“Why, what could it mean?”
“It meant, Miss Vernon, that the light was switched off by a mortal,—flesh and blood hand. Had it been supernaturally extinguished there would have been no sound.”
“I heard it,—I’m sure I heard it. But I think the spirit of Mr. Stannard haunts the whole room, and it was he who turned the light off.”
“By means of a material switch?”
Natalie looked a little uncertain. Varying expressions passed over her face as she thought it out. Then she said, “Don’t spirits ever use material means?”
“Not to my individual knowledge,” returned Alan Ford gravely. “I fear, Miss Vernon, your belief in the spiritual influences at work in this affair is about to be rudely shattered. Now, did you hear any other sound,—a click or thud,—after the light went out?”
“No. You see, Joyce,—Mrs. Stannard jumped right up and ran across the room and turned on the light.”
“Turned it on? It had been really turned off, then?”
“Oh, yes. And she turned it on. Then she opened the door and Blake was in the hall, where he belonged. He had seen no one and had heard nothing.”
“I must have a chat with Blake. And Mrs. Faulkner, she knew nothing of it all?”
“Not till Mrs. Stannard told her. She ran at once to Mrs. Faulkner’s room——”
“Where is that room?”
“At the other end of the house, on the third floor. And there she found Mrs. Faulkner writing letters. And Mrs. Stannard told her and they came down stairs together. Well, and after Mrs. Stannard left the room, of course, I looked around, and there was the case of jewels on the table.”
“Where did they come from? How did they get there?”
“The spirit of Mr. Stannard placed them there,” said Natalie, solemnly. “You may scoff, Mr. Ford, you may suspect Blake of being mixed up in it, but you’re all wrong. The studio doors were locked——”
“While you and Mrs. Stannard were in there?”
“Yes, I locked them myself. All three. There are but three, you know. See, the one to the front hall, the outside one to the Terrace and the one to the Billiard Room. I locked them, and the windows were fastened too. Nobody mortal could have come into that room.”
“So it would seem. Now, who else has these leanings toward spirit forces beside you? Who sent for the clairvoyant lady?”
“Nobody. That is, she wrote herself to Mrs. Stannard, asking if she might come.”
“You liked her? You believed in her?”
“In Orienta? Oh, yes. She is not an ordinary person,—I mean she is refined, educated, cultured,—as correct in every way as we are ourselves. She’s not a professional medium, you know.”
“I know. And did Mr. Barry Stannard want her to come?”
“No; he strongly opposed it.”
“And Mrs. Faulkner?”
“She deferred to Mrs. Stannard’s wishes. But she had no faith in her. Of course, after Orienta read the sealed letters, Mrs. Faulkner had to believe in that, she couldn’t well help it.”
“No. Now, Miss Vernon, when you heard the groan or sigh as if the spirit of Mr. Stannard were expressing itself, where did the sound come from?”
“It seemed to come from that chair,—the chair he died in. Joyce and I sat facing it——”
“Your backs to the hall door, then?”
“Yes, but nobody could open that door, it was locked. Mrs. Stannard unlocked it when she ran out of the room.”
“You’re sure of this?”
“Positive. We’ve gone over the scene a dozen times or more.”
“That seems to let Blake out, doesn’t it? Well, that’s all for the present, Miss Vernon, and thank you for your courteous attention. Now, there’s no one to interview but the servants.”
“Mrs. Faulkner? She expects you to talk to her, I think.”
“What could she tell me? She wasn’t in this part of the house at the spiritual séance, and as to the moment of the crime, she tells no more than Blake. However, I’ll see her for a brief interview. It’s always well to get all the accounts possible.”
Natalie left the studio, and in a few moments Beatrice Faulkner came in.
“Just a question or two, Mrs. Faulkner,” said Ford, “I know you people are all nearly distraught with these strange and sudden developments. But, tell me, what do you think of Miss Vernon’s story of the spirit manifestations in this room?”
“I think it was all the girl’s imagination, Mr. Ford. She is not only of an exaggerated artistic temperament, but excessively nervous and susceptible to hallucinations.”
“She is all that, I think. Now, please tell me, very honestly and very carefully, exactly how Mrs. Stannard looked and acted when she ran up to your room to tell you of the strange occurrence in the studio.”
“She was terribly excited, Mr. Ford, and she could scarcely speak. She stumbled up the stairs——”
“Why, did you see her?”
“No, I heard her. I was at my writing desk, and the house was still. Then she flew into my room, without knocking——”
“Is it her custom to knock?”
“Oh, yes, she always does. And she begged me to go down stairs with her, and I did. The rest you know?”
“Yes, and a strange tale it is. How do you suppose the jewels came to be on that table?”
“I cannot say,” Beatrice looked sad. “There seems to be only one explanation. That whoever had them or knew where they were, placed them there.”
“And how did the bearer of the box get into the locked room?”
“I can’t imagine. The only thing I can think of is that Natalie didn’t lock the door as thoroughly as she thinks she did.”
“Mrs. Faulkner, tell me this. I assure you I will not use your information unless absolutely necessary. Do you suspect the footman Blake of any connivance—or of any wrong doing in the whole matter?”
Beatrice Faulkner hesitated. Then she said, “No, Mr. Ford, I do not. I think Blake a thoroughly honest and trustworthy servant.”
“And who is the criminal?”
“That I cannot say. I am, as you know, merely a visitor, who chanced to be here at this unfortunate time. I have hesitated to express my opinions lest I do harm to the innocent or retard the quest of the guilty. I can only answer your questions in so far as they are not leading up to suspicion of any of my friends.”
“That is the right attitude, Mrs. Faulkner. I thought there was no necessity for troubling you at all, but one or two minor points I prefer to ask of you rather than Mrs. Stannard. Do you know the identity of ‘Goldenheart’?”
“I imagine her to be one of Mr. Stannard’s early inamoratas. He had many, and, moreover, I should not be surprised to learn that he called more than one by that name. You know there was a small gift found in his desk addressed to some one of that name, which had never been sent. It has occurred to me that the Goldenheart of that matter, and the one to whom he wrote more recently, were not the same person.”
“That may well be. You have a logical mind, Mrs. Faulkner. I say this to you, because I want your help. If I should tell you that I do not suspect Mrs. Stannard or Miss Vernon or Barry Stannard, would you then be willing to assist me in my investigation?”
Beatrice Faulkner looked at the detective an instant, and then said, in a low tone, “Mr. Courtenay?”
“Hush! Don’t mention names. Let us close this conversation right here, and I will tell you at some other time what I want you to do for me.”
Beatrice went away, and locking the door after her exit, Alan Ford remained alone in the studio for an hour or more.
Then he went for a walk which lasted another hour, and when he joined the family at luncheon, he was merely a courteous, friendly guest, with no suggestion of a detective.
In the afternoon, he requested permission to go over all of Eric Stannard’s papers and correspondence and spent his time until dusk at this work.
At tea time, he rejoined the others, and during the tea hour he talked of the visit of Orienta and her wonderful performance. Over and over it was discussed, and at each fresh detail or opinion Alan Ford grew more and more interested.
“Tell me of her costume,” he said, at last, when it seemed he had heard about every other bit of possible interest.
“It was beautiful!” exclaimed Natalie. “A long, full robe of a sort of sage green——”
“What material?” asked Ford, and Barry looked at him in surprise. What kind of a great detective was this who inquired concerning the texture of a costume?
“Why, it was silk, I think,—yes, heavy silk, wasn’t it, Joyce?”
“That, or a silk poplin. It was not a modern, modish gown at all; it was like a draped shawl.”
“Drapery hanging from the shoulders?”
“Yes,” Natalie answered, her mind so intent on giving Ford the right idea, that she didn’t think of the queerness of the question.
“Double skirt?”
“Yes—or, that is, a skirt, and then an over drapery in full long folds. Oh, it was lovely!”
“Are you apt with your pencil, Miss Vernon? Could you draw a rough sketch of that gown?”
“I can’t but Mrs. Faulkner can. She’s good at sketching draperies. Here’s a paper pad, Beatrice. Will you draw it for Mr. Ford?”
“Certainly,” and taking the paper, Beatrice rapidly sketched an indication of Orienta, in her flowing robe.
“That’s just right,” said Natalie, “but the folds were fuller, I think.”
“Never mind,” said Ford, “this will do. I only wanted to get a mental picture of how she looked,” and tearing the picture into strips he tossed them into a waste basket.
The talk drifted to the house and its architecture.
“The whole house is a gem,” said Alan Ford, enthusiastically, “but the staircase is a marvel. Nowhere in this country have I seen its equal. Your husband studied abroad, Mrs. Faulkner?”
“For years. He took great pride in building this house, as he intended it to be a masterpiece.”
“Which it certainly is. Have you the plans of it? I should like to see them. Architecture is one of my hobbies.”
“No, I haven’t the plans, Mr. Ford.”
“Oh, of course, they went to Mr. Stannard with the title deeds. Have you them, Mrs. Stannard?”
“No, we never had them. I never thought about them.”
“Doubtless they are among Mr. Stannard’s belongings. They must have been given to him. It doesn’t matter. I oughtn’t to take time to look at them, anyway. But one thing I do want to see, and that is the picture of Mrs. Faulkner that Mr. Stannard was engaged on at the time of his death. I’m told it is an example of his best work. May I have a glimpse of it?”
Beatrice Faulkner looked a little flattered at this request, but she said only, “Certainly, Mr. Ford. It is in the studio.”
They all went in to see it, and Barry arranged the portrait on an easel and adjusted a light for it.
“It is indeed splendid,” said Ford, in genuine admiration. The portrait was excellent and lifelike, but more than that it was a work of art. Beatrice, in a gown of deep ruby velvet, with the great staircase for a background, was at her very best. Her face, always handsome, was imbued with a fine spiritual grace, and she looked the embodiment of happiness. The whole conception was, perhaps, a little idealised, but it was a magnificent portrait, and a stunning picture.
“I’m so glad you have it, Beatrice,” said Joyce, softly. “You’ve been so good and dear, and have done so much for us all ever since Eric’s death, I’m happy for you to have this remembrance of him.”
“I’m glad, too,” and Beatrice looked at the reflection of herself through misty eyes.
Bobsy Roberts came in while they were looking at the portrait, and he, too, was charmed with its beauty.
“That staircase makes a wonderful setting. I’m a fancier of staircases, and I think this one beats any I ever saw.”
“A fancier of staircases, what do you mean?” asked Natalie.
“Yes, I’ve studied architecture, more or less, but the stairs have always especially interested me. I’ve just run across an old book, called ‘Staircases and Steps,’ and it’s most interesting.”
“I agree with you,” said Alan Ford. “And the staircase here is a gem. That’s why I wanted to see the plans of the house.”
“Mayn’t we see them?” asked Bobsy, turning to Joyce.
“Why, I haven’t them, Mr. Roberts. Perhaps they’re among my husband’s belongings, but I’ve never seen them.”
“You see,” observed Ford, stepping out into the hall, “it’s the wonderful proportion of one part to another that makes the beauty of it. The stair-well, clear to the roof, the arcaded hall, the noble high-ceiled studio and this little low-ceiled Reception Room, fitted in just here, make up a splendid whole. Did not your late husband feel this?” Ford added, turning to Beatrice.
“Yes,” she replied, briefly, and then Bobsy tore himself away from the fascinating subject of architecture to ask Alan Ford if he had made any progress in his investigations.
“I have,” replied Ford. “I have found out a lot of things that seem to me indicative. But it all hinges on whether there are spiritual influences at work or not. It seems to me, if the spirit of Mr. Stannard could return to earth and manifest itself in any way, it would prove——”
“Prove what?” asked Mrs. Faulkner, as the detective paused.
“Well, I may be foolish, but it would seem to me to prove that he wanted us to stop these investigations and let the matter remain a mystery.”
“You really think that!” exclaimed Bobsy, as his estimation of Alan Ford’s genius for detective work received a sudden setback.
“I think I agree with Mr. Ford,” said Beatrice, thoughtfully. “If Eric wanted us to continue our inquiries he would rest quiet in his grave.”
“Oh, Mr. Ford,” and Natalie gave a little gasp, “do you really think, then, it was Mr. Stannard’s spirit that I heard in the studio? Do you think I am enough of a sensitive to bring about a real manifestation?”
“Those things are hard to tell, Miss Vernon. But I am going to ask the privilege of spending to-night alone in the studio. Then if any demonstration occurs, I shall, as I told you, think there is reason to believe——”
Ford’s pause was eloquent of deep feeling. Truly the man was in earnest, whether he was right or not.
“May I not stay there with you?” asked Roberts, a little diffidently.
“No, please. I want to be alone. I shall lock myself in, and I must ask not to be disturbed in any way.”
“I wish I could stay with you,” and Natalie sighed. “But I suppose you wouldn’t want me to.”
“No, please,” said Ford, gently. “I must be alone.”
At Ford’s request, the evening was spent without reference to the matter that was uppermost in every mind. At dinner the detective was merely a pleasant and entertaining guest. Afterward, in the Drawing Room he proved himself a good talker and a good listener, and the conversation, on all sorts of topics, was casual and interesting.
It was nearly midnight when Ford bade them good night, and went to the studio to hold his vigil. The others followed him in, Joyce asking if he would like any refreshment served during the night.
“No,” he replied. “It will not be so very long until daylight. And, too, perhaps nothing will happen, and I may fall asleep. Don’t worry about me, Mrs. Stannard, I shall not be at all uncomfortable. See, I shall sit just where Miss Vernon sat the other night. Right here, facing the chair in which Mr. Stannard died. Thus, I have my back to the hall door, and the North window, but I shall make sure that all are securely locked, and then if any manifestation occurs, I shall have every reason to be sure it is of supernatural origin.”
“And that would make you give up the case?” asked Beatrice, incredulously.
“I think so,” returned Ford. “I should probably leave here to-morrow.”
“Well, of all queer detectives!” said Barry Stannard, as they went from the room and heard the click of the key as it was turned in the door behind them.
True to his word, Alan Ford examined with minutest care every door and window. He made sure no lock or catch was left unfastened, and then, the lights burning brightly, he took his seat just where he had said he would, facing the chair in which Eric Stannard had met his fate. Also, he faced the two doors that led respectively to the Billiard Room and the Terrace. This left more than half the room behind him and out of his line of vision. But the detective paid no attention to that part of the studio, and rested his contemplative gaze on the great armchair which had helped to stage the tragedy.
The hours went by. Alan Ford scarcely moved from the easy, relaxed position he had taken at first. He closed his eyes for the most of the time, now and then slowly opening them for a moment.
His left hand, lying on his knee, clasped some small object.
It was shortly after three o’clock in the morning, when there was the sound of a click and the lights went out.
The studio was in absolute darkness.
Ford rose quickly and crossed the room to the light switch by the hall door. He knew the position of the furniture, and felt his way by the chairs. As he did so, he heard a long, gasping sigh, and a faint cry of “Help!”
By this time he had reached the switch and turned it on. The sudden flash of light showed no one in the room save himself, but not pausing to look about, he unlocked the hall door, passed quickly through and ran up the first steps of the stairs.
On he went to the second great square landing, and there he paused. He did not stand still, but stepped about on the landing, making exclamations to himself, and breathing heavily. He leaned against the baluster, tapping on the newel post with his fingers. Then, he sat down on the lowest step of the third or upper division of the flight. He sat, tapping his foot against the stair, he even whistled a little under his breath. He seemed anxious not to be silent.
There was a low light in all the halls, and occasionally Ford leaned his head over the baluster and commanded a view of the hall below.
Half an hour passed, and then Joyce Stannard appeared from the hall above. She wore a boudoir gown and slippers, and her weary eyes betokened a sleepless night.
She started with surprise at sight of Alan Ford on the stairs. But he made a motion requesting her to be silent, and taking a bit of paper from his pocket he wrote:
“Say no word. Go back to the hall above and remain there, but out of sight of this spot, until I summon you. Overhear all you can, but on no account let yourself be seen.”
Joyce read the strange message, and going back up the few steps she had descended, she sat on a hall window seat, concealed by a light curtain.
Then Alan Ford, with a short, sad sigh, stood up and approached the panelled wall of the staircase. Down the flights the panels of course slanted, but on the landing they were in level row.
Placing his lips to the wall itself, Ford said in a clear low whisper, “Will you come out?”
From behind the wall he heard an agonised moan.
“It would be better,” he said, gently. “Do come.”
Another moment passed, and then, a panel of the wainscot slid open and Beatrice Faulkner stepped forth onto the landing.
“You know all?” she said, and her great despairing eyes looked into those of the detective.
“Almost all,” he returned, and his glance at her was infinitely sad. “You killed Stannard?”
“Yes,” she said, and swayed as if she would fall to the floor.
Ford assisted her to stand and then gently aided her to a seat on the stair where he had sat a moment since.
Beatrice sank to the step and Ford closed the panel she had left open. He did not look into the place to which the panel gave entrance, for he knew what it was. It was the space above the Reception Room. He had seen when he entered the house that since the Reception Room and the studio were next each other and yet there was five or six feet difference in the height of their respective ceilings, that space must be a sort of loft or waste room. It showed from none of the sides. Both hall and studio were high ceiled. The staircase well reached to the roof. There was no explanation of the discrepancy but a waste space the size of the Reception Room and about six feet in height.
This space, of course, abutted on the studio, the hall, the stairs, and, on the other side, the outer or Terrace wall.
In the studio the balcony ran along the wall at about the height of the stair landing on the other side. Ford guessed at once that ingress to that waste space must be had from the studio or the stair landing or both. He now was sure that panels from both opened into it.
As he closed the panel, he noted that there was no secret or concealed fastening. Merely an ordinary flush spring catch, inconspicuous but not hidden.
Ford turned to the woman on the stairs. He sat down beside her. “Tell me about it,” he said, and his voice was so gentle, his face so sad, that Beatrice turned to him as to a friend.
“There is little to tell,” she said, wearily. “It is the story of a great love, a love too big and strong to be conquered by a weak-willed woman. I tried—oh, I tried——”
“Don’t give way, Mrs. Faulkner, just tell me the main facts. You knew Mr. Stannard years ago?”
“I was his first love. We were schoolmates. I always loved him—more than loved him. I worshipped, adored him. He loved me,—but he was always fickle. He loved every woman he saw. Then,—he married—his first wife, I mean, and I thought I should die. But never mind the past. I married, and I tried to forget Eric. My husband built this beautiful home, but he had financial troubles and couldn’t keep it. Eric Stannard bought it, and meanwhile his wife had died, and he married my friend Joyce. I tried to be reconciled, but the demon of jealousy tore my very heart out. I gave over this house to them and went away. A portrait of myself was to be part of the purchase price, and—even though I knew it would be acute torment to see Eric happy here with Joyce, I came to stay a month and have the picture painted. As I feared, the necessarily intimate association between the artist and myself quickened my never-dying love for him, until I was almost frantic. I could have stood it, though, had it been only his wife. But when he fell desperately in love with the model, I resented it for Joyce and myself both. But I had no thought of killing him,—don’t think that!”
“It was done on a sudden impulse, then.” Ford was watching her closely. He knew that her enforced calm might give way at any instant and he strove to speak quietly and lead her gently on to a confession. Moreover, he trusted that Joyce was listening, as he had asked her to do. Thus the confession would be witnessed.
“It was this way,” and Beatrice looked piteously into his kind eyes. “Mr. Wadsworth asked me that night to marry him. We were in the Drawing Room, as you know. I wouldn’t say yes, for I still had a faint hope of winning Eric. It was absurd for me to think it, but I was desperate. After Mr. Wadsworth left me, I sat a moment in the Drawing Room, and then I resolved to go to Eric, by the secret passage, of which only he and I knew, and beg him to put Joyce away and take me. I say this without shame, for I was—and am, still, so madly in love with him, that I had no shame regarding it, and would have suffered any ignominy or humiliation to win him. I went through that small space; it is not really secret, but no one has ever noticed it, and I went through to the studio, and stepping in the room, on the little balcony, I saw Eric below me, gazing at the etching of Natalie with an adoring look. He bent down and kissed the picture, and then I descended the stairs and spoke to him. I told him that Natalie loved Barry and hated him. I urged him to divorce Joyce and let her marry Eugene Courtenay and I begged him to marry me. He laughed at me! I shall never forget that laugh! But that wasn’t why I killed him. It was because he turned again to that picture of Natalie and into his face came a look that I had never seen there. A look of love such as I had never been able to call forth on his face, a worshipping passion that transcended all love I had ever dreamed of. And that he felt for a little girl who hated him. Jealousy maddened me, and snatching up an etching tool I marred the wax beyond recognition. He turned on me, his face livid with rage. The contrast,—the look of love he had for the girl, the look of venomous hate he gave me, bereft me of my senses. No, I do not mean I did not know what I was doing,—I did know. I fully meant at that moment to kill him, and then to kill myself, that we might at least die together. I should not have thought of killing him if I hadn’t chanced to have that tool in my hand. Nor should I have wanted to kill him but for his scorn of me and his love for her. The two together drove me wild, and I stabbed him in a moment of fierce passion that was love, not hate. Then, as I was about to draw forth the needle and stab myself, I saw that he was not dead. He looked at me, and I couldn’t say it was with hatred. I think—I honestly think—that he gloried in my deed,—you cannot understand,—it is a strange idea, but I think he realised at last the depth of my love and appreciated it. Anyway, I read that in his face, and I couldn’t bring myself to leave a world that still held him. I didn’t dare remove the needle, lest it bring about his death,—I didn’t dare remain and be found there with him. My mind fairly flew. I thought so fast and so clearly, I concluded to escape by the panel and return quickly through the hall and thus coming upon him, apparently innocently, save his life.”
“You crossed the room,” Ford prompted, for the speaker’s strength was failing.
“Yes, I crossed the room, as deliberately as if nothing had happened. I turned off the light, that I might make good my escape. I flew through the panelled space, and in a few seconds I was out at this end, here on this landing and down the stairs. I saw at once that Blake had heard something, but whether it was a sound from Eric, or the noise of my departure I did not then know. I spoke to the man,—and the rest you know.”
“You were surprised when the light was turned on to see the two women there?”
“I was dumfounded. I couldn’t think at first what it would mean to me—or to them. I had no thought of allowing them to be suspected of the crime, but circumstances were too strong for me. They were found there, near the dying man,—I had, to all appearances come in from the other end of the room,—naturally they were suspected. And then reaction had come; no longer was I keyed up by that torment of jealousy, that spur of scorned love. I had time to think,—even when all were wondering and questioning, I had time to think. And I concluded I would never confess unless I was obliged to do so, to save some one else. I decided to devote every energy and use every effort to divert suspicion from all in the household. It was I who really arranged for——”
“For the clairvoyant,” said Ford, as Beatrice paused from sheer weakness of breath.
“Yes, you understand that?”
“You hired her, instructed her to write to Mrs. Stannard, and you told her what to say.”
“Yes, I wanted her to make it appear that the murderer was a man who had entered through the Billiard Room. I meant for the man’s identity to be absolutely unknown. But they managed to fasten it on Mr. Courtenay and my plan failed utterly.”
“And then?”
“Then I had about decided to tell the truth. When they arrested Barry, I quite decided. And then you came. I knew that was my death knell. But when you said if the spirit manifestation appeared in the studio to-night—that was a trap, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, Mrs. Faulkner, it was a trap. I knew whoever had been playing ‘spirit’ by the use of the panelled space, would do it again to-night at my words, and I felt sure it would be you. I am sorry——”
“I believe you are, Mr. Ford. I know from your whole attitude you are sorry for me. Otherwise, I could not have told you all this as I have done. You are more like a father confessor than a detective. It helps a little to know you are sorry for me——”
“How did Orienta read the papers? The pocket-light method?”
“Yes. She is very clever; I’ve known her for years. She is not a medium at all. I persuaded her that to do as I asked would save innocent people from being suspected. Of course, she didn’t know I was guilty.”
“And you were ‘Goldenheart’?”
“Yes. It was Eric’s old pet name for me. He wrote that letter to me, giving me the emeralds if I would cease asking for his love. He said I knew where the jewels were, because he always kept them in the panelled space,—that’s what we called it,—and Joyce did overhear him saying to me in the studio practically what he had written in the letter. Had she not been so wrapped up in her own heart trouble, she would have heard it clearly. Of course, too, that little golden heart that was bought and never presented was meant for me.”
“You told Orienta to say that Mr. Stannard said ‘Neither NatalienorJoyce.’?”
“Yes, for I really think that was what he did mean to say. He wouldn’t implicate me, even with his dying breath, but he tried to clear them. He was a wonderful man, Mr. Ford. Not a good man, perhaps, but a brave one. He would have defended any or all of us, but he had no chance. My love for him has been the mainspring of my whole life. Instead of forgetting him, I grew more madly in love with him year by year. I had no business to come here, and let him paint me. Those hours when I posed for him were the happiest I have ever known. That’s why the portrait is of a happy woman. I hoped against hope that I could yet win him back. But I couldn’t—I can only follow him.”
The quietness of Beatrice’s voice had lulled any suspicions Ford might have had of her intent, and when she drew from the folds of her bodice an etching needle, exactly like the one that had killed Eric, and drove it into her own breast, Ford wheeled suddenly and grasped her hand,—but too late. The deed was done.
At his exclamation, Joyce ran down from the hall above, where she had been listening to Beatrice’s story. She sank down beside the wounded woman and took the drooping figure in her arms.
“Forgive——” moaned Beatrice. “Joyce,—forgive,—I—I loved him so.”
“Yes,—yes,” soothed Joyce, scarce knowing what she said. “What can we do, Mr. Ford? Oh, what can we do?”
“Nothing, I fear. Call help. Shall I ring?” Ford hastened to the nearest bell he could notice and rang it. Immediately people began to gather, servants, family,—and all sorts of contradictory orders were given. But with his finger on the pulse of the dying woman the detective tried to learn yet more facts. “The will,” he asked, bending above her. “Who changed it?”
“Eric himself,” Beatrice answered, “that’s why—oh, Eric!” Her faced beamed with a strange radiance, and then sinking back in Joyce’s arms, Beatrice Faulkner breathed her last.
The next day Alan Ford declared he must hasten away as his engagements were pressing.
“But tell us more of your work,” implored Bobsy Roberts, “give us a few moments more.”
“And tell us about that clairvoyant woman,” said Barry. “If she was a fake, how did she read those papers in the dark?”
“I realised, before I came up here at all,” said Ford, “that there had to be some secret means of entrance to the studio. I see now, it was never meant to be secret. The architect made the Reception Room ceiling lower than the studio ceiling, because it was a smaller room and he observed due proportions. This left a space there, but it was not concealed or hidden. The catches on both doors are merely small ones and inconspicuous but not concealed. Mr. Faulkner left all the house plans in that loft and Eric Stannard knew of it. He chose to conceal his jewels there as being a convenient place. Only he and Mrs. Faulkner knew of the space, but that was merely a chance happening. He, in no sense, kept it a secret. When I read the accounts in New York papers I felt the case must hinge on another entrance of some sort. When I reached here I saw at once that there was a discrepancy in the heights of those two ceilings, and I worked from that. I was sure the spirit manifestations were made possible by human means working through that concealed space, and I found I was right. I assumed it was probably Mrs. Faulkner who played the spirit as she refused to show the plans of the house, and my theories, based on those plans, left her free to do all she did do, without being discovered. I found she could have placed the jewels on the table that night and returned to her room through the little loft, and be seated at her desk, writing, when Mrs. Stannard reached her room. She said she heard Mrs. Stannard coming up stairs, but as the door was shut and the stairs thickly carpeted, this was unlikely. So I assume she was expecting her. All facts pointed to the guilt of Mrs. Faulkner, but they were by no means obvious. So, when I said if spirits came to the studio last night I should drop the case to-day, I meant because it would be solved. But Mrs. Faulkner thought I would give it up as unsolvable, so she played ‘spirit’ again. I had in my hand a tiny mirror of the sort that shows what is passing at one’s back. I heard, as I sat there, the soft opening of the panel in the studio balcony, and I knew she was coming down the little stair. I heard her click off the light, and just as she did so, I caught a glimpse of her in my mirror. So I went out at the hall door, snapping on the light as I passed, and went up on the grand staircase, knowing I would head her off, and have her practically penned in there. Mrs. Stannard found me waiting there, and I arranged for her to witness the confession that I knew must come. I did not foresee that Mrs. Faulkner would take her own life, but perhaps it is as well. There was no happiness or peace for her in this world, it was better she should expiate her own sin. Poor soul, she was a victim of a love that proved too great for her human nature to strive against. As to the will, I felt sure Mr. Stannard had made that change himself. It looked like his writing, and I felt sure neither Miss Vernon nor Mr. Barry Stannard would have done it.”
“And you picked out the truth from the maze of probabilities and suspicion and false evidence——” Bobsy looked at the great detective in an awed way.
“I gained most of my information and formed most of my conclusions from my talks with each one separately. I am a fairly good judge of character, and I saw at once neither Mrs. Stannard nor Miss Vernon was guilty. They were both uncertain and indefinite in their testimony. They scarcely knew even the sequence of events at the time of the tragedy; if they had been telling untruths, they would have been positive in their statements. Also, I saw at once Barry Stannard and Miss Vernon more than half feared each other guilty and each was ready for any sacrifice or effort to save the other. This let them both out, for neither could be guilty and suspect some one else! Mr. Courtenay had practically no real evidence against him, so it came back to Mrs. Faulkner. I talked to her enough to strengthen my suspicion in that direction and then tested her by the night in the studio. She proved herself the source of the ‘spiritual’ manifestations, and showed how she did it. That left only the matter of getting her confession. I feel deep pity for the poor woman; she led a sad, miserable existence because of a mistaken love. Also, I must admit that she was of a different stamp from the people here. Mrs. Faulkner was capable of strong passion that did not stop at crime. I judge the rest of you would not be, and I do not think I am mistaken in that.”
Alan Ford looked around at the pure sweet face of Natalie, the noble countenance of Joyce, and the brave boyish frankness that shone in Barry’s glance and sighed as he thought of the smouldering fires in the deep eyes of the woman who was conquered by her own evil passion.
“But tell us about the sealed reading,” insisted Bobsy, as Ford rose to go.
“Oh, yes,” cried Natalie, “how was that done?”
“One of the tricks of the trade,” said Ford. “You know there are dozens of ways to read sealed writings.”
“Yes, but what way did she use?”
“This way. You know, I insisted on a full description of her dress. When I found it was of full pattern and made of an opaque material, I understood. You see, if a message is written with ink, and if the paper is slipped, unfolded, into a moderately thin envelope, the writing can be read with ease in the dark by holding an electric pocket flashlight behind the envelope. Orienta, the room being darkened, drew the loose folds of her gown over her head, and thus shielded, took a little flashlight from her pocket, read them all, by its aid, then returning the light to her pocket, remembered the questions and spoke them out, both with and without a light. The second time, I believe, she read the first ones in the dark and the others in the light. There were no signatures, but she had learned each one’s hand-writing from the first lot. The thing is simple, and is the most mystifying of all sealed paper readings.”
“Will it always work?” asked Roberts, greatly interested.
“In total darkness, yes. Go into a dark closet and try it. Of course, Orienta’s drapery served to aid her and also to conceal the light from her audience.”
“And all the answers she made up,—or Beatrice had told her,” said Natalie, thoughtfully.
“Yes,” said Ford. “And now I must go. I shall hope to meet you all again some day, and if I can tell you anything more you care to learn about these make-believe wizards, I shall be glad to do so.”
He went away, and Barry and Natalie went off by themselves, to rejoice in the fact that all veils of suspicion were lifted from them and that they had long years ahead to help one another to forget the past and make a radiant, happy future.
Joyce had a quiet knowledge that some time in the coming years she, too, would again know happiness, and all united in a sad pity for the beautiful but misguided woman whose hand wrought the tragedy of Faulkner’s Folly.
THE END