Afternoon Tea Mysteries, Volume Two: A Collection of Cozy Mysteries (Four thrilling novels in one volume!)

by Marion Bryce

  “Now that is deduction,” I said admiringly; “the only trouble is, that it doesn’t do us much good. Somehow I can’t seem to fancy this good-looking, economical, middle-aged lady, who has her dressmaking done at home, coming here in the middle of the night and killing Mr. Crawford.”

  “No, I can’t, either,” said Florence gravely; “but then, I can’t imagine any one else doing that, either. It seems like a horrible dream, and I can’t realize that it really happened to Uncle Joseph.”

  “But it did happen, and we must find the guilty person. I think with you, that this photograph is of little value as a clue, and yet it may turn out to be. And yet I do think the gold bag is a clue. You are quite sure it isn’t yours?”

  Perhaps it was a mean way to put the question, but the look of indignation she gave me helped to convince me that the bag was not hers.

  “I told you it was not,” she said, “but,” and her eyes fell, “since I have confessed to one falsehood, of course you cannot believe my statement.”

  “But I do believe it,” I said, and I did, thoroughly.

  “At any rate, it is a sort of proof,” she said, smiling sadly, “that any one who knows anything about women’s fashions can tell you that it is not customary to carry a bag of that sort when one is in the house and in evening dress. Or rather, in a negligee costume, for I had taken off my evening gown and wore a tea-gown. I should not think of going anywhere in a tea-gown, and carrying a gold bag.”

  The girl had seemingly grown almost lighthearted. Her speech was punctuated by little smiles, and her half sad, half gay demeanor bewitched me. I felt sure that what little suggestion of lightheartedness had come into her mood had come because she had at last confessed the falsehood she had told, and her freed conscience gave her a little buoyancy of heart.

  But there were still important questions to be asked, so, though unwillingly, I returned to the old subject.

  “Did you see your uncle’s will while you were there?”

  “No; he talked about it, but did not show it to me.”

  “Did he talk about it as if it were still in his possession?”

  “Why, yes; I think so. That is, he said he would make a new one unless I gave up Gregory. That implied that the old one was still in existence, though he didn’t exactly say so.”

  “Miss Lloyd, this is important evidence. I must tell you that I shall be obliged to repeat much of it to the district attorney. It seems to me to prove that your uncle did not himself destroy the will.”

  “He might have done so after I left him.”

  “I can’t think it, for it is not in scraps in the waste-basket, nor are there any paper-ashes in the grate.”

  “Well, then,” she rejoined, “if he didn’t destroy it, it may yet be found.”

  “You wish that very much?” I said, almost involuntarily.

  “Oh, I do!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands. “Not so much for myself as—”

  She paused, and I finished the sentence for her “For Mr. Hall.”

  She looked angry again, but said nothing.

  “Well, Miss Lloyd,” I said, as I rose to go, “I am going to do everything in my power in your behalf and in behalf of Mr. Hall. But I tell you frankly, unless you will both tell me the truth, and the whole truth, you will only defeat my efforts, and work your own undoing.”

  I had to look away from her as I said this, for I could not look on that sweet face and say anything even seemingly harsh or dictatorial.

  Her lip quivered. “I will do my best,” she said tremblingly. “I will try to make Mr. Hall tell where he was that night. I will see you again after I have talked with him.”

  More collusion! I said good-by rather curtly, I fear, and went quickly away from that perilous presence.

  Truly, a nice detective, I! Bowled over by a fair face, I was unable to think clearly, to judge logically, or to work honestly!

  Well, I would go home and think it out by myself. Away from her influence I surely would regain my cool-headed methods of thought.

  When I reached the inn, I found Mr. Lemuel Porter there waiting for me.

  “How do you do, Mr. Burroughs?” he said pleasantly. “Have you time for a half-hour’s chat?”

  It was just what I wanted. A talk with this clear-thinking man would help me, indeed, and I determined to get his opinions, even as I was ready to give him mine.

  “Well, what do you think about it all?” I inquired, after we were comfortably settled at a small table on the shaded veranda, which was a popular gathering-place at this hour. But in our corner we were in no danger from listening ears, and I awaited his reply with interest.

  His eyes smiled a little, as he said,

  “You know the old story of the man who said he wouldn’t hire a dog and then do his own barking. Well, though I haven’t ‘hired’ you, I would be quite ready to pay your honorarium if you can ferret out our West Sedgwick mystery. And so, as you are the detective in charge of the case, I ask you, what do you think about it all?”

  But I was pretty thoroughly on my guard now.

  “I think,” I began, “that much hinges on the ownership of that gold bag.”

  “And you do not think it is Miss Lloyd’s?”

  “I do not.”

  “It need not incriminate her, if it were hers,” said Mr. Porter, meditatively knocking the ash from said his cigar. “She might have left it in the office at any time previous to the day of the crime. Women are always leaving such things about. I confess it does not seem to me important.”

  “Was it on Mr. Crawford’s desk when you were there?” I asked suddenly.

  He looked up at me quickly, and again that half-smile came into his eyes.

  “Am I to be questioned?” he said. “Well, I’ve no objections, I’m sure. No, I do not think it was there when I called on Mr. Crawford that evening. But I couldn’t swear to this, for I am not an observant man, and the thing might have lain there in front of me and never caught my eye. If I had noticed it, of course I should have thought it was Florence ’s.”

  “But you don’t think so now, do you?”

  “No; I can’t say I think so. And yet I can imagine a girl untruthfully denying ownership under such circumstances.”

  I started at this. For hadn’t Miss Lloyd untruthfully denied coming down-stairs to talk to her uncle?

  “But,” went on Mr. Porter, “if the bag is not Florence ’s, then I can think of but one explanation for its presence there.”

  “A lady visitor, late at night,” I said slowly.

  “Yes,” was the grave reply; “and though such an occurrence might have been an innocent one, yet, taken in connection with the crime, there is a dreadful possibility.”

  “Granting this,” I suggested, “we ought to be able to trace the owner of the bag.”

  “Not likely. If the owner of that bag—a woman, presumably—is the slayer of Joseph Crawford, and made her escape from the scene undiscovered, she is not likely to stay around where she may be found. And the bag itself, and its contents, are hopelessly unindividual.”

  “They are that,” I agreed. “Not a thing in it that mightn’t be in any woman’s bag in this country. To me, that cleaner’s advertisement means nothing in connection with Miss Lloyd.”

  “I am glad to hear you say that, Mr. Burroughs. I confess I have had a half-fear that your suspicions had a trend in Florence ’s direction, and I assure you, sir, that girl is incapable of the slightest impulse toward crime.”

  “I’m sure of that,” I said heartily, my blood bounding in my veins at an opportunity to speak in defense of the woman I loved. “But how if her impulses were directed, or even coerced, by another?”

  “Just what do you mean by that?”

  “Oh, nothing. But sometimes the best and sweetest women will act against their own good impulses for those they love.”

  “I cannot pretend to misunderstand you,” said Mr. Porter. “But you are wrong. If the one you have in mind—I will say no name�
�was in any way guiltily implicated, it was without the knowledge or connivance of Florence Lloyd. But, man, the idea is absurd. The individual in question has a perfect alibi.”

  “He refuses to give it.”

  “Refuses the details, perhaps. And he has a right to, since they concern no one but himself. No, my friend, you know the French rule; well, follow that, and search for the lady with the gold-mesh bag.”

  “The lady without it, at present,” I said, with an apologetic smile for my rather grim jest.

  “Yes; and that’s the difficulty. As she hasn’t the bag, we can’t discover her. So as a clue it is worthless.”

  “It seems to be,” I agreed.

  I thought best not to tell Mr. Porter of the card I had found in the bag, for I hoped soon to hear from headquarters concerning the lady whose name it bore. But I told him about the photograph I had found in Mr. Crawford’s desk, and showed it to him. He did not recognize it as being a portrait of any one he had ever seen. Nor did he take it very seriously as a clue.

  “I’m quite sure,” he said, “that Joseph Crawford has not been interested in any woman since the death of his wife. He has always seemed devoted to her memory, and as one of his nearest friends, I think I would have known if he had formed any other attachment. Of course, in a matter like this, a man may well have a secret from his nearest friends, but I cannot think this mild and gentle-looking lady is at all concerned in the tragedy.”

  As a matter of fact, I agreed with Mr. Porter, for nothing I had discovered among the late Mr. Crawford’s effects led me to think he had any secret romance.

  After Mr. Porter’s departure I studied long over my puzzles, and I came to the conclusion that I could do little more until I should hear from headquarters.

  XV. THE PHOTOGRAPH EXPLAINED

  That evening I went to see Philip Crawford. As one of the executors of his late brother’s estate, and as probable heir to the same, he was an important personage just now.

  He seemed glad to see me, and glad to discuss ways and means of running down the assassin. Like Mr. Porter, he attached little importance to the gold bag.

  “I can’t help thinking it belongs to Florence,” he said. “I know the girl so well, and I know that her horrified fear of being in any way connected with the tragedy might easily lead her to, disown her own property, thinking the occasion justified the untruth. That girl has no more guilty knowledge of Joseph’s death than I have, and that is absolutely none. I tell you frankly, Mr. Burroughs, I haven’t even a glimmer of a suspicion of any one. I can’t think of an enemy my brother had; he was the most easy-going of men. I never knew him to quarrel with anybody. So I trust that you, with your detective talent, can at least find a clue to lead us in the right direction.”

  “You don’t admit the gold bag as a clue, then?” I asked.

  “Nonsense! No! If that were a clue, it would point to some woman who came secretly at night to visit Joseph. My brother was not that sort of man, sir. He had no feminine acquaintances that were unknown to his relatives.”

  “That is, you suppose so.”

  “I know it! We have been brothers for sixty years or more, and whatever Joseph’s faults, they did not lie in that direction. No, sir; if that bag is not Florence ’s, then there is some other rational and commonplace explanation of its presence there.”

  “I’m glad to hear you speak so positively, Mr. Crawford, as to your brother’s feminine acquaintances. And in connection with the subject, I would like to show you this photograph which I found in his desk.”

  I handed the card to Mr. Crawford, whose features broke into a smile as he looked at it.

  “Oh, that,” he said; “that is a picture, of Mrs. Patton.” He looked at the picture with a glance that seemed to be of admiring reminiscence, and he studied the gentle face of the photograph a moment without speaking.

  Then he said, “She was beautiful as a girl. She used to be a school friend of both Joseph and myself.”

  “She wrote rather an affectionate message on the back,” I observed.

  Mr. Crawford turned the picture over.

  “Oh, she didn’t send this picture to Joseph. She sent it to my wife last Christmas. I took it over to show it to Joseph some months ago, and left it there without thinking much about it. He probably laid it in his desk without thinking much about it, either. No, no, Burroughs, there is no romance there, and you can’t connect Mrs. Patton with any of your detective investigations.”

  “I rather thought that, Mr. Crawford; for this is evidently a sweet, simple-minded lady, and more over nothing has turned up to indicate that Mr. Crawford had a romantic interest of any kind.”

  “No, he didn’t. I knew Joseph as I know myself. No; whoever killed my brother, was a man; some villain who had a motive that I know nothing about.”

  “But you were intimately acquainted with your brother’s affairs?”

  “Yes, that is what proves to me that whoever this assassin was, it was some one of whose motive I know nothing. The fact that my brother was murdered, proves to me that my brother had an enemy, but I had never suspected it before.”

  “Do you know a Mrs. Egerton Purvis?”

  I flung the question at him, suddenly, hoping to catch him unawares. But he only looked at me with the blank expression of one who hears a name for the first time.

  “No,” he answered, “I never heard of her. Who is she?”

  “Well, when I was hunting through that gold-mesh bag, I discovered a lady’s visiting card with that name on it. It had slipped between the linings, and so had not been noticed before.”

  To my surprise, this piece of information seemed to annoy Mr. Crawford greatly.

  “No!” he exclaimed. “In the bag? Then some one has put it there! for I looked over all the bag’s contents myself.”

  “It was between the pocket and the lining,” said I; “it is there still, for as I felt sure no one else would discover it, I left it there. Mr. Goodrich has the bag.”

  “Oh, I don’t want to see it,” he exclaimed angrily. “And I tell you anyway, Mr. Burroughs, that bag is worthless as a clue. Take my advice, and pay no further attention to it.”

  I couldn’t understand Mr. Crawford’s decided attitude against the bag as a clue, but I dropped the subject, for I didn’t wish to tell him I had made plans to trace up that visiting card.

  “It is difficult to find anything that is a real clue,” I said.

  “Yes, indeed. The whole affair is mysterious, and, for my part, I cannot form even a conjecture as to who the villain might have been. He certainly left no trace.”

  “Where is the revolver?” I said, picturing the scene in imagination.

  Philip Crawford started as if caught unawares.

  “How do I know?” he cried, almost angrily. “I tell you, I have no suspicions. I wish I had! I desire, above all things, to bring my brother’s murderer to justice. But I don’t know where to look. If the weapon were not missing, I should think it a suicide.”

  “The doctor declares it could not have been suicide, even if the weapon had been found near him. This they learned from the position of his arms and head.”

  “Yes, yes; I know it. It was, without doubt, murder. But who—who would have a motive?”

  “They say,” I observed, “motives for murder are usually love, revenge, or money.”

  “There is no question of love or revenge in this instance. And as for money, as I am the one who has profited financially, suspicion should rest on me.”

  “Absurd!” I said.

  “Yes, it is absurd,” he went on, “for had I desired Joseph’s fortune, I need not have killed him to acquire it. He told me the day before he died that he intended to disinherit Florence, and make me his heir, unless she broke with that secretary of his. I tried to dissuade him from this step, for we are not a mercenary lot, we Crawfords, and I thought I had made him reconsider his decision. Now, as it turns out, he persisted in his resolve, and was only prevented from carrying it out
by this midnight assassin. We must find that villain, Mr. Burroughs! Do not consider expense; do anything you can to track him down.”

  “Then, Mr. Crawford,” said I, “if you do not mind the outlay, I advise that we send for Fleming Stone. He is a detective of extraordinary powers, and I am quite willing to surrender the case to him.”

  Philip Crawford eyed me keenly.

  “You give up easily, young man,” he said banteringly.

  “I know it seems so,” I replied, “but I have my reasons. One is, that Fleming Stone makes important deductions from seemingly unimportant clues; and he holds that unless these clues are followed immediately, they are lost sight of and great opportunities are gone.”

  “H’m,” mused Philip Crawford, stroking his strong, square chin. “I don’t care much for these spectacular detectives. Your man, I suppose, would glance at the gold bag, and at once announce the age, sex, and previous condition of servitude of its owner.”

  “Just what I have thought, Mr. Crawford. I’m sure he could do just that.”

  “And that’s all the good it would do! That bag doesn’t belong to the criminal.”

  “How do you know?”

  “By common-sense. No woman came to the house in the dead of night and shot my brother, and then departed, taking her revolver with her. And again, granting a woman did have nerve and strength enough to do that, such a woman is not going off leaving her gold bag behind her as evidence!”

  This speech didn’t affect me much. It was pure conjecture. Women are uncertain creatures, at best; and a woman capable of murder would be equally capable of losing her head afterward, and leaving circumstantial evidence behind her.

  I was sorry Mr. Crawford didn’t seem to take to the notion of sending for Stone. I wasn’t weakening in the case so far as my confidence in my own ability was concerned; but I could see no direction to look except toward Florence Lloyd or Gregory Hall, or both. And so I was ready to give up.

  “What do you think of Gregory Hall?” I said suddenly.

  “As a man or as a suspect?” inquired Mr. Crawford.