CHAPTER XITHE FOLDED NOTE
Theundertaker’s assistant looked in deep embarrassment at Betty Carter as he remained standing in front of the closed door of the room where lay Paul Abbott’s body.
“I’m sorry, Miss,” he said. “Those are the sheriff’s orders. No one is to go into the room now.”
“But why?” demanded Betty. “The funeral will be held in half an hour, and”—her voice quivered—“I want to—to see him before the casket is closed.”
Thompson moved uneasily from one foot to the other; Betty’s distress disturbed him. “I’m very sorry,” he mumbled. “Indeed I am—but it’s not possible. Perhaps,” his face brightened as the idea occurred to him, “perhaps you can see Mr. Trenholm and get his permission. Here he comes now,“ as a figure appeared at the far end of the corridor and came toward them. “Oh, pshaw! it’s a woman.”
Somers, Mrs. Nash’s maid, greeted Betty in a subdued voice. “Please, Miss Betty,” she said. “Where will I find your aunt? The young woman who let me in declined to come upstairs.”
Betty glanced impatiently at the British maid. “Come this way,” she turned as she spoke, then hesitated and addressed Thompson. “If you see Sheriff Trenholm tell him, please, I must go in this room.”
“Yes, Miss,” and Thompson, considerably relieved by the maid’s opportune arrival, resumed his slow pacing back and forth before the door.
The sound of his voice and Betty’s had carried inside the bedroom, but neither of the two men in it paid the slightest attention. The photographer put up his plates and closed his camera.
“I’ve taken four views, Mr. Trenholm,” he said. “Is that enough?”
Trenholm nodded as he handed the man his flashlight apparatus. “Develop the plates and let me have the prints as quickly as possible,” he directed. “Do you need any assistance?” as the photographer shouldered his camera, tripod, and utility box.
“No, thanks.” In spite of his haste to be gone, the man was careful to walk as far from the undertaker’s couch with its silent figure as the limits of the room permitted. “I’ll get these to you to-night. Where shall I send the photographs? Here, or to your home?”
“My home,” briefly. Trenholm held open the hall door for him to pass through, then spoke a fewwhispered words to Thompson. Ten minutes later the body of Paul Abbott had been carried downstairs and the casket closed, while arrangements for the funeral went steadily on.
Trenholm listened impassively to Thompson’s flurried delivery of Betty’s message, the latter having forgotten it utterly in his astonishment at finding Trenholm had been in the bedroom at the time Betty wished to enter.
“The casket is not to be opened again,” the sheriff said sternly. “Understand, Thompson—under no circumstances is it to be opened,” and turning he mounted the staircase and found Betty standing at the top landing, waiting for him.
“I heard what you said,” she stated. “And would like an explanation of your extraordinary conduct.”
“There is nothing extraordinary about it,” Trenholm replied quietly. “If you really insist upon an explanation—”
“I do,” her passion rising.
“Paul died Monday night—this is Thursday,” he spoke gravely. “A change has already set in and it is not possible to keep the casket open longer.”
Betty was thankful for the railing of the stairs to lean against.
“I have never been permitted to be with him—”
“I beg your pardon—you have.”
“Never alone.” She had turned ghastly in color. “Always you have had some one stationed in the room.”
Trenholm looked at her in growing concern. “Hadn’t you better rest?” he asked. “The funeral will take place in twenty minutes.”
Trenholm was doubtful if she heard him, so fixed was her stare. He turned quickly to see what had focused her attention. Standing by the newel post was Alexander Nash in earnest conversation with Alan Mason and a third man, the rector of the Episcopal church at Upper Marlboro. Trenholm laid his hand on Betty’s arm. It was shaken off instantly and she shot down the hall to her bedroom without further word. Trenholm stood in thought for several minutes and then joined Alan Mason.
The hands of the grandfather clock in the living room were pointing to three when the funeral services commenced. Betty, accompanied by Alexander Nash, was the last to enter and take the seat reserved for her by Alan Mason’s side. A few friends from Washington had motored out to Abbott’s Lodge, while the residents in the vicinity had come in a body to attend the services.
Upstairs in her bedroom Mrs. Nash motioned to Somers to come to her, and with reluctance the Englishwoman left her post by the door where shehad been keeping an attentive ear for all that was transpiring below.
“Help me up,” ordered Mrs. Nash, in a tone Somers had learned not to disregard. “Get my slippers and wrapper.” She was panting from her exertions when she finally reached the hall door, a protesting Somers struggling to steady her with a feverish grasp of her elbow.
“Tut, be quiet, Somers; I can’t hear a word,” and Mrs. Nash appeared in the hall and peered down it. Shifting her husband’s cane, which she had picked up on her way from the room, to the other hand, she rested her weight on Somers’ arm, and went slowly to the top of the staircase. From there she could hear in the stillness the words of the Episcopal service. When she raised her head after the final prayer, Somers saw that her cheeks were wet with tears.
“I’ll rest here,” she announced, dropping weakly into a chair by the stairhead. “Oh, it doesn’t matter what I’m sitting on,” as Somers attempted to remove several overcoats, evidently the overflow from the wraps lying in the living room below. “Bring me the small glass of whisky which Miss Betty poured out before she went downstairs.”
In her haste Somers neglected to add any water and Mrs. Nash drank the whisky neat with a wryface. With the false strength engendered by the stimulant, she managed to get back to her room and into bed before her husband came upstairs.
“How are you, dear?” he asked solicitously. “Do you feel stronger?”
“Yes, now that I’ve taken some whisky,” promptly, conscious that the telltale fumes might betray her activities if questioned on the subject. “Are the services over?”
He bowed gravely. “Betty and I are just starting for the cemetery.”
“Where is Alan Mason?” sharply.
“He is going with us, also Sheriff Trenholm. Is there anything I can do for you before I leave, Dora?”
“Not a thing, thanks.”
Nash looked across the room at Somers; she had her back turned, while engaged in putting Mrs. Nash’s lingerie neatly away in the bureau drawer. Stooping over, Nash kissed his wife with unwonted tenderness, then, pressing her hand, hurried away as his name was called by Alan Mason just outside the bedroom door.
A room had been prepared for Somers halfway down the corridor of the right-hand wing of the house, and between Mrs. Nash’s periods of dozing the maid succeeded, with Martha Corbin’s help,in arranging her belongings to her satisfaction. Somers’ methodical mind would not permit her to rest until her own room and that of Mrs. Nash were in apple-pie order. Her trips back and forth took her past Miriam Ward’s bedroom and on her final excursion she stumbled over Martha who, not expecting Somers to return so quickly, had knelt down and applied her eye to the keyhole of Miriam’s door.
The commotion aroused Miriam from fitful slumber and, springing out of bed, she threw her dressing gown over her shoulders and looked out into the corridor. Somers, rising slowly to her feet, was rubbing a rheumatic knee, while her bewildered eyes followed Martha’s fleeing figure.
“Are you hurt?” asked Miriam, noting with surprise the scattered bundle on the floor.
“No, Madam,” Somers’ precision of speech and her rising intonation clearly denoted her nationality. “A bit shaken,” her smile was wintry. “Excuse me for disturbing you.”
“Come inside,” suggested Miriam kindly, observing that, in spite of her disclaimer, the elderly woman was considerably upset. “Don’t stoop over, I will pick up what you dropped. Sit here in this chair,” and Somers, after a feeble protest, did as she was told.
“I don’t know where that woman sprung from,” she added, after describing what had happened. “My arms were full of bed linen and I wasn’t looking down. She’s a bit uncanny, Miss, don’t you think?”
Miriam nodded absently. “Martha is odd,” she admitted, as she handed a small dose of aromatic ammonia to Somers. “Drink this and you will feel better.”
“Thank you, Miss,” exclaimed Somers gratefully, then her mind reverted to Martha. “She wouldn’t be so bad, if she wasn’t so—so—” casting about for a proper word to express her opinion—“so creepy; and those eyes of hers!” with a shudder. “They give me the horrors.”
Miriam smiled, not unkindly. Somers was typical of her class—intelligent, unimaginative, a trifle garrulous and a lover of routine, with a dislike for anything out of the ordinary. And she had come to Abbott’s Lodge! Miriam’s smile deepened. Judging by her own experiences, the maid was reasonably certain to encounter the unusual if she remained long in attendance on Mrs. Nash.
Somers’ honest, comely face grew troubled and she straightened up with a jerk. “I must be getting back to Mrs. Nash,” she said. “If you don’t mind,Miss, I’ll leave the linen here and put it away later in my room.”
“How is Mrs. Nash?” asked Miriam, and the maid paused with her hand on the door.
“She was asleep when I left her,” responded Somers. “Excuse me, but aren’t you Miss Ward?”
“Yes.”
“I thought so,” and Somers nodded sagely. “Mrs. Nash has told me what you have done for her. She is very fond of you, Miss, and,” lowering her voice, “Mrs. Nash can be a very good friend, as well as”—her voice sank to an even lower key—“a good hater.”
Miriam eyed the maid in some perplexity. Was her snap-judgment wrong and Somers, instead of a staid, middle-aged Englishwoman, a lover of romance?
Somers gave her no time for reflection. With a murmured word of thanks she went into the hall and closed the door. Miriam walked over to her bureau and consulted her watch—nearly five o’clock. She was in no mood to return to bed. Pulling her dressing gown around her, she prepared a hot bath and, half an hour later, refreshed and invigorated, she stood staring down at her white uniform. Should she put it on, or her house dress? The nurse, sent out from Washington to relieve her, would surelyget there in time to go on night duty. If Somers had gotten to Abbott’s Lodge so promptly, it would only be a matter of a few hours for the nurse to report for duty. Miriam laid aside her clean uniform and put on her house dress. She had completed her toilet when Martha appeared at the door.
“Please, Miss—Ma’am, Doctor Roberts wishes to see you downstairs,” she explained, with characteristic haste. “Say, ain’t them lovely?” observing an oddly wrought gold necklace which Miriam slipped inside her gown. “Rubies, ain’t they?”
“No, garnets,” shortly. Martha’s inordinate curiosity was an unpleasant feature. “What were you doing at my door a short time ago?”
Martha’s hands twisted in and out of her apron. “I stooped down to pick up a pin and that there clumsy idiot flopped over me,” she explained in an aggrieved tone. “Had no better sense than not to look where she was going. She skeered me an’—an’—I ran downstairs.” Her tone changed. “Why didn’t you come to Mr. Paul’s funeral, Miss—Ma’am?” raising her eyes and lowering them rapidly.
Miriam paid not the slightest attention to the question. Stepping past the housekeeper she went in search of Doctor Roberts. He was sitting at the desk in the living room, going over his daybook.
“Good evening, Miss Ward,” he exclaimed as she paused in front of him. “I hope Martha did not disturb you. I told her to wait until later.”
“I was all ready to come downstairs,” she responded. “When will the new nurse be here? Or did she come with you?” glancing hopefully about.
“No.” Roberts pocketed his daybook and fountain pen. “After your message came Miss Stockton telephoned to every hospital and the Registry, and not one had a nurse on call.”
Miriam stared at him in dismay. “You couldn’t get a nurse?” she gasped.
“No, not for to-night, at least; there’s an epidemic of grippe and, therefore, a shortage of nurses.” Roberts looked at Miriam keenly. “Are you ill, Miss Ward?”
“No; that is”—her bitter disappointment was discernible in her voice. “I can’t go on, Doctor.”
Roberts rose and walked past the desk, stopping by her side. “What is it, Miss Ward?” he asked sympathetically. “What has happened since this morning?”
She saw his well-cut features, broad brow, and gray hair through a blur. His concern deepened at sight of her evident unhappiness. “What can I do for you?” he asked. “Tell me.”
Miriam collected her wits. “I—I’ll be myself ina minute,” she said, brokenly. “I had hoped to leave the case to-night and was counting on that. I suppose,” looking appealingly at him, “that you won’t let me off.”
“You realize Mrs. Nash’s condition as well as I,” he replied, and Miriam sighed; she had anticipated such an answer.
“Very well, Doctor. No—” as the scene of the morning rose vividly before her. “I can’t nurse that man’s wife!”
“What has Nash to do with it?” asked Roberts, in astonishment.
“He denied that he was here on Monday night with Miss Carter,” looking straight at Roberts, “and, Doctor, he, a minister of the gospel, lied.”
“Well, I’ll be—” Roberts checked back the oath with an effort. The silence lengthened as they faced each other. Suddenly the physician turned and paced rapidly up and down, then paused abruptly. “Miss Ward,” she looked up at the seriousness of his tone, “you are acquainted with the ethics of our profession. A doctor often becomes cognizant of conditions in a home of which he cannot speak. Alexander Nash’s conduct,” he paused again, “gives rise to doubt, and, it may be, to investigation. I think,” his voice deepened, “that the quicker weget Mrs. Nash on her feet, the sooner will we arrive at a solution of—many things.”
Miriam drew in a long breath. “You may be right, Doctor,” she admitted. “I’ll get into my uniform after dinner.”
It was a somber, silent group that drove in the Rolls-Royce from the country cemetery to Guy Trenholm’s bungalow five miles distant from Upper Marlboro. Pierre followed the sheriff’s directions as to crossroads with indifferent success and Betty finally complained of the rough going and frequent turns.
Trenholm lifted the speaking tube as they approached a white gate which opened on a roadway to a picturesque building partly concealed from the road by a number of trees.
“Stop here, Pierre,” he directed, then turned to the silent man by his side. “I am greatly obliged to you, Doctor Nash, for giving me this lift. Good evening,” and he sprang out of the car before the chauffeur had brought it to a full stop. Not pausing to exchange a word with Alan or Betty, aside from a wave of his hat, he strode across the turf. As he reached his front door he thrust his hand inside his overcoat pocket for his bunch of keys and pulled them out, and with them a folded piece of paper.
Trenholm stared at the paper as he thrust the keyin his front door, and before turning it in the lock, paused to unfold the note. The few lines it bore were unsigned and in an unknown handwriting:
Let him who hopes to solve the mystery of Paul Abbott’s death find the lost Paltoff jewel.
Let him who hopes to solve the mystery of Paul Abbott’s death find the lost Paltoff jewel.
Trenholm’s expression was as blank as the other side of the paper. It was unaddressed. He reread the note a number of times, then entered his bungalow. The telephone was in the room he used as library and sitting room. Hardly noticing the police dogs that fawned upon him at his entrance, he sat down before the telephone and quickly got his number.
“Hello, constable,” he called. “This is Trenholm speaking. Station a guard over the vault where Abbott lies. What’s that?—Oh, just a precaution, that’s all. Good night!” and he hung up the receiver.
Taking out his pipe and tobacco pouch, he stretched his long legs under the table and sat back, the note in his hand.
“Which one of them,” he mused, unaware that he spoke aloud, “slipped this note in my overcoat pocket?”