“Cook sent some broth tonight as well as the sandwiches,” he said, lowering his voice as he tiptoed into the room and placed the tray on a side table. “She thought you would like to have something hot in the early morning, and I put the broth in the thermos bottle.”
“That was very kind and thoughtful of you both,” exclaimed Vera gratefully. “Please thank cook for me.”
“Yes, miss.” Murray tiptoed over to the bed and looked at Craig Porter, who lay with his eyes closed, his face matching the sheets in whiteness. The almost imperceptible rise and fall of his chest was the only indication that life still lingered in the palsied body. Shaking his head, Murray retreated to the hall door.
“I’m thinking the young master’s health will have a setback, now Dr. Noyes has gone,” he said sorrowfully. “And he was improving so finely.”
“We are keeping up the same treatment,” replied Vera. “Good night, Murray, and thank you.”
Pausing only long enough to see if her patient required attention, Vera returned to her chair, and in its comfortable, upholstered depths her tired muscles relaxed, and she half lay, half sat at ease and surveyed her surroundings. The room and its furnishings were well worth a second look, but an attraction which Vera was powerless to conquer drew her eyes to the transom in the wall separating the room she sat in and the one which had harbored the grim tragedy of the night before.
In her excited state of mind she half expected to see the same faint light appear through the transom which had shone there twenty-odd hours before, but the darkness in the next room was unrelieved. However, even the patch of darkness gave full play to her morbid fancies, and with a shudder she turned her head away—to find Mrs. Porter standing by her side. Too startled to move she gazed in amazement at her employer.
“I slipped in through your bedroom so as not to disturb Craig,” explained Mrs. Porter, in a subdued tone. “The other door lets in so much light from the hall when opened. I have something to say to you—”
“Yes, Mrs. Porter.” Vera was on her feet. “Will you sit here, or shall we—”
“Is Craig asleep?”
Vera moved over to the bed and bent over her patient, then returned.
“Yes, he is still slumbering,” she announced.
“Then I will sit here.” Mrs. Porter pulled forward a companion chair to the one Vera had vacated. “If we speak low our voices cannot disturb Craig in this large room. How is he tonight?”
Vera hesitated, and Mrs. Porter, her eyes sharpened by love, saw it even in the dim night light, and one hand went to her heart.
“I really think Mr. Porter is the same,” answered Vera hastily. “I see—no change.”
A heavy sigh broke from Mrs. Porter. “Why couldn’t Alan Noyes have stayed?” she moaned. “Why such mad haste? I would have paid him any price—done anything, in and out of reason, to insure my boy having his skilled medical attendance. And now—”
Never before had Vera seen Mrs. Porter’s composure shaken, and as she looked at her grief-stricken face a compassion and understanding of the woman she had deemed all-worldly moved her. Impulsively she extended her hands in ready sympathy, and Mrs. Porter clasped them eagerly.
“Don’t borrow trouble, dear Mrs. Porter,” she entreated. “Dr. Washburn stands very high in the profession—”
“But he can’t come.” Mrs. Porter dashed tears from her eyes. “He has just sent word that he is ill with pleurisy, and recommends that I send for Dr. Beverly Thorne.”
“What?” Vera studied her intently. “Will you follow Dr. Washburn’s advice?”
“And send for Beverly Thorne?” with bitter emphasis. “I wouldn’t have that man attend a sick cat! Oh, why didn’t I close this house and go back to the city?”
Vera was discreetly silent. Mrs. Porter had carried her point of wintering in the country against the, at first, outspoken indignation of Millicent and the veiled opposition of Hugh Wyndham; but that was hardly the moment to remind Mrs. Porter that by having her own way she had herself to thank for their isolated position. Mrs. Porter continued her remarks, heedless of Vera’s silence. “And poor Millicent is cut off from young companionship just at the moment when she needs her friends. By the way”—bending eagerly forward—“can’t your sister come and stay with Millicent?”
“Dorothy—stay here?” Vera half rose, her eyes dilating.
“Why not?” demanded Mrs. Porter. “The two girls were chums at boarding-school, even if they haven’t seen much of each other for several years, and I imagine you know Hugh’s opinion of Dorothy—” Vera nodded dumbly. “I’ve always been very fond of Dorothy, and I can’t understand, Vera, why you permitted her to go into newspaper work,” in reproachful accents.
“Dorothy is old enough now to judge for herself,” said Vera wearily. “She selected newspaper work for various reasons, and I must say,” with quick pride, “Dorothy has done well in that profession.”
“I know she has, and I admire her for it.” Mrs. Porter spoke warmly, and Vera colored with pleasure. “Do put your clever wits to work, Vera, and arrange it so that Dorothy can get leave from her office and spend a week here at the least. Her cheerful society will do Millicent good. I wish, my dear, that I could see more of you,” and Mrs. Porter impulsively kissed her. “But you sleep all day and work all night, and I sleep all night.” She rose abruptly. “I must go back to Millicent; the child is grieving her heart out.” She made a hesitating step toward the door leading into Vera’s bedroom. “Did you mention in your testimony at the inquest this afternoon that you saw Millicent down in the library when you went to telephone to the coroner?”
“No.” Vera caught the look of relief which lighted Mrs. Porter’s eyes for a brief instant, then the older woman continued on her way to the door, but she stopped again on its threshold.
“Do you know what became of the key to the next room after they removed Mr. Brainard’s body to the morgue in Alexandria?” she asked.
“No, I was asleep at that hour.” Vera came nearer. “Is the bedroom locked?”
“Yes. I suppose the police—” Mrs. Porter’s voice trailed off, then she added, “Good night,” and was gone.
Vera went thoughtfully over to the bedside and, seeing that Craig Porter still slept, she moved over to the desk and, picking up a pad and pencil, tried to reduce her ideas to writing. The words repeated to her by Mrs. Hall, who had been told the jury’s verdict by the coroner, recurred to her:
“We find that Bruce Brainard came to his death while spending the night at the residence of Mrs. Lawrence Porter, between the hours of two and five in the morning of January 8th, from the severing of the carotid artery in his throat, and from the nature of the wound and other evidence produced here we find that he was foully murdered by a party or parties unknown.”
“By a party unknown,” Vera murmured, dashing her pencil through the words she had scrawled on her pad. “But how long will the ‘party’ remain ‘unknown’—Merciful God! If there was only someone I could turn to!” and she wrung her hands as she gazed despairingly at the desk calendar.
A low tap at the hall door aroused her and, hastening across the room, she looked into the hall. Murray was standing by the door.
“Your sister is out on the portico, miss,” he announced in a low voice.
“Dorothy—here—at this hour?” Vera looked at the footman in amazement.
“It isn’t so very late, miss, not yet eleven,” explained Murray. “I asked Miss Dorothy in, but she said she didn’t wish to disturb anyone; only wanted a word with you.”
Vera viewed the footman in silence, then came to a sudden decision. “Very well, I will go downstairs. You remain with Mr. Porter, Murray, until I return.”
“Yes, miss.” And Murray, waiting respectfully for her to step into the hall, entered the bedroom and closed the door.
On reaching the front hall Vera paused long enough to slip on Millicent Porter’s sport coat which was hanging from the hat stand, and, putting up the latch, she walked out on
the portico, and stopped abruptly on finding herself alone. A low hail from a taxi standing a slight distance down the driveway caused her to look in that direction, and she saw Dorothy’s face at its window. A second more and she stood by the taxi door, held invitingly open by Dorothy.
“Are you mad, Dorothy?” she demanded, keeping her voice lowered in spite of her anger. “To come out here at this hour of the night!”
“It’s perfectly all right,” retorted Dorothy. “William, our old coachman, brought me out in his taxi,” pointing to a man in chauffeur’s livery who stood some little distance away. “Did you think I could stay away, Vera, when I heard—”
“What have you heard?” The question shot from Vera.
“That you found Bruce with his throat cut—” Dorothy drew in her breath sharply. “I never dreamed he would kill himself—”
“The coroner’s jury called it murder,” said Vera dully.
“Whom do they suspect?” gasped Dorothy.
“I imagine Dr. Noyes.”
“Dr. Noyes!” in profound astonishment. “Why?”
“Chiefly because of his sudden departure without bidding anyone good-by.”
“But—but—the motive? Heavens! Did he know Bruce?” And Vera leaned forward from the taxi, so that the moonlight fell full on her face.
“He met him last night,” with dry emphasis, and Dorothy moved restlessly. “Listen, Dorothy, I can stay but a moment longer. If you should be questioned, remember that at the inquest I did not mention that I had ever seen Bruce Brainard before last night, and that I have not confided to anyone in the Porter house that I ever heard of him before.”
“But—but—Hugh knows.”
“Hugh Wyndham!” Vera clutched the door of the car for support. “Did you tell him tonight?”
“No, I haven’t seen him for over a week. I—” But Vera did not give her time to finish her sentence.
“Dorothy, were you so foolish—my God! you didn’t mention names to Hugh?”
Her sister nodded dumbly.
From one of the leafless trees far down the lawn an owl hooted derisively as a light footstep crunched the gravel just behind Vera, and she swung quickly about. The front door of the house was wide open and a stream of light illuminated the portico.
Millicent Porter, approaching nearer, recognized Vera and her sister, and darted to the side of the car with a glad cry of welcome.
“Dorothy, you’ve come!” she exclaimed, seizing her hands. “I told Hugh not to return without you.”
Dorothy glanced in speechless surprise from Vera to Millicent, then back, almost pleadingly, to her sister. Vera’s face was set and stern.
“Yes, Millicent,” she said quietly. “Dorothy has come to spend the ni—” she stumbled in her speech—“several days,” she amended.
Chapter VII
At Thornedale Lodge
A row of beautiful trees ran the length of Thornedale Lodge, facing the entrance on the south. They had been planted generations before, and, no allowance made for their increase in height and circumference, towering above the old house, they were landmarks for miles around. Their branches touched the galleries and windows, and in summer their foliage shut out much light and sunshine, but Beverly Thorne scoffed at the idea of dampness and refused to cut down the trees, as his father had refused before him. The stars in their constellation were not more fixed than the customs which had obtained in the old Virginia home.
Beverly Thorne crossed the lawn and entered his house, and an anxious-faced negro butler, grown gray in service, came forward to meet him.
“Yo’ breakfas’ am served, sah,” he announced, and his soft drawling voice contained a note of reproach. “I done looked ober de whole house fo’ yo’, an’ de things am gettin’ cold.”
“Sorry, Cato.” Thorne preceded the old servant into the dining-room, but instead of approaching the table he stopped before a window overlooking the sloping ground and a distant view of the Porter homestead, Dewdrop Inn. “See that man, Cato, loitering near the lodge gate?” he asked, and Cato peered over his shoulder. “Send Julius to him. Wait,” as Cato moved away. “Tell Julius to say that Dr. Thorne presents his compliments and asks Detective Mitchell to come here and have a cup of coffee with him.”
“Yessir.” And Cato went to execute the errand, while Thorne waited until he saw the small negro boy who assisted Cato in tending the grounds cross the back lawn, then turned away from the window.
Walking over to the table he picked up a folded newspaper by his plate and used it as a shield as he drew a photograph from his inside coat pocket. The picture was irregular in shape and small in size, and had evidently been cut from a group photograph, for the two figures on either side of Vera Deane had been partly decapitated by scissors. Vera and her companions were in their nurses’ costume and carried diplomas. It was an excellent likeness of Vera, her pose was natural and her fresh young beauty and fearless eyes claimed the attention of the most casual. Thorne knew every light and shade in the photograph.
“To think she threw away her happiness, her career, for—” he muttered, and his hand clenched in impotent wrath, then, becoming aware of the negro butler’s return, he replaced the photograph in his pocket, and soon became absorbed in the newspaper. Cato, considerably annoyed by the prospect of further delay in serving breakfast, arranged another place at the table with more alacrity than his rheumatic joints usually permitted. He had no more than finished when Detective Mitchell appeared in the side door, ushered in by the grinning boy. Throwing down his paper, Thorne greeted the detective heartily.
“Very good of you to share my breakfast,” he said, pouring out a steaming cup of coffee as Mitchell took possession of the chair pulled out for him by Cato.
“You are the good Samaritan, doctor,” declared Mitchell, rubbing his chilled hands. “The Porter place gets the full force of the wind; you are more sheltered here,” glancing out of the diamond-paned windows, and then back again at his host and the cosy dining-room with its blazing logs in the large stone fireplace at the farther end.
The somewhat shabby old furniture, the wide sideboard on which stood quaint glass candelabra and heavy cut-glass decanters and dishes of the generous proportions of former decades, a table in the window littered with magazines and books, and near at hand a mahogany stand equipped with a smoking outfit, all seemed to blend with the low time-stained oak beams and wainscoted walls. No curtains hung in the windows, and the winter sunshine streamed in, betraying here and there in cracks and crannies small accumulations of dust which Cato’s old eyes had passed unseen.
Thorne observed which way his guest’s attention was straying and smiled, well pleased; he was proud of the historic old house. “This is one of the pleasantest rooms,” he said, pushing the toast rack near the detective. “Try some toast; it’s hot.”
“Thanks.” Mitchell enjoyed his breakfast for a few minutes in silence. “Is this house older than the Porter mansion?”
“Same age; in fact my great-great-grandfather built them both,” answered Thorne. “But this was only a hunting-lodge, while the Porter homestead was a mansion house, and is pure Georgian in architecture.”
“It’s the best-looking house in this country,” affirmed Mitchell enthusiastically. “Pity to have a gruesome crime committed inside its old walls.”
“You are sure it was a crime?” asked Thorne, stirring his coffee and then sipping it gingerly. “A murder?”
Mitchell stared at him in surprise. “Of course I’m sure that it was a murder. Didn’t the medical evidence prove that the wound could not have been self-inflicted?”
“The deputy coroner gave that as his belief, with one reservation—the wound could have been self-inflicted if Bruce Brainard was left-handed.”
“Which he wasn’t,” declared Mitchell positively. “I have questioned all who knew Brainard, and they swear he was right-handed. So there you are, doctor, with a case of proven murder.”
Thorne laid down a fresh piece o
f toast untasted on his plate. “I take exception to Deputy Coroner McPherson’s theory that the wound from its appearance could not have been self-inflicted,” he announced slowly. “Any surgeon will tell you that it is next to impossible to tell with any degree of accuracy at exactly which point the razor first entered the flesh. Brainard might have gashed himself by holding the razor in his right hand with the full intention of committing suicide, and opened the carotid artery. In that way he could have inflicted just such a wound as killed him.”
Mitchell moved impatiently. “Why didn’t you mention that at the inquest?” he grumbled.
“Because I was not called as a witness.”
The detective ruminated silently for some moments, casting frequent glances at his host.
“Well, perhaps an expert can tear the medical evidence to pieces at the trial, but there’s one point you overlook, doctor,” he argued. “But if it was suicide, where did Brainard get the razor? “Everyone admits, including Mrs. Porter, that he had not expected to spend the night, and he did not bring a pair of pyjamas; only had the clothes on his back, a dress suit. Mr. Wyndham admitted in the presence of the coroner yesterday that Mr. Brainard did not see his overcoat after he was taken ill, and Murray, the footman, states that it hung in the coat closet until I took it down to examine it.” Mitchell paused and added impressively: “I’ll stake my reputation that Brainard had no razor when he was put to bed, therefore he could not have committed suicide. He was murdered by someone inside the house.”
“No one in the Porter household admits having seen that razor before,” was Thorne’s only comment.
“Sure, they ain’t going to give each other away.”
Thorne straightened up and looked at the detective. “Do you mean to imply a conspiracy?”
“No, not a conspiracy to kill Brainard,” Mitchell hastened to explain. “Only an endeavor on the part of Mrs. Porter and her daughter, Millicent, to shield the guilty man.”
Thorne reached over and rang the small silver bell, then replaced it on the table. “More coffee, Cato,” he directed, and turned again to Mitchell as the servant disappeared with the pot. “And who is the guilty man?”
The Moving Finger Page 6
