THE THIRD HAND
THE minutes dragged interminably to Martha Corbin and she wished most
devoutly that she had gone to her room before Guy Trenholm had found
her in the kitchen. The sheriff was not a man to disobey, and at his
peremptory direction she had at once accompanied him upstairs to find
Miriam Ward. But she had not bargained on having to take the nurse's
place in Mrs. Nash's bedroom. Illness in any form terrified her,
and only the knowledge that Miriam was across the hall kept her in
her chair. At first she had not been uncomfortable, but as Miriam's
absence grew prolonged, the housekeeper found it impossible to keep
still. Her twitching fingers fumbled with the arms of the tufted chair
until she had loosened four or five upholstery buttons and pulled off
several inches of braid. Bouncing to her feet she looked at Mrs. Nash,
then, convinced that she was still asleep, she tiptoed over to the
old-fashioned bureau at the opposite end of the room.
Martha studied her reflection in the mirror above the bureau for fully
five minutes. Displeased with her slovenly appearance, she let down her
hair and, picking up the comb and hair-brush which Miriam had loaned to
Mrs. Nash earlier in the evening, she tried several ways of dressing
her hair. Mrs. Nash's gold vanity case next attracted her attention and
at least ten minutes were consumed in applying first rouge and then
powder. Finally she stood back to note the effect upon her complexion.
A slow smile of satisfaction stole across her face, and, without the
slightest compunction, she transferred a large gob of the rouge to a
piece of tissue paper and, folding it many times, stuffed it inside her
dress, for future use.
Tiring of staring at her own countenance, Martha went over to a large
bow window and, leaning on the ledge, peered out into the darkness.
Familiar as she was with the location of the bedroom, she knew the
direction in which she was gazing, but it was impossible for her to
distinguish even an outline of the large modern garage which had been
built in the rear of the house some years previously. Corbin had told
her that he would return from a trip to Upper Marlboro before ten
o'clock, but that she was not to wait up for him as he would occupy one
of the servants' bedrooms in the garage, the other having been prepared
for Pierre, Mrs. Nash's chauffeur.
The weather had moderated with the suddenness which characterizes
the disconcerting alterations in temperature in the vicinity of the
District of Columbia and southern Maryland. The drip, drip, drip of
the thawing snow on the eaves of the house came distinctly to Martha
through the half-open window, while the heavy mist, rising from the
Patuxent River, on the banks of which the estate of Abbott's Lodge
bordered, but made the outer darkness more impenetrable.
With a slight shiver, Martha faced about, thankful for the
companionable warmth of the carefully shaded light in the bedroom. It
was no night for any one to be out, and for the matter of that, it was
time that a hard-working woman was allowed to go to bed. Martha's lips
quivered as her grievance increased in importance the more she dwelt
upon it. Was she never to be considered? Well, she would go. What was
Mrs. Nash to her? The master was dead--
"Paul!"
The name, pronounced with startling distinctness by Mrs. Nash, caused
Martha to clutch the window curtains in sudden fright. In the silence
that followed she gathered courage to draw closer to the bed. Mrs.
Nash lay with eyes tightly closed and Martha judged from her slow and
regular breathing that she was still asleep. A hasty glance about the
room convinced her that she and Mrs. Nash were alone. Martha crossed
herself devoutly just as the sick woman spoke again.
"Paul, can you hear me?" she asked.
Martha's shaking knees carried her only a few inches from the bed,
and then curiosity overcame her terror. Mrs. Nash was talking in her
sleep. With extreme caution she got down on her hands and knees and
crept to the side of the bed. For fully fifteen minutes she crouched
there, but Mrs. Nash did not speak again. Slowly and with great pains
Martha straightened up sufficiently to get a good look at Mrs. Nash.
She had not altered her position and lay with eyes still closed. With
the determination of a weak and obstinate nature, Martha decided to
remain where she was, and cast about for a satisfactory explanation of
her position by the bed should Miriam Ward return. She was laboriously
thinking one up when her eyes were attracted by the constant movement
of a hand on the pillow. Martha wished most heartily that Mrs. Nash
would keep still, and she almost gave tongue to her thoughts; but
speech was arrested by the sudden realization that both of Mrs. Nash's
hands lay perfectly quiet on the counterpane.
With eyes distended to twice their natural size, Martha watched the
third hand slip under the pillow and then out again. As it approached
the throat of the sleeping woman, she saw clearly the long, sensitive
fingers and the heavy signet ring--
Martha's frayed nerves gave way. Her mouth dropped open and sheer
terror gave strength to the shriek which broke from her. When Miriam
raced into the room she found her a crumpled, unconscious heap in the
center of the floor and Mrs. Nash sitting up in bed regarding her with
ashen face.
"Is she dead?" she gasped.
"No; just a faint." Miriam's calm tones belied her feelings; she was
almost as startled as Mrs. Nash. "Please lie down again, Mrs. Nash,
and keep yourself covered; otherwise you will take cold." She paused
by the bedside long enough to pull up the bedclothes and make Mrs.
Nash comfortable, then hurried to her emergency kit and from it took
a little aromatic spirits of ammonia. Martha revived quickly under
the restorative. Later she staggered to her feet and, with Miriam's
assistance, took a few halting steps toward the hall door. She stopped
abruptly on the threshold at sight of Sheriff Trenholm and Alan waiting
anxiously in the hall.
"What has happened?" asked Trenholm. "Is Mrs. Nash worse?"
"No," replied Miriam. "I am not sure what occurred. Martha refuses to
tell me. Perhaps if you question her--"
"I felt fainty, like," broke in Martha with marked haste. She avoided
looking at the two men. "Please, Miss--Ma'am, take me to my room."
Trenholm read Miriam's hesitation aright. "Go and stay with Mrs. Nash,
Alan," he directed, "until Miss Ward returns. Now, Martha," and before
the startled housekeeper could protest, he picked her up in his arms
and started down the hall. Pausing only long enough to take a bottle of
medicine and a glass, Miriam hurried after the sheriff, as Alan went in
to speak to Mrs. Nash.
The suite of rooms, comprising sitting room, bedroom and bath, which
Corbin and his wife occupied, was at one end of the winding corridor
and off a landing halfway up a flight of steps leading to the garret.
Miriam took note of the comfortable furniture in the bedroom as she
assisted Martha out of her clothes and into bed. The housekeeper was
taciturn to the point of sullenness, and Miriam finally forbore to
address her.
"Drink this," she handed a glass to Martha as she spoke. "It is a
harmless sedative; don't be alarmed," observing the woman's expression.
"You will feel better in the morning."
"Will it make me sleep?" asked Martha, huddling down under the blankets.
"Yes." Miriam halted by the door. "Is there anything more I can do for
you?"
"No." Martha remembered her manners and her face emerged from under the
blankets. "Thank you, Ma'am--Miss. Jest blow out the lamp as you go
along."
Miriam hesitated. "You are not afraid to stay in the dark?"
"No, Ma'am--Miss. Good night."
Miriam echoed the words as she carried out Martha's wishes, then
closing the door softly she went thoughtfully down the corridor. She
had almost reached Mrs. Nash's door when Trenholm called her name
softly and joined her a moment later.
"Did you learn anything from the housekeeper?" he asked.
She shook her head. "Martha hardly spoke." Miriam paused. "Her
condition may be due to hysteria."
Trenholm studied her expression. "But you don't think so--"
She looked straight at him. "No. I believe the woman was almost
paralyzed with fright."
Trenholm remained silent for a few seconds, then roused himself.
"You may be right," he said. "I hope Mrs. Nash suffers no ill effects
from her rude awakening. A moment, Miss Ward," as Miriam laid her hand
on Mrs. Nash's bedroom door. "Please tell Mr. Mason that I will remain
with Abbott's body. If you," he lowered his voice almost to a whisper,
"if you need me, you will find me there," and turning he went down the
corridor.
Alan Mason rose at Miriam's approach and relinquished his seat by the
bedside, with a relieved air.
"Mrs. Nash _will_ talk," he remarked, "although I tried to monopolize
the conversation in the hope of making her sleepy. Is there anything
more I can do?" His question was intended for Miriam but Mrs. Nash
answered it.
"Close the door behind you," she said tartly, and Alan colored as he
met Miriam's dark eyes, with a faint quizzical gleam in them.
"Sheriff Trenholm is with the body," she murmured, as he passed her on
his way out of the room. "Good night."
"What did you say?" demanded Mrs. Nash, raising herself on her elbow.
Miriam bent over her and straightened the pillows with a practiced
hand. "Isn't that more comfortable?" she asked, as Mrs. Nash sank back
with a sigh. "It is time for your medicine," glancing, as she spoke,
at her wrist watch. "Just a second," and moving swiftly over to the
table, she prepared it and then returned to the bed. She expected
some difficulty in persuading Mrs. Nash to take it, but to her secret
surprise the latter swallowed it without a murmur, but with a wry face.
"Roberts never prescribed an agreeable dose," she commented, after
sipping a glass of water. "Sit by me, Miss Ward, I want to ask you some
questions."
"Not to-night," Miriam's charming smile softened her refusal. "You must
go to sleep."
"With that howl still ringing in my ears!" Mrs. Nash's shudder was
no affectation, but a true indication of her state of mind. "What
possessed the woman?"
"Hysterics," briefly. "Now, Mrs. Nash, you really must close your eyes."
"In a minute. Sit down just a second." Mrs. Nash's tone could be
coaxing when she wished. "I'll do whatever you say if you will answer a
few questions."
"I can't promise."
"Now, don't be obstinate." Mrs. Nash glanced at her shrewdly. "If you
irritate me, I'll not sleep at all," and she squared her shoulders with
an air of determination which made Miriam's heart sink. She knew, none
better, that often temper and temperature went hand and hand in the
sick room. Humoring a patient was occasionally a short cut to health as
well as peace.
"What is it you wish to know?" she asked, sitting down.
Mrs. Nash smiled, well pleased with having gained her point.
"What killed Paul?" she asked, and at Miriam's frown, added hastily:
"There is nothing in that question to send my temperature skyward. Was
he poisoned?"
"No; stabbed." Miriam met her piercing black eyes steadily, while
wondering at the concentration of her regard. Mrs. Nash sat bolt
upright.
"Was the knife left in the body?" she demanded.
"No."
"Have they found it?"
"No." Miriam hastened to supplement her second monosyllable with a
further statement as she saw another question trembling on Mrs. Nash's
lips. "The weapon has not been found _yet_."
"Then how do they know that he was stabbed?" persisted Mrs. Nash.
"By the nature of the wound," replied Miriam. "Sheriff Trenholm told me
just now that the autopsy proved Mr. Abbott died from what is known as
a punctured wound."
"And what is that precisely?"
"Why, the weapon used left a fusiform or spindle-shaped wound," she
added, observing Mrs. Nash's blank expression. "Now, please lie down
again, for that is the last question I am going to answer to-night,"
and the gentle firmness of her voice convinced Mrs. Nash that she meant
what she said. But before she settled back on the pillows she looked
around at her nurse.
"Was my niece talking to Guy Trenholm in the hall before you came in
here a second time?" she inquired.
Miriam shook her head in the negative. "Not to my knowledge. I have not
seen Miss Carter since dinner."
Mrs. Nash grunted as she turned over on her side. "Well, if Betty slept
through Martha's dreadful scream she rivals the seven sleepers," she
commented and closed her eyes.
It was after three o'clock when Miriam threw back the blanket which
she had wrapped around herself and rose softly from the chair by the
bedside. Mrs. Nash had been asleep for fully two hours. Miriam was
thoroughly chilled and she chafed one hand over the other as she walked
noiselessly up and down the bedroom, hoping to stimulate circulation.
She stopped finally by the table where stood the lamp and laid her
hands on its glass globe. As she stood warming them by the heat from
the lamp, she observed a bowl of nuts pushed toward the back of the
table. Her vigil had sharpened her appetite, and she had regretted
several times that she had neglected to ask Martha for a night lunch.
Reaching over she pulled the bowl toward her and took up one of the
walnuts and the nut cracker. As the instrument crunched over the
nut, it sounded in the stillness like a miniature firecracker and
she paused, and looked over her shoulder in alarm at her patient.
Apparently the noise had not disturbed Mrs. Nash, for she slept
peacefully on. Several tempting pieces of the nut meat stuck in the
shell and not daring to use the nut cracker again, she started to take
up the nut pick lying in the bowl. For fully five seconds she stood
staring at it, her hand poised in mid-air; then with one hurried,
comprehensive look about the room and at her sleeping patient, she
picked up the bowl and sped into the hall, her flying footsteps
deadened by the strip of carpet which ran its length, and brought up
breathless by the sofa on which Sheriff Trenholm had thrown himself,
fully dressed, a short time before.
"Look!" she exclaimed, keeping her voice lowered in spite of her
excitement, and she pointed to the nut pick. It was of finest steel,
about eight inches long, with a straight, sharp point and sharpened
fluted edges running along its sides. From point to handle it was
stained a dull red.
"Blood!" The word escaped Guy Trenholm in little more than a whisper,
and simultaneously they turned to the undertaker's couch near the
center of the room on which lay all that was mortal of Paul Abbott.
"The wound was spindle-shaped," Miriam added in a voice not quite
steady, and Trenholm bowed his head.
"You have found the weapon, undoubtedly," he said. "Thank you."