“I have not!”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” the sheriff’s voice intervened again, “Now then, Woody, how did you know that?”
“Because he kept hitting his boot with a riding crop or something. I can’t describe it but there’s a sound, it was that sort of sound. I—well, I just knew it,” Woody said rather miserably but with a stubborn sort of insistence that sounded true. “But I think whoever was there had just got there. I mean it sounded—well, short; I’m sure there were two voices but they didn’t talk.”
“What do you mean?” demanded Henley. “Either they were talking or they were not talking.”
“No,” Woody was stubborn. “You can say, hello, or wait a minute, I’m busy, or—or a lot of things. That’s two voices but not conversation.”
“I’m afraid,” Henley said with heavy sarcasm, “that’s rather a fine point.”
“Well, it is true. And besides Dr. Luddington was typing.”
“Now see here,” began Henley, angrily, “you say the door was closed. You say …”
“I could hear it,” said Woody. “So I thought that somebody had had a spill and maybe a sprain or something and Dr. Luddington was writing a prescription. I can’t—well, that’s what I thought.” There was a longish pause; then Henley said weightily, “We’ve got a detective here. Through a closed door you decided somebody had got a spill and a sprain and Dr. Luddington was typing a prescription and—are we going to listen to this, Sheriff? I tell you the boy’s been talking to his sister, he’s heard about the fellow she says she saw …”
Woody picked it up quickly. “What fellow? Where? Who?”
The sheriff said, “He couldn’t have talked to his sister. She’s been right here. What did you do then, Woody?”
“What fellow?” insisted Woody.
Henley got up and walked to the door with short, authoritative steps. Opening it he said, “Have you got that report on the Beaufort hunt yet?”
The sheriff said to Woody, “As she got into those woods back of the Luddington place she says she saw somebody from the Beaufort hunt, getting back on his horse. She says it looked as if he’d had a fall, there by the creek.”
“Who?”
“She couldn’t see his face.… What did you do then, Woody? Did you wait?”
“No, I didn’t. I left. Right away.”
“You …” The sheriff gave Woody a surprised look. “Now why did you do that?”
“Because I—I just did.”
“But you’d walked all the way out there to see him. Couldn’t you wait a few minutes?”
“I’d changed my mind,” Woody said rather uncomfortably. “I—well, all the time I was going along through the village, I’d been thinking that really there wasn’t anything he could do. I—I sort of began to see that I was the person to do anything for Sue, that …” he swallowed and said, “I’m the man of the family. I’m not a kid any more. The patient or whoever it was in his office decided me. I mean it was sort of the deciding last straw. If I could have walked right in to see the doctor I’d have done it; as it was I decided to go back to the garage and get a lift home and see Sue herself before I talked to the doctor or anybody. I was kind of nervous—I’d been cooped up in planes and trains and—well, anyway, that’s what I did. I don’t care whether it sounds like the truth or not, that’s what I did.—And I don’t know who was in there with Dr. Luddington and I don’t know another thing about it.”
Henley slammed the door and came back.
“Found anybody yet?” asked the sheriff.
Henley shook his head. “They’ve got the list all right, but they can’t locate everybody; they’re either in bed and asleep, and refuse to be called, or rampaging around the country, eating and drinking. Oh, they’ve checked on most of them,” he added grudgingly, “so far only three spills and none of them in the Luddington woods.” He looked at Woody. “I heard what you said and it sounds fishy to me.”
“It’s what I did, just the same.”
“Tell it again.”
“All right, but It’ll be the same story because that’s the way it happened.”
And it was the same story and this time Henley seemed not wholly to accept it, but at least to consider it. “Could it have been a woman in the doctor’s office?” he asked at last.
Woody thought for a moment. “I thought it was a man. The voices were muffled; I couldn’t hear any words. I never thought of it being a woman.”
“Your sister,” remarked Henley rather smugly, “was carrying a crop. She left it in the waiting room.”
Woody paled a little, but his eyes did not flinch. “I’d have known my sister’s voice anywhere.”
“Even through a closed door?”
Sheriff Benjamin intervened, “I think he’s right. I think he would have recognized his sister’s voice. And if he had, he’d never have told this.”
Henley seemed impressed by this reasoning but said nevertheless, obstinately, that it wasn’t conclusive. “In fact, none of it’s conclusive.”
“It’s what happened,” Woody said, “and I’ll swear to it.”
“You’d swear to anything to help your sister. Well, don’t count on being permitted to give evidence. Don’t make up a story to get her out of it. Stick to the truth …”
“That is the truth!” Woody was white under his tan; his temper (like the frantic, stubborn baby temper he’d always had) was getting control of him. The sheriff said quickly, “You said you went away.”
“I told you. I went to the garage. There’s no taxi service in Dobberly but I thought I’d get one of the fellows to run me up home. They didn’t have a car available just then; one of the fellows had gone home for supper. But they said he’d be back in a little while and then he’d take me. So I waited and I—there I was when a police car came along and stopped for gas and—one of them questioned me and as soon as he found out who I was he picked me up.”
“Now look here,” Henley said abruptly, “Come clean. You were in Dobberly the night the Baily woman was murdered! What do you know about her murder?”
And he did know something. Because Sue knew him so well, she knew that; she saw the flash of wariness in his face. But he said flatly, “I don’t know a thing. If I knew anything I’d tell it.”
The sheriff got up. “See here, Henley, if you want my opinion I’d say let the boy go, just now. We’ve got plenty to do; we can’t do it all tonight—and as to that, it’s getting on toward morning. Let the boy go.” He paused and said, “Let them both go.”
“I thought you were getting around to that! We’ve got nothing against the boy—nothing definite except he was there. He could have shot the old man. Or he could be covering for his sister and they could both be in it. However—I’ll let him go. But not the girl.”
After a long pause the sheriff said: “I think you’re making a mistake.”
“Let him go,” repeated Henley. “We can get him if we want him. Let him go. But the girl stays. I want,” said Henley, loosening his belt again as he settled back in his chair, “I want to hear the whole story again. This time I want a stenographer.”
In the end the stenographer was brought in; the sheriff’s disapproval was overridden; Woody was taken into the outer office and the door was closed and the questioning began again. It was by then very late; it was later and even Captain Henley’s bouncing, red-faced energy and exuberance was a trifle dimmed, his spruceness definitely a thing of the past, by the time they finished. By that time, too, Sue felt like a sleepwalker going through motions that had no significance, saying words that had no meaning. When at last they released her, a trooper, at Sheriff Benjamin’s quietly spoken word, brought her hot coffee. Her hands shook so that she could scarcely hold the thick white mug.
The sheriff went with her to the door of the outer office; the air was blue with cigarette smoke. Woody was there and Judge Shepson, looking sleepy and old, his fat jowls sagging, his curly, sparse hair rumpled; he got wearily to his feet.
“Go out the side door,” said the sheriff. “I think the street is clear by now, but go out the side door.”
Woody nodded. Their feet made dull and echoing sounds on the stairs; two troopers, looking sleepy too, let them past without a question.
The fresh air of coming dawn was cool upon her face. They went along the sidewalk, Judge Shepson puffing asthmatically. At the end of the sidewalk two cars loomed up, dark and ghostly. Jed and Fitz stood together, smoking, waiting; Camilla huddled in the second car, her face pale in the gloom as the long, light coat she had wrapped around her.
Sue’s eyes ached from the dazzling light of the sheriff’s office. Everything blurred; figures and sounds were confused. Judge Shepson was talking. She heard the words. “No arrest,” and “nothing more tonight.”
Jed was beside her, his arm around her; Camilla had got out of the car to listen. Sue was aware of Camilla’s high voice, exclaiming in a hushed, yet shocked way. There was a low-voiced colloquy about cars, about going home; Fitz settled it by opening the door of his own car and putting Sue in the front seat. Woody got in beside her; she was between Fitz and Woody. She was dimly aware of Jed and Camilla and the bulky figure of the lawyer, fading off into the darkness.
Fitz started his car, backing around the graveled space.
“How long have you been waiting?” Woody asked.
“Since I brought Shepson. Was he any help?”
“Didn’t have a chance.”
After a pause, Fitz said: “I was afraid he wouldn’t have, but I didn’t know what else to do.”
“Who told you about it? The police?”
“I was at your aunt’s when they told her. I’d been at Shepson’s office; when I got home Jason said she’d phoned. Instead of phoning her I drove over and somebody, not the sheriff but a trooper, telephoned. He said the sheriff had told him to—I gathered at Sue’s request. The whole county knows it by now.”
“How’d Aunt Caroline take it?”
“As you’d expect her to. She’s a sweetheart.… Then I went for Shepson.”
They took the road out of town, toward the hill where she and Fitz had driven, toward the turn to Dobberly and home. Woody said clearly and suddenly in her ear, “The fact is Jed shot Ernestine.”
The car gave a kind of jerk toward the side of the road and back again. Fitz said, “Do you know that or are you guessing?”
“I didn’t see it, if that’s what you mean. But just look at it! Sue swore to an alibi to get Jed off. She’s in love with him! But she’s got to be made to tell the truth now. No matter what it does to Jed. It’s his life or hers now. I knew it was coming,” said Woody, his voice rough and miserable. “I read the papers. Every word she said made it worse for her. Every word she said heaped up evidence against her. But she’s got to tell the truth about Jed now.”
Sue thought dimly, “I can’t cope with this now. I’m so tired and Woody’s so stubborn; I can’t do it now.”
Fitz said, “She did tell the truth, Woody. You’ll have to believe it.”
“I don’t believe it! Jed did it. Sue made up an alibi for him and if she won’t admit it we’ve got to make Jed confess.”
13
FITZ SAID at last in an even, man-to-man way, “I’d better tell you everything that’s happened, Woody. You haven’t had a chance to hear.”
He told it, from the day after Ernestine’s murder, the day when Woody had gone back to his ship. The story of the evidence, the trial and in greater detail exactly what had happened since then. Woody listened until lights suddenly reflected themselves against the glossy surface of banked laurels. The car swerved, climbed to steps and white pillars. A light was burning in the hall. Chrisy was waiting for them.
She had put Caroline to bed hours ago. “I gave her some of those pills the doctor left last night,” she said and took one look at Sue and led the way upstairs; Fitz almost carried Sue up the steps, with Woody coming along behind. “Hey, Chrisy, have I got any pajamas, or a razor? All my stuff is still at the station.”
It was Chrisy who pulled off Sue’s riding boots, untied her crumpled stock. How long ago—how quickly and anxiously she had put them on! “Don’t you make any noise, Woody. You’ll wake up Miss Caroline,” Chrisy said sternly to Woody who had reached down and taken up a boot with apparently a desire to help and then stood there, holding the boot.
Fitz had disappeared; he came back as Chrisy spoke. “Here’s some milk.”
Chrisy turned her worried face toward them. “You and Woody go on downstairs, Mr. Fitz. You’ll want to talk; but now don’t sit up all night, either of you. Not that there’s much left of it. Can you stand up now, Miss Sue, and I’ll get these pants off?”
Woody and Fitz had gone; the milk was liberally laced with brandy. “How did Aunt Caroline take it?”
Chrisy’s underlip thrust out. “We waited and waited; she was getting more and more nervous all the time, but you know Miss Caroline. She tried to hide it. And then Mr. Fitz came and then a policeman phoned and …” Chrisy shook her head with sullen and angry sorrow. “Mr. Fitz, he went for Lawyer Shepson. And then after a long time we heard old Jeremy and she went out with a flashlight and there he was, nobody riding him and a great slash along his leg. Miss Caroline, she liked to died. She was afraid you’d got hurt and they wouldn’t tell her. So she phoned and phoned and finally got the sheriff and he said you were there in the courthouse. In the jailhouse!” Chrisy said in a kind of moan, holding up Sue’s nightgown. “Now duck your head, that’s right. And finally I remembered the pills. Now then, I’ll turn out the light. I’ll sleep right in the next room so if either you or Miss Caroline wants me, there I am.”
Sue said from a vast distance, “Don’t forget Woody …”
“My gracious, ain’t I always seen to Woody?” said Chrisy and went out.
Sue did not know how long Fitz and Woody talked, downstairs in Caroline’s study; she did not know until later that after Woody had gone to bed at last, Fitz was unable to leave; he stood on the steps in the gray dawn, looking down at his car and then went back, uneasy, afraid of something he could not define and spent what was left of the night on the shabby, leather-covered couch in the study, fighting old Reveller for possession of it. Chrisy found him there much later, gave him breakfast and watched him release the brake of his car and coast silently down the incline so as not to waken Sue or Caroline; he turned on the engine at the gate and drove home through a gray, clouded daylight.
It was a day that ushered in a series of days which again had for Sue and perhaps for others, a kind of sleepwalking haze; there were moments of sharp reality and moments of sheer, incredible unreality.
Much and little happened.
The machinery of police investigation, already unlimbered, rolled on slowly, thoroughly, and for the most part, invisibly—at least to Sue, to Caroline, to those most deeply concerned. Such machinery of defense as could be gathered together for Sue’s protection was assembled; Judge Shepson came and went; she told her story, everything she knew of Dr. Luddington’s murder over and over. Fitz and Woody and Jed, Caroline and Chrisy and—even—Ruby and Wat, sat in Caroline’s study and debated and searched for ammunition for that defense, certain that the time would come when it was needed. Nothing new or revealing emerged from all that debate. The coroner’s inquest was held on the first day.
It was brief, businesslike and merely a factual recital of the known facts of his death; very few people attended. Probably the sheriff had taken steps to prevent wide publicity and a jammed courtroom by holding the inquest so quickly and with little fanfare. It was like a cold, short repetition of Jed’s trial; it was over so quickly that the announcement of the decision came as a surprise. But Sue was not named in the decision; he had come to his death at the hands of a person or persons unknown.
And then, there was nothing they could do but wait for the police to make a move.
The fact was, of course—Sue knew it because they told her, Fitz and Woody, Jed
and Judge Shepson—the sheriff and Captain Henley were still in a kind of deadlock, the sheriff holding out against Sue’s arrest, Captain Henley demanding it and both of them seeking for some clinching evidence that would resolve that deadlock one way or the other.
There were curious things, too, about those days; small yet sharply unreal things, such as the way newspapers disappeared; Chrisy spirited them away and as far as Sue or Caroline were concerned, newspapers, just then, did not exist. What were they saying, Sue wondered, in those columns of newsprint? She did not ask for them, however; probably Chrisy would have said there were none. Nobody telephoned; probably reporters were distracted, keeping close to Bedford and the sheriff’s office, but the usual little thread of telephoning, the invitations, the chats, had cut itself off—not unkindly, perhaps only in mute or embarrassed sympathy—but it was cut off.
More significantly policemen, singly or in pairs, seemed to hover often at the gate or wander about the grounds; clearly they were keeping an eye on the house, which seemed to give Fitz and Chrisy some occult satisfaction although neither of them, then, could have said why.
On Sunday Dr. Luddington was buried; since it was Sunday everybody in the countryside could come and most of them did; the tiny church with its white steeple pointing up into the gray sky was packed; people stood along the sidewalk and in the vine and moss-grown cemetery outside, their heads bared. Caroline went, of course, and Sue and Woody and the usher, a boy from the filling station who knew them, seated them directly behind Wat and Ruby. It was a public declaration that as far as he was concerned Sue could not have shot Dr. Luddington and that all the talk was so much talk. Ruby, swathed in black, turned and spoke to them; she was composed but her usually white-and-pink complexion had a muddy look and there were dark pockets around her eyes. After the service Wat further marked their position in his eyes by giving Caroline his arm down the aisle, with everyone watching, and out to the small, old cemetery, with its turf paths, its ivy and Virginia creeper, its moss and lichen-covered stones.
Hunt with the Hounds Page 12