Afternoon Tea Mysteries Vol Three

by Anthology

  It was a palpable dismissal, and I took it for such, or would have if Miss Meredith, whose attention the word lawyer had seemingly caught, had not honoured me with a look which held me rooted to the spot.

  “Wait!” she cried, “I want to speak to that young man. Do not let him go yet.” And advancing, she stood before me in an attitude at once womanly and confiding.

  “Come back, Hope!” I heard uttered in the peremptory tones of him they called Leighton.

  But though the spasm which passed over her face denoted what it cost her to disobey the voice of so near a relative, she stood her ground.

  “I need a friend,” she said to me. “Someone who will stand by me and support me in a task I may find myself too weak to accomplish unaided. I cannot have recourse to my cousins. They are too closely connected with the sorrows brought upon us all by this event. Besides, I find it easier to depend on a stranger,—one who does not care for me, as Dr. Bennett does; a lawyer, too; I may need a lawyer—sir, will you aid me with your counsels? I should find it hard to come upon another man of such evident sincerity as yourself.”

  “Hope! Hope!”

  Entreaty had now become command; Leighton even took a step towards her. She faltered, but managed to murmur:

  “You will not go till I have seen you again. You will not!”

  “I will not,” I rejoined, putting down the hat I had caught up.

  The next minute she, as well as myself, perceived why she had been thus peremptorily called back.

  The group around the newel-post had changed. A large, elderly man, with a world of experience in his time-worn but kindly visage, was standing in the place occupied by the coroner a moment before. He was bowing in the direction of Miss Meredith, and he held some half-dozen letters in his hand.

  As her eyes fell on these letters he regarded her with an encouraging smile, and said:

  “I am Detective Gryce, miss. I ask pardon for disturbing you, and I don’t want you to lay too much stress upon my presence here or upon the few questions I have to put on behalf of the coroner who has just been called to the telephone. A few explanations are all I want, and some of these you are in a position to give me. You have been in the habit of using the typewriter for your uncle, I am told.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did you use it for the writing of these five letters found upon his desk?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “To-night?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “At what hour?”

  “Between dinner time and half-past eight.”

  This was the first time she had acknowledged having seen her uncle after dinner.

  “So you were with him until half-past eight?”

  “Yes, or thereabouts.”

  “And left him in the enjoyment of his usual health?”

  “To all appearance, yes.”

  “Before or after your cousin Leighton came into the study?”

  “Before.”

  “Why did you leave? Was Mr. Gillespie through with his work for the night?”

  “I don’t know; I don’t think so, but I was tired, and he begged me to go up-stairs.”

  “In his usual manner?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not like a man anxious to have you go?”

  “No.”

  “And when did the child come down?”

  “Later.”

  “Not immediately.”

  “No; a quarter of an hour or so later.”

  Humph! The child was with him then a quarter of an hour before his death?

  “I suppose so; I do not know.”

  The detective waited a moment, then his hand closed over the letters.

  “Miss, it is very important to know whether Mr. Gillespie anticipated death. This correspondence—you know it—a letter to Simpson & Beals, Attorneys, Dubuque, Iowa; another to Howard MacCartney, St. Augustine, Florida; this to the president of the Santa Fé Railroad; and this to Clarke, Beales & Co., Nassau Street, City. All business letters, I presume?”

  “Entirely so, sir.”

  “And none of them, I judge, such as a man would write who expected to close all accounts with the world in less than an hour?

  “None.”

  How laconic she was for a girl scarcely out of her teens!

  “From this correspondence, then, as you know it, he showed no intention of suicide?”

  “On the contrary. In one of those letters, the one to Clarke, Beales & Co., I think, he made an appointment for to-morrow. My uncle was very exact in business matters. He would never have made this appointment if he had not hoped to keep it.”

  “Are you two in league?” the angry voice of George broke in. “Are you trying to make out that father died from violence?”

  “In league?”

  Did she say it or only look it? I felt my heart swell at her piteous, her agonised expression. Mr. Gryce, as he called himself, may have seen it, but he appeared to be looking at the slip of paper he now drew from his pocket, and which we all recognised as that which she had shortly before let drop.

  “You see this,” he said, “it looks like a piece of perfectly blank paper.”

  “And it is,” she declared. “Why he should send it to me I do not know. It was given me in an envelope by the gentleman at the door, who says he got it from my uncle before he died. Everyone here knows that.”

  “Very good. Now let me ask from what sheet your uncle tore this scrap of paper? You recognise it as paper you have seen before?”

  “O, yes, it is part of what is used in the typewriter. At least I suppose it to be. It looks like it.”

  “Sweetwater, bring me the typewriter!”

  Sweetwater was the young man who had before shown himself in attendance on the coroner.

  “O, what does this mean?” asked Hope, shrinking back.

  An oath answered her. George had reached the end of his patience.

  The placidity of the old man remained undisturbed.

  Meanwhile the young detective called Sweetwater had returned with the typewriter in his arms. Set ting it down on the library table, towards which they all immediately moved, he composedly strolled my way. We were now grouped as follows: the family and some others in the library, Sweetwater and myself at the front door.

  Naturally, from the point I have just indicated, I could not look into the library; but my hearing being good and that of the young detective still better, we both managed to get the drift of what was being said, though we could not note the speakers.

  I had seen a slip of paper protruding from the ma chine when it was carried past me, and it was to this piece of paper Mr. Gryce first called Miss Meredith’s attention.

  “There’s an unfinished letter here, as you see. Did you have a hand in writing it?”

  She did not answer very promptly, but when she did, it was with a “No” which was startlingly abrupt.

  “Ah! then there’s someone else in the house who uses the typewriter.”

  “Mr. Gillespie. He often used it when he was in a hurry and I not by.”

  “Mr. Gillespie? Do you think it was he who wrote these lines?”

  “I do. There was no one else to do it.”

  Was my imagination too active, or had her voice a choked sound which spoke of some latent emotion she strove to conceal?

  “Then,” suavely responded the detective, “we need no other proof of Mr. Gillespie’s condition up to the time he worked off this last line. I doubt if you ever made a better copy yourself, Miss Meredith. But why is it torn across in this manner? Half of the sheet is missing, and some portion at least of the letter is gone.”

  A sudden gasp which could have come from no other lips than hers was followed by certain short exclamations from the others indicative of interest if not surprise.

  “Shall I take it out? Or will one of you read it as it lies here? I prefer one of you to read it.”

  We heard a few stammering sentences uttered by George or Alfred, then Leighton’s v
oice broke in with the calm remark:

  “It is about some shares lately purchased in Denver. If you think it necessary to hear what my father had to say concerning them, this is a facsimile of what he wrote a half-hour or so before he died:

  New York, N.Y., Oct. 17, 1899

  James C. Taylor, Esq.,

  18 State St.,

  Boston, Mass,

  Dear Sir:—

  In regard to .the financing of the $10, 000, 000 mentioned in our conversation on the 12th inst., it is of the utmost importance that I am placed as soon as possible in full possession of the facts regarding the prope

  The rest is torn off, as you say. Do you consider this letter important?”

  “Not at all, except as showing the sound condition of your father’s mind immediately prior to his collapse at ten o’clock. It is not the letter itself which should engage your attention, but the fact that this portion of it which has been wrenched off cannot be found. I know,” he went on, before a rejoinder could be made by anyone in the startled group about him, “that a strip seemingly of this same paper was received by Miss Meredith in an envelope a few minutes ago. Indeed, I have it here. But though it was evidently stripped from this same sheet—from the bottom part of it, as you can see from its one straight edge—it does not fit the portion left in the machine. Some two inches or so of the sheet is lacking. Now where are these two inches? Not in the room from which we brought the typewriter, nor yet on Mr. Gillespie’s person, for we have looked.”

  Silence.

  “No one seems to answer,” breathed a voice in my ear.

  Had this shrewd and seemingly able detective expected a reply? I had not. Silence had too often followed inquiry in this house.

  “It is a loss open to explanation,” mildly resumed the aged detective. “It is also one which the police deems important. We shall have to search for that connecting slip of paper unless, as I sincerely hope, someone here present can produce it.”

  “Search!” a commanding voice broke in—that of Leighton. “We know nothing about it.”

  “It is a pity,” rejoined the old man, with a mildness unusual in one of his class. “Such a measure should not be necessary. Someone here ought to be able to direct us where to find this missing portion of a letter interrupted by so stern a fact as the writer’s death.”

  Still no answer.

  “Had there been a fire in the room but there was no fire. Or had Mr. Gillespie left the room—”

  Speak out! the stern tones again enjoined . You think some of us took it?”

  “I do not say so,” was the conciliatory reply. “But this scrap must be found. Its remarkable disappearance shows that it has more or less bearing on the mystery of your father’s death.”

  “Then we must entreat you to use your power and find it if you can.” It was still Leighton who was speaking. “George, Alfred, let us accept the situation with good grace; we will gain nothing by antagonising the police.”

  Two muffled oaths answered him; their natures were more passionate than his, or possibly less under control. But they offered no objections, and the next minute the old detective appeared in the hall.

  One look passed between him and the young man loitering at my side. Then the latter turned to me:

  “This is to be my task,” he whispered. “I don’t know the house at all. I hear that you have been up.”

  From whom could he have heard this? From Dr. Bennett? It was possible. Such fellows worm themselves into the confidence of warier persons than this amiable old physician.

  “I have passed through the halls,” I admitted, none too encouragingly. “But I don’t see how that can help you.”

  “It’s a four-story building, I suppose. All the houses along here are.”

  “Yes, it’s a four-story house.”

  He rubbed one hand awkwardly against the other; indeed, his whole manner was awkward; then he walked slowly down the hall. When he reached the library door he stopped and looked in with a shy and deprecating air. Suddenly he began to back away. Someone was coming out. It was Miss Meredith. When she was in full sight and he brought to a stand still by the wall against which he had retreated, he spoke, but not to her, though his eyes were fixed upon her in a sort of blank stare she may have attributed to the power of her beauty, but which I felt was of a character to make her careful.

  “Four stories!” he muttered. “Parlour floor, first bedroom floor, second bedroom floor, and the attic! Where shall I begin? Ha! I think I know,” he smiled, and passed quickly down the hall.

  She had given an involuntary pressure to her hands when he mentioned the word attic.

  I thought of the position in which I had found her there; of the doubts expressed by the doctor as to how she could have received an intimation of her uncle’s death before an alarm had been raised or her cousins fully aroused, and felt forced to acknowledge that the police were justified in their action, great as was the spell cast over me by her loveliness.

  That, justified or not, they meant to do their work, I soon saw. With a steady eye the coroner held us all to our places, while the young detective disappeared above, followed only by Leighton, who had asked the privilege of accompanying him for fear of some alarm being given to his little child who was upstairs alone. From the way Miss Meredith’s eyes followed them, I knew there was something to be feared from this quest which she alone had the power of measuring.

  What was I to think of this young girl who chose to be reticent on a subject involving questions of life and death! I would not probe my doubts too closely. I steeled myself against her look, resolving to be the lawyer—her lawyer—if required, but nothing more, at least till these shadows were cleared up.

  Her two cousins remained in the library, to which Mr. Gryce had returned after making the signal to his man Sweetwater. We were all under great restraint with the exception of the doctor, who was chatting confidentially with the coroner. What he said I could in a measure gather from the expression of Miss Meredith’s face, who was nearer him than I. That it served to intensify rather than relieve the situation was apparent from the gravity with which the coroner listened. Later, some stray words reached me.

  “Had the greatest dread of poison—” This I distinctly heard— “Never took any medicine without asking—” I could not catch the rest. “Tell him symptoms—all the poisons—like a child—he never poisoned himself.” This last rung in my ears with persistent iteration. It rang so loud I thought every one on that floor must have heard it. But I saw no change in Alfred’s restless figure hovering on the threshold of the library door a few feet behind Miss Meredith; while George, conversing feverishly with Mr. Gryce, raised his voice rather than dropped it as these fatal words fell from the lips of one who certainly had the best of reasons for believing himself in the confidence of his patient.

  Miss Meredith, who was listening to something besides this conversation, fateful as it was, was mean while schooling herself for Sweetwater’s return. I could discern this by the change that passed over her face just when his steps began to be heard; and was conscious of quite a personal shock when I saw her hand fall involuntarily on her bosom as if the thing he sought was there and not in the rooms above.

  Cursing myself for the infatuation which would not let my eyes leave her face, I turned with sudden impulse into the reception room opening on my right. But I speedily stepped back again. Miss Meredith, who seemed to have gained some confidence by my presence, had feebly uttered my name. It seemed that the child had been heard to cry above, and that the coroner had refused to let her go up.

  I made my way to her side, and, despite Alfred’s scowls, entered into conversation with her, urging her to be calm and wait patiently for the detective’s return.

  “The child has its father,” I suggested.

  But this did not seem to afford her much comfort. She wrung her hands in her anxiety, and showed no relief till her cousin, followed by the watchful detective, was again seen on the stairs.

&nb
sp; Then she took my arm. She needed it, for life and death were in the gaze she fixed upon the latter. And he—well, I had never seen the man before that night; yet I felt as certain from the way his feet fell on the stairs he so slowly descended that he had been successful in his search, and that the piece of paper which rustled so gently in his hand was the one Mr. Gryce had declared to be of such importance, and which she—but what man can complete a thought suggestive of distrust, while the hand of its lovely object presses warmly on his arm, and the eyes whose glance he both fears and loves rest upon his in a confidence which in itself is a rebuke?

  I gave up speculation and devoted myself to sustaining Miss Meredith in her present ordeal. As Sweetwater reached the last step she murmured these words:

  “I tried; but fate has rebuked me. Now I see my duty.”

  Her eyes had not followed Leighton’s figure as he joined his brothers in the library, but mine did, and it did not make my heart any lighter to see from the glance he tossed her on entering that he was prepared for some event serious enough to warrant all this emotion.

  “You have found what you have sought!” she cried, intercepting the young detective in her anxiety to end the suspense it took all her strength to sustain.

  His smile was dubious, but it was a smile. Mean time the paper he held had found its way into the coroner’s hands.

  “Call Gryce!” shouted out that functionary, with a doubtful look at the slip in his hand; “I shall need his experience in deciphering this.”

  The detective was at his side in an instant, and together they bent over the scrap. The suspense was great, and the moment well-nigh intolerable. Then we saw the detective’s finger rest on a certain portion of the paper they were mutually consulting, and remain there. The coroner read the words thus indicated, and his face showed both strong and sudden feeling.

  “Ah!” he ejaculated. “What do you make out of that?”

  The detective uttered a few low words, and taking the piece which had been in the envelope he fitted it to the one held by the coroner. We could all see that they were part of the same sheet.