The house faced the east, and, built on an English model, was far wider than deep. A broad hall ran through the centre from front to back, and on either side there were successive rooms whose windows looked out on equally beautiful scenes, both front and back. On the right of the hall, as one entered, was the long living room, and beyond it, the library and music room. The other side of the hall was a reception room, opening into the sun parlor, and on to the conservatory, and back of these, the dining room and smaller breakfast room.
Breakfast was served at nine, and the members of the family were usually all present. Miss Carrington, herself, made a point of being on time partly from habit, and also because it gave her opportunity to chide those who were late.
When she was not in her place, on the morning after the stormy bridge game, Pauline expressed surprise, and Haviland echoed her words.
But Anita said scornfully, “She went to bed in an awful tantrum and probably didn’t sleep well.”
Miss Frayne was looking her prettiest, and her roseleaf face with its fluffy golden halo, was like a Greuze picture. She wore a frivolous little house gown of blue crêpe de chine that just matched her forget-me-not eyes. Not especially appropriate garb for a secretary, but Miss Carrington preferred her household to be well-dressed, and really commanded pretty tints and fabrics for the two girls. Pauline was in white serge, of rather severe cut, but which suited her as no frills and flounces could. Her black hair was smoothly parted and coiled low over her ears, and her clear ivory-tinted skin was flushed faintly pink from the glow of the big, crackling wood fire.
“It’s most unusual,” went on Pauline, after a few moments more had passed, and the Lady Lucy had not appeared. “I’m going up to see if she is ill,—or——”
“Or merely in a tantrum extraordinary!” said Anita, her blue eyes full of laughing disrespect for her employer.
“’Nita,” said Haviland, as Pauline disappeared, “hold your breakfast napkin up in front of your face, quick!”
“Why?” said the girl, wonderingly, as she did his bidding.
“Because, if you hadn’t, I should have flown at you and kissed you! And I mustn’t now, for Haskins is approaching with muffins.”
Down came the shielding napkin and only the arrival of the muffin-laden Haskins saved the lovely laughing face from Haviland’s impetuous caress.
The old butler fussed about, and several minutes passed, when Pauline called from above stairs, “Gray! Come here, at once!”
“Desperate case!” and Haviland rose, and unhurriedly left the room, pinching Anita’s little ear as he passed her.
Another moment and Miss Frayne heard an exclamation from Haviland that made her rise from the table and go flying upstairs herself.
The door of Miss Lucy’s boudoir was open, and entering, she saw Pauline and Haviland with horror-stricken faces, gazing at a terrible sight.
Miss Lucy Carrington, seated before her dressing-table, her face white and ghastly, her large eyes staring wide—staring horribly,—but, without doubt, unseeing. Nor was this all of the strangeness of the sight. She was robed in an embroidered Oriental-looking gown, and wore many jewels. Her red-dyed hair, dressed elaborately, as she had worn it the night before, was still crowned with the enormous comb of carved tortoise-shell, but the comb was broken to bits. One portion, still standing upright, rose above the disordered coiffure, but the rest, in broken scraps, lay scattered over the puffs of hair,—over the white hands clasped in her lap,—and on the floor at her feet.
“What does it mean?” whispered Anita, shuddering, “is she—is she dead?”
“Yes,” answered Haviland, briefly. He stood, hands in pockets, gazing at the startling figure.
“Who?—What?——” Anita’s eyes riveted themselves on something else.
Around the neck of Miss Lucy was,—yes, itwas—a snake!
With a low scream, Anita flung herself into Haviland’s arms, but he put her gently away from him.
Aghast at this repulse, Anita put her hand across her eyes and turned to leave the room.
“Mind where you go, ’Nita!” called out Haviland, and the girl stopped just in time to save herself from stepping into a mass ofdébris.
“Why!” she cried, “why, it’s Miss Lucy’s tray!”
It was. The silver tray that had held the breakfast tea was on the floor, and near it a jumbled heap of silver and broken china that had once been a costly Sevres set. Dainty white serviettes were stained with the spilled tea and a huge wet spot was near the overturned silver teapot.
Hastily Anita ran from the room, but she sank down on a couch in the hall just outside the door, utterly unable to go further.
Fascinated by the beady eyes of the green snake, Pauline stared at it, with clenched hands. Haviland stepped nearer and lightly touched it.
“Is it—is it alive?” gasped Pauline.
“It’s paper,” replied Haviland quietly. “A paper snake, a toy,—you know.”
“But who put it there? Aunt Lucy is deathly afraid of snakes! Did fright kill her? Gray, is she—murdered?”
“Yes, Pauline, she has been killed. But could it be—fright? Impossible!”
“Not for her! You don’t know her horror of snakes. Why, going through the Japanese department of a shop, I’ve seen her turn white and fairly fly from the counter where those paper things were displayed.”
“But what else killed her? There is no wound, no shot, no blood.”
“Get the doctor, Gray! Don’t wait a minute. Telephone at once.”
“He can do nothing, Pauline. She is dead.” Haviland spoke like a man in a daze.
“But no matter, we must call him. Shall I?”
“No, I will.”
“Go into her bedroom,—use that telephone by her bedside.”
Obediently, Haviland went on to the adjoining room, the soft rugs giving forth no sound of his footfalls.
The door was ajar, and as he opened it, he called, “Come here, Pauline; look, the night lights are burning, and the bed untouched. She hasn’t been to bed at all.”
“Of course she hasn’t. She has her hair as it was last evening. But her comb is broken.”
“Broken! It’s smashed! It’s in tiny bits! She has been hit on the head,—don’t touch her, Pauline! You mustn’t! I’ll call Dr. Stanton. You go out of the room. Go and find Anita.”
But Pauline staid. Turning her back to the still figure in the chair, she gazed curiously at the upset tray on the floor. She stooped, when Haviland’s voice came sharply from the next room. “Don’t touch a thing, Pauline!” he cried, as he held his hand over the transmitter.
She looked up, and then as she saw him turn back to speak into the instrument, she stooped swiftly and picking up something from the floor she hurried from the room.
She found Anita on the couch in the hall, and speaking somewhat sharply, Pauline said, “Where’s Estelle?”
“Mercy! I don’t know!” and Anita’s blue eyes stared coldly. “How should I know anything about Estelle?”
“But she must have brought that tray an hour ago. Did she upset it, or who?”
“Pauline, why do you act as if I knew anything about this matter. Is it becauseyoudo?”
The blue eyes, cold like steel, and the dark ones, flashing fire from their shadows, looked steadily at each other.
Gray Haviland came hurriedly out to the hall.
“The doctor will be here at once,” he said; “and he will call the coroner.”
“Coroner!” screamed Anita; and ran away to her own room.
“Let her alone,” said Pauline, contemptuously; “but Gray, we must nerve ourselves up to this thing. Don’t you think we ought to—to put away the jewels? It’s wrong to let any one come into a room where a fortune in jewels is displayed like that.”
“But Doctor Stanton said to touch nothing,—nothing at all. You see, Pauline, in a murder case,——”
“Oh, I know; ‘nothing disturbed till the Coroner comes,’ and all that. But this is different, Gray. Doctor Stanton didn’t know there are two hundred thousand dollars’ worth of jewelry on that—that—on her.”
“How do you know so exactly?”
“I’m not exact, but she has told me times enough that the rope of pearls cost one hundred thousand, and that corsage ornament she is wearing and her rings and ear-rings are easily worth the same sum. I tell you there will be policemen here, and it isn’t right to throw temptation in their way.”
“Besides,” and Anita’s voice spoke again as she reappeared in the doorway, “besides, Pauline, they are all yours now, and you should be careful of them!”
The tone more than the words conveyed a veiled insolence, and Pauline accepted it for such. With a sudden determined movement, she went swiftly to her aunt’s side, and unfastened the long rope of pearls, the wonderful glittering sunburst, and a large diamond and emerald crescent that held together the glistening silk folds. The rings and ear-rings she could not bring herself to touch.
“It is onlyright,” she contended, as if trying to persuade herself, “these are too valuable to risk; no one could fail to be tempted by them.”
“Why don’t you finish your task?” said Anita, smiling unpleasantly, “why leave so much?”
“No one would attempt to take the rings or ear-rings,” said Pauline, steadily, “and that scarab bracelet is not of great value.”
“I thought that was a most valuable antique that her nephew sent her.”
“She thought so, too,” said Pauline, carelessly, “but Carr told me it was an imitation. Not one expert in a hundred can tell the difference, anyway.”
As Pauline placed the mass of gems in the safe, the doctor came. “What does it mean?” cried the bewildered man, coming into the room. “Miss Carrington——”
Words failed him as he saw the astounding sight. For surely, no one had ever before seen a murdered woman, sitting before her dressing-table, staring but smiling, and garbed as for a fancy-dress ball!
Doctor Stanton touched the icy-cold hand, felt for the silent heart, and then turned his attention to the disheveled hair and broken comb.
“Fractured skull,” he said, as his skilled fingers thridded the auburn tresses. “Killed by a sudden, swift blow on the head with a heavy, blunt,—no, with a soft weapon; a black-jack or sandbag.”
“A burglar!” exclaimed Pauline.
“Of course; who else would deal such a blow? It was powerful,—dealt by a strong arm—it has driven bits of this broken shell stuff into the brain. But it was the force of the concussion that killed her. Here is a deep dent,—and yet.—Tell me the circumstances. Why is she rigged out like this?”
“I’ve no idea,” answered Pauline, taking the initiative. “When I left her last night, she had on an evening gown. But this negligée is not unusual; it is one of her favorites. Though why she has on that spangled scarf, I can’t imagine.”
“She seems to have been posing before the mirror, rather than engaged in making a toilette.” Dr. Stanton was a pompous middle-aged man of fussy manner. He did not again touch the body, but he stepped about, noting the strange conditions and commenting on them. “This paper snake,—tight round her neck! What does that mean?”
“Whatcanit mean?” returned Pauline. “She had an intense hatred,—evenfearof snakes; I’ve never seen it before. Could it have been placed there to frighten her to death?”
“No; she didn’t die of fright. See, her expression is placid,—even smiling. But the shattered comb and dented skull have but one explanation,—a stunning blow. Did she have on the comb last evening?”
“Yes; it is a favorite one with her. An heirloom, from a Colonial ancestor. It encircled the entire back of her head, when whole.”
“At what time was she killed?” asked Gray Haviland. He had stood, till now, a silent listener to the conversation between Pauline and the Doctor.
“Oh, many hours ago,” returned Stanton; “six or eight at least. Evidently she was preparing for bed, and trying the effect of some new finery.”
“Those things are not new,” put in Anita; “she has had them all a long time. But she must have been admiring herself, for when we found her she had on all her finest jewels.”
“What?” cried Dr. Stanton; “where are they?”
“I took most of them off,” replied Pauline, quietly, “and put them in the safe. If the police people must come, I am not willing to have a fortune in jewels here to tempt their cupidity. And I have a right. It is no secret that my cousin Carrington and I are her heirs. But that snake perplexes me beyond all else. If you knew her aversion to them,—even pictured ones——”
“I do know it,” returned the doctor; “I have often heard her say so. Ah,” as he stepped carefully about, “shewasadorning herself; see, here is powder scattered on the floor. She used this powder-puff, shaking it over the rug and floor.”
“I saw that the first thing!” cried Pauline, excitedly; “and there was a——” she stopped, looking in amazement at the white dust on the floor. For where she had seen a distinct footprint, as of a stockinged foot, there was now merely a blurred whirl! Some one had obliterated that footprint!
“A what?” asked the doctor, sharply.
“Nothing. A—a lot of powder spilled,—I was going to say.”
Gray Haviland looked at her. “Tell the truth, Pauline,” he said.
“I have,” she replied, with a calm quite equalling his own. “Must we have the Coroner, Dr. Stanton?”
“Yes, yes, of course; I will telephone at once. There will be police and detectives,—oh, it is a terrible case! Nothing must be touched, nothing! If there isanyclue to this mystery, do not let it be disturbed.”
“But you say it was without doubt a burglar who did it,” said Anita, her wide eyes gleaming blue.
“It must have been.”
“Then why were none of her jewels stolen?”
“Bless my soul!” and Dr. Stanton looked as if a bomb had exploded at his feet. “Sure enough! It cannot have been a burglar! Who, then? What other motive than robbery——”
“Itwasa burglar,” declared Pauline, “and he was—he was frightened away by—by a noise—or something——”
“Not likely!” said Anita, “with all those gems in easy reach!”
“The Coroner and the police must get here at once!” and the doctor wiped his perspiring brow. “Never have I seen such an inexplicable state of affairs! Was—was Miss Carrington indisposed at all last evening? Did she say or do anything unusual?”
“Not at all,” began Pauline, but Anita interrupted; “Yes, she did! She said, ‘You little know what’s going to happen to me! To-morrow you may sing another tune!’”
“What did she mean by that?”
“I’ve no idea. Could it mean suicide?”
“No!” thundered the doctor; “her skull was fractured by some one bent on wilful murder! As there is no robbery, we must look for a deeper motive and a cleverer villain than any professional burglar!”
On the third floor was the bedroom of the maid, Estelle, and before its locked door stood Pauline and Anita, demanding admittance. There was no response from inside, until Pauline said sternly, “Unless you open this door at once, Estelle, the police will force it open.”
The key turned, the door moved slowly ajar, and Estelle’s face appeared, wearing an expression of amazement.
“What is it you say, Miss Pauline? The police? Why?”
The maid was making a very evident effort to appear composed, and was succeeding wonderfully well. Her eyes were reddened with weeping,—a condition which a hasty dabbing of powder had not concealed. She was nervously trembling, but her air of injured innocence, if assumed, was admirable.
“Estelle,” and Pauline loomed tall and magnificent as an accusing angel, “what do you know of your mistress’ death?”
Estelle gave a shriek and threw herself on her bed in apparent hysterics.
“Don’t begin that!” ordered Pauline, “sit up here and tell the truth.”
“But,” and the maid sat up, sobbing, “I know nothing. How can I?”
“Nonsense! You took the tea-tray to her at eight o’clock. What did you see?”
Estelle shrugged her shoulders. “I saw Miss Carrington sitting before her mirror. She, I assumed, was engrossed in reverie, so I set down the tray on a tabouret and departed.”
“You noticed nothing amiss?” said Anita, staring at the girl.
“No; I scarce looked at the lady. She reproved me harshly last night, and I had no wish to annoy her. I set down the tray with haste and silently departed.”
“You set it down? Who, then, overturned it?”
“Overturned? Is it then upset?” Estelle’s manner was the impersonal one of the trained servant, who must show surprise at nothing, but it was a trifle overdone.
“Estelle, stop posing. Wake up to realities. Miss Carrington is dead! Do you hear? Dead!”
“Ah!Mon Dieu! Did it then kill her?” and Estelle’s calm gave way and she screamed and moaned in wild hysterics.
“What can we do with her?” asked Anita, helplessly; “she must know all about the—the——”
“The murder,” said Pauline calmly. “But she will tell us nothing. It is useless to question her. The Coroner will attend to it, anyway.”
“The Coroner,” and Anita looked frightened. “Will he question all of us?”
“Of course he will. And, Anita,” Pauline whirled on her suddenly, “what are you going to say was the errand that took you to Aunt Lucy’s room after one o’clock last night?”
“I! Nothing of the sort! I was not in her room after we left it together.”
“I saw you. Don’t trouble to deny it,” and Pauline dropped her eyelids as one bored by a conversation.
“You did!” and Anita’s flower face turned rosy pink and her blue eyes blazed with an intensity that Pauline’s dark ones could never match. “Be careful, Pauline Stuart, or I shall tell whatIknow! Youdareto make up such a story! It wasIwho sawyoucome from your aunt’s room at a late hour! What have you to say now?”
“Nothing—to you,” and Pauline swept from the room and returned slowly down the stairway to the second floor.
The sight of two police officers in the hall gave her a sudden start. How had they appeared, so soon? And how dreadful to see them in the palatial home that had heretofore housed only gentle-mannered aristocrats and obsequious liveried servants! The men looked ill at ease as they stood against the rich background of tapestry hangings and tropical palms, but their faces showed a stern appreciation of their duty, and they looked at Pauline with deferential but acute scrutiny.
Not noticing them in any way, the girl, her head held high, went straight to her aunt’s room. Sergeant Flake was in charge, and he refused her admission.
“Coroner’s orders, ma’am,” he said; “he’ll be here himself shortly, and then you can see him.”
“Come away, Pauline,” and Haviland appeared and took her by the arm; “where’s Anita?”
“I left her in Estelle’s room. Oh Gray, that girl——”
“Hush!” and gripping her firmly, Haviland led her to a small sitting room and shut the door. “Now listen, Pauline; mind what I say. Don’t give the least bit of information or express the slightest notion of opinion except to the chief authorities. And not to them until they ask you. This is a terrible affair, and a mighty strange one.”
“Who did it, Gray?”
“Never you mind. Don’t even ask questions. The very walls have ears!”
“Who upset that breakfast tray?”
“Estelle, of course.”
“She says she didn’t.”
“She lies. Everybody will lie; why, Pauline, you must lie yourself.”
“I won’t do it! I have no reason to!”
“You may find that you have. But, at least, Pauline, I beg of you, that you will keep your mouth shut. There will be developments soon,—there must be,—and then we will know what to do.”
The two returned to the boudoir. At first glance it seemed to be full of men. The beautiful room, with its ornate but harmonious furnishings and appointments of the Marie Antoinette period, was occupied with eager representatives of the law and justice hunting for any indication of the ruthless hand that had felled the owner of all that elegance.
Coroner Scofield was receiving the report of Doctor Moore, who had arrived with him.
Dr. Moore agreed with Dr. Stanton that the deceased had been struck with a heavy weapon that had fractured the skull, but he admitted the wounds showed some strange conditions which could only be explained by further investigation.
The Coroner was deep in thought as he studied the face of the dead woman.
“It is most mysterious,” he declared; “that face is almost smiling! it is the face of a happy woman. Clearly, she did not know of her approaching fate.”
“The blow was struck from behind,” informed Dr. Moore.
“Even so, why didn’t she see the approach of the assailant in the mirror? She is looking straight into the large glass,—must have been looking in it at the moment of her death.Whyreceive that death blow without a tremor of fear or even a glance of startled inquiry?”
Inspector Brunt stood by, gravely, and for the most part silently, watching and listening.
“That might imply,” he said, slowly, “that if she did see the assailant, it was some one she knew, and of whom she had no fear.”
Gray Haviland looked up suddenly. A deep red spread over his face and then, seeing himself narrowly watched by the detectives present, he set his lips firmly together and said no word.
Pauline turned white and trembled, but she too said nothing.
“Why is she sitting in this large easy chair?” went on the Coroner; “Is it not customary for ladies at their dressing tables to use a light side-chair?”
This showed decidedly astute perception, and the Inspector looked interestedly at the chair in question, which he had not especially noticed before.
Being tacitly appealed to by the Coroner’s inquiring eyes, Pauline replied: “It is true that my aunt usually sat at her dressing-table in a small chair,—that one, in fact,” and she pointed to a dainty chair of gilded cane. “I have no idea why she should choose the heavy, cushioned one.”
“It would seem,” the Coroner mused, “as if she might have sat down there to admire the effect of her belongings rather than to arrange her hair or toilette.”
Absorbedly, all present watched Coroner Scofield’s movements.
It was true, the quietly reposeful attitude of the still figure leaning back against the brocaded upholstery, and so evidently looking in the great gold-framed mirror, was that of one admiring or criticising her own appearance. Added to this, the fact of her bizarre costume and strange adornments, it seemed certain that Miss Carrington had come to her death while innocently happy in the feminine employment of dressing up in the elaborate finery that she loved.
But the snake!
Carefully Coroner Scofield removed the inexplicable thing. He held it up that all might see. A Japanese paper snake, a cheap toy, such as is found together with fans and lanterns in the Oriental department of large shops.
“Could this have been placed round her neck after death?” Scofield inquired of the doctors.
The two physicians agreed, that though that was possible, yet the appearance of the flesh beneath it seemed to indicate its having encircled the throat during life.
“Never!” cried Pauline, excitedly. “Aunt Lucycouldn’thave sat there andsmiled, with a snake anywhere near her!”
“That would seem so,” and Dr. Stanton nodded his head. “I well know of my late patient’s aversion to snakes. It amounted almost to a mania! It is not an uncommon one, many women feel the same, though seldom to so great an extent.”
“That deepens the mystery,” said Coroner Scofield; “unless, indeed, the snake was put on after the crime. But that is even more mysterious. I shall now remove these valuable jewels, and give them to——”
He looked inquiringly at Haviland and Pauline, and the latter immediately responded: “Give them to me, Mr. Scofield. I am now mistress here.”
Haviland said nothing, but he looked at Pauline as if in disapproval.
“Is this of great worth?” inquired Scofield, as he carefully removed the scarf from the shoulders it surrounded.
“Only moderately so,” returned Pauline. “It is a Syrian scarf and was sent to her by her nephew who lives in Egypt. It is not new, he sent several to us about a year ago.”
She took the long, heavy, white and silver drapery, and laid it in a nearby wardrobe. Then the Coroner unfastened the large pearls from their place as eardrops, and taking up one lifeless hand removed its rings. All these he handed to Pauline without a word.
“What is this?” he exclaimed suddenly; and opening the curled-up fingers of the other hand he drew forth a crumpled gray object. It was a glove, of soft suéde, and so tightly had it been held that it was deeply creased.
“A man’s glove!” said the Coroner, smoothing it out. “Will the wonders of this case never cease?”
He scrutinized it, but remarking only that it was of medium size and superior quality, he laid it carefully aside for the time.
From the same arm he removed the scarab bracelet, also handing that to Pauline.
“The lady was fond of Oriental jewelry,” he observed.
“Yes,” returned Haviland, before Pauline could speak. “Her nephew sent or brought home much of it. But, as we informed you, Miss Carrington was also wearing pearls and diamonds of enormous value, compared to which these trinkets are as nothing.”
“But scarabs, I am told, are of great price.”
“Some are,” returned Haviland. “That bracelet, however, is not genuine, nor of great value.”
Then the Coroner, with delicate touch, removed the bits of broken tortoise-shell from the puffs of hair, and carefully laid them together on a small silver tray he appropriated from the dressing-table litter.
“I think,” said Inspector Brunt, in his grave, slow way, “that it will be wise to photograph the whole picture from several points of view before the autopsy is performed.”
Arrangements had been made for this, and Detective Hardy, a young man from Headquarters, stepped forward with his camera.
As those who were asked to left the room, Pauline and Gray went out together, and met Anita just outside in the hall.
“Oh, tell me, Gray! Who did it? What does it all mean?” she cried, and grasped him by the arm.
“Tell her about it, Gray,” said Pauline, and leaving the two together, she went swiftly along the hall to her own room.
The alert eyes of the guarding policemen followed her, but also they followed the movements of every one else, and if they had, as yet, any suspicions, no one knew of them.
Meantime, the gruesome work of photography went on.
Surely never was such a strange subject for the camera! Denuded of her jewels, but still robed in her gorgeous dressing-gown, and still leaning back in her luxurious arm-chair, with that strange smile of happy expectancy, Miss Lucy Carrington presented the same air of regal authority she had always worn in life. Her eyes were widely staring, but there was no trace or hint of fear in her peaceful attitude of repose.
“There’s no solution!” said Inspector Brunt, deeply thoughtful. “No one could or would crack a skull like that, but an experienced and professional burglar and housebreaker. And such a one could have but one motive, robbery, and the jewels were not stolen!”
“Inside job,” observed Scofield, briefly, his eyes on his work.
“Maybe the burglar was frightened away at the critical moment.”
“No. Whatever frightened him would be known to some member of the family.”
“Maybe it is.”
“Hey? Have you a theory?” and the Coroner looked up suddenly.
“Anything but! There’s nopossibletheory that will fit the facts.”
“Except the truth.”
“Yes, except the truth. But it will be long before we find that, I’m afraid. It strikes me it’s at the bottom of an unusually deep well.”
“Well, you’dbetterfind it. It’d be a nice how d’y’ do for you to fall down onthiscase!”
“There’s no falling down been done yet. And it may well be that the very fact of there being such strange and irreconcilable conditions shall prove a help rather than a hindrance.”
And then, all being in readiness, the lifeless form of Miss Carrington, once the proud domineering autocrat, now laid low, was borne to a distant room, for the autopsy that might cast a further light on the mystery of her tragic death.
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 givesyouany 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.
“Whatisit?” 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’tknowwhy!” 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 learnwhyhe 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.