Woody said suddenly out of a white, excited silence, “He shot himself! By golly, Fitz. He did it—he shot Ernestine, he shot Dr. Luddington—he—why, yes, he thought Sue saw him and recognized him there at the creek—he’d disguised himself in somebody’s hunting coat, nothing easier—he thought Sue recognized him, he was afraid, he tried to kill her and then he gave up and lost his nerve and shot himself.…”
Fitz touched his pocket where a thin, tough strap lay coiled.
Woody lapsed into scqwling, tight-lipped silence. Chrisy put her white apron over her head and began sobbing.
Again Fitz made a kind of order; he induced Chrisy to take Caroline upstairs and put her to bed. Sue and Woody and Fitz altogether searched the house, locked doors, bolted windows, picked up the wildly scattered knives and forks and spoons in the dining room. The police still had not come. They gave them up. Fitz went out and turned off the car lights and locked the car. He was going to stay.
Woody would have talked endlessly; Fitz sent him to bed. “I’ll call you at three,” he said. “Believe me, Woody, there’s just nothing we can do now.”
“Do you want my gun, too?”
“Keep it. I’ve got mine.” Chrisy had put it down, gingerly yet rather reluctantly on a table.
Sue said, “I’m going to sit up with you.”
She was prepared to battle if necessary to hold her ground; Fitz said, “Yes, I wish you would.”
They talked, actually, far into the night—Sue on the hollowed, shabby couch in Caroline’s study again, Fitz in the deep armchair with his feet stretched out on the footstool; it was a domestic scene—with a curious and unquiet note, Fitz’s revolver, gleaming under the lamp on the table beside him. But they were taking unnecessary precautions, he said, to guard the house, he felt sure of it; whoever had been there would not try again that night. Sue took what comfort she could from that; there was more comfort in Fitz’s presence, his brown face profiled against the lamp, his head leaning back against the cushions of the chair, the smoke drifting up from his cigarette.
He thought, he said, that the police might call Sam Bronson’s death suicide and it might be; but the shot from the pine woods, the visitor that night, indicated that the murderer was not Sam Bronson—dead, at both times, in the Luddington woods. Reveller snored luxuriously under the couch. Fitz lighted another cigarette.
“If it wasn’t Sam Bronson—and I don’t think it was, the—the field, so to speak, is narrowed. We know that somebody—not Sam Bronson, made a murderous attempt last night from the pine woods and again tonight. So far the police don’t believe it; the sheriff may insist on investigating. But if the field is narrowed—look here, Sue, I edged around to some questions last night with Camilla and Jed and the Luddingtons, but I didn’t get anywhere. That is—things came of it but nothing that seemed very important.”
Sue sat up abruptly. “You can’t mean one of them …” she began, and remembered her own question of Camilla and stopped.
“Well, that’s what the police do. They get whole and complete stories from everybody concerned—alibis if they have them, what they were doing, where they were at the time of the murder. It’d be impossible for me to do that, of course—they wouldn’t reply to inquiries from me if they didn’t want to and besides the police have thoroughly covered the ground with everybody in the least connected with Ernestine’s murder and they’re getting it done about Dr. Luddington—at least they checked my alibi with Judge Shepson, simply because I was a friend and saw him the day before and Jed said they questioned him—he was at home—and I know they tried to check on Wat and Ruby; Wat was in Middleburg and they asked what men he’d seen and when and Ruby was riding again and said they’d asked her about time, and where she rode, and if she saw anybody. I can’t do all that and anyway it’s being done, thoroughly and well. But last night I suddenly thought that perhaps we could take that one hour or so, before and after the shot, and use it, say, for a test case. And got nowhere. At least …” he turned to reach for an ash tray and after a moment said, “Sam Bronson—exactly where was he, when you came out of the house after you’d found Ernestine was shot? Where was he, where was Jed, what did you say and what did they say? Who got to Ernestine first?”
She knew exactly. “Bronson was coming from the direction of the stables—across the lawn along the outside of the garden wall.”
“And Jed?”
“He was coming along the driveway from the car. He was fairly close to the door; Sam Bronson was closer. I told Bronson Ernestine was shot. He ran into the house; Jed saw me and ran to the door.”
“Bronson was in the garden room ahead of you?”
“Yes.” She thought she saw the trend of his questions. “But nothing was any different. He was bending over Ernestine. There wouldn’t have been time for him to—to do anything. Change anything—conceal any sort of evidence, if that’s what you mean.”
“I don’t know what I mean. Sue, I know he didn’t but—just to make absolutely sure—Bronson didn’t approach you at any time did he? I mean later. I mean—well, in any way that could be construed as a hint at a payoff?”
“No! No, Fitz, never.”
He thought for a moment and said, “The stables are on the side of the garden room. If anybody did get to the house by riding across the fields and jumping that paddock fence on the other side of the garden, Sam just might have seen it.”
“Camilla,” she said suddenly, “saw Jed and me; and she heard Ernestine phone me and she came to tell me …”
She told him the story, omitting only, with instinctive, feminine loyalty, Camilla’s offered bargain. He guessed that, however; there was a kind of twinkle in his eyes.
“There wasn’t any sort of price put on her silence?” he said, eyeing her and suddenly, as she felt a flush creep up into her face, put back his black head with its crisp white threads and laughed.
“Fitz, stop, you’ll wake Caroline!”
“Oh, I know—I won’t …” He tried rather unsuccessfully to stop. “But it’s so damned funny. Listen, baby—Camilla may be rather practical about economics and an unattached male, but I’ve trifled with nobody’s affections, except I sincerely hope, with yours and that’s no trifle. Camilla is not serious—but,” he sobered, “I rather think she’s got the kind of temper Ernestine had; if she should go to the police with this … Henley’s looking for something exactly like that to bolster up his case. And there are some queer bits in her little piece. She’s spoken it rather late but still—you see, it’s always seemed to me perfectly possible that Ernestine did get that gun out herself. But I don’t think she meant it for you and—what did Camilla say about her dressing early?”
“Only that. She didn’t know why …”
“Maybe Ernestine expected another caller. Somebody she was afraid of. Somebody she was prepared to deal with—with a gun if she had to …” he stopped and thought. “And somebody she fully intended to get out of the way before you could possibly arrive. Therefore somebody she could have seen in the garden room while you and Jed were in the cabaña.”
Sue whispered, “Somebody who killed her?”
“How are we to know?” he said rather hopelessly. “But that gun—it’s always seemed to me that the murder must have been unpremeditated, because Ernestine wasn’t dead. If it had been planned it seems to me whoever shot her would have seen to it she was dead. So it looks like, not an accident exactly but a struggle.…”
“But she was shot in the back.”
“She could have been shot anywhere if there was a struggle over the gun.”
Camilla and her temper like Ernestine’s. Irresistibly, ashamed, Sue said, “Fitz, when Wat brought Camilla to your house, did you see them arrive?”
“No.” He gave her a long look. “Oh, you mean, was there a time gap between Wat’s bringing Camilla to my house and Jason’s letting her in? Long enough for her to get back to Duval Hall? She’d have had to ride—saddle a horse …”
“She was in eve
ning dress,” Sue objected.
“But she’s a brilliant horsewoman.” He paused, thinking. Sue, irresistibly again, thought of Camilla and her mysterious flowering beauty and vitality since Ernestine’s death. Ernestine who had always outshone Camilla!
But then sincerely ashamed again, she rejected it. “She didn’t do it! She’d never do that. It’s not fair to talk of it, even.”
“Somebody did it.” Fitz got up, went to the window, listened and the night was quiet. He came back. “And somebody—but this time intentionally, this time with premeditation, shot Dr. Luddington. And that somebody tried to drag you into it. If only we knew more of what the doctor did during that hour or so. He telephoned Ruby and told her to come. Presumably he told some patient to call you and Jed and have you come. I’d believe that—and so would the police—if they could unearth the patient. Dr. Luddington’s old cook heard him say something which indicated that he knew who murdered Ernestine, that he had shielded somebody, at the gamble of Jed’s life, and that he was now going to give up whoever it was he shielded, in order to save you from arrest. He’d held out—if all that’s true, until he had the news of a warrant actually sworn out against you. That broke him down; if it was a terrible struggle with him between love and duty it accounts in a way for the telephone call Lissy Jenkins overheard; he was either warning somebody or taking somebody into his confidence. If he’d named names—but of course he wouldn’t over the phone in so serious a thing. But the very fact that she heard no names, that it was so guarded, could have deceived whoever was at the other end of the wire. So he—well, I cannot believe that Dr. Luddington was afraid of whoever shot him. And …” he finished suddenly, “I had no idea that Wat was floating around; he’s never said a word.”
“He wouldn’t. He’d not want to get into it.”
“He will soon,” Fitz said rather grimly and went into the hall; she could hear his footsteps the length of it and back again. He brought a light woolen scarf from the hall and put it over her. “Now then, go to sleep. I’ll feel better if you’re right there so I can see you.… Are Caroline and Woody hunting tomorrow?”
“Yes. All of us. At least we were planning to when this …”
He tucked the cover around her feet. “I’m going. So are you.”
Something in his voice puzzled her; he glanced at her and caught the sharp question in her eyes and shook his head. “I don’t know what I’m doing and I only hope it’s right.… Go to sleep, Sue.”
“I can’t—I won’t—what do you mean?”
“I wish I knew,” he said in a suddenly rather harsh voice. He went back to the armchair and stretched out his feet, put back his head and firmly, convincingly closed his eyes. And inconceivably, against her will, she did go to sleep and awakened in the morning with Fitz gone from the armchair, the table light turned out, the woolen cover on the floor and somebody whistling shrilly in the direction of the stables.
Woody came bouncing in from the hall; he had breeches over his arm, a newspaper in his hand and a completely different, a carefree and natural expression on his face. He brandished the paper, “Look, Sue. Look. They say it’s suicide; the police say it’s suicide. You ought to wake up. Fitz has gone home ages ago. Breakfast’s over.” He eyed her in candid brotherly fashion. “You look awful. You ought to see your hair.”
“Give me the papers.”
“Okay.” He scowled at his breeches. “Hunting’s an expensive pleasure. Do you suppose Chrisy can get that spot out?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. Chrisy was, in any case, an expert at brushing and cleaning. He went away, whistling, toward the kitchen, and Sue snatched the papers. The headlines were clamorous and said, mainly, suicide. Suicide of murderer in Baily case. Mysterious murderer who has terrorized the county found shot in Luddington woods. Suicide. Suicide. Suicide.
There were columns and columns of fine print. It was a sensation.
The murderer of Ernestine Baily—and of Dr. Luddington, was the stableman, Sam Bronson; he had worked for the Bailys; he had had some grudge against Ernestine Baily; he had shot Dr. Luddington who must have guessed his identity; he had then shot himself. Remorse or fear—it didn’t matter what was his motive, for the Baily case and the Luddington case were over and, the columns of print almost said in so many words, satisfactorily over. Everybody, including the police apparently, believed it.
Sue did not.
20
WOODY CAME back in, this time with brightly polished boots; his spirits were high. “How do you like it, Sue?”
“But Woody—who shot from the pine woods …”
He turned to the window and examined his boots. “Somebody shooting squirrels. Accident. Scared and got away.”
“How about Jeremy?”
“Sam Bronson slashed him. Scared him.”
“I mean—last night. The night before.”
“He’s still nervous, scary. Aunt Caroline indulges her dogs and horses till they’ve got the temperament of a prima donna.”
Did he really believe, in the light of morning, that the case was over and closed? She could not see his face. “Dr. Luddington wouldn’t have protected Sam Bronson at the risk of the trial going against Jed.”
“Now Sue, listen, you can’t tell what he might have done or mightn’t have done. Stick to the facts and the fact is they cay that Sam Bronson shot himself …”
“What about last night? What about the—the strap?”
Woody’s face darkened. “Sue, for God’s sake, don’t you want to believe it? Don’t you see what it does for you? The police say so, don’t they? Or at least they don’t deny it. Would Henley ever admit it if he didn’t believe it? Or the sheriff? You ought to be thankful and …”
“What does Fitz think?”
“I don’t give a hoot in hell what Fitz thinks! You’ll be late if you don’t go and get yourself together. I’ll bring up your breakfast tray. Wat has sent over a hunter for me. A honey, too, by the looks of her; little chestnut mare. I wonder how Chrisy’s making out with my pants.” He went off to the kitchen.
She had, however, dimmed his exuberance; there was a sort of pleading note in his voice when he brought her tray up to her room as she got out of the bathtub. He pounded on the door. “Here’s your breakfast. And listen, Sue, everybody’s telephoning. You ought to hear them. Everybody’s read the papers and telephoned; it’s gone like wildfire and they’re really so thankful, Sue, about you and Jed, especially about you. Caroline’s friends and yours and mine and even Judge Shepson phoned. He said it was all over and congratulations and—now do be reasonable, Sue, and don’t keep thinking about—things. Leave that to the police.”
There was a clatter as he put down the tray. Things, thought Sue. Such as a patient who could not be identified, who phoned to tell her to come, who phoned to tell Jed to come. Well, that could have been Bronson, his motive to drag her and Jed into it as suspects. But there was Dr. Luddington’s conversation over the telephone with somebody—who? She shouted through the door and the splash of the emptying tub. “Why would the doctor telephone like that? The way Lissy Jenkins said …”
Woody’s voice was still rather pleading. “Old Lissy Jenkins! She thought that story up days after Dr. Luddington was shot! Now, Sue, don’t talk like that to anybody else. Let them believe it. Don’t raise any doubts.”
But how could Woody believe it? Or did he only want to believe it? Yet his advice was sensible; it was more than sensible, it was urgent. His voice wailed pleadingly through the door again. “Besides that’s what Fitz said.”
“You said you didn’t give a hoot …”
“I didn’t mean it, like that. You kept arguing and—Sue, he said for us to act as if we believed it. And it could be true, you know. Perhaps, those other things are—are accident, somebody, some crackpot …” His voice dwindled rather dubiously, then he said, “But please don’t say things like to anybody.”
“Of course I won’t. I’ve got sense enough to see that! Thanks for th
e tray.”
He clattered out. And as she was finishing breakfast Caroline came in. A different, normal and a very dignified Caroline, in a shining, newly ironed silk hat, her hair netted with inordinate neatness, her stock tied expertly. She always rode side saddle. Her heavy skirt was brushed and neatly draped, her blue eyes were shining. “Sue …” she said and came to her and kissed her.
Caresses were rare with Caroline. This one said all the things that Caroline herself was too moved to say. Sue looked at her and could not have uttered one word of what she had said to Woody.
“It was a hard ride, Sue. Some tough fences. But it’s over. Everybody’s been telephoning. It seemed queer to me that nobody did before but now I see why; it was their way of showing sympathy, of not intruding. It …” she couldn’t say any more. She went to Sue’s dressing table. “I had Chrisy put out your things. I’ll tie your stock for you. Have you got your mother’s safety pin?”
The plain gold safety pin her mother had used to pin her stock. Caroline had kept it; had, when Sue was sixteen, gravely presented it to her. “Of course.”
Caroline, with a rather amusing reversal of roles, eyed Sue’s hair. “Be sure to make your hair neat, dear. A neat head and a well-tied stock …”
“Yes, darling.”
“I think Jeremy will be all right. Favor him at the fences; if he seems to want to refuse them then he’s going lame again. In that case, I’ve already arranged with Wat, you’re to shift to one of Wat’s hunters.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“And remember now, Sue, all the things …”
Suddenly the infectious, happy state of belief swept Sue. She chanted, “Fast at water. Slow at woodland. Show him the fence and let him take it. Choose your line and stick to it. And always, always, stay away from the hounds.”
But this was serious business with Caroline; she did not smile. “And if you’re going to buy a piece of land, remember to put your chin down on your chest.”
She meant, of course, if she took a fall. Sue concealed an inward shudder; she would never be the expert and fearless horsewoman that under Caroline’s teaching she ought to be. She’d fallen many times, too many, and always it happened so swiftly that she never had time to remember anything except an instinctive scramble to avoid horses’ heels. She knew, however, what Caroline meant. A stiff straight neck meant sometimes a broken neck; she said with false lightness, “Of course I’ll remember,” and wished she need not hunt.
Hunt with the Hounds Page 20
