“You’ve had too much already,” snapped Vance. “Move!”
Gunthar led the way sullenly. As we crossed the main road just before the house, a strange shabby figure appeared. A straggly white beard accentuated his stooped shoulders. He shuffled as he walked, but there was wiry energy in his movements. He turned quickly toward a clump of trees, as if to avoid us. Gunthar hailed him peremptorily.
“Come here, Jed. We need you.” The old man shuffled up obediently. “Lief’s gone over the crags at Tor Gulch. We’ll be bringing him up.”
The old man grinned childishly. For some reason the tragedy seemed to amuse him. “Maybe you’re drinking too much, Eric. Ella said you struck her last week. You shouldn’t do that. The Gulch’ll hold more’n one.”
We picked up Guy Darrup, the estate carpenter. Gunthar explained. Darrup’s eyes clouded. There was unfriendliness in them. As we headed westward down the path he said: “I guess that’ll make your job safe for a while now, Mr. Gunthar.”
Gunthar snarled. “Get on. Mind your own business. Maybe you’d like to be overseer?”
“I’d do everyone fair.” There was bitterness in the remark.
We took a circuitous route to the base of the rocky crags, passed through a cluster of trees over which the mist hung. We went north across a frozen stream, then turned in the general direction from which we came.
“You’re Miss Ella’s father, aren’t you, Gunthar?” Vance spoke for the first time.
Gunthar gave an affirmative grunt.
“Who’s he?” With a move of the head Vance indicated the old man shuffling briskly far ahead.
A sudden decision prompted ingratiation on Gunthar’s part. “Old Jed. He was overseer here before me. Pensioned off now. He’s cracked. Lives alone down in the Green Glen—named it himself. Doesn’t mingle. We call him the Green Hermit… Nasty business about Lief, with the house full of guests—”
“That remark of Darrup’s. Is there talk of a new overseer?”
“Hell! They’re always talking. I make ’em work. They don’t like it.”
Old Jed turned abruptly to the right past an eruption of shrubs.
“Hey,” bawled Gunthar, “how do you know where to go?”
“I reckon I know where Lief is,” Jed cackled. He disappeared behind a projecting rock.
“He’s cracked,” Gunthar repeated.
“Thanks for the information.” As Vance spoke a shout came from Old Jed.
“Here’s Lief, Eric.”
We came up. A crumpled body, hideously twisted, lay at the foot of a stone cliff. The face was torn and clotted, and the bare head was violently misshapen. There was a dark pool of coagulated blood.
Vance leaned over the figure, examined it closely; then he stood up. “No doctor can help. We’ll leave him here. Darrup’ll watch. I’ll phone Winewood.” He looked up at the cliffside and then through the trees at the Manor towers beyond.
Gunthar waved Old Jed away.
“You really oughtn’t strike Ella, Eric,” the old man admonished with a faint grin as he moved off round the cliffs to the flat meadow.
“Can we get to the top of the cliff on our way back to the Manor?” asked Vance.
Gunthar hesitated. “There’s a steep short cut back a ways. But it’s a dangerous climb—”
“We’ll take it. Get going.”
When we had struggled up the slippery, treacherous incline, Gunthar indicated the approximate spot where Lief Wallen must have gone over. There were shrub oaks near the edge of the cliff and Vance moved among them, gazing down at the thin layer of crusted snow. Suddenly he knelt beside a sturdy tree bole. “Blood, Gunthar.” He pointed to an irregular dark patch a few inches from the tree trunk.
Gunthar sucked in his breath. “Holy God—up here!”
“Oh, quite.” Vance rose. “No. No accident. Too bad the wind last night obliterated the tale of footprints. However… We’ll be going. Work to do.”
Gunthar halted abruptly. “Old Jed knew just where the body was!”
“Thanks awfully.” Vance hastened down the long slope toward the Manor.
CHAPTER FIVE
The Curse of the Emeralds
(Thursday, January 16; 9:30 a.m.)
CARRINGTON REXON WAS drinking his coffee in the den when we returned.
“Up to the police,” Vance announced. Then he explained… “I’ll phone Winewood.” He went to the telephone and conversed briefly.
Rexon rang. Higgins entered.
“Oh! Ah!” Vance sat down. “Many thanks. Just coffee, Higgins.” He lighted a cigarette with unusual deliberation and stretched his legs before him.
Rexon was silent, coldly calm. He studied Vance over his coffee cup.
“Sorry you should be bothered,” he murmured. “I was hoping my anxiety was unwarranted.”
“One never knows, does one, old friend? We do our best.”
Lieutenant O’Leary, of the Winewood police, a tall, shrewd and capable man, far superior to the ordinary country constable, arrived simultaneously with Doctor Quayne.
“Sorry, doctor. No need for you.” Vance gave the details. “Fellow’s been dead for hours, I’d say. It’s the Lieutenant’s problem.”
“Doctor Quayne is our official physician,” said O’Leary.
“Ah!” Vance threw his cigarette in the grate. “That facilitates matters. We’ll go down at once. Darrup’s watching the body. I ordered it left where Gunthar found it. Forgive my intrusion, Lieutenant. Sole interest Mr. Rexon.”
“Quite correct, sir,” O’Leary returned. “We’ll see how the land lies.”
“It lies exceeding black despite the snow.”
Ten minutes later Doctor Quayne was examining Lief Wallen’s body.
“A long fall,” he commented. “Battered badly by the impact. Been dead all of eight hours. Poor Wallen. An honest, conscientious chap.”
“That linear depression and laceration above the right ear,” Vance suggested.
Quayne leaned over the body again for several moments. “I see what you mean.” He looked up at Vance significantly. “I’ll know more after the autopsy.” He rose, frowning. “That’s all now, Lieutenant. I’ll be getting along—I’ve several calls to make.”
“Thank you, doctor.” O’Leary spoke courteously. “I’ll attend to the routine.”
Quayne bowed and departed.
O’Leary looked at Vance shrewdly. “What about that depression and laceration, sir?”
“Come with me a moment, Lieutenant.” And Vance led the way to the cliff above. He pointed to the dark stain by the shrub-oak bole.
O’Leary inspected it and nodded slowly. Then he gave Vance a steady look. “What’s your theory, sir?”
“Must I? But it’s only a vague idea, Lieutenant. Highly illusory. That bash on Wallen’s head might be from an instrument. Doesn’t fit with a tumble. The poor johnnie could have been hit elsewhere and shoved over the cliff to cover up. There are faint indications in the snow hereabouts, despite last night’s wind. Remote speculation at best. But there could have been three people here last night. Marks not clear. No. Proof lackin’… My theory? Wallen was struck near the Manor. Struck over the ear with an instrument shaped—let us say—like the blunt end of a spanner. His skull was fractured. Then he was dragged here. Two faint lines up the slope. Heels, perhaps. The body was dropped to the ground here so the other could hold to this tree while shoving Wallen over the cliff. Hemorrhage from the nose and ears intervened. Hence the blood here.”
“I don’t like it, sir.” O’Leary frowned glumly.
“Neither do I. You asked for it.”
O’Leary looked down at the telltale stain, then back at Vance. “You’ll help us, sir? I’d be flattered. No need pretending I don’t know of you.”
“Disregardin’ the compliment, I’d be happy to.” Vance took out a cigarette. “My sole interest Mr. Rexon. As I said.”
“I understand. My thanks. I’ll get the machinery going.” O’Leary strode off br
iskly.
When we returned to the Manor the sun was streaming into the spacious glass-enclosed veranda which stretched across the entire east side of the house. At the foot of a short terrace leading from the veranda was a large artificially controlled skating rink, lined on three sides with slender trees and landscaped gardens. Immediately below, to the south, was a pleasant pavilion.
Joan Rexon reclined on the veranda in a tufted wheelchair built like a chaise longue; and beside her in a small wicker porch chair sat Ella Gunthar. Vance joined them with a smile of greeting. Joan Rexon was frail and wistful, but she gave little impression of invalidism. Only the blue veins in her slender hands indicated the long illness which had sapped her strength since childhood.
“Isn’t it terrible, Mr. Vance!” Ella Gunthar said in a quavering voice. He looked at her a moment questioningly. “My father has just told us about poor Lief Wallen. You know, don’t you?”
Vance nodded. “Yes. But we mustn’t let that cast a shadow over us here.” He smiled to Joan.
“It’s very difficult to avoid it,” Miss Rexon said. “Lief was so kind and thoughtful…”
“The more reason not to think of such things,” Vance declared.
Ella Gunthar nodded seriously. “The sunshine and the snow—there are happy things in the world to think about.” She placed her hand tenderly over Joan’s. But the thought of the tragedy remained with her as well. “Poor Lief must have fallen on his way home this morning.”
Vance looked at her meditatively. “No. Not this morning,” he said. “It was last night—around midnight.”
Ella gripped her chair, and a frightened look came into her eyes. “Midnight,” she breathed. “How terrible!”
“Why do you say that, Miss Ella?” The girl’s manner puzzled Vance.
“I—I—At midnight…” Her voice trailed off.
Vance quickly turned the conversation, but failed to alter the girl’s strange mood. At length he excused himself and went into the house. He had barely reached the foot of the main stairs when a hand was placed on his arm. Ella Gunthar had followed him.
“Are you sure it was—midnight?” Her whisper was tense and pleading.
“Somewhere thereabouts.” Vance spoke lightly. “But why are you so upset, my dear?”
Her lips trembled. “I saw Lieutenant O’Leary come in with you and go toward Mr. Rexon’s den. Tell me, Mr. Vance, why is he here? Is anything—wrong? Will we all have to go to Winewood—to answer questions maybe?”
Vance laughed reassuringly. “Please don’t trouble your lovely little head. There’ll be an inquest, of course—it’s the law, y’ know. Just formality. But they’ll certainly not ask you to go.”
Her eyes opened very wide. “An inquest?” she repeated softly. “But I want to go. I want to hear—everything.”
Vance was nonplused. “Aren’t you being foolish, child? Run back and read to Joan and forget all about—”
“But you don’t understand.” She caught her breath sharply. “I’ve got to go to the inquest. Maybe—” She turned suddenly and hurried back to the veranda.
“My word!” murmured Vance. “What can possibly be in that child’s mind?”
On the upper landing, as we turned toward our rooms, the housekeeper stepped out unexpectedly from a small corridor. She drew herself up mysteriously.
“He’s dead, isn’t he?” Her tone was sepulchral. “And perhaps it wasn’t an accident.”
“How could one know?” Vance was evasive.
“Normal things don’t happen here,” she ran on tensely. “Those emeralds have put a curse on this house—”
“You’ve been reading the wrong novels.”
She ignored the implication. “Those green stones—they create an atmosphere. They attract. They send forth temptation. They radiate fire.”
Vance smiled. “What do you find abnormal here?”
“Everything. Darling Joan is an invalid. Old Jed’s a fanatical mystic. Miss Naesmith brings strange people here. There’s intrigue and deep jealousies everywhere. Mr. Rexon wants to choose his son’s wife.” She smiled inscrutably. “He doesn’t know he’s building on sand. It all started years ago.”
“You hear much, what?” Vance spoke satirically.
“And I see much. The Rexon dynasty is falling. Young Mr. Richard pretends much; but the first night he got back from Europe a girl was waiting for him in the rear hall back of the stairs. He took her in his arms without a word and he held her close and long.” She came nearer and lowered her voice. “It was Ella Gunthar!”
“Really, now.” Vance laughed indifferently. “Young love. Any objection?”
The woman turned angrily and went down the hall.
CHAPTER SIX
A Woman’s Barb
(Thursday, January 16; 4:30 p.m.)
VANCE DESERTED THE Manor an hour later, just as the noonday siren shrilled overhead, the surrounding hills catching the note and throwing the echo back and forth much longer than the original blast warranted. Carrington Rexon had long taken a boyish delight in retaining this outmoded signal for his workmen. He admitted it served no purpose, but it amused him to continue to use it.
The early winter dusk had begun to fall when Vance returned.
“Been snoopin’ and talkin’ round the estate,” he told Carrington Rexon, settling himself comfortably before the fire. “Much needed activity. Hope you don’t mind.”
Rexon’s laugh was mirthless. “I only hope your time wasn’t wasted.”
“No. Not wasted. I’ll be frank. You want it, I know.”
Rexon nodded stiffly.
“Things not happy,” summarized Vance. “Meanness at work. And jealousies. Nothing overt. Just undercurrents. They could erupt, however. Gunthar’s hard on the men. That doesn’t help… Hear you’ve been planning to replace him as overseer. Wallen mentioned. Any truth in that?”
“Frankly, yes. But I was in no hurry.”
“Lief Wallen wanted to marry Ella. Both father and daughter protested. Friction—scenes. Not nice. Much bitterness. Source of general resentment of estate workers toward Miss Ella. Think she considers herself superior to the rest of them because she’s Miss Joan’s companion. Only Old Jed defends her. They answer he has delusions and a soft spot for the color green. Implication bein’ the presence of the emeralds has affected him. Everyone adding fuel to a smoulderin’ fire and waiting for a flareup.”
Rexon chuckled. “And perhaps you think, Vance, that I, too, am affected with the rest.”
Vance made a deprecating motion. “By the by, yours is the only key to the Gem Room, what?”
“Good Heavens, yes! Special key and special lock. And a steel door.”
“Been in the room today?”
“Oh, yes. Everything’s quite in order.”
Vance changed the subject. “Tell me about your housekeeper.”
“Marcia Bruce? Solid as rock.”
“Yes. I believe you. Honest, but hysterical…”
Rexon chuckled again. “You’ve noticed much. But she adores Joan—cares for her like a mother when Ella Gunthar is off duty. Basically, Bruce is a fine woman. Quayne agrees. There’s a fellow-feeling between those two. She was superintendent of nurses in a hospital once. Quayne’s a worthy man, too. I’m glad to see that friendship developing.”
“Ah!” Vance smiled. “I perceive Squire Rexon is sentimental.”
“The human heart desires happiness for others as well as for oneself.” Rexon was serious now. “What else did you learn, Vance? Anything pertaining to Lief Wallen’s death?”
Vance shook his head. “Solution may come through irrelevancies. Later. I’ve only begun.” Then he went out to the drawing room.
Bassett sat at the table near the veranda door where we first met him. He had just reached up and caught Ella Gunthar’s arm as she passed. He was smirking up at her unpleasantly. She drew away from him. Bassett let her go. “Haughty, aren’t we?” His eyes followed her with a sardonic leer as she returned to
Miss Joan.
Vance strolled up. “Not skiing today, Mr. Bassett? Thought the whole jolly crowd was up on the Winewood trails.”
“I slept too late and missed the party… Pretty blond thing, that Ella Gunthar.” His eyes drifted back to the veranda. “Unusually attractive for a servant.”
Vance’s eyes narrowed, hard as steel, and drew Bassett’s gaze. “We’re all servants. Some to our fellow men. Some to our vices. Think that over.” He went out to the veranda.
Lieutenant O’Leary was just coming up the steps at the side entrance.
“Doctor Quayne’s doing the autopsy now,” he announced. “Inquest tomorrow at noon. You’ll have to attend, I’m afraid, sir. I’ll pick you up.”
“Any complications ahead?” asked Vance.
“No. I’ve soft-pedaled everything. John Brander, our coroner, is a good man. He likes Rexon. And I’ve explained the situation. He won’t ask embarrassing questions.”
“Accident verdict, maybe?”
“I hope so, sir. Brander understands. It’ll give us time.”
“A pleasure to work with you, Lieutenant.”
O’Leary went inside to see Rexon, and Vance strode to where Joan and Ella Gunthar were sitting.
A noisy group of guests, returning from their skiing expedition, came clattering up the terrace, passed us with cheery greetings, and continued upstairs. Carlotta Naesmith and Stanley Sydes remained on the veranda and joined us.
Ella Gunthar was looking about anxiously.
“It’s really no use, Ella,” Miss Naesmith told her satirically. “Dick’s gone daffy over Sally Alexander.”
“I don’t believe it!”
Miss Naesmith’s mouth twisted in a cruel smile. “Does it hurt, Ella?”
“Carlotta! Cat!” There was no mirth in Sydes’ reprimand.
“How do you feel today, Joan?” Miss Naesmith’s mood changed as the girl smiled up sweetly. “And you, too, Mr. Vance. Why didn’t you join the skiing party? It was glorious. At least ten inches of powder over a deep base.”
“Isn’t there enough snow already, in these locks of mine?”
The Winter Murder Case Page 3
