Shortly before two o'clock I was back at the Crawford house and found
the large library, where the inquest was to be held, already well filled
with people. I took an inconspicuous seat, and turned my attention
first to the group that comprised, without a doubt, the members of Mr.
Crawford's household.
Miss Lloyd--for I knew at a glance the black-robed young woman must be
she--was of a striking personality. Tall, large, handsome, she could
have posed as a model for Judith, Zenobia, or any of the great and
powerful feminine characters in history. I was impressed not so much by
her beauty as by her effect of power and ability. I had absolutely no
reason, save Parmalee's babblings, to suspect this woman of crime, but
I could not rid myself of a conviction that she had every appearance of
being capable of it.
Yet her face was full of contradictions. The dark eyes were haughty,
even imperious; but the red, curved mouth had a tender expression, and
the chin, though firm and decided-looking, yet gave an impression of
gentleness.
On the whole, she fascinated me by the very mystery of her charm, and I
found my eyes involuntarily returning again and again to that beautiful
face.
She was dressed in a black, trailing gown of material which I think is
called China crepe. It fell around her in soft waving folds and lay in
little billows on the floor. Her dark hair was dressed high on her head,
and seemed to form a sort of crown which well suited her regal type. She
held her head high, and the uplift of her chin seemed to be a natural
characteristic.
Good birth and breeding spoke in every phase of her personality, and in
her every movement and gesture. I remembered Parmalee's hint of unworthy
ancestors, and cast it aside as impossible of belief. She spoke seldom,
but occasionally turned to the lady at her side with a few murmured
words that were indubitably those of comfort or encouragement.
Her companion, a gray-haired, elderly lady, was, of course, Mrs. Pierce.
She was trembling with the excitement of the occasion, and seemed to
depend on Florence Lloyd's strong personality and affectionate sympathy
to keep her from utter collapse.
Mrs. Pierce was of the old school of gentlewomen. Her quiet, black gown
with its crepe trimmings, gave, even to my masculine eye an effect of
correct and fashionable, yet quiet and unostentatious mourning garb.
She had what seemed to me a puzzling face. It did not suggest strength
of character, for the soft old cheeks and quivering lips indicated no
strong self-control, and yet from her sharp, dark eyes she now and
again darted glances that were unmistakably those of a keen and positive
personality.
I concluded that hers was a strong nature, but shaken to its foundation
by the present tragedy. There was, without doubt, a great affection
existing between her and Miss Lloyd, and yet I felt that they were not
in each other's complete confidence.
Though, for that matter, I felt intuitively that few people possessed
the complete confidence of Florence Lloyd. Surely she was a wonderful
creature, and as I again allowed myself to gaze on her beautiful face I
was equally convinced of the possibility of her committing a crime and
the improbability of her doing so.
Near these two sat a young man who, I was told, was Gregory Hall, the
secretary. He had been reached by telephone, and had come out from New
York, arriving shortly after I had left the Crawford house.
Mr. Hall was what may be termed the average type of young American
citizens. He was fairly good-looking, fairly well-groomed, and so far
as I could judge from his demeanor, fairly well-bred. His dark hair was
commonplace, and parted on the side, while his small, carefully arranged
mustache was commonplace also. He looked exactly what he was, the
trusted secretary of a financial magnate, and he seemed to me a man
whose dress, manner, and speech would always be made appropriate to the
occasion or situation. In fact, so thoroughly did he exhibit just such
a demeanor as suited a confidential secretary at the inquest of his
murdered employer, that I involuntarily thought what a fine undertaker
he would have made. For, in my experience, no class of men so perfectly
adapt themselves to varying atmospheres as undertakers.
Philip Crawford and his son, an athletic looking young chap, were also
in this group. Young Crawford inherited to a degree the fine appearance
of his father and uncle, and bade fair to become the same kind of a
first-class American citizen as they.
Behind these people, the ones most nearly interested in the procedure,
were gathered the several servants of the house.
Lambert, the butler, was first interviewed.
The man was a somewhat pompous, middle-aged Englishman, and though of
stolid appearance, his face showed what might perhaps be described as an
intelligent stupidity.
After a few formal questions as to his position in the household, the
coroner asked him to tell his own story of the early morning.
In a more clear and concise way than I should have thought the man
capable of, he detailed his discovery of his master's body.
“I came down-stairs at seven this morning,” he said, “as I always do. I
opened the house, I saw the cook a few moments about matters pertaining
to breakfast, and I attended to my usual duties. At about half-past
seven I went to Mr. Crawford's office, to set it in order for the day,
and as I opened the door I saw him sitting in his chair. At first I
thought he'd dropped asleep there, and been there all night, then in a
moment I saw what had happened.”
“Well, what did you do next?” asked the coroner, as the man paused.
“I went in search of Louis, Mr. Crawford's valet. He was just coming
down the stairs. He looked surprised, for he said Mr. Crawford was not
in his room, and his bed hadn't been slept in.”
“Did he seem alarmed?”
“No, sir. Not knowing what I knew, he didn't seemed alarmed. But he
seemed agitated, for of course it was most unusual not finding Mr.
Crawford in his own room.”
“How did Louis show his agitation?” broke in Mr. Orville.
“Well, sir, perhaps he wasn't to say agitated,--he looked more blank,
yes, as you might say, blank.”
“Was he trembling?” persisted Mr. Orville, “was he pale?” and the
coroner frowned slightly at this juror's repeated inquisitiveness.
“Louis is always pale,” returned the butler, seeming to make an effort
to speak the exact truth.
“Then of course you couldn't judge of his knowledge of the matter,” Mr.
Orville said, with an air of one saying something of importance.
“He had no knowledge of the matter, if you mean Mr. Crawford's death,”
said Lambert, looking disturbed and a little bewildered.
“Tell your own story, Lambert,” said Coroner Monroe, rather crisply.
“We'll hear what Louis has to say later.”
“Well, sir, then I took Louis to the office, and we both saw the--the
accident, and we wondered what to do. I was for telephoning right off
to Doctor Fairchild, but Louis said first we'd better tell Miss Florence
about it.”
“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 down-stairs 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?”