MORE TESTIMONY
CORONER BLACK took the razor from the footman and laid it carefully
back on the table.
“You are excused,” he announced, and, as Murray rose with alacrity,
he added, “Inform Mrs. Porter that we will be obliged by her presence
here.”
“Yes, sir; certainly, sir,” and Murray backed from the room, but before
going upstairs to find Mrs. Porter he bolted into the pantry and mopped
his white face which was damp with perspiration, then, refreshing
himself with a glass of port, he went on his belated errand.
Inside the library the jurors whispered to one another, and at a
muttered request the foreman picked up the razor, passed it to his
neighbor, and each man at the table in turn examined the stained blade
and handle with absorbed interest, while the coroner and McPherson
compared notes in an undertone. The opening of the hall door brought
them all to attention, and Mrs. Porter’s entrance was greeted by a
lengthened silence.
Hardly deigning to listen to Coroner Black’s explanation of the
formalities to be gone through, she laid a bejeweled hand on the
Bible presented to her by McPherson, and repeated the oath in an
expressionless monotone.
“Pray be seated, madam,” and Coroner Black pointed to the chair by
which she was standing. “We will not detain you long,” and in rapid
succession he asked her her full name and length of residence in that
vicinity.
“I have spent the summer months here ever since inheriting the property
from my husband’s uncle,” she said, in answer to the latter question.
“This is the first winter that we have kept the house open, but
Dr. Noyes deemed it inadvisable to move my son again, and so--” An
expressive gesture completed the sentence.
“How long has Dr. Noyes been in attendance upon your son?” asked Black.
“He accompanied Craig home from the hospital in France.” Real feeling
betrayed itself in Mrs. Porter’s metallic tones. “My son owes his life
to his skill and his untiring attention. We shall miss him now that he
has returned to England.”
“Ah, then you think Dr. Noyes is on his way back to the front again?”
Black was watching her closely as he toyed with his pencil.
“Certainly. Where else would he go?” glancing disdainfully at him. “No
Englishman nowadays lingers behind when his leave of absence is over.”
“But my dear madam, would Dr. Noyes depart so abruptly--without
bidding you good-by; without the formality of notifying even the
nurses in charge of your son that he would not be back?” asked Black
incredulously.
“Dr. Noyes had been expecting a summons home for over ten days,”
explained Mrs. Porter, in a tone sometimes used to quiet a petulant
child, and Black colored. “He had arranged to have the cable telephoned
out to him; his bag stood packed, and whatever good-bys he had to say
were said to my daughter and myself yesterday.”
“At what hour did this cable reach Dr. Noyes?” demanded Black.
“I presume during the night. He said that he would remain in the
library on the chance of a telephone message coming for him,” was her
glib reply.
Black eyed her sharply. “Who is to attend your son in Dr. Noyes’
absence?” he asked, but if he hoped to trap Mrs. Porter he was
disappointed. Her answer was prompt.
“Dr. Washburn of Alexandria. Dr. Noyes called him in consultation, and
all arrangements were made last week to take over the case.”
Coroner Black considered a moment before again addressing her, and
Mrs. Porter permitted her gaze to wander about, noting inwardly the
disarrangement of the usually orderly room, and she turned back to
the jurors with a distinct air of disapproval. Coroner Black’s next
question caused her to catch her breath sharply.
“Were your daughter and Mr. Bruce Brainard engaged to be married?” he
asked.
“I question your right to ask that,” she retorted. “My family affairs
had nothing to do with Mr. Brainard’s shocking suicide.”
“We are the best judges of that, madam,” replied Black quietly. “It is
our duty to expedite this inquiry, and to do so we must know whether
or not Mr. Brainard was on friendly terms with each member of this
household on the night of his death--”
“He was, sir, otherwise he would not have been my guest,” broke in Mrs.
Porter.
“Did you invite him to spend the night, or only to dine with you?”
“I simply asked him to dinner.” She paused, then added: “He was taken
ill at the dinner table, and my nephew, Mr. Wyndham, and Dr. Noyes
helped him upstairs and put him to bed in one of the spare bedrooms.
Dr. Noyes said that Mr. Brainard was in no condition to motor in to
Washington last night.”
“When did you last see Mr. Brainard?”
“When he left the dining-room.”
Black looked at her attentively and noted the flush which had mounted
to her pale cheeks during their colloquy.
“I must remind you, madam,” he commenced, and his manner was serious,
“that you have not answered my question regarding the relationship
existing between your daughter and Mr. Brainard.”
“They were friends,” curtly.
“Nothing more?” persisted the coroner.
Mrs. Porter regarded him with no friendly eye, then apparently thinking
better of her brusqueness, answered more courteously:
“Mr. Brainard admired my daughter greatly, and paid her the compliment
of asking my consent to their marriage.”
“Did you give your consent?” prompted Black as she stopped.
“He was to have had my answer this morning.”
“Oh!” The coroner gazed blankly at Mrs. Porter, failing utterly to
appreciate her stately beauty and quietly gowned, modish figure. She
was a remarkably well preserved woman, on whose face time had left few
wrinkles, and she looked much younger than she was. Several seconds
elapsed before Black again addressed her.
“Did your daughter reciprocate Mr. Brainard’s affection?”
“My daughter would not have accepted his attention had she not liked
and admired him,” she responded evasively, and Black lost all patience.
“Kindly give a direct answer to my question,” he exclaimed harshly.
“Were your daughter and Mr. Brainard engaged?”
“I believe there was an understanding to that effect,” she admitted
sullenly. “But until I gave my consent”--a shrug completed the
sentence, and Black instantly asked:
“Why did you withhold your consent, madam?”
“You are laboring under a mistaken idea,” replied Mrs. Porter coldly.
“My consent was only asked yesterday, and I very properly told Mr.
Brainard that I needed a night in which to think it over.”
The coroner stroked his chin as he contemplated Mrs. Porter, then
observing the jurors’ air of interest, asked more briskly: “When did
you make Mr. Brainard’s acquaintance?”
“About a year ago, and until he went to South America he was a frequent
visitor at my house.” Mrs. Porter glanced involuntarily at the clock as
it chimed the hour, and the coroner rose.
“Please give me the names of your dinner guests,” he said, picking up a
pencil and drawing a pad toward him.
“Captain and Mrs. Mark Willert, Miss Margaret Spencer, my daughter
Millicent, my nephew, Mr. Hugh Wyndham, Dr. Noyes, Mr. Brainard--let me
see, that makes eight,” checking them off on her finger. “I have a few
intimate friends in to dinner every week on Millicent’s account. I do
not want her brother’s distressing illness to cast too great a shadow
on my daughter’s young life.”
“Is your son improving?”
“Yes, thank God!” Mrs. Porter’s eyes shone with a softer light and her
voice shook. “Dr. Noyes and time will work wonders in his condition.
I”--she paused and steadied her voice--“I have every confidence in Dr.
Noyes.”
Coroner Black bowed. “We will not keep you longer, madam; but before
you leave kindly examine this razor and tell us if you can identify it.”
“I will look at it, certainly.” It took her a second or two to
disentangle her lorgnette chain from a tassel on her gown, then raising
her glasses she stared at the blood-stained article. “To the best of my
knowledge I have not seen it before,” she announced, rising, and at a
sign from the coroner retreated toward the hall door, hardly responding
to the foreman’s curt nod.
Bidding her a courteous good afternoon, Coroner Black opened the door
and waited for her to pass into the hall, then stepped after her in
time to see her pause and draw back into an alcove as Dr. Beverly
Thorne approached them. If Dr. Thorne observed the latent air of
hostility and discourtesy in her bearing there was no indication of it
in his unruffled manner as he greeted the coroner.
“Sorry to be late, Black,” he said. “But an important case--” as
he spoke he removed his overcoat and handed it and his hat to the
attentive footman. “Do you wish me to testify now?”
“No. I want you here in your capacity of ‘J. P.,’” responded the
coroner. “In other words, look, listen and--note.” The last word was
added as he held the library door ajar before throwing it wide open.
“Murray, request Mr. Hugh Wyndham to come to the library.”
Thorne exchanged a low-toned word with McPherson and several of the
jurors before slipping into a large wing chair which partly concealed
his presence. Hugh Wyndham had evidently been awaiting the summons, for
he followed hard upon the heels of the footman and stepped briskly
into the library. The preliminaries were quickly gone through with, and
Wyndham, while waiting for the coroner to question him, occupied his
time in inspecting his companions, and his eyes contracted slightly
at sight of Beverly Thorne, who sat gazing idly at the log fire which
blazed in the stone fireplace, and added greatly to the picturesqueness
and comfort of the well proportioned room.
“State your full name and occupation, Mr. Wyndham,” requested the
coroner, resuming his seat.
“Hugh Wyndham, stock broker, just now not connected with any firm,”
he added by way of explanation. “Since the failure in November of the
banking house of Mullen Company with which I was connected I have been
residing with my aunt, Mrs. Lawrence Porter.”
“Were you and Mr. Brainard old friends, Mr. Wyndham?”
“We have known each other for over a year, but were acquaintances
rather than friends,” replied Wyndham, flicking a white thread from his
coat sleeve.
Black shot a questioning look at him. “Do I understand that you were
not friends?” he asked.
“Oh, we were friendly enough on the few occasions that we met, but our
professions gave us very few opportunities to become better acquainted.”
“What was Mr. Brainard’s occupation?”
“He was a mining engineer.”
The coroner leaned over and consulted Dr. McPherson’s notes, then,
sitting back in his chair, asked: “Did Mr. Brainard complain of feeling
ill before dinner last night?”
“No, except to tell Captain Willert and myself that the climate in
South America had played the devil with him.”
“Were you present at the dinner table when he was taken ill last night?”
“Yes. Dr. Noyes said that he was suffering from vertigo, and Mrs.
Porter suggested that we take him upstairs and put him to bed.”
Again Coroner Black referred to McPherson’s notes before asking another
question.
“Did Mr. Brainard have any suitcase or luggage with him?” he inquired.
“No. I loaned him a pair of my pyjamas.”
“When did you last see Mr. Brainard alive?”
“I left him in bed, apparently better, and followed Dr. Noyes
downstairs.”
“Leaving no one with the sick man?” asked Black swiftly.
“Yes, Miss Deane,” responded Wyndham. “Dr. Noyes sent her to look
after Brainard. Miss Deane said that she would be within call if he
needed assistance during the night.” He hesitated, and then added,
“I volunteered to sit up with Brainard, but she said that it was not
necessary.”
“Were you disturbed by noises during the night?”
“No.” Wyndham shifted his position, and one foot tapped the floor
incessantly. “I am a heavy sleeper and my room is some distance from
that occupied by Brainard.”
“You were asleep when Miss Deane rapped at your door this morning?”
“Yes.”
“You accompanied her to Mr. Brainard’s bedroom?”
“I did.”
“Describe the condition in which you found Mr. Brainard and his
bedroom,” directed Black, polishing his eyeglasses, and replacing them
to scrutinize the witness more closely.
“I found Brainard lying on his back on the right side of his bed.”
Wyndham stopped and moistened his lips. “His throat was cut and the
wound had bled profusely.”
“Did you find any weapon in the room?”
“An open blood-stained razor was lying on the bed beside Brainard.”
“Did you touch it?”
“No.”
“Mr. Wyndham,” Coroner Black spoke slowly, evidently weighing his
words, “did you loan a razor as well as a pair of pyjamas to Mr.
Brainard?”
“I did not,” came the instant and emphatic denial.
“Then, if you did not give him the razor, how did Mr. Brainard secure
possession of the razor which you saw on his bed?” asked Black. “You,
and other witnesses, have testified that Mr. Brainard brought no
luggage with him and did not come prepared to spend the night.”
“I have puzzled over his possessing a razor,” agreed Wyndham. “Then it
occurred to me that perhaps he brought it with him from town intending
to commit suicide on the way home.”
“An ingenious theory,” acknowledged Black. “But why should Mr. Brainard
plan to commit suicide when his engagement to a beautiful and wealthy
girl was about to be announced?”
“Mr. Brainard’s ill health may have unbalanced his mind.”
“Did Mr. Brainard show symptoms of insanity last night?” asked Black
quietly.
“N-no.” Wyndham thought a minute, then glanced at the coroner. “The
attack of vertigo”--he began and stopped as Coroner Black smiled and
shook his head.
“Mr. Wyndham”--Black turned abruptly and produced the razor--“have you
seen this before?”
Wyndham took it from him gingerly. “It resembles the one I saw lying on
the bed close by Brainard’s left hand,” he said at last.
“It is the same one,” announced Black shortly. “Had you ever seen this
razor before finding it on Brainard’s bed this morning?”
“No.” Wyndham examined it with care and then held up the razor so that
all could see it. “It evidently belongs to a set, one to be used every
day in the week--this particular razor is marked Monday--”
“And today is Tuesday,” commented the foreman of the jury. The juror
nearest him nudged him to be quiet, and the coroner resumed his
examination.
“To your knowledge, Mr. Wyndham, does anyone in this household own a
set of razors such as you describe?” he demanded.
“No.” Wyndham’s monosyllable rang out emphatically and his eyes met the
coroner’s squarely. “Personally, I use an ordinary razor. Can I send
for it?”
“Certainly,” and the coroner turned to McPherson, who rose.
“You will find my razor in the top drawer of my bureau; Murray, the
footman, will show you my room,” explained Wyndham. “At the same time
Murray can get the razor belonging to my cousin, Craig Porter. The
footman shaves him,” he supplemented, “using a Gillett safety razor.”
“The footman is waiting in the hall,” added Coroner Black, and, barely
waiting for the closing of the library door behind McPherson, he asked:
“Was Mr. Brainard left-handed?”
“I don’t think so.” Wyndham considered the question. “No, I am sure
that he was not. Once or twice I have played billiards with him, and I
would certainly have observed any such peculiarity.”
A sudden movement on the part of Beverly Thorne brought the coroner’s
attention to him.
“Do you care to question the witness, doctor?” he inquired and, as
Thorne nodded, he explained hurriedly to Wyndham, whose brow had
darkened ominously: “Dr. Thorne is a justice of the peace and is here
to assist in this investigation at my request,” with quiet emphasis on
the last words, and Wyndham thought better of hot-tempered objections.
Thorne rose and approached the center table before speaking.
“Mr. Wyndham,” he began, “did you telephone into town that Mr. Brainard
was ill and would spend the night in this house?”
“No,” answered Wyndham, and his tone was of the curtest.
“To your knowledge did anyone else in this house telephone Brainard’s
condition to friends in Washington?”
“I did not hear of it if they did.”
“Then no one, outside this household, knew that Brainard was spending
the night here?”
Wyndham moved impatiently. “You forget Mrs. Porter had other dinner
guests last night,” he said stiffly. “They knew of his illness and his
presence here.”
“True,” broke in the coroner. “Mrs. Porter has already furnished me
with their names, and--” But before he could add more Thorne interposed
with a question.
“How about Brainard’s chauffeur?”
“He had none, but drove his own car,” responded Wyndham.
“Is that still here?”
“I believe so. Sims, Mrs. Porter’s chauffeur, reported it was in the
garage this morning.”
At that moment the door opened to admit McPherson, who advanced
somewhat short of breath from hurrying, and laid an ordinary razor and
a Gillett “safety” on the center table.
“The first razor I found in Mr. Wyndham’s bureau,” he announced. “The
second was handed to me by Miss Deane.” He stopped to resume his seat,
then continued more slowly: “The nurse showed me where Mr. Porter’s
shaving things are kept in the bathroom between his bedroom and that
occupied by the nurses.”
“Thanks, McPherson.” Coroner Black replaced the blood-stained razor on
the table beside the others. “You are excused, Mr. Wyndham.”
Wyndham bowed and stepped past Thorne; at the door he hesitated, but,
catching Thorne’s eyes, he turned and left the room without speaking.
“McPherson, will you take the stand?” directed Black, and the deputy
coroner sat down in the chair reserved for the witnesses, after first
having the oath administered to him. “You performed the autopsy on Mr.
Brainard?” asked Black a few seconds later.
“I did.” McPherson displayed an anatomical chart, and used his pencil
as an indicator while he continued: “I found an incipient tumor of the
brain. Brainard’s attacks of vertigo were due to that.” The deputy
coroner raised his voice as his pencil traveled down the chart and
rested on the throat. “The wound was on the lower part of Brainard’s
neck and the carotid artery was severed. He bled to death.”
“Was the wound self-inflicted, doctor?” questioned Thorne, taking the
chart and examining it closely before passing it over to the juror
nearest him.
McPherson shook his head at Thorne’s question. “I do not believe the
wound was self-inflicted,” he said, “for the wound commences under the
right ear and extends toward the left; whereas, in the case of suicide
the cut would have been made just the reverse.”
McPherson’s words were listened to with deep attention, and in the
silence that followed Thorne grew conscious of the loud ticking of the
clock.
“Then in your opinion, McPherson,” commented Coroner Black, “Bruce
Brainard was murdered?”
“Yes,” answered the deputy coroner. “The nature of the wound proves
conclusively that it could not have been suicide.”
“Unless,” broke in Thorne, “unless Brainard was left-handed.”
“That point can be easily settled,” snapped the coroner. “That’s all,
McPherson, thank you;” and as the doctor left the witness chair he
added, “Kindly ask Detective Mitchell to step here.”
It was growing darker in the room and Thorne walked over to the windows
and pushed back the long curtains and pulled up the Holland shades.
The sunshine had almost totally disappeared, and the gray of late
afternoon alone lighted the room. Thorne moved over to one of the
lamps which were dotted about, and was busy lighting it when Detective
Mitchell followed McPherson back into the room.
“Have you discovered which servants own razors in this house,
Mitchell?” asked the coroner, after the new witness had answered other
questions.
“Yes, sir.” Mitchell took two razors from his pocket. “I have them each
ticketed; this one belongs to the footman, Murray, and this to the
butler, Selby.”
The coroner accepted the two razors and compared them with the
blood-stained one on the table, then he passed all three to the jurors.
“They are not in the least alike,” he said thoughtfully. “Did you
examine Dr. Noyes’ bedroom, Mitchell?”
“I did,” answered the detective. “The bed had evidently been slept in,
as the sheets and blankets were tumbled about, but all the doctor’s
clothes were packed in his steamer trunk.”
“Was his trunk locked?”
“No, sir.” Mitchell paused. “I examined its contents, but I could not
find any razor or strop.”
“Were his overcoat and hat in his closet?”
“No, nor downstairs in the coat closet,” was Mitchell’s prompt
response. “I questioned all the servants and Mrs. Porter, and they say
that Dr. Noyes owned a large grip with his initials--it is missing, and
I conclude that he has taken it with him, for Murray declares that some
underclothes and one suit of clothes are missing.”
“I see.” Coroner Black frowned, then glanced toward Thorne, and the
latter addressed the detective.
“Have you found any trace of burglars breaking into the house last
night, Mitchell?”
“No. And I examined the ground about this house very thoroughly, as
well as every window catch and keyhole; none have been tampered with.
The servants declare they were securely locked last night, and found in
the same condition this morning.”
Thorne laid aside the pencil he had been twisting about in his fingers
and pointed to the blood-stained razor.
“Did you find finger marks on this razor?”
“No, none.” Mitchell looked glum. “We tested every article in Mr.
Brainard’s bedroom and could not find a trace of finger prints.”
Thorne turned back to Coroner Black. “I have no further questions to
ask the witness,” and the coroner dismissed Mitchell.
“As you go out, Mitchell,” he added, “please send word to Miss
Millicent Porter that I would like to see her here.”
By the time the hall door again opened every lamp the room boasted was
lit, and Millicent Porter paused just within the library to accustom
herself to the sudden glare. Thorne and the jurors noted the lines
of care on her white face and the dark circles under her eyes, and
as Thorne approached her he muttered under his breath, in subdued
admiration, “What an exquisite child!” She seemed little more in her
simple dark dress, and her beauty was of the ethereal type.
“We won’t keep you here very long, Miss Porter.” Coroner Black bustled
forward and, snatching up a cushion from the sofa, placed it in the
witness chair. “You will be more comfortable so.” She smiled her
thanks, looking up at him timidly. “Now, if you will rise for a
second Dr. McPherson will--there,” soothingly, observing her startled
expression. “Just repeat the oath after McPherson and place your hand
on the Bible--so. Now sit right here. Kindly tell the jurors your full
name--”
“Millicent Porter.”
“And how long have you known Mr. Brainard, Miss Porter?”
“A little over a year.” She spoke with an effort and several of the
jurors hitched their chairs nearer so as not to miss a word she said.
“And when did you become engaged to him?” inquired Coroner Black.
Millicent flushed scarlet. “I--I--” she stumbled badly. “We were--it
was--” Then in an indignant rush, “My private affairs do not concern
you; I decline to answer impertinent questions.”
Coroner Black bowed and adjusted his eyeglasses, and to the
disappointment of a number of the jurors he did not press the point.
“Why did you and Mr. Brainard quarrel last night?” he asked.
“Quarrel?” Millicent stared at him, then laughed a bit unsteadily.
“Mr. Brainard and I quarrel--what nonsense! Who put such an idea in
your head, sir?”
“Your footman, Murray, has testified that he overheard you exclaim,
‘No! No!’ on the portico there,” pointing to the long windows. “And
after you had dashed by him into the house Murray found Mr. Brainard
lying overcome on the ground.”
Millicent never removed her eyes from the coroner; she seemed drinking
in his words, half unable to believe them.
“Murray saw us?” she stammered, half to herself. “I had no idea others
were about.” Abruptly she checked her hasty speech, and her determined
chin set in obstinate lines. “Apparently you know everything that
transpired last night. Then why question me?” she demanded.
“We do not know everything,” replied Coroner Black patiently. “For
instance, we do not know who murdered Bruce Brainard.”
His words struck home. She reeled in her seat, and but for Thorne’s
supporting arm would have fallen to the floor.
“Murdered!” she gasped. “Murdered? You must be mistaken.”
“Unfortunately, Miss Porter, the medical evidence proves conclusively
that it was murder and not suicide. Now,” continued Black, eying her
watchfully, “we want your aid in tracking the murderer--”
“I know nothing--_nothing_!” she burst in passionately. “I never saw
Mr. Brainard again after he went upstairs; I slept soundly all last
night, and heard nothing.”
“Even if you know nothing about the happenings last night, perhaps you
can still tell us something which may prove a clue,” began Black, and
his manner grew more earnest. “Did Mr. Brainard ever tell you that he
had enemies?”
“No.”
“Did he ever mention that his life had been threatened?” persisted
Black.
“No.” Millicent was white to the lips, and she held out her hands
pleadingly. “Indeed, gentlemen, I cannot help you--why ask me questions
that I cannot answer?”
The big, raw-boned foreman of the jury met her eyes and moved
awkwardly, but before he could think what to say Coroner Black again
addressed her.
“There are certain formalities to be gone through, Miss Porter.”
As he spoke he walked over to the center table and picked up the
blood-stained razor, holding it directly under the rays of the nearest
lamp. “Kindly look at this razor and tell us if you know to whom it
belongs.”
If the razor had been Medusa’s head it could have held no more deadly
fascination for Millicent. She sat as if carved from stone. Coroner
Black repeated his question once, and then again--still no response.
Beverly Thorne broke the tense stillness.
“Did Dr. Noyes bid you good-by before departing, Miss Porter?” he asked.
Galvanized into action, Millicent sprang from her seat, and, before
anyone guessed her intention or any hand could stay her, she dashed
from the library.
Coroner Black made a hasty step toward the door, but Thorne detained
him.
“Suppose you sum up the case to the jury,” he suggested, and resumed
his seat.