you mean?”
“Can you remember about the light going out and the cry for help,—and all that, exactly?”
“No,—I’ve tried to, but it’s all mixed up in my mind. I think, if Joyce,—I mean, whoever did it,—must have struck the blow, and then turned off the light, and then gone out of the room, and—and come back again.”
“And that could have been you—as well as Mrs. Stannard! You were both discovered in practically the same circumstances!”
“You’re trying to trip me, Mr. Roberts. But you can’t do it. Now, look here, if that note had been written to me, wouldn’t it mean that these emeralds were mine, and wouldn’t I claim them?”
“But it states distinctly that you know where they are, and the presumption is, that you have them in your possession.”
“Indeed, I haven’t! I wish I had! I mean, I wish I had them rightfully in my possession! They’re wonderful stones! Look here, Mr. Roberts, why don’t you suspect Mr. Truxton? He’s gem crazy,—and you know gem enthusiasts often go to any length to get the stones they covet.”
“I hadn’t thought of him. And, supposing he did commit crime to steal Mr. Stannard’s jewels, just how did he get away afterward, without discovery?”
“Well, suppose he stabbed Mr. Stannard, then turned off the light, and then slipped out through the Billiard Room when Joyce’s back was turned?”
“Too unlikely. Besides, Mr. Courtenay, who sat on the bench on the lawn, just then, would have seen him
leave the house.”
“I suppose he would.” Natalie drew a deep sigh. “Do give it up, Mr. Roberts. You never can untangle it.”
“Are you going to stay here long?”
“For a time. Mrs. Stannard has asked me to, and Barry wants me.” The simplicity of the girl’s manner almost disarmed Bobsy, but he went on:
“Mrs. Stannard, then, has no hard feelings toward you?”
“I don’t know. Honestly, Mr. Roberts, I don’t know whether she is keeping me here because she suspects me, or because she doesn’t.”
“Did Mr. Stannard leave you anything in his will?”
The rose-pink cheeks flushed deeper, as Natalie replied, “Yes, he did. You probably know that already.”
“No, I didn’t. Was it a worthwhile amount?”
“From my point of view, yes. It was seventy thousand dollars.”
“Whew! Decidedly worthwhile, from almost anybody’s point of view.”
“I know what you’re thinking,” cried Natalie as he paused. “It’s an added reason for suspecting me of killing him.”
“It might be construed so.”
“Well, I didn’t! I was pretty mad, when he made that horrid etching from my Goldenrod picture——”
“And you smudged the wax impression so he couldn’t use it——”
“I did not! I would willingly have done so, if I’d thought of it, but I didn’t do it, all the same.”
“Who did?”
“Whoever killed him, I suppose.”
“Then that lets out Mr. Truxton, or a burglar of any sort. It leaves only Mrs. Stannard. Mightn’t she have done it?”
“A jealous woman might do anything. But Joyce wasn’t especially jealous of me,—no more than of anybody Mr. Stannard might be attracted to.”
“And to whom else was he attracted?”
“Nobody just now,—that I know of. You see, Mr. Roberts, I was just about to leave this house, because Mr. Stannard was too devoted in his attentions to me. I tell you this frankly, because I want you to understand the situation.”
“And I want to understand it. Tell me more of this matter.”
“Well, Mr. Stannard had told me several times of his affection for me and had told me he would remember me in his will, and, not more than a week ago, he told me of Joyce’s caring for Mr. Courtenay, though how he discovered that, I don’t know, for Joyce never showed it. She was good as gold. Well, Mr. Stannard didn’t say so in so many words, but he implied that if he and Joyce—separated—and it could be arranged,—and she—you know,—married Mr. Courtenay,—would I marry him. And I was so mad, I flew into a rage, and——”
“And scratched up your picture?”
“No, that wax plate hadn’t been drawn then. It was afterward that he drew that, and then I was madder than ever.”
“And in the heat of your passionate rage, you——”
“No, I didn’t! I tell you, whoever killed Eric Stannard, I didn’t!”
“Then what did he mean, when, in his dying moment, he said, ‘Natalie, not Joyce!’ Tell me that!”
“I will tell you,” and the girl lowered her voice and looked very serious. “I know exactly what he meant, and Joyce Stannard knows too. He meant,—you’ll think I imagine this, but it’s true; he meant that it was Natalie and not Joyce, whom he loved, and whom he was trying to beckon to at that moment.”
It was impossible to doubt the honesty of the speaker. The great earnest eyes were filled with mingled pain and shame, but the girl meant what she said.
“I know it,” she went on. “You see, he had said to me, several times, ‘Natalie, not Joyce,’ by way of a teasing bit of love-making. Eric was not a bad man, it was only that he could not keep from making love to any woman he might chance to be with. And when I would reprimand him and bid him go to his wife, he would laugh and say ‘Natalie, not Joyce,’ till it became a sort of by-word with him. And I know that’s what he meant that night, when he was hurt,—he didn’t know he was dying,—and he called to me in a half-conscious plea to come to his assistance. Also, he could see me more plainly. Joyce was rather behind him, and his clouding brain spoke out as he saw me, and called for me. As a matter of fact, that speech, though made so much of, means nothing at all. He wasn’t entirely conscious and he spoke as one in a dream. But he did not mean that I had stabbed him.”
“Did he know who stabbed him?”
“How can I tell that? But if he had known that I did it, or had thought that I did it, he would never have said so, had he been aware of what he was saying.”
“You mean, if you had been guilty, he would have shielded you, rather than accused you with his last breath?”
“Yes, or Joyce either. Or any woman. Eric Stannard would never accuse a woman of wrongdoing. His speech meant anything rather than that.”
“Miss Vernon, this puts a very different light on your connection with the affair. Why didn’t you tell this before?”
“Can’t you understand, Mr. Roberts? I have no love for Eric Stannard, I never had any. His attentions annoyed me, his insistence on painting me as he wished to, also annoyed me. I would have left him long ago, but for Barry. Also, I am fond of Joyce. She has been most kind to me, and never jealous of me until lately. Now, I hated to announce that those dying words meant that Mr. Stannard put me ahead of his wife in his affection, especially as it didn’t altogether mean that, it was merest chance that he saw me and not her——”
“But he did see her, for he said ‘Natalie, not Joyce.’”
“Yes, I know,” and the little foot tapped the rug, impatiently,—“but, I mean, he saw me, and he was for the moment interested in me, and he was in pain, or a sort of stupor, or—oh, I don’t know what his sensations were, I’m sure,—but I want to show you that he spoke at random, and it didn’t mean as much as it seems to.”
Natalie had grown excited, her lip trembled, and her voice was unsteady. Either she was desperately anxious to make the truth clear, or she was making up a preposterous story.
If she were guilty, this was a great scheme to divert the suspicion so emphasised by the victim’s statement, and if she were innocent, the story she told might well be true.
“Let me follow this up,” said Bobsy, looking at her closely. “Then Mr. Stannard was so in love with you that he called on you in a desperate moment, rather than on his wife——”
“But he didn’t know it was a desperate moment. I don’t believe that man was conscious at all. The stab wound was practically fatal at once. What he said and did after it, was involuntary. Don’t you know what I mean? He was only half alive physically and almost not at all alive in his mind—his brain. Couldn’t that be true?”
“I suppose so. In fact, I think it must have been—and yet, no, it seems to me it would be logical for him to tell, even without a clear consciousness, who his assailant was. Remember Blake asked him outright. ‘Who did this?’ and he said——”
“I know; but you didn’t see him, and I did. He was not looking at Blake, he didn’t even hear him. He was in a dazed state, and, seeing both Joyce and myself,—he must have seen us both,—his sub-consciousness called out for me. I am not vain of this preference, I wish it had all been otherwise, but I insist that explains his words, and—Joyce knows it, too.”
“How do you know she does? Have you talked with her on this subject?”
“Oh, yes. We have discussed it over and over. Mrs. Faulkner and Joyce and Barry and I have gone over every bit of it a dozen times.”
“Is it possible? What does each of the four think? Since you deny the deed, you can tell what is the consensus of opinion in the household.”
“That’s just what I can’t do. You see, we all hesitate to say anything that will seem to accuse either of us. Mrs. Faulkner, I can see plainly, is uncertain whether to suspect Joyce or me. She is convinced, of course, that it must have been one of us, but she pretends to think it was a burglar.”
“She is fond of you both?”
“Yes, she
adores Joyce, and she is most friendly to me. I’ve only known her since I’ve been here, but she seems to believe in me, somehow. She understands perfectly, that Mr. Stannard meant just what I say he did, by those words. She knows how he acted toward me, and how Joyce felt about it.”
“Then she suspects Mrs. Stannard?”
“She doesn’t say so. She sticks to the safe theory of an intruder. You can’t blame her. None of us can suspect Joyce. It’s too absurd.”
“And Barry Stannard, what does he think?”
“Oh, he vows it was an intruder. He’s thought up a dozen ways for him to get in and out.”
“All equally impossible?”
“I suppose so. Unless,—I hate to say it,—but mightn’t Blake have let him out?”
“Not unless it was somebody known to the household.”
“Well?” said Natalie Vernon.
CHAPTER VIII
The Emeralds
“You mean?” prompted Bobsy.
“Oh, nothing. But,—just supposing, you know. I’m sure I don’t want to mention Mr. Truxton or Mr. Wadsworth, but they were both here——”
“Absurd! Why, Mr. Wadsworth was with Mrs. Faulkner in the Drawing Room——”
“Yes, I know. But he came down and went out the door alone, leaving her up there. Now, if he had wanted to, and if he had fixed it up with Blake, couldn’t he have gone into the studio, stolen the jewels and killed Eric, and then turned off the light and fled, Blake letting him out the front door?”
“But why would Mr. Wadsworth do that?”
“Why would anybody? I’m only showing you that there are theories that don’t include me or Joyce.”
“But not tenable theories. Mr. Wadsworth, I’ve been told, was having a—a romantic tête-à-tête with Mrs. Faulkner.”
“Yes, he was asking her, for the ’steenth time, to marry him. But she turned him down again.”
“Well, even if she did, probably he didn’t give up all hope. And a man, just from a session of that sort, isn’t going to commit a crime.”
“Oh, well, of course, it wasn’t Mr. Wadsworth. But why not consider Mr. Truxton? He’s a jewel sharp, too.”
The Alan Ford Mystery MEGAPACK® Page 27