TESTIMONY
THE day nurse, Mrs. Christine Hall, the severe lines of her face
showing more plainly in the strong afternoon light and her forehead
puckered in a frown, watched from the bedroom window the parking of
automobiles on the lawn before “Dewdrop Inn,” with an ear attentively
cocked to catch any sound from the bed where Craig Porter lay looking
at the opposite wall with expressionless eyes. The mud-incrusted
automobiles were little varied in shape or make, and the men who
climbed out of them were mostly of middle age, and the seriousness of
their manner as they greeted each other, or stood in groups chatting
with late comers, impressed Nurse Hall. As the last one disappeared up
the steps of the portico and out of her line of vision, she left the
window and hurried to a closed door, but before she could turn the knob
the door opened and Vera Deane stepped into the bedroom.
“I was just going to call you,” exclaimed Nurse Hall. “The men seem all
to have arrived.”
Vera consulted her wrist watch. “The inquest was called for two
o’clock; they are prompt.”
“To the minute,” agreed her companion. “Are you going downstairs
immediately?”
“No, not until sent for.” Vera turned and wandered restlessly about the
room, taking care, however, that her footfall made no sound which might
disturb Craig Porter. She stopped in the shadow of a large wing chair
and regarded the motionless figure on the bed long and intently. When
she looked away she found Nurse Hall at her side.
“Does he always stare straight before him?” she asked, almost below her
breath.
“Yes.” Nurse Hall shuddered. “Always that same fixed stare. You can
bless your stars that you have him at night when he is generally
asleep. Sometimes he gives me the creeps.”
“Does he never speak?”
“No, never, and I don’t believe he ever will; the muscles of his throat
are paralyzed. But you need not whisper”--raising her voice. “He
doesn’t understand a word we say.”
“But our talking may annoy him.” The older woman colored; she was
sensitive about her voice, never having been able to conquer its shrill
quality, and she did not take kindly to any criticism of her conduct of
a sick room, especially from a younger and more inexperienced nurse.
Vera laid a quiet hand on her arm. “Forgive the suggestion, but I
cannot rid myself of the belief that often those we think unconscious
hear and understand more than we imagine.”
“Tut, my dear, not in this case. Mr. Porter understands nothing said to
him, even by his mother; and it’s been that way from the first,” Nurse
Hall added, seating herself in the armchair. “I was here when they
brought him back from Europe, and I must say that Dr. Noyes has worked
wonders--”
Vera was not listening--voices in the hall and the sound of advancing
footsteps came to them through the half-open door.
“Have you been notified to attend the inquest?” she asked. Her question
passed unheeded until Nurse Hall, raising a very red face from the
exertion of stooping, had tied her shoestring.
“No, I don’t have to go down,” she answered, puffing slightly. “I
slept soundly all last night. It is too bad your rest has to be
disturbed this afternoon; if you wish”--a sidelong glance accompanied
the words--“I will continue on duty until midnight and give you an
opportunity to make up lost sleep.”
“I don’t believe I could sleep now, thanks all the same. You forget I
found the--the body,” and a shudder which she could not suppress shook
Vera. “I see it whenever I close my eyes.”
“You poor thing!” Her companion patted her arm sympathetically. “We’ll
sleep better and feel differently after the inquest and they remove the
body. Someone is stopping at the door.”
Not waiting for the low rap that sounded a second later, Vera had sped
to open the door, and she found Murray, the footman, standing in the
hall.
“You are wanted, miss, in the library,” he said, and without a backward
glance Vera closed the bedroom door and followed the servant down the
staircase.
Two men, strangers to her, were lounging in the square entrance hall
near the front door, and at her approach they turned and watched her
until the portières, which divided the hall, hid her tall, graceful
figure from their sight. Vera paused an instant before opening the
library door, then, taking a deep breath, she stepped inside the room.
Grouped about the long center table were six men, while an elderly
man occupied a chair near at hand, and the eighth man in the room sat
before a side table taking notes. The elderly man, whose authoritative
air rightly led Vera to conclude that he was Coroner Black, was on his
feet instantly on catching sight of the new witness, and pulled forward
a chair for her.
“Miss Deane?” he questioned, and she bowed a silent response. “Then sit
here, madam, after McPherson administers the oath,” and at his words
the man at the small table stepped forward, Bible in hand.
The homelike appearance of the library and the comfortably seated men,
some with up-tilted chairs and sprawling legs, robbed the inquest
of its legal atmosphere, but as Vera repeated the oath “to tell the
truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God!”
she became conscious of the concentrated regard of her companions, and
her back stiffened as she seated herself bolt upright in the chair
evidently set aside for the witnesses. She faced the windows, and the
afternoon sunshine, like kindly fingers, touched her quaint snow-white
cap, and gave a tint of red to her waving, curly hair, as her hazel
eyes were calmly lifted to encounter the coroner’s penetrating gaze.
“Are you a native of Washington City, Miss Deane?” he asked, first
giving Deputy Coroner McPherson time to resume his seat and prepare to
take notes.
“I was born in Washington twenty-six years ago,” was the quiet reply.
“Have you resided continuously in Washington?”
“No, sir, not after the death of my parents,” replied Vera. “I went
West, then later studied to be a trained nurse at the University of
Pennsylvania, graduating from there four years ago.”
“How long have you been attending Mr. Craig Porter?”
“A little over three months.”
“And what do your duties comprise?”
“I am night nurse.” Her concise reply won an approving nod from one of
the jurors.
“Were you summoned to nurse Mr. Bruce Brainard when he became ill last
night?”
“I was, sir.”
“Then did you spend the night by his bedside?”
“No, sir.”
“Why not?”
The question shot from the coroner, and Vera’s fingers tightened their
grip on the arm of her chair, but her voice was not raised or ruffled
as she answered slowly:
“Mr. Brainard’s condition was so improved after taking the medicine
prescribed by Dr. Noyes that he did not require my attendance, and I
therefore returned to my customary duties in Mr. Porter’s bedroom.”
“Do the bedrooms occupied by Mr. Porter and Mr. Brainard adjoin each
other?” inquired Coroner Black.
“They do, sir, but there is no communicating door between them.”
“Ah! Then to enter Mr. Brainard’s bedroom from Mr. Porter’s you had to
go into the main hall and from there into Mr. Brainard’s bedroom?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then while with Mr. Porter you were cut off by a solid wall from
all communication with your other patient?” questioned the coroner,
intently studying a rough sketch of the interior of the house which he
held in his hand.
“Not entirely,” explained Vera quickly. “There is a transom between the
two rooms which remains open, and I would have heard instantly if Mr.
Brainard had called me.”
“Did he call you?” asked the coroner eagerly, and his face fell at her
monosyllabic “No.”
“Did you hear any noise in Mr. Brainard’s bedroom during the night?” he
began, after a pause.
“Not a sound, sir.”
“Did you go in to see how he was during the night?”
“Yes, once, about half past one. Judging from his regular breathing
that Mr. Brainard was sleeping I tiptoed out of the room without
approaching his bed, and resumed my watch in the next room.”
“Was there any light in Mr. Brainard’s room?”
“Yes, I placed a night light on the bed-stand.”
“Did the candle give sufficient light for you to see Mr. Brainard’s
position in bed?” questioned Coroner Black.
“Yes, sir; he lay on his left side with his face turned toward the
door,” answered Vera. “His face was somewhat in shadow as his back was
turned to the bed-table on which the night light stood, but I could see
that his eyes were closed.”
“Was he lying in the same position when you found him dead the next
morning?”
“No.” Vera whitened as the scene of the tragedy flashed before her
mental vision. “Mr. B-Brainard then lay on his back staring straight up
at the ceiling, his head twisted to one side. Oh!” and one hand flew
upward covering her eyes. “I can never forget the expression of his
face--the look of fear--of agony. Gentlemen”--her hand dropping to her
side, while she steadied herself with determined effort--“he must have
suffered horribly--before he died.”
“And you, awake in the next room, heard no sound?” Coroner Black
repeated his former question with quiet persistence.
“I heard no sound,” responded Vera mechanically. “Absolutely no sound.”
A pause followed as Coroner Black fumbled among the papers lying on the
table. When he removed his hand his fingers clutched a razor.
“Have you seen this razor before?” he inquired, offering it to her.
Vera shrank back. “I saw a razor lying on the bed beside Mr. Brainard.
I did not pick it up or examine it closely.”
“You mean that you cannot identify this as the razor which you saw
lying on Mr. Brainard’s bed this morning?”
“Yes,” and there was a change in her tone, too subtle to be detected by
the coroner. She hurried on before he could ask another question: “On
discovering Mr. Brainard’s condition this morning I went for Dr. Noyes,
and as he was not in his room, I hastened to get Mr. Hugh Wyndham.”
“How do you know that Dr. Noyes was not in his room?” demanded Coroner
Black.
Vera looked at him in surprise. “When I received no response to
my repeated raps, I turned the handle of the door and entered his
bedroom--it was empty.”
“Did you meet anyone in the hall on your way to summon Dr. Noyes and
Mr. Wyndham?”
“No, sir, no one.”
Coroner Black rose. “I think that is all, Miss Deane; no, stay, there
is one other point--were you sent for when Mr. Brainard was taken ill
at the dinner table?”
“No. I was not aware of his illness until Dr. Noyes informed me that he
and Mr. Wyndham had assisted a guest, who was suffering from vertigo,
into the spare bedroom, and directed me to administer a dose of
aromatic spirits of ammonia, and to make him comfortable for the night,
and then to return to Mr. Porter.”
Coroner Black referred to his notes before again addressing her.
“Did you observe where Mr. Brainard’s clothes had been placed?” he
asked.
Vera wrinkled her pretty forehead in thought. “I believe they were
lying on the sofa, but I cannot swear to it,” she replied.
“Do you recall seeing the clothes this morning?”
“I do not, sir,” was her prompt reply. “My whole attention was
absorbed by the--the figure on the bed. I was too--too terrified to
observe anything else in the room.”
Coroner Black stared at her intently; her repose of manner and air of
efficiency were at variance with her words. Judging from appearances
she seemed the last person to lose her head in an emergency.
“That is all,” he announced, and covered his abruptness with an
old-fashioned bow as he preceded her to the door. “I thank you, Miss
Deane.”
With a slight inclination of her head to the jurors Vera slipped out of
the room and made haste toward the staircase, but not before she heard
Coroner Black’s low-toned command to the footman to enter the library.
The well-trained servant stood while the oath was being administered to
him, then subsided into the seat indicated and waited patiently for the
coroner to address him.
“State your full name and occupation,” directed the latter, examining
the footman’s intelligent face, somber livery, and general air of
respectability.
“Murray, sir, John Murray,” and the Scotch burr was unmistakable. “I’ve
been second man to Mrs. Porter, sir, for going on seven years.”
“Did you admit Mr. Brainard when he arrived here last night?”
“I did, sir.”
“Did he have a bag or suitcase with him?”
“No, sir.”
“Did you assist Dr. Noyes and Mr. Wyndham in conducting Mr. Brainard to
his bedroom after his attack of illness in the dining-room?”
“No, sir; he could walk with the assistance of the other gentlemen.”
There was silence as Coroner Black referred to his notebook, and his
manner grew stern when he turned back to the witness.
“The butler, Selby, has testified you mentioned to the servants that
you went to the assistance of Mr. Brainard when he was taken ill. Did
you make such a statement?”
“I did, sir; and it is true--I assisted Mr. Brainard when he had his
first attack, sir.”
“Ah, when was that?” and the coroner looked at him with quickened
interest.
“Just after him and Miss Millicent had had words in the garden beyond,”
indicating the windows and the portico. “I was in here arranging the
liqueurs and cigars, sir, when I heard a scream through the partly open
window, and I ran out and found Miss Millicent cowering against one of
the big pillars and saying: ‘No, no!’ between her sobs.” He stopped
abruptly. “I beg your pardon for talking so much.”
“Go on,” commanded Black. “Tell us everything.” The jurors and the
deputy coroner were hanging on the footman’s words.
“Miss Millicent bolted by me into the house, and I was just turning
to follow her when Mr. Brainard appeared out of the darkness--Miss
Millicent had been standing where the light from the library fell on
her,” he explained. “Mr. Brainard staggered toward me, and before I
could reach him, he fell.” Murray cleared his throat and eyed each one
of his expectant hearers; he enjoyed the sensation his testimony was
producing.
“Well, what then?” prompted Coroner Black.
“I picked up Mr. Brainard; no easy matter, sir, for he was a dead
weight”--the footman was not to be hurried--“and I carried him in here,
sir, plumped him down in that chair and gave him a drink of cognac.”
“What appeared to be the matter with him?”
“He said he was dizzy like, and that everything swam before him,”
explained Murray, with careful attention to detail. “He was very red in
the face and shook all over; but the cognac brought him around after a
bit, and, asking me to say nothing of his little upset, he went on into
the drawing-room.”
“Was he in evening clothes?” The foreman of the jury spoke for the
first time and looked somewhat alarmed at the sound of his own voice.
“Surely, sir; it was shortly before dinner was announced. Mr. Brainard
motored out and reached here about half past six.”
“When was dinner served?” inquired Black.
“Eight o’clock, sir.”
“Humph!” The coroner jotted down the figures in his notebook. “Was Mr.
Brainard a frequent caller here?”
“He was, sir, last year, but not recently, sir.” The footman paused
thoughtfully, and then added: “Not since Dr. Noyes has been here.”
Coroner Black wheeled on him sharply. “What do you mean by that
remark?”
“Nothing, sir.” Murray’s eyes opened in astonishment. “I was only
trying to place the last time I’d seen Mr. Brainard here. My master,
Mr. Craig Porter, and Dr. Noyes reached home early in October; yes,
sir, Mr. Brainard hasn’t been here since then, I’m sure.”
The coroner considered the footman in silence for several seconds.
“When did you last see Dr. Noyes?” he asked finally.
“About midnight, sir. I went up to his room to ask if I could do
anything for him. Part of my duties is valeting for Mr. Hugh and Mr.
Craig, and the gentlemen staying in the house,” he added, reading the
unspoken question on the coroner’s lips.
“How did Dr. Noyes appear?” inquired Black.
“Appear?” Murray reflected for a moment. “I can’t answer that, sir,
for I didn’t really see him; the door was opened only a little way,
and I just caught a glimpse of him as he stood before his chiffonier
stropping his razor.”
The coroner and Dr. McPherson exchanged glances.
“Wasn’t that an unusual hour for such an occupation?” asked the former.
“Quite so, sir; but it was this way, sir”--Murray’s words tumbled over
each other in his haste--“the doctor had shaved just before dinner,
and I hadn’t had time to put away his things, and last night when
I apologized for leaving his chiffonier in such disorder, sir, and
offered to come in and straighten up, he told me it was midnight and to
go to bed, that he had already cleaned the razor and put the mug away.”
Coroner Black reached forward and picked up the razor he had shown Vera
Deane.
“Does this razor belong to Dr. Noyes?” he asked.
A dead silence prevailed as Murray took the razor and examined the open
blade with its reddish stains. He shook his head.
“No, sir, it is not Dr. Noyes’ razor.”