“Thanks.” Murray grinned again. “Between Miss Dorothy and Mr. Craig you’ve got evidence enough to convict me.”
Mrs. Porter, who had been gazing at the pseudo-footman in horrified amazement, found her voice.
“Do you mean to say that you killed my guest, Bruce Brainard?” she demanded.
“That is what your son claims,” answered Murray.
“Why did you kill him? You had seen him at my house many times before?” Mrs. Porter sat down in the nearest chair; she was weak from nervous strain and its reaction.
“Why did I kill Bruce?” Murray cleared his throat. “We had worked together years ago at the Bureau of Engraving and Printing, and he was the only man living who knew something of my subsequent career.” Murray’s handcuffs jingled as he moved uneasily. “But Brainard never penetrated my disguise until Monday night when I assisted him into the library. He had overheard Miss Millicent’s quarrel with Dr. Noyes, and it brought on some sort of an attack. I was in my shirt sleeves, and in helping him inside the library he tore my sleeve and saw a tattoo mark which he had made on my arm while we were working together. He knew my record up to ten years ago. I told him that I had reformed and was trying to live a different life; and he promised to give me a chance, but I could see by his manner that he was planning to give Mrs. Porter a tip as to my real character.”
“I hardly think I would have believed him,” affirmed Mrs. Porter faintly. “You have been a model servant all these years, Murray.”
Murray looked gratified. “I flatter myself I played my part well, and in my leisure hours I fitted up the cabin and perfected a wonderful counterfeit.”
“You did,” agreed the Secret Service agent, “but you slipped up when you lost Miss Deane’s bag in the street car.”
Murray shifted his position to look directly at Vera who stood somewhat behind Mrs. Porter and in the shadow of a high-back chair.
“It wasn’t Miss Deane’s bag,” he admitted.
“It was one I gave Cato—” Thorne started and gazed blankly at the counterfeiter.—“Don’t blame Cato, Dr. Thorne; he’s a faithful old darky with a fondness for collecting money. He believed me an eccentric inventor, and I paid him well for doing errands for me, as well as pledging him a share in my ‘patent rights,’ and it was by his aid that I got my material to the cabin. By the way,” addressing Anthony, “the first shot you heard at the cabin today was fired by one of your sentries higher up the ridge at Cato, and I suspect the old man’s running yet. I was looking in that direction while you were staring at the cabin and I saw the whole thing.”
“How did my card come to be in the bag, Murray?” asked Vera.
“I found it among some old papers in Brainard’s overcoat. I burned the papers at the cabin, but your card was inadvertently slipped into the bag with the money Cato was taking to—That doesn’t interest you,” with a sidelong glance at the detective, “so I won’t mention names.”
Mitchell regarded him sourly for a second. “Cato can talk,” he said meaningly, then turned to Vera. “Did you observe Murray’s flashlight in Brainard’s bedroom on Monday night, Miss Deane?”
“No.” Vera moved a little forward and addressed them all. “I went some time after midnight to see how Mr. Brainard was getting on, and after my return to Craig’s bedroom I sat almost with my back to the mirror and sideways to the bed in a big wing chair. I did not glance upward toward the transom but recall staring steadily at Craig, whom I could see but dimly, and all the while I thought of nothing but Bruce Brainard’s treatment of my sister.” Vera paused a second to steady her voice, then continued: “It seemed bitter irony that I should be nursing him. The news that he and Millicent might be engaged shocked me, and I was only waiting until the morning to tell Mrs. Porter all that I knew about Bruce.” She stopped to clear her voice which had grown husky.
“At about three o’clock or a little after I went into Bruce’s room and was astounded to find the night light out. I felt my way to the bed and over to the table, found a box of matches and relit the candle.” Her eyes grew large with horror as the gruesome scene came vividly before her. “The sight of Bruce lying there dead deprived me of my voice, almost of my reason. Some minutes passed before I could pull myself together, then glancing down I saw that in searching for the matches I had brushed against the side of the bed and that my skirt was bloodstained.” Vera stumbled in her speech. “The last time I saw Bruce I told him that I hoped he would meet with a violent death—that was five years ago—and my spoken wish had been fulfilled.”
“Vera,” Dorothy approached her sister and clasped her tenderly, “don’t talk any more.”
“I must,” feverishly. “My first coherent idea after discovering that Bruce was really dead and beyond human assistance was to remove the bloodstains from my skirt; later I went to summon Dr. Noyes and found him gone. Mr. Mitchell,” turning to him, “when I realized that you and Dr. Thorne suspected that I had discovered Bruce’s murder some time before I went in search of assistance, I dared not tell you about the bloodstains, fearing you would think that I had killed him. God knows I had sufficient motive, knowing all that my sister had endured at his hands. Frankly, I believed that Hugh, knowing all this, had killed Bruce, and I tried to shield him—forgive the suspicion, Hugh—”
Without speaking, Wyndham wrung her hands warmly. “Don’t ask my pardon; I thought you guilty,” he confessed shamefacedly, “and from the same motive.”
Mitchell was about to speak when Millicent rose and approached Murray. She shrank slightly on meeting the counterfeiter’s eyes, but asked gently:
“Murray, I have always been kind to you. Will you not do me the justice to state that I was not in the room—that Craig was mistaken when he saw me just before you killed Bruce?”
“But you were there,” objected Murray.
“I was not,” and she stamped her foot. “I would have been aware of it, Murray.”
“No, you wouldn’t, because you were sleepwalking.” Murray’s statement brought a cry, a glad cry from Noyes.
“I caught a glimpse of you, Millicent,” he broke in before the amazed girl could speak, “just as I went down to the library to wait for my telephone call. You were coming out of your mother’s boudoir and I saw something glitter in your hand, but was too far away to make out in the dim hall light what you were carrying. Thinking you were going to your brother’s room I went downstairs.”
“How long did you remain in the library?” asked Mitchell.
“Until nearly four o’clock. Before returning to my room I went to see how Brainard was getting along, and was stupefied to find him dead.” Noyes chose his words with care. “I recognized the razor as one of a set which Mrs. Porter had given me that morning. I remembered that I had left the set in her boudoir, and recalled my glimpse of Millicent, and that she was advancing toward Brainard’s door; I feared that in a moment of mental aberration she had killed him. The thought was agony.” Noyes almost broke down as he met Millicent’s adoring eyes. “I decided that if I left the house I might be thought guilty; the razor was mine, I had threatened to kill Brainard, so I went—”
“But not before I saw you coming from Bruce’s bedroom,” added Millicent. “I had no idea I had been walking in my sleep, for I awoke in my bed, and being unable to sleep I got up and partly dressed, intending to go in and sit with Vera and my brother. Your expression, Alan, as you walked away from Bruce’s bedroom terrified me, and gathering my courage I went there—saw Bruce—the razor—” She caught her breath—
“Recalling your threat to kill Bruce, I imagined you had carried it out,” she went on, as no one spoke. “I crept back to my bedroom, horrified beyond words, and later it occurred to me that perhaps Bruce was not beyond medical aid, and I rushed downstairs to telephone Dr. Thorne—” She stopped, unable to go on. “I secured the set of razors and first hid them in an old trunk in the attic, then in the cannon—the rest you know.”
Noyes, rising with some difficulty, stepped
forward, and with a manner not to be denied, slipped his one arm about her waist, and led her across the room. Dorothy, standing nearest the heavy mahogany door as it slowly closed behind the pair, saw Millicent’s head droop forward and her discreet ears alone caught Noyes’ low whisper:
“Mine, at last!”
Silence prevailed in the library for some minutes after the departure of Millicent and her lover, then Thorne turned to Murray.
“Was Miss Millicent in the room when you killed Brainard?” he asked.
“No, she had gone out some minutes before,” answered Murray, his voice slightly strained. “I went in to see Brainard just to talk things over with him. He was lying half asleep, and when Miss Millicent appeared I was waiting in one corner of the room. Brainard must have heard her entrance, for he looked at her, half terrified and half hypnotized. Finally, after staring at him, she dropped the razor on the bed and left the room. Then I crept over to the bed, and the sight of the razor put the devil into me. I knew Brainard would squeal on me as soon as he felt well enough to think things over; he would never believe that I had reformed, and my blood boiled at the prospect of arrest and losing the results of my work at the cabin and in Mrs. Porter’s town house. I got the razor—” He shuddered, and did not complete the sentence.
Mitchell stirred uneasily and eyed Murray askance. “When you found the cabin was in the hands of the Secret Service why didn’t you clear out instead of coming back here?” he demanded.
“Because it never dawned on me that Brainard’s murder could be traced to me,” admitted Murray; dejection as well as fear had crept into his manner. “I knew you would find no incriminating papers at the cabin, and old Cato is faithful—he would not have told on me. I could not bear to run away, in itself a confession of guilt, and leave my life work behind me.”
“So much for over-confidence,” commented Mitchell dryly. “Come along, Murray.”
Murray got to his feet slowly, and his bow to the company was not without a certain dignity. “Good-by, ma’am,” he said, addressing Mrs. Porter. “You’ve always treated me well during the seven years I’ve lived with you. Tell Mr. Craig I don’t bear him malice.” And he vanished through the door as Mrs. Porter, her overwrought feelings mastering her, fainted for the first time in her life.
An hour later Dorothy, speeding through the lower hall, was intercepted by Thorne.
“Will you please tell your sister that I would like to see her for a few minutes?” he said. “I will wait in the drawing-room.”
Without wasting words, Dorothy, a mischievous smile dimpling her cheeks, hurried upstairs. As she turned from delivering Thorne’s message to Vera she encountered Hugh Wyndham, who was waiting for her in his aunt’s boudoir.
“Dorothy”—Wyndham stood tall and straight before her—“Jacob served seven years for Rachel—the desire of his heart; how long must I serve for mine?”
Dorothy’s roguish smile, so long lost in the care and turmoil of her daily life, lit her charming face as she answered:
“Just as long as it will require to get Vera’s permission. No, wait,” as Wyndham, hardly able to believe such swift capitulation, sprang toward the door. “You may set the date, Hugh.”
Down in the drawing-room the minutes passed on leaden feet for Thorne. Would Vera never come? He finally turned in despair and found her watching him from the doorway.
He was by her side instantly, and held out a black-edged visiting-card.
“You sent me this, Vera, as you said—‘In grateful remembrance’—for the little aid I was able to render your mother when she was stricken in the street with heart failure. Later, in Philadelphia I saw you, but was too shy to introduce myself, but I have never forgotten my first glimpse of you. I have always treasured the card and your picture, possessed by a strong conviction that we should some day meet again.
“Two months ago I heard that Bruce Brainard had eloped with a Miss Deane of Washington, and I stupidly jumped to the conclusion that it was you. It never occurred to me that it might be your sister. The thought that you were innocently involved in Brainard’s murder was torture to me, and I could not rest until the real criminal was arrested and you were entirely exonerated.
“You must know and realize how passionately I love you.” His voice was very tender, and her eyes fell before his ardent look. “I have little to offer, Vera. Is there any hope for me?”
Vera’s lovely eyes were alight with happiness as she looked up at him. “There’s more than hope,” she whispered, and the words were lost against his shoulder; then she looked bravely upward and their lips met in the first kiss of love.
A Note on the Author
Natalie Sumner Lincoln (1881–1935) was an American novelist born in Washington, D.C. She was a prolific writer and is most remembered for her mystery and crime novels.
Discover books by Gabriel Fielding published by Bloomsbury Reader at
www.bloomsbury.com/NatalieSumnerLincoln
I Spy
The Cat’s Paw
The Moving Finger
This electronic edition published in 2013 by Bloomsbury Reader
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Copyright © 1918 Natalie Sumner Lincoln
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eISBN: 9781448213283
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