Kitabı oku: «The House Opposite: A Mystery», sayfa 5

CHAPTER VIII
AN IDENTIFICATION

Telegram

Dr. Charles Fortescue,

Madison Avenue,

New York City.

Saturday, August 12.

Maurice Greywood. Can’t find his address. May be in Directory.

Frederic Cowper.

Clipping from the New York Bugle, Sunday, August 13.

Landlady Identifies Body of the Rosemere Victim as that of her vanished lodger, artist Greywood. Police still Sceptical

Mr. Maurice Greywood, the talented young artist who returned from Paris the beginning of last winter, has disappeared, and grave fears for his safety are entertained. He was last seen in his studio, 188 Washington Square, early on Tuesday, August 8th, by Mrs. Kate Mulroy, the janitress. Ever since the young artist moved into the building, Mrs. Mulroy has taken complete charge of his rooms, but, owing to a disagreement which took place between them last Tuesday, she has ceased these attentions. Yesterday evening, while looking over a copy of the Bugle of the preceding day, Mrs. Mulroy came across the portrait of the unknown man whose murdered body was discovered under very mysterious circumstances in an unoccupied apartment of the Rosemere, corner of – Street and Madison Avenue, on the preceding Thursday. She at once recognized it as bearing a striking resemblance to her lodger. Thoroughly alarmed she decided to investigate the matter. After knocking several times at Mr. Greywood’s door, without receiving an answer, she opened it by means of a pass-key. Both the studio and bedroom were in the greatest confusion, and from the amount of dust that had accumulated over everything, she concluded that the premises had not been entered for several days. Her worst fears being thus confirmed, she hastened at once to the Morgue, and requested to see the body of the Rosemere victim, which she immediately identified as that of Maurice Greywood.

Strangely enough, the police throw doubts on this identification, although they acknowledge that they have no other clue to go on. However, Mrs. Greywood, the young man’s mother, has been sent for, and is expected to arrive to-morrow from Maine, where she is spending the summer.

The people at the Rosemere are still foolishly trying to make a mystery of the murder, and refuse all information [etc., etc.].

To Dr. Charles K. Fortescue from Dr. Frederic Cowper, Beverley, L. I

Sunday Evening, August 13th.

Dear Charley:

No sooner had I read in to-day’s paper that the body found in the Rosemere had been identified as that of Maurice Greywood, than I knew at once why you have taken such an interest in poor May. I see now that you have suspected from the first that the murdered man was not unknown to her, and your last letter, describing her “friend,” proves to me beyond doubt that you were ignorant of nothing but his name, for Greywood and no other answers exactly to that description. How you found out what you did, I can’t imagine; but remembering that your office window commands a view of the entrance to the building, I think it possible that you may have seen something from that point of vantage, which enabled you to put two and two together. But I wonder that I can feel any surprise at your having discovered the truth, when the truth itself is unbelievable!! May Derwent is incapable of killing any one—no matter what provocation she may have had. She is incapable of a dishonourable action, and above all things incapable of an intrigue. She is purity itself. I swear it. And yet what are the facts that confront us? A man, known to have been her professed suitor, is found dead in a room adjoining her apartment, dead with a wound through his heart—a wound, too, caused by a knitting-needle or hat-pin, as you yourself testified! And before trying to find out who killed him we must first think of some reasonable excuse for his having been at the Rosemere at all. How strange that he should happen to go to the building at the very time when May (who was supposed to be on her way to Bar Harbor, mind you!) was there also. Who was he calling on, if not on her?

Luckily, no one as yet seems to have thought of her in connection with Greywood’s death. My sister has, in fact, been wondering all day whom he could have been visiting when he met his tragic fate. But, sooner or later, the truth will become known, and then—? Even in imagination I can’t face that possibility.

And now, since you have discovered so much, and as I believe you to be as anxious as I am to help this poor girl, I am going to accede to your request and tell you all that I have been able to find out about the sad affair. I know that I run the risk of being misunderstood—even by you—and accused of unpardonable indiscretion. But it seems to me that in a case like this no ordinary rules hold good, and that in order to preserve a secret, one has sometimes to violate a confidence.

I have discovered—but I had better begin at the beginning, and tell you as accurately and circumstantially as possible how the following facts became known to me, so that you may be better able to judge of their value. Truth, after all, is no marble goddess, unchangeable, immovable, but a very chameleon taking the colour of her surroundings. A detached sentence, for instance, may mean a hundred things according to the when, where, and how of its utterance. But enough of apologies—Qui s’excuse, s’accuse.

So here goes.

I spent the morning on our piazza, and as I lay there, listening to the faint strains of familiar hymns which floated to me through the open windows of our village church, I could not help thinking that those peaceful sounds made a strange accompaniment to my gloomy and distracted thoughts. I longed to see May and judge for myself how things stood with her. I was therefore especially glad after the service was over to see Mrs. Derwent turn in at our gate. She often drops in on her way from church to chat a few minutes with my mother. But I soon became convinced that the real object of her visit to-day was to see me. Why, I could not guess. The dear lady, usually so calm and dignified, positively fidgeted, and several times forgot what she was saying, and remained for a minute or so with her large eyes fastened silently upon me, till, noticing my embarrassment, she recovered herself with a start and plunged into a new topic of conversation. At last my mother, feeling herself de trop, made some excuse, and went into the house. But even then Mrs. Derwent did not immediately speak, but sat nervously clasping and unclasping her long, narrow hands.

“Fred,” she said at last, “I have known you ever since you were a little boy, and as I am in great trouble I have come to you, hoping that you will be able to help me.”

“Dear Mrs. Derwent, you know there is nothing I would not do for you and yours,” I replied.

“It is May that I want to speak to you about; she is really very ill, I fear.”

“Indeed, I am sorry to hear it; what is the matter with her?”

“I don’t know. She has not been herself for some time.”

“So I hear. Do you know of any reason for her ill health?”

“She has not been exactly ill,” she explained, “only out of sorts. Yes, I’m afraid I do know why she has changed so lately.”

“Really,” I exclaimed, much interested.

“Yes, it has all been so unfortunate,” she continued. “You know how much admiration May received last winter; she had several excellent offers, any one of which I should have been perfectly willing to have her accept. Naturally, I am not anxious to have her marry, at least not yet; for when my child leaves me, what is there left for me in life? Still, one cannot think of that, and if she had chosen a possible person I should gladly have given my consent. But the only one she seemed to fancy was a most objectionable young man, an artist; the Maurice Greywood, in fact, of whose supposed murder you no doubt read in this morning’s paper.”

“Yes,” I admitted.

“Well, I put my foot down on that. I told her she would break my heart if she persisted in marrying the fellow. It was really a shock to me to find that a daughter of mine had so little discrimination as even to like such a person; but she is young and romantic, and the creature is handsome, and clever in a Brummagem way. The man is a fakir, a poseur! I even suspect, Fred, that his admiration for May is not quite disinterested, and that he has a very keen eye to her supposed bank account.”

“But May is such a lovely girl–”

“Oh, yes. I know all about that,” interrupted Mrs. Derwent, “but in this case ‘les beaux yeux de la cassette’ count for something, I am sure. He has absolutely no means of his own, and a profession which may keep him in gloves and cigarettes. I hear that he is supported by his mother and friends. Think of it! No, no, I could not bear her to marry that sort of man. But the child, for she is little more, took my refusal much to heart, fancied herself a martyr no doubt, and grew so pale and thin that I consulted the doctor here about her. He suggested nervous prostration, due to too much excitement, and wanted her to take a rest cure. I am sure, however, that that is all nonsense. May was simply fretting herself sick; she wanted to be ill, I think, so as to punish me for my obduracy.”

“But what, then, makes you so anxious about her now?” I inquired. “Have any new symptoms developed?”

“Yes,” and after glancing anxiously about to see whether she could be overheard, Mrs. Derwent continued in a lower voice. “You know that she started to go to Bar Harbor last Tuesday.” I nodded. “Well, she seemed really looking forward to her visit, and when she left home was very affectionate to me, and more like her old self than she had been for months. But through some carelessness she missed her connection in town, and instead of returning here as she ought to have done, spent two nights in our empty apartment—of all places!! What possessed her to do such a thing I cannot find out, and she is at present so extremely excitable that I do not dare to insist on an explanation. When she did return here on Thursday she told me at once about the murder and how she was made to look at the body and to give an account of herself. Of course, we were very much afraid that her name would get into the papers and all the facts of her escapade become known. Through some miracle, that at least has been spared me; but the shock of being brought into such close contact with a mysterious crime has proved too much for the child’s nerves, and she is in such an overwrought hysterical condition that I am seriously alarmed about her. I wanted to send again for Dr. Bertrand. He is not very brilliant, but I thought he might at least give her a soothing draught. She wept bitterly, however, at the bare idea—insisted that he only made her more nervous. I then suggested sending for our New York physician, but she became quite violent. Really I could hardly recognise May, she was so–so—impossible. Of course she is ill, and I now fear seriously so.”

Mrs. Derwent paused to wipe her eyes.

“When you say that she is violent and impossible, what do you mean, exactly?”

“It is difficult to give you an idea of how she has been behaving, Fred, but here is an instance that may show how extraordinary her conduct has been: Her room is next to mine, and since her return from town she has shut herself up there quite early every evening. I know she doesn’t sleep much, for I hear her moving about all night long. When I have gone to her door, however, and asked her what was the matter, she has answered me quite curtly, and refused to let me in. She has not been out of the house since she came back, but, strangely enough, I have caught her again and again peering through the blinds of those rooms that have a view of the road, just as if she were watching for somebody. As soon as she sees that she is observed, she frowns and moves away. Last night I slept very heavily, being completely worn out by all this anxiety, and was suddenly awakened by a piercing shriek. I rushed into May’s room and found her sitting up in bed talking volubly, while about her all the lights were blazing. ‘Take him away, take him away!’ she kept repeating, and then she wailed: ‘Oh, he’s dead, he’s dead!’ I saw at once that she was asleep and tried to rouse her, but it was some time before I succeeded in doing so. I told her she had been dreaming, but she showed no curiosity as to what she might have been saying, only evincing a strong desire to be left alone. As I was leaving the room, I noticed that the key-hole had been carefully stopped up. I suppose she did that so as to prevent my knowing that she kept her lights burning all night. But why make a secret of it? That is what I can’t understand! She has had a shock, and it has probably made her afraid of the dark, which she has never been before, and perhaps she looks upon it as a weakness to be ashamed of. Another unfortunate thing occurred this morning. May has lately been breakfasting in bed, but, as ill-luck would have it, to-day she got down-stairs before I did, and was already looking over the newspaper when I came into the room. Suddenly she started up, her eyes wild with terror, and then with a low cry fell fainting to the floor.

“Snatching up the paper to see what could have caused her such agitation, I was horrified to read that the man who was found murdered in our apartment house was now supposed to be Maurice Greywood. Imagine my feelings! As soon as she had recovered sufficiently to be questioned, I begged her to confide in me—her mother. But she assured me that she had told me everything, and that the man who had been killed was a perfect stranger to her and not Mr. Greywood. She insists that the two do not even look very much alike, as the deceased is much larger, coarser, and darker than the young artist. It was, of course, the greatest relief to know this. Had Greywood really been at the Rosemere on the evening she spent there, I should always have believed that they had met by appointment. ‘Yes, I should; I know I should,’ she repeated, as I shook my head in dissent.

“When I was ready to go to church, I was astonished to find May waiting for me in the hall. She was perfectly composed, but a crimson spot burned in either cheek and her eyes were unnaturally bright. I noticed, also, that she had taken great pains with her appearance, and had put on one of her prettiest dresses. I could not account in any way for the change in her behaviour. As we neared the village, she almost took my breath away by begging me to telegraph to Mr. Norman to ask him to come and stay with us! ‘Telegraph him now!’ I exclaimed. ‘Yes,’ she replied; ‘I would like to see him. If we telegraph immediately, he could get here by five o’clock.’ ‘But why this hurry?’ I asked. She flushed angrily, and kept repeating: ‘I want to see him.’ ‘But, my child,’ I remonstrated, ‘I don’t even know where Mr. Norman is. He certainly is not in town at this time of the year.’ ‘Telegraph to his town address, anyhow, and if he isn’t there it doesn’t matter,’ she urged.—‘But, May, what is the meaning of this change? The last time he came down here you wouldn’t even see him. Do you now mean to encourage him?’ ‘No, no,’ she asserted. ‘Then I shall certainly not send him such a crazy message,’ I said. ‘If you don’t, I will,’ she insisted. We were now opposite the post office. She stopped and I saw that she was trembling, and that her eyes were full of tears. ‘My darling,’ I begged her, ‘tell me the meaning of all this?’ ‘I wish to see Mr. Norman,’ is all she would say. Now, I suppose you will think me very weak, but I sent that telegram. Fred, tell me, do you think the child is going insane?” and the poor mother burst into tears.

“Dear, dear lady, I am sure you are unnecessarily alarmed. If I could see May, I could judge better.”

“Yes, yes,” she interrupted, eagerly, “that is what I wish. I thought if you came to the house as a visitor you could give me your professional opinion about May without her knowing anything about it. The difficulty is, how can you get to us with your poor leg?”

“Nothing easier,” I assured her. “I can hobble about now on crutches, and with a little help can get in and out of a carriage; so I will drive over to you immediately after lunch.”

“Won’t you come now and lunch with us?”

“No; at lunch we should all three have to be together, and I would rather see your daughter by herself.”

“Very well, then,” said Mrs. Derwent, and gathering up the folds of her soft silk gown she left me.

Early this afternoon I drove over to their place, and found both ladies sitting on the piazza. May greeted me very sweetly, but I at once noticed the peculiar tension of her manner, the feverish glitter of her eyes, the slight trembling of her lips, and did not wonder at her mother’s anxiety. After a little desultory conversation, Mrs. Derwent left us alone. I doubt if the girl was even aware of her departure, or of the long pause which I allowed to follow it.

“May, Dr. Fortescue, whom you have read about in connection with the Rosemere tragedy, is a great friend of mine.” She stared at me with horror. I felt a perfect brute, but as I believed it was for her good I persisted: “I think he saw you when you were in town.” She staggered to her feet; I caught her to prevent her falling, and laid her gently on a divan. “Lie still,” I commanded, looking her steadily in the eye. “Lie still, I tell you; you are in no condition to get up. Now, listen to me, May; I know you have had a shock, and your nerves are consequently thoroughly unstrung. Now, do you wish to be seriously ill, or do you not?” My quiet tones seemed to calm her. “Of course I don’t want to be ill,” she murmured. “Then you must not go on as you have been doing lately. Will you let your old playfellow doctor you a little? Will you promise to take some medicine I am going to send you? I must tell you that, unless you will do what I say, you will be delirious in a few hours.” I thought that argument would fetch her.

“Yes, yes,” she exclaimed. “What shall I do?” and she put her hand to her head and gazed about her helplessly.

“In the first place, you must go to bed immediately.”

“I can’t do that; Mr. Norman will be here in a few hours.”

“Well, I can’t help it. To bed you must go, and from what I hear of that young man he will be as anxious as anybody to have you do what is best for you.”

“But—” she objected.—“There is no ‘but.’ Unless you at once do as I tell you, you will be down with brain fever.”

“Very well, then,” she meekly replied; “I will go to bed.”

“That’s a good girl. You must get a long night’s rest, and if you are better in the morning I will let you see your friend. He’ll wait, you know; I don’t believe he will be in any hurry to leave, do you?” But she only frowned at my attempt at jocularity. I rang the bell and asked the butler to call Mrs. Derwent, to whom I gave full directions as to what I wanted done, and had the satisfaction of seeing May go up-stairs with her mother. I waited till the latter came down again, and then told her as gently as possible that her daughter was on the verge of brain fever, but that I hoped her excellent constitution might still save her from a severe illness.

The next question was, what to do with Norman.

May’s positive belief that he was coming had proved contagious, and I found that we were both expecting him. I thought it would be best for me to meet him at the train, tell him of May’s sudden illness and offer to put him up at our place for the night. Mrs. Derwent, after some hesitation, agreed to this plan. Norman turned up, as I knew he would. He is very quiet, and does not appear surprised either at his sudden invitation or at May’s illness. He also seems to think it quite natural that he should stay in the neighbourhood till she is able to see him. He looks far from well himself, and is evidently worried to death about May. He has been out all the evening, and I suspect him of having been prowling around the Beloved’s house.

Now tell me—what do you think is the meaning of all this? Is the body Maurice Greywood’s, or is it not? If it is he—who killed him and why? If she—but I’ll not believe it unless I also believe her to have had a sudden attack of acute mania—and that, of course, is possible, especially when we consider what a highly nervous state she is still in.

But if the dead man was really a stranger to her, as she asserts, why then does every mention of the murder cause her to become so excited? Why does she appear to be for ever watching for somebody? Why did she cry out in her sleep: “Oh, he’s dead, he’s dead!”? Again, the only reasonable explanation seems to be that her mind has become slightly unhinged. And if that is the case, what rôle does Norman play in this tragedy, and why did she insist on his being sent for? Above all, why does he consider it natural that she should have done so?

Now, knowing all this, can you advise me as to what I ought to do to help the poor girl?

I hear Norman coming in, so must end abruptly, although I have a lot more to say.

Affectionately yours,

Fred.