Kitabı oku: «The Curved Blades», sayfa 3
V
A MAN’S GLOVE
Inspector Brunt and the young detective, Hardy, were interviewing the members of the household in the library, and the task was not an easy one. The two girls were distinctly at odds, and Gray Haviland, whether authoritatively or not, persisted in assuming a major rôle.
“It seems to me,” Haviland said, “that it is the most remarkable mystery that has ever occurred in the experience of you police people. Now, I think the wisest plan is to call in a big detective, – no offence, Mr. Hardy, – but I mean a noted fellow, like Stone, say, and let him get at the root of the crime.”
“I think, Gray,” and Pauline looked very haughty, “that any such suggestion would come better from me. I am now mistress of the place, and it is for me to say what we shall do.”
“I know it,” and Haviland looked no whit abashed, “but you know Carr Loria is equally in authority, even if he isn’t here, and you see – ”
“I don’t see that Carr’s absence gives you any authority!”
“But it does, in a way. As Miss Lucy’s man of affairs, I ought to look out for the interests of her heirs, at least, for the absent one. I’m sure Loria would want to do everything possible to find the murderer.”
“Has this nephew been notified yet?” asked Inspector Brunt.
“Yes,” returned Pauline; “we’ve telephoned a cablegram to the city to be sent to him in Egypt. But I don’t know when he will get it, nor when we’ll get a response.”
“Where is he?”
“His permanent address is Cairo, but he is off in the desert, or somewhere, so much that sometimes he is away from communication for weeks at a time. Still I’ve sent it, that’s all I can do.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I made it rather long and circumstantial. I told him of Aunt Lucy’s death, and that she was killed by a blow on the head by a burglar, which fractured her skull. I asked him if he would come home or if we should go there. You see, we were intending to sail for Egypt in February.”
“Who were?”
“Myself, my aunt, Miss Frayne and Mr. Haviland. Carrington Loria has been begging us to make the trip, and at last Aunt Lucy decided to go. Our passage is engaged, and all plans made.”
“And now – ?”
“Now, I do not know. Everything is uncertain. But if the burglar can be found, and punished, I see no reason why I, at least, shouldn’t go on and make the trip. The others must please themselves.”
Pauline looked at Anita and at Haviland with a detached air, as if now they were no longer members of the household, and their plans did not concern her.
Not so Haviland. “Sure I’ll go,” he cried; “I fancy Carr will be mighty glad to keep me on in the same capacity I served Miss Carrington. He’ll need a representative in this country. I doubt he’ll come over, – there’s no need, if I look after all business matters for him.”
“What does he do in Egypt?” asked the Inspector, who was half engrossed looking over his memoranda, and really took slight interest in the absent heir.
“He’s excavating wonderful temples and things,” volunteered Anita, for Pauline and Gray were looking, amazed, at a man who came into the room. He was the detective who had been left in charge of the boudoir, and he carried a strange-looking object.
“What is it?” cried Pauline.
“It’s a black-jack.” replied the detective. “I found it, Inspector, just under the edge of the tassel trimmin’ of the lounge. The fellow slung it away, and it hid under the fringe, out of sight.”
Gravely, Inspector Brunt took the weapon. It was rudely made, of black cloth, a mere bag, long and narrow, and filled with bird shot.
“That’s the weapon!” declared Brunt. “A man could hit a blow with that thing that would break the skull without cutting the skin. Yes, there is no further doubt that Miss Carrington was murdered by a burglar. This is a burglar’s weapon; this it was that crushed the shell comb to fragments, and fractured the skull, leaving the body sitting upright, and unmutilated. Death was, of course, instantaneous.”
“But the jewels!” said Detective Hardy, wonderingly; “why – ”
“I don’t know why!” said Brunt, a little testily; “that is for you detectives to find out. I have to go by what evidence I find. Can I find a broken skull and a black-jack in the same room and not deduce a burglarious assault that proved fatal? The thief may have been scared off or decided he didn’t want the loot, but that doesn’t affect the certainty that we have the weapon and therefore the case is a simple one. That burglar can be found, without a doubt. Then we shall learn why he didn’t steal the jewels.”
“But the snake?” said Pauline, looking wonderingly at the Inspector; “the burglar must have been a maniac or an eccentric to put that snake round my aunt’s neck after he killed her, – and nothing will ever make me believe that she allowed it there while alive!”
“That’s what I say,” put in Haviland; “the whole affair is so inexplicable, – excuse me, Mr. Brunt, but I can’t think it such a simple case as you do, – that I think we should engage expert skill to solve the mysteries of it all.”
“That must come later,” and Inspector Brunt resumed his usual gravity of manner which had been disturbed by the discovery of the black-jack. “Will you now please give me some detailed information as to the circumstances? Is the house always securely locked at night?”
“Very much so,” answered Haviland; “Miss Carrington was not overly timid, but she always insisted on careful precautions against burglary. She had a house full of valuable furniture, curios, and art works besides her personal belongings. Yes, the house was always supposed to be carefully locked and bolted.”
“Whose duty is it to look after it?”
“The butler Haskins, and his wife, who is the cook, had all such matters in charge.”
“I will interview them later. Now please tell me, any of you, why Miss Carrington was arrayed in such peculiar fashion, last evening.”
“I can’t imagine,” said Pauline. “My aunt was not a vain woman. I have never known her to sit before a mirror, except when necessary, to have her hair dressed. It is almost unbelievable that she should deliberately don those jewels and scarf and sit down there as if to admire the effect. Yet it had that appearance.”
“But she wore the jewels during the evening, did she not?”
“Not all of them. She wore her pearls, because, as she told us, and as I have often heard her say, pearls must be worn occasionally to keep them in condition. But she added a large number of valuable gems – or, some one did, – after we left her last night.”
“Whom do you mean by we?”
“Miss Frayne and myself. We were in her room, to say good-night to her, and we left at the same time.”
“At what time?”
“About quarter past twelve, I should think, wasn’t it, Anita? We went upstairs about midnight, and were with my aunt ten or fifteen minutes.”
“Were your good-nights amicable?” asked the Inspector, and Pauline looked up in surprise. Then, recollecting the last words of her aunt, she shut her lips obstinately and made no reply.
“Indeed, they were not!” declared Miss Frayne; “Miss Carrington told both Miss Stuart and myself that it would be our last night beneath this roof! That to-day we must seek some other home, for she would harbor us no longer!”
“Ah! And why did she thus treat you?”
“There was no especial reason,” and Anita’s lovely blue eyes looked straight at the Inspector with a pathetic gaze, “she was in a tantrum, as she frequently was.”
“She didn’t mean it,” put in Pauline, hastily.
“She did!” asseverated Anita; “I’ve heard her threaten to send us away before, but never so earnestly. She meant it last night, I am sure. And, too, she knew something would happen to her last night, – she said so.”
“What? what’s that?”
“Do hush, Anita!” said Pauline; “those foolish words meant nothing!”
“Proceed, Miss Frayne,” and the Inspector spoke sternly.
“She did,” went on Anita. “I don’t remember the exact words, but she said I little knew what was going to happen to her, and she said ‘to-morrow you may sing another song!’ Surely such words meant something!”
“If they did,” said Pauline, angrily, “they merely meant that she was going to dismiss you to-day!”
“Not at all,” and Anita glanced at her, “she distinctly said something would happen to her, – not to me.”
“You know better than to take things she said in a temper, seriously! If we are to repeat idle conversations, suppose I say that I heard you say last evening that you’d like to kill her!”
“I didn’t!” shrieked Anita.
“You did,” declared Pauline, calmly; “and Gray said she ought to be killed, too. I know you didn’t mean to kill her, but I’ve just as much right to quote your foolish words as you have to quote hers.”
“Nonsense!” said Haviland; “let up, Polly! You two are always at each other! As there is no question as to who killed poor Miss Lucy, why rake up our foolish words spoken under the intense provocation of her exhibition of temper, – which was specially trying last night. Inspector, can we tell you anything more of importance?”
So far the Inspector had been almost silent, and appeared to be learning some points from the conversation not addressed to him. Now, he changed his manner, and began briskly to ask questions.
“This glove,” he said, holding it out, “was, as you know, found clasped in her hand. Is it yours, Mr. Haviland?”
“No,” said the young man, as, after a close examination of the glove he handed it back; “no, it is a size smaller than I wear, and it is of a different make from mine.”
“Have you any idea whose it can be? It is highly improbable the burglar left it.”
“I’ve no idea,” and Haviland shrugged his shoulders. “But if it was not left by the intruder, where could it possibly have come from? It is a man’s glove.”
“Could it be one of Cousin Carr’s?” said Pauline. “Aunt Lucy was awfully fond of anything of his. She kept one of his caps in her drawer for months, after he left the last time.”
“No,” replied Haviland; “it isn’t Loria’s. He wears larger gloves than I do. My theory points to a sort of gentleman burglar, a ‘Raffles,’ you know, and I think he talked with Miss Lucy, before he struck that blow, and disarmed her mind of fear.”
“What an extraordinary idea!” and Pauline looked thoughtful.
“But how else explain the glove?”
“And the snake? Did your gentleman burglar persuade her to wear that paper thing? Never! Gray, you’re absurd!”
“Another thing,” went on Inspector Brunt, returning the glove to his roomy pocket-book; “In the bedroom we noticed a glass of milk and beside it an empty plate. Was it the lady’s habit to have a night lunch?”
“Yes,” said Anita; “but she rarely ate it. In case of insomnia, she had ready a light repast, but she almost never touched it.”
“The glass of milk is still untouched,” said Brunt, “but the plate is empty. What did it contain?”
“A sandwich, I think,” said Anita. “That is what Estelle usually prepared for her. She will know, – Estelle, the maid.”
“Miss Carrington’s lady’s maid?”
“Yes; though not hers exclusively. She was expected to act as maid for Miss Stuart and myself also, at such times as Miss Carrington didn’t require her services.”
“And she, then, brought the breakfast tray, that is upset on the floor?”
“Yes; Miss Lucy always had an early cup of tea, before she dressed for breakfast with the family.”
“And the maid took it to her this morning? Did she not then discover the – the tragedy?”
“She says not!” cried Pauline; “but I’m sure she did! She says she saw Miss Lucy at the mirror, and thinking her engrossed, merely left the tray on the tabouret and went away.”
“Ridiculous!” exclaimed Haviland; “What does Estelle mean by such lies? Of course she saw Miss Carrington’s strange appearance, of course she was frightened out of her wits, and of course she dropped the tray and ran. But why not say so? And why not give an immediate alarm? She took that tray, probably, about eight. Pauline went up at nine. What was Estelle doing all that time? Why didn’t she go in to dress Miss Carrington? I tell you, Mr. Inspector, there’s a lot of queer work to be explained, and with all due respect to the force, I’m pretty sure you’ll need expert service if you’re going to get anywhere. And I’m sure, too, that if we can get word to Carrington Loria and back, he’ll say spare no trouble or expense to avenge his aunt’s murder. He is equally heir with you, Pauline, and he ought to be consulted.”
“The will hasn’t been read yet,” said Miss Stuart; “we can’t assume anything until that is done.”
“Pshaw! you know perfectly well half of the bulk of the estate is yours and half Carr’s. I have a small slice and Miss Frayne a bit. The older servants have small legacies, and there are a few charities. That, Mr. Brunt, is the gist of the will. Do you not agree with me, that as I was the man of business for the late Miss Carrington, I am justified, in the absence of Mr. Loria, in continuing my services, at least, until we can get definite directions from him?”
“Those matters are outside my province, Mr. Haviland. Miss Carrington’s legal advisers will doubtless come here soon, and such things will be decided by them. Now, here’s another point. I noted in the course of our investigation in the boudoir a quantity of powder fallen on the floor near the dressing table, in such relation to it that it would seem Miss Carrington was using the face powder as she sat there. Was this her habit?”
“Her habit? Yes;” said Anita, “Miss Carrington was in the habit of using face powder, – even cosmetics. It is not strange then, that such a proceeding was part of her night toilette.”
“No, not at all,” agreed Mr. Brunt. “But where the powder was thickest, on the hard floor, near the rug, was a muddled spot, as if some one had wiped out or swept up a mark or print. Can any of you explain this?”
No one spoke, and the stern voice went on. “I remember, Miss Stuart, that you began to say something bearing on this while we were in that room, and you suddenly stopped, appearing confused. I ask you why?”
Pauline hesitated, bit her lip, looked at Gray and then at Anita, and finally said, “I may as well tell. It is nothing. When I went to my aunt’s room, and found what I did find, – I was so excited and nervous I scarce knew what I did. But I remember seeing a footprint in that powder, and in obedience to an impulsive instinct I – I obliterated it.”
“With what?”
“With my handkerchief. I merely slapped at it, and the light powder flew about it.”
“Why did you do this?”
“I don’t know. I had no real reason. I was not thinking of what I was doing.”
“Then you did not have a desire to shield some one from possible suspicion?” The words were shot at her so swiftly that Pauline gasped.
“Suspicion! What do you mean? Was it not the work of a burglar?”
“Was the impression of a foot that you saw, the foot of a man or a woman?”
“How can I tell? It was large, but as it was a bare or stockinged foot I could not judge. Might not the burglar have removed his boots, before entering the room?”
“He might, indeed, and that is just what he did do. For more prints of that stockinged foot have been discovered on the stairs, and there is no doubt that the tracks are those of the assailant of Miss Carrington. With your permission, Miss Stuart, I will now go to interview the servants. May I ask you to await me here, all of you? I shall not be very long.”
As the Inspector and the detectives left the room, Haskins appeared to announce Mrs. Frothingham and Count Henri Charlier.
VI
A NEIGHBOR’S CALL
“Oh, is it not terrible? What can I say to comfort you!”
Mrs. Frothingham’s distressed tones and her air of eager, intense sympathy met with little response from Pauline.
Haviland had been called from the room on an errand and Anita’s willingness to receive the neighbor’s condolences did not seem acceptable. The overdressed, forward-mannered widow continued to direct her attention entirely to Pauline, and that young woman merely surveyed her visitor coolly and replied in monosyllables.
“Thanks,” she said, and her icy air would have deterred a less determined intruder.
“I simply couldn’t help running over as soon as I heard the dreadful news. For we are neighbors after all, though not so very well acquainted; and neighbors have a camaraderie of their own, I think.”
“Yes?” said Pauline, and her eyelids fell slightly, with an expression of boredness.
“Yes, indeed,” Mrs. Frothingham rattled on; “and I said to our dear Count, we must run over at once, there may be something we can do for the saddened ones.”
“Thank you;” and had a marble statue been given vocal powers the effect would have been much the same.
“Dear friend,” continued the unabashed visitor, “I know how overcome you must be – ”
“I am not overcome at all,” said Pauline, rising, and determined to hear no more; “and I must beg to be excused, Mrs. Frothingham, as I have many matters to attend to this morning.”
“Ah, yes, of course, you have. We will not detain you. The Count and I merely called for a moment to inquire – ”
“Yes, I quite understand. Miss Frayne will be pleased to answer your inquiries. Thank you both, and – good-morning.”
With a polite but distant bow, Pauline left the room, and as Count Charlier sprang to hold the door open for her, he, after a moment’s hesitation, followed her out.
“A moment, I beg, Miss Stuart,” he said as they reached the hall; “You are offended at Mrs. Frothingham’s intrusion, but have I not a right to call? Was I not such a friend of Miss Carrington as to justify this tribute of respect to her memory?”
“Certainly, Count,” and Pauline grew a shade kinder, “but I am not sufficiently acquainted with your friend to receive her visits.”
“Ah, no. That is conceded. But, I pray you, tell me of the sad affair. I have heard no details, – that is, unless you would rather not.”
“No, I am not unwilling. You were a good friend of Aunt Lucy’s – she was fond of you, and I am glad to talk to some one. Let us sit here.” Pauline indicated a recessed seat in the hall and the pair sat there. She recounted briefly the story of the tragedy and the Count was duly sympathetic. Pauline watched him closely, and discerned great interest but little grief or sorrow.
“A burglar, of course,” said the Count hearing of the cruel weapon. “How could any one attack the charming lady! And the marvelous jewels she wore! They were, of course, stolen?”
“No; that’s the strange part. They were not.”
“Ah, how splendid!” and his absorbed air of satisfaction gave Pauline a thrill of disgust at his cold-bloodedness. “And now they are all yours? Those magnificent gems?”
“The property, most of it, is divided between my cousin and myself.”
“Your cousin? Mr. Haviland?”
“No; he is but a distant connection. I mean my first cousin, Mr. Loria, now in Egypt.”
“Ah, yes, I have heard Miss Carrington refer to him. He will come home?”
“I do not know. We have cabled of course. Count Charlier, do you remember hearing my aunt say, last evening, that she expected something to happen to her?”
“I remember, Miss Stuart.”
“Have you any idea what she meant?”
“I? But how could I know?”
“Answer my question, please.”
The Count’s eyes fell, and he shifted his feet about uneasily. At last he said: “It is not pleasant to say such things, but since you ask, I may be permitted to assume that the late Miss Carrington had a regard for my humble self.”
“And she expected, she – hoped that her regard might be returned?”
“It may be so.”
“And that last night you might tell her so?”
“You honor me.”
“Did you tell her so?”
“I did not, Miss Stuart. What might have happened had she lived I cannot say, but I did not, last evening, say any word to Miss Carrington of my aspiration to her hand.”
“Did you say anything that could have been taken as a hint that some time, say, in the near future, you might express such an aspiration?”
“I may have done so.”
“Thank you, Count Charlier. I had perhaps no right to ask, but you have answered my rather impertinent questions straightforwardly, and I thank you.”
Pauline rose, as if to end the interview. In the doorway appeared Anita. “Pauline,” she said, “I wish you would come back and listen to Mrs. Frothingham’s story. It seems to me of decided importance.”
“You have something to tell me?” asked Pauline, returning to the library and looking at the unwelcome neighbor with patient tolerance.
“Yes, Miss Stuart. Now, it may be nothing, – nothing, I mean, of consequence, that is, you may not think so, but I – ”
“Suppose you let me hear it and judge for myself.”
“Yes. Well, it’s only this. I was wakeful last night, or rather early this morning, and looking from my bedroom window, which faces this house, I saw a man climb out of a window on the first floor and skulk away among the shrubbery.”
“At what time was this?” and Pauline looked interested at last.
“About four o’clock. He was to all appearances a burglar – ”
“How could you tell? Was it not dark at that hour in the morning?”
“No; the moon is past full, you know, and it shone brightly in the western sky.”
“Enough for you to discern the man clearly?”
“I took a field-glass to assist my vision. He stealthily climbed out and skirting the bushes made his way swiftly toward the great gates.”
“This is indeed an important bit of information, Mrs. Frothingham; I dare say you ought to tell it to the police who are here.”
“Oh, I couldn’t! I’m so timid about such things! But, – if you would go with me, Miss Stuart – ”
“Miss Frayne will go with you,” said Pauline, coolly; “You will find a policeman in the hall who will direct you where to find the Inspector.”
Without another word Pauline bowed in a way to include the lady and the Count also, and went away to her own room.
“Stuck-up thing!” exclaimed Mrs. Frothingham, and Anita nodded her golden head in agreement.
Inspector Brunt instructed Hardy to hear the story of Mrs. Frothingham, and he devoted his own attention to Count Charlier, of whom he had heard as being a friend of Miss Carrington’s.
He quizzed the Frenchman rather pointedly as to his friendship with the unfortunate lady and the Count became decidedly ill at ease.
“Why do you ask me so much?” he objected; “I was a friend, yes; I may have aspired to a nearer relation, yes? That is no crime?”
“Not at all, Count,” said Mr. Brunt; “I only want to find out if Miss Carrington’s strange reference to something about to happen to her could have had any reference to you.”
“It might be so; I cannot say. But all that has no bearing on the poor lady’s death.”
“No. At what time did you go away from here, Count Charlier?”
“At about midnight.”
“You went directly home?”
“To Mrs. Frothingham’s, where I am a house guest, yes.”
“And you retired?”
“Yes.”
“And remained in your bed till morning?”
“But of a certainty, yes! What are you implying? That I had a hand in this affair?”
“No, no; be calm, my dear sir. I ask you but one question. Is this your glove?”
The Inspector took the glove from his pocket and offered it to the Count.
The Frenchman took it, examined it minutely and without haste.
“No, sir,” he said, returning it; “that is not my property.”
“Thank you, that is all,” and the Inspector put the glove back in his pocket.
“There is no doubt as to the main facts,” said the Inspector, a half hour later, as, with the members of the family he summed up what had been found out from all known sources. “The assailant was most certainly a burglarious intruder; the weapon, this ‘black-jack’; the motive, robbery. Why the robbery was not achieved and what is the meaning of the unexplained circumstances of the whole affair, we do not yet know. They are matters to be investigated, but they cannot greatly affect the principal conditions. You may be thankful, Miss Stuart, that the sad death of your aunt was undoubtedly painless; and also that the thief did not succeed in his attempt to purloin the valuable gems.”
The Inspector’s speech might seem cold-hearted, but Brunt was a practical man, and he was truly glad for himself that in addition to finding the murderer he did not also have to recover a fortune of rare jewels.
“Now,” he went on, “as to the maid, Estelle. I have talked with her, but she is so hysterical and her stories so contradictory, that I am inclined to the opinion that she has some sort of guilty knowledge or at least suspicion of the intruder. The man was stocking-footed, and it is a pity, Miss Stuart, that you erased that footprint on the floor! But it would have been of doubtful use, I dare say. We have found faint tracks of the powder on the steps of the staircase, and though the last ones are almost indiscernible they seem to lead through the butler’s pantry, and to an exit by that window. But the window was found fastened this morning, so, if it was used as a means for the burglar’s getaway, it must have been fastened afterward by some person inside. Could this person have been the maid, Estelle?”
“Sure it could!” exclaimed Haviland, who was an interested listener. “That girl is a sly one! I caught her this morning, trying to take away that glass of milk. I told her to let it alone.”
“Why?” asked the Inspector.
“Because I thought if she wanted to get it away, there must be some reason for her to want it! What was it?”
“Nonsense!” and Anita looked scornfully at Gray; “naturally, Estelle would do up the rooms, and would, of course, remove the remains of Miss Lucy’s night luncheon.”
“But that’s just it!” said Haviland, triumphantly: “she didn’t take the plate that had had sandwiches on it! If she had, I should have thought nothing of it. But she took the glass of milk, in a furtive, stealthy way, that made me look at her. She turned red, and trembled, and I told her to set the glass down. She pretended not to hear, so I told her again. Then she obeyed. But she glared at me like a tigress.”
“Oh, rubbish!” said Anita. “She was annoyed at being interfered with in her work, and perhaps fearful of being censured.”
“All right,” said Haviland, “then there’s no harm done. If that girl is entirely innocent, what I said won’t hurt her. But she looked to me as if on a secret errand and a desperate one.”
“What puzzles me is,” mused the Inspector, “why she persists in saying that she left the tray in good order in the room, – though it was discovered an hour later, upset, – when we know that Miss Carrington had been dead since, at least, two or three o’clock.”
“Look here, Inspector,” and Haviland frowned, “if the murder was committed at two or three o’clock, how is it that Mrs. Frothingham saw the intruder escaping at four or later?”
“There is a discrepancy there,” admitted Brunt, “but it may be explained away. The doctors cannot be sure until the autopsy is completed of the exact hour of death, and, too, the lady next door may have made an error in time.”
“Well, I’ll inform you that Estelle did upset that tray herself,” said Pauline with an air of finality.
“How do you know?” and Inspector Brunt peered at her over his glasses.
“It was while Gray was telephoning for the doctor,” said Pauline, reminiscently, “that I looked carefully at that overturned tray.”
“I know it,” said Haviland, “I told you not to touch anything.”
“I know that, but I did. I picked up from the débris, this;” and Pauline held up to view a tiny hairpin of the sort called ‘invisible.’
“It is Estelle’s,” she said; “see, it is the glistening bronze color of her hair. Anita has gold-colored ones, and I do not use these fine wire ones. I use only shell. Moreover, I know this is Estelle’s, – don’t you, Anita?”
“It may be.”
“It is. And its presence there, on the tray, proves that she let the tray fall in her surprise at seeing Aunt Lucy, and in her trembling excitement loosened and dropped this hairpin. Doubtless, she flung her hand up to her head – a not unusual gesture of hers – and so dislodged it.”
Brunt looked closely at the speaker. “You’ve got it all fixed up, haven’t you, Miss Stuart?”
Pauline flushed slightly. “I didn’t ‘fix it up,’ as you call it, but I did gather, from what I saw, that the truth must be as I have stated; and in my anxiety to learn anything possible as to the mystery of this crime, I secured what may or may not be a bit of evidence. As Mr. Haviland has said, if Estelle is entirely innocent of any complicity in the matter, these things can’t hurt her. But it would scarcely be possible for her to have been so careless as to drop a hairpin on the tray without noticing it, if she were not startled and flurried by something that took her mind and eyes entirely away from her duties.”
“I think you are purposely making a great deal out of nothing,” remarked Anita; “it seems unfair, to say the least, to condemn the poor girl on such trifling evidence.”
The talk was interrupted by the entrance of the Coroner and the two doctors.
“It is found,” said Coroner Scofield, “that the cause of Miss Carrington’s death was not the blow on the head.”
The Inspector looked his amazement, and the others sat with receptively blank countenances waiting further disclosures.
“No,” went on Scofield, “we find in the stomach unmistakable traces of poison.”
“Poison!” It was Anita’s frightened whisper; “who would poison her?”
“What kind of poison?” asked Brunt.
“Aconitine; deadly and sure. It leaves little trace, but certain tests reveal it beyond all doubt. That is why we have been so long. The tests are difficult of performance. But, it is over, and we report that Miss Lucy Carrington was poisoned by aconitine, administered either by her own hand or another.”
“Oh, she never would poison herself!” cried Anita; “who did it?”
“And the blow on the head?” said Inspector Brunt, looking deeply perplexed.
“Her death, from poison, occurred at or near two o’clock,” asserted the Coroner; “the blow on the head was given after life had departed.”
“Incredible!” said Brunt.
“It is, indeed, Inspector. But those are the facts. The heavy blow fractured the skull, but left no bruise or mark, nor was there any blood from the cut scalp. In addition we have the poison found in the system, and the death symptoms of quiet, placid dissolution which are consequent always on that particular poison.”
“Could it have been self-administered?” asked Brunt.
