CHAPTER VITHE WALL BETWEEN
VERA DEANE scanned the handsomely appointed dinner table and its vacant places with mixed feelings, and Murray, hovering solicitously behind her chair, answered her unspoken thought.
“Mrs. Porter and Miss Millicent are taking dinner in their boudoir,” he explained. “Selby is serving them, and Mrs. Porter gave most particular orders that you should have a good dinner, Miss Deane.”
“I don’t believe I can eat,” protested Vera, declining bread and butter. “I have no appetite tonight.”
“Just try this soup, miss,” coaxed Murray. “It’s one of cook’s specialties. And you know, miss,” added Murray artfully, setting the plate with its smoking contents before her, “what with one thing and another, they’ve given you no rest today, and Dr. Noyes always said humans must eat to keep their machinery going.”
“Quite true,” smiled Vera. Murray was a favorite of hers, and his extreme loquaciousness often amused her. The footman was too well trained to overstep the gulf lying between their positions; he had been told off to wait upon the nurses and assist them in their care of Craig Porter on the latter’s arrival from France, and, having a natural aptitude for caring for the sick, they found him extremely useful.
Vera had not been slow in discovering Murray’s one hobby, a hobby which, seven years before, had almost cost him his place, Mrs. Porter not having taken kindly to his lugubrious countenance and depressed manner when waiting upon the table. She expressed her feelings to his former employer, a friend of long standing, who responded impressively: “My dear, Murray’s an excellent servant, with one little weakness—his health. The more certain he is that he suffers from a mortal disease, the more enjoyment he gets out of life. Just ask him now and then, ‘Murray, how are you feeling?’ and he will be your slave.”
Mrs. Porter had promptly followed the advice, and whenever she found the footman looking preternaturally solemn had cheeredhim immensely by inquiring for his health. Both Nurse Hall and Vera Deane had quickly discovered his hobby, and the younger nurse had advanced in his esteem by listening patiently to descriptions of every new symptom his fancy conjured up. The fact that he failed lamentably in the proper use of medical and anatomical terms never disturbed him—his last confidence to Dr. Noyes having been that he was suffering from inflammation of the semicolon.
Vera found Murray’s opinion of the excellence of the soup justified, and ate the remainder of the dinner with more zest than she had imagined possible an hour before. The relief of being alone was an additional fillip to her jaded nerves. Upon being excused from the inquest that afternoon she had gone at once to the branch telephone in Mrs. Porter’s boudoir, only to find that the instrument had been disconnected and that she could not communicate with her sister Dorothy. She had then returned to Craig Porter’s bedroom, and in trying to satisfy Mrs. Hall’s insatiable curiosity as to what had transpired at the inquest she had had no time to herself before dinner was announced.
“No coffee tonight, Murray,” she said, pushing back her chair. “I am going upstairs to Mr. Porter, so that Mrs. Hall can have her dinner immediately.”
“Mrs. Hall had tea earlier in the afternoon,” was Murray’s unexpected response. “She told me that Mrs. Porter had given her permission to spend the night in Washington.”
“Oh!” Vera’s expression was blank. “Is Mrs. Porter sending her into town?”
“No, miss; Mr. Hugh took the car just after the inquest adjourned and hasn’t returned yet. I hear tell”—Murray paused, dessert dish in hand—“that Mrs. Hall arranged with one of the ’tecs to have a taxi sent out from the city for her.” And without more ado he disappeared into the pantry.
Vera was a trifle out of breath when she entered Craig Porter’s bedroom. Mrs. Hall, chart in hand, was standing by the mahogany desk, and her face cleared at sight of Vera.
“Why didn’t you let me know you wished to go off duty a little earlier?” asked Vera reproachfully. “I would have hurried back—”
“Because I knew it would rest you to have your dinner in peace and quiet. I have arranged Mr. Porter for the night and givenhim his nourishment. All you have to do is to follow the doctor’s directions; they are pinned to the chart.”
“Of course I will follow the doctor’s orders,” responded Vera, much offended by her companion’s manner as well as her words, “I will obey instructions as I have done heretofore.”
Mrs. Hall looked at her oddly, a look which Vera missed as she crossed the room to arrange the window blinds.
“Are you nervous about staying up alone next to that—?” asked Mrs. Hall, and a turn of her head indicated the room occupied by Bruce Brainard the night before.
“Not in the least,” answered Vera; she was having some difficulty in closing the heavy outside blinds and her voice was somewhat muffled. She jerked her head inside the room again and closed the window. “There is a motor car coming up the drive—it looks like a taxi.”
“It’s probably for me.” And Mrs. Hall disappeared into the dressing-room which connected Craig Porter’s bedroom and the room which she and Vera shared.
Left to herself Vera went thoughtfully overto the desk. She was still writing when Mrs. Hall reappeared, bag in hand.
“Will you please mail this letter for me in the city?” asked Vera. “I won’t be a moment finishing it.”
“You’ll find blotting-paper in the lower desk drawer,” announced Mrs. Hall, stopping to button her heavy coat up about her throat. “It wastes time blowing on the ink.” Vera reddened. “If it is only a note to your sister, why not give me a verbal message?”
Vera’s color deepened. “I prefer to write,” she answered stiffly.
“As you wish; I only made the suggestion to save time,” and Mrs. Hall glanced significantly at the clock.
Vera’s hot temper got the upper hand. “On second thought, I’ll not detain you longer,” she said, and her long, slender fingers made mince-meat of the letter she had been writing. With a mumbled “good night,” Mrs. Hall left the room, and, turning, Vera stared contemplatively at the door. What had come over her companion? It was not like Mrs. Hall to be so cantankerous.
Vera spent the next hour in performing her accustomed duties, and when she finally tookher seat near the shaded night light she was conscious of utter weariness, a weariness more akin to mental exhaustion than she had known in many months—the day’s horrors were telling upon her, and her mental state was reacting upon her physical strength. A footstep outside the partly open hall door caused her to hasten across the room as Murray appeared, tray in hand.
“Cook sent some broth tonight as well as the sandwiches,” he said, lowering his voice as he tiptoed into the room and placed the tray on a side table. “She thought you would like to have something hot in the early morning, and I put the broth in the thermos bottle.”
“That was very kind and thoughtful of you both,” exclaimed Vera gratefully. “Please thank cook for me.”
“Yes, miss.” Murray tiptoed over to the bed and looked at Craig Porter, who lay with his eyes closed, his face matching the sheets in whiteness. The almost imperceptible rise and fall of his chest was the only indication that life still lingered in the palsied body. Shaking his head, Murray retreated to the hall door.
“I’m thinking the young master’s healthwill have a setback, now Dr. Noyes has gone,” he said sorrowfully. “And he was improving so finely.”
“We are keeping up the same treatment,” replied Vera. “Good night, Murray, and thank you.”
Pausing only long enough to see if her patient required attention, Vera returned to her chair, and in its comfortable, upholstered depths her tired muscles relaxed, and she half lay, half sat at ease and surveyed her surroundings. The room and its furnishings were well worth a second look, but an attraction which Vera was powerless to conquer drew her eyes to the transom in the wall separating the room she sat in and the one which had harbored the grim tragedy of the night before.
In her excited state of mind she half expected to see the same faint light appear through the transom which had shone there twenty-odd hours before, but the darkness in the next room was unrelieved. However, even the patch of darkness gave full play to her morbid fancies, and with a shudder she turned her head away—to find Mrs. Porter standing by her side. Too startled to move she gazed in amazement at her employer.
“I slipped in through your bedroom so as not to disturb Craig,” explained Mrs. Porter, in a subdued tone. “The other door lets in so much light from the hall when opened. I have something to say to you—”
“Yes, Mrs. Porter.” Vera was on her feet. “Will you sit here, or shall we—”
“Is Craig asleep?”
Vera moved over to the bed and bent over her patient, then returned.
“Yes, he is still slumbering,” she announced.
“Then I will sit here.” Mrs. Porter pulled forward a companion chair to the one Vera had vacated. “If we speak low our voices cannot disturb Craig in this large room. How is he tonight?”
Vera hesitated, and Mrs. Porter, her eyes sharpened by love, saw it even in the dim night light, and one hand went to her heart.
“I really think Mr. Porter is the same,” answered Vera hastily. “I see—no change.”
A heavy sigh broke from Mrs. Porter. “Why couldn’t Alan Noyes have stayed?” she moaned. “Why such mad haste? I would have paid him any price—done anything, in and out of reason, to insure my boy having his skilled medical attendance. And now—”
Never before had Vera seen Mrs. Porter’s composure shaken, and as she looked at her grief-stricken face a compassion and understanding of the woman she had deemed all-worldly moved her. Impulsively she extended her hands in ready sympathy, and Mrs. Porter clasped them eagerly.
“Don’t borrow trouble, dear Mrs. Porter,” she entreated. “Dr. Washburn stands very high in the profession—”
“But he can’t come.” Mrs. Porter dashed tears from her eyes. “He has just sent word that he is ill with pleurisy, and recommends that I send for Dr. Beverly Thorne.”
“What?” Vera studied her intently. “Will you follow Dr. Washburn’s advice?”
“And send for Beverly Thorne?” with bitter emphasis. “I wouldn’t have that man attend a sick cat! Oh, why didn’t I close this house and go back to the city?”
Vera was discreetly silent. Mrs. Porter had carried her point of wintering in the country against the, at first, outspoken indignation of Millicent and the veiled opposition of Hugh Wyndham; but that was hardly the moment to remind Mrs. Porter that by having her own way she had herself to thankfor their isolated position. Mrs. Porter continued her remarks, heedless of Vera’s silence. “And poor Millicent is cut off from young companionship just at the moment when she needs her friends. By the way”—bending eagerly forward—“can’t your sister come and stay with Millicent?”
“Dorothy—stay here?” Vera half rose, her eyes dilating.
“Why not?” demanded Mrs. Porter. “The two girls were chums at boarding-school, even if they haven’t seen much of each other for several years, and I imagine you know Hugh’s opinion of Dorothy—” Vera nodded dumbly. “I’ve always been very fond of Dorothy, and I can’t understand, Vera, why you permitted her to go into newspaper work,” in reproachful accents.
“Dorothy is old enough now to judge for herself,” said Vera wearily. “She selected newspaper work for various reasons, and I must say,” with quick pride, “Dorothy has done well in that profession.”
“I know she has, and I admire her for it.” Mrs. Porter spoke warmly, and Vera colored with pleasure. “Do put your clever wits to work, Vera, and arrange it so that Dorothycan get leave from her office and spend a week here at the least. Her cheerful society will do Millicent good. I wish, my dear, that I could see more of you,” and Mrs. Porter impulsively kissed her. “But you sleep all day and work all night, and I sleep all night.” She rose abruptly. “I must go back to Millicent; the child is grieving her heart out.” She made a hesitating step toward the door leading into Vera’s bedroom. “Did you mention in your testimony at the inquest this afternoon that you saw Millicent down in the library when you went to telephone to the coroner?”
“No.” Vera caught the look of relief which lighted Mrs. Porter’s eyes for a brief instant, then the older woman continued on her way to the door, but she stopped again on its threshold.
“Do you know what became of the key to the next room after they removed Mr. Brainard’s body to the morgue in Alexandria?” she asked.
“No, I was asleep at that hour.” Vera came nearer. “Is the bedroom locked?”
“Yes. I suppose the police—” Mrs. Porter’s voice trailed off, then she added, “Good night,” and was gone.
Vera went thoughtfully over to the bedsideand, seeing that Craig Porter still slept, she moved over to the desk and, picking up a pad and pencil, tried to reduce her ideas to writing. The words repeated to her by Mrs. Hall, who had been told the jury’s verdict by the coroner, recurred to her:
“We find that Bruce Brainard came to his death while spending the night at the residence of Mrs. Lawrence Porter, between the hours of two and five in the morning of January 8th, from the severing of the carotid artery in his throat, and from the nature of the wound and other evidence produced here we find that he was foully murdered by a party or parties unknown.”
“By a partyunknown,” Vera murmured, dashing her pencil through the words she had scrawled on her pad. “But how long will the ‘party’ remain ‘unknown’— Merciful God! If there was only someone I could turn to!” and she wrung her hands as she gazed despairingly at the desk calendar.
A low tap at the hall door aroused her and, hastening across the room, she looked into the hall. Murray was standing by the door.
“Your sister is out on the portico, miss,” he announced in a low voice.
“Dorothy—here—at this hour?” Vera looked at the footman in amazement.
“It isn’t so very late, miss, not yet eleven,” explained Murray. “I asked Miss Dorothy in, but she said she didn’t wish to disturb anyone; only wanted a word with you.”
Vera viewed the footman in silence, then came to a sudden decision. “Very well, I will go downstairs. You remain with Mr. Porter, Murray, until I return.”
“Yes, miss.” And Murray, waiting respectfully for her to step into the hall, entered the bedroom and closed the door.
On reaching the front hall Vera paused long enough to slip on Millicent Porter’s sport coat which was hanging from the hat stand, and, putting up the latch, she walked out on the portico, and stopped abruptly on finding herself alone. A low hail from a taxi standing a slight distance down the driveway caused her to look in that direction, and she saw Dorothy’s face at its window. A second more and she stood by the taxi door, held invitingly open by Dorothy.
“Are you mad, Dorothy?” she demanded, keeping her voice lowered in spite of her anger. “To come out here at this hour of the night!”
“It’s perfectly all right,” retorted Dorothy. “William, our old coachman, brought me out in his taxi,” pointing to a man in chauffeur’s livery who stood some little distance away. “Did you think I could stay away, Vera, when I heard—”
“What have you heard?” The question shot from Vera.
“That you found Bruce with his throat cut—” Dorothy drew in her breath sharply. “I never dreamed he would kill himself—”
“The coroner’s jury called it murder,” said Vera dully.
“Whom do they suspect?” gasped Dorothy.
“I imagine Dr. Noyes.”
“Dr. Noyes!” in profound astonishment. “Why?”
“Chiefly because of his sudden departure without bidding anyone good-by.”
“But—but—the motive? Heavens! Didheknow Bruce?” And Vera leaned forward from the taxi, so that the moonlight fell full on her face.
“He met him last night,” with dry emphasis, and Dorothy moved restlessly. “Listen, Dorothy, I can stay but a moment longer. If you should be questioned, remember thatat the inquest I did not mention that I had ever seen Bruce Brainard before last night, and that I have not confided to anyone in the Porter house that I ever heard of him before.”
“But—but—Hugh knows.”
“Hugh Wyndham!” Vera clutched the door of the car for support. “Did you tell him tonight?”
“No, I haven’t seen him for over a week. I—” But Vera did not give her time to finish her sentence.
“Dorothy, were you so foolish—my God! you didn’t mentionnamesto Hugh?”
Her sister nodded dumbly.
From one of the leafless trees far down the lawn an owl hooted derisively as a light footstep crunched the gravel just behind Vera, and she swung quickly about. The front door of the house was wide open and a stream of light illuminated the portico.
Millicent Porter, approaching nearer, recognized Vera and her sister, and darted to the side of the car with a glad cry of welcome.
“Dorothy, you’ve come!” she exclaimed, seizing her hands. “I told Hugh not to return without you.”
Dorothy glanced in speechless surprise fromVera to Millicent, then back, almost pleadingly, to her sister. Vera’s face was set and stern.
“Yes, Millicent,” she said quietly. “Dorothy has come to spend the ni—” she stumbled in her speech—“several days,” she amended.