by Marion Bryce
“And did you?”
“We went out in the hall, and just then Elsa, Miss Lloyd’s maid, was on the stairs. So we told her, and told her to tell Miss Lloyd, and ask her for orders. Well, her orders was for us to call up Doctor Fairchild, and so we did. He came as soon as he could, and he’s been in charge ever since, sir.”
“A straightforward story, clearly told,” observed the coroner, and then he called upon Louis, the valet. This witness, a young Frenchman, was far more nervous and excited than the calm-mannered butler, but the gist of his story corroborated Lambert’s.
Asked if he was not called upon to attend his master at bedtime, he replied,
“Non, M’sieu; when Monsieur Crawford sat late in his library, or his office, he dismiss me and say I may go to bed, or whatever I like. Almost alway he tell me that.”
“And he told you this last night?”
“But yes. When I lay out his clothes for dinner, he then tell me so.”
Although the man seemed sure enough of his statements he was evidently troubled in his mind. It might have been merely that his French nature was more excitable than the stolid indifference of the English butler. But at the same time I couldn’t help feeling that the man had not told all he knew. This was merely surmise on my part, and I could not persuade myself that there was enough ground for it to call it even an intuition. So I concluded it best to ask no questions of the valet at present, but to look into his case later.
Parmalee, however, seemed to have concluded differently. He looked at Louis with an intent gaze as he said, “Had your master said or done anything recently to make you think he was despondent or troubled in any way?”
“No, sir,” said the man; but the answer was not spontaneous, and Louis’s eyes rolled around with an expression of fear. I was watching him closely myself, and I could not help seeing that against his will his glance sought always Florence Lloyd, and though he quickly averted it, he was unable to refrain from furtive, fleeting looks in her direction.
“Do you know anything more of this matter than you have told us?” inquired the coroner of the witness.
“No, sir,” replied Louis, and this time he spoke as with more certainty. “After Lambert and I came out of Mr. Crawford’s office, we did just exactly as Lambert has tell you.”
“That’s all, Louis…. But, Lambert, one other matter. Tell us all you know of Mr. Joseph Crawford’s movements last evening.”
“He was at dinner, as usual, sir,” said the butler, in his monotonous drawl. “There were no guests, only the family. After dinner Mr. Crawford went out for a time. He returned about nine o’clock. I saw him come in, with his own key, and I saw him go to his office. Soon after Mr. Porter called.”
“Mr. Lemuel Porter?” asked the coroner.
“Yes, sir,” said the butler; and Mr. Porter, who was one of the jurors, gravely nodded his head in acquiescence.
“He stayed until about ten, I should say,” went on the butler, and again Mr. Porter gave an affirmative nod. “I let him out myself,” went on Lambert, “and soon after that I went to the library to see if Mr. Crawford had any orders for me. He told me of some household matters he wished me to attend to to-day, and then he said he would sit up for some time longer, and I might go to bed if I liked. A very kind and considerate man, sir, was Mr. Crawford.”
“And did you then go to bed?”
“Yes, sir. I locked up all the house, except the office. Mr. Crawford always locks those windows himself, when he sits up late. The ladies had already gone to their rooms; Mr. Hall was away for the night, so I closed up the front of the house, and went to bed. That’s all I know about the matter, sir—until I came downstairs this morning.”
“You heard no sound in the night—no revolver shot?”
“No, sir. But my room is on the third floor, and at the other end of the house, sir. I couldn’t hear a shot fired in the office, I’m sure, sir.”
“And you found no weapon of any sort in the office this morning?”
“No, sir; Louis and I both looked for that, but there was none in the room. Of that I’m sure, sir.”
“That will do, Lambert.”
“Yes, sir; thank you, sir.”
“One moment,” said I, wishing to know the exact condition of the house at midnight. “You say, Lambert, you closed up the front of the house. Does that mean there was a back door open?”
“It means I locked the front door, sir, and put the chain on. The library door opening on to the veranda I did not lock, for, as I said, Mr. Crawford always locks that and the windows in there when he is there late. The back door I left on the night latch, as Louis was spending the evening out.”
“Oh, Louis was spending the evening out, was he?” exclaimed Mr. Orville. “I think that should be looked into, Mr. Coroner. Louis said nothing of this in his testimony.”
Coroner Monroe turned again to Louis and asked him where he was the evening before.
The man was now decidedly agitated, but by an effort he controlled himself and answered steadily enough:
“I have tell you that Mr. Crawford say I may go wherever I like. And so, last evening I spend with a young lady.”
“At what time did you go out?”
“At half after the eight, sir.”
“And what time did you return?”
“I return about eleven.”
“And did you then see a light in Mr. Crawford’s office?”
Louis hesitated a moment. It could easily be seen that he was pausing only to enable himself to speak naturally and clearly, but it was only after one of those darting glances at Miss Lloyd that he replied:
“I could not see Mr. Crawford’s office, because I go around the other side of the house. I make my entree by the back door; I go straight to my room, and I know nothing of my master until I go to his room this morning and find him not there.”
“Then you didn’t go to his room last night on your return?”
“As I pass his door, I see it open, and his light low, so I know he is still below stair.”
“And you did not pass by the library on your way round the house?”
Louis’s face turned a shade whiter than usual, but he said distinctly, though in a low voice, “No, sir.”
An involuntary gasp as of amazement was heard, and though I looked quickly at Miss Lloyd, it was not she who had made the sound. It was one of the maidservants, a pretty German girl, who sat behind Miss Lloyd. No one else seemed to notice it, and I realized it was not surprising that the strain of the occasion should thus disturb the girl.
“You heard Louis come in, Lambert?” asked Mr. Monroe, who was conducting the whole inquiry in a conversational way, rather than as a formal inquest.
“Yes, sir; he came in about eleven, and went directly to his room.”
The butler stood with folded hands, a sad expression in his eyes, but with an air of importance that seemed to be inseparable from him, in any circumstances.
Doctor Fairchild was called as the next witness.
He testified that he had been summoned that morning at about quarter before eight o’clock. He had gone immediately to Mr. Crawford’s house, was admitted by the butler, and taken at once to the office. He found Mr. Crawford dead in his chair, shot through the left temple with a thirty-two calibre revolver.
“Excuse me,” said Mr. Lemuel Porter, who, with the other jurors, was listening attentively to all the testimony. “If the weapon was not found, how do you know its calibre?”
“I extracted the bullet from the wound,” returned Doctor Fairchild, “and those who know have pronounced it to be a ball fired from a small pistol of thirty-two calibre.”
“But if Mr. Crawford had committed suicide, the pistol would have been there,” said Mr. Porter; who seemed to be a more acute thinker than the other jurymen.
“Exactly,” agreed the coroner. “That’s why we must conclude that Mr. Crawford did not take his own life.”
“Nor would he have done so,” declared
Doctor Fairchild. “I have known the deceased for many years. He had no reason for wishing to end his life, and, I am sure, no inclination to do so. He was shot by an alien hand, and the deed was probably committed at or near midnight.”
“Thus we assume,” the coroner went on, as the doctor finished his simple statement and resumed his seat, “that Mr. Crawford remained in his office, occupied with his business matters, until midnight or later, when some person or persons came into his room, murdered him, and went away again, without making sufficient noise or disturbance to arouse the sleeping household.”
“Perhaps Mr. Crawford himself had fallen asleep in his chair,” suggested one of the jurors,—the Mr. Orville, who was continually taking notes in his little book.
“It is possible,” said the doctor, as the remark was practically addressed to him, “but not probable. The attitude in which the body was found indicates that the victim was awake, and in full possession of his faculties. Apparently he made no resistance of any sort.”
“Which seems to show,” said the coroner, “that his assailant was not a burglar or tramp, for in that case he would surely have risen and tried to put him out. The fact that Mr. Crawford was evidently shot by a person standing in front of him, seems to imply that that person’s attitude was friendly, and that the victim had no suspicion of the danger that threatened him.”
This was clear and logical reasoning, and I looked at the coroner in admiration, until I suddenly remembered Parmalee’s hateful suspicion and wondered if Coroner Monroe was preparing for an attack upon Miss Lloyd.
Gregory Hall was summoned next.
He was self-possessed and even cool in his demeanor. There was a frank manner about him that pleased me, but there was also a something which repelled me.
I couldn’t quite explain it to myself, but while he had an air of extreme straightforwardness, there was also an indefinable effect of reserve. I couldn’t help feeling that if this man had anything to conceal, he would be quite capable of doing so under a mask of great outspokenness.
But, as it turned out, he had nothing either to conceal or reveal, for he had been away from West Sedgwick since six o’clock the night before, and knew nothing of the tragedy until he heard of it by telephone at Mr. Crawford’s New York office that morning about half-past ten. This made him of no importance as a witness, but Mr. Monroe asked him a few questions.
“You left here last evening, you say?”
“On the six o’clock train to New York, yes.”
“For what purpose?”
“On business for Mr. Crawford.”
“Did that business occupy you last evening?”
Mr. Hall looked surprised at this question, but answered quietly
“No; I was to attend to the business to-day. But I often go to New York for several days at a time.”
“And where were you last evening?” pursued the coroner.
This time Mr. Hall looked more surprised still, and said
“As it has no bearing on the matter in hand, I prefer not to answer that rather personal question.”
Mr. Monroe looked surprised in his turn, and said: “I think I must insist upon an answer, Mr. Hall, for it is quite necessary that we learn the whereabouts of every member of this household last evening.”
“I cannot agree with you, sir,” said Gregory Hall, coolly; “my engagements for last evening were entirely personal matters, in no way connected with Mr. Crawford’s business. As I was not in West Sedgwick at the time my late employer met his death, I cannot see that my private affairs need be called into question.”
“Quite so, quite so,” put in Mr. Orville; but Lemuel Porter interrupted him.
“Not at all so. I agree with Mr. Monroe, that Mr. Hall should frankly tell us where he spent last evening.”
“And I refuse to do so,” said Mr. Hall, speaking not angrily, but with great decision.
“Your refusal may tend to direct suspicion toward yourself, Mr. Hall,” said the coroner.
Gregory Hall smiled slightly. “As I was out of town, your suggestion sounds a little absurd. However, I take that risk, and absolutely refuse to answer any questions save those which relate to the matter in hand.”
Coroner Monroe looked rather helplessly at his jurors, but as none of them said anything further, he turned again to Gregory Hall.
“The telephone message you received this morning, then, was the first knowledge you had of Mr. Crawford’s death?”
“It was.”
“And you came out here at once?”
“Yes; on the first train I could catch.”
“I am sorry you resent personal questions, Mr. Hall, for I must ask you some. Are you engaged to Mr. Crawford’s niece, Miss Lloyd?”
“I am.”
This answer was given in a low, quiet tone, apparently without emotion of any kind, but Miss Lloyd showed, a different attitude. At the words of Gregory Hall, she blushed, dropped her eyes, fingered her handkerchief nervously, and evinced just such embarrassment as might be expected from any young woman, in the event of a public mention of her betrothal. And yet I had not looked for such an exhibition from Florence Lloyd. Her very evident strength of character would seem to preclude the actions of an inexperienced debutante.
“Did Mr. Crawford approve of your engagement to his niece?” pursued Mr. Monroe.
“With all due respect, Mr. Coroner,” said Gregory Hall, in his subdued but firm way, “I cannot think these questions are relevant or pertinent. Unless you can assure me that they are, I prefer not to reply.”
“They are both relevant and pertinent to the matter in hand, Mr. Hall; but I am now of the opinion that they would better be asked of another witness. You are excused. I now call Miss Florence Lloyd.”
V. FLORENCE LLOYD
A stir was perceptible all through the room as Miss Lloyd acknowledged by a bow of her beautiful head the summons of the coroner.
The jurors looked at her with evident sympathy and admiration, and I remembered that as they were fellow-townsmen and neighbors they probably knew the young woman well, and she was doubtless a friend of their own daughters.
It seemed as if such social acquaintance must prejudice them in her favor, and perhaps render them incapable of unbiased judgment, should her evidence be incriminating. But in my secret heart, I confess, I felt glad of this. I was glad of anything that would keep even a shadow of suspicion away from this girl to whose fascinating charm I had already fallen a victim.
Nor was I the only one in the room who dreaded the mere thought of Miss Lloyd’s connection with this horrible matter.
Mr. Hamilton and Mr. Porter were, I could see, greatly concerned lest some mistaken suspicion should indicate any doubt of the girl. I could see by their kindly glances that she was a favorite, and was absolutely free from suspicion in their minds.
Mr. Orville had not quite the same attitude. Though he looked at Miss Lloyd admiringly, I felt sure he was alertly ready to pounce upon anything that might seem to connect her with a guilty knowledge of this crime.
Gregory Hall’s attitude was inexplicable, and I concluded I had yet much to learn about that young man. He looked at Miss Lloyd critically, and though his glance could not be called quite unsympathetic, yet it showed no definite sympathy. He seemed to be coldly weighing her in his own mental balance, and he seemed to await whatever she might be about to say with the impartial air of a disinterested judge. Though a stranger myself, my heart ached for the young woman who was placed so suddenly in such a painful position, but Gregory Hall apparently lacked any personal interest in the case.
I felt sure this was not true, that he was not really so unconcerned as he appeared; but I could not guess why he chose to assume an impassive mask.
Miss Lloyd had not risen as it was not required of her, and she sat expectant, but with no sign of nervousness. Mrs. Pierce, her companion, was simply quivering with agitation. Now and again she would touch Miss Lloyd’s shoulder or hand, or whisper a word of encourage
ment, or perhaps wring her own hands in futile despair.
Of course these demonstrations were of little avail, nor did it seem as if Florence Lloyd needed assistance or support.
She gave the impression not only of general capability in managing her own affairs, but of a special strength in an emergency.
And an emergency it was; for though the two before-mentioned jurors, who had been intimate friends of her uncle, were doubtless in sympathy with Miss Lloyd, and though the coroner was kindly disposed toward her, yet the other jurors took little pains to conceal their suspicious attitude, and as for Mr. Parmalee, he was fairly eager with anticipation of the revelations about to come.
“Your name?” said the corner briefly, as if conquering his own sympathy by an unnecessarily formal tone.
“Florence Lloyd,” was the answer.
“Your position in this house?”
“I am the niece of Mrs. Joseph Crawford, who died many years ago. Since her death I have lived with Mr. Crawford, occupying in every respect the position of his daughter, though not legally adopted as such.”
“Mr. Crawford was always kind to you?”
“More than kind. He was generous and indulgent, and, though not of an affectionate nature, he was always courteous and gentle.”
“Will you tell us of the last time you saw him alive?”
Miss Lloyd hesitated. She showed no embarrassment, no trepidation; she merely seemed to be thinking.
Her gaze slowly wandered over the faces of the servants, Mrs. Pierce, Mr. Philip Crawford, the jurors, and, lastly, dwelt for a moment on the now anxious, worried countenance of Gregory Hall.
Then she said slowly, but in an even, unemotional voice: “It was last night at dinner. After dinner was over, my uncle went out, and before he returned I had gone to my room.”
“Was there anything unusual about his appearance or demeanor at dinner-time?”
“No; I noticed nothing of the sort.”
“Was he troubled or annoyed about any matter, that you know of?”
“He was annoyed about one matter that has been annoying him for some time: that is, my engagement to Mr. Hall.”
