“I think it was all the girl’s imagination, Mr. Ford. She is not only of an exaggerated artistic temperament, but excessively nervous and susceptible to hallucinations.”
“She is all that, I think. Now, please tell me, very honestly and very carefully, exactly how Mrs. Stannard looked and acted when she ran up to your room to tell you of the strange occurrence in the studio.”
“She was terribly excited, Mr. Ford, and she could scarcely speak. She stumbled up the stairs——”
“Why, did you see her?”
“No, I heard her. I was at my writing desk, and the house was still. Then she flew into my room, without knocking——”
“Is it her custom to knock?”
“Oh, yes, she always does. And she begged me to go down stairs with her, and I did. The rest you know?”
“Yes, and a strange tale it is. How do you suppose the jewels came to be on that table?”
“I cannot say,” Beatrice looked sad. “There seems to be only one explanation. That whoever had them or knew where they were, placed them there.”
“And how did the bearer of the box get into the locked room?”
“I can’t imagine. The only thing I can think of is that Natalie didn’t lock the door as thoroughly as she thinks she did.”
“Mrs. Faulkner, tell me this. I assure you I will not use your information unless absolutely necessary. Do you suspect the footman Blake of any connivance—or of any wrong doing in the whole matter?”
Beatrice Faulkner hesitated. Then she said, “No, Mr. Ford, I do not. I think Blake a thoroughly honest and trustworthy servant.”
“And who is the criminal?”
“That I cannot say. I am, as you know, merely a visitor, who chanced to be here at this unfortunate time. I have hesitated to express my opinions lest I do harm to the innocent or retard the quest of the guilty. I can only answer your questions in so far as they are not leading up to suspicion of any of my friends.”
“That is the right attitude, Mrs. Faulkner. I thought there was no necessity for troubling you at all, but one or two minor points I prefer to ask of you rather than Mrs. Stannard. Do you know the identity of ‘Goldenheart’?”
“I imagine her to be one of Mr. Stannard’s early inamoratas. He had many, and, moreover, I should not be surprised to learn that he called more than one by that name. You know there was a small gift found in his desk addressed to some one of that name, which had never been sent. It has occurred to me that the Goldenheart of that matter, and the one to whom he wrote more recently, were not the same person.”
“That may well be. You have a logical mind, Mrs. Faulkner. I say this to you, because I want your help. If I should tell you that I do not suspect Mrs. Stannard or Miss Vernon or Barry Stannard, would you then be willing to assist me in my investigation?”
Beatrice Faulkner looked at the detective an instant, and then said, in a low tone, “Mr. Courtenay?”
“Hush! Don’t mention names. Let us close this conversation right here, and I will tell you at some other time what I want you to do for me.”
Beatrice went away, and locking the door after her exit, Alan Ford remained alone in the studio for an hour or more.
Then he went for a walk which lasted another hour, and when he joined the family at luncheon, he was merely a courteous, friendly guest, with no suggestion of a detective.
In the afternoon, he requested permission to go over all of Eric Stannard’s papers and correspondence and spent his time until dusk at this work.
At tea time, he rejoined the others, and during the tea hour he talked of the visit of Orienta and her wonderful performance. Over and over it was discussed, and at each fresh detail or opinion Alan Ford grew more and more interested.
“Tell me of her costume,” he said, at last, when it seemed he had heard about every other bit of possible interest.
“It was beautiful!” exclaimed Natalie. “A long, full robe of a sort of sage green——”
“What material?” asked Ford, and Barry looked at him in surprise. What kind of a great detective was this who inquired concerning the texture of a costume?
“Why, it was silk, I think,—yes, heavy silk, wasn’t it, Joyce?”
“That, or a silk poplin. It was not a modern, modish gown at all; it was like a draped shawl.”
“Drapery hanging from the shoulders?”
“Yes,” Natalie answered, her mind so intent on giving Ford the right idea, that she didn’t think of the queerness of the question.
“Double skirt?”
“Yes—or, that is, a skirt, and then an over drapery in full long folds. Oh, it was lovely!”
“Are you apt with your pencil, Miss Vernon? Could you draw a rough sketch of that gown?”
“I can’t but Mrs. Faulkner can. She’s good at sketching draperies. Here’s a paper pad, Beatrice. Will you draw it for Mr. Ford?”
“Certainly,” and taking the paper, Beatrice rapidly sketched an indication of Orienta, in her flowing robe.
“That’s just right,” said Natalie, “but the folds were fuller, I think.”
“Never mind,” said Ford, “this will do. I only wanted to get a mental picture of how she looked,” and tearing the picture into strips he tossed them into a waste basket.
The talk drifted to the house and its architecture.
“The whole house is a gem,” said Alan Ford, enthusiastically, “but the staircase is a marvel. Nowhere in this country have I seen its equal. Your husband studied abroad, Mrs. Faulkner?”
“For years. He took great pride in building this house, as he intended it to be a masterpiece.”
“Which it certainly is. Have you the plans of it? I should like to see them. Architecture is one of my hobbies.”
“No, I haven’t the plans, Mr. Ford.”
“Oh, of course, they went to Mr. Stannard with the title deeds. Have you them, Mrs. Stannard?”
“No, we never had them. I never thought about them.”
“Doubtless they are among Mr. Stannard’s belongings. They must have been given to him. It doesn’t matter. I oughtn’t to take time to look at them, anyway. But one thing I do want to see, and that is the picture of Mrs. Faulkner that Mr. Stannard was engaged on at the time of his death. I’m told it is an example of his best work. May I have a glimpse of it?”
Beatrice Faulkner looked a little flattered at this request, but she said only, “Certainly, Mr. Ford. It is in the studio.”
They all went in to see it, and Barry arranged the portrait on an easel and adjusted a light for it.
“It is indeed splendid,” said Ford, in genuine admiration. The portrait was excellent and lifelike, but more than that it was a work of art. Beatrice, in a gown of deep ruby velvet, with the great staircase for a background, was at her very best. Her face, always handsome, was imbued with a fine spiritual grace, and she looked the embodiment of happiness. The whole conception was, perhaps, a little idealised, but it was a magnificent portrait, and a stunning picture.
“I’m so glad you have it, Beatrice,” said Joyce, softly. “You’ve been so good and dear, and have done so much for us all ever since Eric’s death, I’m happy for you to have this remembrance of him.”
“I’m glad, too,” and Beatrice looked at the reflection of herself through misty eyes.
Bobsy Roberts came in while they were looking at the portrait, and he, too, was charmed with its beauty.
“That staircase makes a wonderful setting. I’m a fancier of staircases, and I think this one beats any I ever saw.”
“A fancier of staircases, what do you mean?” asked Natalie.
“Yes, I’ve studied architecture, more or less, but the stairs have always especially interested me. I’ve just run across an old book, called ‘Staircases and Steps,’ and it’s most interesting.”
“I agree with you,” said Alan Ford. “And the staircase here is a gem. That’s why I wanted to see the plans of the house.”
“Mayn’t we see them?” asked Bob
sy, turning to Joyce.
“Why, I haven’t them, Mr. Roberts. Perhaps they’re among my husband’s belongings, but I’ve never seen them.”
“You see,” observed Ford, stepping out into the hall, “it’s the wonderful proportion of one part to another that makes the beauty of it. The stair-well, clear to the roof, the arcaded hall, the noble high-ceiled studio and this little low-ceiled Reception Room, fitted in just here, make up a splendid whole. Did not your late husband feel this?” Ford added, turning to Beatrice.
“Yes,” she replied, briefly, and then Bobsy tore himself away from the fascinating subject of architecture to ask Alan Ford if he had made any progress in his investigations.
“I have,” replied Ford. “I have found out a lot of things that seem to me indicative. But it all hinges on whether there are spiritual influences at work or not. It seems to me, if the spirit of Mr. Stannard could return to earth and manifest itself in any way, it would prove——”
“Prove what?” asked Mrs. Faulkner, as the detective paused.
“Well, I may be foolish, but it would seem to me to prove that he wanted us to stop these investigations and let the matter remain a mystery.”
“You really think that!” exclaimed Bobsy, as his estimation of Alan Ford’s genius for detective work received a sudden setback.
“I think I agree with Mr. Ford,” said Beatrice, thoughtfully. “If Eric wanted us to continue our inquiries he would rest quiet in his grave.”
“Oh, Mr. Ford,” and Natalie gave a little gasp, “do you really think, then, it was Mr. Stannard’s spirit that I heard in the studio? Do you think I am enough of a sensitive to bring about a real manifestation?”
“Those things are hard to tell, Miss Vernon. But I am going to ask the privilege of spending to-night alone in the studio. Then if any demonstration occurs, I shall, as I told you, think there is reason to believe——”
Ford’s pause was eloquent of deep feeling. Truly the man was in earnest, whether he was right or not.
“May I not stay there with you?” asked Roberts, a little diffidently.
“No, please. I want to be alone. I shall lock myself in, and I must ask not to be disturbed in any way.”
“I wish I could stay with you,” and Natalie sighed. “But I suppose you wouldn’t want me to.”
“No, please,” said Ford, gently. “I must be alone.”
CHAPTER XX
On the Staircase
At Ford’s request, the evening was spent without reference to the matter that was uppermost in every mind. At dinner the detective was merely a pleasant and entertaining guest. Afterward, in the Drawing Room he proved himself a good talker and a good listener, and the conversation, on all sorts of topics, was casual and interesting.
It was nearly midnight when Ford bade them good night, and went to the studio to hold his vigil. The others followed him in, Joyce asking if he would like any refreshment served during the night.
“No,” he replied. “It will not be so very long until daylight. And, too, perhaps nothing will happen, and I may fall asleep. Don’t worry about me, Mrs. Stannard, I shall not be at all uncomfortable. See, I shall sit just where Miss Vernon sat the other night. Right here, facing the chair in which Mr. Stannard died. Thus, I have my back to the hall door, and the North window, but I shall make sure that all are securely locked, and then if any manifestation occurs, I shall have every reason to be sure it is of supernatural origin.”
“And that would make you give up the case?” asked Beatrice, incredulously.
“I think so,” returned Ford. “I should probably leave here to-morrow.”
“Well, of all queer detectives!” said Barry Stannard, as they went from the room and heard the click of the key as it was turned in the door behind them.
True to his word, Alan Ford examined with minutest care every door and window. He made sure no lock or catch was left unfastened, and then, the lights burning brightly, he took his seat just where he had said he would, facing the chair in which Eric Stannard had met his fate. Also, he faced the two doors that led respectively to the Billiard Room and the Terrace. This left more than half the room behind him and out of his line of vision. But the detective paid no attention to that part of the studio, and rested his contemplative gaze on the great armchair which had helped to stage the tragedy.
The hours went by. Alan Ford scarcely moved from the easy, relaxed position he had taken at first. He closed his eyes for the most of the time, now and then slowly opening them for a moment.
His left hand, lying on his knee, clasped some small object.
It was shortly after three o’clock in the morning, when there was the sound of a click and the lights went out.
The studio was in absolute darkness.
Ford rose quickly and crossed the room to the light switch by the hall door. He knew the position of the furniture, and felt his way by the chairs. As he did so, he heard a long, gasping sigh, and a faint cry of “Help!”
By this time he had reached the switch and turned it on. The sudden flash of light showed no one in the room save himself, but not pausing to look about, he unlocked the hall door, passed quickly through and ran up the first steps of the stairs.
On he went to the second great square landing, and there he paused. He did not stand still, but stepped about on the landing, making exclamations to himself, and breathing heavily. He leaned against the baluster, tapping on the newel post with his fingers. Then, he sat down on the lowest step of the third or upper division of the flight. He sat, tapping his foot against the stair, he even whistled a little under his breath. He seemed anxious not to be silent.
There was a low light in all the halls, and occasionally Ford leaned his head over the baluster and commanded a view of the hall below.
Half an hour passed, and then Joyce Stannard appeared from the hall above. She wore a boudoir gown and slippers, and her weary eyes betokened a sleepless night.
She started with surprise at sight of Alan Ford on the stairs. But he made a motion requesting her to be silent, and taking a bit of paper from his pocket he wrote:
“Say no word. Go back to the hall above and remain there, but out of sight of this spot, until I summon you. Overhear all you can, but on no account let yourself be seen.”
Joyce read the strange message, and going back up the few steps she had descended, she sat on a hall window seat, concealed by a light curtain.
Then Alan Ford, with a short, sad sigh, stood up and approached the panelled wall of the staircase. Down the flights the panels of course slanted, but on the landing they were in level row.
Placing his lips to the wall itself, Ford said in a clear low whisper, “Will you come out?”
From behind the wall he heard an agonised moan.
“It would be better,” he said, gently. “Do come.”
Another moment passed, and then, a panel of the wainscot slid open and Beatrice Faulkner stepped forth onto the landing.
“You know all?” she said, and her great despairing eyes looked into those of the detective.
“Almost all,” he returned, and his glance at her was infinitely sad. “You killed Stannard?”
“Yes,” she said, and swayed as if she would fall to the floor.
Ford assisted her to stand and then gently aided her to a seat on the stair where he had sat a moment since.
Beatrice sank to the step and Ford closed the panel she had left open. He did not look into the place to which the panel gave entrance, for he knew what it was. It was the space above the Reception Room. He had seen when he entered the house that since the Reception Room and the studio were next each other and yet there was five or six feet difference in the height of their respective ceilings, that space must be a sort of loft or waste room. It showed from none of the sides. Both hall and studio were high ceiled. The staircase well reached to the roof. There was no explanation of the discrepancy but a waste space the size of the Reception Room and about six feet in height.
T
his space, of course, abutted on the studio, the hall, the stairs, and, on the other side, the outer or Terrace wall.
In the studio the balcony ran along the wall at about the height of the stair landing on the other side. Ford guessed at once that ingress to that waste space must be had from the studio or the stair landing or both. He now was sure that panels from both opened into it.
As he closed the panel, he noted that there was no secret or concealed fastening. Merely an ordinary flush spring catch, inconspicuous but not hidden.
Ford turned to the woman on the stairs. He sat down beside her. “Tell me about it,” he said, and his voice was so gentle, his face so sad, that Beatrice turned to him as to a friend.
“There is little to tell,” she said, wearily. “It is the story of a great love, a love too big and strong to be conquered by a weak-willed woman. I tried—oh, I tried——”
“Don’t give way, Mrs. Faulkner, just tell me the main facts. You knew Mr. Stannard years ago?”
“I was his first love. We were schoolmates. I always loved him—more than loved him. I worshipped, adored him. He loved me,—but he was always fickle. He loved every woman he saw. Then,—he married—his first wife, I mean, and I thought I should die. But never mind the past. I married, and I tried to forget Eric. My husband built this beautiful home, but he had financial troubles and couldn’t keep it. Eric Stannard bought it, and meanwhile his wife had died, and he married my friend Joyce. I tried to be reconciled, but the demon of jealousy tore my very heart out. I gave over this house to them and went away. A portrait of myself was to be part of the purchase price, and—even though I knew it would be acute torment to see Eric happy here with Joyce, I came to stay a month and have the picture painted. As I feared, the necessarily intimate association between the artist and myself quickened my never-dying love for him, until I was almost frantic. I could have stood it, though, had it been only his wife. But when he fell desperately in love with the model, I resented it for Joyce and myself both. But I had no thought of killing him,—don’t think that!”
The Alan Ford Mystery MEGAPACK® Page 38
