The Bellamy Trial (American Mystery Classics)

by Frances Noyes Hart

  “I see. Will you tell us now, Dr. Stanley, just what caused the death of Mrs. Bellamy?”

  “Mrs. Bellamy’s heart was punctured by some sharp instrument—a knife, I should say.”

  “There was only one wound?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you please describe it to us?”

  “There was a clean incision about three quarters of an inch long in the skin just over the heart. The instrument had penetrated to a depth of approximately three inches, and had passed between the ribs over the heart.”

  “Was it necessary that the blow should have been delivered with great force?”

  “Not necessarily. If the knife had struck a rib, it would have taken considerable force to deflect it, but in this case it encountered no obstacle whatever.”

  “So that a woman with a strong wrist could have struck the blow?”

  “Oh, certainly—or a woman with a weak wrist—or a child—or a strong man, as far as that goes. There is no evidence at all from the wound as to the force with which the blow was delivered.”

  “I see.” Mr. Farr reached casually over to the clerk’s desk and handed Dr. Stanley the dreadful rag that had been Madeleine Bellamy’s white lace dress. “Do you recognize this dress, Doctor?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “Will you be good enough to indicate to us just where the knife penetrated the fabric?”

  Dr. Stanley turned it deftly in his long-fingered, capable hands. Something in that skilful scientific touch seemed to purge it of horror—averted eyes travelled back to it warily.

  “The knife went through it right here. If you look closely, you can see the severed threads—just here, where the stain is darkest.”

  “Exactly. Would such a wound have caused instantaneous death, Doctor, in your opinion?”

  “Not instantaneous—no. Death would follow very rapidly, however.”

  “A minute or so?”

  “A few minutes—the loss of blood would be tremendous.”

  “Would the victim be likely to make much outcry—screaming, moaning, or the like?”

  “Well, it’s a little difficult to generalize about that. In this particular case, there is reason to doubt whether there was any outcry after the blow was struck.”

  “What reason have you to suppose that?”

  “I think that Mr. Conroy has already testified that Mrs. Bellamy’s head was resting on the corner of a steel fire guard—a pierced railing about six inches high. It is my belief that, when she received the blow, she staggered, clutched at the table, and fell, striking the back of her head against the railing with sufficient force to render her totally unconscious. There was a serious abrasion at the back of the head that leads me to draw that conclusion.”

  “I see. Was Mrs. Bellamy wearing any jewellery when you saw her, Doctor—a necklace, rings, brooches?”

  “I saw no jewellery of any kind on the body.”

  “What type of knife should you say was used to commit this murder, Doctor?”

  “Well, that’s a little difficult to say. There were no marked peculiarities about the wound. It might have been caused by almost any knife with a sharp blade about three quarters of an inch wide and from three to four inches long—a sheath knife, a small kitchen knife, a large jack knife or clasp knife—various types, as I say.”

  “Could it have been made with this?”

  The prosecutor dropped a small dark object into the doctor’s outstretched hand and stood aside so that the jury, galvanized to goggle-eyed attention, could see it better. It was a knife—a large jackknife, with a rough, corrugated bone handle.

  Mr. Lambert bore down on the scene at a subdued gallop. “Are you offering this knife in evidence?”

  “I am not.”

  Judge Carver leaned forward, his black silk robes rustling ominously. “What is this knife, Mr. Farr?”

  “This is a knife, Your Honor, that I propose to connect up with the case at a somewhat later stage. At present I ask to have it marked for identification merely for purposes of the record.”

  “You say that you will be able to connect it?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Very well, you may answer the question, Dr. Stanley.”

  The doctor was inspecting it gravely, his eyes bright with interest.

  “I may open it?”

  “Please do.”

  In the breathless stillness the little click as the large blade sprang back was clearly audible. Dr. Stanley bent over it attentively, passed a forefinger reflectively along its shining surface, raised his head. “Yes, it could quite easily have been done with this.”

  The prosecutor snapped the blade to with an enigmatic smile. “Thank you. That will be all.”

  “Miss Kathleen Page!”

  Before the ring of that high imperious summons had died in the air, she was there—a demure and dainty wraith, all in gray from the close feathered hat to the little buckled shoes. A pale oval face that might have belonged to the youngest and smallest of Botticelli’s Madonnas; cloudy eyes to match her frock, extravagantly fringed with heavy lashes; a forlorn, coaxing little mouth; sleek coils of dark hair. A murmur of interest rose, swelled, and died under Judge Carver’s eagle eye.

  “Miss Page, what is your present occupation?”

  “I am a librarian at a branch public library in New York.”

  “Is that your regular occupation?”

  “It has been for the past six months.”

  “Was it previous to that time?”

  “Do you mean immediately previous?”

  “At any time previous.”

  “I was assistant librarian in White Plains from 1921 to 1925.”

  “And after that?”

  “During February of 1925 I had a serious attack of flu. It left me in rather bad shape, and the doctor recommended that I try to get some work in the country that would keep me outdoors a good deal and give me plenty of sleep.”

  “And did you decide on any occupation that would fit those requirements?”

  “Yes. Dr. Leonard suggested that I might try for a position as governess. One of his patients was looking for a temporary governess for her children, and he suggested that I might try that.”

  “And did you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You were successful?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who was the patient suggested by Dr. Leonard?”

  “Mrs. Ives.”

  As though the name were a magnet, the faces in the courtroom swung in a brief half circle toward its owner. There she sat in her brief tweed skirt and loose jacket, the bright little felt hat pulled severely down over the shining wings of her hair, her hidden eyes riveted on her clasped hands in their fawn-colored gauntlets. At the sound of her name she lifted her head, glanced briefly and levelly at the greedy, curious faces pressing toward her, less briefly and more levelly at the seraphic countenance under the drooping feather on the witness stand, and returned to the gloves. Only the curve of her lips remained for the benefit of those prying eyes—a lovely curve, ironic and inscrutable. The half circle swung back to the demure occupant of the witness box.

  “And how long were you in Mrs. Ives’s employment?”

  “Until June, 1926.”

  “What day of the month?”

  “The twenty-first.”

  “Then on the night of the nineteenth of June you were still in the employment of Mrs. Ives?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you be good enough to tell us just what you were doing at eight o’clock that evening?”

  “I had finished supper at a little before eight and was just settling down to read in the day nursery when I remembered that I had left my book down by the sand pile at the end of the garden, where I had been playing with the children before supper. So I went down to get it.”

  “Had you any way of fixing the time?”

  “Yes. I heard the dining room clock strike eight as I went by. I noticed it especially, as I thought, ‘Tha
t’s eight o’clock and it’s still broad daylight.’____”

  “Did you see anyone on your way out of the house?”

  “I met Mr. Ives just outside the nursery door. He had come in late to dinner and hadn’t come up to say good-night to the children before. He asked if they had gone to bed. . . . Shall I go on?”

  “Certainly.”

  “I said that they were in bed but not asleep, and asked him please not to get them too excited. He had a boat for little Peter in his hand and I was afraid that he would get him in such a state that I wouldn’t be able to do anything with him at all.”

  “A boat? What kind of a boat?”

  “A little sailboat—a model of a schooner. Mr. Ives had been working on it for some time.”

  “Made it himself, had he?”

  “Yes. He was very clever at that kind of thing. He’d made Polly a wonderful doll house.”

  “Your Honor____”

  “Try to confine yourself directly to the question, Miss Page.”

  “Yes, Your Honor.” The meek contrition of the velvetvoiced Miss Page was a model for all future witnesses.

  “Was Mr. Ives fond of the children?”

  ‘‘Oh, yes, he adored____”

  “I object to that question, Your Honor.” The preliminary tossings had resolved themselves into an actual upheaval this time and all of the two hundred and fifty pounds of Mr. Lambert were on his feet.

  ‘‘Very well, Mr. Lambert, you may be heard. You object on what grounds?”

  “I object to this entire line of questioning as absolutely immaterial, incompetent and irrelevant. How is Miss Page qualified to judge as to Mr. Ives’s affection for his children? And even if her opinion had the slightest weight, what has his affection for his children got to do with the murder of this girl? For reasons which I don’t pretend to grasp, the learned counsel for the prosecution is simply wasting the time of this court.”

  “You might permit the Court to be the judge of that.” Judge Carver’s fine dark eyes rested somewhat critically on the protestant bulk before him. “Mr. Farr, you may be heard.”

  “Of course, Your Honor, with all due deference to my brilliant opponent’s fireworks, he’s talking pure nonsense. Miss Page is perfectly____”

  Judge Carver’s gavel fell with a crash. “Mr. Farr, the Court must ask you once and for all to keep to the matter in hand. Can you connect your question with this case?”

  “Most certainly. It is the contention of the state that Mrs. Ives realized perfectly that if Mr. Ives decided that he wanted a divorce he would fight vigorously for at least partial custody of his children, whom, as Miss Page was about to tell us, he adored. Moreover, Mrs. Ives had strong religious objections to divorce. It was therefore essential to her to get rid of anyone who threatened her security if she wanted to keep the children. In order to prove this, it is necessary to establish Mr. Ives’s affection. And it ought to be perfectly obvious to anyone that Miss Page is in an excellent position to tell us what that affection was. I maintain that this question is absolutely relevant and material, and that Miss Page is perfectly competent to reply to it.”

  “The question may be answered.”

  “Exception.”

  “Mr. Ives adored the children and they adored him. He was with them constantly.”

  “Was Mrs. Ives fond of them?”

  “Objection on the same grounds, Your Honor.”

  “The question is allowed.”

  “Exception.”

  “Oh, yes, she was devoted to them.”

  “As devoted to them as Mr. Ives?”

  “Now, Your Honor____”

  Judge Carver eyed the impassioned Lambert with temperate interest. “That seems a fairly broad question, Mr. Farr, calling for a conclusion.”

  “Very well, Your Honor, I’ll reframe it. Did she seem as fond of them as Mr. Ives?”

  “Oh, quite, I should think—though, of course, Mrs. Ives is not demonstrative.”

  “I see—not demonstrative. Cold and reserved, eh?”

  Judge Carver’s stern voice cut sharply across Miss Page’s pretty, distressed, appealing murmur: “Mr. Farr, the Court is anxious to give you as much latitude as possible, but we believe that you have gone quite far enough along this particular line.”

  “I defer entirely to Your Honor’s judgment. . . . Miss Page, was Mrs. Ives with Mr. Ives when you met him coming into the nursery with the boat in his hand?”

  “No, Mrs. Ives had already said good-night to the children before her dinner.”

  “Did Mr. Ives go into the nursery before you went downstairs?”

  “He went past me into the day nursery, and I have no doubt that he then went into the night nursery.”

  “Never mind that. I only want the facts that are in your actual knowledge. There were two nurseries, you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you be good enough to tell us how they were arranged?”

  “The day and night nurseries are in the right wing of the house, on the third floor.”

  “What other rooms are on that floor?”

  “My room, a bathroom, and a small sewing room.”

  “Please tell us what the arrangement would be as you enter the front door.”

  “Let me see—when you come in through the door you come into a very large hall that takes up almost all the central portion of the house. The central portion was an old farmhouse, and the wings, that contain all the rooms really, were added by Mrs. Ives. She knocked out the inside structure of the farmhouse and left it just a shell that she made into a big hall three stories high, with galleries around it on the second and third floors leading to the bedroom wings. There were two staircases at the back of the hall, leading to the right and left of the galleries. I’m afraid that I’m not being very clear, but it’s a little confusing.”

  “You are being quite clear. Tell us just how the rooms open out as you come through the door.”

  “Well, to the right is a small cloakroom and the big living room. It’s very large—it forms the whole ground floor of the right wing in fact. Over it are Mr. and Mrs. Ives’s rooms.”

  “Did Mr. and Mrs. Ives occupy separate rooms?”

  “Oh, no, there was a large bedroom, and on one side of it was Mrs. Ives’s dressing room and bath, and to the left Mr. Ives’s dressing room and bath. On the third floor were the nurseries and my room. On the left downstairs as you came in was a little flower room.”

  “A flower room?”

  “A room that was used for arranging flowers, you know. Mrs. Daniel Ives used it a great deal. It had shelves of vases and a sink and a big porcelain-topped table. The downstairs telephone was in there, too, and____”

  “Your Honor, may we ask where all this is leading?” Mr. Lambert’s tone was tremulous with impatience.

  “You may. The Court was about to make the same inquiry. Is this exhaustive questioning necessary, Mr. Farr?”

  “Absolutely necessary, Your Honor. I can assure Mr. Lambert that it is leading to a very interesting conclusion, however distasteful he may find both the path and the goal. I will be as brief as possible, I promise.”

  “Very well, you may continue, Miss Page.”

  Miss Page raised limpid eyes in appealing deprecation. “I’m so frightfully sorry. I’ve absolutely forgotten where I was.”

  “You were telling us that there was a telephone in the flower room.”

  “Oh, yes—that is in the first room to the left as you come in. It’s really part of the hall.”

  “You mean that it has no door?”

  “No, no, it has a door. I simply meant that you came to it before you entered the left wing. It balances the cloakroom on the right-hand side. They’re rather like very large closets, you know, except that they both have windows.”

  “What do the windows open on to?”

  “The front porch. . . . Shall I go on with the rooms?”

  “Please, and as briefly as possible.”

  “The first roo
m in the left wing is Mr. Ives’s study. It opens into the dining room. They form the ground floor of the left wing. Above them are Mrs. Daniel Ives’s room and bath and two guest rooms and another bath. Above these on the third floor are the servants’ quarters____”

  “How many servants were there?”

  “Let me see—there were six, I think, but only the four maids lived in the house.”

  “Please tell us who they were.”

  “There was the cook, Anna Baker; the waitress, Melanie Cordier; the chambermaid, Katie Brien; and Laura Roberts, Mrs. Ives’s personal maid and seamstress. They had four small rooms in the left wing, third floor. James and Robert MacDonald, the chauffeur and gardener, were brothers and lived in quarters over the garage. Oh, there was a laundress, too, but I don’t remember her name. She didn’t live in the house—only came in four days a week.”

  “You have described the entire household?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the entire layout of the house?”

  “Yes—well, with the exception of the service quarters. You reached them through a door at the back of the big hall—kitchen, laundry, servants’ dining room and pantry, which opened also into the dining room. They ran across the back of the house. Do you want me to describe them further?”

  “Thanks, no. We can go on with your story now. Did you see anyone but Mr. Ives on your way to the sand pile?”

  “Not in the house. I passed Mrs. Daniel Ives on my way through the rose garden. She always used to work there after dinner until it got dark. She asked me as I went by if the children were asleep, and I told her that Mr. Ives was with them.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “I found the book in the swing by the sand pile and went back across the lawn to the house. As I was starting up the steps, I heard Mrs. Patrick Ives’s voice, speaking from the flower room at the left of the front door. She was speaking very softly, but the window on to the porch was open and I could hear her distinctly.”

  “Was she speaking to someone in the room?”

  “No, she was telephoning. I think that I’ve already said that the downstairs ’phone is in that room. She was giving a telephone number—Rosemont 200.”