“No, sir.”
“Did you assist Dr. Noyes and Mr. Wyndham in conducting Mr. Brainard to his bedroom after his attack of illness in the dining-room?”
“No, sir; he could walk with the assistance of the other gentlemen.”
There was silence as Coroner Black referred to his notebook, and his manner grew stern when he turned back to the witness.
“The butler, Selby, has testified you mentioned to the servants that you went to the assistance of Mr. Brainard when he was taken ill. Did you make such a statement?”
“I did, sir; and it is true—I assisted Mr. Brainard when he had his first attack, sir.”
“Ah, when was that?” and the coroner looked at him with quickened interest.
“Just after him and Miss Millicent had had words in the garden beyond,” indicating the windows and the portico. “I was in here arranging the liqueurs and cigars, sir, when I heard a scream through the partly open window, and I ran out and found Miss Millicent cowering against one of the big pillars and saying: ‘No, no!’ between her sobs.” He stopped abruptly. “I beg your pardon for talking so much.”
“Go on,” commanded Black. “Tell us everything.” The jurors and the deputy coroner were hanging on the footman’s words.
“Miss Millicent bolted by me into the house, and I was just turning to follow her when Mr. Brainard appeared out of the darkness—Miss Millicent had been standing where the light from the library fell on her,” he explained. “Mr. Brainard staggered toward me, and before I could reach him, he fell.” Murray cleared his throat and eyed each one of his expectant hearers; he enjoyed the sensation his testimony was producing.
“Well, what then?” prompted Coroner Black.
“I picked up Mr. Brainard; no easy matter, sir, for he was a dead weight”—the footman was not to be hurried—“and I carried him in here, sir, plumped him down in that chair and gave him a drink of cognac.”
“What appeared to be the matter with him?”
“He said he was dizzy like, and that everything swam before him,” explained Murray, with careful attention to detail. “He was very red in the face and shook all over; but the cognac brought him around after a bit, and, asking me to say nothing of his little upset, he went on into the drawing-room.”
“Was he in evening clothes?” The foreman of the jury spoke for the first time and looked somewhat alarmed at the sound of his own voice.
“Surely, sir; it was shortly before dinner was announced. Mr. Brainard motored out and reached here about half past six.”
“When was dinner served?” inquired Black.
“Eight o’clock, sir.”
“Humph!” The coroner jotted down the figures in his notebook. “Was Mr. Brainard a frequent caller here?”
“He was, sir, last year, but not recently, sir.” The footman paused thoughtfully, and then added: “Not since Dr. Noyes has been here.”
Coroner Black wheeled on him sharply. “What do you mean by that remark?”
“Nothing, sir.” Murray’s eyes opened in astonishment. “I was only trying to place the last time I’d seen Mr. Brainard here. My master, Mr. Craig Porter, and Dr. Noyes reached home early in October; yes, sir, Mr. Brainard hasn’t been here since then, I’m sure.”
The coroner considered the footman in silence for several seconds.
“When did you last see Dr. Noyes?” he asked finally.
“About midnight, sir. I went up to his room to ask if I could do anything for him. Part of my duties is valeting for Mr. Hugh and Mr. Craig, and the gentlemen staying in the house,” he added, reading the unspoken question on the coroner’s lips.
“How did Dr. Noyes appear?” inquired Black.
“Appear?” Murray reflected for a moment. “I can’t answer that, sir, for I didn’t really see him; the door was opened only a little way, and I just caught a glimpse of him as he stood before his chiffonier stropping his razor.”
The coroner and Dr. McPherson exchanged glances.
“Wasn’t that an unusual hour for such an occupation?” asked the former.
“Quite so, sir; but it was this way, sir”—Murray’s words tumbled over each other in his haste—“the doctor had shaved just before dinner, and I hadn’t had time to put away his things, and last night when I apologized for leaving his chiffonier in such disorder, sir, and offered to come in and straighten up, he told me it was midnight and to go to bed, that he had already cleaned the razor and put the mug away.”
Coroner Black reached forward and picked up the razor he had shown Vera Deane.
“Does this razor belong to Dr. Noyes?” he asked.
A dead silence prevailed as Murray took the razor and examined the open blade with its reddish stains. He shook his head.
“No, sir, it is not Dr. Noyes’ razor.”
Chapter IV
More Testimony
Coroner Black took the razor from the footman and laid it carefully back on the table.
“You are excused,” he announced, and, as Murray rose with alacrity, he added, “Inform Mrs. Porter that we will be obliged by her presence here.”
“Yes, sir; certainly, sir,” and Murray backed from the room, but before going upstairs to find Mrs. Porter he bolted into the pantry and mopped his white face which was damp with perspiration, then, refreshing himself with a glass of port, he went on his belated errand.
Inside the library the jurors whispered to one another, and at a muttered request the foreman picked up the razor, passed it to his neighbor, and each man at the table in turn examined the stained blade and handle with absorbed interest, while the coroner and McPherson compared notes in an undertone. The opening of the hall door brought them all to attention, and Mrs. Porter’s entrance was greeted by a lengthened silence.
Hardly deigning to listen to Coroner Black’s explanation of the formalities to be gone through, she laid a bejeweled hand on the Bible presented to her by McPherson, and repeated the oath in an expressionless monotone.
“Pray be seated, madam,” and Coroner Black pointed to the chair by which she was standing. “We will not detain you long,” and in rapid succession he asked her her full name and length of residence in that vicinity.
“I have spent the summer months here ever since inheriting the property from my husband’s uncle,” she said, in answer to the latter question. “This is the first winter that we have kept the house open, but Dr. Noyes deemed it inadvisable to move my son again, and so—” An expressive gesture completed the sentence.
“How long has Dr. Noyes been in attendance upon your son?” asked Black.
“He accompanied Craig home from the hospital in France.” Real feeling betrayed itself in Mrs. Porter’s metallic tones. “My son owes his life to his skill and his untiring attention. We shall miss him now that he has returned to England.”
“Ah, then you think Dr. Noyes is on his way back to the front again?” Black was watching her closely as he toyed with his pencil.
“Certainly. Where else would he go?” glancing disdainfully at him. “No Englishman nowadays lingers behind when his leave of absence is over.”
“But my dear madam, would Dr. Noyes depart so abruptly—without bidding you good-by; without the formality of notifying even the nurses in charge of your son that he would not be back?” asked Black incredulously.
“Dr. Noyes had been expecting a summons home for over ten days,” explained Mrs. Porter, in a tone sometimes used to quiet a petulant child, and Black colored. “He had arranged to have the cable telephoned out to him; his bag stood packed, and whatever good-bys he had to say were said to my daughter and myself yesterday.”
“At what hour did this cable reach Dr. Noyes?” demanded Black.
“I presume during the night. He said that he would remain in the library on the chance of a telephone message coming for him,” was her glib reply.
Black eyed her sharply. “Who is to attend your son in Dr. Noyes’ absence?” he asked, but if he hoped to trap Mrs. Porter he was d
isappointed. Her answer was prompt.
“Dr. Washburn of Alexandria. Dr. Noyes called him in consultation, and all arrangements were made last week to take over the case.”
Coroner Black considered a moment before again addressing her, and Mrs. Porter permitted her gaze to wander about, noting inwardly the disarrangement of the usually orderly room, and she turned back to the jurors with a distinct air of disapproval. Coroner Black’s next question caused her to catch her breath sharply.
“Were your daughter and Mr. Bruce Brainard engaged to be married?” he asked.
“I question your right to ask that,” she retorted. “My family affairs had nothing to do with Mr. Brainard’s shocking suicide.”
“We are the best judges of that, madam,” replied Black quietly. “It is our duty to expedite this inquiry, and to do so we must know whether or not Mr. Brainard was on friendly terms with each member of this household on the night of his death—”
“He was, sir, otherwise he would not have been my guest,” broke in Mrs. Porter.
“Did you invite him to spend the night, or only to dine with you?”
“I simply asked him to dinner.” She paused, then added: “He was taken ill at the dinner table, and my nephew, Mr. Wyndham, and Dr. Noyes helped him upstairs and put him to bed in one of the spare bedrooms. Dr. Noyes said that Mr. Brainard was in no condition to motor in to Washington last night.”
“When did you last see Mr. Brainard?”
“When he left the dining-room.”
Black looked at her attentively and noted the flush which had mounted to her pale cheeks during their colloquy.
“I must remind you, madam,” he commenced, and his manner was serious, “that you have not answered my question regarding the relationship existing between your daughter and Mr. Brainard.”
“They were friends,” curtly
“Nothing more?” persisted the coroner.
Mrs. Porter regarded him with no friendly eye, then apparently thinking better of her brusqueness, answered more courteously:
“Mr. Brainard admired my daughter greatly, and paid her the compliment of asking my consent to their marriage.”
“Did you give your consent?” prompted Black as she stopped.
“He was to have had my answer this morning.”
“Oh!” The coroner gazed blankly at Mrs. Porter, failing utterly to appreciate her stately beauty and quietly gowned, modish figure. She was a remarkably well preserved woman, on whose face time had left few wrinkles, and she looked much younger than she was. Several seconds elapsed before Black again addressed her.
“Did your daughter reciprocate Mr. Brainard’s affection?”
“My daughter would not have accepted his attention had she not liked and admired him,” she responded evasively, and Black lost all patience.
“Kindly give a direct answer to my question,” he exclaimed harshly. “Were your daughter and Mr. Brainard engaged?”
“I believe there was an understanding to that effect,” she admitted sullenly. “But until I gave my consent”—a shrug completed the sentence, and Black instantly asked:
“Why did you withhold your consent, madam?”
“You are laboring under a mistaken idea,” replied Mrs. Porter coldly. “My consent was only asked yesterday, and I very properly told Mr. Brainard that I needed a night in which to think it over.”
The coroner stroked his chin as he contemplated Mrs. Porter, then observing the jurors’ air of interest, asked more briskly: “When did you make Mr. Brainard’s acquaintance?”
“About a year ago, and until he went to South America he was a frequent visitor at my house.” Mrs. Porter glanced involuntarily at the clock as it chimed the hour, and the coroner rose.
“Please give me the names of your dinner guests,” he said, picking up a pencil and drawing a pad toward him.
“Captain and Mrs. Mark Willert, Miss Margaret Spencer, my daughter Millicent, my nephew, Mr. Hugh Wyndham, Dr. Noyes, Mr. Brainard—let me see, that makes eight,” checking them off on her finger. “I have a few intimate friends in to dinner every week on Millicent’s account. I do not want her brother’s distressing illness to cast too great a shadow on my daughter’s young life.”
“Is your son improving?”
“Yes, thank God!” Mrs. Porter’s eyes shone with a softer light and her voice shook. “Dr. Noyes and time will work wonders in his condition. I”—she paused and steadied her voice—“I have every confidence in Dr. Noyes.”
Coroner Black bowed. “We will not keep you longer, madam; but before you leave kindly examine this razor and tell us if you can identify it.”
“I will look at it, certainly.” It took her a second or two to disentangle her lorgnette chain from a tassel on her gown, then raising her glasses she stared at the blood-stained article. “To the best of my knowledge I have not seen it before,” she announced, rising, and at a sign from the coroner retreated toward the hall door, hardly responding to the foreman’s curt nod.
Bidding her a courteous good afternoon, Coroner Black opened the door and waited for her to pass into the hall, then stepped after her in time to see her pause and draw back into an alcove as Dr. Beverly Thorne approached them. If Dr. Thorne observed the latent air of hostility and discourtesy in her bearing there was no indication of it in his unruffled manner as he greeted the coroner.
“Sorry to be late, Black,” he said. “But an important case—” as he spoke he removed his overcoat and handed it and his hat to the attentive footman. “Do you wish me to testify now?”
“No. I want you here in your capacity of ‘J. P.,’” responded the coroner. “In other words, look, listen and—note.” The last word was added as he held the library door ajar before throwing it wide open. “Murray, request Mr. Hugh Wyndham to come to the library.”
Thorne exchanged a low-toned word with McPherson and several of the jurors before slipping into a large wing chair which partly concealed his presence. Hugh Wyndham had evidently been awaiting the summons, for he followed hard upon the heels of the footman and stepped briskly into the library. The preliminaries were quickly gone through with, and Wyndham, while waiting for the coroner to question him, occupied his time in inspecting his companions, and his eyes contracted slightly at sight of Beverly Thorne, who sat gazing idly at the log fire which blazed in the stone fireplace, and added greatly to the picturesqueness and comfort of the well proportioned room.
“State your full name and occupation, Mr. Wyndham,” requested the coroner, resuming his seat.
“Hugh Wyndham, stock broker, just now not connected with any firm,” he added by way of explanation. “Since the failure in November of the banking house of Mullen Company with which I was connected I have been residing with my aunt, Mrs. Lawrence Porter.”
“Were you and Mr. Brainard old friends, Mr. Wyndham?”
“We have known each other for over a year, but were acquaintances rather than friends,” replied Wyndham, flicking a white thread from his coat sleeve.
Black shot a questioning look at him. “Do I understand that you were not friends?” he asked.
“Oh, we were friendly enough on the few occasions that we met, but our professions gave us very few opportunities to become better acquainted.”
“What was Mr. Brainard’s occupation?”
“He was a mining engineer.”
The coroner leaned over and consulted Dr. McPherson’s notes, then, sitting back in his chair, asked: “Did Mr. Brainard complain of feeling ill before dinner last night?”
“No, except to tell Captain Willert and myself that the climate in South America had played the devil with him.”
“Were you present at the dinner table when he was taken ill last night?”
“Yes. Dr. Noyes said that he was suffering from vertigo, and Mrs. Porter suggested that we take him upstairs and put him to bed.”
Again Coroner Black referred to McPherson’s notes before asking another question.
“Did Mr.
Brainard have any suitcase or luggage with him?” he inquired.
“No. I loaned him a pair of my pyjamas.”
“When did you last see Mr. Brainard alive?”
“I left him in bed, apparently better, and followed Dr. Noyes downstairs.”
“Leaving no one with the sick man?” asked Black swiftly.
“Yes, Miss Deane,” responded Wyndham.
“Dr. Noyes sent her to look after Brainard. Miss Deane said that she would be within call if he needed assistance during the night.” He hesitated, and then added, “I volunteered to sit up with Brainard, but she said that it was not necessary.”
“Were you disturbed by noises during the night?”
“No.” Wyndham shifted his position, and one foot tapped the floor incessantly. “I am a heavy sleeper and my room is some distance from that occupied by Brainard.”
“You were asleep when Miss Deane rapped at your door this morning?”
“Yes.”
“You accompanied her to Mr. Brainard’s bedroom?”
“I did.”
“Describe the condition in which you found Mr. Brainard and his bedroom,” directed Black, polishing his eyeglasses, and replacing them to scrutinize the witness more closely.
“I found Brainard lying on his back on the right side of his bed.” Wyndham stopped and moistened his lips. “His throat was cut and the wound had bled profusely.”
“Did you find any weapon in the room?”
“An open blood-stained razor was lying on the bed beside Brainard.”
“Did you touch it?”
“No.”
“Mr. Wyndham,” Coroner Black spoke slowly, evidently weighing his words, “did you loan a razor as well as a pair of pyjamas to Mr. Brainard?”
“I did not,” came the instant and emphatic denial.
“Then, if you did not give him the razor, how did Mr. Brainard secure possession of the razor which you saw on his bed?” asked Black. “You, and other witnesses, have testified that Mr. Brainard brought no luggage with him and did not come prepared to spend the night.”
“I have puzzled over his possessing a razor,” agreed Wyndham. “Then it occurred to me that perhaps he brought it with him from town intending to commit suicide on the way home.”
The Moving Finger Page 3