AT THORNEDALE LODGE
A ROW of beautiful trees ran the length of Thornedale Lodge, facing
the entrance on the south. They had been planted generations before,
and, no allowance made for their increase in height and circumference,
towering above the old house, they were landmarks for miles around.
Their branches touched the galleries and windows, and in summer their
foliage shut out much light and sunshine, but Beverly Thorne scoffed at
the idea of dampness and refused to cut down the trees, as his father
had refused before him. The stars in their constellation were not more
fixed than the customs which had obtained in the old Virginia home.
Beverly Thorne crossed the lawn and entered his house, and an
anxious-faced negro butler, grown gray in service, came forward to meet
him.
“Yo’ breakfas’ am served, sah,” he announced, and his soft drawling
voice contained a note of reproach. “I done looked ober de whole house
fo’ yo’, an’ de things am gettin’ cold.”
“Sorry, Cato.” Thorne preceded the old servant into the dining-room,
but instead of approaching the table he stopped before a window
overlooking the sloping ground and a distant view of the Porter
homestead, Dewdrop Inn. “See that man, Cato, loitering near the lodge
gate?” he asked, and Cato peered over his shoulder. “Send Julius to
him. Wait,” as Cato moved away. “Tell Julius to say that Dr. Thorne
presents his compliments and asks Detective Mitchell to come here and
have a cup of coffee with him.”
“Yessir.” And Cato went to execute the errand, while Thorne waited
until he saw the small negro boy who assisted Cato in tending the
grounds cross the back lawn, then turned away from the window.
Walking over to the table he picked up a folded newspaper by his plate
and used it as a shield as he drew a photograph from his inside coat
pocket. The picture was irregular in shape and small in size, and had
evidently been cut from a group photograph, for the two figures on
either side of Vera Deane had been partly decapitated by scissors. Vera
and her companions were in their nurses’ costume and carried diplomas.
It was an excellent likeness of Vera, her pose was natural and her
fresh young beauty and fearless eyes claimed the attention of the most
casual. Thorne knew every light and shade in the photograph.
“To think she threw away her happiness, her career, for--” he muttered,
and his hand clenched in impotent wrath, then, becoming aware of the
negro butler’s return, he replaced the photograph in his pocket, and
soon became absorbed in the newspaper. Cato, considerably annoyed by
the prospect of further delay in serving breakfast, arranged another
place at the table with more alacrity than his rheumatic joints usually
permitted. He had no more than finished when Detective Mitchell
appeared in the side door, ushered in by the grinning boy. Throwing
down his paper, Thorne greeted the detective heartily.
“Very good of you to share my breakfast,” he said, pouring out a
steaming cup of coffee as Mitchell took possession of the chair pulled
out for him by Cato.
“You are the good Samaritan, doctor,” declared Mitchell, rubbing his
chilled hands. “The Porter place gets the full force of the wind; you
are more sheltered here,” glancing out of the diamond-paned windows,
and then back again at his host and the cosy dining-room with its
blazing logs in the large stone fireplace at the farther end.
The somewhat shabby old furniture, the wide sideboard on which stood
quaint glass candelabra and heavy cut-glass decanters and dishes of the
generous proportions of former decades, a table in the window littered
with magazines and books, and near at hand a mahogany stand equipped
with a smoking outfit, all seemed to blend with the low time-stained
oak beams and wainscoted walls. No curtains hung in the windows, and
the winter sunshine streamed in, betraying here and there in cracks and
crannies small accumulations of dust which Cato’s old eyes had passed
unseen.
Thorne observed which way his guest’s attention was straying and
smiled, well pleased; he was proud of the historic old house. “This is
one of the pleasantest rooms,” he said, pushing the toast rack near the
detective. “Try some toast; it’s hot.”
“Thanks.” Mitchell enjoyed his breakfast for a few minutes in silence.
“Is this house older than the Porter mansion?”
“Same age; in fact my great-great-grandfather built them both,”
answered Thorne. “But this was only a hunting lodge, while the Porter
homestead was a mansion house, and is pure Georgian in architecture.”
“It’s the best-looking house in this country,” affirmed Mitchell
enthusiastically. “Pity to have a gruesome crime committed inside its
old walls.”
“You are sure it was a crime?” asked Thorne, stirring his coffee and
then sipping it gingerly. “A murder?”
Mitchell stared at him in surprise. “Of course I’m sure that it was a
murder. Didn’t the medical evidence prove that the wound could not have
been self-inflicted?”
“The deputy coroner gave that as his belief, with one reservation--the
wound could have been self-inflicted if Bruce Brainard was left-handed.”
“Which he wasn’t,” declared Mitchell positively. “I have questioned all
who knew Brainard, and they swear he was right-handed. So there you
are, doctor, with a case of proven murder.”
Thorne laid down a fresh piece of toast untasted on his plate. “I take
exception to Deputy Coroner McPherson’s theory that the wound from its
appearance could not have been self-inflicted,” he announced slowly.
“Any surgeon will tell you that it is next to impossible to tell with
any degree of accuracy at exactly which point the razor first entered
the flesh. Brainard might have gashed himself by holding the razor
in his right hand with the full intention of committing suicide, and
opened the carotid artery. In that way he could have inflicted just
such a wound as killed him.”
Mitchell moved impatiently. “Why didn’t you mention that at the
inquest?” he grumbled.
“Because I was not called as a witness.”
The detective ruminated silently for some moments, casting frequent
glances at his host.
“Well, perhaps an expert can tear the medical evidence to pieces at
the trial, but there’s one point you overlook, doctor,” he argued.
“But if it was suicide, where did Brainard get the razor? Everyone
admits, including Mrs. Porter, that he had not expected to spend the
night, and he did not bring a pair of pyjamas; only had the clothes on
his back, a dress suit. Mr. Wyndham admitted in the presence of the
coroner yesterday that Mr. Brainard did not see his overcoat after he
was taken ill, and Murray, the footman, states that it hung in the coat
closet until I took it down to examine it.” Mitchell paused and added
impressively: “I’ll stake my reputation that Brainard had no razor when
he was put to bed, therefore he could not have committed suicide. He
was murdered by someone inside the house.”
“No one in the Porter household admits having seen that razor before,”
was Thorne’s only comment.
“Sure, they ain’t going to give each other away.”
Thorne straightened up and looked at the detective. “Do you mean to
imply a conspiracy?”
“No, not a conspiracy to _kill_ Brainard,” Mitchell hastened to
explain. “Only an endeavor on the part of Mrs. Porter and her daughter,
Millicent, to shield the guilty man.”
Thorne reached over and rang the small silver bell, then replaced it
on the table. “More coffee, Cato,” he directed, and turned again to
Mitchell as the servant disappeared with the pot. “And who is the
guilty man?”
“Frankly, I’m not quite sure,” admitted Mitchell, grinning. “But as
there are only two men in the house, not counting the butler, footman,
chauffeur, and two gardeners, I hardly anticipate difficulty in
narrowing the hunt down to one.”
“And the two men are--”
“Dr. Alan Noyes and Hugh Wyndham.”
Thorne opened his cigar-case and offered it to Mitchell, then helped
himself and placed a box of matches on an ash-tray conveniently before
his guest.
“Dr. Alan Noyes and Hugh Wyndham,” he repeated thoughtfully. “Mitchell,
you have overlooked a member of the family in your list.”
“You mean--?” The detective looked puzzled.
“Craig Porter.”
Mitchell laughed outright. “Have you seen him?”
“No.”
“Why, doctor, he’s paralyzed, can’t move hand or foot.” Mitchell
puffed contentedly at his cigar. “I was in his bedroom yesterday
afternoon and got a good look at him while I was chatting with Mrs.
Hall, the other nurse. I don’t think Porter will live very long, poor
devil,” he added. “Fine-looking chap; must have been some athlete, from
all accounts.”
“Yes,” agreed Thorne, moving his plate aside to make room for the fresh
pot of coffee which Cato brought in at that moment. “Let me give you
a hot cup, Mitchell; there, that’s better. What were you going to ask
me?” observing that his companion hesitated.
“Can you give me any pointers about this Dr. Alan Noyes and Hugh
Wyndham?” asked Mitchell. “They are your next-door neighbors, so to
speak.”
“And I never crossed their threshold until yesterday,” responded Thorne
dryly. “A family feud of long standing, Mitchell, and if I were the
devil with horns, Mrs. Porter couldn’t regard me with more horror.” A
boyish smile touched his stern lips and his gray eyes twinkled.
Mitchell glanced at him speculatively. There was little of the student
in Thorne’s appearance; his bronzed cheeks and throat spoke of
out-of-doors, and his well-cut riding-clothes showed his tall, wiry
figure to advantage. The faint crow’s feet under his eyes and the
slight graying of his black hair at the temples gave an impression of
a not too easy path in life, and Mitchell decided in his own mind that
his host was between thirty-six and thirty-eight years of age.
“While I never talked to Mrs. Porter until yesterday, Mitchell,”
continued Thorne, laying down the stub of his cigar, “I’ve had a slight
acquaintance with Wyndham, and one not calculated to make me popular
with him.”
“How’s that, doctor?”
“Oh, in my capacity of justice of the peace I’ve had to fine him for
speeding,” responded Thorne. “I believe Noyes was with him on one of
these occasions, but he stayed out in the motor car.”
“I wonder whose motor Noyes used to leave the Porters’ early yesterday
morning,” mused Mitchell. “Pshaw! there’s little use in speculating
along that line. We’ve proved his alibi was true.”
“Indeed? You mean--”
“That a cipher cablegram was telephoned out to him from New York
yesterday morning between two and three, and if Mrs. Porter’s
testimony is to be relied on--and I see no reason to doubt it
now--Noyes must have made straight for New York and is aboard the S. S.
_St. Louis_, of the American Line. She sailed for Liverpool, and I’ve
wirelessed out, but haven’t received an answer from the ship.”
“So that clears Noyes,” commented Thorne.
“Yes, I suppose it does,” but Mitchell’s tone was doubtful. “It doesn’t
explain Miss Millicent Porter’s curious behavior at the inquest.
Judging by her manner and her testimony, she _believes_ Noyes guilty.”
“Miss Porter was in a very hysterical state, hardly accountable for her
actions.” Thorne paused and examined his nicotine-stained fingers with
interest. “Have you unearthed any evidence against Hugh Wyndham?”
“Well”--Mitchell hesitated, and shot a sidelong glance at his
host--“nothing tangible against him--but if we eliminate Noyes it’s got
to be Wyndham.”
Before answering, Thorne refilled his coffee-cup. “Wyndham--or an
outsider,” he said.
“Not a chance of the latter.” Mitchell spoke with absolute confidence.
“I’ve examined every lock and bolt on the doors and windows; not one
is broken or out of order, and both the butler and footman declare all
windows and doors were locked on the ground floor yesterday morning as
usual. Take it from me, doctor, no one broke into that house to murder
Brainard. No one except the dinner guests and Mrs. Porter’s household
knew Brainard was spending the night there. I tell you,” emphasizing
his words by striking the table with his clenched fist, “it was an
inside job.”
“It would seem so,” acknowledged Thorne, who had listened closely to
Mitchell’s statement. “Were you at the Porters’ last night, Mitchell?”
“No, I had to go in to Washington, but I left Pope there, and I
returned early this morning and sent Pope in to Alexandria to get
some breakfast and bring me my share. He’s never appeared.” Mitchell
smiled ruefully. “But for you, doctor, I’d have fared badly. I greatly
appreciate your hot breakfast,” he added, as he rose somewhat awkwardly
and pushed back his chair.
Thorne was slower in rising from the table than his guest.
“Make this house your headquarters, Mitchell, while investigating
Brainard’s murder,” he suggested hospitably. “The nearest road-house
is five miles away. Should you require a meal--a telephone--a quiet
moment--come here.”
The detective looked gratified. “Mighty thoughtful of you, sir,” he
said. “And I accept. The Porter house is out of the beaten track, and
frankly--” He paused as they reached the large hall which did duty also
as a living-room; at least such was the impression gained by Mitchell
as he glanced inquiringly around, for the negro boy had taken him into
the dining-room through a short passage leading from a side door, and
he had not seen the front of the house before.
The staircase in the hall was partly concealed by the stone fireplace
and huge chimney about which it was built; deep window seats,
comfortable lounging-chairs, a few tables, tiger skins, and other fur
rugs, added to the hall’s homelike, comfortable appearance, while guns,
moose and deer heads and other hunting trophies hung on the walls.
Suddenly Mitchell became conscious of his prolonged silence and that
Thorne was waiting courteously for him to continue his remark.
“Frankly,” he commenced again, “I think the mystery will be solved and
the murderer apprehended within forty-eight hours. And in that case,
doctor, I’ll not trespass long on your hospitality.”
“Come over whenever you care to,” exclaimed Thorne. “I’ll tell Cato to
make you comfortable if I am not here.”
“Thanks.” Mitchell turned up the collar of his overcoat as Thorne
opened the front door, and stood hesitating on the threshold. “Say,
doctor,” he suddenly burst out, “you were the first outside the Porter
family to see Brainard yesterday morning--what struck you most forcibly
about the affair?”
Thorne considered the question. “The composure of Nurse Deane,” he said
finally. “The young woman who _said_ she was the first to discover the
crime.”
Mitchell stared at him open-mouthed. “What do you mean?” he demanded.
“It is an unheard of thing for a first-class trained nurse to sleep at
her post.” Thorne spoke slowly, carefully. “And the transom between
the two bedrooms was open.”
“But it is over Craig Porter’s bed,” objected Mitchell. “And Nurse
Deane couldn’t have looked through the transom without climbing up on
his bed.”
“I grant you she could not have looked through the transom,” answered
Thorne. “But she could _hear_. The slightest sound becomes ‘noise’ at
dead of night.”
Mitchell’s eyes grew bigger and bigger. “Then you think--”
“That Nurse Deane both heard the murder committed and investigated it
long before she went to summon Hugh Wyndham--and in that interval she
had time to partially recover from shock and exert her self-control
which, for a girl of her years, appears little short of marvelous.”
There was a brief silence which Mitchell broke.
“You’ve given me a new viewpoint,” he said. “So you think Nurse Deane
is an accessory after the fact?”
“Possibly--through sympathy.”
Mitchell whistled. “Not to say affection, eh, doctor?” But Thorne
was looking through the open door and failed to catch Mitchell’s
suggestive wink. Mitchell moved briskly across the paved walk which led
from the front door to the box-hedged garden in front of the house.
“I’ll let you know what the third degree brings forth, doctor,” he
called over his shoulder and hurried up the walk.