THE TELEGRAM
JONES, on his way up the stairs to the housekeeper’s suite of rooms
on the third floor, was startled by the unexpected appearance of Mrs.
Burnham at his elbow. Absorbed in carrying the heavily laden tray
without spilling its contents he had failed to hear her footstep on the
stair behind him.
“It strikes me, Jones, that you have a hearty meal there for a sick
woman,” she remarked, inspecting the hot dishes with a critical eye.
“Mrs. Ward sent down word she particularly wanted a steak and all the
rest,” stammered Jones. “Cook and I just carried out her orders, ma’am.
Shall I take off any of the dishes?”
“Oh, no; see that Mrs. Ward has every attention, Jones. I was only
wondering----” Mrs. Burnham paused thoughtfully; the housekeeper was
indulging in a very substantial meal for one who claimed to be a
seriously ill woman. “Carry the tray to Mrs. Ward, Jones, but see that
you do not mention my comment upon her appetite.”
“Yes, ma’am, certainly, ma’am,” stuttered Jones and hurried on his way.
He stood in great awe of Mrs. Burnham, whose caustic comments when she
found him careless in his work had made an indelible impression.
Jones’ tap at the housekeeper’s door brought a pretty chambermaid
who dimpled into a smile at sight of him. They had no opportunity to
exchange a word, for Mrs. Ward called to her to take the tray and shut
the door.
“Put the tray here,” she directed, tapping the chair by her bed. “That
will do,” she added a moment later as the maid arranged the dishes
within easy reach of her hand. “Thank you, don’t wait any longer.”
Waiting until the pretty chambermaid had disappeared into the adjoining
room, Mrs. Ward listened until her sharp ears caught the click of the
latch of her sitting room door and convinced her that she was alone.
Raising herself on her elbow she proceeded to eat with avidity. She had
just finished the last morsel of bread when the door of her bedroom
opened and Mrs. Burnham walked in.
“Good morning, Matilda,” she said cheerily. “Glad to see you are so
much better.”
Mrs. Ward settled back on her pillow and pulled the bedclothes up about
her throat.
“Good morning,” she replied. “It’s very good of you to come and see
me so early in the morning.” Mrs. Burnham, who was not noted for
early rising, flushed at the housekeeper’s insolent air; she was a
woman, however, who carried the war into Africa when occasion arose,
and discourtesy from a subordinate or servant instantly aroused her
resentment.
“I expected to find you up, Matilda,” she said. “Dr. Hayden told me
last evening that he had crossed you off his list of sick patients.”
“I know how I feel better than Dr. Hayden,” responded Mrs. Ward
sullenly. “I am not able to work; I am as weak as a kitten.”
“Staying in bed won’t strengthen you,” answered Mrs. Burnham
practically. “Come, be sensible, follow Dr. Hayden’s orders.”
“I shan’t.”
“But, Matilda, you can’t stay in bed----”
“I can, too; until I am strong enough to get up,” with sullen anger.
“I need nourishing food and rest. I’ve worked hard all summer, Mrs.
Burnham; surely you don’t begrudge me a few crumbs?”
Mrs. Burnham eyed her wrathfully. “You can hardly call your breakfast
a ‘few crumbs,’” she retorted, pointing to the empty dishes. “You have
licked the platters clean, Matilda,” a spark of humor lighting her
eyes. “What nonsense! Of course, I don’t begrudge you all the good
cooking you require, and a nurse if necessary; but I do object to your
malingering.”
“I am not malingering.”
“Oh, yes, you are,” with stern emphasis. “And I want to know _why_?”
Mrs. Ward clutched the bedclothes, but a look at Mrs. Burnham’s face
made her change her angry answer to a more wheedling tone than she had
intended using.
“After all my years of faithful service you come and accuse me of
that,” she began. “I wouldn’t ’a’ thought it of you, Mrs. Burnham.” Her
face worked and a few tears brimmed over her eyelids and ran down on
the coverlet.
“Stop crying!” exclaimed Mrs. Burnham. “I have no intention of hurting
your feelings, Matilda; I came here to get facts.”
“Facts about what?”
“About what transpired in this house on Monday and Tuesday last.”
Mrs. Ward shook her head. “I can’t help you there,” she replied. “I’m
plain puzzled myself.”
“There is always a solution to a puzzle,” responded Mrs. Burnham.
“Answer my questions and we will find it. At what hour did you reach
this house?”
“Tuesday afternoon, just after Miss Evelyn found the dead man.”
“And where did you spend Monday night?” Mrs. Ward’s eyelids flickered
and Mrs. Burnham continued tranquilly: “I am quite aware you left
Chelsea Monday afternoon, Matilda.”
Mrs. Ward made no response and after a lengthened pause Mrs. Burnham
spoke again. “Why did you come to Washington twenty-four hours before
you were told to?”
“I didn’t,” replied Mrs. Ward hotly. “I had to go to Baltimore on
business; the wire came for me after you had left for New York. The
servants all had their Washington railroad tickets for Tuesday and
the house was even then in order; so I didn’t see any harm, ma’am, in
leaving Jones to close the house. You’ve always trusted him.”
“I still trust Jones,” dryly. “That is not the point. I wish to know
why you displayed so much emotion on the discovery of the dead man in
our library.”
For answer Mrs. Ward felt about under the bolster and produced a much
thumbed telegram which she handed to Mrs. Burnham who read the brief
message it bore:
_Mother worse. Come._
_Annie._
“Who is Annie?” she inquired, handing back the telegram.
“My niece.” Mrs. Ward wiped her eyes with a corner of the sheet and
thereby concealed from view a red and green string which had slipped
from under the bolster in her exertions of searching for the telegram.
“My sister died just after I got there.” Mrs. Ward was talking volubly
as she pushed the string safely beneath the bedclothes. “Her death was
a great grief; and on top of it, I found a dead man here--it clean
bowled me over, for I’m not as young as I was, Mrs. Burnham.”
Mrs. Burnham considered her housekeeper in silence; she was certainly
thinner than she had seen her in some time, and there were heavy lines
in her face which had not been in evidence a week before. Another look
at the empty breakfast dishes convinced Mrs. Burnham that the two
spots of color in Mrs. Ward’s cheeks came from temper and not from
temperature, unless so much food had made her ill. Had she really eaten
it all herself? From where she sat Mrs. Burnham had a good view under
the four-post bed occupied by the housekeeper; certainly no one was
concealed there. Bending a little forward, she managed to see inside
of the closet, the door of which stood partly open; no one was there.
Mrs. Burnham sighed. She did not like mysteries, her forte did not lie
in solving them. The bedroom and the sitting room and bath opening from
it, all of which were given over to Mrs. Ward, were just above her
boudoir, and the room’s shape, like the boudoir, was octagonal.
A discreet knock on the door broke the silence, and in response to Mrs.
Burnham’s “Come in,” the pretty chambermaid entered.
“Mr. Burnham wishes to see you, ma’am,” she said.
Mrs. Burnham rose instantly. “Don’t go, Cora; I want you to help Mrs.
Ward dress.” Meeting the housekeeper’s irate glare, she continued
unruffled: “It is too weakening for you to remain in bed, Matilda, Cora
will bring your meals to your sitting room to-day. To-morrow--we’ll see
how you are to-morrow,” and with a friendly wave of her hand she left
the housekeeper glaring indignantly at the smiling Cora.
Mrs. Burnham went at once to her husband’s bedroom; not finding him
there, she went to her own room, and from there to her boudoir. Her
husband dropped the newspaper he was reading and looked up impatiently
as she appeared.
“Upon my word, Peter,” she said. “Dr. Hayden orders you to stay in bed
and Matilda to get up; instead of which you get up and she stays in
bed--nice obedient patients you are!”
“Hayden’s a fool!” growled Burnham. “I must go down to Palmer’s office
this morning, Lillian; now, I don’t wish to discuss the matter with
you, just call a taxi--there’s a dear.”
Instead of complying with his request Mrs. Burnham sat down in the
nearest chair and contemplated her husband.
“Dan Maynard has gone to see Jim and is bringing him back to lunch,”
she said. “You will have to possess your soul in patience until then,
Peter. I have no idea of letting you go out with your temperature.”
“Temperature! Fiddle-sticks! I am just a bit feverish.” Burnham stroked
his cheek until he became conscious that his wife was regarding the
strip of plaster across his face with interest. “I scratched myself in
shaving,” he explained hurriedly. “I wish you wouldn’t sit there and
look at me.”
Mrs. Burnham laughed as she leaned forward and picked up her knitting
bag from her sewing table. “I am afraid, my dear, you will have to
learn to control your nerves; especially if you want to shave yourself
and preserve your good looks at the same time,” she remarked kindly.
“Go on reading your paper, Peter.”
Burnham kicked the paper contemptuously. “Nothing in it but war news,”
he said. “I’m sick of the war.”
“So are we all, but we are going to win it just the same.” Mrs.
Burnham shook the khaki sweater she was knitting with vigor. “Every
stitch helps.”
“Hump! You knitters remind me of the women who sat at the foot of the
guillotine in the French Revolution,” grumbled Burnham. “I never saw a
woman yet who wasn’t attracted by crime and war is a gigantic crime.”
“Peter!” Mrs. Burnham straightened up and her indignation was plainly
manifest. “You must be out of your head; don’t utter any more such
remarks in my presence.”
“Well, why don’t you order that taxi-cab?”
“Because Dr. Hayden said you were to--What is it, Jones?” she broke off
to ask as the butler came into the room.
“Mr. Palmer, ma’am.”
“Ask him up.” Burnham half rose, then sank back and his wife observed
his sudden pallor with concern. “Would you mind leaving us together,
Lillian? I want to speak to Palmer confidentially about my--my affairs.”
“Are you strong enough? Better wait, Peter,” she coaxed; an obstinate
frown was her only answer, and before she could raise further
objections James Palmer was ushered in by Jones.
“You come at an opportune moment, James,” exclaimed Mrs. Burnham,
shaking hands cordially. “Peter was determined to go and see you,
notwithstanding I told him Dan Maynard would bring you back to lunch
with us.”
Burnham, who had darted an impatient look at his wife, pointed to a
chair near the one he occupied.
“Sit down,” he suggested. “The police have barred us from the library;
most insulting, I call it,” he added bitterly. “So we shall have to
smoke here; if you don’t mind, Lillian?”
“Not in the least.” Contrary to her husband’s hopes Mrs. Burnham made
no motion to leave the room, but instead went placidly on with her
knitting. “Did you meet Evelyn downstairs, James?”
“No. I haven’t seen her since last night, when, calling on Mrs. Van
Ness, I found her there.” Palmer paused to pick up the newspaper which
lay at his feet, and folded it neatly before laying it on the sewing
table.
“Mrs. Van Ness,” repeated Burnham thoughtfully. “Oh, didn’t Captain La
Montagne mention last night that he was looking for Marian Van Ness’
apartment, Palmer?”
“Yes.” Palmer looked over at Burnham and their glances met. “The
captain was with Mrs. Van Ness and Evelyn when I called there.”
Mrs. Burnham missed a stitch and when she again looked up from her
knitting she found her husband gazing out of the window and Palmer
just lighting a cigarette.
“With your permission,” he said, holding it up.
“Certainly; I don’t object to tobacco smoke.” She was about to resume
her knitting when her glance strayed through the open door by which she
sat and she recognized Dr. Hayden coming down the hall. “Excuse me,”
she exclaimed, “I’ll be back in a moment,” and she slipped out of the
room before her husband looked around.
Hurrying down the hall Mrs. Burnham encountered Hayden near her bedroom
and with a bare word of greeting opened the door and led him inside the
room.
“You have two rebellious patients, Doctor; my husband and Mrs. Ward,”
she began.
“Mrs. Ward shouldn’t give you any concern,” replied Hayden. “She has
recovered; but your husband had a touch of fever last night which may
make him a bit, eh, fractious,” hesitating for a word as he saw how
worried she was.
“Oh, I am not anxious about Peter, I can manage him,” she said
confidently. “It’s Mrs. Ward; why is she malingering?”
Hayden looked at her in surprise. “Is she?”
“In my opinion she is,” with emphasis. “Wait; I’ve noticed that
whenever the coroner or the detectives wish to interview her, Mrs. Ward
always becomes worse or says so, and just to satisfy myself I examined
the nurse’s chart and found nothing on it to indicate such changes in
her condition. To-day she refused to get up.”
“She did? But I told her last night----”
“I know, I heard you. She ate a large and substantial breakfast and
then had the effrontery to tell me that she was too weak to get out
of bed. I know a sick woman when I see one,” ended Mrs. Burnham with
vigor, “and in my opinion she is no invalid.”
“I shall talk to her,” and Hayden’s square jaw became more pronounced.
“Do, please. Wait just a moment; why is she malingering?”
Hayden pondered the question before answering. “It may be, considering
her emotion after the discovery of the dead man and her attempts to
avoid interviews with Coroner Penfield and Detective Mitchell, that she
hopes to get out of attending the inquest as a witness.”
“I believe you’ve hit it,” ejaculated Mrs. Burnham. “I’ve been
questioning Mrs. Ward this morning about her actions on Monday and
Tuesday, and to be quite frank her answers did not ring true.”
“Ah, indeed. What did she say?”
“She stated that she left Chelsea a day earlier than she had intended
on the receipt of a telegram from her niece saying her mother was ill.
Mrs. Ward went on to say that her sister died shortly after her arrival
in Baltimore, and the shock of finding a dead man here on top of her
grief for her sister upset her.”
Hayden listened with close attention. “Did you see the telegram?”
“I did.”
“Then Mrs. Ward has told a straight story apparently.” Mrs. Burnham’s
expression grew peculiar and he asked quickly, “Have you reason to
doubt it?”
“Only this,” she hesitated. “Please keep this confidential. When I
engaged Mrs. Ward as my housekeeper three years ago she distinctly told
me that she had no relatives living in this country.”