THE WILL OF HATE
DOCTOR ROBERTS leaned back in his chair and stared at Guy Trenholm.
"So, Paul, poor lad, was stabbed with that vicious-looking nut pick,"
he exclaimed, pointing to where it lay on the table in the sunparlor of
Abbott's Lodge. "And Mrs. Nash was awakened last night by a disguised
man and succeeded in dragging off his false beard. Upon my word--what
next?"
The two men, with Alan Mason, looking wretchedly ill, making a poor
third in their conversation, were waiting patiently for the arrival
from Washington of the lawyer employed by Paul Abbott, who had
signified his intention of reaching there at ten o'clock. It was then
eleven, as Alan's frequent glances at his watch assured him, and his
nervousness was increasing. He looked up furtively at Roberts at the
latter's question.
"Did Mrs. Nash recognize the man?" he asked.
Roberts shook his head. "She said she was unable to make out if it was
a man or a woman--"
"A woman!" Alan dropped the penknife with which he was fiddling and
half rose. "_A woman?_ Why, that's a man's beard in your hand, Guy."
"But a woman could have disguised herself with it, as well as a man,"
Trenholm said. "Odd, isn't it, that something always happens to Miss
Ward's patients when she is on duty."
"For God's sake, why are you forever picking on her!" Alan dropped back
in his chair and his voice rang out indignantly, reaching the ears of
Betty Carter, who was eating a belated breakfast in the dining room.
Betty's violent start was not lost on Martha, and the housekeeper
decided to remain in the room under pretext of rearranging the silver
in the drawer. But first she handed a plate of toast to Betty and as
the girl took a slice she encountered the unfriendly stare of Martha's
oddly assorted eyes and an involuntary shiver ran down her spine.
Her attention distracted, Betty failed to distinguish any reply to
Alan's fervid question and, not having heard Trenholm's remark which
had called it forth, she was in doubt to whom the "her" referred. Who
was Guy Trenholm "picking on" now? She longed to steal to the closed
portières and overhear what was being said, but Martha's presence kept
her in her seat.
The opiate had given her needed sleep and Betty felt more like her old
self once again. Against the advice of Somers, Mrs. Nash's maid, who
had gone early to inquire how she was, she had insisted upon getting
up and coming downstairs. Somers had regaled her, while in the process
of assisting her to dress, with a dramatic account of Mrs. Nash's
adventures that night--and they lost nothing in the telling. Betty's
rapt attention would have inspired an even less imaginative person
to thrilling heights of fancy. A burst of tears relieved the tension
of Betty's overtaxed nervous system and reduced Somers to contrite
silence. Had not Doctor Roberts as well as Miss Ward cautioned her
not to excite Miss Betty? Somers' confused state of mind was not
lessened by Betty's reception of a piece of news which the maid let
drop incautiously--the expected arrival of Daniel Corcoran, for many
years attorney and close friend of the elder Abbott and the legal
adviser of the latter's son. Betty's feverish desire to dress and have
her breakfast downstairs took away Somers' breath and she retired
thankfully, a short time later, to the comparative tranquillity of Mrs.
Nash's bedroom.
Unaware of Betty's presence in the dining room Roberts and Trenholm
continued their low-voiced conversation.
"Have you made tests for fingerprints on the nut pick, Trenholm?"
inquired Roberts.
The sheriff nodded. "An expert came down from Washington," he answered.
"Aside from the bloodstains, there were no marks upon it. Evidently the
person using it"--Trenholm held up the nut pick in its wrapping of oil
silk as he spoke and then placed it carefully in the inside pocket of
his coat--"wore gloves. As a means of identification the bit of steel
is a failure."
"An ingenious weapon," commented Roberts. "And Paul's pyjamas' jacket
offered no resistance. It would not have required great strength to
drive the pick into a vital part of his body--"
"There you go again," objected Alan, "insinuating the murder was
committed by a woman. Say, you are a great sheriff, you are!" turning
in sudden, unlooked-for wrath to the big man lounging near him. "Why
don't you do something besides loaf around this place? I believe you
were here last night!"
"Was I?" Trenholm's calm smile was provoking in its hint of bored
amusement. Was the sheriff poking fun at him? The thought was
intolerable, and Alan jerked uneasily about and finally rose and
strolled over to one of the glass doors leading to the garden.
"Well, this appears to be the place a sheriff is needed, Alan.
First the cold-blooded murder of a defenseless man," his voice rose
slightly--"then a housebreaker last night--"
"Deuce take it!" Roberts straightened up and laid down his cigar.
"Something must be done, Trenholm; Alan's right. Why not try one of the
well-known detective agencies?"
"Perhaps I may, shortly," Trenholm rejoined in the same unemotional
tones. "I am always open to suggestions. Have you any more, Alan?"
Alan's white cheeks turned a more healthy color and leaving the window
he came closer to Trenholm; stopped, opened his mouth to speak,
hesitated, then moved over to the portières. Parting them slightly he
gazed into the dining room. It was vacant.
"Listen, Guy;" he had regained Trenholm's side and spoke hurriedly,
clipping his words together. "What about Corbin? Have you thought of
him as a--a--possible suspect?"
Trenholm stared up at his agitated questioner for a moment in silence.
"Corbin tells an apparently straight tale, Alan," he replied. "He
declares that after admitting Miss Ward on Monday evening he and Martha
retired to their rooms and slept soundly all night. Their quarters, as
you know, are near the roof and at the back of the house. No ordinary
sound would carry that distance."
"What do you mean by an ordinary sound?" asked Roberts, who was
following the rapid dialogue with deep attention.
"A door bell, for instance," responded Trenholm, with a quick glance at
Alan.
Alan looked away for an instant. "How about a sound _out_ of the
ordinary?" he demanded. "A cry of terror--of horror--wouldn't that
reach them?"
Trenholm shook his head dubiously. "Not with their doors closed. And
Martha substantiates her husband's statement that they are both heavy
sleepers."
"Oh, Martha!" Alan tossed down his hat which he had picked up and held
aimlessly, twirling it back and forth. "I wouldn't believe her on
oath--neither of them, for that matter. Why under heaven Paul kept the
Corbins here after his father's death I cannot imagine."
"Possibly because he deemed them faithful," replied Trenholm dryly.
"You must also recollect that it is difficult to induce servants to
live out here in the country all the year round."
Alan, silenced but not convinced, walked sulkily across the sunparlor
and threw himself into a wicker chair. "The Washington papers are still
featuring the murder," he said, pointing to a newspaper lying on the
floor with a headline running half across the front page. "I'm tired of
heading off the reporters."
"Send them to me," suggested Trenholm.
"You!" disgust spoke in Alan's voice. "They call you the fresh
water clam of Prince Georges County. You've got their goat by your
uncommunicative ways and rotten bad manners."
Trenholm looked across at Roberts. "I don't appear to be popular," he
remarked, a faint twinkle in his eye, and changed the subject. "Will
you throw me that false beard, Doctor?"
Roberts handed it to him. "Any clue in that, Trenholm?" he asked,
watching the sheriff stow it carefully away in his coat pocket.
"Maybe. I've only had it in my possession for the past hour." The
wicker chair in which Trenholm was seated creaked under his weight as
he straightened up from his lounging position, preparatory to rising.
"When can I interview Mrs. Nash, Doctor?"
"This afternoon, I imagine," answered Roberts. "I saw her before
breakfast and she seems none the worse for her fright last night. Her
husband insisted that I remain through the morning, however, in case I
was needed."
Trenholm looked around at Alan. "What has become of Nash?"
"I haven't the faintest idea," roughly. "I keep out of his way."
"Why?" The question shot from Trenholm and Roberts glanced at him, his
interest instantly aroused.
"He's the type I can't stand--oily, unctuous, bah!" Alan's temper had
gained the upper hand. "A pious fraud!"
What reply his companions would have made, he never learned, for at
that moment the portières were pulled aside to admit the lawyer from
Washington.
"Monsieur Cocoron" was the best Pierre could do in pronouncing the
name of Corcoran. The chauffeur had taken it upon himself to usher the
lawyer into the house in the absence of Martha Corbin, the newcomer
having rung the front door bell at the moment Pierre was alone in the
kitchen.
Daniel Corcoran had known Alan Mason since his boyhood, Doctor Roberts
was his family physician, and Guy Trenholm he had met numerous times
when visiting Paul Abbott, Senior. The lawyer's usual cheery smile was
absent as he shook hands with them.
"This is a shocking affair!" he said. "Shocking! Paul was a fine young
man, with a brilliant career ahead of him. I cannot conceive of any
one harboring enmity against him; he was such a likable chap. And to
find him murdered here in his home!" Corcoran shook a bewildered head.
"Have you any clue to his murderer, Trenholm? Any later news than that
published in the morning paper?"
Not only the lawyer waited expectantly for the sheriff's answer; Alan's
eyes were glued to him, and Roberts also was giving him undivided
attention; but Trenholm's expression told them nothing.
"The murder is still shrouded in mystery, Mr. Corcoran," he replied
quietly. "We expected you here for the funeral yesterday."
Corcoran's face clouded over. "I was in Richmond and reached Washington
late in the evening. I telegraphed my clerk to take Paul's will out
of my office vault and bring it to the house this morning. I have it
here," tapping his brief case. He turned to Alan. "Did I understand
correctly from the papers that Mrs. Nash and her niece, Miss Elizabeth
Carter, are staying here?"
"Yes," replied Alan, looking at him in some surprise.
"Very well; then please ask them to be present at the reading of the
will. And, eh," looking about him, "do you prefer to have the reading
take place here?"
Alan hesitated and glanced questioningly at Trenholm. "How about it?"
he asked.
"This is all right," agreed Trenholm. "Will you ask Miss Carter
to join us, Alan? I must speak to one of my men," and the sheriff
unceremoniously opened one of the doors leading into the garden and
walked around the house.
"Don't forget Mrs. Nash," called out Corcoran, as Alan hurried into the
dining room.
"She is ill in bed," hastily broke in Roberts, as Alan paused in
uncertainty at the lawyer's hail.
"Ah, then ask her husband to be present, if he is here," directed
the lawyer. Corcoran moved over to a wicker table and Roberts helped
him remove some magazines and books. Taking up his brief case, the
former unlocked it, drew out a pad of blank paper, a pencil, and an
official-looking document with an imposing seal. Without unfolding it,
he put the document down in front of him and addressed Roberts.
"Paul was a queer character," he admitted. "In many ways a lovable
fellow, with a curious, suspicious streak running through his make-up.
In the last few years he has trusted no one--entirely."
Roberts' expression grew serious. "Cheerful and morose by turns," he
said. "I never knew how I would find him, of late years--happy as a
lark or down in the depths. I attribute it," he lowered his voice, "to
shell-shock."
"It may be," agreed Corcoran. "But you recall his mother. Ah, here is
Miss Carter," as Betty appeared, dressed in black, "and Dr. Nash." The
lawyer shook hands with them gravely. "Now, if you will select chairs
we will go ahead with the reading of Mr. Abbott's will. Alan," as the
latter made a belated appearance, "ask Mr. Trenholm to come back."
Betty had selected a chair near the entrance to the library and out of
the direct sunlight. From where she sat she caught a glimpse through
the portières of Trenholm standing talking to a man. He advanced with
Alan a moment later and entering the sunparlor, closed not only the
portières but the folding doors as well.
Corcoran waited until every one was seated, then took a chair himself,
and, picking up the will, put on his eyeglasses.
"This," he said, holding up the document so all might see the seal, "is
the last will and testament of Paul Mason Abbott, duly executed in my
office on July 23, 1922, six months ago, and witnessed by responsible
persons, whose names are attached hereto." He cleared his throat. "The
will reads as follows:
"IN THE NAME OF GOD, AMEN. I, Paul Mason Abbott, being of sound mind,
and residing at Abbott's Lodge, Hills Bridge, Prince Georges County,
Maryland, do declare this to be my last will and testament.
"I give and bequeath to Alan Mason, my cousin and only near relation,
$500 in liberty bonds and the burial ground, known as the Mason Plot,
adjacent to my estate of Abbott's Lodge.
"To my good friend and physician, Doctor William Roberts of
Washington, $5,000. To my neighbor, Guy Trenholm of Upper Marlboro,
the valuable hunting prints which he so often admired, a sapphire and
diamond scarf-pin, and $25,000.
"To Mrs. Nash, for much kindness and hospitality shown me, my silver
service, bearing the crest of the Abbotts.
"To Martha and Charles Corbin, for their faithful service to my
father, I give the sum of $1,000 each, and permission to live, rent
free, in the gardener's cottage at Abbott's Lodge, for the rest of
their natural lives.
"To my fiancée, Miss Elizabeth Carter of Washington, I bequeath
Abbott's Lodge, and the real and personal estate, not otherwise
specified, of which I die possessed.
"Should Miss Carter marry after my death, my special bequest to her
stands revoked, and Alan Mason will become my residuary legatee,
provided he is married before my death. If such is not the case,
then all my property, as above specified, is to revert to the State
of Maryland and Abbott's Lodge be made a convalescent hospital for
disabled American soldiers and a fund provided for its upkeep, and
administered by officials appointed by the Governor of Maryland.
"I hereby appoint Daniel Corcoran of Washington my executor, and I
charge him to see that all my just debts are paid out of my estate
before it is divided.
"(Signed) PAUL MASON ABBOTT."
{ "John Harbin,
Witnesses. { Marshall Turner,
{ George Flint."
Absolute silence followed the reading of the will. Corcoran laid it
down and took several papers out of his brief case.
"I have here a complete list of Paul Abbott's real estate holdings,
investments and securities," he stated. "Roughly, his estate is
estimated at a little over one million dollars."
Trenholm broke the thunderstruck silence.
"Great Scott!" he exclaimed, and involuntarily his eyes traveled to
Betty Carter and Alan Mason. The latter was leaning against the door,
looking dazedly at the little lawyer. Betty had risen and Corcoran,
catching her glance, addressed her. He was a trifle confused by her
expression and hastened to adjust his glasses that he might see her
more distinctly.
"Paul Abbott loved you devotedly," he said, "as you can judge from his
will."
"Love?" Betty could hardly articulate; her eyes were dark with passion.
"Love, did you say? That is a will of _hate_," and before any one could
stop her she had flung open the folding doors and darted into the
dining room.