CHAPTER VITHE THIRD HAND
Theminutes dragged interminably to Martha Corbin and she wished most devoutly that she had gone to her room before Guy Trenholm had found her in the kitchen. The sheriff was not a man to disobey, and at his peremptory direction she had at once accompanied him upstairs to find Miriam Ward. But she had not bargained on having to take the nurse’s place in Mrs. Nash’s bedroom. Illness in any form terrified her, and only the knowledge that Miriam was across the hall kept her in her chair. At first she had not been uncomfortable, but as Miriam’s absence grew prolonged, the housekeeper found it impossible to keep still. Her twitching fingers fumbled with the arms of the tufted chair until she had loosened four or five upholstery buttons and pulled off several inches of braid. Bouncing to her feet she looked at Mrs. Nash, then, convinced that she was still asleep, she tiptoed over to the old-fashioned bureau at the opposite end of the room.
Martha studied her reflection in the mirror abovethe bureau for fully five minutes. Displeased with her slovenly appearance, she let down her hair and, picking up the comb and hair-brush which Miriam had loaned to Mrs. Nash earlier in the evening, she tried several ways of dressing her hair. Mrs. Nash’s gold vanity case next attracted her attention and at least ten minutes were consumed in applying first rouge and then powder. Finally she stood back to note the effect upon her complexion. A slow smile of satisfaction stole across her face, and, without the slightest compunction, she transferred a large gob of the rouge to a piece of tissue paper and, folding it many times, stuffed it inside her dress, for future use.
Tiring of staring at her own countenance, Martha went over to a large bow window and, leaning on the ledge, peered out into the darkness. Familiar as she was with the location of the bedroom, she knew the direction in which she was gazing, but it was impossible for her to distinguish even an outline of the large modern garage which had been built in the rear of the house some years previously. Corbin had told her that he would return from a trip to Upper Marlboro before ten o’clock, but that she was not to wait up for him as he would occupy one of the servants’ bedrooms in the garage, theother having been prepared for Pierre, Mrs. Nash’s chauffeur.
The weather had moderated with the suddenness which characterizes the disconcerting alterations in temperature in the vicinity of the District of Columbia and southern Maryland. The drip, drip, drip of the thawing snow on the eaves of the house came distinctly to Martha through the half-open window, while the heavy mist, rising from the Patuxent River, on the banks of which the estate of Abbott’s Lodge bordered, but made the outer darkness more impenetrable.
With a slight shiver, Martha faced about, thankful for the companionable warmth of the carefully shaded light in the bedroom. It was no night for any one to be out, and for the matter of that, it was time that a hard-working woman was allowed to go to bed. Martha’s lips quivered as her grievance increased in importance the more she dwelt upon it. Was she never to be considered? Well, she would go. What was Mrs. Nash to her? The master was dead—
“Paul!”
The name, pronounced with startling distinctness by Mrs. Nash, caused Martha to clutch the window curtains in sudden fright. In the silence that followed she gathered courage to draw closer to thebed. Mrs. Nash lay with eyes tightly closed and Martha judged from her slow and regular breathing that she was still asleep. A hasty glance about the room convinced her that she and Mrs. Nash were alone. Martha crossed herself devoutly just as the sick woman spoke again.
“Paul, can you hear me?” she asked.
Martha’s shaking knees carried her only a few inches from the bed, and then curiosity overcame her terror. Mrs. Nash was talking in her sleep. With extreme caution she got down on her hands and knees and crept to the side of the bed. For fully fifteen minutes she crouched there, but Mrs. Nash did not speak again. Slowly and with great pains Martha straightened up sufficiently to get a good look at Mrs. Nash. She had not altered her position and lay with eyes still closed. With the determination of a weak and obstinate nature, Martha decided to remain where she was, and cast about for a satisfactory explanation of her position by the bed should Miriam Ward return. She was laboriously thinking one up when her eyes were attracted by the constant movement of a hand on the pillow. Martha wished most heartily that Mrs. Nash would keep still, and she almost gave tongue to her thoughts; but speech was arrested by the suddenrealization that both of Mrs. Nash’s hands lay perfectly quiet on the counterpane.
With eyes distended to twice their natural size, Martha watched the third hand slip under the pillow and then out again. As it approached the throat of the sleeping woman, she saw clearly the long, sensitive fingers and the heavy signet ring—
Martha’s frayed nerves gave way. Her mouth dropped open and sheer terror gave strength to the shriek which broke from her. When Miriam raced into the room she found her a crumpled, unconscious heap in the center of the floor and Mrs. Nash sitting up in bed regarding her with ashen face.
“Is she dead?” she gasped.
“No; just a faint.” Miriam’s calm tones belied her feelings; she was almost as startled as Mrs. Nash. “Please lie down again, Mrs. Nash, and keep yourself covered; otherwise you will take cold.” She paused by the bedside long enough to pull up the bedclothes and make Mrs. Nash comfortable, then hurried to her emergency kit and from it took a little aromatic spirits of ammonia. Martha revived quickly under the restorative. Later she staggered to her feet and, with Miriam’s assistance, took a few halting steps toward the hall door. She stopped abruptly on the threshold at sight of Sheriff Trenholm and Alan waiting anxiously in the hall.
“What has happened?” asked Trenholm. “Is Mrs. Nash worse?”
“No,” replied Miriam. “I am not sure what occurred. Martha refuses to tell me. Perhaps if you question her—”
“I felt fainty, like,” broke in Martha with marked haste. She avoided looking at the two men. “Please, Miss—Ma’am, take me to my room.”
Trenholm read Miriam’s hesitation aright. “Go and stay with Mrs. Nash, Alan,” he directed, “until Miss Ward returns. Now, Martha,” and before the startled housekeeper could protest, he picked her up in his arms and started down the hall. Pausing only long enough to take a bottle of medicine and a glass, Miriam hurried after the sheriff, as Alan went in to speak to Mrs. Nash.
The suite of rooms, comprising sitting room, bedroom and bath, which Corbin and his wife occupied, was at one end of the winding corridor and off a landing halfway up a flight of steps leading to the garret. Miriam took note of the comfortable furniture in the bedroom as she assisted Martha out of her clothes and into bed. The housekeeper was taciturn to the point of sullenness, and Miriam finally forbore to address her.
“Drink this,” she handed a glass to Martha as she spoke. “It is a harmless sedative; don’t be alarmed,”observing the woman’s expression. “You will feel better in the morning.”
“Will it make me sleep?” asked Martha, huddling down under the blankets.
“Yes.” Miriam halted by the door. “Is there anything more I can do for you?”
“No.” Martha remembered her manners and her face emerged from under the blankets. “Thank you, Ma’am—Miss. Jest blow out the lamp as you go along.”
Miriam hesitated. “You are not afraid to stay in the dark?”
“No, Ma’am—Miss. Good night.”
Miriam echoed the words as she carried out Martha’s wishes, then closing the door softly she went thoughtfully down the corridor. She had almost reached Mrs. Nash’s door when Trenholm called her name softly and joined her a moment later.
“Did you learn anything from the housekeeper?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Martha hardly spoke.” Miriam paused. “Her condition may be due to hysteria.”
Trenholm studied her expression. “But you don’t think so—”
She looked straight at him. “No. I believe the woman was almost paralyzed with fright.”
Trenholm remained silent for a few seconds, then roused himself.
“You may be right,” he said. “I hope Mrs. Nash suffers no ill effects from her rude awakening. A moment, Miss Ward,” as Miriam laid her hand on Mrs. Nash’s bedroom door. “Please tell Mr. Mason that I will remain with Abbott’s body. If you,” he lowered his voice almost to a whisper, “if you need me, you will find me there,” and turning he went down the corridor.
Alan Mason rose at Miriam’s approach and relinquished his seat by the bedside, with a relieved air.
“Mrs. Nashwilltalk,” he remarked, “although I tried to monopolize the conversation in the hope of making her sleepy. Is there anything more I can do?” His question was intended for Miriam but Mrs. Nash answered it.
“Close the door behind you,” she said tartly, and Alan colored as he met Miriam’s dark eyes, with a faint quizzical gleam in them.
“Sheriff Trenholm is with the body,” she murmured, as he passed her on his way out of the room. “Good night.”
“What did you say?” demanded Mrs. Nash, raising herself on her elbow.
Miriam bent over her and straightened the pillows with a practiced hand. “Isn’t that more comfortable?” she asked, as Mrs. Nash sank back with a sigh. “It is time for your medicine,” glancing, as she spoke, at her wrist watch. “Just a second,” and moving swiftly over to the table, she prepared it and then returned to the bed. She expected some difficulty in persuading Mrs. Nash to take it, but to her secret surprise the latter swallowed it without a murmur, but with a wry face.
“Roberts never prescribed an agreeable dose,” she commented, after sipping a glass of water. “Sit by me, Miss Ward, I want to ask you some questions.”
“Not to-night,” Miriam’s charming smile softened her refusal. “You must go to sleep.”
“With that howl still ringing in my ears!” Mrs. Nash’s shudder was no affectation, but a true indication of her state of mind. “What possessed the woman?”
“Hysterics,” briefly. “Now, Mrs. Nash, you really must close your eyes.”
“In a minute. Sit down just a second.” Mrs. Nash’s tone could be coaxing when she wished. “I’ll do whatever you say if you will answer a few questions.”
“I can’t promise.”
“Now, don’t be obstinate.” Mrs. Nash glancedat her shrewdly. “If you irritate me, I’ll not sleep at all,” and she squared her shoulders with an air of determination which made Miriam’s heart sink. She knew, none better, that often temper and temperature went hand and hand in the sick room. Humoring a patient was occasionally a short cut to health as well as peace.
“What is it you wish to know?” she asked, sitting down.
Mrs. Nash smiled, well pleased with having gained her point.
“What killed Paul?” she asked, and at Miriam’s frown, added hastily: “There is nothing in that question to send my temperature skyward. Was he poisoned?”
“No; stabbed.” Miriam met her piercing black eyes steadily, while wondering at the concentration of her regard. Mrs. Nash sat bolt upright.
“Was the knife left in the body?” she demanded.
“No.”
“Have they found it?”
“No.” Miriam hastened to supplement her second monosyllable with a further statement as she saw another question trembling on Mrs. Nash’s lips. “The weapon has not been foundyet.”
“Then how do they know that he was stabbed?” persisted Mrs. Nash.
“By the nature of the wound,” replied Miriam. “Sheriff Trenholm told me just now that the autopsy proved Mr. Abbott died from what is known as a punctured wound.”
“And what is that precisely?”
“Why, the weapon used left a fusiform or spindle-shaped wound,” she added, observing Mrs. Nash’s blank expression. “Now, please lie down again, for that is the last question I am going to answer to-night,” and the gentle firmness of her voice convinced Mrs. Nash that she meant what she said. But before she settled back on the pillows she looked around at her nurse.
“Was my niece talking to Guy Trenholm in the hall before you came in here a second time?” she inquired.
Miriam shook her head in the negative. “Not to my knowledge. I have not seen Miss Carter since dinner.”
Mrs. Nash grunted as she turned over on her side. “Well, if Betty slept through Martha’s dreadful scream she rivals the seven sleepers,” she commented and closed her eyes.
It was after three o’clock when Miriam threw back the blanket which she had wrapped around herself and rose softly from the chair by the bedside. Mrs. Nash had been asleep for fully twohours. Miriam was thoroughly chilled and she chafed one hand over the other as she walked noiselessly up and down the bedroom, hoping to stimulate circulation. She stopped finally by the table where stood the lamp and laid her hands on its glass globe. As she stood warming them by the heat from the lamp, she observed a bowl of nuts pushed toward the back of the table. Her vigil had sharpened her appetite, and she had regretted several times that she had neglected to ask Martha for a night lunch.
Reaching over she pulled the bowl toward her and took up one of the walnuts and the nut cracker. As the instrument crunched over the nut, it sounded in the stillness like a miniature firecracker and she paused, and looked over her shoulder in alarm at her patient. Apparently the noise had not disturbed Mrs. Nash, for she slept peacefully on. Several tempting pieces of the nut meat stuck in the shell and not daring to use the nut cracker again, she started to take up the nut pick lying in the bowl. For fully five seconds she stood staring at it, her hand poised in mid-air; then with one hurried, comprehensive look about the room and at her sleeping patient, she picked up the bowl and sped into the hall, her flying footsteps deadened by the strip of carpet which ran its length, and brought up breathlessby the sofa on which Sheriff Trenholm had thrown himself, fully dressed, a short time before.
“Look!” she exclaimed, keeping her voice lowered in spite of her excitement, and she pointed to the nut pick. It was of finest steel, about eight inches long, with a straight, sharp point and sharpened fluted edges running along its sides. From point to handle it was stained a dull red.
“Blood!” The word escaped Guy Trenholm in little more than a whisper, and simultaneously they turned to the undertaker’s couch near the center of the room on which lay all that was mortal of Paul Abbott.
“The wound was spindle-shaped,” Miriam added in a voice not quite steady, and Trenholm bowed his head.
“You have found the weapon, undoubtedly,” he said. “Thank you.”