by Jan Burke
On the opposite side of the hallway, the third and largest bedroom was luxurious. It included a spacious area before the fireplace with two large chairs and side tables. With the exception of the bed itself, which was rather plain, all the furniture was heavy and ornate. A maple drop-leaf secretary with complex inlay work stood out not only because of its beauty, but because it was the one surface in the house that seemed not to have been dusted or straightened. A hodgepodge of papers and envelopes, an expensive fountain pen, a silver letter opener, and a pair of scissors were among the items that covered its surface. Unlike the other bedrooms, this room held personal effects—clothing, a razor, a watch, jewelry, and so on.
Like everything else in the room, the fireplace was on a grander scale than those in the rooms across the hall. But like them, all was swept clean, and logs and kindling stood ready on the grate.
On the opposite side of the room, a row of south-facing windows looked out at the quarry. The moon was up now, bright and full, laying a silver strand of light across the water. Some of the windows were open, making the room chilly.
“This was Grimes’s room,” the sheriff said. “Only room on this side of the house with a view. Lovely view, yet no one working in the kitchens or sitting in any of the downstairs rooms can get a glimpse of it. Stupid design, if you ask me.”
Bunny said nothing in response, caught up in studying not the contents of the secretary, as I thought he ought to, but the headboard. He moved closer to it, ran his fingers over it, then used a flashlight to peer down the narrow space between the headboard and the wall behind it. He then got down on all fours and examined the floor beneath the bed.
The sheriff, watching him, asked, “Do you think he was poisoned in here?”
“Hmm? Oh no, no. That was most likely the soup. Max, how long would you say it takes cyanide, ingested, to have a fatal effect?”
“Depending on the dose and how much an individual had eaten of other foods, which might act as a buffer—fifteen to forty-five minutes, although the sensation of feeling suffocated might set in sooner.”
Bunny stepped to the windows and studied them as well. He unlatched one of the screens and leaned out, farther than I thought safe. He played his flashlight on something below.
“Careful!” the sheriff said. “Nothing but a straight drop down the cliff from here.”
“Thank you. But I see there must be some less daring way to get down to the water—there is a boat dock just to the east.” He pulled his head back in, to my relief, and refastened the screen.
“Yes, a set of stone steps leads down to it, but it’s a bit of a walk from the house.”
“No boat, though?”
“Grimes owned a rowboat that he used for fishing. We noticed it’s not at the dock. Could be adrift, but I won’t let my men look for it until the sun’s up—”
“No, it is certainly not a matter over which any of your men should risk their lives. It will keep a few more hours.”
“May I know why you are interested in that headboard?” the sheriff asked.
“Oh, it’s probably the key to everything, since the room has been swept and the wall repaired.”
“Repaired?”
Bunny had moved on to peer into the wardrobe, in which men’s clothes were neatly hung or folded. “The house is distinctly masculine. Does Mrs. Grimes never come here?”
“I’m about to head over to the Grimes estate to ask. Want to come along?”
“She has not yet been informed?”
“Oh yes—only that he is dead and that we are investigating—and one reason we’re stretched thin here is that I’ve had to leave several deputies there to keep an eye on things. Don’t want them all cooking up stories.”
“An excellent precaution. May I ask, what was her reaction to the news?”
He scratched his head. “I’ve been doing this a long time, Mr. Slye, and I’d swear she was surprised. But she had a career on the stage before she married Grimes, so who knows. And while she was surprised, I’d never say she was grief-stricken.”
“Did she pretend to be?”
“Not in the least.”
“Is your photographer still here?”
“Yes.”
“You might want to ask him to photograph the bed and the wall behind it.”
“Why?”
“Nothing I’m sure of yet, but—do you notice that only two pieces of furniture in this room do not match the others? The secretary and the bed. The secretary is as finely crafted as the rest. There are signs that it has been in use for some time. The bed, however, is unadorned maple, and while it fits in size, it does not match the carved mahogany of the wardrobe, the dresser, the side tables, the chair—which are not only of the same wood, but all carved with the same pattern. It appears to me that someone hastily replaced the bed—mattress, bedstead, and all. Perhaps with the one that previously stood on the carpet in the room across the hall.”
The sheriff frowned. “I confess I’m still at a loss.”
“And so we must both be, until we spend some time talking to Mrs. Grimes and those in her household.”
Once we were outdoors again, Bunny paused, staring at the small building on the other side of the clearing.
“Servants’ quarters?”
“So it seems,” the sheriff said.
“A moment, then,” he said, and crossed over to it.
Wishy, who was directing some activity near the gateposts, waved to us, then returned to an intense conversation with Owen.
With the sheriff, I followed Slye to the door of the small stone structure.
It was more akin to a true cottage: one open room with a fireplace, a sleeping loft, a rough table, two chairs, and an oil lamp. A book sat on the corner of the table, with a bookmark placed at about the halfway point. There were two small windows, one of which faced the road, the other the woods. The latter gave a fine view of an outhouse. Obviously the craze for modern plumbing had not extended to the servants’ quarters.
“You’ve already looked through this house?” Slye asked the sheriff.
“Yes. It’s empty, other than the furnishings and a few books.”
“How odd.”
“The main house is not far away. Perhaps they did not make use of this place, but returned home and slept in their own beds.”
“Leaving Mr. Grimes here without transportation, a cook, or other assistance.”
“I see your point.”
Slye picked up the book on the table. He opened it to the marked page and smiled. “ ‘Toxicology.’ ”
“It’s a book on poisons?” the sheriff exclaimed. “And my men missed that!”
“Oh no, absolve them. The book is Alexandre Dumas père’s The Count of Monte Cristo. The title of the chapter is ‘Toxicology.’ ”
“You think the owner of that book is our poisoner?”
“Our poisoner could be nearly anyone. We are still gathering facts. But no, if I recall correctly, that chapter of the book discusses arsenic, not cyanide.” Slye spoke absently while looking toward the loft. “Are the cook-housekeeper and the chauffeur a married couple?”
“Married?” The sheriff followed his gaze. “I see what you mean. Not suitable accommodations for a mix of unmarried male and female employees, is it? We’ll need to ask Mrs. Grimes about the situation here.”
Wishy rejoined us, and the sheriff accepted a ride to the Grimes estate. As Owen smoothly negotiated the difficult turn, the sheriff commended him. “Tell you the truth, I thought I was going to have a smashup on my way in here.”
“Billy did,” Wishy said. “Twice.”
Owen, overhearing him, said, “Not Billy Westley, sir.”
Wishy looked irritated by the contradiction.
“Perhaps he was drunk,” the sheriff suggested.
“No, sir. If you’ll forgive
my intruding into the conversation.”
“Your knowledge of him could be very helpful to us, Owen,” Slye said, and Wishy subsided. “Why are you so certain he could not have been drunk?”
“Took the pledge a long time ago—before Prohibition passed, sir. And kept to it. Billy’s a cheeky bastard who knows how well he drives and how good he looks, but he’s a sober one, for all that. His father was a drunkard who died in a carter’s accident. It’s why his mother ended up working for Old—for Mr. Grimes.”
“In what capacity?”
“Isidora Westley is the housekeeper now, sir. Billy grew up in that house, learned to be a chauffeur there. And if he ever so much as caused a scratch on any of Mr. Grimes’s cars, I’d like to know who saw it happen.”
“I will grant you his reputation on all counts,” Wishy said, “but someone who didn’t drive as well smashed two fenders on that car. One coming and one going, I’d say. Probably getting past the pillars while negotiating the turn near the gates. Examined the gates myself. Paint on them. Hard to tell in the dark, but looked to be the same color as the Hudson.”
“Why are you sure it was two separate times, and not both sides at once?” Slye asked.
“Way the gates are marked. Coming in, struck the gate that would have been on his left, scraping the left fender on the side of the gate nearest the pillar. Leaving, hit that same gate, which was now on his right, damaging the right fender. That damage is on the other end of the gate, the part that is farthest from the pillar.”
“Excellent work, Wishy.”
Even in the darkness I could see Hanslow blush. “Something else you should know. Driver’s seat is wet.”
“With, er, what?” the sheriff asked.
“Water, far as I can tell. Not blood—found it by pressing my hand onto the seat as I leaned across to look at the floor. Startled me, but when I looked at my hand, no blood on it. Floor on that side was wet, too. Think it might be water from the quarry. Billy may have gone for a swim. Not sopping wet, just damp.”
“Anything else unusual on the inside of the Hudson?”
“A few small bird feathers in the passenger compartment. Goose or duck, I think. Probably from a pillow or some such. Wouldn’t be riding around with poultry in the vehicle, not an automobile like that. Wouldn’t make sense. Besides, you’d find other things you wouldn’t want inside with you. Birds don’t hold back. Anyway, not much else. Kept it clean.”
“Again, Wishy, I applaud your ability to observe. This is indeed helpful.”
Wishy was spared a response by our arrival.
The Grimes home was an imposing mansion built in the Italian Renaissance style, bordered by Ionic columns that were topped by terraces.
“Much bigger than the original home,” Wishy said, not in approval.
I can say without hesitation that Susannah Carfield Grimes was one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. That evening—now in the early morning hours—she wore an emerald-green silk dress. Her straight dark hair was cut in a bob. Her butler admitted us and took our hats, but she came down the winding marble staircase almost as soon as we arrived, welcoming us. Nothing in her appearance or her manner indicated that she was affected by grief, by the lateness of the hour, or by the wreckage that is my visage. Her lack of response to my deformities was quite unusual. My looks are typically especially frightening to the beautiful.
The grand foyer included a fountain and, high overhead, a dome of stained glass. She led us to an elegant little parlor and offered us coffee. “Or whatever you prefer to drink,” she added with a smile. The sheriff looked so bedazzled by her smile that if she next indicated she’d like to turn the house into a speakeasy, I felt sure he might volunteer to serve as a bartender.
Slye said, “A hot cup of coffee would be most welcome,” and broke the spell.
She took a seat on a sofa. We took the four remaining chairs. When we were seated and provided with coffee, she said, “You have not told me how Everett died.”
The sheriff glanced at me.
“A medical condition?” she asked. “But he is not very old.”
“We cannot be sure at this time,” I said cautiously, “but he appears to have ingested poison.”
“Poison? How awful!” For the first time, she seemed shaken. “Accidentally?”
“I think not,” Slye said.
The sheriff, perhaps seeing that he had lost control of the situation, began to ask questions. She answered them calmly.
She had last seen Everett Grimes two days earlier.
“You were apart for two days? Isn’t that unusual?”
“No. It is more unusual for us to speak as frequently as we did by telephone over the last two days. Often, I do not see him for weeks at a time, especially if he is at the quarry.” She paused. “Did you not know? I thought rumor kept all my neighbors apprised of our situation.”
“I may have heard some such,” the sheriff said, “but I can’t base an investigation on rumor.”
“Let me confirm what is true, then. My husband and I are not much together, an arrangement which has been mutually acceptable.” She paused. “Dear me. How difficult to think of him in the past tense.” She was silent for some moments, but what she was thinking or feeling in those moments, I cannot say. She then went on as if there had been no pause. “When he wishes to be here, I find reasons to be in the city, or visiting friends, or traveling.”
“May I ask why?”
“I’ll try to explain. He found me at a time when, to all appearances, I was a success. The truth is, I was ready to leave the stage but had no real future outside of the theater. I could see that my career was unlikely to last.
“Enter Everett. He enjoyed having a younger woman at his side, and I could see that he especially enjoyed being envied. A competitive streak that I suppose has served him well in business. He likes to win. I was surprised when he proposed. I never expected an offer of marriage from Everett, but he was set on it. If any of his family had been living, I’m sure there would have been outrage. Even here in the country, the match did not find acceptance. But all I saw was security and comfort, more than I’d ever previously enjoyed. If that sounds mercenary, let me say that I’ve paid since.”
She took a sip of coffee, then continued. “Before we were wed, I had already become aware that he was the sort of gentleman who enjoyed pursuit more than whatever might follow his conquest. This proved to be the case in our marriage, just as it had been in his previous marriages. He was a man of strong passions. I have often thought that he saved all his cool-headedness for business. Outside that sphere, though, he could be moody, angry—quite difficult to live with.”
“I have witnessed the same of him,” Slye said. “If you have lacked invitations, Mrs. Grimes, I believe his temperament and, er, roving eye had more to do with your exclusion from local society than any thoughts about your former career.”
I wasn’t sure Slye was being truthful, given the stuffiness of some of his neighbors, but I said nothing. His opinion, however, was supported by Wishy.
“Indeed!” Wishy said. “Hate to speak ill of the dead, but—well, if I don’t, I suppose there’s not much to say about him.”
“Did he allow you the same freedoms he insisted upon for himself?” Slye asked.
“Oh, no. Everett was a man who would suffer no insult to his pride.”
“Had he experienced such an insult recently?” Slye asked.
“Yes. Perhaps that’s why he took poison? I would not have thought it of him.”
“Tell us what happened,” Slye asked, not answering her question or correcting her assumption that Grimes was a suicide.
“He had been doing his best to annoy one of the kitchen maids, Jeannie Lindstrom. We have had trouble keeping young female help for this very reason. I was about to offer her enough severance to be able to support herself while s
he looked for another position, but as it turned out, she ran off with the chauffeur. Billy’s also young, and as handsome as Jeannie is pretty. I could see he was smitten with her, but it has caused a tremendous amount of upset here. Billy’s mother is my housekeeper, and she is beside herself. And now we are not only short-staffed, but . . .” She gave us a rueful look.
“What is it?” the sheriff asked.
“I was going to say that Everett can’t drive worth a—worth a darn, but I suppose I no longer need to worry about that.”
“What day did the lovers take flight?” Slye asked.
“Two days ago. Everett phoned me in quite a state. It took me a while to understand that he thought Billy had arranged to run away with Jeannie, and furthermore, that Billy had vandalized the Hudson. That was late in the afternoon. He was upset, but made a point of asking me to swear the staff to secrecy. I could tell even then that it was a terrible blow to his pride. He sounded shaken.”
Slye said, “May I ask, Mrs. Grimes, what the arrangements were for staff at the quarry house?”
“He had decided that Jeannie should work as the cook while he was there to do some fishing. Mrs. Huddleson, one of our other maids, was to be there as well, doing cleaning.”
“Did they stay at the property?”
“Oh, no. Mrs. Westley—Billy’s mother—does her best to protect the female staff. Billy would come here early in the morning and drive whoever would be helping up to the cottage, then depending on where he or they were needed most, brought them back in the early evening. It’s just a few minutes’ drive, as you know. Billy stayed there overnight—you’ve seen the little house?”
“Yes,” the sheriff said.
“That’s where Billy stayed when Everett was at the quarry. So if Everett needed assistance or wished to leave, his driver was right there. Billy was a favorite of Everett’s—like his mother, he had a way of dealing with Everett that prevented many an upset. And his mother relied on Billy to protect the women.”