“There’s something wrong there,” thought Marcia; something wrong—but he swept on before she could, groping, find it.
“He puts the things in the cupboard on an impulse; a prompting to secure them for possible later use. Perhaps—just then—it’s only an impulse; a result merely of that unfortunate combination of a desire to murder and means to murder. Anyway, he puts all three in the cupboard; if they are found there in the meantime it doesn’t matter. And he’s beside himself; a man under such a strain wouldn’t be have very sensibly. And Godden does get well, and that emotional load has been growing all that time, growing until the night Godden returns, it reaches its climax; he sees him threaten you—or so it looks to him. Sees him actually put his hands on your throat as if to choke you, and Ancill enters and—”
“Ancill told you?”
He blinked again and came back to the present day and moment. His face lost its look of mobility and became just bored and tired. He said; “Yes. So you see we must find so valuable a witness.”
“A witness against me, that is, and against Rob,” thought Marcia. She didn’t say it, but he knew she was thinking it.
“Why did you put the raincoat in the closet?” he said suddenly. “Did Copley wear it when he came to murder your husband? And then forget and leave it in the room? So when you came down and found Godden dying even before you went to him, you saw the raincoat and put it in the closet to shield Copley.”
“No, no—it was as I told you—”
“And that night you came to find the letter you’d hidden in the cupboard. And you saw the arsenic?”
“Yes—at least—”
“It was described by the hardware store clerk: a small sack of heavy paper, wrapped tightly and tied. It was seen in the cupboard the night he was murdered, but we weren’t looking for arsenic; we didn’t know anything about arsenic. And that’s where your letter was, when Beatrice Godden saw the knife there—she must have found the envelope which she later gave me. And the letter.”
Marcia could hear pulses pounding heavily in her ears. Of course, he would see that—they ought to have known— they ought to have known … He was so certain he didn’t even wait for her reply; he said, with a queer, scornful look, “We’ve known or at least strongly suspected that she must have had the letter, since the time it came into our hands and we saw what it was. She had the envelope; when she gave me the envelope she said only she had found it in the house and knew nothing of the letter it must have enclosed; she pretended she didn’t know the handwriting. I don’t know her motive; probably, mainly, it was to divert suspicion from herself to you. Then when we knew you had been searching the cupboard we knew you were after something and gave things a more thorough search ourselves. But the arsenic had already been removed; removed before we knew there had been arsenic. I don’t know why it was apparently taken out and dumped in the pool, unless—unless the murderer simply wanted to get rid of it. However, we weren’t, naturally, very surprised when the letter turned up. We figured there was something of the kind. But Beatrice’s probable possession of it is part of our case against Copley. He had a motive for killing her.”
And they had planned to keep that from them. What other blunders had they made? What other admissions they did not know were admissions?
He shot up his cuff with a deft motion, glanced at his watch, and said briskly, “If Beatrice had the letter and didn’t give it to me, there was a reason for that. And—you knew she had the letter and Rob Copley knew she had the letter—so he killed her—”
“If he killed her for the letter, he would have destroyed it! He wouldn’t have sent it to you. It wasn’t Rob—”
“He would have destroyed it if he’d found it,” said Jacob Wait. “Perhaps he couldn’t find it. But he knew that she knew of it—he had to silence her. And he knew that she threatened his alibi—such as it was—the night Godden was—”
He stopped.
He was looking straight at her with those dark, heavy-lidded eyes and didn’t see her. Didn’t see anything in the room. Didn’t ask another question or make any other comment. He stared into space for an utterly still moment, and so spell-like was his look that Marcia herself was held by it. And then he turned and walked out of the room. Out of the house into the rain, with Gally running to peer through the curtains after him.
Gally returned, perplexed and anxious.
“Now what?” he said. “Now what’s he going to do?”
“He knows Beatrice had the letter,” said Marcia heavily. “He knew it from the first—that is, suspected it because she had the envelope and the letter reached them the day after she was murdered. It’s—as we knew it would be—the motive they attribute Rob. Now he knows it was in the cupboard; I told him that.”
Verity said nothing.
After a moment Gally went to Marcia and patted her shoulder and put his arm comfortingly around her.
“Don’t worry, honey,” he said. “We’re doing the best we can.” He was, however, a little cheerful. “At any rate they didn’t arrest me. Not yet, anyhow. They’ll probably take us all together, Marcia.”
“Didn’t he ask you any questions about your presence in the house when Ivan was murdered?” asked Verity.
“None,” said Gally, still cheerful. “Oh, he asked if I heard anything—say, somebody coming down the stairs. I knew he meant Marcia, so I said no, nobody but Beatrice. If you want to know what I think, I think he suspected something of the sort all along.”
He looked thoughtful and had an afterthought.
“He asked about the scrap of something white I saw, too. And about knocking at the french doors, and the doors being open, and going in when Ivan looked up and saw me and said to come in. But I didn’t say a word about hearing Rob say he was going to kill Ivan. I was just passing the other side of the evergreens, you know, Marcia. And I will admit it gave me a kind of shock to hear you and Rob talk and to know how things were between you. Not that I blame you,” he added hurriedly. “Ivan was a—hell, I wouldn’t blame you for killing him yourself. But it did give me a kind of shock, and then when Rob said he was going to kill him, I thought, ‘Least said soonest mended and a good job done.’ Anyway, I just waited till you’d both gone and then went around to the library doors. Rob sounded,” said Gally reflectively, “as if he meant it. But I’ll never tell—unless, of course, I have to to save myself.” Verity uttered a queer smothered word or two and turned away, and Miss Wurlitz came hurriedly forward.
“Now, Mrs. Copley,” she said soothingly, “don’t take it so hard.”
When Verity went home after dinner the nurse went with her.
“I’ll just see she gets off to sleep,” she said to Marcia. “She looks awful. You’d better get some rest yourself, Mrs. Godden. I won’t be long.”
They went away through the twilight and rain. The dripping evergreens closed about them, and then the dusk of the street.
Gally watched them go, sighed, and lighted the lamp in the hall, wondering audibly what had happened to the usual policeman sitting in the hall or prowling just outside the front door.
“He’s probably in the kitchen,” said Marcia.
“Funny,” said Gally after a pause, “how empty the house seems. When Ancill was around you always felt him—I mean, you felt as if he was likely to turn up at any moment—as if he was watching you—there’s a word for it—ubiquitous,” said Gally with a small triumph and added that he was going for a walk.
“First time I’ve had a chance to get a stroll by myself for days. Want to come along, Marcia? Do you good. Though a policeman or detective will likely turn up before we’ve gone ten feet. Well,” said Gally generously, “let him. Coming?”
She shook her head without really hearing him, and the front door presently closed with a jar.
In the back of the house the sounds of kitchen work and of Delia and cook talking gradually died away, and silence descended upon the house.
After a while Marcia wandered into the library,
turned on the light above the big chair, and settled herself there to wait for Miss Wurlitz.
Rain slid against the french doors and whispered at the windows. Ivan’s room—and Ivan’s desk.
She wondered what had happened to the paperweight. How well she remembered Ivan’s fingers caressing it—those cold, beautiful fingers which had closed around her throat while Rob, outside, watched.
She wondered when they would find Ancill. It was because he was a witness, then, that they wanted him. They’d said he was wanted for murder merely because it was in connection with a murder.
The lamp above shed a glow on her head and around her. Just at its edge was that area which had been chalked and where, even now, she could see a faint, blurred line, marking the spot where Ivan had died.
After a time she stirred; her legs were cramped, and she moved restlessly and put her head back against the chair.
It had been, she realized suddenly, quite a long time since Gally had gone.
How empty and quiet the house was around her!
Perhaps the police had gone, after all. They would know that if she made an effort to escape they could, by merely putting out their hands, have her again in their clutch.
She got up and walked uneasily into the hall. The small, muffled sound of her footsteps on the carpet, the rustle and whisper of her skirt seemed loud in the hollow silence. There was a light in the empty length of the hall; there was a light at the landing, and the stairs stretched emptily upward to it. There was no sound from the back of the house: Delia and Emma Beek had gone to bed long ago. She went on to the dining room and turned on the lights in the crystal-hung chandelier and looked around the room, and the crystal drops reflected points of light upon the polished buffet.
The drawing room was empty, too; she left lights on there.
She went back to the library, wondering what had kept Miss Wurlitz. Perhaps it would be better not to wait.
In the library, as always, the sound of the rain was louder. Louder. And one of the french doors was open.
CHAPTER XIX
IT GAVE HER A REALLY ugly shock: a moment that was like a blow. But it was only a moment. Only, probably, a second or two.
For Dr. Blakie came from the rain and darkness into the room, shaking the rain from his coat. Marcia gave a kind of gasp, and he looked at her and said quickly, “Oh, my dear, I didn’t mean to frighten you.” He tossed the coat upon a chair and came toward her. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s all right. I was alone and feeling a little nervous.” She sank into the big chair and managed to smile reassuringly.
“I didn’t stop to think,” he said contritely. “You see, I’d rung at the front door, and apparently no one heard me, so I came around here and saw the light and opened the door. You ought not to be left alone like this. Where’s the nurse I sent you?”
“She went home with Verity. Gally’s out for a walk. I didn’t hear you ring, and I suppose Delia has gone to bed.”
“Oh.” He looked at her worriedly. “Well, I’d better stay till someone gets here. I wanted to talk to you a bit, anyway. That’s why I came around. How are you getting on? Nurse taking care of you?” He took her wrist in his hand, putting firm fingers on her pulse. “Miss Wurlitz is one of my best nurses. That’s why I sent her. But she oughtn’t to run off like this. See here, I must have given you a shock coming into the house as I did.” He released her wrist and took her hand in his, still watching her with intent gray eyes. “I’m so—so awfully sorry. Don’t be frightened, my dear.”
It had been a shock. She was still a little fluttery, and her breath was coming in quick gasps. Silly.
“Nerves,” she said. “Sit down, Dr. Blakie.”
After a moment he went to a chair near her, sighing rather wearily and watching her with an intent, shining look which, Marcia felt, could almost see through walls. Could certainly see through one’s own eyes to the thoughts that lay back of them.
“Well,” he said. “Such a day! No word of Ancill yet, I suppose?”
“No. Unless it’s something I haven’t heard.”
He seemed very tired. The fine lines around his eyes made small pouches, and there was a taut, worn look about his mouth.
“Look here, Marcia,” he said. “I’m worried. I—I don’t know what the police are going to do about you. I mean, of course, that half their case against Rob is this letter he wrote to you. I—well, to be honest, I expected them to put you under arrest today. And I don’t see how they can fail to do it—soon.”
She felt he had intended to say “tomorrow” and had softened it.
But it was no new thought to her.
“I know. But there’s nothing we can do.”
A damp current of air drifted through the room, and they could hear the murmur of the rain. Finally he said thoughtfully, “No, I suppose not.”
He was uneasy, too. He reached for a cigarette and struck a match with a sputter that sounded loud and sharp in that silent, waiting room. He rose to get an ash tray, flipped the spent match into it, and strolled toward the open french door and closed it. The sound of the rain was immediately more distant, but the house became again a hollow shell of silence. He was still uneasy and didn’t want to sit still but walked, with the light quick precision that characterized him, up and down the rug, smoking and thoughtful.
The nurse ought to be returning soon. Or Gally. Odd neither of them came. Well, the doctor was there. She was perfectly safe; ridiculous to feel recurrent waves of something like terror. It was because of that one instant of shock. It had left little tremors along her nerves. That was it. She huddled closer into the unfriendly chair, and the glasses along the bookshelves caught now and then piecemeal reflections of the doctor’s slender gray figure, his fine hands, a little quick and impatient with the cigarette, his worn, preoccupied face, the wreaths of blue smoke trailing sluggishly after him.
“What are you going to do about Rob?” he said suddenly, turning toward her.
“Rob?”
“I meant about the trial. I suppose you’ll stand up for him. And he for you. And—and so far as I can see, you’ll not have a chance. Either of you. Look here, Marcia, I hate to talk like this. I’m frightening you. But you’ve got to look at things as they are. Rather—just for this moment —let’s look at things at their worst.”
“Yes,” said Marcia faintly.
“Well—suppose you both are charged with murder and tried. As—well, there’s no use evading it—as you will be. As Rob is, actually, already. Suppose we—can’t get you off.”
Putting thoughts into words gave them dimension.
She put her hands over her eyes, and he went quickly to her again and took her hands, drawing them from her face. “Look at me, Marcia. I’m your friend; I’ll always be your friend. I’ll do everything there is to do to help you. You aren’t alone, you know. But you aren’t a child; and you’ll—you’ll have to help me help you.”
It was, for just a moment, his cool, omnipowerful physician’s tone. Prescribing wisely and kindly for a patient.
“Help?”
“Yes. I—well, I’ve come with a plan. I don’t know how it will work. You may not think it is—worth it. It’s altogether up to you. I’m only offering it—to help you.”
His hands were trembling a little, and yet couldn’t be, for his hands never were unsteady. He was leaning over her, close above her. So close that she drew back a little.
Why didn’t Miss Wurlitz return? The thought flashed sharply through her mind, and she thrust it away and tried to concentrate on what he was saying.
Funny his mouth looked so—so tight. Almost—twisted.
He said, “You may think it’s nothing. You may not want to do it. But it’s the one way to save Rob. And to save yourself.”
He had noticed her small, stifled motion of withdrawal, for he straightened suddenly but still held her hands tightly. And he looked down into her face with intent, compelling eyes and said, “You can marry me, you know
, my dear.”
“Marry—” said Marcia, out of a kind of deep well of confused incredulity.
“You—you—don’t want to?”
She must get her hands away. She must stifle a wild, awful impulse to run. To scream. To—Where was Gally! Oh, Gally, please come back. Please come, Miss Wurlitz. Please come, somebody.
“I—I—”
“You are surprised, of course. But don’t—You needn’t look like that, Marcia. I—I only want to help you. Don’t pull your hands away as if you were afraid of me.”
She had to get her hands away from him. She couldn’t help …
He released them suddenly and looked strangely down at her.
“You aren’t afraid of me, are you? I—why, my dear, I wouldn’t hurt one hair on your little head. I—” He checked himself suddenly, walked away from her and back again, and said in the quiet precise voice which was familiar to her, “It occurred to me as a means of proving that there was no conspiracy between you and Rob to murder Ivan. If you marry someone else—quite soon—it will show that you were not in love with Rob; that you did not conspire with him to murder your husband, in order to marry Rob. Do you see?”
She tried to say, “And Rob? What will happen to Rob?”
But he went on quietly, “It will thus almost automatically remove the motive they attribute Rob for the murders. All this only at the cost of my giving myself a wife.” His smile wasn’t natural; it was stiff and queer. But he said, “And after all, if I’m to have a wife I’d rather it would be you. Don’t mind my little joke, Marcia.”
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