CHAPTER IXTHE TELEGRAM
JONES, on his way up the stairs to the housekeeper’s suite of rooms on the third floor, was startled by the unexpected appearance of Mrs. Burnham at his elbow. Absorbed in carrying the heavily laden tray without spilling its contents he had failed to hear her footstep on the stair behind him.
“It strikes me, Jones, that you have a hearty meal there for a sick woman,” she remarked, inspecting the hot dishes with a critical eye.
“Mrs. Ward sent down word she particularly wanted a steak and all the rest,” stammered Jones. “Cook and I just carried out her orders, ma’am. Shall I take off any of the dishes?”
“Oh, no; see that Mrs. Ward has every attention, Jones. I was only wondering——” Mrs. Burnham paused thoughtfully; the housekeeper was indulging in a very substantial meal for one who claimed to be a seriously ill woman. “Carry the tray to Mrs. Ward, Jones, but see that you do not mention my comment upon her appetite.”
“Yes, ma’am, certainly, ma’am,” stuttered Jones and hurried on his way. He stood in great awe of Mrs. Burnham, whose caustic comments when she found him careless in his work had made an indelible impression.
Jones’ tap at the housekeeper’s door brought a pretty chambermaid who dimpled into a smile at sight of him. They had no opportunity to exchange a word, for Mrs. Ward called to her to take the tray and shut the door.
“Put the tray here,” she directed, tapping the chair by her bed. “That will do,” she added a moment later as the maid arranged the dishes within easy reach of her hand. “Thank you, don’t wait any longer.”
Waiting until the pretty chambermaid had disappeared into the adjoining room, Mrs. Ward listened until her sharp ears caught the click of the latch of her sitting room door and convinced her that she was alone. Raising herself on her elbow she proceeded to eat with avidity. She had just finished the last morsel of bread when the door of her bedroom opened and Mrs. Burnham walked in.
“Good morning, Matilda,” she said cheerily. “Glad to see you are so much better.”
Mrs. Ward settled back on her pillow and pulled the bedclothes up about her throat.
“Good morning,” she replied. “It’s very good ofyou to come and see me so early in the morning.” Mrs. Burnham, who was not noted for early rising, flushed at the housekeeper’s insolent air; she was a woman, however, who carried the war into Africa when occasion arose, and discourtesy from a subordinate or servant instantly aroused her resentment.
“I expected to find you up, Matilda,” she said. “Dr. Hayden told me last evening that he had crossed you off his list of sick patients.”
“I know how I feel better than Dr. Hayden,” responded Mrs. Ward sullenly. “I am not able to work; I am as weak as a kitten.”
“Staying in bed won’t strengthen you,” answered Mrs. Burnham practically. “Come, be sensible, follow Dr. Hayden’s orders.”
“I shan’t.”
“But, Matilda, you can’t stay in bed——”
“I can, too; until I am strong enough to get up,” with sullen anger. “I need nourishing food and rest. I’ve worked hard all summer, Mrs. Burnham; surely you don’t begrudge me a few crumbs?”
Mrs. Burnham eyed her wrathfully. “You can hardly call your breakfast a ‘few crumbs,’” she retorted, pointing to the empty dishes. “You have licked the platters clean, Matilda,” a spark of humor lighting her eyes. “What nonsense! Of course, I don’t begrudge you all the good cooking you require,and a nurse if necessary; but I do object to your malingering.”
“I am not malingering.”
“Oh, yes, you are,” with stern emphasis. “And I want to knowwhy?”
Mrs. Ward clutched the bedclothes, but a look at Mrs. Burnham’s face made her change her angry answer to a more wheedling tone than she had intended using.
“After all my years of faithful service you come and accuse me of that,” she began. “I wouldn’t ’a’ thought it of you, Mrs. Burnham.” Her face worked and a few tears brimmed over her eyelids and ran down on the coverlet.
“Stop crying!” exclaimed Mrs. Burnham. “I have no intention of hurting your feelings, Matilda; I came here to get facts.”
“Facts about what?”
“About what transpired in this house on Monday and Tuesday last.”
Mrs. Ward shook her head. “I can’t help you there,” she replied. “I’m plain puzzled myself.”
“There is always a solution to a puzzle,” responded Mrs. Burnham. “Answer my questions and we will find it. At what hour did you reach this house?”
“Tuesday afternoon, just after Miss Evelyn found the dead man.”
“And where did you spend Monday night?” Mrs. Ward’s eyelids flickered and Mrs. Burnham continued tranquilly: “I am quite aware you left Chelsea Monday afternoon, Matilda.”
Mrs. Ward made no response and after a lengthened pause Mrs. Burnham spoke again. “Why did you come to Washington twenty-four hours before you were told to?”
“I didn’t,” replied Mrs. Ward hotly. “I had to go to Baltimore on business; the wire came for me after you had left for New York. The servants all had their Washington railroad tickets for Tuesday and the house was even then in order; so I didn’t see any harm, ma’am, in leaving Jones to close the house. You’ve always trusted him.”
“I still trust Jones,” dryly. “That is not the point. I wish to know why you displayed so much emotion on the discovery of the dead man in our library.”
For answer Mrs. Ward felt about under the bolster and produced a much thumbed telegram which she handed to Mrs. Burnham who read the brief message it bore:
Mother worse. Come.
Annie.
“Who is Annie?” she inquired, handing back the telegram.
“My niece.” Mrs. Ward wiped her eyes with a corner of the sheet and thereby concealed from view a red and green string which had slipped from under the bolster in her exertions of searching for the telegram. “My sister died just after I got there.” Mrs. Ward was talking volubly as she pushed the string safely beneath the bedclothes. “Her death was a great grief; and on top of it, I found a dead man here—it clean bowled me over, for I’m not as young as I was, Mrs. Burnham.”
Mrs. Burnham considered her housekeeper in silence; she was certainly thinner than she had seen her in some time, and there were heavy lines in her face which had not been in evidence a week before. Another look at the empty breakfast dishes convinced Mrs. Burnham that the two spots of color in Mrs. Ward’s cheeks came from temper and not from temperature, unless so much food had made her ill. Had she really eaten it all herself? From where she sat Mrs. Burnham had a good view under the four-post bed occupied by the housekeeper; certainly no one was concealed there. Bending a little forward, she managed to see inside of the closet, the door of which stood partly open; no one was there. Mrs. Burnham sighed. She did not like mysteries, her forte did not lie in solving them. The bedroom and the sitting room and bath opening from it, all of which were givenover to Mrs. Ward, were just above her boudoir, and the room’s shape, like the boudoir, was octagonal.
A discreet knock on the door broke the silence, and in response to Mrs. Burnham’s “Come in,” the pretty chambermaid entered.
“Mr. Burnham wishes to see you, ma’am,” she said.
Mrs. Burnham rose instantly. “Don’t go, Cora; I want you to help Mrs. Ward dress.” Meeting the housekeeper’s irate glare, she continued unruffled: “It is too weakening for you to remain in bed, Matilda, Cora will bring your meals to your sitting room to-day. To-morrow—we’ll see how you are to-morrow,” and with a friendly wave of her hand she left the housekeeper glaring indignantly at the smiling Cora.
Mrs. Burnham went at once to her husband’s bedroom; not finding him there, she went to her own room, and from there to her boudoir. Her husband dropped the newspaper he was reading and looked up impatiently as she appeared.
“Upon my word, Peter,” she said. “Dr. Hayden orders you to stay in bed and Matilda to get up; instead of which you get up and she stays in bed—nice obedient patients you are!”
“Hayden’s a fool!” growled Burnham. “I must go down to Palmer’s office this morning, Lillian;now, I don’t wish to discuss the matter with you, just call a taxi—there’s a dear.”
Instead of complying with his request Mrs. Burnham sat down in the nearest chair and contemplated her husband.
“Dan Maynard has gone to see Jim and is bringing him back to lunch,” she said. “You will have to possess your soul in patience until then, Peter. I have no idea of letting you go out with your temperature.”
“Temperature! Fiddle-sticks! I am just a bit feverish.” Burnham stroked his cheek until he became conscious that his wife was regarding the strip of plaster across his face with interest. “I scratched myself in shaving,” he explained hurriedly. “I wish you wouldn’t sit there and look at me.”
Mrs. Burnham laughed as she leaned forward and picked up her knitting bag from her sewing table. “I am afraid, my dear, you will have to learn to control your nerves; especially if you want to shave yourself and preserve your good looks at the same time,” she remarked kindly. “Go on reading your paper, Peter.”
Burnham kicked the paper contemptuously. “Nothing in it but war news,” he said. “I’m sick of the war.”
“So are we all, but we are going to win it justthe same.” Mrs. Burnham shook the khaki sweater she was knitting with vigor. “Every stitch helps.”
“Hump! You knitters remind me of the women who sat at the foot of the guillotine in the French Revolution,” grumbled Burnham. “I never saw a woman yet who wasn’t attracted by crime and war is a gigantic crime.”
“Peter!” Mrs. Burnham straightened up and her indignation was plainly manifest. “You must be out of your head; don’t utter any more such remarks in my presence.”
“Well, why don’t you order that taxi-cab?”
“Because Dr. Hayden said you were to—What is it, Jones?” she broke off to ask as the butler came into the room.
“Mr. Palmer, ma’am.”
“Ask him up.” Burnham half rose, then sank back and his wife observed his sudden pallor with concern. “Would you mind leaving us together, Lillian? I want to speak to Palmer confidentially about my—my affairs.”
“Are you strong enough? Better wait, Peter,” she coaxed; an obstinate frown was her only answer, and before she could raise further objections James Palmer was ushered in by Jones.
“You come at an opportune moment, James,” exclaimed Mrs. Burnham, shaking hands cordially. “Peter was determined to go and see you, notwithstandingI told him Dan Maynard would bring you back to lunch with us.”
Burnham, who had darted an impatient look at his wife, pointed to a chair near the one he occupied.
“Sit down,” he suggested. “The police have barred us from the library; most insulting, I call it,” he added bitterly. “So we shall have to smoke here; if you don’t mind, Lillian?”
“Not in the least.” Contrary to her husband’s hopes Mrs. Burnham made no motion to leave the room, but instead went placidly on with her knitting. “Did you meet Evelyn downstairs, James?”
“No. I haven’t seen her since last night, when, calling on Mrs. Van Ness, I found her there.” Palmer paused to pick up the newspaper which lay at his feet, and folded it neatly before laying it on the sewing table.
“Mrs. Van Ness,” repeated Burnham thoughtfully. “Oh, didn’t Captain La Montagne mention last night that he was looking for Marian Van Ness’ apartment, Palmer?”
“Yes.” Palmer looked over at Burnham and their glances met. “The captain was with Mrs. Van Ness and Evelyn when I called there.”
Mrs. Burnham missed a stitch and when she again looked up from her knitting she found her husbandgazing out of the window and Palmer just lighting a cigarette.
“With your permission,” he said, holding it up.
“Certainly; I don’t object to tobacco smoke.” She was about to resume her knitting when her glance strayed through the open door by which she sat and she recognized Dr. Hayden coming down the hall. “Excuse me,” she exclaimed, “I’ll be back in a moment,” and she slipped out of the room before her husband looked around.
Hurrying down the hall Mrs. Burnham encountered Hayden near her bedroom and with a bare word of greeting opened the door and led him inside the room.
“You have two rebellious patients, Doctor; my husband and Mrs. Ward,” she began.
“Mrs. Ward shouldn’t give you any concern,” replied Hayden. “She has recovered; but your husband had a touch of fever last night which may make him a bit, eh, fractious,” hesitating for a word as he saw how worried she was.
“Oh, I am not anxious about Peter, I can manage him,” she said confidently. “It’s Mrs. Ward; why is she malingering?”
Hayden looked at her in surprise. “Is she?”
“In my opinion she is,” with emphasis. “Wait; I’ve noticed that whenever the coroner or the detectives wish to interview her, Mrs. Ward alwaysbecomes worse or says so, and just to satisfy myself I examined the nurse’s chart and found nothing on it to indicate such changes in her condition. To-day she refused to get up.”
“She did? But I told her last night——”
“I know, I heard you. She ate a large and substantial breakfast and then had the effrontery to tell me that she was too weak to get out of bed. I know a sick woman when I see one,” ended Mrs. Burnham with vigor, “and in my opinion she is no invalid.”
“I shall talk to her,” and Hayden’s square jaw became more pronounced.
“Do, please. Wait just a moment; why is she malingering?”
Hayden pondered the question before answering. “It may be, considering her emotion after the discovery of the dead man and her attempts to avoid interviews with Coroner Penfield and Detective Mitchell, that she hopes to get out of attending the inquest as a witness.”
“I believe you’ve hit it,” ejaculated Mrs. Burnham. “I’ve been questioning Mrs. Ward this morning about her actions on Monday and Tuesday, and to be quite frank her answers did not ring true.”
“Ah, indeed. What did she say?”
“She stated that she left Chelsea a day earlierthan she had intended on the receipt of a telegram from her niece saying her mother was ill. Mrs. Ward went on to say that her sister died shortly after her arrival in Baltimore, and the shock of finding a dead man here on top of her grief for her sister upset her.”
Hayden listened with close attention. “Did you see the telegram?”
“I did.”
“Then Mrs. Ward has told a straight story apparently.” Mrs. Burnham’s expression grew peculiar and he asked quickly, “Have you reason to doubt it?”
“Only this,” she hesitated. “Please keep this confidential. When I engaged Mrs. Ward as my housekeeper three years ago she distinctly told me that she had no relatives living in this country.”