THE LADY OF THE LAKE
“And so,” I thought to myself, “I shall see again the Lady of the Lake.”
As Alma Remsen entered the room, I realized the aptness of Kee’s term,
high-handed. Without any effect of strong-mindedness, the girl showed in
face and demeanour a certain self-reliance, an air of determination, that
made even a casual observer feel sure she could hold her own against all
comers.
Yet she was a gentle sort. Slender, of medium height, with appealing
brown eyes, she nodded a sort of greeting that included us all, and
addressed herself to the coroner.
“You sent for me, Doctor Hart?” she said, in a low, musical voice.
“Yes, Miss Remsen. Will you answer a few direct questions?”
“Certainly. To the best of my ability.”
“First of all, then, when did you last see your uncle alive?”
“I was over here day before yesterday, Tuesday, that would be. I have not
been here since, until this morning.”
My heart almost stopped beating. I had seen her come in her canoe—but
stay, that was at one-thirty or thereabouts. Perhaps she salved her
conscience for the lie by telling herself that was this morning.
“You mean, when you came over here perhaps half an hour ago?”
“Yes.” Alma looked at him in some surprise. “What else could I mean?”
A finished actress, surely. I was amazed at her coolness and her pretty
air of inquiry.
“Who summoned you?”
“Mrs. Fenn. She had been asked to do so by Mr. Ames.”
“What was her message?”
“That Uncle Sampson had died of apoplexy and I’d better come right over.”
“So you came?”
“Yes, as soon as I could get here.”
“Have you seen—er—Mr. Tracy?”
“No; Mr. Ames advised against it.”
“Well, Miss Remsen, I think we want no information from you, except a
formal statement of your relationship to the dead man and your standing
with him.”
“Standing?”
“Yes. Were you good friends?”
“The best. I loved Uncle Sampson and he loved me, I know. I am his only
living relative, except some distant cousins. I am the daughter of his
sister, of whom he was very fond.”
The girl was a bit of an enigma. She seemed straightforward and sincere,
yet I was somehow conscious of a reservation in her talk, a glibness of
speech that carried the idea of a prearranged story.
Why I should mistrust her I couldn’t say, at first. Then I remembered
that I had seen her canoeing over to Pleasure Dome in the night, and now
she was saying she had not done so.
“Are you his heiress?” The question came sharply.
“So far as I know,” she replied with perfect equanimity. “My uncle has
told me that his will leaves the bulk of his estate to me, but he also
told me that when he married Mrs. Dallas, he would revise that will, and
make different arrangements.”
“Did you resent this?”
“Not at all. I knew my uncle would leave me a proper portion of his
wealth, and that as long as he lived he would take care of his sister’s
child.”
“You are an only child of your parents?”
“I had a twin sister. She died fourteen years ago.”
“And she is buried on this estate?”
“Her grave is in a small cemetery which also contains the graves of my
parents and five or six other relatives of my uncle’s family.”
“How did it come about that the cemetery is on the grounds of the estate?
It is, I believe, a New England custom.”
“It was my mother’s wish. She was devoted to the little girl who died and
wanted to have the grave where she could visit it often. My uncle
humoured her and also had the remains of my father sent here to be buried
beside the child. Then, when my mother died, about a year ago, naturally
she was buried there, too.”
“I see. What did your sister die of?”
“Scarlet fever. There was an epidemic of it. We both had it, but I pulled
through, though it left me with a slight deafness in one ear.”
“Then, after your mother’s death, you went to live by yourself on the
island. Why did you do this?”
“Because my uncle was to marry Mrs. Dallas.”
“And you don’t like Mrs. Dallas?”
“I don’t dislike her at all, but I am not of an easy-going disposition. I
felt sure there would be clashes, and I told uncle I’d rather live by
myself. He understood and agreed. So after some looking about, we decided
on the island of Whistling Reeds as the most attractive site for a home.”
“And he built a house for you there?”
“Oh, no, the house was already there. He bought the whole island, house
and all.”
“You like it as a home?”
“I love it. I am happier there than I could be anywhere else.”
“Are you not lonely?”
“No more than I would be anywhere. I have capable and devoted servants,
and I have tennis courts and an archery field and I have many boats and
can get any place I wish to go in them. No, I am not so lonely as I
sometimes was here in this great house. Of course, since my mother’s
death, I haven’t gone much in society but I am thinking of going out more
in the future.”
Keeley Moore listened to the girl with the deepest interest. I wondered
what he would say if he knew what I knew of her midnight canoe trip!
But I vowed to myself then and there that I should never tell of that. I
knew I might be doing wrong, withholding such an important bit of
information, but I was determined to keep my secret.
I tried to make myself think it was some other girl I had seen, but the
alert figure before me and the white costume said plainly that I was
making no mistake in recognizing the girl of the canoe.
From beneath her little white felt hat strayed a few golden curls, and I
well remembered the bare head that had looked silvery in the moonlight.
I said to myself, by way of placating my conscience, that when the time
came I would tell Kee about it, but I certainly did not propose to give
the Coroner a chance to suspect this lovely girl of crime.
Apparently, the Coroner had no slightest suspicion of Alma, but you can’t
tell. He may have been drawing her out in order to prove her complete
innocence or he may have felt that she had motive and must be closely
questioned.
“Were you at home last evening?” Hart said, in a casual tone.
“Yes, I was.”
“You didn’t go out all the evening or night?”
“No. I didn’t leave the island.”
“Whew!” I exclaimed to myself, “it’s lucky she doesn’t know that I know!”
I gazed at her in admiration. I didn’t, I _couldn’t_ think that she had
killed her uncle, but knowing, as I did, that she had visited Pleasure
Dome, I could only think that she had come on some secret errand.
“Maybe,” I puzzled over it, “she came to see her uncle on some private
business, and saw the murderer at his work. Maybe she knew the criminal,
and is shielding him.”
For I had already made up my mind that some one in the house had killed
Sampson Tracy. I didn’t believe in any burglar or intruder. I thought a
member of the family or household had done the deed, and, presumably, for
the sake of inheritance. I had heard there were large bequests to the
servants in Tracy’s will, and there were several men to suspect.
I longed for a talk alone with Kee, but I saw this could not occur very
soon.
“How did you occupy your evening?” pursued Hart, and I listened eagerly
for the answer.
“I had an interesting book I was reading and after dinner I sat in my
living room with the book until I finished the story. Then I played on
the piano a little, as I often do in the evening, and about half-past ten
I went to bed.”
All of this was stated in a calm, even voice, and with the most clear and
unflinching gaze of the brown eyes.
I realized then what beautiful eyes they were. Deep brown, with long,
curling black lashes, and an expression of wistful appeal that would go
straight to any man’s heart.
Once for all, I was committed to the cause of Alma Remsen, and never, to
Kee Moore or to anybody else, would I divulge any word that might make
trouble for her.
I wasn’t exactly in love with the girl then, or if I was I didn’t know
it. But I felt like a guardian toward her, and surely my first duty was
to guard the secret of her canoe trip that night.
“You come over here often?” Moore asked, in his pleasant way, and she
replied without hesitation.
“Oh, yes, I come over in my canoe or my motor boat nearly every day.
Uncle gives me vegetables and fruit from the garden, and flowers, too.”
“You say you haven’t seen your uncle since his death,” Kee went on. “Have
you been told of the peculiar details of his deathbed?”
“Yes,” Alma said, her brown eyes clouding with perplexity. “But I can’t
understand the meaning of such conditions. Who do you suppose would do
such absurd things?”
“Doctor Rogers thinks it was the work of some small girl——”
“Ridiculous!” cried Alma. “Does he think a small girl killed my uncle?”
“No, apparently the deed was done by a strong man. But he thinks the
flowers and those things were put where they were found by some
mischievous child. Do you know of any ten- or twelve-year-old girl near
by?”
“No, I don’t,” and she looked about wonderingly. “Of course, there are
lots of them in the village, but I know of none among the servants’
families or in the neighbourhood at all. I don’t agree with Doctor
Rogers. It’s too fantastic to think of a child coming along here at that
time of night and getting into the house——Oh, the very idea is
ridiculous.”
“I agree to that,” said Hart. “But how can we explain the feather duster
and the food and all that?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure,” Alma declared, “but any man who was
diabolically minded enough to drive a nail into the head of a sleeping
victim would have a distorted brain, and might have done all those queer
things. But cannot you detectives and policemen find out the truth?”
Her tone was appealing, she seemed to be asking their help, and I
marvelled afresh at her poise and calm.
“You and Mrs. Dallas are friendly?” Coroner Hart broke out, abruptly.
“Oh, yes. We are not intimates, she is older than I am. But we have never
had anything but the pleasantest of interviews.”
“You are friendly with Mr. Ames?”
“In a general way, yes. He too, is so much older than I am that I have
never given him a thought save as a friend of my uncle’s. I don’t know
Mr. Ames very well, but I’ve certainly no unfriendly feelings toward
him.”
I wondered at myself. Why did I so admire this girl, so respect her, and
yet have an undercurrent of fear for her? She was utterly frank,
perfectly straightforward, to all appearances, yet—probably influenced by
what I knew—I couldn’t believe in her.
She was so self-possessed, so unafraid in her attitude and expression of
face, that I had no real reason to doubt her good faith.
But I did, and I determined to watch Alma Remsen carefully and to the
exclusion of everybody else connected with the mystery.
Moreover, I determined to keep my knowledge to myself. I wasn’t sure
whether I should tell Moore eventually or not, but at any rate, I wasn’t
ready to tell him yet.
After a few questions, which seemed to me of no real importance, Alma was
excused and Mrs. Dallas was summoned.
What a different type of woman!
She was, as I learned later, about thirty, but her hair had turned
prematurely gray, almost white. She wore it short, a soft, curly bob,
that framed her young-looking face with a sort of halo.
Her eyes were gray, too, with dark lashes, and her complexion was
perfect. That lovely creamy flesh, with a soft sheen on it that needed, I
felt sure, no aid of cosmetics.
Her mouth was a Cupid’s bow, and her smile was that of a siren.
I gazed at her, because I couldn’t tear my eyes away.
True, I had seen her the night before at the Moores’ dinner party, but
she hadn’t looked like this then. At the dinner she had seemed out of
sorts, and unsmiling.
Now, she was animated and fascinating.
A strange idea came to me. Suppose she had killed Sampson Tracy, wouldn’t
she adopt this attitude of charm to wheedle the Coroner?
Then I laughed at my own foolishness. Why, of all people, would Katherine
Dallas kill the man she was about to marry? The wealthy, powerful
magnate, who was ready to dower her with everything heart could wish and
put her at the head of his great establishment. Of course not. She had no
motive, nor had she opportunity. Even if she possessed a latchkey, which
might well be, she couldn’t come to the house in the dead of night, and
get away again, without being seen by somebody.
Although, I was forced to admit, whoever killed the man had gone to his
room in the dead of night, and had got away again, unseen, so far as we
could learn. How had he got away? Well, that question was as yet
unanswered.
Even now, I realized, Coroner Hart was asking Mrs. Dallas her opinion on
this very matter.
“I can’t imagine,” she said, and I was angry with myself to realize that
her voice had in it no ring of a false note, no hint of insincerity.
“It is too impossible,” she went on, her lovely face alight with
interest, “whoever killed Mr. Tracy had to get out of that room and leave
the door locked behind him, but how could he do it?”
“Dived out of the window,” suggested Keeley, to hear what she would say.
“Then he was a master diver,” she told him. “Deep Lake, or as they call
it here, the Sunless Sea, is not only very deep, but it is full of hidden
rocks and there are strong eddies and currents,—oh, it is a dangerous
hole!”
“There’s the alternative of a secret passage,” Moore went on. “Did you
ever hear of one?”
“No, and I doubt there being such. I mean, the house, though of
complicated structure, is modern and I’m quite sure it hasn’t any
concealed or subterranean passages. If it had, I think Mr. Tracy would
have spoken of them to me.”
“Why do you feel so sure of that?”
“Only because he told me everything. I mean he was confidential by nature
and I’ve never known him to have a secret from me.”
“Why didn’t Mr. Tracy attend the dinner last night at which you were a
guest?”
She coloured a little, but answered frankly: “We had had a little tiff,
and he was, while not really angry at me, just enough annoyed to stay
home from the party. I think he regretted having declined the invitation,
but then it was too late to change his mind.”
“What was your disagreement about?”
“Must I tell that?”
“I think you’d better, Mrs. Dallas.”
“I greatly prefer not to.”
“Still I must request it.”
“Well, then, he had said he wanted to tell me something about his niece,
Miss Remsen.”
“Something unpleasant?”
“I feared so. I didn’t know. But he said it was a thing I ought to know
about if I was coming into the family.”
“He gave you no hint as to the purport of his disclosures?”
“He wanted to, but I wouldn’t listen. I told him I didn’t want to hear
it, at any rate, not then.”
“Why did you take that attitude in the matter?”
“I’ll try to explain. I have known Mr. Tracy about a year. I’ve been
engaged to him about three months. Now, he had never mentioned this thing
before. So I had a feeling that he had spoken impulsively, and perhaps on
thinking it over would change his mind about telling me.”
“And you had no curiosity about it?”
“Oh, no, not beyond a natural wonder as to what it could be. But I am
very fond of Alma Remsen, and I was positive it couldn’t be anything
really serious. Perhaps an early love affair or escapade that would be
better left buried in oblivion.”
“So you had words over it all.”
“Yes, I was so insistent that he should not tell me, and he so equally
insistent that I should hear it, that we had a real quarrel.”
“How did it wind up?”
“By his leaving my house—he was calling on me—in a rage. I admit it was a
foolish thing to quarrel about, but I was determined to have my way in
the matter, and I did.”
“When was this affair?”
“It was Monday night.”
“And to-day is Thursday. You didn’t see him again?”
“No. He sulked Tuesday and Wednesday. I called him on the telephone
yesterday and asked him if he was going to the Moores’ dinner party, and
he said ‘No,’ very shortly and hung up the receiver.”
“He was really angry, then?”
“Yes, but I fancy more with himself than with me. Mr. Ames told me that
Mr. Tracy was sorry about it all, and that he kept my scarf near him all
the time. I know Mr. Tracy’s ways, and when he keeps any of my belongings
near him, he isn’t really angry at me.”
“You are speaking of the crimson scarf that was found on Mr. Tracy’s
bed?”
“Yes, that one.” And then, the calm of Katherine Dallas broke down and
she burst into a piteous flood of tears.
I was not surprised. I had noticed her clenching fingers and her tapping
foot, and I knew she was striving to keep a grip on her feelings.
It was Inspector Farrell who opened the door for her, and as she stumbled
through, we saw Alma Remsen awaiting her, and knew she would be duly
cared for.
Farrell returned into the room and closed the door, and went slowly back
to his seat.
“What about it?” he said, including both Hart and Keeley Moore in his
glance of inquiry.
“Whoever killed that man, it was not Mrs. Dallas,” Kee declared. “I don’t
suppose anybody thought she did, but there’s no slightest reason to
suspect her.”
“What about the girl?” asked Farrell, with brooding eyes.
“Drive a nail in her uncle’s head!” Moore exclaimed. “I can’t see her
doing that! Can you, Norris?”
“No,” I said, and it was God’s truth. That lovely girl connected with a
brutal, inhuman deed,—no, nobody could believe that!
“Well, then, where are we at?” Farrell asked.
“At Harper Ames,” said the coroner, and we realized that he was sticking
to his first impressions.
“All right,” Farrell sighed. “Get him in here next, then.”
But just then, Sally Bray came to the door. Farrell let her in and asked
the result of her investigation of Mr. Tracy’s belongings.
“There’s nothing missing as Griscom and I can see,” she reported, “except
two things—I mean, three.”
“What are they?” and Farrell placed a chair for her and spoke in a kindly
tone.
“One is the Tottum Pole.”
“The what?”
“She doubtless means the Totem Pole,” said Moore, quietly. “Is that it,
Sally?”
“Yes, sir, that’s what I said, the Tottum Pole. It was one of Mr. Tracy’s
favourite toys. It was Indian, Griscom says, and it always stood on his
bedside table. He thought it was a—a charm, like.”
“A Luck you mean, I dare say.” Keeley had taken the inquiry into his own
hands for the moment.
“Yes, sir, it was his Luck, that’s what Griscom said.”
“How large was it?”
“About so big.” Sally measured a foot or more with her hands. “Oh, it was
fierce! Yet beautiful, too.”
“Bright colours, and a face at the top——”
“Yes, sir. But a norful face, all eyes——”
“I know. You understand, Mr. Farrell, don’t you? She means a miniature
Totem Pole. They have them in the better class of shops round here that
carry Indian trinkets. The little Totem Poles are interesting, and are
called lucky. I have two or three at home. But mine are smaller, only six
or eight inches. And so this Totem Pole is missing. What else, Sally?”
“Two of Mr. Tracy’s best weskits, sir! His striped dark blue morey, and
his pearl-coloured figgered satin.”
“He wore fancy waistcoats, then?”
“Oh, yes, sir, he was a great hand for weskits of beautiful stuff. Never
gay or gaudy, but soft, lovely colours and the expensivest materials.”
“And two of them are gone. Are you sure?”
“Yes, sir. Griscom missed ’em. He says they ain’t gone to the cleaner’s
or anything like that, for they’re both nearly new. And he says he knows
they were in their right place yesterday morning, sir.”
“Well,” Hart said, “we can’t complain of any lack of curious
complications. This seems to prove a man did the deed. A woman surely
would not take fancy waistcoats!”
“And why should a man take them, either?” Moore asked, but none of us
could answer.