CHAPTER VIICURIOUS QUESTIONS AND EVASIVEANSWERS
Doctor Robertslaid down his stethoscope and frowned as he gazed at Mrs. Nash, lying back on her pillow, both eyes closed, and breathing rapidly. Leaning forward he picked up her chart and read Miriam’s notations on it with a wrinkled brow.
“You must stay in bed another day,” he said finally. “The flu is treacherous.”
Mrs. Nash’s eyes slowly opened and regarded him steadily. “What’s the matter with your medicines?” she demanded. “Why am I not better?”
“Don’t be so impatient.” He evaded a direct reply. “Where is Miss Ward?”
“Asleep, I presume. She went to her room after giving me my breakfast this morning.” Mrs. Nash sat up a little straighter. “Where did you find such a pretty woman?”
“She came from the Central Registry; I know no more than that.” Roberts looked at her inquiringly. “You find her competent and intelligent?”
“As nurses go.” Mrs. Nash sniffed. An argument with Miriam that morning, in which she had come off second best, still rankled. “I admit that she is nicer in the sick room than my niece Betty.”
“Has Betty been with you this morning?”
“Yes,” grimly. “She was worse than useless. Well,” regarding Roberts attentively, “why, do you look at me like that?”
“Betty is hardly herself, Mrs. Nash, since the tragedy of yesterday.”
Mrs. Nash did not give him time to complete his sentence. “So you, too, think Betty is crushed? Well, so she is—on some one else.”
“My dear Mrs. Nash!”
Mrs. Nash smiled tolerantly and swiftly changed the subject.
“Who were all those people tramping by my door a short time ago?” she asked.
“The coroner’s jury,” responded Roberts, putting his stethoscope and sphygmomanometer in his bag.
“Oh!” Mrs. Nash sat upright; her cheeks a brighter pink. “Is the inquest being held here?”
“Not now. It met, was sworn in, and viewed the body,” replied Roberts concisely. “And then Coroner Dixon asked for a postponement—”
“Why, for goodness’ sakes!” demanded Mrs.Nash. “Doesn’t the man wish to catch Paul’s murderer?“
“Of course he does!” Roberts was conscious of a feeling of irritation; Mrs. Nash’s interminable questions were getting on his nerves. “Sheriff Trenholm wished more time before presenting the case, and the inquest is held over for a few days.”
“Does that mean that the burial has to be postponed?” she asked.
Roberts shook his head. “The body will be removed to the vault at the cemetery,” he answered. “I do not know what arrangements Alan Mason has made, further than that. Now, Mrs. Nash, you must not excite yourself,” observing her flushed appearance with concern. “Please lie down.”
Mrs. Nash subsided among the pillows, of which she had collected four, arranged entirely to her liking after earnest effort on Martha’s part to carry out her orders.
“Will you do me a favor, Doctor?” she asked as he rose and stood, bag in hand. “Please give this note to Pierre, my chauffeur, and tell him to drive into Washington and give it to my husband. Pierre is to return here immediately with every article listed in the note. If I must stay here, I will at least be comfortable.”
Roberts took the proffered note. “I will run inand see you to-night before returning to Washington,” he volunteered. “Sheriff Trenholm has asked me to dine with him.”
Mrs. Nash raised her head. “I recall Paul’s father speaking to me some years ago about a young man in whom he was interested. His name was Guy Trenholm.”
“It is the same person,” declared Roberts. “Trenholm owes much to Abbott’s generosity; he practically educated him. Now, Mrs. Nash, be sure and take the medicine prescribed, and, above all, mind what the nurse tells you.” He chuckled at her disgusted expression and, with a graceful bow, left the room.
But Roberts had ceased smiling when he went down the staircase and out of the house. Mrs. Nash’s condition puzzled him. He had been her family physician ever since her father, Owen Carter, the senior Congressman from his state, had taken up his residence in Washington. A woman spoiled, self-willed, she had held undisputed sway in her father’s household, while her frail mother had been content with the role of invalid. Mrs. Nash had allowed her eccentricities to grow upon her and Washington society had enjoyed many a quiet laugh at her expense. Her social position, her wealth, as well as her undoubted good looks and her quickwit, made her a welcome visitor. Rumors of her approaching marriage with this dignitary and that had been frequently circulated, in spite of her declaration that she preferred to be an old maid. Her marriage, therefore, to the Reverend Alexander Nash had proved something of a sensation in their small world. That her ambitions had been satisfied on becoming the wife of an unknown Doctor of Divinity, her friends and acquaintances found hard to believe.
Roberts went down the path immersed in thought. In a telephone talk that morning, Representative Carter had expressed great anxiety about his daughter’s condition and begged the doctor to see her again and curb her imprudent tendencies to neglect her health. Thereupon Roberts had turned over his patients in Washington to his assistant and motored out to Abbott’s Lodge. A cause for wonderment, which persisted even after his talk with Mrs. Nash, was why her father had shown such anxiety about her and not her husband.
Roberts was still pondering deeply when he reached the garage and Pierre’s respectful, “Bonjour, Monsieur,” brought him back to his errand.
“Morning, Pierre,” he replied. “Mrs. Nash wishes you to run into Washington with this note for her husband.”
Pierre wiped his fingers on some waste and taking the white envelope gingerly, tucked it in the pocket of his jumper.
“Yes, Monsieur, and when shall I start?”
“Now, I suppose. Have you lunched?”
“Mrs. Corbin gave me some sandwiches and tea.” Pierre picked up his chamois and can of metal polish. “That car of yours, Monsieur, it is good, but it has a slapping piston.”
“Impossible!” Roberts went over to his roadster and lifted the hood. The car was a new investment and his pride. “It was the pump you heard, Pierre, and not a piston.”
“Perhaps, Monsieur,” Pierre’s shrug was characteristic. “Allow me,” and with a quick turn of his supple wrists, he fastened the hood back in place. “But when you next start your engine, listen well.”
“Thanks, I will,” Roberts started to enter his car when the chauffeur addressed him again, somewhat diffidently.
“Please, Monsieur, is Madame very ill?” he asked.
“She fears she has the flu,” replied Roberts. “But there is nothing alarming about her condition, Pierre.”
“Is she better than last night?”
“Yes.” At the servant’s persistency Robertsclosed the door of his car without entering it and regarded the little chauffeur keenly. A thought struck him. There was a perceptible pause before he again spoke. “When did Doctor Nash return to Washington?”
“Monday night we got in, Monsieur.” Pierre paused to calculate on his fingers. “That is, Tuesday morning.”
“Ah, then you came down on a night train from New York?”
“But, no, Monsieur. Doctor Nash and Miss Carter leave me on the train at Baltimore on Monday afternoon, and the doctor he reach home on Tuesday morning.”
Roberts’ glance at Pierre became a stare. “And Miss Carter?” he questioned quickly.
A shrug of Pierre’s shoulders was most expressive. “I know nothing, Monsieur. I leave the house early to go to the garage and put Madame’s car in order.” Swiftly he changed the subject. “Does Madame wish me to come back from Washington to-night?”
“Yes, and I imagine from what she said, that Mrs. Nash will be impatient for your return,” replied Roberts, going toward the door. “Report to the nurse when you reach here.”
“Oui, Monsieur.” Pierre touched his foreheadwith his finger, then as Roberts disappeared up the walk he turned and stared at his reflection in the polished surface of the Rolls-Royce. His little pig eyes were keenly alert and he flecked an infinitesimal speck of dirt from the car door before turning away and going to his room on the floor above.
“I am to see the nurse,” he muttered below his breath. “Eh bien—perhaps!”
Most of the snow had melted in the sudden thaw of the night before and a comparatively mild temperature and brilliant sunlight tempted Roberts to stay out of doors. Turning about he strode briskly away from the house. He had traversed half the distance to the Patuxent River when he caught sight of a woman approaching along the path. Her quick, buoyant step and fine carriage first attracted his attention, and as she drew nearer he recognized Miriam Ward. At sight of him she hastened her footsteps.
“Good afternoon, Doctor,” she exclaimed. “Have you seen Mrs. Nash?”
“I have just come from her bedroom,” he answered. “When do you go on duty, Miss Ward?”
“This evening,” Miriam responded. “I left her after breakfast. Mrs. Nash prefers to have me do night duty. How did you find her?”
“Her general condition is better, but frankly,there are certain symptoms that puzzle me,” admitted Roberts. “I noticed by your chart that she had a subnormal temperature this morning. Her temperature is still down, her pulse sluggish, and respiration rapid.”
“She insists that she has the flu,” Miriam pointed out. “But the symptoms are contradictory.”
“True.” Roberts adjusted his eyeglasses. “That is what puzzles me. I have made a careful examination and find both lungs are clear. I feel that I have not located the real trouble.”
“You don’t consider her able to sit up out of bed?” questioned Miriam. “I ask because she insists upon doing so.”
“Most certainly not,” promptly. “The old house is full of draughts and improperly heated, and there might be danger of pneumonia in her run-down condition. I left a few directions on the chart for you,” added Roberts; then as Miriam, with a slight bow, started to walk past him toward the house, he detained her with a gesture. “Was the clergyman, who accompanied Miss Carter on Monday night to Abbott’s sick room, her aunt’s husband, the Reverend Doctor Nash?”
At the direct question Miriam’s color rose. “I am not sure of the relationship,” she replied. “But tothe best of my recollection, he certainly mentioned that his name was Nash.”
In silence Roberts fingered his hat which he had not replaced on his head since stopping to speak to Miriam.
“And Betty Carter denied that she had visited Paul,” he muttered. “It is most singular!”
He echoed Miriam’s thoughts, but she forbore to comment. Taking a mere acquaintance into her confidence was foreign to her reserved nature. Suddenly Roberts turned to her, his fine eyes twinkling with one of his rare smiles.
“I admire your discretion,” he said. “If I can be of any service at any time call upon me,” and with a friendly wave of his hand, he continued his interrupted stroll toward the river.
As Miriam approached the house she walked more slowly. Her hour in the fresh, invigorating air had done her more good than any tonic, and her long, uninterrupted sleep that morning had refreshed her. It was her first walk about the grounds since coming to Abbott’s Lodge, and she had admired the scenery and well-kept appearance of the estate. For the first time she realized the size of the house as she went around the path that skirted it; it was far larger than she had supposed. Entering through the sunparlor,she halted in the dining room at sight of Sheriff Trenholm conversing with Charles Corbin, the caretaker.
Trenholm’s attention was diverted from Corbin by the nurse’s arrival, and the caretaker seized the chance to edge his portly form nearer the pantry door. He stopped abruptly as the sheriff’s hawklike gaze turned swiftly back to him, and rubbed the back of his hand across his dry lips.
“Don’t go, Miss Ward,” exclaimed Trenholm. “You have come most opportunely. Exactly where did you find the bowl of nuts last night?”
“Standing on the small lamp table in the room now occupied by Mrs. Nash,” she replied. “It was pushed back against the wall.”
“When did you take that nut dish there, Corbin?” Trenholm stepped closer as he put the question and the caretaker wriggled his shoulders against the wall; the support brought back his lost sense of security. He had no love for the sheriff of the county.
“Mr. Abbott brought the nuts in some time last week,” he retorted. “I disremember the exact day, but he poured them in a bowl that usually sits over yonder on the sideboard, and he took it away—I don’t know where.”
“Think again, Corbin,” cautioned Trenholm asthe man moved uneasily. “When did you last see that bowl and the nut pick?”
“I told you I can’t think of the exact day,” was the surly reply. An idea occurred to him and his parchment-like face brightened. “I’ll get Martha; she’ll know.”
“Wait!” Trenholm’s voice rang out clearly and Corbin stopped where he was. “I’ll talk to your wife later. Who used Mrs. Nash’s bedroom?”
“It was Mr. Abbott’s bedroom, and after his death it was closed,” answered Corbin. “But lately Mr. Paul has used it as a sitting room. He told Martha it made him feel that his father was nearby and he wasn’t so lonesome.”
Trenholm viewed the caretaker in silence for a moment. “So Mr. Paul used to sit there, did he?” he asked, and Corbin contented himself with a sullen nod of his closely shaven, bullet-shaped head. “And when were you last in the room?”
“This morning.” Corbin dropped his eyes that Trenholm might not read their expression of relief at the change in the trend of his questions. “I went in to make up the fire for Mrs. Nash. There’s the telephone, sir.”
“I’ll answer it,” and turning on his heel Trenholm hastened into the living room and over to the telephone.
In an instant Corbin was gone and Miriam almost rubbed her eyes, so swift were his movements and so noiseless. Pausing long enough to pour herself out a glass of water and drink it, she followed Trenholm into the living room. The sheriff was still at the telephone and she walked over to Paul Abbott’s desk and sat down before it, intending to wait until Trenholm was disengaged.
Miriam was idly playing with one of the silver desk ornaments when she saw a package of envelopes lying on the edge of an open leather bag, which stood on a stool by the desk. Near at hand was an empty scrap basket. Again Miriam’s gaze sought the envelopes. They were oddly familiar. Stooping forward she took up the package and fingered them. In quality of paper, in quantity of stamps, they matched the half-burnt envelope which she had picked up in her bedroom twenty-four hours before. Her envelope was securely locked in her grip, but she vividly remembered the Canadian postage stamps, orange in color and five in number.
Miriam looked across the room at Guy Trenholm. He was still talking at the telephone with his back turned to her. She was oblivious of the fact that she was distinctly visible to him in the mirror hanging just before him on the wall.
Miriam studied the handwriting on the topmostenvelope—it bore Paul Abbott’s name and address. Swiftly she examined the address on each envelope—it was the same—then counted them—eleven in all. Miriam’s thoughts reverted to the black crest on her torn envelope. She turned over the eleven envelopes—the flap on each was missing.
“Miss Ward.” Betty Carter’s voice just over her shoulder made her start violently. “Will you go to my aunt at once; she needs you.”
“Certainly.” Miriam was conscious of Betty’s cold regard; but there was no hurry discernible in her movements as she replaced the rubber band around the envelopes and laid them back on the top of the open bag, which, she noticed for the first time, bore, stamped upon it, Guy Trenholm’s initials.