The Alan Ford Mystery MEGAPACK®

by Carolyn Wells

  The detective watched closely, and saw a small slip of paper containing a few bars of instrumental music, with no accompanying words.

  “A memorandum for the organist?” asked Ferrall, looking at the music.

  “I hardly think so,” returned Bingham, studying the paper. “I’m not very musical, but I’m sure this is no music for the organ or choir.”

  “Let me see,” said Eugene Hall, the one of the choristers who had asked to remain. “No, that’s no music for to-day’s use. Maybe it’s a talisman, or something. You know brides often have superstitions about carrying good-luck omens.”

  Remembering the fate that had overtaken the bride, a shudder passed over all who heard.

  “Give it to me,” said Eileen; “it is no doubt something of that sort. I’ll keep it.”

  She put it away in her own glove, when the sexton volunteered information.

  “I gave that to Miss Moulton,” he said.

  “You did!” exclaimed the detective. “When?”

  “In the vestibule, just before she was married. Doctor Van Sutton gave it to me, before that, and told me to be sure to hand it to the bride before she started to march down the aisle.”

  “How extraordinary!” said the bridegroom. “Why did he do that?”

  “I don’t know, sir, I’m sure.”

  “I’ll ask him,” said Ferrall; “it may be an important clue!”

  In response to a summons, Doctor Van Sutton came in from the parlour.

  “Yes,” he said, “I gave that to John, just as he says.”

  “Where did it come from?” asked Bingham.

  “It came to me in the morning’s mail,” replied the minister; “it was enclosed in a letter asking me to see that the bride received it just before she started to walk up the aisle. Of course, I did as requested, and I told John to give it to Miss Moulton in the vestibule. I assumed it was a message of good luck, or something like that from a friend.”

  “Doubtless that is what it is,” said Eileen; “I shall keep it as a souvenir.”

  But Ferrall was not quite satisfied. “Was the letter signed, Doctor Van Sutton?” he asked.

  “No, it was not. I don’t usually take notice of anonymous notes, but this seemed different. Surely there can be no harm in it?”

  “No; I don’t see how there can be, and yet it was a queer circumstance.” The detective shook his head, uncertainly. .

  “I think the fact of the tragedy leads you to attach undue importance to it,” said the minister. “But I can never understand how that shot was fired. I know all you say about the pistol being soundless and smokeless, but there were so many of us all about, how could it have happened? I stood here,” and Doctor Van Sutton took the place he had occupied during the ceremony; “Ethel was in front of me, a little at my right. You see, I had spoken to her, and was just shaking hands with Mr. Bingham, so he and I were practically between the bride and the crowd on the east side, from which direction you say the shot came.”

  “I can’t see either how it was,” said Eugene Hall. “We fellows up in the choir had a chance to see all that was going on, and if any one in the church had looked suspicious we should have noticed it.”

  “I doubt if you would, Hall,” said Warren Swift. “Of course, you were looking at the bride, or at the general show, and not thinking of any wrongdoing. And, too, with all that forest of flowers and palms in front of you, you couldn’t see very well what was going on.”

  The rail that separated the low organ loft from the pulpit was banked with palms and ferns mingled with Ascension lilies. These decorations formed a screen between the choir and the audience, which, while it did not entirely hide one from the other, yet made it difficult to see clearly.

  “Oh, we pushed the flowers more or less aside,” said Hall; “we wanted to see, of course; and, too, we had to lay our music out on the greenery, and then we could pretty much see over. I can’t help thinking we must have seen any man shoot.”

  “Nonsense!” cried Inspector Kinney. “You didn’t see him shoot, and yet he did shoot. So there’s no use blinking the question. The lady was shot, and somebody must have done it. I incline to the belief that the murderer was inside the church, but he may not have been. But the matter must be ferreted out, and it shall be. Such a strange crime cannot long remain a secret. What are these chalk marks on the floor?”

  “They were put there to show the bridesmaids and ushers where to stand,” said Eileen. “This mark is for the bride herself. We rehearsed last night, and we put the marks carefully, so everybody would be just in the right spot.”

  “Then here is where the bride stood when she fell,” said Ferrall, pointing to the mark Eileen had indicated. “This may be of great importance.”

  “Yes, that is where Ethel was standing. She had stepped forward the least mite, so I could fix her train for the march back. You’ve no idea what it means to get that mass of heavy satin into place.”

  “Come, Eileen,” said Warren Swift, seeing the girl was about to break down again at the thought of the doomed bride, who had never made that return march down the church aisle; “let us go home. We can do nothing here, and I know mother will be glad to have you with her.”

  “Yes, Warry, I will go with you. Will you come, Stanford?”

  “Yes, if you’re going.” Bingham gave a last look at the scene of his wedding ceremony, and then turned to Eileen. Only the watchful eyes of Detective Ferrall saw the look which the bridegroom gave to her who had so lately filled the post of maid of honour to the fated bride. Only the abnormally sharp ears of the detective heard Bingham breathe in the faintest whisper, “Oh, Eileen! now—”

  But the girl laid her finger on her lip, and glancing hurriedly around, shook her head warningly at the white-faced bridegroom.

  “H’m,” said Detective Ferrall to himself.

  “No, Mr. Bingham, you’d better not go home,” he said, aloud. “I think you ought to stay here till they take Mrs. Bingham away. There’s no telling what they might want you for.”

  Bingham raised startled eyes at the unfamiliar name for Ethel, but said only, “Very well, Mr. Ferrall, I will remain.”

  “Not necessary at all,” said the minister, kindly. “Mr. Bingham is not needed here. I will attend to any emergencies that may arise, and I am sure Mr. Bingham needs rest and quiet for a time.”

  Stanford Bingham merely looked his gratitude, and with Warren Swift and Eileen Randall he left the church.

  “You oughtn’t to have let him go, dominie,” said Ferrall; “I feel pretty sure that man can tell us more than he has.”

  “What do you mean, Mr. Ferrall?” asked Doctor Van Sutton. “Do you think Stanford Bingham knows anything about this matter that he hasn’t told?”

  “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that,—but I think he ought to be kept in sight.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, you know the reason of this marriage, don’t you? It’s town talk.”

  “Explain yourself, Ferrall,” said the Coroner. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Why, only that it’s what the whole town knows. It’s that queer will of Stanford Bingham’s father. If Stanford didn’t get married before he was thirty, he was slated to lose all his father’s fortune. It was only left to him on condition that he took a wife before his thirtieth birthday. And that same birthday is due to occur next week. So you see the fortune is O.K. And as it’s a little matter of a million or more, I reckon the bridegroom is glad the knot was tied before—before—” but even the stolid detective could not put in words the cold-blooded hint.

  “Do you mean to imply, Mr. Ferrall,” said Doctor Van Sutton, “that this marriage took place merely for the securing of that fortune?”

  “What do you think yourself, dominie?”

  “I have no reason to think the young people were not in love with one another, as bridal couples usually are.”

  There was a silence, and then Eugene Hall said, “I don’t know anything about the pai
r, but I did notice that the bride looked awful scared during the ceremony. Did you notice that, Doctor?”

  The minister hesitated.

  “Speak up, dominie,” said the detective. “If you know anything you’ve no right to hold it back. Tell all you know.”

  “I don’t know anything at all,” and the Reverend Doctor Van Sutton spoke coldly. “I did notice that the bride looked nervous and shaken during the ceremony, but that is not at all unusual. Indeed it would have been the exception had she not done so. I have never married a bride who was entirely calm and cool at the altar.”

  “Now, wait a minute,” and the detective spoke very earnestly, “we’ve got to get at the truth of this thing; with your experience, Doctor, don’t you know the difference between the natural nervousness of a girl getting married and a girl who is really frightened of something? Well, I ask you squarely, if you can honestly say that, in your opinion, Miss Moulton was only suffering the usual and natural nervousness common to all brides, or whether she was afraid of something tragic.”

  Doctor Van Sutton considered a long time and then spoke slowly, as if choosing his words with care. “I am forced to admit, since you put it that way, that Miss Moulton did show an apprehensiveness that seemed more that of a vague fear than the mere nervousness usual to the occasion.”

  “That’s all I want,” and the detective showed satisfaction in his face. “That proves that she expected trouble.”

  “Don’t go too fast, Ferrall,” said the Inspector, “that’s your failing, you always jump at conclusions. Remember your mistake in the Pollard case!”

  “I know; and I’m not concluding anything except what the evidence shows. But I want the Reverend Doctor to tell us just what he noticed about this bride’s behaviour different from others.”

  “I can only say,” the minister stated, “that she looked up once or twice with an expression of fear on her face. It was not definite; indeed, had this awful affair not happened, I should never have thought of it again. But during the responses, the bride did look up, first at Mr. Bingham, and afterward at me, with a white, yes, an almost deathly white face, as if filled with a real terror.”

  “Did the bridegroom appear to notice this?”

  “I think not. His eyes were downcast, as were the bride’s, except on the occasions I mention.”

  “And she looked at you, did she?”

  “She looked up toward me. I cannot say she looked at me definitely,—she seemed to gaze affrightedly into space.”

  “I saw that look!” exclaimed Eugene Hall. “We, up in the choir, could see her clearly, of course. We were singing, very low, merely breathing the words, and as, of course, we know that wedding music by heart, we didn’t have to stick to our notes. I was naturally looking at the bride, for she was a beautiful sight. And I saw her glance at Bingham as she took her vows. I thought nothing strange of that, for it’s a solemn moment, if you have any sentiment at all, and then when the Doctor pronounced them man and wife, I saw Ethel give that awful terrorized look, right up at the minister. It mightn’t have been meant for him, particularly, nor for anybody, but it looked to me like the dying prayer of a doomed woman. If you ask me, I should say that the girl was looking for that shot! And it wasn’t a minute later when she fell! The Doctor had spoken to her, as he always does to a bride, and then he turned to Bingham,—and the next instant she went down in a heap. I was so dazed I scarcely knew what had happened, but I only thought she had fainted, for I had heard no report. I suppose, as we were so close to the organ, the sound and vibration of that would have deadened the other sound, but as nobody else heard it either, it must have been a silenced pistol. Of course, as the wound is in the right temple, the shot must have come from the east side of the church, and I think the villain who fired it stood outside the window.”

  Detective Ferrall looked at the speaker. “Thank you, Mr. Hall,” he said, “for a clear account of what you saw. But excuse me if I disagree with you about the assailant having been outside. It would be much easier to commit such a deed unseen, in the church, where every one’s attention was on the bridal party, than outside the window, where all the bystanders, and there were many, must have observed the criminal.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” said Hall, thoughtfully; “just inside the window, over there by the wall, would have been a likely place. A man there would be behind the audience, and yet near enough for an easy aim.”

  “But I hold that the pistol was discharged at closer range,” declared the detective, obstinately. “In fact, I hold that it may well have been discharged by a person standing very near to the bride herself.”

  “You may as well speak out, Ferrall,” said the Coroner, gravely; “there’s no one here who oughtn’t to know anything that’s to be known. So say what’s on your mind.”

  “Well, then, it’s my opinion that Mr. Stanford Bingham himself is responsible for his wife’s death.”

  A silence greeted this, and then the minister said, slowly: “It seems to me absurd to hold such a theory.”

  “Not absurd at all!” declared the detective.

  “Who had motive? Mr. Bingham. What was it? To get his fortune. Did anybody else have any motive whatever? Nobody. Did he have opportunity? He did. Was he likely to be suspected? He was not! My theory may be wrong, but it is not absurd!”

  The entrance of Stanford Bingham himself put an end to this conversation.

  CHAPTER IV

  The Pearl Veil Pin

  IF Bingham had appeared to be dazed and stunned before, he was not so now. His eyes blazed, and every muscle of his body was tense and rigid as he said to the detective:

  “I overheard your words as I entered the church. Do I understand, Mr. Ferrall, that you are accusing me of the murder of my wife?”

  The words, though not loud, were tense and sharp, and the speaker seemed to be holding himself in by main force from flying at Ferrall’s throat. His hands clenched as he awaited the reply.

  But Ferrall was not the sort to be intimidated by any one’s anger, and he said, “I don’t accuse anybody, Mr. Bingham. It is my duty as a detective to investigate, not to accuse. What I said, I stand by. Is it true, sir, or is it not, that unless you were married before you were thirty, you would lose your fortune?”

  “It is true,” replied Bingham, coldly. “But don’t make a fool of yourself, Mr. Ferrall. Had I wished to marry in order to inherit my father’s estate, and afterward commit a crime to rid myself of my bride, I most certainly should not have chosen the wedding altar as the scene of the tragedy!”

  “That’s so,” said the Inspector, “it would be most unlikely!”

  “Not at all,” insisted Ferrall. “Whoever chose the church as the place least likely of discovery, did a mighty cute thing. If we grant a murderer,—and there sure was one,—we must give him credit for great premeditation and foresight. As a detective, I’ve got to consider these things, and see where they lead me. Likewise, I’ve got to cast about for a motive. Where, I say, is there any possible motive to be found, except in this inheritance business? Who is going to murder a lovely young lady, with no reason for it? I’m not saying Mr. Bingham is the guilty man, but I am saying I haven’t seen any other direction to look, as yet. And, what I say, Mr. Bingham, I’m quite willing to say to your face, and give you all chance to defend yourself, if you’ve got a defence.”

  “I have no defence, because none is needed,” returned Bingham, still in a constrained, nervous voice. “Your suspicion is too absurd even to call forth denial! Wait a minute,—I scorn to reply to your insinuations, but I see some men in the back of the church, who can at least tell you how ridiculous your talk is.”

  Kennedy and Farrish, the two choristers who had gone away earlier, had returned, drawn no doubt by an irresistible anxiety to learn of further developments. Eugene Hall, another chorister, was there, too, and the bridegroom called on these men, all acquaintances of his, to tell anything they knew.

  “You fellows all stood up there
in the choir,” Bingham said; “if I had shot Ethel, would you not have seen me?”

  “Of course,” said Farrish. “I was looking at you both from the beginning of the ceremony to the end.”

  “So was I,” said Kennedy. “I saw you, Bing, when you put up your hand to fix Ethel’s veil,—or something like that.”

  “Eh?” spoke up the detective, “fix the lady’s veil? What do you mean?”

  “Yes, I did,” said Bingham. “Dr. Van Sutton had just spoken to Ethel, and was turning to me, when I saw a pearl pin loosened a little at the side of her head, and—”

  “The right side?” asked the detective.

  “Of course; that was the side toward me. I’m fussy about such things. The pin would have dropped out in a moment, and so I pushed it in with a light touch. I was surely privileged to do this to my own wife!”

  “Of course,” said Kennedy; “I just happened to notice it, because naturally I was looking at you both.”

  “And it was the next instant that the lady fell to the floor,” said Ferrall, looking intently at Bingham.

  “Good Lord, Mr. Ferrall!” cried the bridegroom, “are you going to say I shot my bride while arranging that veil pin?”

  “I am not saying that. I am asking you if there was any perceptible interval between your manœuvring with the pin and the lady’s fall?”

  “How do I know?” cried Bingham, angrily. “At such a time one cannot remember minute details clearly! I fixed my wife’s veil. I admit it. My wife fell to the floor. The two incidents had no bearing on one another.”

  “That is yet to be seen,” said Ferrall, ominously.

  “But they couldn’t,” protested Guy Farrish. “We in the choir could see all clearly, as Bingham says, and while I didn’t especially notice the veil incident, I know I should have seen anything that looked like a shooting!”

  “That’s just the point,” observed Inspector Kinney, “it didn’t look like a shooting! It’s a wonderfully mysterious crime and a wonderfully clever criminal we have to deal with, and we must look out for most unusual and unprecedented circumstances.”