Courtenay went at once over to see Joyce.
“I’ve missed you so,” she said, simply, as she met him on the Terrace. “Why haven’t you been here?”
“I thought better not, darling. I can’t control myself sufficiently to hide my love for you. And I feared it might bring embarrassment on you if I let it be seen by any one. Oh, Joyce, it seems so long to wait! Must it be two years? I can’t live through it.”
“Hush, Eugene. It seems sacrilege even to speak of our love and poor Eric dead so short a time. Be patient, dear heart. We are both young. You couldn’t love me, or respect me, if I failed in ordinary behaviour toward a husband’s memory. And Eric was good to me.”
“Good to you! Losing his head over every pretty woman he met! Joyce, how could you ever marry him?”
“He made me. Don’t you know how some women succumb to cave-man wooing? I don’t understand it myself, but his whirlwind love-making carried me off my feet, and I had promised him before I knew it.”
“If I had been here at the time, it would never have happened.”
“I think it would. I was fascinated by his very vehemence. Now, I know better. I want only your gentle, dear love, that will comfort and content me as he never could.”
“You poor little darling. I wish I could give it to you now. Mayn’t I kiss you once—just once, Joyce?”
“No, Eugene. Not yet. Some day—when I can’t be patient any longer. When the hunger for your big, sweet affection becomes too intense—the craving too uncontrollable.”
She turned away from him and looked off toward the glowing richness of the autumn foliage.
“When the robins nest again,” she said, with a little pathetic smile at the quotation. “But now, dear, sit down, I’ve a lot to tell you. I’m glad you came over, I was going to send for you.”
And then, without further preamble, Joyce told him the whole story of Orienta and her revelations.
Courtenay listened, his eyes growing dark with anxiety as the story progressed.
“Who was the man?” he asked quietly, as she finished.
“Why, I don’t know. Not a tramp, of course. But, perhaps some blackmailer. You know—Eric’s life wasn’t spotless.”
“Listen, Joyce. The man, you say, was dark and with a pointed beard. He was in evening clothes, and wore no hat. He had reason to hate Eric Stannard. Do you know of any one who fulfils those conditions?”
Joyce looked at him, and a cloud of fear came to her beautiful eyes.
“Don’t, Eugene,” she cried, putting up her white hand, as if to ward off a blow. “Don’t!”
“I must, Joyce. And you must listen. When I left you, did you keep your head down on that pillow—or, did you raise it? Tell me truly, dearest.”
“I—I kept it down there. I was crying a little—after what—you know—what we had been talking about. I staid that way a long time.”
“Until you heard the sounds from the studio?”
“Yes; until that.”
“Then some one could have passed you—you wouldn’t have heard a soft step?”
“No, I probably shouldn’t—but, Eugene, it wasn’t you? Say it wasn’t you!”
“It was not. But I have to prove this, Joyce—and it will be difficult.”
“Oh, does any one think it was you?”
“Yes, the police think so.”
“The police! That Roberts man! Oh, why—why did I ever have Madame Orienta come here? But we will prove it was not you, my Eugene—we will prove it.”
“Yes, Joyce, my darling, we will, for we must. To whom have you told this story of sitting with your face bowed in the pillow?”
“To no one. Oh, yes, to the people in the house, of course. Barry and Beatrice, and, of course, little Natalie. Oh, Eugene, I was so glad when the Priestess’ story seemed to clear Natalie and me of all suspicion of guilt. But if it has implicated you, that is a thousand times worse!”
“No, not worse. A man can fight injustice better than a woman. Have you told Roberts?”
“About the pillow? No, I don’t think so. But he’ll find it out. That man digs into everything.”
“You invited him, yourself, to the séance?”
“Yes. I thought it wise. I thought it would implicate some stranger and I wanted him to hear.”
“Why did you think it would accuse a stranger? Look here, Joyce, you didn’t employ that woman to cook up a yarn, did you?”
“Mercy, no!” and Joyce opened her eyes full at him. “Eugene! What an idea! Of course I didn’t. Why, I believe in her as fully as—as I do in you! I can’t say more than that! She is honest and earnest in what she tells. Whether she sees truly, is another thing, and one over which she has no control. But all she says is in sincerity and truth.”
“It may be. But she has surely woven a web around me. That is, if others share your belief in her. Now, I’m going to work, Joyce, to find my alibi.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m going to scare up somebody who saw me on that bench and will swear to it.”
“Swear falsely?” Joyce whispered the words.
“If need be. But I hope to get an honest witness. May I speak to your outdoor servants? And the house staff, too, if necessary?”
“Of course. Find the head gardener, Mason, he’ll round up the rest. Oh, Eugene, you will find some one, surely. They are about the grounds every night. And perhaps Barry saw you. He was out with the dogs.”
“I’ll find some one, dear. Don’t worry.”
Courtenay went away, and Joyce went into the house. She went to Beatrice Faulkner’s room, and found her there.
“May I come in?” asked Joyce, at the door.
“Always, any time. Why, what is the matter, dear?”
“Beatrice! You don’t think Eugene killed Eric, do you?”
“Of course not! What nonsense!”
“Well, they suspect him of it, and he’s going to make up an alibi—or whatever you call it.”
“Not make one up! Don’t ever say that, Joyce. You mean, he’s going to find proof of his own testimony.”
“Yes, it’s all the same. But, oh, Beatrice, if he did do it—I can never marry him——”
“Hush, Joyce! You mustn’t talk like that! Don’t you want to save Eugene?”
“Of course I do, if he’s innocent.”
“Then believe him innocent! You wrong-minded woman, to doubt the man who loves you, at the first breath of suspicion!”
“Then is he innocent, Beatrice? Is he?”
“Look in your heart and answer that yourself.”
“I do look,” said Joyce, solemnly, “but I can’t read the answer.”
CHAPTER XIV
From Seven to Seventy
“Listen, Joyce, dear. You are nervous and excited, or you never would do Mr. Courtenay such injustice. Think back; remember how he has always loved you—long before you married Eric. How patient and good he has been, never showing any undue interest in you or any animosity toward Eric. Why, then, imagine that he would do this desperate thing?”
“That’s just it, Beatrice. He restrained his feelings as long as he could, and that night—in the Billiard Room, he—he lost control—and he said he—he c-couldn’t stand it. You know he thought Eric didn’t treat me right——”
“And Eric didn’t. But even if Mr. Courtenay did lose his head for a moment, that doesn’t mean he was the murderer, and you mustn’t suspect him, Joyce.”
“But you know what Orienta said—about a dark man with a pointed beard. Who else could it have been?”
“Other men have dark hair and beards. And Orienta couldn’t see him clearly, you know.”
“I know. And you are a comfort, Beatrice. But I never can marry Eugene if he has even a shadow of doubt hanging over him. I want him cleared.”
“Of course you do. And as he is innocent, he will clear himself.”
“Maybe not. If he can’t find anybody who saw him out there on the bench, he will be arrested
, and——”
“Oh, no, he won’t. Why, somebody must have seen him!”
“If any of the servants had, they would have said so.”
“They weren’t asked. What about Barry?”
“Oh, I think Barry was off in the other direction, down by the orchards. But, Beatrice, maybe Mr. Wadsworth saw him. Didn’t he leave you just about that time?”
“Yes, or a few moments sooner. Shall I ask him?”
“Oh, no. He’s a fine man, and if he did see Eugene, his word will stand. Are you going to—do you care for him, Beatrice?”
“No, Joyce. He is, as you say, a fine man, and he has asked me many times to marry him, but I do not love him in that way. I admire and respect him, that is all.”
“Poor Mr. Wadsworth. He worships the ground you walk on. Perhaps later, when all this horror is a thing of the past, you may change your mind.”
“Never, Joyce. But I’ll ask Mr. Wadsworth about Eugene. You telephone him to come over here. If I do——”
“He’ll take it as encouragement. Yes, I know. I’ll do it.”
Joyce called him up on the telephone, and Wadsworth came over to the Folly that evening.
“Why, yes, I think so,” he said, when questioned by Beatrice. “Let me see; when I left here, I walked a couple of times round the Italian garden paths, hesitating as to whether I should come back for one last appeal, or accept your refusal as final. I decided on the latter course, and was planning to go away on a long trip, to—to make myself keep away from you.” He looked tenderly into the troubled face gazing into his own. “I don’t want to persist too hard, dear, but I am of a determined nature, and I can’t give you up. So, I’m going away, but I warn you I shall yet return and ask you once more—yes, once more, Beatrice.”
“That is in the future,” she returned, gravely, “but now, let us see if we can help poor Joyce.”
“Poor Courtenay, as well! Now, I think I did see him, as I came along the South lawn. I’m sure I saw some man on the bench out there, and it was much the outline of Courtenay. And then, yes, I remember now, just then the light went out, and I couldn’t see him clearly. Of course, I thought nothing of the light being put out. I assumed the people were going to bed, but it was that that decided me not to return to see you again that night. Had the lights staid on, I fancy, after all, I should have entered the house again.”
They were alone in the studio. It was but partially lighted, and Beatrice shuddered as she looked around the great apartment.
“Come out of here,” she said; “I hate the place, it seems to be haunted by Eric’s spirit. Come into the Reception Room.”
Wadsworth followed as she went through the hall, but detained her a moment.
“What has become of your portrait painted on the staircase?” he asked.
“It’s in the studio,” she replied. “It isn’t quite finished, you know.”
“Mayn’t I see it?”
“Not now. Some time.”
“Stand on the stairs, the way the picture is painted.”
Humouring his whim, Beatrice went up three steps and posed her hand on the balustrade, as Eric had painted her.
“Beautiful. Stannard was a wonderful genius. I want that picture, dear. I don’t care if it is unfinished. If I can’t have the original—yet—will you give me the duplicate?”
“No, oh, no!” and Beatrice looked startled. “I’d hate you to have it, with this staircase and all——”
“I thought you loved this staircase——”
“As an architectural gem, yes. Mr. Faulkner prided himself on its design. But now—Eric’s death——”
“Oh, yes, you stood right there, when your attention was first drawn to the footman’s queer actions, didn’t you?”
“Yes; I was just on this very step when I heard that faint moan—oh, don’t remind me of it.”
“I won’t. I was a brute to be so thoughtless. Dear heart, can’t you leave this house? Why do you stay in a place of such sad memories?”
“I do want to go away—and I must. And yet, Joyce needs me. She leans on me for everything. Come into this little room, and sit down.”
They went into the cosy, low-ceiled Reception Room, and Beatrice continued. “I was just thinking I could leave her, when she became worried about Mr. Courtenay. Now, if you can convince the police that you saw him out there, just at that critical moment when the light disappeared, you will establish his alibi. Can you do this?”
“I’m sure I can. The more I think about it, the more I feel sure that it was Courtenay I saw.”
“Had he a hat on?”
“No, but his hand on the back of the bench held a cap. I saw this clearly, for the light from the studio window was very strong. But as I looked at the man, the light went out. Understand, I was not looking at him with any curiosity or even interest. Merely he was in my line of vision, that is all. When I could not see him because of the sudden darkness, I thought no more of him, and I went home then.”
“And you will go to the police and tell them this?”
“I certainly will, the first thing to-morrow morning. To-night, if you prefer.”
“No, wait till morning. Stay here a little longer. I feel lonely to-night.”
“Dear heart, can’t you learn to look to me to cheer that loneliness?”
“Don’t—you promised you wouldn’t. But let’s chat a bit. Tell me, do you believe at all in spiritism?”
“Spiritualism?”
“No; spiritism. They’re quite different. Spiritualism is the old-fashioned table-tipping, rapping performance. Spiritism is the scientific consideration of life after death.”
“Of course, I believe in life after death——”
“But do you think the dead can return and communicate with us?”
“By rapping and tipping tables?”
“No, not at all. By silent communion, or by a restless haunting of places they used to occupy? There! didn’t you hear a faint sound then? A soft rustle, as of wings?”
“No, I didn’t, and neither did you. That Orienta person has you all unnerved. I won’t stand it. I insist on your leaving this house. If I see to it, that the police are fully informed of my evidence regarding Courtenay, will you get away at once?”
“I’d be glad to, if Joyce is willing I should go. Natalie is fond of me, too. But Barry will look after her. Yes, if Mr. Courtenay is freed of all suspicion, I will go away at once.”
* * * *
Roger Wadsworth’s story carried weight with the police, who were already rather sceptical of testimony obtained from a clairvoyant.
And as Courtenay himself said to Captain Steele, “Your precious detective, Roberts, forced that woman to describe me. Even granting she had an hallucination, or whatever those people have, she didn’t say anything about a pointed beard, or evening clothes and no hat, until he suggested it. Then she said ‘yes.’ If he’d said, ‘hasn’t he red hair and freckles?’ she would have said ‘yes,’ also! It’s auto-suggestion. Her mind was a blank, and any hint took form of a picture which she thought she saw. But since you’ve put me on the rack, I’m going into this thing myself. For reasons of my own, I’m going to hunt down the murderer of Eric Stannard. There’s nobody on the job that has any push or perseverance. Young Stannard doesn’t want the truth known. Why, I can’t say. Nobody suspects him. But from now on, count on my untiring efforts. I’m ready to work with you, Captain Steele, or with Roberts, or any one you say. Or I’ll work alone. But solve the mystery I’m bound to!”
Courtenay’s manner went far to convince all who heard him of his own innocence, though Bobsy Roberts afterward growled something about “protesting too much.” But when Courtenay said he would be at their bidding if they learned anything against him, they agreed to let him go in peace to pursue his own inquiries.
And he went first to Lawyer Stiles, to look into the matter of Stannard’s will.
“The first motive to consider,” Courtenay said to the surprised lawyer,
“is always a money motive. Who benefits by this will, aside from the principals?”
Stiles produced the document, and they went over its possibilities. Suddenly Courtenay started in astonishment.
“Have you noticed anything peculiar about this will?” he asked.
The lawyer looked at him with a somewhat blank expression.
“Just what do you mean?” he said.
“Ah, then you have seen it! Were you going to let it pass unnoted?”
“I must ask you to explain your enigmatical remarks.”
“And I will do so. That will has been tampered with, and you know it!”
“Tampered with?”
“Don’t repeat my words like a parrot! Yes, tampered with. The original, written in Mr. Stannard’s own hand, has been added to by some one else.”
“What makes you think so?”
“I don’t think so, I know so. Now, why haven’t you made it known? You must have seen it?”
“Where is the fancied alteration?”
Courtenay looked at the stern face of the lawyer, and wondered if he could be dishonest or if he had been blind. He laid his finger on one clause, the one stating Natalie Vernon’s bequest, and said, “There, that is the place. That was written seven thousand dollars, it has been changed to read seventy thousand dollars.”
Lawyer Stiles peered at the words through his rubber-rimmed glasses. “It is in letters and figures both,” he demurred, “it would be difficult——”
“I know it is. And it was not very difficult to add ty to the written seven, and there chanced to be room for an extra cipher after the original naughts, thus giving the inheritor ten times as much as was intended by the testator.”
“Well?”
“Well, do you, as a reputable lawyer, admit that you overlook a palpable fraud like that?”
“I’m sorry you saw that, Mr. Courtenay. In explanation, I have nothing to say, but justice to myself compels me to remind you that I am in the confidence of the Stannard family, and this is their affair—not yours.”
“Whew!” Courtenay gave a short whistle. “I begin to see. They know it, and make no objection.”
“Y—yes.”
“Who knows it?”
The Alan Ford Mystery MEGAPACK® Page 33