CHAPTER IIICOMPLICATIONS
Alan Masonstopped his restless pacing back and forth and looked at his watch—two o’clock. Surely, the autopsy must be over! He had waited for what appeared an interminable time for the County coroner, his assistant and Doctor Roberts to join him in the living room as they had promised. The afternoon papers would soon be off the press and distributed to the public; it would not be long before the reporters from the other local papers and even the representatives of the great news services located in the National Capital would be at Abbott’s Lodge in search of the sensational. And they would find it! Alan’s lips were compressed in a hard line. Only six months before he and his cousin, Paul Abbott, had been the closest of “buddies,” then had come the estrangement and now death.
Paul had been a social favorite, liked by one and all, and while he had absented himself from Washington during the past year, his tragic death would come as a great shock to his many friends. AndBetty Carter—what of her? Alan raised his hands to his temples and brushed his unruly hair upward until it stood on end. The action did not bring any solution of his problems, and with a groan he resumed his restless walk about the living room.
In remodeling the house, Paul Abbott, Senior, had thrown several small rooms into one, also taking down the partitions which inclosed the old-fashioned square staircase, and made the whole into a combination of hallway and living room. He had shown excellent taste in furnishing the old house, using in most instances the mahogany which had been in the family for generations, and when necessary to purchase other pieces of furniture he had hunted in highways and byways for genuine antiques.
But Alan was in no frame of mind to appreciate rare pieces of Hepplewhite, Sheraton, and Chippendale. Tired of the monotony of his surroundings, he strolled into the dining room and walked moodily across it, intending to pour out a glass of water from a carafe on the sideboard. The room was square in shape, with two bow windows and a door leading into a sunparlor which, in summer, the elder Abbott had used as a breakfast room, as the large pantry gave access into it as well as into the regular dining room. From where he stood by the sideboard, Alan could overlook, through one of the bow windows,the garden entrance to the sunparlor. The snow had formed in high drifts, covering completely the rosebushes which, as he recollected, surrounded a plot of grass in the center of which stood an old sundial. It also was blanketed in snow.
As he gazed idly out of the window, Alan saw the door of the sunparlor swing slowly outward. The piled-up snow caused it to jam and he watched with some amusement the efforts of Corbin, the caretaker, to squeeze his portly frame through the partly open door. Once outside Corbin used his snow shovel with vigorous strokes until he had cleared the topmost step. Closing the door to the sunparlor, he leaned his shovel against it, took out his pipe, lighted it, tossed away the match, and drawing on his woolen mitts, he wiped the snow from one of the panes of window glass. Pausing deliberately he glanced about him, and then, cupping his hands, he pressed them against the window and peered inside the sunparlor. Something furtive in the man’s action claimed Alan’s attention, and he drew back into the protection of the window curtain. The precaution was unnecessary. Corbin straightened up and without a glance at the dining room window, took from his pocket a small metal case. Whatever its contents it drew a smile so evil that Alan stared at the man aghast. He had notbeen prepossessed in the man’s favor on the few occasions when visiting Paul Abbott, Senior, and his son before the war, and had wondered at Paul retaining him in his employ after his father’s death.
Returning the case to his pocket, Corbin cleaned the snow from the remaining steps and commenced to shovel a path toward the kitchen. He had almost completed the distance when he paused, stared thoughtfully around him, and then walked back to the sunparlor, clambered cumbersomely up the steps to the door and again peered inside. Fully two minutes passed before he stepped down and walked along the shoveled path.
His curiosity piqued by the man’s behavior, Alan waited until Corbin had disappeared from sight, then, turning on his heel, he entered the sunparlor. Evidently Paul had used the room as a lounge, for the wicker furniture, with its attractive cretonne covering, looked homelike and comfortable. Magazines, several books, and a smoking set were on the nearest table, while flower boxes on two sides of the sunparlor added a touch of the tropics, with their hothouse plants. Alan walked past a wicker sofa and several wing chairs grouped at one end and halted abruptly at sight of Miriam Ward lying asleep in one of the long lounging chairs. She had not heard him enter, for she slept on—the deepsleep, as Alan judged from her heavy breathing, of utter exhaustion.
Alan turned and stared about the sunparlor. Except for himself and the trained nurse, the room was empty. What then had absorbed Corbin’s attention? Could it have been Miss Ward? He easily detected the particular pane of glass through which the caretaker had peered so intently. Miss Ward was seated directly in its line of vision. What was there about the nurse to make Corbin evince such interest in her?
Alan drew a step closer and stared at the sleeping girl with critical eyes. A little above the medium height of women, slender, well proportioned, her small feet shod in perfectly fitting low white shoes, which showed a very pretty ankle, she lay snuggled down in the cushions. He noted the clear olive of her skin, the deep dimple, almost a cleft, in her chin, the long, heavy lashes, the delicate arch of her finely marked eyebrows, and the soft and abundant hair, which she wore low on her forehead. He judged her to be not over twenty-six and wondered at the pathetic droop of her small mouth. Even in repose there was a suggestion of sadness, of hidden tragedy in her face which, recalling the beauty of her dark eyes, rekindled the interest he had felt in Miriam Ward at their first meeting.
His impulse to awaken her was checked by the thought that she needed the nap—probably the first sound sleep that she had had since coming on the case. It would be cruel to awaken her unnecessarily. Turning about he tiptoed back into the dining room. The sound of his name being softly called caused him to hasten into the living room. Looking up the staircase he saw Doctor Roberts leaning over the banisters and beckoning to him. Taking the stairs two at a time, Alan was by his side in an instant.
“Well,” he asked breathlessly. “What news? Have you performed the autopsy?”
“Yes. Come into Paul’s bedroom,” and as he spoke Roberts led the way across the hall.
Two men were in the bedroom and they both glanced around at the opening of the door. The County Coroner, Doctor James Dixon, Alan knew but slightly; the other, Guy Trenholm, had been his companion on many a hunting trip in the past. Trenholm was of giant stature, with the arms and brawn of the prize ring. There was a certain look in his gray eyes, however, which indicated power of mind as well as physical strength. The son of the town drunkard, Trenholm had spent the first twenty years of his life doing odd chores for the farmers thereabouts and gaining a checkered education, finally acquiring enough money to see him through fouryears at the University of Maryland. He had been one of the first to enlist upon the entrance of the United States into the World War and at its close had returned to Upper Marlboro with an established record as a “first class fighting man.” For nearly a year he had held the office of county sheriff. He greeted Alan with a silent nod and a handclasp, the strength of which made the latter wince.
“Hello, Mason!” exclaimed Coroner Dixon, hustling forward. “I’d no idea you were in these parts again. Your cousin’s death is most distressing.”
“And a great shock,” added Alan soberly. “I was very fond of Paul. We were pals, you know.”
“I understood that you two had quarreled,” broke in Roberts, then observing Alan’s frown, he added hastily: “Forgive me, I did not mean to hurt you by alluding to a painful incident.”
“Whatever my feeling in the past, I can harbor no resentment now,” retorted Alan, his quick temper ruffled by Roberts’ mention of an unhappy memory. “Well, gentlemen, what is the result of the autopsy?”
“Are you asking as a newspaper man or as next of kin?” inquired Coroner Dixon, regarding Alan’s flushed countenance attentively.
“As Paul’s cousin,” quickly. “Whatever you tell me I will consider strictly confidential.”
“In that case,”—Dixon selected a chair—“we held the autopsy in a spare bedroom at the back of the house,” observing Alan’s eyes stray toward the four-post bedstead, the curtains of which still remained drawn. “The undertaker and his assistants are there now.” He sat back and regarded Alan. “We can consult together here without being disturbed. As you know, Mr. Abbott had been ill for several days with an attack of bronchitis and threatened pneumonia; this, coupled with heart complications, made his condition very serious.”
“But did either cause his death?” asked Alan.
“No,” responded the coroner. “We probed the wound in his back and found that the weapon had penetrated the left lung. In his weakened condition, death must have been instantaneous.”
Alan drew a long breath. “So the wound really was fatal!” he exclaimed. “The lack of much blood led me to believe that possibly the weapon had not struck a vital point.”
“The hemorrhage was internal.” Coroner Dixon’s expression grew more serious. “There is no doubt, Mason, but that your cousin was murdered.”
Alan passed his hand across his eyes. “My God!” he groaned. “Who harbored such animosity against Paul and how was the murder committed?”
“That is what we have to find out,” cut in SheriffTrenholm. “Where is the nurse who was with Mr. Abbott last night, Doctor Roberts?”
“In her room, I presume—”
“No, she is asleep downstairs,” interrupted Alan hastily. “Shall I call her?” A nod from Trenholm was his only answer, and Alan hurried from the room, but at the head of the staircase he caught a glimpse of a white skirt disappearing around the further corner of the hall and he changed his direction. He caught up with Miriam Ward just as she was turning the knob of a closed door, a number of towels in her left hand.
“You are wanted by the coroner,” he explained, as she stopped at sight of him.
Miriam grew a shade paler. “Very well,” she replied, “But first—” she handed the towels to the undertaker and closed the door again. “Where is the coroner, Mr. Mason?”
“In my cousin’s old bedroom.” Alan suited his long stride to her shorter one. “I hope you feel a bit rested,” glancing down at her with some concern, but it was doubtful if she heard his remark, her attention being centered on a figure coming up the staircase. Alan stopped short as he recognized the newcomer and his face grew stern.
“Betty!” he exclaimed.
She stared at him for a long moment, then withouta word of any kind she walked by them and through the bedroom door near which Doctor Roberts was standing, waiting to greet her. Without halting Betty made at once for the four-post bedstead.
“Wait, Betty!” Alan had gained her side and laid a compelling hand on her arm. “Paul is not there.”
Betty regarded him in utter silence, then faced about and looked at the small group in the bedroom.
“Paul is dead—dead!” she spoke with great difficulty, one hand plucking always at the collar of her fur coat. “You shall not keep me from him. You—” for a second her blazing eyes scanned Sheriff Trenholm—“you dare not.”
“Hush, Betty!” Roberts took the overwrought girl’s hand in his. “You shall see Paul later, dear, that I promise you. Sit down and calm yourself.”
“I have your word?” Betty’s great eyes never left Roberts. “I shall see Paul?”
“Yes. There, sit down,” as Miriam Ward pulled forward a chair.
“Perhaps the young lady had better withdraw to another room,” suggested Coroner Dixon. “We are about to start an investigation—”
“An investigation?” Betty’s high-pitched voice, carrying a warning note of approaching hysteria toMiriam Ward’s watchful ears, reached to the hall beyond and a figure crouching near the bedroom door, which had been inadvertently left open a few inches, leaned forward, the better to catch what was transpiring in the room. “What do you mean, sir?”
Coroner Dixon contemplated her for a second in silence. Betty’s unusual beauty generally commanded attention, but something in her expression focused the Coroner’s regard rather than her good looks, marred as they were by deep circles under her eyes and haggard lines about her mouth. He answered her question with another.
“Your name, madam?” he asked. “And your relation to the dead man?”
“This is Miss Betty Carter,” broke in Doctor Roberts. “Mr. Abbott’s fiancée.”
“Is it so?” Coroner Dixon’s interest quickened. “Then Mr. Abbott—”
“Was very dear to me.” Betty’s tone had grown husky. “I must know all about his death.” Her gaze swept Guy Trenholm, standing somewhat in the background. “It is my right.”
Coroner Dixon turned and glanced in doubt at Trenholm. At the latter’s reassuring nod he faced about.
“Very well, Miss Carter,” he began. “Since youinsist I will tell you what we have learned.” He cleared his voice before continuing. “Judging by the condition of the body, Mr. Abbott died between one-thirty this morning and three o’clock. He was stabbed.”
“Stabbed!” With a convulsive movement Betty gained her feet, her face deadly white. “Stabbed!”
Doctor Roberts laid a soothing hand on hers. “Be quiet, Betty,” he cautioned. “Or you will have to go and lie down.”
She shook off his hand. “Go on,” she directed, and the urgency of her tone caused Dixon to speak more rapidly.
“Mr. Abbott was stabbed in the back,” he stated. “We know no more than that, at present.”
Without taking her gaze from the coroner, Betty resumed her seat. Then she turned to Roberts. “I heard yesterday that Paul was very ill, and that you were attending him professionally. Were you with him last night?”
“Yes; until Miss Ward came and then I put her in charge of the case,” replied Roberts. “She can tell you what happened after my departure.”
Miriam Ward faced their concentrated regard with outward composure. Caught by chance in the web of circumstance, she was keenly alive to her unhappy share in the tragic occurrences of the nightbefore. Having a high regard for her profession and throwing her heart and soul into her work she felt, however little she had been to blame, that the stigma of neglect of a patient would be laid at her door.
“Before leaving, Doctor Roberts gave me full instructions,” she began. “And I carried them out. My chart shows that—”
“But your last entry was made shortly after midnight,” pointed out Sheriff Trenholm, picking up the chart from the table at his elbow. “Why was that, Miss Ward?”
“I was interrupted by the arrival of Miss Carter,” she replied, and the unexpected answer brought a startled exclamation from three of her companions; then their gaze left the nurse and centered on Betty. The latter raised her eyes and regarded the trained nurse. If chiseled from marble, her white face could not have been more devoid of human expression.
“God bless my soul!” ejaculated Doctor Roberts. “What were you doing here, Betty?”
The girl paid not the slightest attention to him; instead she addressed Miriam, and the others were startled at her tone.
“Go on with your story,” she said. “Speak quickly,” with a glance at her wrist watch. “Time is passing.”
“Miss Carter was accompanied by a clergyman.” Miriam spoke more slowly, weighing her words. “I—I”—she hesitated for a brief moment—“I cannot recall his name—”
“Continue,” directed Dixon, as she paused. “Did Miss Carter and her companion see Mr. Abbott?”
“I think they did;” she hesitated. “I feel sure they did—”
“Why are you in doubt about it?” demanded Trenholm quickly. “Weren’t you in the room with them?”
Miriam shook her head. “Not all the time,” she admitted. “The clergyman sent me downstairs to get a lamp as the one in this room had burned out. When I came back—”
“Yes—what then?” Sheriff Trenholm could not restrain his impatience at her slow speech.
“The clergyman had just completed the marriage service.”
Her words created a sensation. Doctor Roberts’ eyes fairly started from his head, and Alan Mason’s excited ejaculation drowned Dixon’s more softly spoken exclamation. Only Guy Trenholm gave no voice to his feelings. With eyes fixed steadfastly upon Betty, he remained as emotionless apparently as she.
“What transpired next?” inquired Dixon.
“They left,” tersely. Miriam’s heart was beating quickly, and her cold fingers were playing a devil’s tattoo on the arm of her chair. Before she could say more, Betty leaned forward and held up her hand.
“Just a moment!” She spoke slowly, distinctly. “What were you, a trained nurse, doing when your patient was stabbed to death?”
Miriam whitened, but faced her questioner with quiet courage.
“I was lying near the bed unconscious,” she admitted, “having been chloroformed.”
Betty rose to her feet. “I have heard that a person under the influence of chloroform or ether is subject to hallucinations,” she said. “I prefer to believe that than to think you are demented.”
“Demented!” Miriam sprang up, her eyes flashing with indignation.
Betty addressed Sheriff Trenholm directly, ignoring the others. “The nurse is either demented or drawing upon her imagination,” she declared. “I was not here last night.” She faced Miriam and her glance was impersonal, unfaltering. “Nor have I ever seen you before.”