SHERIFF TRENHOLM ASKS QUESTIONS
A DISTINCT and unmistakable snore from the bed caused Miriam to
approach her patient. Mrs. Nash, her head unevenly balanced between
two pillows, was at last asleep. To place her in a more comfortable
position would undoubtedly awaken her, and Miriam backed away on tiptoe
from the bedside. She had spent three weary hours at Mrs. Nash's beck
and call; she had run every conceivable errand the sick woman's fancy
had dictated, had prepared her for bed, and finally induced her, on
threat of departure, to swallow the medicine prescribed by Doctor
Roberts.
Martha's scanty wardrobe could not provide clothing for Mrs. Nash,
and the housekeeper had been dispatched to Upper Marlboro, the county
seat, in the Nash limousine which had finally put in an appearance, to
purchase such necessities as the country stores could supply. Betty
Carter had taken little part in the discussion, contenting herself
with the request that Martha buy a wrapper, bedroom slippers, and a
night dress and bring them at once to her room, whereupon she had gone
upstairs and locked her door. Martha had carried her dinner to her upon
her return from the shopping expedition.
Miriam had been too intent upon her professional duties to pay much
attention to the other members of the small party, but she had gathered
from Martha's remarks that Alan Mason and Doctor Roberts had left for
Upper Marlboro in the latter's car shortly after dinner. Martha, with
a sidelong glance which Miriam was beginning to associate with the
housekeeper's personality, had overheard Alan tell her husband that he
would return in time to "sit up with Mr. Paul."
"Ain't it awful, Ma'am--Miss, to think of that poor gentleman lying
in t'other room dead," she went on, with a shiver. "And him so sot on
getting well. Poor Mr. Paul!" And she wiped away a few tears with the
hem of her clean apron. "He won't rest easy in his grave."
The housekeeper's words recurred to Miriam as her gaze, which had been
wandering about the room, rested on a small, black-bordered sketch of
what appeared to be a group of neglected graves. The picture was well
executed, but Miriam wondered at its selection for a decoration in a
bedroom. From the drawing Miriam's eyes wandered to several paintings
on the wall, and, from the likeness of one of the portraits to Paul
Abbott, she judged it to be that of his father. Evidently the room
given to Mrs. Nash had once been occupied by the elder Abbott, whether
as bedroom or sitting room was hard to say, for the remainder of the
pictures on the wall were hunting scenes and, except for the bedstead,
the rest of the furniture was such as is found in a man's "den."
Miriam selected the most comfortable of the easy-chairs and, taking
care to make no noise, pushed it around so that from its depths she
could have an unobstructed view of her patient. Her fatigued muscles
relaxed as she sank back in the chair, but her brain--ah, it was on
fire! For a moment she looked with envy at the slumbering woman. If she
could only sleep as soundly with no visions of the past to disturb her!
The present was bad enough in all conscience--who could have murdered
Paul Abbott and what possible motive could have inspired the crime?
The cautious turning of the door knob and the slow opening of the door
caused her to bend forward in her chair. Sheriff Trenholm leaned inside
the door and, catching sight of Miriam, raised a beckoning finger, and
then placed it against his lips, enjoining silence.
Miriam's rubber-soled shoes made no noise on the hardwood floor and she
gained the hall door without disturbing her patient.
"What is it?" she asked, stepping partly into the hall, down which the
sheriff had retreated a few paces.
"I'd like to have a talk with you," he replied. "Just quietly, by
ourselves."
"But my patient!" she exclaimed.
"She is asleep, isn't she?"
"Yes, but--" She came further into the hall so as to speak more
emphatically and yet not awaken Mrs. Nash. "I am on night duty. I
cannot leave my patient alone."
"You don't have to; Mrs. Corbin will stay with her, and call you if
there is the slightest need for your presence." Sheriff Trenholm moved
to one side and Miriam caught a glimpse beyond him of Martha loitering
by the door to Paul Abbott's old bedroom. "Come, Miss Ward, you will
only be across the corridor from Mrs. Nash; and it is essential
that I see you to-night." His voice deepened and his hand, as if by
accident, pulled back his coat so that the badge of authority on his
vest was visible. "I'll relieve you of any responsibility should Mrs.
Nash question your absence," he added. "Go in, Mrs. Corbin," as the
housekeeper, who had drawn nearer, paused undecidedly.
Miriam stepped back into the bedroom. Mrs. Nash was still asleep--there
was really nothing left for her to do but obey the sheriff. She turned
to Martha, standing timidly half in and half out of the room.
"Sit over in that chair," she directed softly, indicating the one she
had occupied a moment before. "If Mrs. Nash grows restless in her sleep
or wakens, come at once for me."
"Yes, Ma'am--Miss." Martha found it difficult to decide on her mode of
address so far as the nurse was concerned, and compromised the matter
by jumbling the titles together. "Don't ye be afeared; I'll call ye."
Sheriff Trenholm was standing in the center of Abbott's old bedroom
staring at the windows, the curtains of which were drawn. He turned
around at Miriam's entrance and, stepping behind her, closed the hall
door.
"I don't wish our talk to be interrupted," he said by way of
explanation. "Now, Miss Ward, exactly what occurred here last night?"
Miriam studied the man in front of her in silence. There was something
big and fine about Guy Trenholm--an air of candor, of strength--that
impressed her, but an inborn caution, a streak inherited from some
dour Scottish ancestor, kept back the words on her tongue. Suppose the
sheriff was setting a trap for her?
"Will I be called as a witness at the inquest?" she asked.
"Sure."
"Then why question me now?"
His smile was friendly as he pulled forward a chair and stood resting
one hand on it. "The inquest may be delayed a few days," he explained.
"There is a conflict of authority as to jurisdiction"--he paused, then
added more briskly: "Is the furniture in this room placed as it was
last night?"
Miriam stared about her before answering. "It is just the same," she
said.
"And the windows?"
"Two were open." She crossed the room and laid her hand on a tall
mahogany screen. "I placed this here so that the air would not blow
directly on Mr. Abbott and arranged the curtains at that window so as
to protect him also."
Trenholm walked by her and, raising the window nearest the four-post
bedstead, looked outside. "It gives on the roof of the verandah," he
said, drawing in his head. "An easy climb from the ground for an agile
man. It is a reasonable hypothesis that the murderer gained entrance
that way."
"Wouldn't he have left tracks in the snow?" she broke in quickly.
"He probably did, but there was a second fall of snow about five this
morning which obliterated all marks." The sheriff closed the window.
"This screen made an admirable hiding place, I have no doubt. He
probably sprang from behind it and chloroformed you."
Miriam shivered. "When I came to myself this morning I was lying just
about here"--she pointed with her foot to a spot midway between the bed
and the screen.
"And you detected no sound--no odd noises when the murderer entered the
room?" questioned Trenholm and his gaze never left her face.
"I heard nothing to make me suspect that any one was in the room except
Mr. Abbott and me," she stated. "You recollect that I was absent
several times; once when I went downstairs to admit Miss Betty Carter
and her companion," she hesitated. "And when I went to the head of the
staircase at their departure." Again she hesitated. "I also left the
room on an errand while they were here."
Trenholm eyed her oddly. "What was the errand and who sent you on it?"
"The lamp went out and the clergyman asked me to get one from
downstairs," she explained, tersely.
He considered her statements for several moments, then nodded his
head thoughtfully. "The man probably selected one of the times when
Paul was left alone--preferably the last occasion, for then there was
less danger of detection. You were chloroformed immediately upon your
return?"
"Y-yes. I lost consciousness--I--" Her hesitation caught his attention.
"It is all very confused; I cannot think clearly."
"Brace up!" His tone, though kindly, was firm, and Miriam checked her
inclination to cry--she was utterly weary and her head ached with
memories which would not down. "Now," he added as she bit her lip and
winked back the tears. "Are you positive you heard no one talking to
Mr. Abbott?"
"Except Miss Carter."
"Well, aside from her," with patient persistence.
Miriam shook her head. "I can swear that I heard no one converse with
Mr. Abbott except Doctor Roberts and Miss Carter."
"There was no murmur of voices as you lost consciousness?"
"I heard none."
"Strange!" mused Trenholm. "Why did not Paul Abbott cry out when you
were chloroformed? He was conscious last night--?"
"Oh, yes, although occasionally irrational." She glanced up at the
sheriff and then toward the bed. "Possibly he was killed before I
returned."
"That may be." Trenholm tugged at his mustache. "Was Mr. Abbott in a
condition to get up?"
"He might have, with assistance," cautiously.
He regarded her in silence, then nodded his head. "That is what Doctor
Roberts told me." Again he stroked his mustache. "Have you examined the
bed since the body was removed?"
"No."
"Then look here." He walked with her to the four-post bedstead and drew
aside the curtains. The blankets and top sheet were neatly pulled back,
leaving exposed the under sheet, while the pillows lay as Miriam had
last seen them. "Do you notice that there are no marks of blood, except
this small stain," motioning toward a spot near the head of the bed.
Miriam bent over the bedclothes and then looked up at the sheriff.
"I found Mr. Abbott lying partly on his left side--"
"He wasn't stabbed in that position," declared Trenholm vehemently. "It
would have been a physical impossibility--"
"Unless the murderer stood facing him as he lay in bed and, reaching
over Mr. Abbott's shoulder, stabbed him in the back," suggested Miriam.
Trenholm looked doubtful. "That is possible but not probable," he
retorted. "And it is not borne out by facts. If he was killed in bed,
the sheets would have been stained with blood."
His remark was caught by Alan Mason as the latter stepped inside the
bedroom. At the sound of his entrance, Trenholm wheeled around and his
frown at the interruption gave place to a pleased smile. Alan bowed to
Miriam before addressing the sheriff.
"Coroner Dixon told me that the wound bled internally," he pointed out.
"Wouldn't that explain the comparatively stainless condition of the
sheets?"
"Not to my way of thinking," declared the sheriff. He frowned again.
"No, I don't believe Paul was killed in that bed."
"Do you mean that the murderer lifted Paul out of bed, killed him,
and then put him back in bed?" Alan smiled in derision as he put the
question. "Come, that's absurd."
"Wait!" Miriam drew a step nearer Alan. His presence gave her courage.
There was something indefinable about Alan Mason which, for want of a
better word, she recognized as caste. His consideration in having a
dinner tray sent to Mrs. Nash's door had kept her from a supperless
vigil in the sick room and it was but one of many small acts of
courtesy. "There is something I must tell you."
"Yes? Go on, Miss Ward." Sheriff Trenholm brought her a chair. "Sit
down, you must be worn out."
Mechanically she seated herself. "I wanted to tell you this afternoon,"
she continued, struggling to steady her voice. She felt strangely
nervous. Surely the curtains of the four-post bedstead were moving? She
looked hard at them, then averted her gaze. Pshaw, nerves must not get
the best of her. "But Miss Carter insisted that I was demented."
Alan changed his weight from one foot to the other as he leaned against
the table. "Miss Carter appeared hardly accountable for her behavior,"
he began. "I think that we can safely say that, eh, Guy?"
Sheriff Trenholm did not at once reply. With head bent he studied the
pattern of the rug upon which they were standing, and when he looked up
his expression was inscrutable.
"Miss Carter will be questioned further," he said noncommittally. "Go
ahead, Miss Ward."
Miriam Ward moistened her dry lips. Would they believe her, or would
she simply involve herself more deeply in the mystery by making
statements which she could not prove?
"When I came back after Miss Carter's departure with her companion,"
she spoke slowly, almost haltingly, and to one of the men watching her,
she appeared more like an animated waxen figure than a human being,
"I put down the lamp and walked over to this bed. The curtains were
adjusted about as they are now." Miriam paused and pointed toward them.
"I drew them aside and looked down--a strange man lay in the bed."
With one accord the two men advanced to her side. "Where was Paul?"
demanded Alan and the sheriff almost in the same breath.
"I do not know," replied Miriam. "The shock of not seeing my patient
was so great I felt myself reeling backwards--and knew no more."
Guy Trenholm and Alan exchanged glances. "And the murderer's
confederate seized that moment to chloroform you!" ejaculated Alan.
"Confederate? You are traveling fast, Alan, my boy," exclaimed
Trenholm. "Why couldn't the man in the bed have sprung up as Miss Ward
toppled over and chloroformed her as she lay on the floor in a fainting
condition?"
"That is possible," agreed Alan. "What did the man look like, Miss
Ward?"
Miriam's gaze shifted dumbly from one to the other of her companions.
She had dreaded the question. "His eyes were closed and except that he
wore a beard and his hair was dark, I cannot tell you what he looked
like," she stammered. "The room was dimly lighted. I saw the man but
for an instant, and then lost consciousness."
Sheriff Trenholm regarded her in steadfast silence. It was Alan who
broke the prolonged pause.
"Would you know the man if you saw him again?" he asked and Miriam was
grateful that no note of doubt had crept into his voice.
"I am sure I would," she answered swiftly.
"Then, don't worry." Alan's smile was very engaging. His eyes swept a
searching glance about the big bedroom. "How was the man dressed?"
Miriam shook her head. "I have no idea. The bedclothes were pulled
up about his shoulders to his chin." She hesitated. "I only caught a
glimpse of his profile."