“What do you suppose your uncle meant about insurance?” she asked.
“How should I know? Some more malicious nonsense he’s picked up, I suppose. Good Lord, Miss Bancroft, if either of those men had left Marta any insurance money, do you think she’d still be in this town? She hates Bellville. She lives here because she has to, that’s all.”
There was something wrong with what Joel was saying, something that didn’t quite add up. Lisa thought about it a moment, and then, “Do you mean that Marta has no money of her own?”
“Not until she comes of age,” Joel said.
“But isn’t that this September?”
Joel looked exasperated. He’d had a hard day and all of these questions weren’t making it any easier.
“What difference does that make?” he demanded. “Do you think I want Marta for her money, or her grandfather’s money, to be exact? I want her to be well. I want her to be free of this nonsense about a Cornish curse. This town’s practically driven her crazy with vicious talk. Gleason’s suicide, for instance. What if he was in love with her? What if he did give up his scholarship so he could stay in Bellville and make a play for her? He failed, that’s all. You can’t blame Marta for that. A girl doesn’t have to marry a man just because he’s in love with her. She’s entitled to her feelings, too! But there’s no use in me wasting any more of your time.”
Joel opened the door and stepped out of the car. The wind was much wilder now. The rain wasn’t far away, and his eyes took cognizance of the fact.
“I’ve got to see that the lumber gets covered,” he said. “And I’m sorry to have bothered you with my troubles, Miss Bancroft. I really am. I just had the crazy idea that you might be able to talk to Marta and help her to get straightened out. But then, it’s not your responsibility, is it?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He turned and stalked off across the athletic field, tall, broad, and troubled. Lisa watched him go, and all the way back to Masterson House she could ponder the subject of responsibility.
It was almost dusk when Lisa reached the house. The clouds were in dark council over the lake, and all of the little boats with their handkerchief sails had scurried for safe harbor. The rain was on the way, due by nightfall at least, and she had every excuse to sleep on Joel’s request that she talk to Marta. First of all, she had to fill in Johnny on the new developments. Two suitors, both dead. They had them catalogued now in chronological order.
“And both musicians,” Johnny mused. “Maybe she didn’t like their technique.”
“Johnny, be serious!”
“I am serious. I still don’t like this, Lisa, and I don’t like the idea of you horning in. Let Joel What’s-his-name patch up his own love life.”
Lisa walked over to the French windows and threw them open. The house was sheltered by the pines, but the wind was still strong enough to make a small flurry of the papers on the desk. The coolness felt good after the heat of the day. Lisa left the windows open and stepped outside.
“You’re not going to that house now?” Johnny protested.
“I’m just going for a walk,” Lisa said. “I want to think things out.”
Now that she knew the way, there was no need to pick out the path so carefully. And she did want to think—of many things. Why had Joel told his uncle that Marta had left the athletic field some time before that disaster with the lumber truck? Lisa had distinctly heard a woman scream just before the din. Not one of the work crew, certainly. For some reason this thought intrigued her more than the others she’d heard expressed today—except one. And that one was still nagging at her mind when she reached the studio ruins.
Gray, the sky was always gray when she came here. Always threatening. She tried to picture the scene in sunlight, but it didn’t seem possible. This was a tomb. “I’m not interested in the dead; I’m interested in the living.” Lisa forced her mind away from contemplation of the ruins. Facts, that’s all that mattered in this practical, ruthless world. Facts.
Fact number one: The professor hadn’t lied that first day in the tearoom. Marta Cornish had had two previous suitors, and they were both dead.
Fact number two: Alistair Hubbard had left his estate for a Martin Cornish memorial ten years ago.
Fact number three: Almost two years later the first Cornish festival was held, the first award given.
Fact number four:
But Lisa didn’t get that far. Fact number four was interesting, but not so interesting as what suddenly began to come to her across the grassy slope. Out of the pines, the sound carried well on the wind. The piano again. That same music, that same theme. This time she was prepared for it. She listened carefully bar by bar. There was no mistaking it. It wasn’t the wind or a trick of the mind.
“Lisa!”
She heard Johnny calling on the path. She could have answered, but she didn’t want to break the spell.
“Lisa, where are you?”
Let Johnny find out for herself. The music was too wonderful to lose. Johnny came toward her from the path, heard but not seen. Lisa’s eyes were only for that huge house on the hilltop. It was the same as before. No light showing. Only the music.
“Lisa! Why didn’t you answer me? You’ve got a caller—”
One hand waved Johnny to silence.
“Do you hear it?” Lisa asked.
Johnny had to hear. Save for the wind, there was no other sound.
“It’s pretty,” she said. “What is it?”
The question was left unanswered. It was Johnny’s response that was important.
“You hear it, too,” Lisa mused. “That makes three of us.”
“Three?”
Johnny looked about suspiciously. She couldn’t understand, of course.
“You, Carrie, and me,” Lisa said. “We’ve all heard the music that nobody plays.”
“What?”
“Because Marta won’t work on her concerto. Nydia told me so the day of the board meeting. And Joel—”
And then the music stopped, unfinished just as before. It was painful to have it stop that way. So much promise, so much soaring hope, and then silence. Complete silence. Not even the angry crashing of chords this time.
Johnny shivered. “What are you trying to do, scare me?” she demanded. “The music nobody plays! Between you and the professor—”
“The professor?”
The unfinished concerto was over now. There was no need to strain the ears any longer.
“Is the professor here?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. He’s up at the house now, and he insists on seeing you right away. What’s up, Lisa? What could have happened to put that nice little man in such a terrible state of nerves?”
CHAPTER 9
The only practical way to answer Johnny’s question was to get back to the house and ask the professor. And she was right—he was in a state of nerves. He was perched on the edge of one of the lounge chairs when Lisa and Johnny came through the French windows. He came to his feet at the sight of them and stood with his back to the cold fireplace. The hat in his hands was well on its way to acquiring a shredded brim.
“Forgive me,” he said, “for barging in this way without an invitation. I simply had to talk to you.”
“I’m glad you’ve come,” Lisa said. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you, too. We did part company under rather provocative circumstances.”
The professor stared morosely at the hat in his hands. “That was very foolish of me,” he said. “I shouldn’t have said what I did.” And then he looked up and his eyes met Lisa’s. “You talked to Joel after I left. I must ask you, Miss Bancroft, how did he act? What did he say?”
“Very little,” Lisa answered, “about you.”
The wind from the open windows was getting a bit stronger. Lisa placed a paperweight over some of the material on her desk and then sat down behind it. The floor was the professor’s now. No quick exists, no unfinished tales now. He looked terribly unco
mfortable, but this call was his idea and he had to go on.
“I merely asked because I’m worried about the boy,” he said. “I can’t reach him lately. He tolerates me, that’s all. He merely tolerates me.”
“He’s a very busy young man,” Lisa suggested.
That wasn’t the right answer. The professor fixed her with a penetrating gaze.
“Does he intend to marry that girl?”
“That girl.” Another slip, as bad as the one on the athletic field.
“He does,” Lisa said. “And apparently she intends to marry him.”
The news didn’t surprise the professor; it merely confirmed the scowl of dismay on his forehead. He waited a bit, trying to think out his words. Johnny was getting impatient. Lisa had learned to wait.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said at last. “You’re thinking that I’m a meddling old bachelor trying to break up a young romance. You’re wrong, Miss Bancroft. I love my nephew and have always felt a great sense of responsibility for him, but I’m not reluctant to let him grow up. I want him to be happy—much happier than I’ve ever been.”
The professor fell silent again. He seemed embarrassed to have brought himself into his story. Schoolteachers weren’t supposed to have lives. They lived behind textbooks or the little pitch pipes dangling over their flat chests. The thought was there, all the stronger because it was unspoken, and then the professor continued.
“As you now know, I deliberately tried to arouse your interest in Marta Cornish from the day of our meeting in the tearoom. I wanted to get to the truth of this matter. I needed assistance, and no one in Bellville, I’m sure, could be considered to have a truly unprejudiced mind. I knew that I wouldn’t have to say very much: a suggestion here and there and you would learn the rest in your own way. Gossip is easy to find.”
“Too easy,” Lisa said. “Truth doesn’t come that easy.”
“Exactly, Miss Bancroft. And yet, where there’s smoke—”
“Somebody’s liable to get burned,” Johnny said.
“Yes.” The professor nursed that thought for a moment. The scowl had never left his face. “Oh, I know how you must have felt about all this in the beginning—perhaps still do. I went through that phase myself. I came to Bellville shortly after Duval’s death. I heard the tongues wagging and shrugged it off as malicious gossip. When the Hubbard death was brought to my attention I reacted just as I did when you mentioned it this afternoon. I still think that’s nonsense.”
“But not the Duval rumors?” Lisa asked.
“That depends on which rumors you mean,” the professor answered, “but I’m getting ahead of my story. At that time—when Duval’s death still had the town buzzing—I was quite unconcerned. I’d seen Marta Cornish a few times—she couldn’t very well be missed in this town—but I felt very much the same as you did that day in the tearoom. I knew a girl of her position would be a natural target for gossip, and thought the stories about her hideously cruel. It never occurred to me to question her sanity or her morals.
“But I knew Howard Gleason. Duval was just a name to me, the name of a man who met an unfortunate death. Howard Gleason was a living thing—a fine, talented young man of great promise. I saw him first before he won the award. I saw him last the day before he killed himself.”
The professor’s pause was pregnant with implication. No one had to be prepared for his next words.
“He didn’t die suddenly, Miss Bancroft. Death was instantaneous when the bullet entered his head, but he’d been dying very slowly for a year. Kill the spirit and you kill life.”
“And you think that Marta Cornish killed his spirit?” Lisa asked.
“Someone did,” the professor answered. “All I know is that Howard Gleason fell in love, so much in love that he gave up his scholarship to study abroad and remained on in Bellville as a simple instructor. He took a modest apartment here in town, but every week end was spent at Bell Mansion. Apparently he was well received by Mrs. Cornish. There’s no reason to think that anything or anyone came between him and Marta.”
“Except Marta,” Johnny suggested.
“A girl doesn’t have to marry a man just because he’s in love with her.”
The words were Joel’s, but they were such good words Lisa couldn’t help borrowing them. They stopped the professor only momentarily.
“That’s very true,” he said quietly, “and it’s also very true that Howard Gleason was emotionally unstable. But that’s all the more reason to be suspicious about the five thousand dollars.”
The questions fairly leaped into Johnny’s eyes; but Lisa waved her to silence. Professor Dawes was leaving no tales untold this time.
“The award money,” he explained. “The Cornish Award is a year of study in Europe or five thousand dollars. Gleason took the money, a certified check signed by Nydia Bell Cornish and cosigned by Stanley Watts, treasurer of the Cornish Award committee. And yet Gleason died penniless. Think of that, if you please. One year in Bellville, one year in which his living expenses could have been no more than his salary, small as it was, and yet no trace of that money could be found after his death. His funeral expenses were paid out of a small insurance policy, the residue of which went to his beneficiary—Marta Cornish.”
The wind from the windows was cooler now. Fact number four. Lisa’s mind went wandering back to that unfinished meditation down at the old ruins. She’d been on the verge of a discovery then. She was much closer now.
“This isn’t just hearsay,” the professor added. “I’ve checked my facts. I was upset at the time of Gleason’s suicide. This time the gossip penetrated deeper. When my nephew began keeping company with Marta I set out to verify some of the rumors.”
“You mentioned on the athletic field that both Marta’s suitors were insured,” Lisa reminded.
“I shouldn’t have blurted it out that way, not in front of Joel. Our relationship is strained enough already.”
“But is it true?”
The professor looked miserable now. He seemed to hate himself for what he was saying.
“I have a friend in the insurance business in the East,” he answered finally. “At my request he verified the fact that Pierre Duval, who, like Gleason, had no next of kin, had named Marta as beneficiary in a five-thousand-dollar policy which carried a double indemnity clause for accidental death. Within six months after Duval’s death, ten thousand dollars was paid into the Cornish estate to be held in trust for Marta.”
It was all out in the open now. Lisa had been right in her accusation at the foot of the high school steps: the professor had been holding out on her. But it was Johnny who was the explosive type, who dared put into words what no one else did.
“Do you realize what you’re saying, Professor?” she demanded. “Do you realize that we now have what’s known in homicidal circles as the motive for the crime?”
The professor smiled wanly.
“What crime, Miss Johnson?”
Even Johnny didn’t dare go far enough to answer his question. It was left hanging like a suspended sentence—what crime? Lisa’s mind was busy. As Joel had told her, there would have been an investigation at Duval’s death. If there had been any evidence, if there had ever been any evidence of foul play, it was all lost and forgotten now.
But Curran Dawes loved his nephew, and Curran Dawes was afraid. Lisa saw that clearly for the first time. Undecided, tormented by a mind that had been trained to logic and fair play; but underneath the surface that oldest of primitive emotions—fear. Was it justified? What crime?
Lisa couldn’t answer the question, but someone could. Someone did.
“It’s a lie! It’s all a horrible lie! Don’t listen to him, Miss Bancroft. He’s just trying to break us up!”
The cry was from the French windows. More than the wind had stormed in. Three silent people turned to meet the cry and found themselves facing a slender pillar of defiance—Marta Cornish.
There was no telling how long Marta had
been standing there. The wind was strong enough now to drown out the sound of footsteps, and what the professor had been saying was much too absorbing to allow any straying of interest on the part of listeners or speaker. Apparently it had been interesting to Marta, too. She came forward into the study, her small fists clenched in anger and her eyes fired with contempt.
“You’ll never rest, will you?” she challenged. “You’ll never let us alone!”
The words, the eyes, the anger were all for a stunned Professor Dawes. She didn’t even seem aware of Lisa or Johnny now.
“I knew you were here,” she added. “I heard someone calling Miss Bancroft when she was out by the ruins. I could see from the house—”
“Then you were playing—”
Lisa’s question was ignored. Marta hadn’t come to discuss music.
“I knew you’d come around trying to get her to start trouble for us. I told you that day—” Now Marta looked at Lisa. The anger was still there. “I told you in the tearoom to leave me out of your book about my father!”
“We haven’t been discussing a book,” Lisa said.
“I’ll bet you haven’t! You’ve been discussing Joel and me! You’ve been digging up those old, horrible lies! And they are lies, all of them. I never got a penny of that money. I never saw those checks, and I don’t know where the money went!”
Lisa started to rise from the desk. There was far too much anger in Marta to go unleashed. She looked at Johnny, hoping for some matter-of-fact statement that would bring reason back to the room; but Johnny was too enthralled with the scene to respond. Instead of reason, something more disturbing than Marta came into the room. With the ultimate of ill-timing, Carrie Hokum appeared in the doorway, and her statement wasn’t at all what was needed.
“Don’t you believe her!” Carrie snapped. “Don’t you believe anything that spoiled hellcat says! She knows all right!”
“Carrie!”
But Carrie didn’t respond to cues. Lisa might as well have saved her breath.
“She knows plenty, that one,” she cried. “She knows why that poor Mr. Gleason shot himself, and she knows why the other one fell down the stairs.”
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