“Was there anything about the room which especially claimed your attention?” Mitchell paused and glanced thoughtfully at his polished shoes. “Let me alter that question,” said the coroner hastily. “Did you find any indication in the room that Mr. Spencer expected to return to it?”
“His clothes were there, and the electric light by the bureau was burning, notwithstanding the fact that it was nearly nine o’clock in the morning.”
The coroner consulted his papers, “That is all just now,” and Mitchell departed. “Ask Mr. Whitney to step here,” directed Penfield, a second afterward.
“Beg pardon, sir,” and the morgue master stepped before the platform. “Mr. Whitney went back to his residence to escort his daughter here. Mrs. Whitney, however, is waiting in the next room.”
“Very well, bring Mrs. Whitney here,” and the coroner left his seat to assist her to the platform. Mrs. Whitney’s customary self-control and air of good breeding had not deserted her, and whatever her inward tribulation at appearing before a coroner’s jury, it was successfully concealed as she repeated the oath after the morgue master.
“Your full name?” questioned Coroner Penfield.
“Minna Caswell Whitney, daughter of the late Judge William Caswell, of New York.”
“You were married to Winslow Whitney in—”
“1896.”
“And you have resided in Washington since then?”
“Yes, except in the summer months when we went to our home in Massachusetts or, occasionally, abroad.”
“Will you kindly state what took place at your house on Tuesday evening, Mrs. Whitney?”
“I entertained the Sisters in Unity, and afterward went to bed.” The concise reply wrung a smile from Foster.
“At what hour did the members of your club depart?”
“A little before one o’clock, Wednesday morning.”
“Then did you go direct to bed?”
“No, I first showed Miss Kiametia Grey who, owing to an attack of faintness, was spending the night at my home, to her room; then I retired.”
“Were you aware that Mr. Spencer was also spending the night under your roof?”
“Not until Miss Grey informed me of the fact; I had inadvertently placed her in the same room with Mr. Spencer. I immediately took her to another room.”
“Was Mr. Spencer’s bedroom in darkness when you ushered Miss Grey into it?”
“It was.”
“Did not your husband tell you of Mr. Spencer’s presence?”
“I did not see my husband until Wednesday morning; he had gone to his studio in the attic when I went to my bedroom. He frequently works all night on his inventions.”
“Were you awakened during the night by any noise?”
“No.”
“Did you see your daughter before retiring?”
“No.”
“Did she attend the meeting of your club?”
“No, she is not a member.”
“When did you first hear of Mr. Spencer’s death?”
“The next morning, when my daughter’s screams aroused the household.”
“How long has Julie Genet, your French maid, been in your employ?”
“Four years.”
“Have you heard from her since her disappearance?”
“No.”
“Was she acquainted with Mr. Spencer?”
“I really don’t know.”
The coroner flushed at her tone. “Was Julie discontented with her place?” he asked, somewhat harshly.
“I have no reason to suppose so; she never complained.”
“How did you come to employ her?”
“A friend of mine brought her to this country, and a year later Julie came to me; she was highly recommended.”
“Has she any relatives in this country to whom she might have gone?”
“None that I ever heard of.” Mrs. Whitney reflected for a second, then added, “Julie told me some months ago that her only near relatives had been killed in the war in France.”
“Was Julie a well trained servant?”
“She was indeed; also good-natured, thoughtful, and obedient.”
“When did you last see Julie?”
“Downstairs, when giving final directions to Vincent. I told her to assist him in closing the house, and then go direct to bed; that I would undress myself as it was so late.”
“Did she appear as usual?”
“Yes.”
“Did you go at all to Mr. Spencer’s bedroom yesterday morning after hearing of his death?”
“No.”
“We will not detain you longer, Mrs. Whitney,” and with a slight bow to the jurors and the coroner she made her way from the room.
Her place was taken by Vincent, the butler, who testified that he had gone about his work on Wednesday morning as customary, that all windows and doors were locked as he had left them the night before, and that he and Henry, the chauffeur, were busy replacing the drawing-room furniture, removed the night before to make room for chairs for the meeting of the Sisters in Unity, when startled by Miss Whitney’s screams. He also stated that having gone to bed very late, he had slept heavily and had not been awakened until aroused at seven o’clock by the cook. His bedroom was across the hall from the other servants. He had not realized that Julie Genet was absent until Mrs. Whitney rang for her; he had supposed the maid was upstairs waiting upon either her or Miss Whitney. No, Julie was not quarrelsome; she was quiet, deeply engrossed in her own affairs, and spent much of her time sewing in Miss Whitney’s sitting-room. He had heard that she was to have been married the previous December, but the war had taken her fiance back to the colors, and he had been killed in the retreat on Paris.
Henry, the chauffeur, was the next to testify. He admitted admiration for Julie and stated that she had not encouraged his attentions, and the remainder of his testimony simply corroborated that of Vincent. He did not sleep in the Whitney residence, but took his meals there.
When giving their testimony the chambermaid, laundress, and scullery maid also stated they did not sleep at the Whitneys’; that Julie, while always pleasant, kept very much to herself. They one and all declared that they had never entered Sinclair Spencer’s bedroom Wednesday morning after the discovery of the tragedy. The coroner quickly dismissed each one, and Rosa, the cook, looking extremely perturbed, was the last servant to be questioned. She stated that she had not gone upstairs Wednesday morning until noon.
“Sure, I dunno whin Julie wint downstairs Wednesday mornin’,” she declared. “I slep’ that heavy I niver hear her a’movin’ around.”
“Was it her habit to get up before you did?” asked Coroner Penfield.
“Yis, sor. She had oneasy nights, like, an’ would be off downstairs at the foist peep o’ day. She brooded too much over the papers, I’m feared; though ‘twas natural to read av the divils who killed her kin and swateheart in France.”
“Did Julie ever speak to you of Mr. Spencer?”
“Wance or twice, maybe,” admitted Rosa reluctantly.
“Did she ever meet Mr. Spencer away from the house?”
“Niver, sor.” Rosa looked shocked. “Julie was real dacent, she niver sought her betters’ society. Nay, she was afeared Miss Kathleen might listen to his courtin’. She didn’t consider no wan good enough for Miss Kathleen.”
“Ah, then she was fond of Miss Kathleen?”
“Sure, fond’s not the word; she was daffy about her. An’ no wonder, Miss Kathleen was that good to her; comforted her whin bad news came from the wars, let her sit and sew wid her, and give her money to sind to France.”
“Was Julie on good terms with the other servants?”
“Yis, sor. She and Henry had words now and thin; when Henry got teasin’, she didn’t always take ut in good part.”
“Have you any idea where Julie went on leaving the Whitneys?”
“No, sor; she has no real frinds in Washington. I dunno where she can be, an’ I’m sick o�
�� worryin’ over her.” The warm-hearted Irishwoman’s eyes filled with tears. “Julie was excitable like and quicktempered, but she niver did wrong, an’ don’t let yourselves be thinkin’ ut.”
“There, there.” The coroner laid a kindly hand on her arm. “We won’t keep you any longer, Mrs. O’Leary. Careful of that step,” and as the morgue master appeared, he asked, “Is Miss Kiametia Grey here?”
“Yes, Doctor.”
“Then ask her to come in.” He exchanged a few remarks with the deputy coroner in a tone too low to reach the ears of the attentive reporters, then turned back to the witness chair as Miss Kiametia seated herself.
“We will only keep you a few minutes,” he began, after the preliminary questions had been asked the spinster. “I understand you were accidentally shown into the bedroom already occupied by Mr. Spencer.”
“I was,” stated Miss Kiametia, as the coroner paused. “Neither Mrs. Whitney nor I was aware he was within a mile of us.”
“Did you discover his presence at once?”
“No.” The spinster’s tone was short. “The bed is in an alcove, and I had only turned on the electric bulb by the bureau; thus the room was in partial darkness. I—eh—eh—” then with a rush—“I did not know he was there until I was ready to get in bed.”
“Was Mr. Spencer asleep?”
“I never waited to see.”
Coroner Penfield stifled a smile and changed the subject. “Were you aroused during the night by any noise?”
“No,” sharply. “When once in the hall bedroom I took a pretty stiff drink of whiskey as a nightcap, for I was feeling pretty shaky about then. Consequently I slept soundly all through the night.”
“Was Mr. Spencer a great friend of yours?”
“No,” with uncomplimentary promptness. “But I did occasionally ask him to large entertainments.”
“Did you see Miss Whitney before retiring on Tuesday night?”
“No. Her mother told me she had gone to bed early.”
“Did you see Mr. Whitney?”
“No.”
“Did you see Julie, the French maid?”
“Not upstairs. Mrs. Whitney gave me the whiskey and a dressing-gown.”
“Can you tell me if Mr. Spencer was wearing his pajamas in bed?”
“I cannot,” dryly.
“Did you enter Mr. Spencer’s bedroom the next morning after hearing of his death?”
“I did not.”
“While in his room Tuesday night did you observe his clothes on a chair or table?
“No, and after discovering his presence, I was too keen to get out of the room to notice anything in it.”
“Then possibly you left the light burning by the bureau?”
“I did nothing of the sort. It is a hobby of mine never to waste gas or electricity, and I remember distinctly stopping to put out the light after I had picked up my clothes.”
“Quite sure, Miss Gray?” and the spinster bridled at his quizzical glance.
“I am willing to take my dying oath,” she said solemnly, “that I left that room in total darkness.”
Chapter XVII.
Circumstantial Evidence
“Mr. Winslow Whitney will be the next witness,” announced Coroner Penfield, first signifying to Miss Kiametia Grey that her presence was no longer required in the witness chair, and the spinster, with an audible sigh of relief, picked up her gold mesh purse and its dangling accessories and hastily left the room.
There was an instant craning of necks and raising of lorgnettes as the door opened to admit Winslow Whitney. Courteously acknowledging the bows of several friends seated near the entrance, he made his way to the witness chair with a firm tread, and his clear voice was plainly heard as, in answer to the morgue master’s questions, he stated his full name, age, and length of residence in Washington, having first taken the oath to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Charles Miller, watching him intently, was relieved to find that the nervous twitching of the muscles of his face and hands, so noticeable the day before, was missing. Though his haggard face testified to a sleepless night, Whitney was outwardly composed.
“For how many years have you known Sinclair Spencer?” asked the coroner.
“Fully ten.”
“Were you intimately acquainted?”
“No. I knew him as I know dozens of other men; he was frequently at my house, and on several occasions he assisted me in protecting my patents in the law courts.”
“But you would not call him an intimate friend?”
“Most assuredly not.”
“Was he in the habit of spending the night in your house?”
“He has sometimes stopped with me during the summer months when I was detained in Washington and my wife and daughter were away.”
“He was familiar with your house, then?”
“You mean—architecturally?”
“Yes. Could he find his way about it alone in the dark?”
“I presume he could—provided he was sober,” dryly. “The arrangement of the rooms is not complicated, and one floor is very much like another.”
Coroner Penfield cleared his throat. “Was Mr. Spencer a welcome guest in your house?”
“Certainly; otherwise I should not have invited him,” replied Whitney, with quiet dignity.
“Let me amend my question.” The coroner laid down his pencil. “Was Mr. Spencer on a friendly footing with each member of your household?”
“I have every reason to believe he was.”
“Was Mr. Spencer’s manner the same as usual when he called upon you Tuesday evening?”
“No.”
“In what way was it different?”
“He had been drinking.”
“Was he rough, boisterous?”
“The latter, yes. So much so, that I suggested he spend the night. I did not wish him to go downstairs and disturb my wife’s guests, which he was quite capable of doing had the whim seized him.”
“Were you then upstairs, Mr. Whitney?”
“Yes, in my wife’s boudoir on the first bedroom floor.”
“When did you last see Mr. Spencer alive?”
“When I showed him into his bedroom and loaned him a pair of pajamas.”
“Did you help him undress?”
“No, as he assured me, with drunken gravity, that he could manage it himself.”
“Did you inform your wife and daughter that Mr. Spencer was spending the night in your house?”
“No. My wife was downstairs entertaining her guests, and my daughter was asleep in her room. I did not see either of them until the next morning.”
“Where did you go after leaving Mr. Spencer in his bedroom?”
“To my studio in the attic. I remained there all night absorbed in my work.”
“Did you hear any unusual sounds during the night?”
“No; my studio, or workshop, is sound-proof. And it is the same throughout the house,” he added. “The walls, besides being of unusual width, were all deadened by my grandfather’s direction. He had a horror of noise.”
“When did you leave your studio?”
“About seven o’clock Wednesday morning.”
“Did you use the elevator then?”
“No, I seldom use it.” Whitney twisted about in his chair. “I had the elevator installed for the convenience of my wife and daughter.”
Penfield made an entry in his notebook, then faced Whitney directly.
“Have you in connection with your workshop a photographic outfit and darkroom?” he asked.
“I have.”
“I am told that you are working on a sort of camera which, used in an aeroplane, makes a map of the country over which the machine passes. Is that correct, Mr. Whitney?”
“Yes,” acknowledged Whitney. “A patent is pending.”
“Had it gotten about among your servants that you were working upon an important invention?”
“It’s very possible,” Whitne
y conceded.
“Did Julie, your wife’s maid, ever evince undue curiosity in your work?”
Whitney wrinkled his brow in thought. “No,” he said. “I can’t say that I am aware she did. When I go to my studio, as we usually call my workshop, it is an understood thing that I am not to be disturbed by anyone. It is a rule I enforce by dismissal if broken, and the servants have learned by experience to obey.”
“Has your household access to your studio when you are not there?”
“No, I securely lock the door whenever I leave the room.”
“Are you ever joined while in your studio by your wife and daughter and their friends?”
“Occasionally they bring Miss Grey and Senator Foster in to see my models.”
“Did you confide the particulars of your latest invention to Mr. Spencer?”
“I did not.”
“Did he ever show deep interest in it?”
“Only questioned me about it now and then,” replied Whitney casually, and Charles Miller alone noted the nervous twitching of his eyelids.
“Was the electric light turned on in Mr. Spencer’s room when you left him for the night?”
“Y-yes.” Whitney reflected for a moment, then added, “I believe the bulb by the bureau was burning, but I can’t swear to it.”
“Did Mr. Spencer give you any inkling Tuesday night that he intended to be an early riser on Wednesday morning?”
“No, he never mentioned the subject.”
“Was it his custom on previous visits, to walk about your house before the servants were up?”
“Not that I am aware of,” Whitney hesitated. “Possibly his intoxicated condition made him desire the fresh air.”
“That is possible,” admitted the coroner. “But witnesses testify that Mr. Spencer had on no shoes.”
“Which confirms my statement of his condition,” replied Whitney quietly. “No man in his sober senses seeks the street in his stockings.”
The coroner, making no comment, held up the knife with the black bone handle. “Have you ever seen this knife before?”
Whitney turned a shade whiter. “I may have; there is nothing distinctive about the knife.”
I Spy Page 12
