THE FOLDED NOTE
THE undertaker's assistant looked in deep embarrassment at Betty Carter
as he remained standing in front of the closed door of the room where
lay Paul Abbott's body.
"I'm sorry, Miss," he said. "Those are the sheriff's orders. No one is
to go into the room now."
"But why?" demanded Betty. "The funeral will be held in half an hour,
and"--her voice quivered--"I want to--to see him before the casket is
closed."
Thompson moved uneasily from one foot to the other; Betty's distress
disturbed him. "I'm very sorry," he mumbled. "Indeed I am--but it's not
possible. Perhaps," his face brightened as the idea occurred to him,
"perhaps you can see Mr. Trenholm and get his permission. Here he comes
now," as a figure appeared at the far end of the corridor and came
toward them. "Oh, pshaw! it's a woman."
Somers, Mrs. Nash's maid, greeted Betty in a subdued voice. "Please,
Miss Betty," she said. "Where will I find your aunt? The young woman
who let me in declined to come upstairs."
Betty glanced impatiently at the British maid. "Come this way," she
turned as she spoke, then hesitated and addressed Thompson. "If you see
Sheriff Trenholm tell him, please, I must go in this room."
"Yes, Miss," and Thompson, considerably relieved by the maid's
opportune arrival, resumed his slow pacing back and forth before the
door.
The sound of his voice and Betty's had carried inside the bedroom,
but neither of the two men in it paid the slightest attention. The
photographer put up his plates and closed his camera.
"I've taken four views, Mr. Trenholm," he said. "Is that enough?"
Trenholm nodded as he handed the man his flashlight apparatus. "Develop
the plates and let me have the prints as quickly as possible," he
directed. "Do you need any assistance?" as the photographer shouldered
his camera, tripod, and utility box.
"No, thanks." In spite of his haste to be gone, the man was careful to
walk as far from the undertaker's couch with its silent figure as the
limits of the room permitted. "I'll get these to you to-night. Where
shall I send the photographs? Here, or to your home?"
"My home," briefly. Trenholm held open the hall door for him to pass
through, then spoke a few whispered words to Thompson. Ten minutes
later the body of Paul Abbott had been carried downstairs and the
casket closed, while arrangements for the funeral went steadily on.
Trenholm listened impassively to Thompson's flurried delivery of
Betty's message, the latter having forgotten it utterly in his
astonishment at finding Trenholm had been in the bedroom at the time
Betty wished to enter.
"The casket is not to be opened again," the sheriff said sternly.
"Understand, Thompson--under no circumstances is it to be opened," and
turning he mounted the staircase and found Betty standing at the top
landing, waiting for him.
"I heard what you said," she stated. "And would like an explanation of
your extraordinary conduct."
"There is nothing extraordinary about it," Trenholm replied quietly.
"If you really insist upon an explanation--"
"I do," her passion rising.
"Paul died Monday night--this is Thursday," he spoke gravely. "A change
has already set in and it is not possible to keep the casket open
longer."
Betty was thankful for the railing of the stairs to lean against.
"I have never been permitted to be with him--"
"I beg your pardon--you have."
"Never alone." She had turned ghastly in color. "Always you have had
some one stationed in the room."
Trenholm looked at her in growing concern. "Hadn't you better rest?" he
asked. "The funeral will take place in twenty minutes."
Trenholm was doubtful if she heard him, so fixed was her stare. He
turned quickly to see what had focused her attention. Standing by the
newel post was Alexander Nash in earnest conversation with Alan Mason
and a third man, the rector of the Episcopal church at Upper Marlboro.
Trenholm laid his hand on Betty's arm. It was shaken off instantly and
she shot down the hall to her bedroom without further word. Trenholm
stood in thought for several minutes and then joined Alan Mason.
The hands of the grandfather clock in the living room were pointing
to three when the funeral services commenced. Betty, accompanied by
Alexander Nash, was the last to enter and take the seat reserved for
her by Alan Mason's side. A few friends from Washington had motored out
to Abbott's Lodge, while the residents in the vicinity had come in a
body to attend the services.
Upstairs in her bedroom Mrs. Nash motioned to Somers to come to her,
and with reluctance the Englishwoman left her post by the door where
she had been keeping an attentive ear for all that was transpiring
below.
"Help me up," ordered Mrs. Nash, in a tone Somers had learned not to
disregard. "Get my slippers and wrapper." She was panting from her
exertions when she finally reached the hall door, a protesting Somers
struggling to steady her with a feverish grasp of her elbow.
"Tut, be quiet, Somers; I can't hear a word," and Mrs. Nash appeared
in the hall and peered down it. Shifting her husband's cane, which she
had picked up on her way from the room, to the other hand, she rested
her weight on Somers' arm, and went slowly to the top of the staircase.
From there she could hear in the stillness the words of the Episcopal
service. When she raised her head after the final prayer, Somers saw
that her cheeks were wet with tears.
"I'll rest here," she announced, dropping weakly into a chair by the
stairhead. "Oh, it doesn't matter what I'm sitting on," as Somers
attempted to remove several overcoats, evidently the overflow from the
wraps lying in the living room below. "Bring me the small glass of
whisky which Miss Betty poured out before she went downstairs."
In her haste Somers neglected to add any water and Mrs. Nash drank the
whisky neat with a wry face. With the false strength engendered by the
stimulant, she managed to get back to her room and into bed before her
husband came upstairs.
"How are you, dear?" he asked solicitously. "Do you feel stronger?"
"Yes, now that I've taken some whisky," promptly, conscious that
the telltale fumes might betray her activities if questioned on the
subject. "Are the services over?"
He bowed gravely. "Betty and I are just starting for the cemetery."
"Where is Alan Mason?" sharply.
"He is going with us, also Sheriff Trenholm. Is there anything I can do
for you before I leave, Dora?"
"Not a thing, thanks."
Nash looked across the room at Somers; she had her back turned, while
engaged in putting Mrs. Nash's lingerie neatly away in the bureau
drawer. Stooping over, Nash kissed his wife with unwonted tenderness,
then, pressing her hand, hurried away as his name was called by Alan
Mason just outside the bedroom door.
A room had been prepared for Somers halfway down the corridor of the
right-hand wing of the house, and between Mrs. Nash's periods of
dozing the maid succeeded, with Martha Corbin's help, in arranging
her belongings to her satisfaction. Somers' methodical mind would not
permit her to rest until her own room and that of Mrs. Nash were in
apple-pie order. Her trips back and forth took her past Miriam Ward's
bedroom and on her final excursion she stumbled over Martha who, not
expecting Somers to return so quickly, had knelt down and applied her
eye to the keyhole of Miriam's door.
The commotion aroused Miriam from fitful slumber and, springing out
of bed, she threw her dressing gown over her shoulders and looked out
into the corridor. Somers, rising slowly to her feet, was rubbing a
rheumatic knee, while her bewildered eyes followed Martha's fleeing
figure.
"Are you hurt?" asked Miriam, noting with surprise the scattered bundle
on the floor.
"No, Madam," Somers' precision of speech and her rising intonation
clearly denoted her nationality. "A bit shaken," her smile was wintry.
"Excuse me for disturbing you."
"Come inside," suggested Miriam kindly, observing that, in spite of
her disclaimer, the elderly woman was considerably upset. "Don't stoop
over, I will pick up what you dropped. Sit here in this chair," and
Somers, after a feeble protest, did as she was told.
"I don't know where that woman sprung from," she added, after
describing what had happened. "My arms were full of bed linen and I
wasn't looking down. She's a bit uncanny, Miss, don't you think?"
Miriam nodded absently. "Martha is odd," she admitted, as she handed a
small dose of aromatic ammonia to Somers. "Drink this and you will feel
better."
"Thank you, Miss," exclaimed Somers gratefully, then her mind reverted
to Martha. "She wouldn't be so bad, if she wasn't so--so--" casting
about for a proper word to express her opinion--"so creepy; and those
eyes of hers!" with a shudder. "They give me the horrors."
Miriam smiled, not unkindly. Somers was typical of her
class--intelligent, unimaginative, a trifle garrulous and a lover of
routine, with a dislike for anything out of the ordinary. And she had
come to Abbott's Lodge! Miriam's smile deepened. Judging by her own
experiences, the maid was reasonably certain to encounter the unusual
if she remained long in attendance on Mrs. Nash.
Somers' honest, comely face grew troubled and she straightened up with
a jerk. "I must be getting back to Mrs. Nash," she said. "If you don't
mind, Miss, I'll leave the linen here and put it away later in my room."
"How is Mrs. Nash?" asked Miriam, and the maid paused with her hand on
the door.
"She was asleep when I left her," responded Somers. "Excuse me, but
aren't you Miss Ward?"
"Yes."
"I thought so," and Somers nodded sagely. "Mrs. Nash has told me what
you have done for her. She is very fond of you, Miss, and," lowering
her voice, "Mrs. Nash can be a very good friend, as well as"--her voice
sank to an even lower key--"a good hater."
Miriam eyed the maid in some perplexity. Was her snap-judgment wrong
and Somers, instead of a staid, middle-aged Englishwoman, a lover of
romance?
Somers gave her no time for reflection. With a murmured word of thanks
she went into the hall and closed the door. Miriam walked over to her
bureau and consulted her watch--nearly five o'clock. She was in no mood
to return to bed. Pulling her dressing gown around her, she prepared a
hot bath and, half an hour later, refreshed and invigorated, she stood
staring down at her white uniform. Should she put it on, or her house
dress? The nurse, sent out from Washington to relieve her, would surely
get there in time to go on night duty. If Somers had gotten to Abbott's
Lodge so promptly, it would only be a matter of a few hours for the
nurse to report for duty. Miriam laid aside her clean uniform and put
on her house dress. She had completed her toilet when Martha appeared
at the door.
"Please, Miss--Ma'am, Doctor Roberts wishes to see you downstairs,"
she explained, with characteristic haste. "Say, ain't them lovely?"
observing an oddly wrought gold necklace which Miriam slipped inside
her gown. "Rubies, ain't they?"
"No, garnets," shortly. Martha's inordinate curiosity was an unpleasant
feature. "What were you doing at my door a short time ago?"
Martha's hands twisted in and out of her apron. "I stooped down to pick
up a pin and that there clumsy idiot flopped over me," she explained in
an aggrieved tone. "Had no better sense than not to look where she was
going. She skeered me an'--an'--I ran downstairs." Her tone changed.
"Why didn't you come to Mr. Paul's funeral, Miss--Ma'am?" raising her
eyes and lowering them rapidly.
Miriam paid not the slightest attention to the question. Stepping past
the housekeeper she went in search of Doctor Roberts. He was sitting at
the desk in the living room, going over his daybook.
"Good evening, Miss Ward," he exclaimed as she paused in front of him.
"I hope Martha did not disturb you. I told her to wait until later."
"I was all ready to come downstairs," she responded. "When will the new
nurse be here? Or did she come with you?" glancing hopefully about.
"No." Roberts pocketed his daybook and fountain pen. "After your
message came Miss Stockton telephoned to every hospital and the
Registry, and not one had a nurse on call."
Miriam stared at him in dismay. "You couldn't get a nurse?" she gasped.
"No, not for to-night, at least; there's an epidemic of grippe and,
therefore, a shortage of nurses." Roberts looked at Miriam keenly. "Are
you ill, Miss Ward?"
"No; that is"--her bitter disappointment was discernible in her voice.
"I can't go on, Doctor."
Roberts rose and walked past the desk, stopping by her side. "What is
it, Miss Ward?" he asked sympathetically. "What has happened since this
morning?"
She saw his well-cut features, broad brow, and gray hair through a
blur. His concern deepened at sight of her evident unhappiness. "What
can I do for you?" he asked. "Tell me."
Miriam collected her wits. "I--I'll be myself in a minute," she said,
brokenly. "I had hoped to leave the case to-night and was counting on
that. I suppose," looking appealingly at him, "that you won't let me
off."
"You realize Mrs. Nash's condition as well as I," he replied, and
Miriam sighed; she had anticipated such an answer.
"Very well, Doctor. No--" as the scene of the morning rose vividly
before her. "I can't nurse that man's wife!"
"What has Nash to do with it?" asked Roberts, in astonishment.
"He denied that he was here on Monday night with Miss Carter," looking
straight at Roberts, "and, Doctor, he, a minister of the gospel, lied."
"Well, I'll be--" Roberts checked back the oath with an effort. The
silence lengthened as they faced each other. Suddenly the physician
turned and paced rapidly up and down, then paused abruptly. "Miss
Ward," she looked up at the seriousness of his tone, "you are
acquainted with the ethics of our profession. A doctor often becomes
cognizant of conditions in a home of which he cannot speak. Alexander
Nash's conduct," he paused again, "gives rise to doubt, and, it may
be, to investigation. I think," his voice deepened, "that the quicker
we get Mrs. Nash on her feet, the sooner will we arrive at a solution
of--many things."
Miriam drew in a long breath. "You may be right, Doctor," she admitted.
"I'll get into my uniform after dinner."
It was a somber, silent group that drove in the Rolls-Royce from
the country cemetery to Guy Trenholm's bungalow five miles distant
from Upper Marlboro. Pierre followed the sheriff's directions as to
crossroads with indifferent success and Betty finally complained of the
rough going and frequent turns.
Trenholm lifted the speaking tube as they approached a white gate which
opened on a roadway to a picturesque building partly concealed from the
road by a number of trees.
"Stop here, Pierre," he directed, then turned to the silent man by his
side. "I am greatly obliged to you, Doctor Nash, for giving me this
lift. Good evening," and he sprang out of the car before the chauffeur
had brought it to a full stop. Not pausing to exchange a word with Alan
or Betty, aside from a wave of his hat, he strode across the turf. As
he reached his front door he thrust his hand inside his overcoat pocket
for his bunch of keys and pulled them out, and with them a folded piece
of paper.
Trenholm stared at the paper as he thrust the key in his front door,
and before turning it in the lock, paused to unfold the note. The few
lines it bore were unsigned and in an unknown handwriting:
Let him who hopes to solve the mystery of Paul Abbott's death find the
lost Paltoff jewel.
Trenholm's expression was as blank as the other side of the paper. It
was unaddressed. He reread the note a number of times, then entered his
bungalow. The telephone was in the room he used as library and sitting
room. Hardly noticing the police dogs that fawned upon him at his
entrance, he sat down before the telephone and quickly got his number.
"Hello, constable," he called. "This is Trenholm speaking. Station
a guard over the vault where Abbott lies. What's that?--Oh, just a
precaution, that's all. Good night!" and he hung up the receiver.
Taking out his pipe and tobacco pouch, he stretched his long legs under
the table and sat back, the note in his hand.
"Which one of them," he mused, unaware that he spoke aloud, "slipped
this note in my overcoat pocket?"