The tall young man was dressed in a tuxedo that had been in fashion a few years ago. His red hair brightened to a carrot shade when he passed under a chandelier. Freckles made him look much younger than he must have been. There was a jagged scar on his round chin. Despite his gawky, loose-limbed body, he moved smoothly through the press of tables and people.
Buck introduced him. “Red, this is Inspector Walsh from the Connecticut State Police. Steve, this is Charles Brook.”
“Pleased to finally meet you, Officer Brook. Sorry to take you away from your family,” said Steve, extending his hand.
The constable shook Steve’s hand and gave him an engaging grin. “Just call me Red. I was getting bored anyway.”
Buck led the constable to Mrs. Chandler’s office. Steve returned to Francis’s side and touched him on the arm and asked in a whisper, “Do you need to stay here for this? I just thought of something that may help with the investigation.”
“Thanks for the excuse. I never liked these events anyway. Lead on,” the man replied. His lips were quirked in a sly, knowing smile.
Red stood outside the office door to ensure that the three would not be disturbed. They entered the room to find Buck in his usual chair near the door. Francis greeted him and seated himself in the chair in front of the desk, while Steve circled and took the final chair. He re-created the scene to lull Francis into a sense of self-confidence. If Francis was guilty, as Steve suspected, he must not become aware of how important the upcoming exercise was to the case.
“Mr. Chandler, there is a point of information you might be able to clear up for us. What I would like you to do is remember the sewing room the last time you saw it.”
Francis looked puzzled. “I haven’t been in there since the incident.”
Steve looked thoughtful. “When was the last time you saw it, even for a few minutes?”
“A few days before that. I needed to tell Mother about a production problem at the mill. She insisted that all major issues be discussed with her.” He barked a short, sharp-edged laugh. “Do you need to know what?”
Steve shook his head. “No, that won’t be necessary. I am going to ask your sisters to go through the same exercise. What I want you to do is close your eyes and remember everything you can about the room. Describe the room in as much detail as possible. There is something about the room that has been bothering us.”
A self-satisfied smirk twitched across Francis’s thin lips.
Steve kept his own face immobile. He was a decent poker player, and he did not give away his excitement. Steve had worked with enough criminals to know that Francis was hesitating a moment to review his actions on the night of the murder. He would wonder what the information was that Steve was fishing for. After a few seconds he would be sure that he had not taken anything or moved anything that could possibly incriminate him.
This was the mind-set the inspector wanted. Like most self-confident murderers, Francis was sure he could outwit the law. Steve wondered idly why criminals thought they were smarter than the investigators. Maybe that’s because we only catch the ones who aren’t, he thought.
Francis settled himself more comfortably in his chair and closed his eyes. “Going into the room,” he started, “on the right is a large fireplace. Centered on the right wall. Flanking that are built-in bookshelves. Most of the volumes are leather-bound editions of classic works: Dickens, Scott, Tolstoy, Emerson. There were other authors, but I don’t remember them all. Oh, Shakespeare’s plays and sonnets and Homer and some others. I know there were some knickknacks scattered around. Let’s see. On the top shelf there were bronzed baby shoes. Two on one side and one on the other. Mother had them done when we outgrew our first pair. Does it matter whose were where?”
“No, not really,” answered Steve to the closed eyes.
“All right. The next shelf down had a picture of Great-Grandfather and President Harrison. They met at the convention where he was nominated for the presidency—Harrison, that is. The next shelf had a small bust of, oh, Shakespeare. Next to the set of his plays and sonnets. Down one more was a glass box with a wedding bouquet in it. Mother’s, I think, or Grandmother’s. There was a narrow box containing bookmarks that Grandfather had made on the next-to-last shelf, and the bottom shelf had nothing except books. A complete set of Grant’s memoirs, and Longstreet’s. That was the left bookcase, assuming everything is still there.”
He opened his eyes and shot Steve a taunting look. “Was that what you wanted, Inspector Walsh?”
“Exactly, Mr. Chandler. As much detail as you can,” answered Steve, almost regretting his idea. This is going to take all night, he thought.
“The right bookshelf. This one had mostly novels. The bindings were all different.” Francis droned on with a list of authors he remembered. Steve suspected he was drawing this out to play with him.
“I could give you titles, though I would undoubtedly miss some.”
“That’s not necessary. Were there any slots that a book was missing from?”
“No. If a shelf wasn’t filled with volumes, Grandfather had centered them on the shelf with bookends. Mother and Dad did the same. To carry on, the next lower shelves contained books for us when we were young.”
To forestall another interminable list of authors, Steve interrupted, “Did you notice any gaps?”
Francis shook his head. “No, these shelves were packed with books. Are you sure you don’t want me to try and remember the authors?” he asked with false innocence.
“No, we don’t think that is necessary, unless there was a book missing.” Steve fought for patience. “Please, go on.”
The taunting smile flitted across Francis’s lips again. “The fireplace mantel had silver candlesticks on each end, six silver antique cups from England, and a large portrait of my great-grandmother on the wall above. There were a set of brass fireplace tools—a shovel, tongs, a poker, and a brush with black bristles. The andirons were black iron, with the uprights shaped like dragons.
“On the wall facing the door there were rows of plaques, pictures, and a pair of swords that some of my ancestors carried in various wars. Do I need to describe every picture and plaque?” he asked.
Steve sighed to himself and replied, “No. They had been there for a long time, and if any of them were missing the faded spot would show.”
Francis continued with a hint of condescension, “Underneath these was a cedar chest that Mother brought up from South Carolina. It was a trousseau chest, a tradition for Southern girls to collect things they would need when they got married—linens, little treasures, and things like that. There was a standing lamp and a plush reading chair with antimacassars on the back and arms. That’s where we spent a lot of time reading. All three of us children were readers. Catherine used it as a place to escape Mother’s constant criticism.
“Next to the chair, on the other side, was a record cabinet that had a built-in player, and underneath was a slotted cabinet that held a collection of records upright. Mother believed in the classics for us, though she listened to a variety of low music. There were Mozart, Tchaikovsky, Handel, Chopin ... ”
Steve interrupted, “The records are not necessary, Mr. Chandler. They were behind the cabinet doors.”
“Well, all right,” he said smugly. “To the left of the door was what Mother called the ‘quilt wall.’ The committee pinned up the quilt on the wall. There were rectangular pieces along the top and at the lower left corner, where the quilt had been turned and the backing was visible. They weren’t attached. It looked like they were trying to decide on which color to use.”
Steve interrupted him. “Could you describe them, Mr. Chandler?”
Francis sighed. “I don’t know much about quilts, you know. The quilt was pinned on the wall and, let’s see, the strips were about the size of a folded dollar bill. The loops through which the brass pole was threaded to hang the quilt on the frame were pinned up around the quilt. You saw it tonight. They chose the dark color.”<
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“I get the picture. But you said the cloth for the loops was not attached?” said Steve.
“No, tonight they are attached, of course. The last time I saw the sewing room, they were just pinned to the wall around the quilt. They were obviously trying to decide which color to use, at least that is what I assume. Two dark pieces were on the left side at the top and two light-colored pieces on the right. Next to where the corner of the quilt was pinned to show the backing, there was one light and one dark piece, one of each color. Odd that I can remember so much detail.”
Steve shot a look at Buck and said, “I have done this before, and relaxing with your eyes closed is a tremendous aid in recall. I understand the layout of the quilt. Please, go on. The quilt was pinned to the wall.”
“Not to the wall, exactly. The middle third, above the chair rail, was sheets of cork. That is what the quilt was pinned to. In the corner there was a quilt frame, made of poplar from Chandler Lumber. Mother had it made. It folded up flat. The wheeled base pivoted and was locked in place. There were small brass horseshoe-shaped pieces at the top of the uprights that the rod rested on to display the quilt. There was a large table in front of the cork wall. Scattered near the quilting table were chairs.”
“Was the large table against the wall?” asked Buck, speaking for the first time.
Francis lifted his chin and replied, “No. It was far enough from the wall to allow walking around. To work on the quilt when it was pinned to the wall, you understand. And so they could sit all around it, to sew, I suppose.”
Buck nodded. “All right. Thanks.”
“Well, the chairs could also be arranged so that they all faced the same way. That was the arrangement when I interrupted Mother. Like a classroom, where they discussed something about the quilt, I imagine. There was a table near the quilt frame that was stacked with precut pieces of cloth. These were ready for the quilt or extras. The quilt looked finished to me. A box held pincushions. I think they had a band so they could be worn on the arm or wrist. This table was against the wall but allowed room to get around the other table.
“Let’s see. Another table stood by the door. It contained a silver tray with those things that stuck on your finger so the needle wouldn’t hurt. Thimbles. Thimbles were scattered on it. There was another tray with scissors laid out according to size. A large thread box was the last item. We supply them to the stores that carry our thread.” Francis continued with a detailed description of the contents.
“The chairs were usually lined up in rows on the right side of the doors when they weren’t being used. Mother had the servants set up the room before the committee arrived. There was a chesterfield and other overstuffed chairs with occasional tables arranged in a group in the middle of the room on the large Persian rug Great-Grandfather brought back from one of his trips to the Far East.
“When Mother wanted refreshments brought in, Jeremy would wheel in a tea cart. They usually held their business meetings there. Mother hated us to come into the room. We had messed up the quilt one year. Silene moved around the swatches pinned to the wall and they had to redo the layout before they could finish the thing.
“That’s about all I can remember. Did I give you something you wanted?”
Steve blinked twice, having almost fallen asleep at the near-monotone voice. “Yes, that is what we are looking for.” He glanced down at his notes. “Just a couple of clarifications. One, you don’t remember any other memorabilia on the bookshelves? Two, was there a record on the turntable? Sleeve? Three, was the quilt pinned up horizontally or vertically? Fourth, were the dark strips of cloth on the left and top of the quilt and the light ones on the top right and one of each along the side of the quilt where it was folded?”
Francis hesitated, closing his eyes again and thinking for a moment. “Um, there was only what I mentioned on the bookshelf. If there is anything else there now, someone put it there since Mother died—I mean since I was last there. I didn’t enter the room far enough to see if there was a platter on the record player. I didn’t notice any sleeve and don’t remember there being any music. Then again, I was only interested in an answer to my question and getting out. The quilt was pinned up vertically, the narrow ends at top and bottom. Yes, the strips were as you described them.”
Buck looked at Steve and rose. The constable took his handcuffs from his pocket and silently started across the carpet. Just then, there was a commotion outside and they heard the voice of the deputy, “You can’t go in there. Wait. Wait.” Then the door burst open, and Silene and Catherine were framed in the doorway. Behind them were Paul Sullivan and the hapless Red. Steve felt sympathetic for the constable; you do not manhandle the powers that be.
“Francis,” snapped Silene, “we expected you on the stage. What are you doing here?”
“Silene, dear,” her brother replied in a bored tone. “This is your show. Yours and Catherine’s, if she wants to be a part of it. I find it tedious and boring. Inspector Walsh asked me in here and had me doing an exercise in what I think is futility.”
Silene turned to Steve with an irritated look on her face. “Take a day off,” she snapped. “This is important, more important than a few more silly questions that could wait.”
Steve drew himself up to his full height and glared back at her. “Miss Chandler. I am conducting a murder investigation—an investigation of the murder of your mother. I will be happy to drop the whole thing if you have no interest in finding her murderer.”
Silene paled and her eyes widened. Her breast rose and fell with her emotions. After a moment, she took a deep breath and calmly said, her voice icy, “Inspector. I have the utmost interest in finding who killed my mother. I apologize that I gave you any other impression. Please let me know when you have completed your present interrogation. I would like my brother to attend the social portion of the evening, at least.”
She turned, her back ramrod straight with her anger. Steve said quietly, “Please stay, Miss Chandler. Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan.” Steve noticed Jeremy appear over Red’s shoulder. “Jeremy, will you please have Mr. Martin come in?”
They waited in tense and unfriendly silence for a few minutes until Jeremy returned. Buck ordered Red to close the door and see to it that they were not disturbed.
Steve held his chair for Silene and, with an angry look, she took the seat. The scent of her expensive perfume caused him a slight dizziness before he straightened. Francis offered his chair to Catherine and moved toward the door where Buck stood. Francis sat himself in Buck’s chair and crossed his legs, brushing imaginary dust off the thighs of his trousers.
Mr. Martin looked puzzled. He still held his buffet plate, which he set down on the desk. Steve started, “Thank you for coming here, Mr. Martin.” His gaze swept the room. “As you probably know, I was sent from Hartford to investigate the murder of Mrs. Chandler. It all centered on the quilt and the flower show committee. Or so it seemed.”
Silene gave a most unladylike snort and lit a cigarette.
Steve looked her way and continued, “Unfortunately, everyone had an alibi—not unbreakable, but solid enough. The committee members were all in the dining room or out on the terrace. The servants were busy doing their duties, and none of them had the opportunity. Silene was out with her fiancé and friends.” His jab caused her to sit upright and subject him to a fierce, angry glare. “Catherine and Paul were at the hotel. Francis was at the mill, and the watchman swears that he never left. By any normal means.
“However, it is known that Francis often, especially in the summertime, rides his training bicycle to the mill. He wants to be a member of the United States cycling team for the next Olympiad and constantly trains. I understand that there is a stationary bicycle in the basement exercise room. On the night of the murder, Francis climbed down the fire escape to where his bicycle is usually parked. He took it through the fence by way of a gate. His usual route to the house was hidden by the trees and the dark. At the house, he used his key and opened the gat
e. He knew approximately when the committee broke for the night and went in for refreshments. He knew that his mother always went back to the sewing room to view the night’s work. He probably saw her walk down the hall, or if he was later than he expected, he saw the light from under the sewing room door. It took only a moment to open the hall door, hurry to the sewing room, and enter silently while his mother was there. Even if she noticed him, she would think nothing of it. She would tell him not to interrupt her or something of the sort and turn back toward the quilt wall. At that moment, Francis took a pair of scissors off the table and jammed them into her back. Then he retraced his steps and waited in his office, having changed back into his suit from his biking togs, until Constable Brook came for him. It was almost foolproof. If anyone had seen him, what could have been more normal than him using his bicycle to get from the mill to the house? In fact, this may not have been his first attempt. Something may have interrupted him on other occasions.”
By the time Steve had finished, everyone in the room was staring at the accused. During the presentation, Francis had calmly extracted a cigar from his pocket. He had snipped off the end and lit the tobacco. He smiled a self-satisfied smile and said calmly, “Very interesting, Inspector. A fine story. Very believable. One problem, though: no proof. I admit I could have climbed down the fire escape, but I didn’t. I freely admit that I use the gate and take the trail through the woods; it is the easiest way to get there. I do use my key to open the gate at the house. I park my bicycle in the garage before going into the house. Now, to your fiction. Did anyone see me enter the gate at the time in question? Did anyone see me enter the house at the time in question? Did anyone see me, supposedly, stab my mother at the time in question? You have no proof, Inspector.
“Nicholas,” he turned to the lawyer, “is this inquisition and accusation actionable? I want to teach Inspector Walsh that this is not Mussolini’s police state. We still operate under the Constitution.”
The Rose Quilt Page 16