MRS. BASCOM LAYS A GHOST
As the last automobile load of the guests turned into the road
toward the village, Mrs. Bascom heaved a sigh of relief and leaned
back against the piazza rail. She enjoyed them usually, but her
self-appointed task of hostess had not been an easy one this time.
Gradually the hum of motors faded into the distance, giving way to
the chatter of birds and the gentle rustling of leaves in the cooling
morning breeze. The smell of warm oil and gasoline fumes dissipated
slowly, routed by the clean odors of freshly dampened earth, flowers,
and hayfields filled with clover. The sun, poised in a deep blue sky
washed clear by the night’s rain, was comfortably warm and friendly,
softening the lines on Mrs. Bascom’s face, bringing out the healthy
color of its skin, the benignity yet firmness of its expression, and
adding lustrous highlights in her rather tightly drawn, dark hair.
Scarcely had her slender body relaxed, however, when she straightened
up and admonished herself audibly.
‘Ellen Bascom, you’re a lazy, idlin’ woman. Where’s your gumption?’
As if this self-imposed taunt had goaded her to action, she walked
halfway down the curved drive, then swung about to survey the house
and grounds. She knew this was the best spot from which to view both
house and barn together, for it afforded a clear vista between the
elm trees that shaded the lawn.
Her eyes rapidly swept over the familiar house with its air of
sturdiness and age. It was only two stories high, the peaked gable
adding an unfinished attic, but it gave the impression of being a
spacious house. Originally square, two wings had been added some time
before King bought it, thus almost doubling the floor space. One of
these additions remained exactly as it had formerly been, but in the
other, rooms had been thrown together on the lower floor to make the
large sitting-room and smaller den behind it. A square hall with
narrow, yet not ungraceful, stairs leading straight up to the second
floor, opened on the left into the sitting-room, on the right into a
library, back of which lay the smoking-room, dining-room, and kitchen.
Mentally reviewing this house plan and studying its exterior as if
it might hold some secret, she remembered how children had always
called it the ‘Smiling House,’ pointing to the broad piazza across
its entire front as the mouth, its second-story windows as eyes, and
the chimney as a rakishly cocked hat. Now its smile seemed to become
a leer, and the ells and wings stretched out, not in their former
friendliness, but as if to shrink away from the main body itself.
What had been skillfully counterfeited age seemed too vividly old,
about to fall apart with the passing of its master.--But such fancies
were not for practical minds.
Mrs. Bascom deliberately turned her attention to the barn. It stood
about ten yards to the rear of the house and was built into a low
hill that formed a background for both buildings. Although two full
stories in front, the second floor was on a level with the hill at
the back, thus bringing King’s workroom almost flush with its slope.
Small windows in double rows punctuated the sides of the barn,
terminating in the larger French window at the back.
The huge doors stood open now, giving a glimpse of the small box
stalls, some of which King had converted into places for his own and
his guests’ automobiles. They were still hung with bits of harness,
and the disused implements of the farm of which they had once been
a vital part. Her eyes rested for a moment on the short length of
frayed rope swinging from the wooden crane over the smaller door on
the second floor where hay had once been hoisted for storage, passed
on to the stone wall that cut a line across the hill just back of the
barn, returned to the open doorway just as a man hurried out of it
almost fearfully.
It was ‘Jake’ Dobson, King’s man of all trades and husband to Martha,
the housekeeper. He was bareheaded and clad in overalls, though the
shoulder straps had not been adjusted and trailed behind him as he
hurried toward the house. They caught on a stone and jerked him
backward with a startled cry. As he stooped to free himself, Mrs.
Bascom hastened toward him.
‘’Morning, Jake.--Sakes alive, you look as scared as if you’d seen a
ghost!’ she remarked.
‘I have!’ replied Jake unexpectedly, his red face now crimson as
he straightened up and adjusted the suspenders fumblingly to his
shoulders.
‘Stuff and nonsense.--Where?’
‘Well, I ain’t exactly seen a speerit, ma’am, but it’s a-moanin’
terrible in the barn. I--I was just a-goin’ to tell Marthy about it
before we--before I tried to find it.’
Mrs. Bascom snorted and made a clicking sound with her teeth which
seemed as expressive as a whole volley of sarcasm.
‘You come along with me, Jake Dobson, an’ let me listen to your
ghost,’ she called scathingly as she started toward the barn. He
hesitated, then followed sheepishly.
‘I was just puttin’ on my jeans when it began to moan awful bad. It
wasn’t wind either. I’m used to that. It was more like----’
‘Keep still. How do you expect me to listen to spirits with your
voice jabberin’ in my ears.’
Jake halted, abashed, keeping near the open door while Mrs. Bascom
walked firmly into the friendly muskiness of the barn.
‘Where were you standing, by the peg where you hang your things?’
He nodded silently, his eyes rolling about as if in search of some
dread shape.
At that moment a low moan, faint, but more human than ghostly,
reached Mrs. Bascom’s ears. It seemed to come from one of the stalls,
and she listened breathlessly to locate which one. The moan changed
to a muffled call, a cry of ‘Help--help’ followed by a slow tapping
sound.
Without hesitation, Mrs. Bascom scurried toward one of the box
stalls, disappeared inside, only to reappear and hurry toward the
stairs.
‘It’s Sylvia,’ she called out to Jake. ‘Get Martha--quick.’
‘Sylvia Hawley? Where--What--?’
‘Don’t stand there gapin’ like an idiot. Bring Martha up here.’ Her
final words floated down from above as she disappeared up the narrow
stairs.
Bewildered, Jake obeyed, stammering so badly that his wife thought
something had happened to Mrs. Bascom and came on the run. When she
had reached the loft, she stopped short in amazement and relief. By
the farther wall knelt Mrs. Bascom, bending over a grain chute in the
floor and calling little inarticulate words of sympathy down it. At
Martha’s approach she turned her head for a quick explanation.
‘It’s Sylvia. She’s been down the chute all this time.--Tell Jake to
fetch up a rope.’
This Martha did, and there was no hesitation in Jake’s movements when
she issued instructions!
Then began the somewhat awkward rescue. Martha held one end of the
rope, her husband the other, while Mrs. Bascom lay flat on the floor,
reaching down the chute to help as best she could as Sylvia worked
the loop behind her shoulders and up under her arms. Realizing this
would cut into the flesh, for Sylvia’s gown was a sleeveless evening
dress, Mrs. Bascom halted proceedings long enough to procure two
burlap bags to use for padding.
The rope adjusted, she joined Martha on her end of it and all
three began to pull. At the first loosening movement, Miss Hawley
groaned in pain, yet called up pluckily, ‘It’s my ankle. But I can
stand--anything--to get out of here.’
Slowly they raised her. Her face appeared, pale and streaked with
dust, her teeth clenched to stifle the pain. When her knees were on
a level with the floor, her rescuers moved back a step or two, thus
gently seating her on the edge of the chute. She smiled wanly, then
fell back in a faint.
‘Look, her ankle is sprained!’ cried Martha pityingly as she drew up
Sylvia’s feet from the hole and pointed to her left leg. ‘Give me
your knife, Jake.’
When he had opened and handed it to her, she cut the straps of the
dainty pump over which the swollen ankle bulged painfully, then ran
her fingers delicately over it to see if she could detect any broken
bones.
While she was doing this, Mrs. Bascom gently smoothed back the wavy,
bobbed hair from Sylvia’s face. Though drawn, dirty, and streaked by
tears of pain, it was still a delicately fresh, youthful face upon
which cosmetics and such artifices were unnecessary. Now that her
eyes were closed, it was expressionless, save for a hint of suffering
about the puckered lips and firmly closed jaws. Her dress, once
white, was wrinkled and blotched with dirt from the sides of the
chute as it outlined the slender curves of her body, lying back on
the floor.
A draped cascade of chiffon that hung from her shoulder had spread
out on the floor behind her, and this suddenly riveted Mrs. Bascom’s
attention. Something had cut a neat slit down part of its length, and
the edges along this slash were stained a dark red-brown that looked
like blood! Glancing down the folds of the dress, she discovered
another slit, but here the cloth was unstained.
Quickly Mrs. Bascom placed her foot upon this bit of drapery, then
stooped to raise Sylvia to a sitting position, thus ripping it away
from its fastenings on her shoulder.
‘There now, see what I’ve done!’ she murmured to Martha. ‘But her
dress was ruined anyway, poor dear.--She’s such a slender little
thing I’m sure Jake can carry her to the house.’
The latter did as he was bidden, picking up her limp body easily and
moving toward the stairs with many adjurations and comments upon his
clumsiness from his wife.
Mrs. Bascom lingered behind, ostensibly to pick up the bit of chiffon
and the mutilated slipper, but as soon as she was alone, she peered
down the chute. It was a square slide, tapering downward to a narrow
opening as it neared the little barred grill through which the horse
could munch his hay in the stall below. With the light filtering in
through this opening, she could just catch a glint of something on
the floor of the chute. What it was, she suspected and meant to make
certain.
Hesitating until she heard Jake’s footsteps on the gravel drive, she
hurried down the stairs and into the stall, pressing her face against
the grill. There, upright, its point stuck in the soft wood, was a
slender knife! Covering her hand with a thickness of the chiffon,
Mrs. Bascom reached in and secured it, hastily wrapping it around
with the rest of the cloth, being careful not to touch it with her
fingers. Then, with a shudder, but none the less resolutely, she
thrust it into the bosom of her dress and ran to catch up with the
others just as they were ascending the stairs in the house.
Once in Miss Hawley’s room, Jake was summarily dismissed, and the two
women undressed her and put her to bed.
‘If only Dr. New hadn’t gone to town,’ remarked Mrs. Bascom. ‘But
that’s just like a man--never on hand when he’s wanted. You call up
Dr. Smith in the village, Martha, then make some malted milk for
Sylvia in case she comes to. She’ll need nourishment after being
cooped up so long in that trap.’
‘How do you suppose she came to----’
‘We’ll know--when she tells us,’ answered Mrs. Bascom, opening the
window and procuring a bottle of smelling salts.
Martha Dobson swiftly left the room to do as Mrs. Bascom had
instructed, leaving the latter to revive her patient. As she bathed
Sylvia’s face with cold water, her mind raced with questions.
Had Sylvia been pushed or merely accidentally fallen into the chute?
Who had removed, then replaced the cover to it again? How had that
knife come to be in the chute? How had her dress been stained and
cut? Would she be able to answer all these questions or----
So absorbed had she been mentally, Mrs. Bascom did not notice
Sylvia’s eyes open and rest upon her for a moment inquisitively. But
when Sylvia sighed, Mrs. Bascom abruptly ended her cogitations.
‘There, now, I am thankful to see you come to yourself again. Does
the ankle pain much?’
‘Enough, Mrs. B. But I’m so much more comfortable than squashed in
that smelly hole! It was foolish of me to faint that way when you----’
‘My dear, a woman is never foolish to faint. It’s a God-given
privilege of the sex,’ rebuked Mrs. Bascom with her familiar toss of
the head. ‘And if ever any one had a right to a comfortable swoon, it
was you.’
‘Perhaps--though I’d already indulged in one or two before you found
me!’ smiled Sylvia rather wanly. ‘It was the pain and stuffiness.’
‘Now don’t say another word until after you’ve had a bit of hot milk
to drink,’ commanded Mrs. Bascom sternly as Sylvia seemed about to
add something else. ‘You lie still while I go poke up Martha who is
preparing it. The doctor will be along soon to look after you and
then you can talk all you feel like.’
She bustled out of the room without waiting for an answer, returning
shortly with some malted milk that Sylvia sipped gratefully.
‘I’m really perfectly all right now, Mrs. B. You’ve been a dear
to look after me so nicely.’ Sylvia paused, a hesitant, doubtful
expression in her eyes as they met those of the older woman.
She was troubled, perplexed about something, decided Mrs. Bascom at
once.
‘I want to talk now--to ask some questions and tell you things.’
‘You really shouldn’t, my dear, but if it will ease the pain by
taking your mind off it----No, that’s not honest, not what I’m
thinking at all! I’m really dying with curiosity, of course, and I
wouldn’t be human to make you keep still if you feel like talking.’
Sylvia smiled briefly, and any lingering hesitation vanished. Mrs.
Bascom took both Sylvia’s hands in hers and noted they were cold and
trembling slightly.
‘Did the--the play go off well, Mrs. B.?’
‘It was too gruesomely realistic,’ answered the latter truthfully.
‘You don’t mean--that is----’
‘My dear child, you really are upset. Hadn’t you better wait a while
and rest?’
‘Upset? No--yes. Let me tell you exactly what happened. Then you’ll
see why I’m so--so disturbed.
‘You saw the play, so there’s little I need add to that. There were
several bungled spots in it, one in particular. I saw that Mr. King
had forgotten to place that mock will in the safe, so I carried in a
piece of blank paper which I pretended to take out and tear up. Then
I waited just outside the door until I heard Basil at the safe, after
which I played my invisible part of writing on the typewriter and
moving about as if to enter the room. What I really did was take a
few steps backward, intending to move over toward the window to see
when he went out, thus ending the play.
‘My heel caught on something in the darkness and I twisted my ankle,
then, in an effort to regain my balance, I stepped back and fell
into space. Of course, it was down that chute.--I can’t understand
who could have removed the cover from it or why. Although no one
used that part of the loft now, Mr. King had warned me about the hay
slides and always kept them covered.--Anyway, down I went.
‘The shock of the fall must have stunned me, for the next thing I
knew, I heard you all laughing and moving around the room. I tried to
call out, but the dust got into my throat, and I knew you couldn’t
hear me then, anyway, so kept still, waiting an opportunity to call
when the confusion quieted down.
‘It was just then something suddenly rapped me on the shoulder. I
tried to scream, but my throat seemed to close up tight. I thought
of rats----Oh, it was awful--awful. I could scarcely breathe for a
moment. Then a board creaked, and I realized some one had replaced
the cover to the chute. I hadn’t heard a sound, but the faint light I
could see before was cut off, so I knew what had happened. I should
have screamed then, but--I fainted.
‘When I regained my senses again, my foot pained terribly and I
was so cramped that I could scarcely move. I wriggled, but that
only wedged me tighter--made my position worse. I thought I heard
something drop to the stall below with a little thud.--You--you
didn’t see anything there?’
‘I’ll go look--in a moment,’ muttered Mrs. Bascom evasively, as the
knife in her bosom seemed to press accusingly against her heart.
‘The rest is all confused--a sort of waking nightmare. Once I dimly
heard voices and I’m sure I moaned loudly, but no one seemed to hear
me. Then I dozed or fainted and dreamed--horrible things--that Mr.
King was really dead--that I was in some way respon----’
‘Hush, my dear,’ soothed Mrs. Bascom, scarcely realizing what she
was saying. ‘You were hurt, frightened. No wonder you dreamed such
things.’
‘But they were so vivid, so real. The cover being replaced so
furtively--I couldn’t get rid of the feeling that something was
horribly wrong. Once before, when I was alone in that room just
before the play, it seemed as if some one was there--something
sinister----Oh, it was only fancy, wasn’t it?’ pleaded Sylvia half
hysterically.
‘There now. Don’t bother your tired brain with such----Ah, that’s
the doctor’s car,’ said Mrs. Bascom with heartfelt relief at the
interruption, for she did not know what to say or how to conceal her
own agitation longer.
With an air of brisk authority, she smoothed the bedclothes, caught
up Sylvia’s hastily discarded garments and modestly thrust them
into the closet, then hurried into the hall to usher in the doctor.
Calling Martha to the room to assist him, she stumbled away to be
alone and think. Her feet carried her automatically toward the barn,
her hand clutching at the bosom of her dress.
Straight to the box stall she went, then drew out the knife to
examine it. Unwrapped from the cloth, she held it flat in the palm of
her hand, one fold of the cloth between it and her fingers. It was
a slender knife with a carved hilt, made to represent a sword. Its
tapering silver blade was clotted toward the tip with blood, and
looked exceedingly sharp on both edges. She was sure she had seen it
before, somewhere in King’s house, and obviously it was the weapon
used to murder him.
Wrapping it up in the cloth, she tucked it into her dress again and
stood motionless, tense with her own speculations. She did not doubt
Sylvia’s rather disjointed story, appreciated some of her vague fears
and dreams while penned in the chute. Yet why should they have taken
so definite a form--a premonition of tragedy? Some one had dropped
the knife down there--it was the touch on the shoulder Sylvia had
felt, accounted for the cut, smeared cascade on her dress. But had
this person also removed the cover to the chute purposely to trap
her? No, for then he would not have tossed the knife there, unless
he meant to cast suspicion on her directly. But who--why had any one
wanted to kill Mr. King?
Mrs. Bascom shuddered as the knife weighed against her heart like an
icy finger. For a moment she stood gazing blankly at the wall of the
stall, then shook herself as if to shuffle off by some physical act
her mental doubts and fears.
‘The Lord willin’, we’ll do it, Ellen Bascom,’ she muttered rather
ambiguously, took a few deep breaths to calm her heaving breast,
then hurried back to the house to telephone her message to Inspector
Sewell. Its very words attested to her recovered equilibrium and the
resumption of her former spirit!
It was well she was calm again, for the doctor, when he came down the
stairs, was solemn and perturbed.
‘It’s nothing serious?’
‘Merely a sprain and, of course, the nervous strain. I left a mild
sleeping powder in case it’s needed.--Why didn’t you tell me she did
not know about King?’
‘Do you mean to say you blurted out _that_?’
Before he could answer, she was halfway up the stairs. She hurried to
Sylvia’s room and sat down beside her on the bed, impulsively seizing
both her hands. Sylvia was pale, her eyes fixed in a vacant stare on
the opposite wall. Yet when they turned to meet Mrs. Bascom’s, they
seemed more thoughtful than irrational, and her voice was quite low
and steady.
‘I know now that Mr. King is dead. Tell me--everything.’
In a flash Mrs. Bascom made up her mind to do so. This was no time
for evasions or half truths; only the whole of it would ease the
confused questioning in Sylvia’s mind and enable her to get the rest
she required. Without preamble, therefore, she retold the facts of
the murder as they were known to her, including the switching of
rôles in the play, the dilemma of King’s will, and Ruel’s detention.
At this latter fact, Sylvia’s eyes closed suddenly. She had received
all these details in silence, her eyes never leaving Mrs. Bascom’s
face, her own blank of expression. But the mention of Ruel’s
imprisonment seemed to affect her in some way--just how, Mrs. Bascom
could only guess.
‘Did you look--in the stall?’ Sylvia’s eyes flew open once more. ‘Was
anything there in the chute?’
‘I looked. There was nothing there,’ replied Mrs. Bascom steadily.
‘Now you really must rest, my dear. We must all keep our wits about
us and be ready to do our share--for Mr. King.’
It was exactly the right note to strike, and Sylvia took the opiate
willingly while Mrs. Bascom talked soothingly and smoothed the pillow.
‘Of course the will was just part of the play,’ she concluded. ‘Judge
Brant will tend to all that for you, do whatever is necessary along
legal lines. He is keeping it now, I believe. There’s absolutely
nothing for you to worry about, so----’
She paused. Sylvia’s eyes were closed. A few minutes later the drug
and the physical strain had overcome her resistance and Sylvia was
asleep.
The sound of a motor, grinding up the drive, announced the arrival of
Inspector Sewell and Basil whom Mrs. Bascom met at the door.
‘She is asleep now, so we can talk here, _Inspector_,’ she accented
the last word meaningly.
‘Then she isn’t hurt?’ asked Basil.
‘A sprained ankle--from her fall.’
‘Fall, eh?--You’ve talked to her some, eh? Well, did she by chance
say anythin’ about figures?’
‘Figures? What do you mean, Ezra Sewell?’
Briefly he explained, showing her the penciled sheet.
‘Not a word.’
‘Didn’t calculate she would, but I wanted to know right off.--Now,
Ellen B., let’s get down to facts. Where’d you find her?’
Succinctly Mrs. Bascom told him, but omitting any reference to the
closing of the chute, Sylvia’s premonitions, her stained dress, or
the finding of the knife. Her first intention had been, of course,
to reveal everything, for after all Sewell represented the law,
and this was certainly valuable information. But when he implied a
suspicion of Sylvia by his reference to those figures, Mrs. Bascom
bridled at his stupidity, realized that the story of the knife and
Sylvia’s fears might only add to his case against her. Right or
wrong, Mrs. Bascom decided to protect King’s secretary from such a
contingency--at least for the present or until she could work out an
explanation that could not possibly involve Sylvia in any way.
‘Then the mysterious disappearance was sort of an accident like,
almost comic as you might say.’
‘As _you_ might say,’ echoed Mrs. Bascom scathingly. ‘Personally, I’d
consider such an accident--’
‘There now. You know I ain’t speakin’ literal, ma’am.--But it don’t
seem to explain much, as I’d kind of hoped it might.--Well, Basil,
you get along now an’ make up some of that lost sleep. I’ll have a
look around, an’ if I need you, I’ll sing out.’
He moved away at a shuffle, kicking up the pebbles in the driveway
thoughtfully. His mild eyes had noticed one peculiar fact. Mrs.
Bascom’s left breast had seemed curiously enlarged and her hand had
twice strayed to touch it while she spoke. He noted both these times
were also when her story became less detailed, was spoken rapidly
as if to cover up something. This might have been coincidence,
imagination on his part, yet he shrewdly suspected Mrs. Bascom knew
more than she had revealed.