“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.
“Not by Miss Carrington,” said Doctor Stanton, decidedly. “The lady has been my patient for years, and she had an absolute abhorrence of all sorts of drugs or medicines. She made more fuss over taking a simple powder than a spoiled child. I have often prescribed for her, knowing full well she would not take my prescriptions because of her detestation of taking medicine. When remedies have been really necessary, I have had to administer them while with her, and a difficult task it was. Moreover, my patient was not of the temperament or disposition to seek death for herself, nor had she any reason to do so. No; the case is murder; the poison was administered by some one who wished for her death and deliberately set out to accomplish it,—and succeeded.”
“Is the action of this poison instantaneous?” asked Brunt.
“No; death ensues about a half hour to an hour after the dose is taken into the system.”
“Then, we gather that the poison was taken in the neighborhood of one o’clock, last night.”
“Yes,” agreed the Coroner, “about one o’clock.”
“About one o’clock!” whispered Anita, in an awe-struck, gasping way, and her great blue eyes stared dazedly into the dark ones of Pauline.
VII
THE INQUEST
Next morning the inquest was proceeding. The great living-room at Garden Steps was crowded with listeners, drawn hither by sympathy, interest or curiosity. And each class found ample to satisfy its motive. The mere fact of being within that exclusive home, within those heretofore inaccessible doors, was enough to thrill and delight many, and observation and scrutiny were as well repaid as was the listening to the astounding revelations that were poured into their ears.
Coroner Scofield’s jury was composed of intelligent men, who were eagerly receptive to the appalling facts narrated to them and the curiously bizarre bits of evidence that became known as the witnesses were questioned.
Dr. Stanton told of his being called to the house, and his discoveries and conclusions. He admitted that he assumed death was caused by the blow on the head, but claimed that it was a pardonable error in view of the fact that such a blow had been given. He affirmed, and Dr. Moore corroborated it, that the autopsy showed that death was caused by aconitine poison, administered, either by the deceased or another, at an hour not earlier than one o’clock, and probably soon thereafter. The terrible blow that had fractured the skull had been given after life had been for some time extinct.
Dr. Stanton asserted emphatically his late patient’s detestation of drugs or medicines of any sort, adducing thereby the extreme improbability of the poison having been self-administered. Moreover, the temperament and disposition of the late Miss Carrington entirely evinced a love of life and desire to prolong it by means of any device or assistance the doctor might give.
Pauline was called next, and a little flutter of excitement in the audience greeted her appearance.
Exceedingly dignified, but of a sweet, gracious mien, she at once received the silent approval of the crowd. Her black gown, its collar of sheer white organdy slightly open at the throat, well suited her pale, beautiful face and her dark hair and eyes. To-day, her eyes seemed fathomless. At times, gazing intently at the Coroner until they almost disconcerted him; and then, hidden by veiling lids, whose long lashes fell suddenly, as if to conceal further disclosures.
On the whole, Pauline was not a satisfactory witness. She told, in most straightforward way, of leaving the breakfast table to go to her aunt’s room and of finding there the dead body. She told clearly all the circumstances of the upset tray, the spilled powder and the eccentric garb of Miss Carrington herself. But questions as to her opinion of these facts brought little response.
“You left Miss Carrington at half-past twelve?” asked Coroner Scofield.
“Not so late, I think,” returned Pauline; “probably at quarter or twenty minutes past twelve,—I am not sure.”
“How was she then dressed?”
“In the gown she had worn during the evening.”
“And her jewels?”
“When I left my aunt, she was wearing her pearls and the other jewelry she had worn with her evening dress. Some brooches and rings and bracelets.”
“But not so much as she had on when you discovered her in the morning?”
“Not nearly so much.”
“How do you account for this?”
“I don’t account for it. To me it is exceedingly mysterious.”
“And the paper snake round her neck?”
“I have no idea by whom such a thing could have been brought to my aunt. But I am positive she never put it on herself. Nor can I think she would allow it to come near her if she were alive,—or conscious,—or, had power to scream for help. Any one knowing my aunt’s fear and horror of anything reptilian will agree to this.”
“It seems evident,” said the Coroner, thoughtfully, “that some intruder entered Miss Carrington’s room, at or near one o’clock. That this intruder in some manner induced Miss Carrington to swallow the poison, whether conscious of her act or not. That the intruder subsequently, and for some reason, placed the snake round the neck of the victim, and, later still, brutally gave her a stunning blow with the black-jack which was found, and thereby fractured her skull. Granting these assumptions, can you, Miss Stuart, give us any information that would lead to discovery of the hand that wrought this havoc?”
“Not any,” and Pauline raised her great eyes a moment to Scofield’s face and slowly dropped them again.
“Then can you not express an opinion or suggest a theory that might account for such strange happenings, at least, in part?”
“No,” said Pauline, slowly; “I have no idea, nor can I imagine why my aunt should be so elaborately arrayed and seated in an easy chair in front of her mirror. It is contrary to all her customs or habits.”
“Could she have been killed first and could the jewels and adornments have been added afterward?” asked the Coroner of the doctors.
“No,” replied Dr. Moore; “the whole condition of the body and clothing make such a theory practically impossible.”
“Quite impossible,” added Dr. Stanton; “and, too, what would be the sense of such a proceeding?”
“We are establishing the facts of the proceedings, not the sense of them,” returned the Coroner, a little testily, for he was at his wits’ end even to make a beginning in this strange case.
“At least,” he went on, “we have the facts and the approximate time of the crime; have you, Miss Stuart, any suspicion of who the murderer can be?”
The question was shot out suddenly. If its intent was to startle the witness, it certainly succeeded. Pauline Stuart turned even whiter than she had been, and she caught her breath quickly and audibly as she flashed a frightened glance at Gray Haviland. It was by no means an accusing glance, though many who saw it, eager for a direction in which to cast their suspicions, took it for such.
But Pauline controlled herself immediately. “Certainly not,” she said coldly. “That is, I can have no suspicion of the murderer’s identity. It was, of course, a midnight intruder, of the criminal class. I have no individual acquaintances who use or possess the weapon that was employed in this crime.”
“The black-jack is an auxiliary only. The poison may have been administered by one not versed in the ways of professional criminals. You admit that, I suppose?”
“It is no doubt true,” said Pauline, icily, “that poison may be given by a person not belonging to the criminal classes. I fail to see, however, how that fact affects the matter in hand.”
“It may well affect it. Since Miss Carrington was killed by a deadly poison, we must conclude that the black-jack assault was made with the intention of concealing the poisoning and making it appear that the blow caused the death. There seems to me no other way to account for the conditions that confront us.”
A silence followed this. Its truth was patent to everybody. Clearly, the poisoner had delivered the blow, for no one else would attack a victim already dead. And a plausible reason would be the hope that the poisoning would pass unnoticed in view of the other apparent cause of death.
“And it points to the work of an amateur,” went on Scofield; “a professional criminal would know that the autopsy would disclose the earlier crime.”
Pauline lost her nerve. “I don’t know anything about it!” she cried, and sank back into her seat, her face buried in her hands.
Coroner Scofield was a man of tact. “It is entirely natural, Miss Stuart,” he said, “that this thought should overcome you. But we must realize the fact that the theory of a professional burglar is practically untenable, because nothing was stolen. A burglar’s motive could be only robbery, and this did not take place. Nor can we think that a burglar was frightened away, before he could appropriate the jewels. For, after giving the poison, and before the blow was given, sufficient time elapsed for a successful getaway to be made. Nor would the burglar have been at pains to cover up his poisoning work, for having achieved his end, he would have secured his booty and made escape. So, it is evident that the motive, not being robbery, is as yet unknown, and may be obscure and complicated.”
“What could it have been?” asked Pauline, her composure regained, her voice low and even.
Scofield looked at her. “It is said, Miss Stuart, that the only motives for murder are love, revenge or gain. Can you imagine any one of these directed toward your aunt?”
Pauline replied tranquilly. Evidently she had fully recovered her poise. “I can think of no one who could have killed my aunt for love; it is improbable that she has ever done any one such wrong as to call for such a deed in revenge; as to gain, if you mean pecuniary gain, all the legatees mentioned in her will may be said to have that motive.”
Pauline’s manner and tones were so impersonal, so scathingly ironic as to amount to a disclaimer for all the legatees. Her way of suggesting it made it seem so far removed from possibility that it was far more emphatic than any denial could have been.
But Coroner Scofield was as unmoved as his witness.
“Quite so,” he said coolly; “and therefore inquiries must be made. Did you, Miss Stuart, after leaving your aunt soon after midnight see or hear anything unusual or suspicious?”
“What do you mean by unusual or suspicious?”
“I mean did you see or hear anything, anything at all, that you could not explain to yourself as being in any way connected with the tragedy we are investigating?”
Before answering, Pauline looked in turn at all the members of the household. Haviland slowly turned his head as if to look at something across the room, and as slowly brought it back to its previous position.
“I did not,” said Pauline, looking straight at the Coroner.
“That is all,” said Scofield, briefly, and the next witness was called.
This was the maid, Estelle. Her eyes were red with weeping, but she was not hysterical now, or incoherent. She answered tersely questions as to Miss Carrington’s habits and as to her words and actions during the maid’s last interview with her.
“I left her at about quarter of one,” the witness deposed; “I had given her the Oriental negligée, of which she is fond. I offered to take down her hair and put away her jewels, but she declined those services, and bade me leave her.”
“She was wearing, when you left her, only the jewels she had worn during the evening?”
“Only those, sir. When I changed her evening gown for the boudoir robe, she bade me replace such jewels as I had already taken off her. She kept on her rings, bracelets and her long rope of pearls while I changed her costume.”
“And then she dismissed you for the night?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where was she then? Sitting before the mirror?”
“No, sir. She stood in the middle of the floor.”
“Was she in an amiable mood?”
“She was not. Because I offered to assist her further, she ordered me from the room in anger.”
“Ah, in anger! Was Miss Carrington often angry with you?”
“Indeed, yes; as she was with everybody.”
“Confine your answers to your own experience. You prepared a night luncheon for your mistress?”
“Yes, sir,” and now Estelle’s voice trembled and her eyes rolled apprehensively.
“What was it?”
“Two small sandwiches and a glass of milk.”
“What sort of sandwiches?”
“Caviare, sir.”
“Ah, yes. And why did you put a large dose of bromide in the glass of milk?”
“Did it kill her?” and Estelle screamed out her query. Pauline and Anita looked at one another. It was the same question Estelle had asked of them.
“An overdose of bromide may be fatal,” parried the Coroner, not answering the question directly. “Why did you do it?”
“I didn’t do it,” and the French girl shrugged her shoulders; “why should I poison my mistress? She was quick-tempered, but I was used to that.”
“Don’t be stupid,” said the Coroner; “the bromide didn’t poison Miss Carrington, for, in the first place, she didn’t take it. The glass of milk was found next morning untouched, though the sandwiches were gone. Therefore, the bromide in the milk was found. Why did you put it in?”
“I didn’t do it,” reiterated the maid. “Look higher up for that!”
“What do you mean?”
“I mention no names, but somebody must have done it, if bromide was found in that milk.”
“But you tried to get the glass away next morning, without being seen.”
“Who says I did?”
“Never mind that; you were seen. Why?”
“Well, sir, if I thought anybody was going to get into trouble because of it, I was only too glad to help, if I could, by removing it before it was noticed.” Estelle spoke slowly, as if weighing her words, and her furtive glances at Pauline bore only one significance. It was palpably apparent that she suspected Miss Stuart of the deed, and out of kindness had tried to remove the incriminating evidence.
Pauline stared at her with a glance that went through her or over her or around her, but gave not the slightest attention to the speaker.
“Did you put bromide in your aunt’s glass of milk, Miss Stuart?” asked the Coroner, and Pauline said, calmly, “Certainly not.”
Mr. Scofield sighed. It was a difficult matter to get at the truth when the witnesses were clever women, in whose veracity he had not complete confidence.
He gave up Estelle for the moment, and called Gray Haviland.