THE BLACK CREST
MARTHA CORBIN laid down the brass fire tongs and turned to
look at the wood-basket by the hearth. The logs were both long and
heavy. Before attempting to lift one her attention was caught by the
sound of a familiar lagging footstep going in the direction of the back
hall.
"You, Charlie," she called, shrilly. "Come 'ere and fix this fire."
A snarl was his only response, and a second later a door banged shut
behind her amiable spouse. Martha's thin lips compressed into a hard
line. Stooping over she tugged and pulled at the topmost log and
finally lifted it up. She let it fall in the center of the burning
wood and then rested one hand against the stone chimney to get her
breath. It was some seconds before she felt able to take up the hearth
brush and sweep the ashes back under the andirons. That successfully
accomplished she dropped on one knee and held her chilled hands up to
the blaze. She was grateful for the heat.
As she crouched there the firelight, which alone illuminated the
living room at Abbott's Lodge, cast fantastic shadows on her
face, exaggerating her fixed expression to one of almost fierce
determination. Still in her early forties, Martha Corbin had once been
extremely pretty, but ill health had destroyed her good looks and
whitened her hair, which, worn straight back, intensified the gray
pallor of her appearance.
Her prolonged stare at the fire wavered finally, caught by a piece of
white paper protruding from a crack in the tiled hearth. One end was
singed, but it had fallen on the outer edge of the bed of hot ashes
and escaped entire destruction. Reaching down she picked up the piece
and turned it over. It was evidently the upper right-hand corner of an
envelope, for the flap still bore traces of glue as well as a perfectly
formed black seal--the wax unbroken except at the edges. Martha had no
chance to read the printed lines on the reverse of the paper.
"What have ye there?" demanded Corbin over her shoulder and seized her
roughly.
With surprising swiftness she broke from his grasp and got to her feet.
"A bit of torn paper," she replied; "from the scrap basket, there,"
touching it with her foot. "I was emptying it in the fire."
"And didn't the sheriff say you wasn't to touch nothing?" She met his
alarmed look with a timid shrug of her shoulders. "Have ye no sense at
all?"
Martha favored him with a blank stare as she stood twisting her hands
in her apron.
"I had to build up the fire," she mumbled. "'Twas only an old newspaper
and such like rubbish."
"Ye hadn't oughter touched it," he growled. "Suppose Sheriff Trenholm
or one of his men ask for the basket?"
"Well, here 'tis." With a swift glance about them, she darted over to
a chair and taking up a newspaper lying upon it, crumpled it up and
thrust it into the scrap basket. Hurrying to the mahogany desk she
jerked open one of the drawers and drew out a bundle of letters and
tossed it into the basket also.
"Have a care, Martha!" exclaimed Corbin, who had followed her rapid
movements in startled silence. "There's to be a search and everything
in Abbott's Lodge examined by the sheriff."
"He'll find the newspaper and the letters in the scrap basket as easy
as if they were on the chair or in the drawer," she remarked, smiling
shrewdly. "'Twon't matter _where_ they find 'em." She smoothed down the
torn hem of her large apron and drew closer to her husband. "What do ye
'spose he done with it?"
"Sh!" He clapped his scarred hand across her lips. "Hold your tongue,
woman. They'll hear, mebbe."
"Nobody to hear," she replied tersely, drawing away from him. "Mr. Alan
is seeing Coroner Dixon off and Miss Betty Carter is still upstairs in
the room with _him_!" She shivered. "Ain't it _awful_ the way she's
taking on?"
Corbin nodded, half absently, his eyes intent on scanning the living
room and its staircase at its other end.
"Surprising, after we know what happened," he admitted, speaking in
little more than a whisper. "But, recollect, Martha, 'tain't up to us
to _talk_. If ye do"--His look caused her to catch her breath. "Well,
ye know what's coming to ye. Ye understand"--and he seized her arm and
turned it until she winced with pain.
"Leave me be!" She winced again as Corbin, with a final twist, released
her arm. "You've no call to handle me so."
Corbin's only answer was a vicious scowl and Martha shrank back, one
hand to her trembling lips.
"I don't need to speak twice," he commented. "_You_ know me."
She nodded dumbly as she retreated behind a chair.
"Did ye hear when the nurse was leaving?" she asked.
The question went unanswered as Corbin, his attention attracted by
voices on the floor above, slipped noiselessly down the passageway
through which he had entered some minutes earlier unseen by his wife.
Left to her own devices, Martha picked up a box of matches and lighted
one of the lamps. She had succeeded in adjusting the wick when she
looked up and caught sight of Betty Carter regarding her from the lower
landing of the staircase.
"Light the others," Betty directed. "All of them--every
one"--indicating with a wave of her hand the standing lamp at the
foot of the stairs and several reading lamps placed on small tables
near comfortable lounging chairs where Paul Abbott and his guests
had been wont to pass the long winter evenings. Betty waited on the
stair landing until her peremptory order had been carried out, then
slowly approached the fireplace. She turned back on reaching there and
addressed Martha.
"Take my coat," she said, extending it. "And my hat"--She removed it as
she spoke. "And prepare a bedroom for me."
"A what, Miss?"
"A bedroom. I propose staying here to-night."
Martha gazed at her as if she had not heard aright. "Here, Miss?" she
faltered. "Here?"
"Certainly." Betty regarded the frightened woman more attentively.
"Do as I tell you." Her sharp tone aroused Martha from her startled
contemplation of her. "You can take my hat and coat upstairs as you go
and hang them in the bedroom closet. Come, what's the matter with you?"
"Nothing, Miss, nothing." Martha reached out a reluctant hand and took
the proffered coat and hat, then without further word she hastened up
the staircase. So great was her speed that she stumbled breathlessly
into a bedroom halfway down the corridor of the second floor, the door
of which stood partly open.
Miriam Ward turned at her unceremonious entrance and regarded her in
astonishment.
"What is it?" she asked, alarmed at the woman's pallor. "Are you ill?"
Martha shook her head as she advanced to the closet and, opening the
door, disappeared inside, to reappear the next instant, empty-handed.
"No, ma'am, I ain't ill," she volunteered, resting one hand on the
chair-back. "But I think she are."
"She? Who?"
"Miss Betty Carter." Martha breathed more easily. "She says she is
going to stay here all night."
Miriam stared at the woman. "Well, what of it?" she asked. "Why
shouldn't she stay if she wishes to?"
"All by her lonesome and Mr. Paul lying here dead!" Martha's voice of
disapproval registered a higher key than her usual monotone. "Who is
going to watch after her? That is," catching herself up, "look after
her?"
"You, I suppose," replied Miriam. "Are you not accustomed to doing the
housework?"
"Sure." Martha's voice grew more natural. "And Mr. Paul always said I
was a prime cook. Say, Miss Ward, ye ain't going, are ye?"
"Very shortly, yes." Miriam Ward returned to the table on which
stood her leather bag which she had been packing when interrupted by
Martha, and laid in it her neatly folded white uniform. The metal
case containing hypodermic syringe, thermometer, and small phials of
stimulants was next tucked carefully inside, and then Miriam closed and
locked the bag. "Have you seen Doctor Roberts recently?"
Martha shook her head. "He is still about the place with Mr. Alan,"
she responded. She cocked an inquisitive eye at Miriam and took in
appraisingly her trim, well-cut wool house gown. She had a dim,
preconceived notion that all nurses were dowdy, and to find Miriam
a becomingly dressed, extremely pretty, well-bred young woman was a
distinct novelty. "Are ye going into Washington with Doctor Roberts?"
"Yes. He asked me to wait for him." Miriam was conscious of a feeling
of repulsion under the steady stare of Martha's oddly matched eyes--the
iris of one was a pale blue, while the other was a deep brown. "I have
not slept in the bed, Martha; so it is not necessary for you to remake
it"--as the housekeeper laid her hand on the white counterpane. "But
perhaps it would be just as well to have your husband bring up more
wood. The room is a trifle chilly."
"There's some in the wood box in the hall; I'll get it"--and before
Miriam could utter a remonstrance, Martha had hurried away. She was
back again in an instant, her arms full of small blocks of cord wood.
Not waiting for Miriam's quickly proffered assistance, she let them
fall clumsily on the hearth, and then gazed aghast at a long rent in
her apron in which still hung a sliver of wood. Her name, called with
loud insistence in her husband's unmistakable accents, caused her to
start violently. Pausing only long enough to untie her apron and toss
it aside, she hurried from the room, jostling Miriam in her haste to be
gone.
Miriam stood in thought for a few seconds, then moved over to the pier
glass and put on her hat. She regretted having accepted Doctor Roberts'
invitation to drive to the city with him. Had she followed her own
inclination, she would have ordered a taxicab immediately after her
scene with Betty Carter and departed. But, confused by Betty's, to her,
incomprehensible behavior, she had listened to Coroner Dixon's urgent
request that she remain a few hours longer at Abbott's lodge, until, as
he expressed it, Betty had had time to pull herself together. Coroner
Dixon hinted that hysteria explained her conduct. Miriam's expression
grew more thoughtful. The shock of finding her lover dead might account
for much, but was that _alone_ responsible for Betty's denial of her
midnight visit to Abbott's Lodge?
Sheriff Trenholm had summed up the situation in one brief
sentence--"It's one girl's word against the other."
And she, "the other girl," was unknown and without money, while Betty
had hosts of friends and an assured position in the world!
If she could only recall the name of the clergyman who had accompanied
Betty! He would substantiate her statement. But try as she did to
clearly remember each event of the night, his name eluded her.
Undoubtedly the chloroform, with which she had been anesthetized, had
much to do with her loss of memory. With proper rest, its effects would
undoubtedly wear off; until then--
Miriam fingered the string of blue beads, which she was wearing,
nervously. Neither Coroner Dixon nor Sheriff Trenholm had given her an
inkling as to whether they really placed faith in her statement. They
had listened with deep interest and without comment. In the face of
their silence, she had hesitated to tell them of finding a strange man
and not her patient in Abbott's bed just before she lost consciousness.
With no proof to offer them, she feared the hard-headed Sheriff would
consider her demented indeed.
Turning from the mirror, Miriam walked across the bedroom toward the
chair on which she had laid her coat and inadvertently trod on Martha's
discarded apron. As she lifted it up, intending to put it on the chair,
a piece of paper rolled out of a rip in the hem of the apron and fell
at her feet. Instinctively Miriam stooped over and picked up the paper,
but instead of laying it down on top of the apron, she continued to
hold it in front of her, her eyes caught by a black seal. The wax
impression of the crest was distinct and unmistakable. With a sharp
intake of her breath, Miriam turned over the half burned envelope. The
Canadian postage was intact, but the name of the person to whom the
envelope had been addressed was entirely burned away.
Miriam continued to regard the piece of envelope with fixed intentness.
Slowly she deciphered the blurred postmark--it bore a recent date, of
that she was positive--but then, how came the black crest upon any
letter? Who dared to use it? Miriam was conscious of a feeling of icy
coldness not due to the temperature of the room.
An authoritative tap on her door brought the red blood to her white
cheeks with a rush and as Alan Mason looked inside the room at her
low-voiced, "Come in," he was struck by her air of distinction and the
direct gaze of her hazel eyes, which were her chief beauty.
"Doctor Roberts is about to leave," he said. "Let me carry your bag,"
as she made a motion toward it, "and your coat." Not listening to her
murmured protest, he gathered up her things and waited for her to
precede him through the doorway.
Miriam's hesitation was imperceptible. Opening her handbag she dropped
the half burned envelope inside it, then composedly walked down the
corridor. At the head of the staircase she paused and addressed her
companion.
"Have they made any plans for the funeral?" she asked.
"It is postponed until after the preliminary hearing of the inquest,"
Alan replied, keeping his voice lowered.
"And has that been called?"
He nodded. "For to-morrow morning, I understand. There is some
technicality which is causing unexpected delay." They were almost at
the bottom of the stairs when he caught sight of Betty Carter standing
in front of the fireplace talking to Doctor Roberts. Alan ceased
speaking with such abruptness that he drew an inquiring glance from
Miriam, of which he was totally unaware. Doctor Roberts gave her no
time for thought, however. Coming hastily forward, he reached her side
in time to help her on with her coat.
"I am sorry to have kept you waiting," he said. "But there were certain
matters.... Bless my soul, Alan, more reporters!" as the gong over the
front door sounded with startling suddenness. "Betty, my dear," turning
to address the silent girl by the fireplace, "you had better disappear
if you don't wish to be interviewed."
"I'll see them; don't worry," exclaimed Alan, as he swung open the
front door. But instead of the anticipated reporters, he was confronted
by a small familiar figure bundled up in expensive furs. "Mrs. Nash!"
"Just so!" Mrs. Nash lowered the high collar of her coat as she came
further into the living room, and collapsed in the nearest chair. "Let
me get my breath. Dear me, I'm half frozen!" and she chafed one cold
hand over the other. "Come here, Betty, and help me off with these
things."
"Why, Aunt Dora!" Betty hastened to her side. "How imprudent of you to
come all the way out here! You will surely be ill."
"I haven't a doubt of it," declared Mrs. Nash, through chattering
teeth. "I got out of a sick bed to come here, and Pierre, the wretch,
ran out of gasoline a mile away and I had to walk through the snow or
sit in the car and freeze to death. Good gracious, Alan! don't stand
there looking at me; get me something warm to drink. I am having a
chill."
"A hot water bag, also," added Doctor Roberts, hastening to her
assistance as Mrs. Nash struggled out of her coat.
"I can find whisky more easily than the latter," answered Alan, and
sped for the dining room. Miriam Ward was close behind him and helped
him pour out a generous allowance from the carefully concealed decanter.
"I saw a hot water bag hanging in your cousin's bathroom," she said. "I
will get it and have it filled if you will give this stimulant to Mrs.
Nash." She paused by the door. "Is Mrs. Nash's husband a clergyman?"
"Yes. Why?" glancing keenly at her flushed cheeks.
"Nothing--that is," avoiding his gaze. "Don't keep Mrs. Nash waiting,"
as she hurried away with a fast beating heart. She had recalled the
name of Betty's companion on her midnight visit to Paul Abbott--Doctor
Nash.
Mrs. Nash accepted the proffered whisky with relief. "I need a bracer,"
she admitted. "Indeed, Betty, the shocking news of poor Paul's untimely
death bowled me over; and then to be told that you had raced out here
in a hired taxi, without either your uncle or me,--it--it--took my
breath away." A shiver which she could not check shook her from head to
foot and Doctor Roberts helped her to a couch, while Betty brought a
heavy laprobe and threw it over her aunt. As she turned away Mrs. Nash
caught Doctor Roberts' coat sleeve and motioned to him to bend down.
"Is it really true," she questioned him in a whisper, "that Paul has
been murdered?"
"Yes. Hush, no details now," as Miriam approached the couch. He
addressed her in his customary tone of voice. "Ah, a hot water bag;
just the thing. You are fortunate, Mrs. Nash, in having a trained nurse
right here at your elbow."
"Thank you!" Mrs. Nash's piercing black eyes took in Miriam's
appearance in a pronounced stare. She permitted Miriam to make herself
more comfortable, before addressing her again. "Have you been nursing
Mr. Abbott?"
"Yes." Miriam stepped back from the couch and turned to Doctor Roberts.
"I think I had better telephone for a taxi."
"And my aunt can return to Washington with you," broke in Betty Carter
as she joined the small group. "It will be an excellent arrangement."
"I make my own plans, thank you," retorted Mrs. Nash, whose high color
betokened a touch of temper. "Do you suppose that with this attack of
flu I can venture out of doors again?"
"You don't mean to say you propose to spend the night here?" asked
Alan, returning in time to hear her last remark.
"Certainly. My husband and I have been frequent visitors, and I know
there are plenty of bedrooms."
"But, my dear Aunt, suppose you get sick?" Betty gazed at her in utter
disapproval.
"I am sick already," declared Mrs. Nash. "Chills and fever--where's
your thermometer, Doctor?"
Roberts looked grave as he prepared the small instrument for her.
"Your niece is right," he said. "This country place is isolated
from Washington in winter, and with illness--" he paused to put the
thermometer in Mrs. Nash's mouth; then he addressed Betty. "I think you
also had better change your plan, and return to Washington."
"I am the best judge of what I should do," she huffed and turned away.
Roberts eyed her in speculative silence as he took out his fountain pen
and wrote a prescription.
Alan, who had been watching Betty also, turned to Miriam. "Where
can the coroner reach you?" he asked. "You have not given me your
address? Or let me have your bill?" he added, lowering his voice to a
confidential pitch.
Miriam colored warmly; the commercial side of her profession always
embarrassed her. "I was engaged for an eighteen-hour duty," she
stammered. "I suppose the charge is seven dollars."
Alan drew out his wallet and pressed some bills into her hand. "And
your address?" he asked eagerly.
"You can always reach me through Central Registry," and with a nod of
gratitude she passed him to go to the telephone.
From her couch, Mrs. Nash watched her opportunity. With a gesture of
surprising quickness she removed the thermometer from her mouth and
tucked it unseen against the hot water bottle. When Doctor Roberts
closed his notebook and turned back to her, the thermometer was once
again held firmly between her lips. He took it out, looked at it twice,
and then at Mrs. Nash's scarlet countenance.
"Miss Ward," he called, and his voice was grave. "Don't order a taxi--I
think that you had better remain and prepare a bedroom for Mrs. Nash,"
and then, in an undertone, as Miriam gained his side, "it will never do
to take Mrs. Nash out in this weather--her temperature reads 103°."