CHAPTER XVTHREE BEEHIVES
Miriamlooked at her watch—two o’clock. The brilliant sunlight and the out of doors exerted an appeal she could not resist. Stopping only long enough to put on her hat and coat, she started down the corridor and, when passing Mrs. Nash’s door, paused irresolutely. Mrs. Nash had recovered, when she left her at eight o’clock that morning, from her fright at discovering the disguised man in her room, but Miriam was troubled about her heart condition. She felt that she should speak to Somers before she went for her walk. She had told the maid to call her at any time if she needed assistance. If Mrs. Nash was asleep she could slip out without disturbing her.
Miriam softly turned the knob of the door and pushed it gently open, intending to beckon to Somers to come into the hall. She had opened it but a few inches when she heard Alexander Nash address his wife.
“I have just received a telegram from Canada, Dora,” he said, and added more quickly as his wife looked up, a question on her lips, “from Frank Chisholm telling me of the sudden death of Boris Zybinn.”
Mrs. Nash’s reply was unheard by Miriam. She leaned limply against the doorjamb, her strength stricken from her. Their voices sounded far distant—unreal. It was fully two minutes before her brain cleared and she had a realizing sense of what Nash was saying.
“A remarkable will,” he commented. “Alan receives practically nothing from his cousin, while Guy Trenholm is given twenty-five thousand dollars, a scarf-pin, and those wonderful old hunting prints. It is really extraordinary.”
Miriam waited to hear no more. Closing the door as softly as she had opened it, she stole back to her room, unlocked her bag, and drew from it the letter she had found in Mrs. Nash’s bedroom the night before. For a time she stood quite still, balancing the unopened letter in her hand; once she took up a hairpin, then laid it down, unused. Boris Zybinn! She shook her head and glanced about as if awakening from a nightmare.
A sound of voices coming through her open window caused her to look outside. Anna, her work donefor the time being, was, as she expressed it to Martha later, “joshing” one of the constable’s assistants—a young deputy whose susceptible heart had made him a willing victim to her wiles. The deputy’s presence gave Miriam a sudden idea. Carefully placing the unopened letter in her hand bag, she went downstairs and hastened through the dining room, intending to go out of the door of the sunparlor and from there to the back of the house.
Martha—a rejuvenated Martha—looked up from changing the tablecloth at her approach, and Miriam, in spite of her absorption in her own affairs, noticed her changed appearance.
“Have ye heard, Miss—Ma’am,” she began incoherently. “Mr. Paul, God rest his soul, has left me and Charles one thousand dollars each.”
“Is that so? I congratulate you, Martha.” Miriam shifted her hand bag and held it more firmly against her. There was an intangible something about Martha which invited distrust. “Mr. Abbott was most generous.”
“Yes Miss—Ma’am; he had call to be,” Martha’s voice had assumed its old complaining whine. “Us took good care of him. I don’t mind telling you Miss—Ma’am, that my husband ain’t quite satisfied. He wants more.”
“Oh!”
“Yes.” Martha’s grievances were displacing her first feeling of elation at the, to her, large sum of money. “Charles, he’s mad, clean through. He says he’s goin’ to Sheriff Trenholm.”
“And why to the Sheriff?” questioned Miriam in surprise.
“Oh, he’s kinder good at giving advice—when ye got something to tell him.” Martha’s slow, expressive wink annoyed Miriam and without paying further attention to the woman, she went through the sunparlor and outside the house.
Martha, in no wise disturbed by Miriam’s cool reception of her confidences, went slowly on with her work, her mental process of “thinking” betrayed by her facial contortions.
The young deputy was just starting his engine when Miriam appeared at the side of his car.
“Can you tell me where I will find Sheriff Trenholm?” she asked.
Ben Riley touched his hat and a pleased smile stole over his freckled face. He had admired Miriam at a distance for several days, although she had been utterly oblivious of his existence. That she might be under surveillance never entered her head. The indefatigable Martha had complained to her of the presence about Abbott’s Lodge of a number of deputies,and Riley had been pointed out to her by Somers as one of them.
“The sheriff’s at his home,” Riley explained, then, as her face showed plainly her disappointment, he added, “Can I take a message to him? I’m on my way there now.”
With Miriam to think was to act. It was imperative that she see Trenholm.
“Can I drive over with you?” she asked, and her charming smile completed Riley’s conquest.
“Yes, Miss Ward,” he stammered, with gratifying emphasis, and opened the door of his roadster. “Hop in.”
They had gone half the distance to Upper Marlboro and were about to turn from the main road to the one leading to Trenholm’s bungalow, when they were passed by Mrs. Nash’s Rolls-Royce which continued down the main road at such a speed that Miriam had only a glimpse of Alexander Nash seated by the chauffeur. The fur collar of Pierre’s heavy chauffeur’s overcoat was turned up about his face and his most intimate friend would have failed to recognize him as he drove along, under Nash’s instructions, breaking the speed laws of Maryland.
Pablo, the Filipino, answered Miriam’s ring of the door bell at the bungalow with a promptness thatsuggested that he had observed Riley’s car when it turned into the driveway.
“Come inside, Mees,” he said with hospitable intent. “My master will return in one little moment. He is in de garage and I will go at once and tell him that you are here. It is cold, yes?” as the rising wind blew the daily papers off the hall table. He closed the door with alacrity and led the way into the library. “Sit down, Mees, and be comfortable.”
Miriam hardly noticed his departure. The long drive over had brought reflection in its train and she was regretting her hasty action. She glanced about the library, taking in, as Alan had done the night before, its suggestion of cultivation, its homelike atmosphere. Guy Trenholm’s personality permeated the room. She did not sit down, as Pablo had suggested, but remained by the table in deep thought, and Trenholm, about to enter the room, stopped in the doorway and studied her intently. The proud poise of her head, her becoming toque, her plain, but well-fitting coat, her vivid coloring, made more brilliant by her drive in the wind, all were a fitting complement to the setting in which she stood. Trenholm caught his breath and his heart beat more quickly, but his expression and voice conveyed nofeeling beyond a courteous welcome as he stepped forward to greet her.
“Won’t you sit down?” he asked, pulling forward a chair. “I am sorry to have kept you waiting. Let me help you with your coat.”
Miriam thanked him, then sat down and waited for him to take the chair opposite hers. As he looked at her inquiringly, she came directly to the point. Opening her hand bag, she took out the letter bearing the Canadian postage and held it up.
“I found this letter,” she said, “when on duty last night. It was tucked in one of the chairs in Mrs. Nash’s bedroom. I bring it to you as I found it—unopened.”
Trenholm took the letter from her outstretched hand, and turned it over several times before making any comment.
“And what is there about the letter to have attracted your attention, Miss Ward?” he finally asked, and wondered at the look in her eyes.
“The seal,” she said simply. “It matches this,” and she drew out of her bag the half-burnt envelope and turned it over so that he could view the flap with its black crest. “It is that crest of which you found drawings in my bag.”
“Yes, I recognize the three beehives,” he replied. Leaning back in his chair he reached over and tookup a heavy volume from a smoking stand where he had flung it earlier that day. “I borrowed this book on heraldry from the Congressional Library,” he explained, and turned the leaves with lightning rapidity until he found the page he wished. “See, the three beehives,” pointing to a fine colored engraving, “and the proud motto of the Paltoffs of Russia—‘Always without Fear.’”
Miriam stared at the printed page and then at Trenholm, and respect and admiration were in her glance.
“That was clever of you,” she exclaimed. “So you guess—”
“Much,” quietly, “except your connection with the Paltoffs.”
Miriam looked about the library. There was no likelihood of their conversation being interrupted.
“Dmitri Paltoff, Grand Maitre de la Cour, married my aunt,” she said simply. “He was the last of his race, and when he was killed, the right to use that crest died with him. Its use on these envelopes was consequently a shock, and aroused my keenest interest at once, for”—she hesitated and spoke more slowly—“this black crest has a peculiar indentation and varies in no particular from the seal on my uncle’s watch fob, which I saw snatchedfrom his dying grasp by a Bolshevik in Vladivostok.”
Trenholm was regarding her with absorbed interest. “So that was it,” he murmured, then raised his voice slightly. “Do you, by chance, know the Bolshevik who took the seal?”
“Yes. It was my uncle’s secretary, Boris Zybinn.” Miriam leaned forward in her earnestness. “Just before I left Abbott’s Lodge, I accidentally overheard Doctor Nash tell his wife that he had a telegram from Canada stating that Boris had died suddenly.”
Trenholm stared at her a moment. Rising with some abruptness, he went over to the wall, touched a concealed spring and one of the wooden panels slid aside and revealed the door of a small safe. When he came back and resumed his old seat, he carried a package of letters.
“I watched you when you glanced over these letters,” he confessed, “in the hall at Abbott’s Lodge. And I have read them a dozen times trying to find out what there was about them which claimed such interest on your part.”
“I was looking for the black crest,” she admitted. “You see the envelopes are identical with this burnt one,” holding it up again. “I did not open any of the letters. Who wrote them?”
“They are signed by Boris Zybinn,” Trenholm opened several and laid them in her lap. “Do you recognize the handwriting?”
She shook her head. “No. Boris was clever; he might easily have learned to disguise his writing. He was an excellent linguist, as most Russians are. What was he doing in Canada?”
“Gentleman farming,” answered Trenholm. “He had a place outside of Toronto and adjoining Doctor Nash’s country estate. It was while visiting Nash that Paul Abbott and he became acquainted.”
“And these letters, what are they about?” questioned Miriam eagerly.
“Farming,” briefly. “And nothing else. Paul wished to model his place here after Zybinn’s, especially his fruit orchard. I suppose that he kept them, for reference,” and Trenholm tossed the remaining letters on his desk table which stood almost at Miriam’s elbow.
Miriam drew back in bitter disappointment. “And that is all,” she exclaimed. “I have indeed found a mare’s nest.”
“As far as the letters go,” agreed Trenholm, with characteristic frankness. “But there is another matter of vital importance,” he glanced carefully about the room, sprang up and closed both of the doors, one of which led into the main hall and the otherinto a smaller room, where he generally conducted business. When he came back to Miriam he moved his chair closer to her side. “You know of the Paltoff diamond?” he asked.
“Yes. I have heard its history often from my uncle,” she replied. “It was given by one of his ancestors to Peter the Great.”
“To purchase royal favor,” supplemented Trenholm “And forms one of the Crown jewels.”
“You are wrong,” she corrected him swiftly. “It is not a Crown jewel, but it has always been in the possession of the reigning Czar, handed down from father to son.”
“And where is it now, Miss Ward?” The swift question took her unawares and she grew pale.
“I do not know,” she stated, and her eyes did not falter before his searching glance. “Frankly, I do not know its present whereabouts.”
“There is a rumor that it was smuggled out of Russia.” Trenholm never took his eyes from her. “Can you tell me if that is true?”
She did not at once reply and he did not hurry her. “Why do you ask?” she demanded finally. “What is your interest in the Paltoff diamond?”
“This!” Trenholm opened his leather wallet and took from it a folded note. “Read it.”
Slowly Miriam took in the sense of the written sentence:
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.
“What!” She half rose from her chair, then dropped back again. Her face was ghastly and Trenholm watched her in growing concern. “Who wrote this note?”
“I do not know. I found it in the pocket of my overcoat when I returned from Paul’s funeral.” Trenholm paused. “The handwriting is unfamiliar.”
He doubted if Miriam heard his last sentence; she kept so quiet, so immovable. Suddenly she pressed her fingers to her eyes and when she took them away, the lids were wet. She looked at him long and searchingly. Could she trust him? Shemust—there was no other course open to her.
“I will tell you in confidence what I know of the Paltoff diamond,” she said. “But you must pledge me your word not to repeat it.”
“I give you my word,” Trenholm held out his hand, and as she felt his strong, steady clasp her heart lightened and her sense of utter loneliness grew less.
“I will be as brief as possible.” She paused to clear her throat of a suspicious lump. “My father,John Ward of Indianapolis, was in the Diplomatic service, and stationed for a long time in Russia, where we lived with my aunt and her husband. After father’s death, mother and I came to New York. She was a great invalid and did not long survive him.” She stumbled in her speech and stopped, and Trenholm gave her a moment to collect herself.
“Yes?” he prompted gently. “Continue.”
“Mother died just before the outbreak of the World War,” she went on. “It was necessary for me to find employment and I decided to become a nurse. I trained at St. Luke’s Hospital and went overseas at once upon graduation. It would be too long to tell you of my experiences, but finally I reached Russia and saw service in the hospitals there. Then came the revolution.” She drew in her breath sharply. “God! The horrors that we lived through—the Bolsheviki were fiends in human form!”
“And the Paltoff diamond?” he asked.
“Oh, the diamond.” She collected herself. “My uncle was for years Grand Master of the Imperial Court and trusted absolutely by the Czar. Just before he was made prisoner, the Czar took from the hilt of his dress sword, worn only on state occasions, the Paltoff diamond, and charged Uncle Dmitri, onhis fealty to the Crown, to smuggle it out of Russia, and raise money upon it so that, should the Imperial family have to flee, something might be saved for them.”
“What happened next?” demanded Trenholm as she paused.
Miriam sighed. “My uncle saw his gallant son crucified before his eyes; his daughters, taken prisoners with other ladies of the Court, were transported by steamer to a loathsome prison. Before the vessel docked they threw themselves into the sea, oh, gladly”—she added, seeing Trenholm’s expression—“for the captain and his crew forced them to leave their cabin doors unlocked at night.” She paused and put her hands before her eyes. When she looked up, Trenholm saw tragedy mirrored in their dark depths.
“With other refugees Uncle Dmitri and I finally reached Vladivostok, in rags and our money gone. Oh, Mr. Trenholm, pray God that you may never know what starvation is!” She stopped to control her voice. “We lived in a hovel in the filthiest part of the city. I had lost my passport or it had been stolen from me. I applied to the American consul—he promised help but none came.”
“Poor girl!” Trenholm took her hand and pressed it warmly. “Would you rather stop?”
“No. Uncle Dmitri still had the Paltoff diamond and despite our agony would not part with it. When we dared to talk, for spies were all around us, we tried to plan to get the jewel safely out of Russia, even if we ourselves failed to reach the United States.” Miriam stopped to clear her throat, for her voice had grown husky with emotion.
“One morning I was half delirious from hunger and privation, when Uncle Dmitri came inside the hovel followed by a man,” she continued. “He crawled over to the straw on which I lay and told me that his companion was an American soldier who had saved his life in a brawl with drunken peasants. He feared that he had been recognized as Paltoff, the trusted friend of the Czar.”
“I see,” broke in Trenholm. “What next?”
“Our plight was desperate and my uncle took the American into his confidence, and the latter agreed to carry the diamond to the United States, provided he could smuggle it aboard the transport.” She sighed deeply. “I was too ill to follow all that was said, but uncle took the diamond from its hiding place and the American sat down near me and unwound a bandage from about a wound in the calf of his leg. At his direction I opened the wound, placed the diamond inside it, and, having a surgeon’s field service kit which a doctor, like ourselves arefugee, had left in the hovel the day before, I sutured the wound and replaced the bandages.”
Trenholm stared at her. “American brains and pluck!” he exclaimed, and the admiration in his voice brought the swift color to her white cheeks.
“The American had not been gone five minutes before Boris Zybinn came in, followed by a swarm of the Bolsheviki,” she went on, keeping her voice steady by an effort of will only, as the tragic scene rose vividly before her. “A whisper had gotten around that Uncle Dmitri had the Paltoff diamond. They put him to torture and he died as a brave man should, without fear and without betraying the Czar’s trust.”
“And you? What did they do to you?” demanded Trenholm, his usually calm tones betraying interest at fever heat.
“The American consul came in time to save me from all but this.” Drawing back her sleeve she showed a brand burned into the soft white flesh. “Thank God! I had the strength to tell Boris nothing of the diamond.”
Trenholm leaned forward impulsively. “I’d like to shake hands with you,” he said, and the strong clasp of his fingers made her wince. There was a brief pause before he asked: “And the name of the American soldier?”
Miriam drew from around her neck a gold chain from which hung a locket. Opening it she took out a tiny soiled paper.
“The soldier wrote down his name and address and handed it to Uncle Dmitri,” she explained. “But Boris got there before he could give it to me and it was torn up—all but this.”
Trenholm looked long and carefully at the one letter on the paper.
“‘M’,” he repeated. “‘M’—it is Paul Abbott’s peculiar formation of his middle initial. I have seen it too often to be mistaken. And Paul Abbott, I know, saw service with the A.E.F. in Vladivostok.”