Then he threw himself on the bed, his arm across his eyes, and for a while he lay there unmoving, his thoughts chaos. His closed eyes burned with weariness, and he wished to sleep but could not, and discovered wonderingly that he was hungry; so he splashed his face in the basin and went down to the lobby. The dining room was closed, but a lunch counter a block away gave him orange juice, two boiled eggs which should have been scrambled, and a cup of coffee so bad that though he preferred coffee black, he added thin milk and much sugar to make it drinkable. He returned to the hotel, to his room; and almost at once there was a knock on the door.
He thought this would be Roger Pryde and called a summons, but instead of Roger a woman appeared; a little old woman, extraordinarily little and extraordinarily old, her face covered with fine wrinkles like a jockey’s, her eyes big behind thick lenses, her wispy hair straggling under a ridiculous hat. Harland stared at her, and after a moment he asked:
‘Who are you?’
‘I’m Miss Batten,’ she told him, in a friendly, thin voice. ‘I work on the paper here, and send dispatches to the Boston papers.’
Harland had forgotten till now the newspapers, and he had a sudden mental picture of a thousand headlines which the world would read this afternoon and tomorrow morning. His successful books had made his name news, and scores of newspaper men and women had in the past, because he was a novelist, sought to interview him. Recognizing the commercial value of publicity, he had always welcomed them cheerfully and cordially, had done his best to give them usable material, had sympathized with their problems — he remembered his own months on the Transcript when he too had been sent out, on more than one occasion, to ‘interview’ persons of whom he had never heard before — and had appreciated the fact that they were as bored with the necessity of talking to him as he was at talking to them. He had never feared them.
But now this frail old woman woke in him a sudden tremor of alarm; for behind her were legions of editors, reporters, desk men, linotype operators — waiting to spread his story before their readers, to winnow him fine in a fierce blast of nationwide publicity. ‘Novelist’s Wife Held For Murder.’ ‘Mrs. Richard Harland Accused of Poisoning.’ ‘Novelist in Love Triangle.’ His racing thoughts formed a hundred scalding phrases. On the front page of every daily in the country, his tragedy today and tomorrow and for days to come would be spread large.
So Miss Batten, for all she was so weak and small, must not be antagonized, for there was a mighty army at her back. ‘Sit down,’ he told her. ‘Please sit down.’
She did so, with the fussy, settling movements of a hen. ‘Mr. Quinton has given out the news of Mrs. Harland’s arrest and of the indictment,’ she explained. ‘I’ve wired Boston a story on that.’ She added apologetically: ‘I had to, you know. I’m sorry, but that’s my business.’
‘Of course. I know.’
She hesitated, and then — Harland saw that she was giving him time to think, felt a sudden lonely liking for her — she spoke about herself. ‘Whatever money I get for outside stories, I never spend, you see. It goes into a special fund in the savings bank; and when I’ve enough, I’m planning a year’s vacation; a trip around the world.’ There was an amazing youthfulness in her. ‘I’ll have enough in another year or two, I think,’ she said. ‘Of course not many news stories break here, but my fund has been growing for twenty years.’
Harland said with wry humor: ‘You ought to get quite a lot of space on this story.’
‘Oh, the city papers will send their own reporters,’ she reminded him. ‘There’ll be a dozen of them here tonight; so I have to get what I can today.’ She seemed, incredibly, to blush. ‘That’s my excuse for bothering you,’ she confessed. ‘I hated doing it, knowing how distressed you must be; but I thought you might just possibly have something to say.’
He laughed mirthlessly. ‘I have,’ he agreed. ‘I could talk for a week steady.’ ,
She uttered a little mirthful chirrup. ‘Oh, I won’t ask you to do that. But if you’re sure you want to say something . . .’
‘I say it’s a damned ridiculous outrage!’
She shook her head. ‘No, I wouldn’t say that. Do you mind if I don’t let you say tactless things? “Outrage” suggests persecution, you see. It’s — you don’t mind my being frank — it’s a cry-baby word! Mr. Quinton and the grand jury — they’re only doing what it’s their job to do, you know.’
He looked at her in sudden respect. ’I used to be a reporter,’ he said. ‘We were taught to get our — subjects — mad, because then they’d say things they shouldn’t. That’s not the way you work.’
‘Oh no,’ she assured him. ‘If people are already in trouble, I don’t want to make things worse for them.’
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Well — what do you think I should say?’
‘Well,’ she reflected. ‘Mr. Quinton gave out a statement. I’m sorry I haven’t a copy, but I put it on the wire. He told about your first wife’s death, and he said new evidence proves she died of arsenic poisoning, and he said the present Mrs. Harland gave her some sugar for her coffee and that the sugar had arsenic in it.’
‘Trying his case in the newspapers?’
‘I’ll tell you a secret,’ she said. ‘I think — you see the Attorney General’s away just now on his vacation — I think Mr. Quinton wants to get as much personal publicity as possible.’
He smiled drily. ‘Is that part of his duty?’
‘Don’t be unfair,’ she warned him. ‘His duty is to prosecute criminals; but he’s entitled to credit for what he does. And — I think you might try your case in the newspapers too. For instance, do you think Mrs. Harland died of arsenic poisoning?’
‘I don’t know anything about it.’
‘Were you with her when she died?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Did you suspect anything of the kind?’
‘No. She was subject to severe attacks of indigestion. This seemed like the others, only worse.’
‘Mr. Quinton says there’s no doubt what caused her death.’
‘That’s for the jury to decide, isn’t t?’
‘Yes, of course. But if she did die of poison — what do you think about that?’ He hesitated, wondering whether he should suggest that Ellen had taken her own life; and he foresaw the questions that would follow and which he could not bring himself to answer. But before he could speak, little Miss Batten said: ‘I’ll take back that question, Mr. Harland. I don’t think you should answer it. I think you’d better just say this is all a complete surprise to you, that you can’t believe it’s true, that you can’t even speculate about it, something like that. Don’t you think so?’
Harland said gratefully: ‘You’re right, of course. I can’t say anything because I don’t know anything. Except of course I know that Ruth, my wife, is completely innocent.’
‘Of course.’
‘I’ll trust you to make me say the right things. Write something tactful.’ He smiled. ‘And string it out, Miss Batten. Get as much space as you can.’
‘You’re so nice. I’ll be careful. Would you like to see it before I file it?’
‘If you think I should.’
She rose. ‘I’ll see how it sounds after I write it. I don’t want to bother you more than I must. Thank you for being so kind.’ And she said solicitously: ‘You know, I think you’d be wise to go to bed, get some sleep. Just take off your clothes and go right to bed. I’ll bring you some pills if you like. I have some at home that I’ve used for years.’
‘Thanks,’ Harland told her. ‘I’ll be able to sleep all right, I’m sure.’
At the door she said: ‘Oh, by the way, if anything comes up so that you could give me a story all for myself, it would be ever so nice for me.’
‘I will if I can,’ Harland promised. When she was gone he was surprised to discover that he was no longer so depressed. She had given him somehow a measure of serenity. He took her advice, removed his clothes and drew the shades and
went to bed; and almost at once he was asleep like a man drugged.
– V –
He was still asleep when Roger Pryde knocked on his door. Roger was ten years the older, a gangling tall man with cropped dark hair so wiry that he had long since despaired of bringing it into any order. When he finished Harvard Law School he went into his father’s firm — the firm’s specialty was corporation and tax law — and married a girl he had known since childhood, and he and his wife had exchanged dinners once or twice with Ellen and Harland. He told Harland at once that he had arranged with Nathaniel Pettingill, the leading criminal lawyer in Maine, to take charge of Ruth’s defense. He refrained, and Harland was glad of this, from any questions; but Mr. Pettingill when he arrived was naturally more insistent. He was a big, heavy-shouldered man who seemed half asleep; but his mind never slept, and Harland quickly learned to respect and to like him. Under the lawyer’s shrewd inquiries Harland told everything he knew — with one exception. He kept from Mr. Pettingill the truth of Danny’s death. Whatever he must do for Ruth he would do, but to admit that Ellen had murdered Danny could not help Ruth now.
When the lawyer asked his opinion as to what had happened, Harland said that Ellen loved him; that knowing him lost to her forever she had killed herself.
‘That’s no defense unless we can prove it,’ Pettingill reflected. ‘Would you be willing to go on the stand and testify to the rupture between you — and undergo cross-examination?’
‘Listen,’ said Harland with a quiet vehemence: ‘I’ll do anything. I’ll carry the courthouse down the hill and throw it into the Bay brick by brick, if that will help Ruth. I’ll tell the truth, or I’ll lie, or I’ll do both. But this is ridiculous, this whole damnable thing. I don’t know whether to laugh because it’s so ridiculous or to swear because it’s so damnable. I want to get Quinton by the neck and kick his teeth in.’
The lawyer smiled. ‘None of that,’ he said.
‘He knows damned well there’s no truth in this charge. He’s known Ruth for years.’
‘Has he any animus?’ Mr. Pettingill inquired; so Harland told him the story of his own marriage to Ellen, and Pettingill nodded. ‘Quinton wouldn’t forgive that,’ he agreed. ‘But he’d not go this far unless he was sure of his ground. I’ll see him, see what he’s got.’
‘Will he tell you?’
‘Oh yes. The State’s not supposed to spring any surprises.’
Mr. Pettingill came back from that talk with Quinton grave and thoughtful. ‘He’s got a prima facie case,’ he told Harland. ‘For motive, Mrs. Harland’s death meant a large inheritance for the present Mrs. Harland — I’d better use their first names. It avoids confusion — and Ellen’s death cleared the way for your marriage to Ruth. Ruth admits, he says, that she had access to arsenic, knew what it was, prepared the sugar with which Ellen sweetened her coffee, knew Ellen alone would use that sugar.’ His tone implied a question, and Harland nodded, and he went on: ‘He says Leick saw Ellen put the envelope back in the hamper. He says the sugar in it has been analyzed and contains arsenic. Ellen’s symptoms were those of arsenic poisoning. And he says he found a supply of arsenic hidden in Ruth’s room in Bar Harbor.’
‘Oh, that’s ridiculous!’ Harland made a helpless gesture, laughing wretchedly. ‘It’s all just plain crazy,’ he protested.
Mr. Pettingill half-smiled. ‘I suppose your idea would be to have the case thrown out of court.’
‘No!‘ Harland cried. ‘No, I don‘t want that. My God, man, have you seen the Boston papers?‘ Pettingill nodded, and Harland said hotly: ‘Don‘t you realize that this story has been printed all over the country? There are twenty Boston and New York and Portland and Augusta reporters here in town right now, badgering me, trying to get me to talk. I don‘t blame them. It‘s their business. But everyone in the United States knows by now that Ruth has been arrested on a charge of poisoning Ellen. Throwing the case out would be as bad as the old Scotch “not proven” verdict. We‘ve got to blow the indictment sky-high in open court.‘
Ruth, when Pettingill. made to her the same suggestion — Harland suspected that he did so in order to appraise their reactions — gave him a like answer.
‘I want a trial,’ she insisted. ‘Even if you could have the charge dismissed, people would always think you’d pulled some underhanded legal trick. I want to face it and put an end to it, so everyone will know the truth.’ She added, smiling faintly: ‘And the sooner the better, please. I don‘t care very much for my lodgings here.‘
Pettingill chuckled, said frankly: ‘Well, of course there’s no real chance of a nol pros anyway. They’ve got enough to go to the jury.’ And he asked, looking from one to the other: ‘Any idea what started Quinton digging into this thing now, so long after Ellen died?’
Neither Harland nor Ruth could hazard a guess, but they were to have the answer to that question, and from two sources. Miss Batten came to Harland one day — Pettingill had moved for an early trial, but there were weeks of waiting — to tell him some gossip she had heard. One of the stenographers in Quinton’s office was her friend.
‘She gives me stories sometimes,’ Miss Batten explained. ‘So you mustn‘t tell anyone how I found this out; but she says Mr. Quinton got a letter one morning, and he was excited, and he called in Mrs. Parkins and Deputy Hatch and they went to his house and got a lunch basket and took it to the state chemist at Augusta; and after that he went off to see Doctor Seyffert and Leick Thorne and Mrs. Freeman — she‘s the cook at the Berent house at Bar Harbor — and a lot of people, and then he came back and got the indictment.‘
‘A letter?‘ Harland repeated, completely puzzled.
She nodded eagerly. ‘Anonymous, I suppose. At least no one knows who it was from. But I thought you might like to know about it.‘
Harland was grateful, and he told her so; but neither he nor Ruth could guess the author of that letter till a day or two later Roger Pryde, who had returned to Boston pending the opening of the trial, wrote Harland:
‘I got some important information today. Old Mr. Carlson of the Security Trust used to be in our office. He‘s trustee for a lot of estates, and he took care of Professor Berent‘s business, and of Ellen‘s after her father and mother died. He came to me this morning with a story, confidential of course, but he’ll testify if he‘s needed.
‘He says that a week or ten days before her death, Ellen had him draw her will, and she gave him a sealed envelope and told him to open it if after her death you remarried. When you and Ruth were married, he did so, and found another letter enclosed, addressed to Quinton, with a covering note instructing Mr. Carlson that if you married Ruth he was to mail the letter to Quinton. If you married anyone else, Carlson was to destroy the letter unopened. He mailed the letter to Quinton that day. He doesn’t know what was in it. As I say, he doesn’t want it known that he’s told me this unless it becomes necessary. He’s careful to keep his trustee business confidential; but since I’d been called in by you, he felt he should pass this on. It’s all right, of course, to tell Mr. Pettingill where you got the information.’
Harland took this letter at once to Mr. Pettingill. The other read it and looked at him inquiringly. ‘Well, what’s the answer?’ he asked, in noncommittal tones.
‘I‘ve no idea.‘ Harland shook his head, pressed his knuckles against his brow. ‘I can‘t even guess,’ he confessed. ‘Can‘t you make Quinton let you read the letter?‘
The other shook his head. ‘I doubt it,’ he decided. ‘No such letter could be, in itself, evidence. Unless of course it contains a sworn statement, and even then its admissibility is doubtful. Presumably Quinton would say the letter‘s not evidence and refuse to let us see it. No, we‘ll have to wait. Possibly we can force it out of him at the trial.’ He looked at Harland shrewdly. ‘Unless Ellen might have written something you don’t want known.’
‘Listen!’ Harland cried. ‘There’s nothing we don’t want known!’ He hesitated, remembering Danny, but brushed the thou
ght aside. ‘We don’t want to keep anything back. We want to blow this whole thing wide open.’
Pettingill cleared his throat, and Harland guessed that the other had marked his momentary hesitation; but the big man only said:
‘Well, we’ll see what Mrs. Harland thinks.’
Ruth, when they consulted her, agreed with Harland. ‘We’re not afraid of the truth, Mr. Pettingill,’ she insisted. ‘I know sometimes lawyers try to keep out damaging evidence; but — let’s not do that. I don’t know what Ellen could have written, but nothing that’s true can really hurt us, and if she said things that aren’t true — we can prove they’re not.’
Mr. Pettingill said thoughtfully: ‘Well, it might make a hit with the jury if we show them we’re trying to see to it they get all the facts. Juries hate to have us lawyers keep them from hearing things they want to hear. But we’ll see how it works out as we go along.’
So the matter rested, and the weeks passed, and the day set for the trial at last arrived.
13
FOR RUTH, those weeks of waiting were made more easily endurable because she found a friendly companionship in the matron at the jail. Mrs. Sayward was a cheerfully voluble woman, widowed some years before, with two children near their teens; and she often came with her knitting to sit outside Ruth’s cell, her tongue never still.
‘You won’t mind it so much after you get used to it here,’ she told Ruth the first day. ‘It’s the same as home to me. My father was sheriff for twenty years, till he died; so I as good as grew up in the jail. It’s hitched right onto the sheriff’s house, you know, same as a shed and barn. When my husband died it was like coming home, to come to work here. ‘Course, I’m only part time, when there’s some woman here, and that don’t happen often, and mostly they’re poor company; but it’s a real pleasure to be here with you.’ And when Ruth asked whether she found the work depressing, she chuckled heartily and said: ‘Land sakes, I find any work depressing, far as that goes. I’ve got a lazy streak in me a yard wide. But jail’s the same as any other place after you get used to it. Half the folks that get locked up are just as nice as most folks outside.’ She tossed her head. ‘And some of ’em are nicer.’ She added cheerfully: ‘And I need the money, with two young ones to take care of; and then of course it’s real int’resting too, the different cases and all.’
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