A few moments after this, Mr. George Lawrence arrived. He let himself in
at the front door with a latch-key, and walked into the room with the
air of one familiar with the place.
"Well, Janet, what's up?" he began, and then, seeing strangers, paused
expectantly.
"Mrs. Mulford," said Janet, "this is my cousin, Mr. Lawrence. Mr.
Landon, Mr. Lawrence."
The new-comer bowed politely and with the graceful courtesy of a
well-bred city man, then turned again to his cousin.
"I sent for you, George," began Janet, "because--because----"
But here her self-possession failed her, and she could go no further.
She cast an appealing glance at me, as if to ask me to speak for her,
then threw herself on the couch in an uncontrollable fit of weeping.
Laura sat beside the sobbing girl, while Mr. Lawrence turned to me for
an explanation.
Judging at first sight that with a man of his type a straightforward
statement would be the best, I told him in as few words as possible what
had happened.
"Uncle Robert dead!" he exclaimed. "Why, what does it mean? He had no
heart trouble that we knew of. Was it apoplexy?"
"I think so," I replied. "Two doctors are in there now, holding a
consultation."
"Two doctors?" exclaimed Mr. Lawrence. "Who are they?"
"Doctor Masterson, who was, I believe, your late uncle's physician, and
Doctor Post, who lives in this house."
"Which came first?" asked Mr. Lawrence.
By this time Miss Pembroke, who seemed to be subject to sudden changes
of demeanor, took it upon herself to answer his question. She had
stopped crying, and again showed that icy calmness which I could not yet
understand.
"I sent for Doctor Masterson," she said. "I thought uncle was only ill,
but when the doctor came he said he was dead; and then he wanted another
doctor, so Mr. Landon very kindly went for Doctor Post."
"Why did he want Doctor Post, if Uncle Robert was already dead?"
demanded Lawrence.
"To help him to discover what caused uncle's death."
"Then we must await the result of their consultation," he replied. He
seemed about to say something else, but checked himself. I could
readily understand why he should hesitate to say in the presence of
strangers many things that he might have said to his cousin had they
been alone.
I felt attracted to this young man. Although he had a careless,
good-natured air, there seemed to be an underlying vein of kindly
feeling and courteous solicitude. Like Miss Pembroke, he seemed to be
controlling his emotion and forcing himself to meet the situation
calmly.
George Lawrence was large-framed and heavily-built, while Janet Pembroke
was a lithe and willowy slip of a girl; but their features showed a
degree of family likeness, and the dark eyes and dark, curling hair were
decidedly similar. They seemed congenial, and thoroughly good comrades.
Miss Pembroke appeared glad that her cousin had arrived, and he seemed
desirous of doing whatever he could to help her. I was struck by the
utter absence of any expressions of grief on the part of either, and
then I remembered what I had heard about the cruel temper of their
uncle. Could it be possible, I thought, that these two were really glad
rather than otherwise? Then I remembered Miss Pembroke's piteous
weeping, and as I looked at Mr. Lawrence and noted his white face and
clenched hands I concluded that they were both controlling their real
feelings, and exhibiting only what they considered a proper attitude
before strangers.
Then I began to think that since Miss Pembroke's cousin was with her,
perhaps Laura and I ought to go away and leave them to themselves. I
made a remark to this effect, but, to my surprise, both Miss Pembroke
and her cousin insisted that we should stay, at least until the doctors
had finished their consultation.
So we stayed, and Laura, with her usual tact, managed to keep up a
desultory conversation on various unimportant subjects.
Occasionally the talk became more or less personal, and I learned that
George Lawrence had previously lived with his uncle and cousin in this
same apartment. It also transpired--though this, I think, was told
unintentionally--that the reason why he went away to live by himself was
because he could no longer stand the unpleasantness caused by the fierce
fits of anger into which old Mr. Pembroke would fly upon the slightest
provocation.
"It does seem a pity," he said, "that such a really fine man should be
so utterly unable to control his temper. I could stand an ordinary
amount of grumbling and fault-finding, but Uncle Robert in his rages was
almost insane. He grew worse as he grew older. Janet and I lived with
him for many years, and each year he grew more unbearable. I suppose,
poor old chap, it was his gout that made him so crusty and cross, but it
kept me in hot water so much of the time that I couldn't stand it. Janet
stood it better than I did, but she's a born angel anyhow."
Mr. Lawrence looked admiringly at his cousin, who acknowledged his
compliment with a faint smile.
"I didn't stand it very well," she said; "but I'm sorry now that I
wasn't more patient. Poor old uncle, he didn't have a very happy life."
"Well, you can't blame yourself for that. You did everything in your
power to make it pleasant for him, and if he wouldn't accept your
efforts, you certainly have nothing for which to reproach yourself."
"Yes, I have," she declared; "we had an awful quarrel last night, and
when Uncle left me he was very angry. I hate to think of our last
interview."
"The usual subject, I suppose," said young Lawrence, looking
sympathetically at his cousin; "have you sent for Leroy?"
This question confirmed my fears. Mr. Lawrence had certainly implied by
association of ideas, that Miss Pembroke's quarrel with her uncle the
night before had had to do with Graham Leroy in some way. This might
refer only to financial matters. But my jealous apprehension made me
suspect a more personal side to the story.
She answered that she had sent a message to Leroy, and then again,
without a moment's warning, Miss Pembroke burst into one of those
convulsive fits of sobbing. I was glad Laura was still there, for she
seemed able to soothe the girl as I'm sure no one else could have done.
His cousin's grief seemed to affect George Lawrence deeply, but again he
endeavored to suppress any exhibition of emotion. His white face grew
whiter, and he clinched his hands until the knuckles stood out like
knots, but he spoke no word of sympathy or comfort.
I felt myself slightly at a loss in the presence of his repressed
feeling, and as I did not think myself sufficiently acquainted with him
to offer any word of sympathy, I said nothing.
It was into this somewhat difficult situation that the two doctors came.
They looked exceedingly grave; indeed, their faces bore an expression of
awe that seemed even beyond what the case demanded.
"Ah, George," said Doctor Masterson, grasping the hand of the young man,
"I'm glad you're here. Did Janet send for you?"
"Yes, doctor; she telephoned, and I came at once. I'm indeed surprised
and shocked at Uncle Robert's sudden death. Had you ever thought such a
thing likely to happen?"
"No," said Doctor Masterson, and his voice had a peculiar ring, as of a
man proving his own opinion.
Apparently Janet Pembroke was accustomed to the inflections of the old
doctor's voice, for she looked suddenly up at him, as if he had said
something more. Her crying spell was over, for the time at least, and
her white face had again assumed its haughty and inscrutable expression.
"Was it heart disease?" she inquired, looking straight at Doctor
Masterson.
"No," he replied; "it was not. Nor was it apoplexy, nor disease of any
sort. Mr. Robert Pembroke did not die a natural death; he was killed
while he slept."
I suppose to a man of Doctor Masterson's brusk, curt manner it was
natural to announce this fact so baldly; but it seemed to me nothing
short of brutality to fling the statement in the face of that quivering,
shrinking girl.
"Killed!" she said, clasping her hands tightly. "Murdered!"
"Yes," said the doctor; "murdered in a peculiar fashion, and by a means
of devilish ingenuity. Indeed, I must confess that had it not been for
Doctor Post's conviction that the death was not natural, and his
determination to discover the cause, it might never have been found
out."
"Was he shot?" asked Janet, and it seemed to me she spoke like one in a
trance.
"Shot? No!" said Doctor Masterson. "He was stabbed, or rather _pierced_,
with a long, thin pin--a hat-pin, you know. Stabbed in the back of his
neck, at the base of the brain, as he lay asleep. He never knew it. The
pin broke off in the wound, and death was immediate, caused by cerebral
hemorrhage. Doctor Post and I have made a most thorough examination, and
we are convinced that these are the facts. Mr. Pembroke was lying on his
side, in a most natural position, and was, in all probability, sleeping
soundly. This gave the murderer an excellent opportunity to aim the
deadly pin with careful precision, and to pierce the brain with a swift
stab. The result of this was precisely the same as a sudden and fatal
apoplectic stroke. Though there may have been a tremor or slight quiver
of certain muscles, there was no convulsion or contortion, and Mr.
Pembroke's face still retains the placid look of sleep. Death must have
taken place, we conclude, at or near midnight."
We who heard this sat as if paralyzed. It was so unexpected, so
fearfully sudden, so appalling, that there seemed to be no words fit to
express our feelings.
Then George Lawrence spoke. "Who did it?" he said, and his white face
and compressed lips showed the struggle he was making for self-control.
"I don't know," and Doctor Masterson spoke mechanically, as if thinking
of something else.
"No, of course, we don't know," broke in Doctor Post, who seemed a bit
inclined to emphasize his own importance. And perhaps this was but
natural, as the older doctor had plainly stated that but for Doctor
Post's insistent investigation they might never have discovered the
crime.
"But we must immediately set to work to find out who did this dreadful
deed," Doctor Post went on; and though I felt repelled at the avidity he
showed, I knew he was right. Though the others seemed partially stunned
by the suddenly disclosed fact, I foresaw the dreadful experiences that
must follow in its train.
Miss Pembroke, though still sitting by Laura's side, had broken away
from her encircling arm. The girl sat upright, her great eyes fixed on
Doctor Masterson's face. She showed no visible emotion, but seemed to be
striving to realize the situation.
"Murdered!" she breathed in a low whisper; "Uncle Robert murdered!"
Then, without another word, her eyes traveled slowly round the room,
resting on each person in turn. Her glance was calm, yet questioning. It
almost seemed as if she suspected some one of us to be guilty of the
crime. Or was it that she was seeking help and sympathy for herself? If
so she could stop with me. She need look no further. I knew that in the
near future she would want help, and that of a legal nature. She had
herself said, or at least implied, that she would not look for such help
from Graham Leroy. If this were true, and not merely a bit of feminine
perversity, I vowed to myself that mine should be the helping hand
outstretched to her in her hour of need.
"There is much to be done," Doctor Post continued, and his mind was so
occupied with the greater facts of the situation, that he almost ignored
Miss Pembroke. He addressed himself to Doctor Masterson, but it was
easily seen that this was a mere form, and he himself quite evidently
intended to be the real director of affairs. "We must find out who was
the intruder, doubtless a professional burglar, who committed this awful
deed. We must search the room for clues, and that, too, at once, before
time and circumstance may obliterate them."
Although I didn't show it, I couldn't help a slight feeling of amusement
at this speech. It was so palpably evident that Doctor Post possessed
what he himself would doubtless call the Detective Instinct; and,
moreover, it was clearly indicated that his knowledge of the proper
methods of procedure were gained from the best detective fiction! Not
that he was wrong in his suggestion, but it was not the time, nor was it
his place to investigate the hypothetical "clues."
Doctor Masterson appreciated this point, and with a slightly
disapproving shake of his wise, old head, he observed: "I think those
things are not in our province, Doctor Post. We have performed our duty.
We have learned the method and means of Robert Pembroke's death; we have
made our report, and our duties are ended. The case has passed out of
our hands, and such details as clues and evidence, are in the domain of
the coroner and inspector."
Doctor Post looked a little chagrined. But he quickly covered it, and
effusively agreed with the older doctor.
"Quite so, quite so," he said; "I was merely suggesting, in what is
perhaps an over-zealous desire to be of assistance. What you say, Doctor
Masterson, is entirely true. And now," he added, again bristling with an
assumption of importance, "and now, we must send for the coroner."
V