Drooping willows dipped their pendant branches in the stream that foamed and rippled over green, mossy stones. In a meadow that stretched fair and wide on either side of the water, innumerable grasshoppers were singing their song of summer. On a verdant bank reclined a man, whose advanced age might be indicated in his whitening locks, but whose bright eyes, and the quick, nervous movements as he leafed the pages of a small, green-covered book, made negative the first analysis. A little distance from him, where the sun beat down warmly, unhindered by any shade, lolled a colored man whose look now and then strayed to the reading figure.
A glance over the shoulder of the reader, were one so impolite as to take that liberty, would have disclosed, among others, this passage on the printed page:
“But yet you are to note, that as you see some willows orpalm trees bud and blossom sooner than others do, so sometrouts be, in rivers, sooner in season; and as some holliesor oaks are longer before they cast their leaves, so aresome trouts in rivers longer before they go out of season.”
The gray-haired man closed the book, thereby revealing the title “Walton's Compleat Angler,” and looked across the stream. The sunlight flickered over its rippling surface, and now and then there was a splash in the otherwise quiet waters—a splash that to the reader was illuminating indeed.
“Shag!” he suddenly exclaimed, thereby galvanizing into life the somnolent negro.
“Yes, sah, Colonel! Yes, sah!” came the response.
“Hum! Asleep, weren't you?”
“Well, no, sah. Not zactly asleep, Colonel. I were jest takin' the fust of mah forty winks, an'—”
“Well, postpone the rest for this evening. I think I'll make some casts here. I don't expect any trout, my friend Walton to the contrary. Besides they're out of season now. But I may get something. Get me the rod, Shag!”
“Yes, sah, Colonel! Yes, sah!”
And while the fishing paraphernalia was being put in readiness by his colored servant, Colonel Robert Lee Ashley once more opened the little green book, as though to draw inspiration therefrom. And he read:
“Only thus much is necessary for you to know, and to bemindful and careful of, that if the pike or perch do breedin that river, they will be sure to bite first and mustfirst be taken. And for the most part they are very large.”
“Well, large or small, it doesn't much matter, so I catch some,” observed the colonel.
Then he carefully baited the hook, after he had taken the rod and line from Shag, who handled it as though it was a rare object of art; which, indeed, it was to his master.
“I think we shall go back with a fine mess of perch, Shag,” observed the fisherman.
“Yes, sah, Colonel, dat's what we will,” was the cheerful answer.
“And this time we won't, under any consideration, let anything interfere with our vacation, Shag.”
“No, sah, Colonel. No, sah!”
“If you see me buying a paper, Shag, mind, if you ever hear me asking if the last edition is out, stop me at once.”
“I will, Colonel.”
“And if any one tries to tell me of a murder mystery, of a big robbery, or of anything except where the fish are biting best, Shag, why, you just—”
“I'll jest natchully knock 'em down, Colonel! Dat's what I'll do!” exclaimed the colored man, as cheerfully as though he would relish such “Well, I can't advise that, of course,” said the colonel with a smile, “but you may use your own judgment. I came here for a rest, and I don't want to run into another diamond cross mystery, or anything like it.”
“No, sah, Colonel. But yo' suah did elucidate dat one most expeditious like. I nevah saw sech—”
“That will do now, Shag. I don't want to be reminded of it. I came here to fish, not to work, nor hold any post-mortems on past cases. Now for it!” and the elderly man cast in where a little eddy, under the grassy bank, indicated deep water, in which the perch or other fish might lurk this sunny day.
And yet, in spite of his determination not to recall the details of the diamond cross mystery to which Shag had alluded, Colonel Ashley could not help dwelling on one or two phases of what, with justifiable pride, he regarded as one of the most successful of his many cases.
Colonel Robert Lee Ashley was a detective by instinct and profession, though of late years he had endeavored, but with scant success, to turn the more routine matters of his profession over to his able assistants.
To those who have read of his masterly solution of the diamond cross mystery the colonel needs no introduction. He was a well known character in police and criminal circles, because of his success in catching many a slippery representative of the latter.
He had served in the secret service during the Spanish-American war, and later had become the head of the police department of a large Eastern city. From that he had built up a private business of his own that assumed large proportions, until advancing age and a desire to fish and reflect caused him virtually to retire from active work. And now, as he had so often done before, he had come to this quiet stream to angle.
And yet, even as he dropped his bait into the water, he could not keep his active mind from passing in rapid review over some of the events of his career—especially the late episode of the Darcy diamond cross.
“Well, I'm glad I helped out in that case,” mused the colonel, as he sat up more alertly, for there came a tremor to his line that told much to his practiced and sensitive hands.
A moment later the reel clicked its song of a strike, and the colonel got first to his knees and then to his feet as he prepared to play his fish.
“I've hooked one, Shag!” he called in a low but tense voice. “I've hooked one, and I think it's a beauty!”
“Yes, sah, Colonel! Yes, sah! Dat's fine! I'll be ready as soon as yo' is!”
Shag caught up a landing net, for, though the colonel was not anticipating any gamy fish in this quiet, country stream, yet for such as he caught he used such light tackle that a net was needed to bring even a humble perch to shore.
“I've got him, Shag! I've got him!” the colonel cried, as the fish broke water, a shimmering shower of sparkling drops falling from his sides. “I've got him, and it's a bass, too! I didn't think there were any here! I've got him!”
“Yes, sah, Colonel! Yo' suah has!” exclaimed the delighted George Washington Shag. “You suah has got a beauty!”
And as Shag started forward with the landing net, while the colonel was playing with the skill of long years of practice the fish which had developed unexpected fighting powers, there was a movement among the bushes that lined the stream below the willows, and a young man, showing every evidence of eagerness, advanced toward the fisherman. Shag saw him and called:
“Keep back! Keep back, sah, if yo' please! De Colonel, he's done got a bite, an'—”
“Bite! You mean that something's bitten him?” asked the young man, for he could not see the figure of the colonel, who, just then, in allowing the bass to have a run, had followed him up stream.
“No, he's catchin' a fish—he's got a strike—a big one! Don't isturb him.”
“But I must see him. I've come a long distance to—”
“Distance or closeness don't make no mattah of diffunce to de colonel when he's got a bite, sah! I'm sorry, but I can't let yo' go any closer, an' I'se got to go an' land de fish. Aftah dat, if you wants to hab a word wif de colonel, well, maybe he'll see yo', sah,” and Shag, with a warning gesture, like that of a traffic policeman halting a line of automobiles, started toward the colonel, who was still playing his fish.
Harry Bartlett, for he it was who had thus somewhat rudely interrupted the detective's fishing, stopped in the shade of the willows, somewhat chagrined. He had come a long way for a talk, and now to be thus held back by a colored man who seemed to have no idea of the importance of the mission was provoking.
But there was something authoritative in Shag's manner, and, being a business man, Harry Bartlett knew better than to make an inauspicious approach. It would be as bad as slicing his golf ball on the drive.
So he waited beside the silent stream, not so silent as it had been, for it was disturbed by the movements, up and down, of Colonel Ashley, who was playing his fish with consummate skill.
Seeing a little green book on the grass where it had fallen, Harry Bartlett picked it up. Idly opening the pages, he read:
“There is also a fish called a sticklebag, a fish withoutscales, but he hath his body fenced with several prickles.I know not where he dwells in winter, nor what he is goodfor in summer, but only to make sport for boys and womenanglers, and to feed other fish that be fish of prey, astrout in particular, who will bite at him as at a penk, andbetter, if your hook be rightly baited with him; for he maybe so baited, as, his tail turning like a sail of awindmill, will make him turn more quick than any penk orminnow can.”
“I guess I've got the right man,” said Harry Bartlett with a smile.
“Ready, now, Shag! Ready!” called Colonel Ashley, in tense tones. “Ready with the net!”
“Yes, sah! All ready!”
“I've got him about ready for you! And he's better than I thought!”
“Yes, sah, Colonel! I won't miss!”
“If you do you may look for another place!” At this dire threat Shag turned as white as he would ever become, and took a firmer grip on the “Ready now, Shag!” called the colonel, at the same time directing his helper to come down the bank toward a little pool whither he was leading the now well-played fish. “Ready!”
Shag did not speak, but while the colonel slowly reeled in and the tip of the slender pole bent like a bow, he slipped the net into the water, under the fish, and, a moment later, had it out on the grass.
“There!” exclaimed the famous detective, with a sigh of relief. “There he is, and as fine a fish as I've ever landed in these parts! Now, Shag—”
But there came an interruption. Reasoning that now was a most propitious time to make his appeal, Harry Bartlett advanced to where the colonel and Shag were bending over the panting bass. As the detective, with a smart blow back of its head, put his catch out of misery, Bartlett spoke.
“Excuse me,” he said, deferentially enough, for he saw the type of man with whom he had to deal, “but are you not Colonel Ashley?”
“I am, sir!” and the colonel looked up as he slipped the fish into his grass-lined creel.
“I am Mr. Bartlett. I followed you here from New York, and I wish to—”
“If it's anything about business, Mr. Bartlett, let me save your time and my own—both valuable, I take it—by stating that I came here to fish, and not to talk business. Excuse me for putting it thus bluntly, but I see no reason for many words. I can not consider any business. That is all attended to at my New York office, and I am surprised that they should even have given you my address. I told them not to.”
“It was no easy matter to get it, Colonel, I assure you,” and—Bartlett smiled genially. “And please don't blame any one in your office for disclosing your whereabouts. I did not get your address from them, I assure you.”
“From whom, then, if I may ask?”
“From Spotty.” And again Bartlett smiled.
“What? Spotty Morgan?”
“Yes.”
“Are you—do you know him?” and the detective could not keep the interest out of his voice.
“Rather well. I saved him from drowning once some years ago, and he hasn't forgotten it. It was at a summer resort, and Spotty, though he is a good swimmer, didn't estimate the force of the undertow. I pulled him out just in time.”
“Strange,” murmured the colonel. “A strange coincidence.”
“I beg pardon,” said Harry politely.
“Oh, nothing,” went on the detective. “Only, as it happens, Spotty saved my life some time ago. It's just a coincidence, that's all. So Spotty gave you my address, did he?”
“Yes. I had called at your New York office, and, as you say, your clerks had orders not to disclose your whereabouts. I used every cajolery and device of which I was master, but it was no avail. I urged the importance it was to myself and others to know where you were, but they were obdurate. I was coming out, much disappointed, when I saw Spotty emerging from an inner office. He knew me at once, though it is years since we met, and going down in the elevator I mentioned that I was looking for you. I told him something of the reason for wanting to find you and—Well, he told me you were here.”
“And he is about the only person in New York outside of my most confidential man who could have done that,” observed the colonel, as he slowly reeled up his line. “One reason why the clerks in my office could not give you my address was because they did not have it. So Spotty, who must just have finished his bit, told.”
“But please don't hold that against him,” urged Bartlett. “If he violated a confidence—”
“He did, in a way, yes,” observed the disciple of Izaak Walton. “But I shall have to forgive him, I suppose. It must have been rather a strong reason that induced him to tell you where I had gone.”
“It was, Colonel Ashley, the strongest reason in the world. It is to help clear up the mystery—”
“Stop!” fairly shouted the colonel. “If it's a detective case I don't want to hear it! Not a word! Shag, show this gentleman the door—I beg your pardon, I didn't mean to be rude,” went on the colonel with his usual politeness. “But I really can not listen. I came here to rest and fish, not to take up new detective cases. You know where my office is. They will attend to you there. I have given up business for the time being.”
“And yet, Colonel Ashley, the person who sent me will have no one but you. She says you are the only one who can get at the bottom of the puzzling case.”
In spite of himself the colonel's face lighted up at the words “puzzling case,” but as his eyes fell on the creel containing his fish he turned aside. “No,” he said, “I am sorry, but I can not listen to you. Shag, kindly—”
Harry Bartlett was not a successful business man for nothing. He knew how to make an appeal. “I came to see you at the request of Miss Viola Carwell,” he said slowly. “She sent me to find you—told me not to come back to her without you. A change came over the colonel's face at the mention of Viola's name.
“You came from her—from the daughter of Horace Carwell?” he asked quickly.
“I did,” answered Bartlett.
“Well, of course, that might make a difference. I hope my old friend is not in trouble—nor his daughter,” and there was a new quality in the voice.
“Mr. Carwell's troubles are all over—if he had any,” returned Bartlett simply.
“You mean—”
“He is dead.”
The colonel uttered an exclamation.
“Pardon my rather brusk reception of you,” he apologized. “I did not know that. Was it recently—suddenly?”
“Both recently and suddenly.”
“I did not know that I seldom read the papers, and have not looked at one lately. I had not heard that he was ill.”
“'He wasn't, Colonel Ashley. Mr. Carwell died very suddenly on the Maraposa Golf Club links, after making a stroke that gave him the championship.”
“Heart disease or apoplexy?”
“Neither one. It was poison.”
“You amaze me, Mr.—er—Mr.—”
“Bartlett. Yes, Mr. Carwell died of poison, as the autopsy showed.”
“'Was he—did he—”
“That is what we want to find out,” interrupted the messenger eagerly. “The county physician says Mr. Carwell is a suicide. His daughter, Miss Viola, can not believe it. Nor can I. There has been some talk that his affairs are involved. As you may have known, he was somewhat of a—”
“His sporting proclivities were somewhat different from mine,” said the old detective dryly. “You needn't explain. Every man must live his own life. But tell me more.”
Thereupon Bartlett gave the details as he knew them, bearing on the death of the father of the girl he loved.
“And she sent you to find me?” asked the detective.
“Yes. Miss Viola said you were an old friend of her father's, and if any one could solve the mystery of his death you could. For that there is a mystery about it, many of us believe.”
“There may be. Poison is always more or less of a mystery. But just what do you want me to do?”
“Come back with me if you will, Colonel Ashley. Miss Carwell wants you to aid her—aid all of us, for we are all at sea. Will you? She sent me to plead with you. I went to your New York office, and from Spotty Morgan learned you were here. I—”
“I suppose I shall have to forgive Spotty,” murmured the fisherman.
“They told me at the hotel you had come here,” went on Bartlett, “so I followed. I was lucky in finding you.”
“I don't know about that,” murmured the colonel, smiling. “It may be unfortunate. Well, I am deeply shocked at my old friend's death—and such a tragic taking off. Horace Carwell was my very good friend. He once did me a great service, when I needed money badly, by helping me make an investment in copper that turned out extremely well. I feel myself under obligations to him; and, since he is no more, I must transfer that obligation to his daughter.”
“Then you'll come with me to see her, Colonel Ashley?”
“Yes. Shag, pack up! We're going back to civilization.”
The colored man's face was a study. He looked at the quiet stream, at the drooping willows, at the fish rod in his master's hand, and at the creel. He opened his mouth and spoke:
“But, Colonel, yo' done tole me t'—”
“No matter what I told you, Shag, these are new orders. Pack up!” came the crisp command. “We're going back to town. I'll do what I can in this case,” he went on to Bartlett. “I came here for some quiet fishing, and to get my mind off detective work. I was dragged into a diamond cross mystery not long since, sorely against my will, and now—”
“I am sorry—” began Bartlett.
“Oh, well, it can't be helped,” the colonel said. “I'd give up more than a fishing trip for a daughter of Horace Carwell. You may let her know that I'll come, if it will give her any comfort. Though, mind you,” the colonel's manner was impressive, “I promise nothing.”
“That is understood,” said Bartlett eagerly. “I'll wire her that you are coming. There's a train that leaves right after supper. We can get that—”
“I'll take it!” decided the colonel. Now that he had given up his cherished fishing he was all business again. “Shag!”
“Yes, sah, Colonel!”
“Pack up for the evening train. Give that fish to the cook and have it served for Mr. Bartlett and myself. You'll dine with me,” he went on. It was an order, not an invitation, but Bartlett understood, and accepted with a bow.
A few hours later he and the colonel left the little town where the detective had gone for such a short vacation, and were on their way to Lakeside, which they reached early in the morning.
“Now if you'll tell me the best hotel to stop at here,” said the colonel, as they alighted from the train, “I'll put up there and see Miss Carwell.”
“She requested me to bring you at once to her home,” said Bartlett. “You are to be her guest. She thought perhaps you would want to examine the— to see Mr. Carwell's body—before—”
“Oh, yes. I suppose I had better. Then the funeral has not been held?”
“No, it was postponed at the request of the county physician.”
“Has there been a coroner's inquest?”
“No. None was deemed necessary at the time I left, at the solicitation of Miss Carwell, to get you.”
“I see. Inquests are less often held in New Jersey than in some of the other states. Well, then I suppose I may as well go to the Carwell home with you.”
“Yes. I wired for my car to meet us. It's here I see. Right over here.”
Bartlett led the way, the colonel following, and Shag bringing up the rear with the bags.
As the machine started from the station Bartlett looked up to the morning sky. There was a little speck in it, no larger than a man's hand. It grew larger, and became an osprey on its way to the sea in search of a fish.
As the car drew up in front of the Carwell mansion, from the bell of which fluttered a dismal length of crepe, a man stepped from the shadow of the gate posts and held out a paper to Harry Bartlett.
“What is it?” asked Bartlett.
“A subpoena,” was the rather gruff answer.
“A subpoena? What for?”
“The coroner's inquest. You'll have to appear and give evidence. They're going to have an inquest to find out more about Mr. Carwell's death. That's all I know. I'm from police headquarters. I was told to wait around here, as you were expected, and to serve that on you. Don't forget to be there. It's a court order,” and the man slunk away.
“An inquest,” murmured Bartlett, as he looked at the paper in his hand. “I thought they weren't going to have any,” and he glanced quickly at Colonel Ashley.
Colonel Robert Lee Ashley was used to surprises. This was natural, considering his calling, and at some of the surprises he was a silent spectator, while at others he furnished the surprise. In this case he served in his former capacity, merely noting the rather startled look on the face of Harry Bartlett when handed the subpoena to the coroner's inquest.
“I thought they weren't going to have any,” Bartlett repeated, but whether to himself in a sort of daze, to Colonel Ashley, or to the man from headquarters was not clear. At any rate Colonel Ashley answered him by saying:
“You never can tell what Jersey justice is going to do. Coroner's inquests are not usual in this state, but they are lawful.”
“But why do they consider one necessary?” asked Bartlett, as they prepared to enter the house of death.
“That, my dear sir, I don't know. Perhaps the county physician may have requested it, or the prosecutor of the pleas. He may want to be backed up by the verdict of twelve men before taking any action.”
“But if Mr. Carwell's death was due to suicide who can be held guilty but himself?”
“No one. But I thought you said there was a doubt as to its being suicide,” commented the detective.
“Miss Carwell doubts,” returned Bartlett; “and I admit that it does seem strange that a man of Mr. Carwell's character would do such a thing, particularly when he had shown no previous signs of being in trouble. But you can never tell.”
“No, you can never tell,” agreed Colonel Ashley, and none knew, better than himself, how true that was.
“But why should they subpoena me?” asked Bartlett.
“Don't fret over that,” advised his companion, with a calm smile. “You probably aren't the only one. A coroner's inquest is, as some one has said, a sort of fishing excursion. They start out not expecting much, not knowing what they are going to get, and sometimes they catch nothing—or no one—and again, a big haul is made. It's merely a sort of clearing house, and I, for one, will be glad to listen to what is brought out at the hearing.”
“Well, then I suppose it will be all right,” assented the young man, but the manner in which he looked again at the legal document was distinctly nervous.
“Had we better tell—her?” and he motioned to the house, on the steps of which they stood, Shag having pressed the bell for his master.
“Miss Carwell probably knows all about it,” said Colonel Ashley.
They found Viola waiting for them in the library, passing on their way the darkened and closed room which held all that was mortal of the late owner of The Haven—no, not quite all of him, for certain portions were, even then, being subjected to the minute and searching analysis of a number of chemists, under the direction of the county prosecutor.
“It was very good of you to come, Colonel Ashley,” said Viola quietly. “I appreciate it more than I can express—at this time.”
“I'm very glad to come,” said the colonel as he held her hand in his warm, firm clasp. “I am only sorry that it was necessary to send for me on such an occasion. Believe me, I will do all I can for you, Miss Carwell. Your father was my very good friend.”
“Thank you. What most I want is to clear my father's name from the imputation of having—of having killed himself,” and she halted over the words.
“You mean that you suspect—” began Colonel Ashley.
“Oh, I don't know what to think, and certainly I don't dare suspect any one!” exclaimed Viola. “It is all so terrible! But one thing I would like all father's friends to know—that he did not take his own life. He would not do such a thing.”
“Then,” said Colonel Ashley, “we must show that it was either an accident—that he took the fatal dose by mistake or that some one gave it to him. Forgive me for thus brutally putting it, but that is what it simmers down to.”
“Yes, I have thought of that,” returned Viola, and her shrinking form and the haunted look in her eyes told what an ordeal it was for her. “I leave it all to you, Colonel Ashley. Father often spoke of you, and he often said, if ever he had any mystery to clear up, that you were the only man he would trust. Now that I am alone I must trust you,” and she smiled at the colonel. It was something of her former smile—a look that had turned many a man's head, some even as settled in life and years as Colonel Ashley.
“Well, I'll do my best for the sake of you and your father,” replied the detective. “I don't mind saying that I hoped I was done with all mystery cases, but fate seems to be against me.
“Mind, I am not complaining!” he said quickly, as he saw Viola about to protest. “It's just my luck. And I can't promise you anything. From what Mr. Bartlett told me, there seem to be very few suspicious circumstances connected with the case.”
“I realize that,” answered Viola. “And that makes it all the stranger. But tell me, Colonel, haven't you often found that the cases which, at first, seemed perfectly plain and simple, afterward turned out to be the most mysterious?”
“Jove, but that's true!” exclaimed the former soldier. “You spoke the truth then, Miss Viola. My friend Izaak never put a statement more plainly. And that's the theory I always go on. Now then, let me have all the facts in your possession. And you too,” he added, turning to Bartlett. “You might remain while Miss Carwell talks to me, and you can add anything she may forget, while she can do the same in your case. I suppose you know there is to be a coroner's inquest?” he added to the girl.
“Yes,” she answered. “I have received a subpoena. I think it is well to have it, for it will show the public how mistaken a verdict arrived at when all the facts are not known may be. I shall attend.”
“I just received a summons,” said Bartlett, and he seemed to breathe more easily.
“Shag—Where's that black boy of mine?” exclaimed the colonel.
“I sent him to the servants' quarters,” said Miss Mary Carwell, coming in just then. “How do you do, Colonel Ashley. I don't know whether you remember me, but—”
“Indeed I do. And I remember that the last time I dined with you we had chicken and waffles that—well, the taste lingers yet!” and the colonel bowed gallantly, which seemed to please Miss Carwell very much indeed. “So you have looked after Shag, have you?”
“Yes. We have plenty of spare rooms, and I thought you'd want him near you.”
“I want him this moment,” said the detective. “If you will be so good as to send him here I'll get him to open my bag and take out a note-book I wish to use.”
A little later Colonel Ashley had thrown himself heart and soul into the “Golf Course Mystery,” as he marked it on a page in his note-book.
On the preceding page were the last entries in a case, the beginning of which was inscribed “The Diamond Cross Mystery.” It was thus that Colonel Ashley kept the salient facts of his problems before him as he worked.
Between them Viola Carwell and Harry Bartlett told the colonel such facts leading up to the death of Mr. Carwell as they knew. They spoke of the day of the big golf matches, and the exhilaration of Mr. Carwell as he anticipated winning the championship contest.
The scene at the links was portrayed, the little excitement among the parked cars, caused, as developed later, by a blaze in a machine standing next the big red, white, and blue car belonging to Mr. Carwell, and then the sudden collapse of Carwell as he make his winning stroke. The finding of some peculiar poison in the stomach and viscera of the dead man was spoken of, and then Viola made her appeal again for a disclosure of such truth as Colonel Ashley might reveal.
“I'll do my best,” he promised. “But I believe it will be better to wait until after the inquest before I take an active part. And I think I can best work if I remain unknown—that is if it is not published broadcast that I am here in my official capacity.”
To this Viola and Bartlett agreed. As neither of them had, as yet, spoken of bringing the colonel into the case, it was a comparatively easy matter to pass him off as an old friend of the family; which, in truth, he was.
So Colonel Ashley was given the guest chamber, Shag was provided with comfortable quarters, and then Viola seemed more content.
“I know,” she said to her aunt, “that the truth will be found out now.”
“But suppose the truth is more painful than uncertainty, Viola?”
“How can it be?” asked the girl, as tears filled her eyes.
“I don't know,” answered Miss Carwell softly. “It is all so terrible, that I don't believe it can be any worse. But we must hope for the best. I trust business matters will go along all right. I confess I don't like the forgetting, on the part of LeGrand Blossom, of attending to the bank matter.”
“It was probably only an oversight.”
“Yes. But it has started a rumor that your poor father's affairs might not be in the best shape. Oh, dear, it's all so terrible!”
But there were other terrors to come.
Following his plan of acting merely as a guest and an old friend of the family who had journeyed from afar to attend the funeral, Colonel Ashley went about as silent as though on a fishing trip. He looked and listened, but said little. He was not yet ready for a cast. He was but inspecting the stream—several streams, in fact, to see where he could best toss in his baited hook.
And it was in this same spirit that he attended the coroner's inquest, which was held in the town hall. Over the deliberations, which were, at best, rather informal, Coroner Billy Teller presided.
The office of coroner was, in Lakeside, as in most New Jersey cities or towns, much of an empty title. At every election the names of certain men were put on the ticket to be voted for as coroners.
Few took the trouble to ballot for them, scarcely any one against them, and they were automatically inducted into office by reason of a few votes.
Just what their functions were few knew and less cared. There used to be a rumor, perhaps it is current yet in many Jersey counties, that a coroner was the only official who could legally arrest the sheriff in case that official needed taking into custody. As to the truth of this it is not important.
Certain it is that Billy Teller had never before found himself in such demand and prominence. He was to act in the capacity of judge, though the verdict in the case, providing one could be returned, would be given by the jury he might impanel.
There was a large throng in attendance at the town hall when the inquest began. Reporters had been sent out by metropolitan papers, for Horace Carwell was a well known figure in the sporting and the financial world, and the mere fact that there was a suspicion that his death was not from natural causes was enough to make it a good story.
Billy Teller was, frankly, unacquainted with the method of procedure, and he confessed as much to the prosecutor, an astute lawyer. As the latter would have the conducting of the case for the state in case it came to a trial in the upper courts, Mr. Stryker saw to it that legal forms were followed in the selection of a jury and the swearing in of the members of the panel. Then began the taking of testimony.
The doctors told of the finding of evidences of poison in Mr. Carwell's body. Its nature was as yet undetermined, for it was not of the common type.
This much Dr. Lambert stated calmly, and without attempting to go into technical details. Not so Dr. Baird. He spoke learnedly of Reinsch's test for arsenic, of Bloxam's method, of the distillation process. He juggled with words, and finally, when pinned down by a direct but homely question from Billy Teller, admitted that he did not know what had killed Mr. Carwell.
Testimony to the same effect was given by several chemists who had analyzed the stomach and viscera of the dead man. There was a sediment of poison present, they admitted, and sufficient had been extracted in a free state to end the lives of several guinea pigs on which it had been tested. But as to the exact nature of the poison they could not yet say. More time for analysis was needed.
It was certain that Mr. Carwell had come to his death by an active agent in the nature of some substance, as yet unknown, which he either swallowed purposely, by accident, or because some one gave it to him either knowingly or unknowingly. This was a sufficiently broad hypothesis on which to base almost anything, thought Colonel Ashley, as he sat and listened in the corner of the improvised courtroom.
There was a stir of excitement and anticipation when Viola was called, but beyond testifying that her father was in his usual health when he went with her to the golf game, she could throw no light on the puzzle, nor could the dead man's sister or any of the servants.
“Call Jean Forette,” said the prosecutor, and the chauffeur, a decidedly nervous man on whom the excitement of testifying plainly told, came to the stand.
He made a poor showing, and there were several whispers that ran around the courtroom, but poor Jean's rather distressing manner was improved when Mr. Stryker took him in hand to question him. The prosecutor, observing that the man was more frightened than anything else, soon put him at his ease, and then the witness told a clear and connected story. He admitted frankly that because he had not the faculty, or, perhaps, the desire to drive the big, new car, he and his late employer were to part company at the end of the month. That was no secret, and there were no hard feelings on either side. It was in the course of business, and natural.
Yes, he had driven Mr. Carwell and his daughter to the links that day in the big red, white and blue machine. Mr. Carwell had been in his usual jolly spirits, and had greeted several acquaintances on the road.
Had they stopped at any place? Oh, yes. The golfer was thirsty, and halted at a roadhouse for a pint of champagne—his favorite wine. Jean had alighted from the car to get it for him, and Viola, recalled to the stand, testified that she had seen her father drink some of the bubbling liquor. It was obvious why she had not spoken of it before, and that point was not pressed. It was known she did not share her father's love for sports and high living.
A little delay was caused while the innkeeper was sent for, but pending his arrival some other unimportant witnesses were called, among them Major Wardell, who was Mr. Carwell's rival in the golf game.
Had he heard his friend speak of feeling ill? No, not until a moment before the final stroke was made. Then Mr. Carwell had said he felt “queer,” and had acted as though dizzy. The major, who was himself quite a convivial spirit, attributed it to some highballs he and his friend had had in the clubhouse just prior to the game.
Mr. Carwell had drunk nothing during his round of golf, and had associated during the progress of the game with no one except the players who were with him from the start to the finish. He was not seen to have taken any tablets or powders that might have contained poison, and a thorough search of his person and clothing after his death had revealed nothing.
At this point the innkeeper appeared. He testified to having served Mr. Carwell's chauffeur with a pint of champagne which Jean Forette was seen to carry directly from the cafe to the waiting automobile. The champagne was from a bottle newly opened, and the innkeeper himself had selected a clean glass and carefully washed it before pouring in the wine. He knew Mr. Carwell was fastidious about such matters, as he had often spent many hours in the roadhouse.
“LeGrand Blossom!”
Now something might come out. It was known that Blossom was Mr. Carwell's chief clerk, and more than one person knew of the impending partnership, for Mr. Carwell was rather talkative at times.
“Mr. Blossom,” asked the prosecutor, after some preliminary questions, “it has been intimated—not here but outside—that the financial affairs of Mr. Carwell were not in such good shape as might be wished. Do you know anything about this?”
“I do, sir.
“Tell what you know.”
“I know he was hard pushed for money, and had to get loans from the bank and otherwise.”
“Was that unusual?”
“Yes, it was. Before he bought the big car and the yacht he carried a good balance. But I told him—”
“Never mind what you told him or he told you. That is not admissible under the circumstances. Just tell what you know.”
“Well, then I know that Mr. Carwell's affairs were in bad shape, and that he was trying to raise some ready cash.”
“How do you know this?”
“Because he asked me to put a large sum into his business and become a member of the firm.”
“He asked you to invest money and become a partner?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that is not unusual, is it? Many a business man might do the same if he wanted to branch out, mightn't he?”
“Yes. But before this Mr. Carwell had offered to take me into partnership without any advance of money on my part. Then he suddenly said he needed a large sum. He knew I had inherited eleven thousand dollars and had, moreover, made from investments.”
“And did you agree to it?”
“I said I'd think it over. I was to give him my answer the day he died.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“What would have been your answer?”
“It would have been 'no.' I didn't think I wanted to tie up with a man who was on the verge of ruin; and if you ask me I'll say I think he committed suicide because he was on the verge of financial ruin and couldn't face the music, and—”
“That will do!” came sternly from the prosecutor. “We didn't ask your opinion as to the suicide theory, and, what is more, we don't want it. I ask, your honor,” and he turned to Billy Teller, who was secretly delighted at being thus addressed, “that the last remark of the witness be stricken from the record.”
“Rub it out,” ordered the coroner, looking over at the stenographer; and the latter, with a smile, ran his pen through the curious hooks and curves that represented the “opinion” of LeGrand Blossom.
He was allowed to leave the stand, and Harry Bartlett was called next. He nodded and smiled at Viola as he walked forward through the crowd, and Captain Poland, who was sitting in front, waved his hand to his rival. For the young men were friends, even if both were in love with Viola Carwell.
“Mr Bartlett,” began the prosecutor, after some unimportant preliminary questions, “I have been informed that you had a conversation with Mr. Carwell shortly before his death. Is that true?”
“Yes, we had a talk.”
Viola started at hearing this—started so visibly that several about her noticed it, and even Colonel Ashley turned his head.
“What was the nature of the talk?” asked Mr. Stryker.
“That I can not tell,” said Bartlett firmly. “But it had nothing to do with the matter in hand.”
There was a rustle of expectancy on hearing this, and the prosecutor quickly asked:
“What do you mean by 'the matter in hand'?”
“Well, his death.”
“Naturally you didn't talk about his death, for it hadn't taken place,” said Mr. Stryker. “Nor could it have been foreseen, I imagine. But what did you talk about?”
“I decline to answer.”
There was a gasp that swept over the courtroom, and Billy Teller banged the gavel as he had seen real judges do.
“You decline to answer,” repeated the prosecutor. “Is it on the ground that it might incriminate you?”
“No.”
“Then I must insist on an answer. However, I will not do so now, but at the proper time. I will now ask you one other question, and I think you will answer that. Did you resume friendly relations with Mr. Carwell after your quarrel with him that day?” and Mr. Stryker fairly hurled the question at Harry Bartlett.
If this was a trap it was a most skillfully set one. For there must be an answer, and either no or yes would involve explanations.
“Answer me!” exclaimed the prosecutor. “Did you make up after the quarrel?”
There was a tense silence as Bartlett, whose face showed pale under his tan, said:
“I did not.”
“Then you admit that you had a quarrel with Mr. Carwell?”
“Yes, but—”
Just at this moment Viola Carwell fainted in the arms of her aunt, the resultant commotion being such that an adjournment was taken while she was carried to an anteroom, where Dr. Lambert attended her.
“We will resume where we left off,” said the prosecutor, when Bartlett again took the stand, and it might have been noticed that during the temporary recess one of the regular court constables from the county building at Loch Harbor remained close at his side. “Will you now state the nature of your quarrel with Mr. Carwell?” asked Mr. Stryker.
“I do not feel that I can.”
“Very well,” was the calm rejoinder. “Then, your honor,” and again Billy Teller seemed to swell with importance at the title, “I ask that this witness be held without bail to await a further session of this court, and I ask for an adjournment to summon other witnesses.”
“Granted,” replied Teller, who had been coached what to answer.
“Held!” exclaimed Bartlett, as he rose to his feet in indignation. “You are going to hold me! On what grounds?”
“On suspicion,” answered the prosecutor.
“Suspicion of what?”
“Of knowing something concerning the death of Mr. Carwell.”
An exclamation broke from the crowd, and Bartlett reeled slightly. He was quickly approached by the same constable who had remained at his side during the recess, and a moment later Coroner Billy Teller adjourned court.