A QUESTION OF TIME
TWENTY-FOUR hours had passed since Evelyn Preston’s discovery of the
dead man, and the Burnham household had returned somewhat to its
normal condition, chiefly through Dr. Hayden’s soothing influence and
sound advice which had proved an effectual check to the servants’
inclination to hysteria, Burnham’s temper, and Evelyn’s nervousness.
Marian Van Ness, in lieu of a trained nurse, had spent the night
with the housekeeper, Mrs. Ward, who had finally quieted down under
the influence of bromides and toward morning slept heavily. In the
few remaining hours Marian had thrown herself on the couch in the
housekeeper’s sitting room and snatched a short nap before going to her
work at the State Department.
To Evelyn the day had seemed never ending; she had gone out for part
of the morning, returned for luncheon, and afterward had attempted to
rest, but she was far too restless to remain long in one place, and
about four o’clock in the afternoon she found herself in the drawing
room gazing moodily out of the window, her knitting needles for once
idle in her lap. The entrance of Jones with the tea roused her from her
contemplation of the closed house of her opposite neighbor across the
street.
“Not many people are back yet, Jones,” she remarked.
“Not in this section, Miss Evelyn,” answered the butler, wheeling
forward the tea-wagon and then going for a nest of tables from which he
extracted the smallest. “Every house is closed hereabouts; it’s sort of
lonesome, Miss, and strange, too, with the business part and the other
streets just packed with people. Has Mr. Burnham returned yet, Miss?”
“I don’t think so.” Evelyn rattled the teacups as she rearranged them.
“Are you quite positive, Jones, that no one called me on the telephone
while I was out this morning?”
“Quite, Miss. I followed your instructions and stayed where I could
hear the telephone bell if it rang; no one called, Miss.”
Jones had made the same answer to the same question at least six times
during the day, but he was too well trained a servant to betray his
curiosity aroused by Evelyn’s absent-minded harping on the subject.
Being of a somewhat morbid tendency he, of all the household, had been
the only one to get some entertainment out of the tragedy. The presence
of the physicians, morgue attendants, and detectives had thrilled him
beyond words; he had never hoped to participate in a humble degree in
what promised to be a mystifying and unusual case of sudden death.
“Dr. Hayden went upstairs to see Mrs. Ward just now,” he said, finding
that Evelyn asked no more questions. She looked up quickly and set down
the tea-pot.
“Is the doctor still here?”
“I think so, Miss.”
“Then run upstairs, Jones, and ask him to stop here for a cup of tea
on his way out, and--eh, just see if Mr. Burnham is in his room or the
library.”
“Very good, Miss Evelyn,” and the butler departed with alacrity. He
had just reached the floor above when he encountered the busy surgeon
hurrying downstairs. Hayden paused only long enough to hear his message
and then continued on his way to the drawing room. Evelyn greeted his
entrance with a warm smile of welcome.
“Thanks, no tea,” he said drawing up a chair. “I will have a glass of
water and some sandwiches. Did you lie down as I advised?”
“Yes, but I couldn’t sleep.” Evelyn’s hand shook as she offered him
the plate of sandwiches and Hayden scanned her with concern.
“Don’t go too long on your nerves, Evelyn,” he cautioned. “Pull up
while you can; rest and quiet are what you need.”
Evelyn moved impatiently. “I’m all right,” she announced obstinately.
“Tell me, doctor, what is the matter with Mrs. Ward?”
“Oh, she is suffering from shock and hysteria; in a day or so she will
be up and about again.” Dr. Hayden took a tea biscuit. “In the meantime
bed is the best place for her.”
“What made her go to pieces?” demanded Evelyn, lowering her voice. “She
is a strong healthy woman and in the three years she has been with us I
have never known her to have a day’s illness.”
“Shock,” replied Hayden tersely.
“But--but she only saw the body just as I did,” objected Evelyn. “I
didn’t faint from shock, and I don’t pretend to be as strong as she is.”
Hayden mentally contrasted her slender, delicate appearance and the
housekeeper’s tall angular, raw boned frame and silently agreed with
her; the contrast was too great to admit of argument.
“Tell me, Evelyn,” and he, too, sunk his voice. “Exactly when did Mrs.
Ward join you here yesterday?”
“I found her standing in the vestibule just after I discovered that
poor dead man upstairs; in fact when I was on my way to you. Frankly,”
Evelyn smiled apologetically, “my first impulse was to get out of the
house.”
“A very natural impulse,” said a voice behind them and wheeling about
Hayden saw Maynard approaching. “Sorry to startle you, Evelyn,”
the latter added as she spilled her tea in her sudden jump. “I am
so accustomed to these rubber heels that I forget others are not.
Afternoon, Hayden. How’s your patient?”
“She is much better.” The physician moved back to make room for Maynard
who paused long enough to drag forward a large arm chair and seated
himself next to Evelyn.
“Good,” he exclaimed in response to Hayden’s statement, and at the
sympathetic inflection and the hearty ring in his voice Evelyn
brightened. Maynard’s robust personality brought a touch of the
out-of-doors into the room and dispelled her morbid thoughts. “Burnham
asked me to tell you, Evelyn, that he would not be here for tea. He
is greatly concerned about Mrs. Ward,” Maynard continued, addressing
Hayden. “Seemed to think last night from her rambling talk that she was
in for a long illness, brain fever, or something.”
Hayden smiled. “Nothing like that,” he said. “Mrs. Ward will soon be
on her feet again, little the worse for her upset.”
“I hope so truly,” exclaimed Evelyn, handing Maynard his cup and a
biscuit. “Not only for her sake, but because Mother is so dependent
upon her.”
“Has Mrs. Ward been with you long?” inquired Maynard.
“A little over three years.” Evelyn paused to consider. “She came to
us about six months before Mother’s marriage to Mr. Burnham; I was at
boarding school that winter.”
“What is Mrs. Ward’s nationality?” asked Hayden. “I ask because last
night just before going under the influence of the bromides she used
several phrases which----”
A heavy step on the hardwood floor interrupted the physician and Jones
appeared at Evelyn’s side.
“Detective Mitchell to see you, Miss Evelyn,” he announced and his low
voice held suppressed excitement.
“Oh!” Evelyn gazed at him blankly for a minute, then at her companions;
their presence would surely check any undue inquisitiveness which the
detective might evince. Her step-father had told her that she might
possibly have to appear at the inquest or give her deposition, and
he had cautioned her against making any statement to either of the
detectives who were then in the house. Evelyn, rather startled by his
grave manner, had promptly vanished out of the house by way of the back
door while the men from the Central Office were interviewing Burnham.
“Show him in,” she directed, and as the butler retreated, she looked
at Hayden. “You were saying; oh, yes, now I remember; you asked about
Mrs. Ward--she was born in Switzerland, but I believe has lived in the
United States since she was fifteen years old. Is this Mr. Mitchell?”
raising her voice as a well dressed, pleasant-faced man appeared in the
room.
The detective advanced to the little group and his bow included them
all.
“It is, Miss Preston,” he answered. “I was sorry not to see you this
morning before you left.” Maynard, who had risen on his entrance,
pushed forward his chair for the detective and subsided into one
somewhat in the shadow of the grand piano. Mitchell acknowledged the
courtesy with a word of thanks, then turned to Dr. Hayden.
“The nurse permitted me to see Mrs. Ward for a moment, doctor,” he
began, “but she said she knew nothing of the suicide.”
“Suicide!” ejaculated Evelyn, startled.
“I am quoting Mrs. Ward,” explained Mitchell. “She evidently believes
the stranger’s death to have been a case of suicide.”
“But how can she? She heard me tell Coroner Penfield that some one rang
the library bell about five or six minutes before I found the body, and
according to Coroner Penfield the man had been dead about twelve hours.
Yet the body was not in the library when I was in it earlier in the
afternoon; some one beside myself was in this house,” declared Evelyn
and she came to a breathless and bewildered pause.
“Mrs. Ward heard you make these statements?” asked Mitchell, pencil in
hand, and his memorandum pad balanced on one knee.
“Why, I take it for granted that she did,” Evelyn looked puzzled. “She
fainted just about then and we found her lying inside the library door,
didn’t we, doctor?” Hayden nodded. “Mrs. Ward must have been standing
behind the portières and couldn’t help overhearing our conversation.”
“Then you conclude that your remark about the ringing of the library
bell caused her to faint,” asked Maynard reflectively.
Evelyn wrinkled her brows and rubbed her forehead vigorously. “I don’t
know just what to think,” she acknowledged. “What was there in that
statement to shock her?”
Hayden leaned forward. “Could it be----” He began, then broke off
abruptly, hesitated, and finally addressed Mitchell. “Did you think to
ask Mrs. Ward if she saw any one leave this house as she came up the
street?”
“No, doctor. The fact is,” Mitchell completed the entry he was
making in his note book, “the fact is the nurse would only let me
stay a second in the sick room; she said Mrs. Ward was too ill to be
interviewed now.”
“Then I see nothing for it but to wait until Mrs. Ward is better,”
commented Maynard. “Will there be an inquest, Mitchell?”
“Oh, yes; but not just now.” Mitchell turned his head so as to face
Maynard. “However, our investigation cannot wait; we must sift evidence
to present at the inquest and secure expert testimony.”
Maynard thrust his hands in his pockets and leaned back. “Go slow,
Mitchell,” he cautioned. “Remember the legal warning: ‘All evidence is
made up of testimony, but all testimony is not evidence.’”
“True, sir; but in this case the police have reasonable grounds to
suspect a crime has been committed,” protested Mitchell. “Take Miss
Preston’s testimony for example; she heard the library bell ring, went
upstairs, and found a dead man sitting in the library.”
“Well, he could have rung the bell before drinking the poison,”
retorted Maynard.
“Be reasonable, Mr. Maynard.” The detective’s irritation at Maynard’s
continued questioning showed in his heightened color. “Coroner
Penfield’s testimony proved the man had been dead at least twelve
hours.”
“There you go again with your testimony,” Maynard laughed shortly.
“Come, doctor, at what moment does _rigor mortis_ appear?”
“In a general way, I should say----” Hayden considered before
continuing, “_rigor mortis_ appears from the third to the sixth hour,
and it affects the muscles of the jaw first.” Evelyn shuddered as
sudden unbidden memory of the dead man’s features returned to her.
“And how long does rigidity continue?” demanded Maynard.
“Oh, its duration may average twenty-four to forty-eight hours; it may,
however, last for a few hours only, in other cases it persists for
five, six, or seven days,” answered Hayden.
“And you physicians are prepared to swear from _rigor mortis_ as to the
exact hour the man died?” persisted Maynard.
“We are prepared to swear to nothing of the sort.” Hayden was
commencing to share Mitchell’s irritation at Maynard’s slightly
contemptuous manner. “We can say if rigidity is complete, that death
is recent. Personally, I believe that _rigor mortis_ can teach us
nothing of scientific value in cases of poisoning.”
“But there are other tests to establish the time of death,” broke in
the detective. “There’s the cooling of the body.”
“Don’t!” Evelyn held up a protesting hand. “I can’t forget the icy
chill of his wrist when I touched him.”
“There!” Mitchell looked triumphantly at Hayden. “Doesn’t the body cool
in about twelve hours?”
“It might be said to be quite cold in that time,” replied Hayden. “But
the average time taken in cooling is from fifteen to twenty hours.”
“Your first statement will do for me,” Mitchell jotted down some
figures. “Let me see, Miss Preston, you found the body about half past
three?”
“Yes, or perhaps a few minutes later.”
“Humph! Then it is a safe hypothesis that this man was poisoned between
the hours of two thirty and three thirty yesterday (Tuesday) morning.”
Evelyn shivered. “It would seem so,” she admitted. “Yet where was the
body all that time?”
“And where the murderer?” Maynard’s light tone struck a jarring note
and for once Evelyn ignored him, as she waited for the detective’s
answer.
“Is that Mr. Burnham speaking?” questioned Mitchell, rising hurriedly
as voices reached them from the hall. Evelyn was saved reply by Burnham
walking into the room. He was followed by Coroner Penfield and James
Palmer.
“Here are the men you want, Penfield,” he exclaimed on catching sight
of Hayden and Maynard. “Come and tell us about the inquest.”
Penfield, directly addressed, bowed gravely to Evelyn, who had risen
with the others on their entrance, and then regarded his host with no
lenient eye. That Burnham had been drinking or was under some powerful
drug was evident, and Penfield wished heartily that Evelyn would
retire; he disliked scenes--dead people were one thing, hysterical
women another.
“There has been no inquest yet,” he said. “We are waiting for the
principals in the case to be in condition to attend it before we hold
it.”
“Principals?” Burnham moved nearer and placed an unsteady hand on the
back of a chair. “Who d’ye mean?”
“Mrs. Ward, primarily,” responded Penfield politely. “I understand,
Hayden, she is ill from shock.”
“Yes, she is; nothing very serious, however.”
“Has she a nurse?”
“Yes. Mrs. Duvall.”
“Excellent,” Penfield rubbed his hands together. “I would like to talk
to Nurse Duvall if convenient.”
“Certainly, Penfield,” Hayden made a motion to go but Evelyn was before
him.
“I’ll run up and take her place with Mrs. Ward so she can come down to
see you,” she volunteered and slipped from the room.
Burnham, who had been brooding over the coroner’s remarks, stopped his
restless walk about the room, and thereby collided with James Palmer,
whose bulky form dwarfed Mrs. Burnham’s Empire furniture.
“Why’d you tell me in the hall that you held an inquest and then deny
it in here?” he asked. “Was it because Evelyn was present?”
“No, Mr. Burnham; you have things mixed,” protested Penfield. “I never
mentioned an inquest, but said we had held an autopsy.”
“Ah, and with what results?” asked Hayden. “Or is it not permissible to
tell now?”
“Oh, no; it will be in the morning papers, so I am breaking no
confidence,” Penfield moved nearer the five men who had grouped
themselves about the grand piano. “On submitting the gastric contents
to tests we found the presence of a solution of hydrocyanic acid.”
Maynard broke the ensuing silence. “Hydrocyanic acid,” he repeated.
“Isn’t that a form of prussic acid?”
“Yes; and in a diluted form sometimes given for stomach disorders,”
responded Penfield. At his answer Burnham sat down suddenly as if
stricken. His action was only observed by Hayden and Palmer, Penfield’s
attention being focused upon Maynard who stood gazing at him across the
piano with expressionless face.
“Prussic acid,” he murmured. “Ah, Penfield, that bears out my theory.”
“And what is your theory?” demanded Mitchell quickly, bending forward.
“That the man committed suicide.” Seeing the incredulity with which his
statement was received, Maynard added: “Had the man been murdered he
would instantly have detected the presence of prussic acid--there is no
disguising the taste of bitter almonds.”
“Yes, there is,” retorted Coroner Penfield. “The dose in this instance
was administered in a cordial which in itself contains the same bitter
flavor--cherry brandy.”