CHAPTER IVMORE TESTIMONY
CORONER BLACK took the razor from the footman and laid it carefully back on the table.
“You are excused,” he announced, and, as Murray rose with alacrity, he added, “Inform Mrs. Porter that we will be obliged by her presence here.”
“Yes, sir; certainly, sir,” and Murray backed from the room, but before going upstairs to find Mrs. Porter he bolted into the pantry and mopped his white face which was damp with perspiration, then, refreshing himself with a glass of port, he went on his belated errand.
Inside the library the jurors whispered to one another, and at a muttered request the foreman picked up the razor, passed it to his neighbor, and each man at the table in turn examined the stained blade and handle with absorbed interest, while the coroner andMcPherson compared notes in an undertone. The opening of the hall door brought them all to attention, and Mrs. Porter’s entrance was greeted by a lengthened silence.
Hardly deigning to listen to Coroner Black’s explanation of the formalities to be gone through, she laid a bejeweled hand on the Bible presented to her by McPherson, and repeated the oath in an expressionless monotone.
“Pray be seated, madam,” and Coroner Black pointed to the chair by which she was standing. “We will not detain you long,” and in rapid succession he asked her her full name and length of residence in that vicinity.
“I have spent the summer months here ever since inheriting the property from my husband’s uncle,” she said, in answer to the latter question. “This is the first winter that we have kept the house open, but Dr. Noyes deemed it inadvisable to move my son again, and so—” An expressive gesture completed the sentence.
“How long has Dr. Noyes been in attendance upon your son?” asked Black.
“He accompanied Craig home from the hospital in France.” Real feeling betrayed itself in Mrs. Porter’s metallic tones. “Myson owes his life to his skill and his untiring attention. We shall miss him now that he has returned to England.”
“Ah, then you think Dr. Noyes is on his way back to the front again?” Black was watching her closely as he toyed with his pencil.
“Certainly. Where else would he go?” glancing disdainfully at him. “No Englishman nowadays lingers behind when his leave of absence is over.”
“But my dear madam, would Dr. Noyes depart so abruptly—without bidding you good-by; without the formality of notifying even the nurses in charge of your son that he would not be back?” asked Black incredulously.
“Dr. Noyes had been expecting a summons home for over ten days,” explained Mrs. Porter, in a tone sometimes used to quiet a petulant child, and Black colored. “He had arranged to have the cable telephoned out to him; his bag stood packed, and whatever good-bys he had to say were said to my daughter and myself yesterday.”
“At what hour did this cable reach Dr. Noyes?” demanded Black.
“I presume during the night. He said that he would remain in the library on the chance of a telephone message coming for him,” was her glib reply.
Black eyed her sharply. “Who is to attend your son in Dr. Noyes’ absence?” he asked, but if he hoped to trap Mrs. Porter he was disappointed. Her answer was prompt.
“Dr. Washburn of Alexandria. Dr. Noyes called him in consultation, and all arrangements were made last week to take over the case.”
Coroner Black considered a moment before again addressing her, and Mrs. Porter permitted her gaze to wander about, noting inwardly the disarrangement of the usually orderly room, and she turned back to the jurors with a distinct air of disapproval. Coroner Black’s next question caused her to catch her breath sharply.
“Were your daughter and Mr. Bruce Brainard engaged to be married?” he asked.
“I question your right to ask that,” she retorted. “My family affairs had nothing to do with Mr. Brainard’s shocking suicide.”
“We are the best judges of that, madam,”replied Black quietly. “It is our duty to expedite this inquiry, and to do so we must know whether or not Mr. Brainard was on friendly terms with each member of this household on the night of his death—”
“He was, sir, otherwise he would not have been my guest,” broke in Mrs. Porter.
“Did you invite him to spend the night, or only to dine with you?”
“I simply asked him to dinner.” She paused, then added: “He was taken ill at the dinner table, and my nephew, Mr. Wyndham, and Dr. Noyes helped him upstairs and put him to bed in one of the spare bedrooms. Dr. Noyes said that Mr. Brainard was in no condition to motor in to Washington last night.”
“When did you last see Mr. Brainard?”
“When he left the dining-room.”
Black looked at her attentively and noted the flush which had mounted to her pale cheeks during their colloquy.
“I must remind you, madam,” he commenced, and his manner was serious, “that you have not answered my question regarding the relationship existing between your daughter and Mr. Brainard.”
“They were friends,” curtly.
“Nothing more?” persisted the coroner.
Mrs. Porter regarded him with no friendly eye, then apparently thinking better of her brusqueness, answered more courteously:
“Mr. Brainard admired my daughter greatly, and paid her the compliment of asking my consent to their marriage.”
“Did you give your consent?” prompted Black as she stopped.
“He was to have had my answer this morning.”
“Oh!” The coroner gazed blankly at Mrs. Porter, failing utterly to appreciate her stately beauty and quietly gowned, modish figure. She was a remarkably well preserved woman, on whose face time had left few wrinkles, and she looked much younger than she was. Several seconds elapsed before Black again addressed her.
“Did your daughter reciprocate Mr. Brainard’s affection?”
“My daughter would not have accepted his attention had she not liked and admired him,” she responded evasively, and Black lost all patience.
“Kindly give a direct answer to my question,”he exclaimed harshly. “Were your daughter and Mr. Brainard engaged?”
“I believe there was an understanding to that effect,” she admitted sullenly. “But until I gave my consent”—a shrug completed the sentence, and Black instantly asked:
“Why did you withhold your consent, madam?”
“You are laboring under a mistaken idea,” replied Mrs. Porter coldly. “My consent was only asked yesterday, and I very properly told Mr. Brainard that I needed a night in which to think it over.”
The coroner stroked his chin as he contemplated Mrs. Porter, then observing the jurors’ air of interest, asked more briskly: “When did you make Mr. Brainard’s acquaintance?”
“About a year ago, and until he went to South America he was a frequent visitor at my house.” Mrs. Porter glanced involuntarily at the clock as it chimed the hour, and the coroner rose.
“Please give me the names of your dinner guests,” he said, picking up a pencil and drawing a pad toward him.
“Captain and Mrs. Mark Willert, MissMargaret Spencer, my daughter Millicent, my nephew, Mr. Hugh Wyndham, Dr. Noyes, Mr. Brainard—let me see, that makes eight,” checking them off on her finger. “I have a few intimate friends in to dinner every week on Millicent’s account. I do not want her brother’s distressing illness to cast too great a shadow on my daughter’s young life.”
“Is your son improving?”
“Yes, thank God!” Mrs. Porter’s eyes shone with a softer light and her voice shook. “Dr. Noyes and time will work wonders in his condition. I”—she paused and steadied her voice—“I have every confidence in Dr. Noyes.”
Coroner Black bowed. “We will not keep you longer, madam; but before you leave kindly examine this razor and tell us if you can identify it.”
“I will look at it, certainly.” It took her a second or two to disentangle her lorgnette chain from a tassel on her gown, then raising her glasses she stared at the blood-stained article. “To the best of my knowledge I have not seen it before,” she announced, rising, and at a sign from the coroner retreated toward the hall door, hardly responding to the foreman’s curt nod.
Bidding her a courteous good afternoon, Coroner Black opened the door and waited for her to pass into the hall, then stepped after her in time to see her pause and draw back into an alcove as Dr. Beverly Thorne approached them. If Dr. Thorne observed the latent air of hostility and discourtesy in her bearing there was no indication of it in his unruffled manner as he greeted the coroner.
“Sorry to be late, Black,” he said. “But an important case—” as he spoke he removed his overcoat and handed it and his hat to the attentive footman. “Do you wish me to testify now?”
“No. I want you here in your capacity of ‘J. P.,’” responded the coroner. “In other words, look, listen and—note.” The last word was added as he held the library door ajar before throwing it wide open. “Murray, request Mr. Hugh Wyndham to come to the library.”
Thorne exchanged a low-toned word with McPherson and several of the jurors before slipping into a large wing chair which partly concealed his presence. Hugh Wyndham had evidently been awaiting the summons, for he followed hard upon the heels of the footmanand stepped briskly into the library. The preliminaries were quickly gone through with, and Wyndham, while waiting for the coroner to question him, occupied his time in inspecting his companions, and his eyes contracted slightly at sight of Beverly Thorne, who sat gazing idly at the log fire which blazed in the stone fireplace, and added greatly to the picturesqueness and comfort of the well proportioned room.
“State your full name and occupation, Mr. Wyndham,” requested the coroner, resuming his seat.
“Hugh Wyndham, stock broker, just now not connected with any firm,” he added by way of explanation. “Since the failure in November of the banking house of Mullen Company with which I was connected I have been residing with my aunt, Mrs. Lawrence Porter.”
“Were you and Mr. Brainard old friends, Mr. Wyndham?”
“We have known each other for over a year, but were acquaintances rather than friends,” replied Wyndham, flicking a white thread from his coat sleeve.
Black shot a questioning look at him. “DoI understand that you were not friends?” he asked.
“Oh, we were friendly enough on the few occasions that we met, but our professions gave us very few opportunities to become better acquainted.”
“What was Mr. Brainard’s occupation?”
“He was a mining engineer.”
The coroner leaned over and consulted Dr. McPherson’s notes, then, sitting back in his chair, asked: “Did Mr. Brainard complain of feeling ill before dinner last night?”
“No, except to tell Captain Willert and myself that the climate in South America had played the devil with him.”
“Were you present at the dinner table when he was taken ill last night?”
“Yes. Dr. Noyes said that he was suffering from vertigo, and Mrs. Porter suggested that we take him upstairs and put him to bed.”
Again Coroner Black referred to McPherson’s notes before asking another question.
“Did Mr. Brainard have any suitcase or luggage with him?” he inquired.
“No. I loaned him a pair of my pyjamas.”
“When did you last see Mr. Brainard alive?”
“I left him in bed, apparently better, and followed Dr. Noyes downstairs.”
“Leaving no one with the sick man?” asked Black swiftly.
“Yes, Miss Deane,” responded Wyndham. “Dr. Noyes sent her to look after Brainard. Miss Deane said that she would be within call if he needed assistance during the night.” He hesitated, and then added, “I volunteered to sit up with Brainard, but she said that it was not necessary.”
“Were you disturbed by noises during the night?”
“No.” Wyndham shifted his position, and one foot tapped the floor incessantly. “I am a heavy sleeper and my room is some distance from that occupied by Brainard.”
“You were asleep when Miss Deane rapped at your door this morning?”
“Yes.”
“You accompanied her to Mr. Brainard’s bedroom?”
“I did.”
“Describe the condition in which you found Mr. Brainard and his bedroom,” directed Black, polishing his eyeglasses, and replacing them to scrutinize the witness more closely.
“I found Brainard lying on his back on the right side of his bed.” Wyndham stopped and moistened his lips. “His throat was cut and the wound had bled profusely.”
“Did you find any weapon in the room?”
“An open blood-stained razor was lying on the bed beside Brainard.”
“Did you touch it?”
“No.”
“Mr. Wyndham,” Coroner Black spoke slowly, evidently weighing his words, “did you loan a razor as well as a pair of pyjamas to Mr. Brainard?”
“I did not,” came the instant and emphatic denial.
“Then, if you did not give him the razor, how did Mr. Brainard secure possession of the razor which you saw on his bed?” asked Black. “You, and other witnesses, have testified that Mr. Brainard brought no luggage with him and did not come prepared to spend the night.”
“I have puzzled over his possessing a razor,” agreed Wyndham. “Then it occurred to me that perhaps he brought it with him from town intending to commit suicide on the way home.”
“An ingenious theory,” acknowledged Black. “But why should Mr. Brainard plan to commit suicide when his engagement to a beautiful and wealthy girl was about to be announced?”
“Mr. Brainard’s ill health may have unbalanced his mind.”
“Did Mr. Brainard show symptoms of insanity last night?” asked Black quietly.
“N-no.” Wyndham thought a minute, then glanced at the coroner. “The attack of vertigo”—he began and stopped as Coroner Black smiled and shook his head.
“Mr. Wyndham”—Black turned abruptly and produced the razor—“have you seen this before?”
Wyndham took it from him gingerly. “It resembles the one I saw lying on the bed close by Brainard’s left hand,” he said at last.
“It is the same one,” announced Black shortly. “Had you ever seen this razor before finding it on Brainard’s bed this morning?”
“No.” Wyndham examined it with care and then held up the razor so that all could see it. “It evidently belongs to a set, one to be used every day in the week—this particular razor is marked Monday—”
“And today is Tuesday,” commented the foreman of the jury. The juror nearest him nudged him to be quiet, and the coroner resumed his examination.
“To your knowledge, Mr. Wyndham, does anyone in this household own a set of razors such as you describe?” he demanded.
“No.” Wyndham’s monosyllable rang out emphatically and his eyes met the coroner’s squarely. “Personally, I use an ordinary razor. Can I send for it?”
“Certainly,” and the coroner turned to McPherson, who rose.
“You will find my razor in the top drawer of my bureau; Murray, the footman, will show you my room,” explained Wyndham. “At the same time Murray can get the razor belonging to my cousin, Craig Porter. The footman shaves him,” he supplemented, “using a Gillett safety razor.”
“The footman is waiting in the hall,” added Coroner Black, and, barely waiting for the closing of the library door behind McPherson, he asked: “Was Mr. Brainard left-handed?”
“I don’t think so.” Wyndham considered the question. “No, I am sure that he was not. Once or twice I have played billiardswith him, and I would certainly have observed any such peculiarity.”
A sudden movement on the part of Beverly Thorne brought the coroner’s attention to him.
“Do you care to question the witness, doctor?” he inquired and, as Thorne nodded, he explained hurriedly to Wyndham, whose brow had darkened ominously: “Dr. Thorne is a justice of the peace and is here to assist in this investigation at my request,” with quiet emphasis on the last words, and Wyndham thought better of hot-tempered objections. Thorne rose and approached the center table before speaking.
“Mr. Wyndham,” he began, “did you telephone into town that Mr. Brainard was ill and would spend the night in this house?”
“No,” answered Wyndham, and his tone was of the curtest.
“To your knowledge did anyone else in this house telephone Brainard’s condition to friends in Washington?”
“I did not hear of it if they did.”
“Then no one, outside this household, knew that Brainard was spending the night here?”
Wyndham moved impatiently. “You forgetMrs. Porter had other dinner guests last night,” he said stiffly. “They knew of his illness and his presence here.”
“True,” broke in the coroner. “Mrs. Porter has already furnished me with their names, and—” But before he could add more Thorne interposed with a question.
“How about Brainard’s chauffeur?”
“He had none, but drove his own car,” responded Wyndham.
“Is that still here?”
“I believe so. Sims, Mrs. Porter’s chauffeur, reported it was in the garage this morning.”
At that moment the door opened to admit McPherson, who advanced somewhat short of breath from hurrying, and laid an ordinary razor and a Gillett “safety” on the center table.
“The first razor I found in Mr. Wyndham’s bureau,” he announced. “The second was handed to me by Miss Deane.” He stopped to resume his seat, then continued more slowly: “The nurse showed me where Mr. Porter’s shaving things are kept in the bathroom between his bedroom and that occupied by the nurses.”
“Thanks, McPherson.” Coroner Black replaced the blood-stained razor on the table beside the others. “You are excused, Mr. Wyndham.”
Wyndham bowed and stepped past Thorne; at the door he hesitated, but, catching Thorne’s eyes, he turned and left the room without speaking.
“McPherson, will you take the stand?” directed Black, and the deputy coroner sat down in the chair reserved for the witnesses, after first having the oath administered to him. “You performed the autopsy on Mr. Brainard?” asked Black a few seconds later.
“I did.” McPherson displayed an anatomical chart, and used his pencil as an indicator while he continued: “I found an incipient tumor of the brain. Brainard’s attacks of vertigo were due to that.” The deputy coroner raised his voice as his pencil traveled down the chart and rested on the throat. “The wound was on the lower part of Brainard’s neck and the carotid artery was severed. He bled to death.”
“Was the wound self-inflicted, doctor?” questioned Thorne, taking the chart andexamining it closely before passing it over to the juror nearest him.
McPherson shook his head at Thorne’s question. “I do not believe the wound was self-inflicted,” he said, “for the wound commences under the right ear and extends toward the left; whereas, in the case of suicide the cut would have been made just the reverse.”
McPherson’s words were listened to with deep attention, and in the silence that followed Thorne grew conscious of the loud ticking of the clock.
“Then in your opinion, McPherson,” commented Coroner Black, “Bruce Brainard was murdered?”
“Yes,” answered the deputy coroner. “The nature of the wound proves conclusively that it could not have been suicide.”
“Unless,” broke in Thorne, “unless Brainard was left-handed.”
“That point can be easily settled,” snapped the coroner. “That’s all, McPherson, thank you;” and as the doctor left the witness chair he added, “Kindly ask Detective Mitchell to step here.”
It was growing darker in the room and Thorne walked over to the windows andpushed back the long curtains and pulled up the Holland shades. The sunshine had almost totally disappeared, and the gray of late afternoon alone lighted the room. Thorne moved over to one of the lamps which were dotted about, and was busy lighting it when Detective Mitchell followed McPherson back into the room.
“Have you discovered which servants own razors in this house, Mitchell?” asked the coroner, after the new witness had answered other questions.
“Yes, sir.” Mitchell took two razors from his pocket. “I have them each ticketed; this one belongs to the footman, Murray, and this to the butler, Selby.”
The coroner accepted the two razors and compared them with the blood-stained one on the table, then he passed all three to the jurors.
“They are not in the least alike,” he said thoughtfully. “Did you examine Dr. Noyes’ bedroom, Mitchell?”
“I did,” answered the detective. “The bed had evidently been slept in, as the sheets and blankets were tumbled about, but all the doctor’s clothes were packed in his steamer trunk.”
“Was his trunk locked?”
“No, sir.” Mitchell paused. “I examined its contents, but I could not find any razor or strop.”
“Were his overcoat and hat in his closet?”
“No, nor downstairs in the coat closet,” was Mitchell’s prompt response. “I questioned all the servants and Mrs. Porter, and they say that Dr. Noyes owned a large grip with his initials—it is missing, and I conclude that he has taken it with him, for Murray declares that some underclothes and one suit of clothes are missing.”
“I see.” Coroner Black frowned, then glanced toward Thorne, and the latter addressed the detective.
“Have you found any trace of burglars breaking into the house last night, Mitchell?”
“No. And I examined the ground about this house very thoroughly, as well as every window catch and keyhole; none have been tampered with. The servants declare they were securely locked last night, and found in the same condition this morning.”
Thorne laid aside the pencil he had been twisting about in his fingers and pointed to the blood-stained razor.
“Did you find finger marks on this razor?”
“No, none.” Mitchell looked glum. “We tested every article in Mr. Brainard’s bedroom and could not find a trace of finger prints.”
Thorne turned back to Coroner Black. “I have no further questions to ask the witness,” and the coroner dismissed Mitchell.
“As you go out, Mitchell,” he added, “please send word to Miss Millicent Porter that I would like to see her here.”
By the time the hall door again opened every lamp the room boasted was lit, and Millicent Porter paused just within the library to accustom herself to the sudden glare. Thorne and the jurors noted the lines of care on her white face and the dark circles under her eyes, and as Thorne approached her he muttered under his breath, in subdued admiration, “What an exquisite child!” She seemed little more in her simple dark dress, and her beauty was of the ethereal type.
“We won’t keep you here very long, Miss Porter.” Coroner Black bustled forward and, snatching up a cushion from the sofa, placed it in the witness chair. “You will be more comfortable so.” She smiled her thanks,looking up at him timidly. “Now, if you will rise for a second Dr. McPherson will—there,” soothingly, observing her startled expression. “Just repeat the oath after McPherson and place your hand on the Bible—so. Now sit right here. Kindly tell the jurors your full name—”
“Millicent Porter.”
“And how long have you known Mr. Brainard, Miss Porter?”
“A little over a year.” She spoke with an effort and several of the jurors hitched their chairs nearer so as not to miss a word she said.
“And when did you become engaged to him?” inquired Coroner Black.
Millicent flushed scarlet. “I—I—” she stumbled badly. “We were—it was—” Then in an indignant rush, “My private affairs do not concern you; I decline to answer impertinent questions.”
Coroner Black bowed and adjusted his eyeglasses, and to the disappointment of a number of the jurors he did not press the point.
“Why did you and Mr. Brainard quarrel last night?” he asked.
“Quarrel?” Millicent stared at him, thenlaughed a bit unsteadily. “Mr. Brainard and I quarrel—what nonsense! Who put such an idea in your head, sir?”
“Your footman, Murray, has testified that he overheard you exclaim, ‘No! No!’ on the portico there,” pointing to the long windows. “And after you had dashed by him into the house Murray found Mr. Brainard lying overcome on the ground.”
Millicent never removed her eyes from the coroner; she seemed drinking in his words, half unable to believe them.
“Murray saw us?” she stammered, half to herself. “I had no idea others were about.” Abruptly she checked her hasty speech, and her determined chin set in obstinate lines. “Apparently you know everything that transpired last night. Then why question me?” she demanded.
“We do not know everything,” replied Coroner Black patiently. “For instance, we do not know who murdered Bruce Brainard.”
His words struck home. She reeled in her seat, and but for Thorne’s supporting arm would have fallen to the floor.
“Murdered!” she gasped. “Murdered? You must be mistaken.”
“Unfortunately, Miss Porter, the medical evidence proves conclusively that it was murder and not suicide. Now,” continued Black, eying her watchfully, “we want your aid in tracking the murderer—”
“I know nothing—nothing!” she burst in passionately. “I never saw Mr. Brainard again after he went upstairs; I slept soundly all last night, and heard nothing.”
“Even if you know nothing about the happenings last night, perhaps you can still tell us something which may prove a clue,” began Black, and his manner grew more earnest. “Did Mr. Brainard ever tell you that he had enemies?”
“No.”
“Did he ever mention that his life had been threatened?” persisted Black.
“No.” Millicent was white to the lips, and she held out her hands pleadingly. “Indeed, gentlemen, I cannot help you—why ask me questions that I cannot answer?”
The big, raw-boned foreman of the jury met her eyes and moved awkwardly, but before he could think what to say Coroner Black again addressed her.
“There are certain formalities to be gonethrough, Miss Porter.” As he spoke he walked over to the center table and picked up the blood-stained razor, holding it directly under the rays of the nearest lamp. “Kindly look at this razor and tell us if you know to whom it belongs.”
If the razor had been Medusa’s head it could have held no more deadly fascination for Millicent. She sat as if carved from stone. Coroner Black repeated his question once, and then again—still no response.
Beverly Thorne broke the tense stillness.
“Did Dr. Noyes bid you good-by before departing, Miss Porter?” he asked.
Galvanized into action, Millicent sprang from her seat, and, before anyone guessed her intention or any hand could stay her, she dashed from the library.
Coroner Black made a hasty step toward the door, but Thorne detained him.
“Suppose you sum up the case to the jury,” he suggested, and resumed his seat.