I
In the Studio
Beatrice Faulkner paused a moment, on her way down the great staircase,
to gaze curiously at the footman in the lower hall.
A perfectly designed and nobly proportioned staircase is perhaps the
finest indoor background for a beautiful woman, but though Mrs. Faulkner
had often taken advantage of this knowledge, there was no such thought
in her mind just now. She descended the few remaining steps, her eyes
still fixed on the astonishing sight of a footman's back, when he should
have been standing at attention. He might not have heard her soft
footfall, but he surely had no business to be peering in at a door very
slightly ajar.
Faulkner's Folly was the realised dream of the architect who had been
its original owner. It was a perfect example of the type known in
England as Georgian and in our own country as Colonial, a style inspired
by the Italian disciples of Palladio, and as developed by Inigo Jones
and Christopher Wren, it had seemed to James Faulkner to possess the
joint qualities of comfort and dignity that made it ideal for a home.
The house was enormous, the rooms perfectly proportioned, and the
staircase had been the architect's joy and delight. It showed the wooden
wainscoting, which was handed down from the Jacobeans; broad, deep steps
with low risers, large, square landings, newels with mitred tops and
rather plain balusters. But the carved wood necessary to carry out the
plans, the great problems of lighting, the necessity for columned
galleries and long, arched and recessed windows, together with the
stupendous outlay for appropriate grounds and gardens, overtaxed the
available funds and Faulkner's Folly, in little more than two years
after its completion, was sold for less than its intrinsic value.
James Faulkner died, some said of a broken heart, but his wife had
weathered the blow, and was, at the present time, a guest in what had
been her own home.
The man who bought Faulkner's Folly was one who could well appreciate
all its exquisite beauty and careful workmanship. Eric Stannard, the
artist and portrait painter, of international reputation and great
wealth, and a friend of long standing, took Faulkner's house with much
joy in the acquisition and sympathy for the man who must give it up.
A part of the purchase price was to be a portrait of Mrs. Faulkner by
the master hand of the new owner; but Faulkner's death had postponed
this, and now, a widow of two years, Beatrice was staying at the
Stannards' while the picture was being painted. Partly because of
sentiment toward her husband's favourite feature of the house, and
partly because of her own recognition of its artistic possibilities,
Beatrice had chosen the stairs as her background, and rarely did she
descend them without falling into pose for a moment at the spot she had
selected for the portrait.
But on this particular evening, Beatrice had no thought of her picture,
as she noticed the strange sight of the usually expressionless and
imperturbable footman, with his face pressed against the slight opening
of the studio door.
"Blake," she said, sharply, and then stopped, regretting her speech. As
the Stannards' guest, she had no right or wish to reprove her hosts'
servants, but it was well-nigh impossible for her to forget the days of
her own rule in that house.
Even as she looked, the man turned toward her a white and startled
face,--it seemed almost as if he welcomed her appearance.
"Blake! What is it?" she said, alarmed at his manner. "What are you
doing?"
"I--heard a strange sound, Madame,--from the studio----"
"A strange sound?" and Beatrice came along the hall toward the footman.
"And the lights in there, just went out----"
"The lights went out! What do you mean, Blake? It is not your business
if lights in rooms are turned off or on, is it?"
"No, Madame--but--there, Madame! Did you not hear that?"
"Oh, yes, yes," and Beatrice paled, as an indistinct voice seemed to cry
faintly, "Help!" It was a horrible, gurgling sound, as of one in dire
extremity. "What can it be? Go in, Blake, at once! Turn on the lights!"
"Yes, Madame," and the trembling footman pushed open the door and felt
fumblingly in the dark for the electric switch.
It was only a few seconds, but it seemed an interminable time before the
lights flashed on and the great room was illuminated to its furthest
corners.
Beatrice, close behind the trembling footman, stood, stunned.
"I knew it was something dreadful!" Blake cried, forgetting in his shock
his conventional speech.
Beatrice gave one gasping "Oh!" and covered her face with her hands. But
in a moment she nerved herself to the sight, and stared, in a horrified
fascination, at the awful scene before her.
At the other end of the long room, in a great, carved armchair, sat Eric
Stannard, limp and motionless. From his breast protruded an instrument
of some sort, and a small scarlet stain showed on the white expanse of
his shirt bosom.
"Is he--is he----" began Beatrice, starting forward to his assistance, when
her bewildered eyes took in the rest of the scene.
Behind Stannard, and across the room from one another, were two women.
They were Joyce, his wife, and Miss Vernon, a model.
Joyce, only a few feet from her husband's left shoulder, was glaring at
Natalie Vernon, with a wild expression of fear and terror, Natalie was
huddled against the opposite wall, near the outer door, cowering and
trembling, her hands clutching her throat, as if to suppress an
involuntary scream.
Unable to take in this startling scene at a glance, Beatrice and Blake
stared at the unbelievable tableau before them. The man got his wits
together first.
"We must do something," he muttered, starting toward his master. "There
is some accident----"
As if by this vitalised into action, the two women behind Stannard came
forward, one on either side of him, but only his wife went near to him.
"Eric," she said, faintly, taking his left hand, as it hung at his side.
But she got no further. With one glance at his distorted face she sank
to the ground almost fainting.
"Who did this, sir?" Blake cried out, standing before Stannard. The
dying man attempted to raise his right hand. Shakingly, it pointed
toward the beautiful girl, his model.
"Natalie," he said, "not Joyce." The last words were a mere choking
gurgle, as his head fell forward and his heart ceased to beat.
"No!" Natalie screamed. "No! Eric, don't say----"
But Eric Stannard would say no word again in this world.
Beatrice Faulkner staggered to a divan and sank down among the pillows.
"Do something, Blake," she cried. "Get a doctor. Get Mr. Barry. Call
Halpin. Oh, Joyce, what does it all mean?"
Then Mrs. Faulkner forced herself to go to Joyce's assistance, and
gently raised her from the floor, where she was still crouching by her
husband's side.
"I don't--know--" returned Joyce Stannard, her frightened eyes staring in
tearless agony. "Did you kill him, Natalie?"
"No!" cried the girl. "You know I didn't! You killed him yourself!"
Halpin, the butler, came in the room, followed by Miller, who was
Stannard's own man.
Astounded, amazed, but not hysterical, these old, trusted and capable
servants took the helm.
"Telephone for Doctor Keith," Miller told the other, "and then find Mr.
Barry."
Barry Stannard was Eric's son by a former marriage; a boy of twenty, of
lovable and sunny disposition, and devoted to his father and to his
young stepmother. He soon appeared, for he had been found strolling
about the grounds.
He came in at Halpin's message, and seeing the still figure in the
armchair, sprang toward it, with a cry. Then, as suddenly, he turned,
and without a word or glance at any one else, he ran from the room.
Without touching it further than to assure himself that life was really
extinct, Miller stood, a self-appointed sentinel over the body of his
dead master. He looked curiously at the instrument of death, but said no
word concerning it.
There was more or less confusion. Several servants, both men and women,
came to the doors, some daring to enter, but except in one or two
instances, Miller ordered them out.
Annette, Mrs. Stannard's maid, he advised to look after the ladies, and
Foster, a houseman, he detailed to keep an eye on Barry.
"Where is Mr. Barry?" asked the man.
"I don't know," returned Miller, calmly. "He just stepped out--probably
he's on the terrace. Don't annoy him by intrusion, but be near if he
wants you."
The three women of the household said almost nothing. Mrs. Faulkner was
so stupefied by the situation, and the inexplicable attitude in which
she had found her hostess and the girl, Natalie, she could think of
nothing to say to either. And the two who had stood near the dying man,
as the light disclosed the group, were equally silent.
Annette proffered fans and _sal volatile_ impartially to all three, but
she, also, though usually too voluble, had no words.
After what seemed an interminable wait, Dr. Keith arrived.
"Stabbed," he said, briefly, as he examined the body, "and with one of
his own etching needles! Who did it?"
"With what?" exclaimed Mrs. Faulkner, looking puzzled.
"With an etching point--or needle. An artist's tool. Who did it?"
There was a silence, not so much awkward, as fraught with horror. Who
could answer this question, even by a surmise.
Blake threw himself into the breach.
"We don't know, sir," he said. "It was doubtless done in the dark, and,
when I turned up on the lights--the--the murderer had fled."
A half exclamation from Joyce seemed to deny this assertion, and
Natalie's lovely face again showed that hunted, terrified look that had
marked it at first.
"Where's Barry?" went on Dr. Keith.
"I am here," said young Stannard, himself, coming in from the terrace.
"Dr. Keith, I want this matter hushed up. I am master here now, and
horrible though it may all be, it will not lessen our trouble, but
rather increase it, if you have any investigation or inquiry made into
this thing."
Dr. Keith looked at the speaker in amazement. "You don't know what
you're talking about, Barry, my boy. It is not possible to ignore the
facts and causes of an occurrence of this sort. Do you know who stabbed
your father?"
"No, I do not. Nor do I want to know. Father is gone, no persecution of
any innocent person can restore him to life, and the criminal can never
be found."
"Why not? Why do you say that?"
"I feel sure of it. Oh, listen to me, Dr. Keith. Be guided by my wishes,
and do not seek the one who brought about my father's death. Joyce, you
agree with me, don't you?"
The young fellow had never addressed his father's wife more formally
than this; indeed, there was not much more than half a dozen years
between their ages, and Joyce, at twenty-seven or thereabouts, looked
almost as young as her stepson. There had always been good comradeship
between the two, and during the two years Joyce had been Stannard's wife
she and Barry had never had a word of disagreement or unpleasantness of
any sort.
About six weeks ago, Natalie Vernon, a professional model, had come to
pose for Stannard, and as she had proved most satisfactory, Eric had
informed his wife that he wished the girl to stay as a house guest for a
time. Joyce had voiced no objection, whatever she may have felt in her
heart, and had always treated Natalie with all courtesy and kindness.
The girl was a most exquisite beauty, a perfect blonde, with a face like
Dresden china and a form of fairylike grace. The soft pink and white of
her apple-blossom skin, the true sky colour of her eyes and the gleaming
gold of her wonderful hair were Greuze-like in their effects, yet of an
added piquancy and charm.
It is not to be wondered at that Barry promptly fell in love with her,
nor is it remarkable that Eric himself was more or less under the spell
of his beautiful model. A worshipper of all beauty, Stannard could not
help it if his soul bowed down to this masterpiece of Nature's.
A professional model Natalie was, but only for the draped figure. She
was but eighteen, had been well brought up and educated, but, obliged to
earn her own living, had found she had no resources of work except in
her God-given beauty. Posing was a joy to her, and she had posed for but
a few artists and those of the better, even best class. But Eric,
accustomed to having whatever he desired, was determined Natalie should
pose for some allegorical figures in a great picture on which he was
engaged. This she refused to do, and the more Stannard insisted the more
obdurate she became, until there was continual war between them on the
subject. And owing to this state of things, Natalie had decided she must
leave "Faulkner's Folly," and it was only Barry's entreaties that had
thus far kept her from fulfilling her intentions.
Joyce, herself a beautiful woman, of the dark-haired, brown-eyed type,
had often been a model for Eric's pictures, and if she resented being
superceded by this peaches and cream maiden, she never confided the fact
to those about her. Joyce Stannard was clever by nature, and she knew
the quickest way to make her impressionable husband fall desperately in
love with Natalie, was for her, his wife, to be openly jealous. So this
Joyce would not appear to be. She chaffed him gaily about his doll-faced
model and treated Natalie with the patronising generosity one would show
to a pretty child.
But if Joyce was clever, Natalie was too, and she took this treatment
exactly as it was offered, and returned it in kind. Her manner to her
hostess was entirely correct, well-bred and even indicative of
gratitude; but it also implied, with subtle touch, the older and more
settled state of Joyce, and gave a hint of contrast in the freshness of
Natalie's extreme youth and the permissibility of a spice of the madcap
in her ways.
But all these things, on both sides, were so veiled, so delicately
suggested, that they were imperceptible to any but the closest observer.
And now, whatever the facts of Eric Stannard's death might be shown to
be, now it must soon be made known that when the lights of the room
where he died were turned on, they had revealed these two--his wife and
his paid model--near his stricken body, already quivering with its last
few heartbeats.
In answer to Barry's question, Joyce lifted her white face. "I don't
know--" she said, slowly, "I suppose--as Dr. Keith says--these things must
be--be attended to in--in the usual way. But I, too, shrink from the awful
publicity and the harrowing experience we must go through,--Beatrice,
what do you think?"
Mrs. Faulkner replied, with a gentle sympathy: "I fear it won't matter
what we think, Joyce, dear. The law will step in, as always, in case of
a crime, and our opinions or wishes will count for nothing."
"I have sent for the Coroner and for the Police," said Dr. Keith, who
had given Halpin many whispered orders. "Now, Barry, don't be
unreasonable. You can no more stop the routine of the law's procedure
than the stars in their courses. If you know any facts you must be
prepared to state them truthfully. If not, you must say or do nothing
that will put any obstacle in the way of proper inquiry."
Dr. Keith was treating Barry like a child, and though the boy resented
it, he said nothing, but his face showed his hurt pride and his
disappointment.
"Tell us all you can of the facts of the attack," said Beatrice Faulkner
to the doctor.
"The simple facts are plainly seen," was the reply. "Some one standing
in front of Mr. Stannard, as he sat in his chair, intentionally stabbed
him with the etching needle. The instrument penetrated his flesh, just
above and a little to one side of the breast bone, piercing the jugular
vein and causing almost instant death."
"Could it not have been a suicide?"
"Impossible, Mrs. Faulkner. Stannard could not have managed that thrust,
and, too, the position of his hands precludes the theory of suicide. But
the Coroner and his physician will, I am sure, corroborate my statement.
It is a clear case of wilful murder, for, as you must see for yourself,
no accidental touch of that instrument would bring about such a deep
sinking of the point in a vital part of the victim."
"But, if I may ask, sir," said Miller, respectfully, "how could a
murderer see to strike such a blow in a dark room? While Mr. Stannard
_could_ have stabbed himself in the dark."
"Those points are outside my jurisdiction," returned the Doctor, looking
grave. "The Coroner and the Police Detectives will endeavour to give the
answers to your perfectly logical queries."
And then the men from Police Headquarters arrived.
II
Where They Stood
The countryside was in a tumult. A murder mystery at Faulkner's Folly,
of all places in the world! Rensselaer Park, the aristocratic Long
Island settlement, of which the celebrated house was the star exhibit,
could scarcely believe its ears as the news flew about. And the
criminal? Public opinion settled at once on an intruder, either
burglarious or inimical. Of course, a man of Eric Stannard's position
and personality had enemies, as well as friends, from Paris, France, to
Paris, Maine. Equally, of course, his enormous collection of valuable
art works and even more valuable jewels would tempt robbers.
But the vague rumors as to his wife or that darling little model girl
being implicated, were absurd. To be sure, the installation of Miss
Vernon as a house guest was a fling in the face of conventions, but Eric
Stannard was a law unto himself; and, too, Mrs. Stannard had always
introduced the girl as her friend.
The Stannards were comparatively new people at The Park, but Mrs.
Faulkner, whose husband had built the Folly, was even now visiting
there, and her sanction was enough for the community. It would, one must
admit, be thrillingly exciting to suspect a woman in the case, but it
was too impossible. No, it was without doubt, a desperate marauder.
Thus the neighbours.
But the Police thought differently. The report of the Post Patrolman who
first appeared upon the scene of the tragedy included a vivid
description of the demeanour of the two ladies; and the whole force,
from the Inspector down, determined to discover which was guilty. To
them the death of Eric Stannard was merely a case, but from the nature
of things it was, or would become, a celebrated case, and as such, they
were elated over their connection with it.
In due course, the Coroner's Inquest took place, and was held in the big
studio where Eric Stannard had met his death.
Owing to the personality of Coroner Lamson, this was not the perfunctory
proceeding that inquests sometimes are, but served to bring out the
indicative facts of the situation.
It was the day after the murder and the room was partially filled with
the officers of the law, the jury and a crowd of morbidly curious
strangers. It seemed sacrilege to give over the splendid apartment to
the demands of the occasion, and many of the audience sat timidly on the
edge of the luxurious chairs or stared at the multitudinous pictures,
statues and artistic paraphernalia. In the original plan the studio had
been a ballroom, but its fine North light and great size fitted it for
the workroom of the master painter. Nor was the brush the only implement
of Eric Stannard. He had experimented with almost equal success in
pastel work, he had done some good modelling and of late he had become
deeply interested in etching. And it had been one of his own etching
needles that had been the direct cause of his untimely death.
This fact was testified to by Doctor Keith, who further detailed his
being called to the house the night before. He stated that he had
arrived within fifteen minutes after Mr. Stannard--as the family had told
him--had breathed his last. Examination of the body had disclosed that
death was caused by the piercing of the jugular vein and the weapon,
which was not removed until later, was a tool known as an Etcher's
needle, a slender, sharp instrument, set in a Wooden handle, the whole
being not unlike a brad-awl. On being shown the needle, the Doctor
identified it as the instrument of death.
Blake, the footman, was next questioned. He was of calm demeanour and
impassive countenance, but his answers were alert and intelligent.
"Too much so," thought Mr. Robert Roberts, a Police Detective, who had
been put upon the case, to his own decided satisfaction. "That man knows
what he's talking about, if he is a wooden-face."
Now, Roberts, called by his chums, Bobsy, was himself alert and
intelligent, and therefore recognised those traits in others. He
listened attentively as Coroner Lamson put his queries.
"You were the first to discover your master's dead body?"
"Mr. Stannard was not dead when I entered the room," replied Blake.
"No, no, to be sure. I mean, you were the first to enter the room after
the man was stabbed?"
"That I can't say. When I entered----" Blake paused, and glanced
uncertainly about. Barry Stannard was looking at the footman with a
stern face.
Inspector Bardon, who was present, interposed. "Tell the story in your
own words, my man. We'll best get at it that way."
"I was on duty in the hall," began Blake, slowly, "and I noticed the
lights go out in the studio here----"
"Was the door between the hall and studio open?" asked Lamson.
"No, sir, not open, but it was a very little ajar. I didn't think much
about the light going out, though Mr. Stannard never turned off the
lights when he left the room to go upstairs to bed. And if it did strike
me as a bit queer, I had no time to think the matter over, for just then
I heard a slight sound,--a gasping like, as if somebody was in distress.
As I had not been called, I didn't enter, but I did try to peep in at
the crack of the door. This was not curiosity, but there was something
in that gasp that--that scared me a little."
"What next?" said the Coroner, as Blake paused.
"Just then, sir, Mrs. Faulkner came down the stairs. She was surprised
to see me peeping at a door, and spoke chidingly. But I was so alarmed,
I forgot myself, and--well, and just then, I heard a distinct sound--a
terrible, gurgling sound, and a voice said, 'Help!' I turned to Mrs.
Faulkner to see if she had heard it, and she had, for her face looked
frightened and she asked me what it meant, and she told me to go in and
turn on the light. So--so, I did, and then I saw----"
"Be very careful now, Blake; tell us exactly what you saw."
"I saw Mr. Stannard first, at the other end of the room, in his
favourite big chair, and he was like a man dying----"
"Have you ever seen a man die?" Lamson snapped out the words as if his
own nerves were at a tension.
"No--no, sir."
"Then how do you know how one would look?"
"I saw something had been thrust into his breast, I saw red stains on
his shirt front, and I saw his face, drawn as in agony, and his eyes
staring, yet with a sort of glaze over them, and his hands stretched
out, but sort of fluttering, as if he had lost control over his muscles.
I couldn't think other than that he was a dying man, sir."
"That is what I want you to tell, Blake. An exact account of the scene
as it appeared to you. Now the rest of it. Were you too absorbed in the
spectacle of Mr. Stannard's plight to see clearly the others who were
present?"
"No, sir," and the man's calm face quivered now. "It is as if
photographed on my brain. I can never forget it. Behind Mr. Stannard
were the two ladies, Mrs. Stannard and Miss Vernon."
"Directly behind him?"
"Not that, exactly. Mrs. Stannard stood behind, but off toward his left,
and Miss Vernon was behind, but toward the right."
"Show me exactly, Blake, where these two ladies stood," and Coroner
Lamson rose to see his demands fulfilled.
"Oh, sir," begged Blake, his frightened eyes wavering toward the members
of the household which employed him, "oh, sir--Mrs. Faulkner, sir,--she
came in with me,--she can tell better than I----"
"Mrs. Faulkner will be questioned in due time. You came in first; we
will hear your version and then hers. Be accurate now."
With great hesitancy, Blake stepped to the spots he had designated.
"Mrs. Stannard stood here," he said, indicating a position perhaps a
yard back and to the left of Stannard's chair, which was still in its
place.
"What was she doing?"
"Nothing, sir. One hand was on this table, and the other sort of clasped
against her breast."
"And Miss Vernon?"
"She was over here," and Blake, still behind the chair, crossed to its
other side, and stood near the outer door.
"How was she standing?"
"Against this small table, and the table was swaying back and forth,
like it would upset in a minute."
"And her hands?"
"They were both behind her, sir, clutching at the table."
"You have a wonderful memory, Blake," and the Coroner looked hard at his
witness.
"Not always, sir. But the thing is like a picture to my mind."
"Like a moving picture?"
"No, sir, nobody moved. It was like a tableau, sir----"
"And then," prompted Inspector Bardon.
At this point, Barry Stannard was again seen to look at Blake with a
glance of deep concentration.
"Important, if true," Detective Roberts said to himself. "Young Stannard
is afraid of the footman's further disclosures!"
Whether that was so or not, Blake suddenly lost his power of clear and
concise narration.
"Why, then----" he stammered, "then, all was confusion. I started toward
Mr. Stannard, it--it seemed my duty. And Mrs. Faulkner, she came toward
him----"
"And the two ladies behind him?"
"They came toward him, too, and Mrs. Stannard took hold of his hand----"
"Well?"
"Well, sir, I couldn't help it, sir--I blurted out, 'Who did this?' And
Mr. Stannard--he said----"
"_Said!_ Spoke?"
Attention was concentrated on the footman, and it is doubtful if any one
save Roberts noticed Barry Stannard's face. It was drawn in an agonised
protest at the forthcoming revelation. But Blake, accustomed to obeying
orders implicitly, continued to tell his story.
"Yes, sir, he spoke--sort of whispered, in a gasping way----"
"And what did he say?"
"He said, 'Natalie, not Joyce.'"
"You are sure?"
"Yes, sir," answered the stolid Blake. "And he sort of raised his hand,
pointing toward the lady."
"Pointing toward Miss Vernon, you mean?"
"Yes, sir."
Barry Stannard could stand it no longer. "I won't have this!" he cried.
"I won't allow this hysterical story of an ignorant servant to be told
in a way to incriminate an innocent girl. It's all wrong!"
The Coroner considered. It did seem too bad to listen to the vital
points of the story from an underling, when such tragic issues were at
stake.
"Sit down, for the present, Blake," he said. "Mrs. Faulkner, will you
give us your version of these events?"
Beatrice Faulkner looked very white and seemed loth to respond and then
with a sudden, determined air, she faced the Coroner, and said,
"Certainly. Will you ask questions?"
The beautiful woman looked even more stately in her mild acquiescence
than she had done on her first mute refusal. Her large, soft black eyes
rested on Joyce with a pitying air and then strayed to Natalie, the
little model, who was a mere collapsed heap of weeping femininity. With
a deep sigh, Beatrice turned to the Coroner.
"I am ready," she said, with the air of one accustomed to dictate times
and seasons.
A little awed, Coroner Lamson asked: "Do you corroborate the story as
just related by Blake, the footman?"
"Yes, I think so," and the witness drew her beautiful brows together as
if in an effort of recollection. Though fully thirty-five, Beatrice
Faulkner looked younger, and yet, compared to Joyce or Natalie she
seemed a middle-aged matron. "I am sure I agree with his facts as
stated, as to our entering the room, but I'm not sure he was able to
hear clearly the words spoken by Mr. Stannard. I was not."
"You were not?"
"No. I heard the indistinct mumble of the dying man, but I am not ready
to say positively that I clearly understood the words."
"You came down stairs just as Blake was peeping in at the door?"
"He wasn't peeping. He was, it seemed to me, listening. I, naturally,
thought it strange to see a footman prying in any way, and I called out
his name, reprovingly. Then, I suddenly realised that as he was not my
footman I had no right to reprimand him; and just then he turned his
full face toward me, and I saw that the man looked startled, and that
something unusual must be happening in the studio. He told me the lights
had just gone out, and even as he spoke we both heard that sighing
'Help!' It was a fearful sound, and struck a chill to my very heart. I
bade Blake turn on the light quickly, and then I followed him into the
room."
"Yes, Mrs. Faulkner, that is just as the footman told it. Now, will you
tell what you saw in the studio, and what you inferred from it."
"I saw Mr. Stannard in his arm chair, a dagger or some such thing
protruding from his breast, and blood stains on his clothing. I inferred
that some burglar or marauder had attacked him and perhaps robbed him."
"And how did you think this intruder had entered?"
"I didn't think anything about that. One doesn't have coherent thoughts
at such a moment. I realised that he had been stabbed, so of course, I
assumed an assailant. Then I saw his wife and Miss Vernon standing near
him, and I had no thought save to assist in any way I might. I cried out
to Blake to get a doctor, and then I went to Mrs. Stannard's side, just
as she was about to faint."
"Did she faint?"
"No, that is, she did not entirely lose consciousness, though greatly
agitated. And then, soon, the butler and Miller, Mr. Stannard's valet,
came in, and after that Barry came and--and everything seemed to happen
at once. Doctor Keith came----"
"One moment, Mrs. Faulkner, you are getting ahead of your story. What
about the words uttered by Mr. Stannard before he died?"
"They were so inarticulate as to be unintelligible."
"You swear this?"
"I do. If he said 'Joyce' or 'Natalie,' it is not at all strange,
considering that those two women were in his sight. But I repeat that he
did not say them in a connected sentence, nor did he himself mean any
real statement. It was the unconscious speech of a dying man. In another
instant he was gone."
Though outwardly calm, Beatrice Faulkner's voice trembled, and was so
low as to be scarcely audible. But she stood her ground bravely, and her
eyes met Barry's for a moment, in the briefest glance of understanding
and approval.
"Hum," commented the astute Roberts to his favourite confidant, himself,
"the Barry person is in love with the dolly-baby girl, and the queenly
lady is his friend, and she's helping him out. She isn't telling all she
knows, or if she is, she's colouring it to save the implicated ladies."
"What is your position in this house, Mrs. Faulkner?"
The faintest gleam of amusement passed over the white face. It was
almost as if he thought her a housekeeper or governess.
"I am a guest," she returned, simply. "I have been staying here a few
weeks for the purpose of having my portrait painted by Mr. Stannard."
"You previously owned this house, did you not?"
"My late husband, an architect of note, built it. Later, it was sold to
Mr. Stannard, who has lived in it nearly two years."
"Where were you just before you came down the stairs and saw Blake?"
"In the Drawing Room, on the second floor, at the other end of the
house. I had been entertaining a guest, and as he had just taken leave,
I went down stairs to rejoin my hostess."
"Where did you expect to find Mrs. Stannard?"
"Where I had left her, in the Billiard Room."
"You left her there? How long before?"
"An hour or so. There were several guests at dinner, and they had
drifted to the various rooms afterward."
"Who were the guests at dinner?"
"Mr. Wadsworth, who was with me in the Drawing Room; Mr. Courtenay, a
neighbour, and Mr. and Mrs. Truxton, who also live nearby."
"Mrs. Truxton, the jewel collector?"
"Yes; that is the one."
"There was no one else at dinner?"
"Only the family group; Mr. and Mrs. Stannard, Mr. Barry Stannard, Miss
Vernon and myself."
"Once again, Mrs. Faulkner, you attach no significance to the words,
'Natalie, not Joyce,' which Blake quotes Mr. Stannard as saying?"
Taken thus unexpectedly, Mrs. Faulkner hesitated. Then she said,
steadily: "I do not. They were the articulation of a brain already
clouded by approaching death. He merely named the people he saw nearest
to him."
"That is not true! Eric meant what he said!"
It was Joyce Stannard who spoke.
III
What They Said
With a vague idea of taking advantage of a psychological moment, Coroner
Lamson began to question Joyce.
"Why do you make that statement, Mrs. Stannard?" he said; "do you
realise that it is a grave implication?"
But Joyce, though not hysterical, was at high tension, and she said,
talking rapidly, "My husband's words were in direct answer to the
footman's question. Blake said, 'Who did this?' and Mr. Stannard, even
pointing to Miss Vernon, said, 'Natalie, not Joyce.' Could anything be
plainer?"
"It might seem so, yet we must take into consideration the fast clouding
intellect of the dying man, and endeavour thus to get at the truth. Will
you tell the circumstances of your entering the room, Mrs. Stannard?"
"Of course I will. I had been in the Billiard Room for some time, ever
since dinner, in fact----"
"Alone?"
"Not at first. Several were there with me. Then, later, all had
gone--and--I was there alone."
The speaker paused. She seemed to forget her audience and became lost in
recollection or in thought. She looked very beautiful, as she sat, robed
in her black gown of soft, thin material, with a bit of white turned in
at the throat. Her brown hair waved carelessly back to a loose, low knot
and her deep-set brown eyes, full of sorrow, grew suddenly luminous.
"Perhaps it wasn't Natalie," she said, speaking breathlessly. "Perhaps
it wasn't Miss Vernon--after all."
"We are not asking your opinion, Mrs. Stannard," said the Coroner,
stiffly; "kindly confine your recital to the facts as they happened."
But now, the witness' poise was shaken. Of a temperamental nature, Joyce
Stannard had thought of something or realised something that affected
the trend of her testimony.
Bobsy Roberts watched her with intense interest. "Well, Milady," he said
to her, mentally, "you've struck a snag in your well-planned defence.
Careful now, don't leap before you look!"
"Yes," said Joyce, but her quivering lip precluded further speech.
The Coroner was made decidedly uncomfortable by the sight of her beauty
and her distress, always a disquieting combination, and to hide his
sympathy, he repeated, brusquely, "The facts, please, as they occurred."
"I was in the Billiard Room," Joyce began again, "and I heard, in the
studio, a slight sound of some sort, and then the light in here went
out."
"Which was first, the sound or the sudden darkness?"
"The sound--no, the darkness. I don't really know. Perhaps they were
simultaneous."
"One moment; was the Billiard Room lighted?"
"Yes."
"And the door between open?"
"The sliding doors were open--the curtains pulled together."
Glancing at the heavy tapestry curtains in question, Mr. Lamson said
quickly: "If they were pulled together, and the room where you were was
light, how could you notice when this room went dark?"
Joyce looked bewildered. "I don't know," she said, blankly, "how could
I?"
The question was so naive, and the brown eyes so puzzled and troubled,
that Bobsy Roberts whistled to himself. But not for want of thought. His
thoughts flocked so fast he could scarcely marshal them into line. "Of
course," his principal thought was, "one of these women is guilty. If
the crime had been committed by a burglar they wouldn't have any of this
back and forth kiyi with their eyes. Now, the question is, _which_ one?"
Joyce and Natalie had exchanged many glances. But to a stranger they
were unreadable, and Roberts contented himself with storing them up in
his memory for future consideration. And now, as Joyce looked confused
and nonplussed, Natalie seemed a bit triumphant, but she as quickly
drooped her eyes and veiled whatever emotion they showed.
"But you are sure you did know when the studio lights went out?" pursued
Lamson.
"Why, yes--I think so. You see--it was all so confused----"
"What was?"
"Why,--the lights,--and that queer sound--and----"
"Go on, Mrs. Stannard. Never mind the lights and the sound. You entered
the studio from the Billiard Room, and saw----?"
"I didn't see anything!" declared Joyce, with a sudden toss of her head.
"I c-couldn't. It was dark, you know. Then somebody, Blake, you know,
turned the switch, and I saw Miss Vernon standing by my dying
husband's----"
"How did you know he was dying? Did you see Miss Vernon strike the
blow?"
"No. But she was in the room when I entered--and, too, Eric said it was
Natalie and not--me."
"You are prepared to swear that Miss Vernon was in the room before you
were?"
"She was there when I went in."
"But it was dark, how could you see her?"
"I didn't. I heard her breathing in a quick, frightened way."
"And when you first saw her?"
"She was cowering back against the little paint stand."
"Looking terrified?"
"Yes, and----"
"And what?"
"And guilty." Joyce said the words solemnly, as one unwillingly
pronouncing a doom.
"Mrs. Stannard, I must be unpleasantly personal. Can you think of any
reason why Miss Vernon would desire your husband's death?"
Joyce trembled visibly. "I cannot answer a question like that," she
said, in a low tone.
"I'm sorry,--but you must."
"No, then," and Joyce looked squarely at Natalie. "I cannot imagine why
she should desire his death. I certainly cannot."
"But any reason why she should dislike him, or wish him ill?"
"N-no."
"Think again."
"My husband was a great artist," Joyce began, as if thinking it out for
herself. "He was accustomed to having his models do as he requested.
Miss Vernon was not always amenable to his wishes and--and they were not
very good friends."
"But you and Miss Vernon are good friends? You like her?"
Joyce favoured Natalie with a calm stare. "Certainly," she said, in an
even voice, "I like her."
"Whew!" breathed our friend Roberts, silently. "At last I see what one
Mr. Pope meant when he wrote:
"Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer,
And, without sneering, cause the rest to sneer."
For, surely, Joyce's attestation of friendship between herself and the
artist's model convinced nobody. She sat, gracefully erect, her serious
face blank of any emotion, yet impressing all with the sense of profound
feeling beneath.
"In what ways did Miss Vernon incur Mr. Stannard's displeasure?" asked
Lamson.
"Merely on some technical matters connected with her posing for his
pictures," was the nonchalant reply.
"That, then, could scarcely be construed into a motive for murder?"
"Scarcely." Joyce seemed to give a mere parrot-like repetition of the
Coroner's word.
"Yet, you are willing to believe that Miss Vernon is the criminal we are
seeking?"
"I do not say that," and Joyce spoke softly. "I can only say I saw her
here when I came into this room and found my husband dying."
"Might she not have come in just as you did, attracted by that strange
sound, as of a man in pain?"
"In that case, who could have stabbed my husband? There was no one else
near. That has been testified by those who entered at the other end of
the room."
"Could not a burglar have entered by a window, attempted robbery, and,
being discovered, stabbed Mr. Stannard in self-preservation?"
"How could he have entered?" said Joyce, dully.
"I can see no way. That is, he might have been in here, but in no way
could he have gotten out. That great North window, I am told, opens only
in a few high sectional panes. It is shaded by rollers from the bottom,
and is inaccessible. The other large window, the West one, is so blocked
up with easels, canvases and casts, that it is certain nobody could get
in or out of that. The door to the main hall was, of course, in full
sight of Blake the footman, and that leaves only the South end of the
room to be considered. Now no intruder could have gone out by the door
to the Billiard Room or the door to the Terrace without having been seen
by you or Miss Vernon, who claims she was on the Terrace all evening."
Every one present looked around at the Studio. They saw a spacious room,
about forty feet long by thirty wide, its lofty ceiling fully twenty
feet high. An enormous fireplace was on the side toward the house, and
above it ran an ornamental balcony, reached by a light staircase at
either end. The fine, big windows were of stained glass, save where
ground glass had been put in to meet the artist's needs. Originally a
ballroom, the decorations were ornate but in restrained and harmonious
taste. There were priceless rugs on the floor, priceless works of art
all about, and furnishings of regal state and luxury. Yet, also, was
there the litter and mess of working materials and mediums--seemingly
inseparable from any studio, however watched and tended. Here would be a
stunning Elizabethan chair, all carved wood and red velvet, heaped high
with paintboxes and palettes; there, an antique chest of marvellous
workmanship, from whose half-open lid peeped bits of rare drapery stuffs
or quaintly-fashioned garments. Tables everywhere, of inlay or
marquetry, were piled with sketches, boxes of pastels, or small casts.
Jugs and vases, fit only for museum pieces, held sheafs of
paint-brushes, while scores of canvases, both blank and painted, stood
all round the wall.
The armchair, in which Eric Stannard had sat when he died, was
undisturbed, also the tables near it. A new idea seemed to strike
Lamson. He said, "When you came in in the darkness, Mrs. Stannard, how
did you avoid stumbling over the chairs and stands in your way? I count
four of them, practically in the course you must have pursued."
Joyce looked at the part of the room in question. True, there were four
or more small pieces of furniture that would have bothered one coming in
without a light.
"That's so!" she said, as if the idea were illuminating. "I must have
come in just after or at the very moment that Blake lighted the
electrics!"
"And found Miss Vernon already here?"
"Yes," said Joyce.
"Miss Vernon, will you tell your story?" said Lamson, abruptly, turning
from Joyce to the girl.
"Why--I----" Natalie fluttered like a frightened bird, and gazed piteously
at the inquisitor. "I don't know how."
"Good work!" commented Bobsy Roberts, mentally. "Smart little girl to
know how the baby act fetches 'em!"
But if Natalie Vernon's air of helplessness was assumed, it was
sufficiently well done to convince all who saw it.
"Poor little thing!" was in everybody's mind as the rosebud face looked
pleadingly at the Coroner. At that moment, if she had declared herself
the guilty wretch, nobody would have believed her.
Lamson's abruptness vanished, and he said, gently, "Just a simple
description, Miss Vernon, of your presence in this room last night."
"It was this way," she began, and her face drew itself into delicious
wrinkles, as she chose her words. "I had been, ever since dinner,
almost, on the terrace."
"Alone?"
"Oh, no. Different people were there. Coming and going, you know. Well,
at last, I chanced to be there alone----"
"Who had been with you latest?"
"Let me see," and the palpable effort to remember was too pronounced to
be real, "I guess--yes, I'm sure it was Barry,--Mr. Barry Stannard. And he
went away----"
"Where?"
"I don't know. For a stroll with the dogs, probably. I was about to go
upstairs to my room, when I heard a sound in the studio that seemed
queer."
"How, queer?"
"As if somebody were calling me--I mean, calling for somebody."
"Did you hear your name?" and Lamson caught at the straw.
"Oh, no, just a general exclamation, it was. And I went toward the door
to listen, if it might be repeated."
"Was the door open?"
"No, but it has glass in it, with sash curtains, and these were a little
way open, and I could see through them that the light went out
suddenly----"
"Well?"
"And then I went right in, without making a sound----"
"Didn't it make a sound as you opened the door?"
"The door was open."
"You said it was not."
"Oh, I don't know whether it was or not! I was so scared to see
Eric,--Mr. Stannard, dead or dying, and his wife standing there as if she
had just----"
"Just what? Killed him?"
"Yes," and Natalie's big blue eyes were violet with horror. "She had!
And she stood there, just as Blake said, one hand on the table, and one
clutched to her breast. She did do it, Mr. Coroner. She must have been
out of her mind, you know, but she did it, for I saw her."
"Saw her kill him?"
"No, not that. But I saw her just after the deed was done, and she was
the picture of guilty fear!"
If Natalie could have been transferred to canvas as she looked then, the
picture would have made any painter's fortune. The girl was in white,
soft, crêpy wool stuff, that clung and fell in lovely lines, for the
gown had been designed by no less a genius than Stannard himself. It was
his whim to have Natalie about the house in the gowns in which he posed
her, that he might catch an occasional unexpected effect. But the simple
affair was not out of place as a morning house-gown, and more than one
woman in the audience took careful note of its cut and pattern. Her
golden hair was carelessly tossed up in a mass of curls, held with one
hair-pin, a huge amber thing, that threatened every minute to slip out,
and one couldn't help wishing it would. Her wonderful eyes had long dark
lashes, and her pink cheeks were rosy now, because of her nervous
excitement. So thin was her delicate skin that her hands and throat were
flushed a soft pink and her curved lips were scarlet. Yet
notwithstanding the marvellous colouring, there was not one iota of
doubt that it was Nature's own. The play of rose and white in her
cheeks, the sudden occasional paling of the red lips and the perfection
of the tiny shreds of curl that clustered at her throbbing temples all
spoke of the real humanity of this girl's beauty. Small wonder the
artist wanted her for his own pictures exclusively! Joyce was a
beautiful woman, but this child, this fairy princess, was a dream, a
very Titania of charm and wonder.
Not by her testimony, not by words of assertion, but by her ethereal,
her incredible beauty, this wonder-girl took captive every heart and,
without effort, secured the sympathy and belief of everybody present.
And yet, the Coroner had to do his duty. Had to say, in curt, accusing
tones, "Then how do you explain Mr. Stannard's dying words, 'Natalie,
not Joyce!'?"
The red lips quivered, the roseleaf cheeks grew pinker and great tears
formed in the appealing blue eyes.
"Don't ask me that!" she cried; "oh, pray, don't ask me _that_!"
"But I do, I must ask you. And I must ask you why you stabbed him? Had
he asked you to pose in any way to which you were unwilling to consent?
Had he insisted, after you refused? Was he tyrannical? Brutal? Cruel?
Did you have to defend yourself? Was it on an impulse of sudden anger or
indignation?"
"Stop! Stop!" cried Natalie, putting her pink finger tips into her tiny,
rosy ears. "Stop! He was none of those things! He was good to me,
he--he----"
"Good to you, yet you killed him! Kind to you, yet you took his life----"
"I didn't! I tell you I didn't! It was Joyce! She----"
"Miss Vernon, if you came into the room in the dark, how could you
effect an entrance without upsetting something? There are even more
small racks and stands on that side of the room than the other."
"No, I didn't upset anything----" and Natalie stared at him.
"Then you came in before the room was darkened,--long before,--and you
darkened it yourself, after you had driven the blow that ended the life
of your friend and patron."
Coroner Lamson paused, as the dawn-pink of Natalie's face turned to a
creamy pallor, and the girl sank, unconscious, into a chair.
"Brutal!" cried Barry Stannard, springing to her side. "Inexcusable, Mr.
Lamson. This is no place for a Third Degree procedure!" and asking no
one's permission, he carried the slight form from the studio.
IV
Goldenheart
A murmur of indignation sounded faintly through the room. Public Opinion
was not with the Coroner, however black the case might look against the
pretty little model. For "model," Natalie was always called, in spite of
the fact that she was an honoured guest in the Stannard's house. And she
looked like a model. Her manners, though correct in every way, were not
those of an ingenuous flapper or a pert débutante. She had the poise and
assurance of a woman of the world, with the appearance of an innocent,
rather than ignorant, child. But her self-reliance, though it had given
way before the Coroner's accusation, was always evident in the clear
gaze of her apprehending eyes and the set of her lovely head. Moreover,
she had that precious possession called _charm_ to an infinite degree.
It was the despair of the artists who had painted her, and Eric
Stannard, unwilling to be baffled, had tried a hundred times, more or
less successfully, to fasten that charm in colour medium. Of late, he
had tried it in his etching. An unfinished piece of work was a waxed
plate bearing an exquisite portrayal of Natalie as Goldenrod. This he
had previously painted, and the result, a study in yellow, was his copy
for the etching. The canvas showed the girl, her arms full of goldenrod,
her yellow gown and her yellow hair against a background of yellow
autumn leaves. It was a masterpiece, even for Stannard. And aside from
the colour, the lines were so beautiful that he decided to make an
etching of the study.
The waxed plate, with this design, had been found on the floor near
Eric's chair, after his death. The wax had been scratched and smudged,
quite evidently by some furious hand, and the scratches and
disfigurements were doubtless made by the very instrument that had
caused the artist's death.
This was indicative, beyond a doubt; but what was indicated? That
Natalie, in a fit of anger at Eric, had destroyed his picture of her?
Or, that Joyce, in a jealous rage, had resented the portrait?
The painting, as Natalie had posed for it, was a lovely girl in a full
flowing robe of soft, opaque stuff, showing only a bit of throat and
shoulder, and one rounded arm. The etching, as the artist had drawn it,
garbed the figure in a filmy, transparent drapery, revealing lines that
gave a totally different character to the work.
Natalie Vernon was a prude, there was no denying that. Whether she was
absurdly fanatical on the subject or not, was her own affair. But could
an indignant girl go so far as to kill an artist who had drawn her in a
way she didn't care to be portrayed? It was most unlikely. Still, there
was latent fire in those blue eyes, there was force of character in
those curved scarlet lips, and if Miss Vernon chose to be an unusual,
even eccentric model, she was important enough to make her own terms and
insist upon them. And in a furious moment of surprised indignation, what
might not a woman do?
Again, could it not be that the artist's wife had had her jealousy
stirred to its depths by this latest result of her husband's interest in
the model? Could she not, coming upon him as he mused over his drawing
on the wax, have snatched the etching tool from his table and revenged
her slighted wifehood?
"It's a poor clue that won't work both ways," mused Bobsy Roberts, as he
heard of this etching business. The story of it had been told while
Natalie was out of the room. Joyce listened with an unruffled
countenance. Either she was uninterested, or determined to appear so.
Coroner Lamson next called as witnesses the guests who had been at
dinner the night before.
The first, a Mr. Wadsworth, told a straightforward story of the
occasion. He was a genial, pleasant man, a neighbour and a widower.
After dinner, he stated, he had been for a time with his host and others
in the studio. Mr. Stannard had shown some new gems, a recent addition
to his collection. After that, Mr. Wadsworth had gone to the Billiard
Room, and later, he and Mrs. Faulkner had gone to the Drawing Room at
the other end of the house. He had remained there with the lady until
perhaps half past eleven----
"Wait," interposed the Coroner. "Mrs. Faulkner came downstairs, after
your departure, at that hour."
"Then it must have been a little earlier. I didn't note the time. I went
directly home, and retired without looking at the hour."
"You went out at the front door?"
"Yes; Blake, the footman, let me out. I didn't look for my hostess as I
left, for we are on intimate neighbourly terms, and often ignore the
formalities."
There was nothing more to be learned from this witness, and the next was
Mr. Eugene Courtenay.
But one swift, intense glance passed between Courtenay and Joyce as the
witness took the stand. It was seen by no one but the keen-eyed Bobsy,
and to him it was a revelation.
"Oh, ho," was his self-communing, "sits the wind in that quarter? Now,
if his nibs and the stately chatelaine are--er--_en rapport_--it puts a
distinctly different tint on the racing steed! I must see about this."
Eugene Courtenay was a man of the world, about thirty years old, and a
near neighbour. He had been a suitor of Joyce's before she succumbed to
Stannard's Cave Man wooing, and since, had been a friend of both.
Easily and leisurely Courtenay gave his testimony, which was to the
effect that after the dinner guests had scattered into the various
rooms, he had been in the Billiard Room until he went home. Several
others had been there, but had drifted away, and he was for a time alone
there with his hostess. Then he had taken leave, going out from the
Billiard Room, which had an outside door. He had not gone directly home,
but had sauntered across a lawn, and had sat for a short time on a
garden seat, smoking. He had chanced to sit facing the studio South
window, and had noticed the light go out in that room. He thought
nothing of it, nor when, a few moments later the room was relit, did he
think it strange in any way. Why shouldn't people light and relight
their rooms as they chose? He then went home, knowing nothing of the
tragedy and heard nothing of it till morning. No further questioning
brought out anything of importance and Courtenay was dismissed.
Mr. and Mrs. Truxton gave no new information. They told of the dinner
party, and of the hours afterward. Mr. Truxton mentioned the jewels
exhibited by Eric Stannard, and dilated slightly upon them with the
enthusiasm of a gem lover, but neither he nor his wife could shed any
light on the mystery.
"Where are these jewels?" asked Lamson, suddenly, scenting a possible
robbery.
"I don't know," Joyce answered, listlessly. "Mr. Stannard kept some of
them in Safety Deposit and some in the house. He had a place of
concealment for them, but I preferred not to know where it is. When I
wished to wear any of the jewels he got them for me, and afterward put
them away again."
"Do you not think, Mrs. Stannard, that a burglar intent on securing
these gems might have attempted a robbery, and----"
"Come, come, Lamson," interposed Inspector Bardon, "a burglar would
scarcely make his attempt while the household was still up, the house
alight, and people sauntering through the grounds."
"No, of course not," responded the Coroner, in no wise abashed.
Next, Barry Stannard was asked to tell what he could of the whole
matter.
"It was the work of a burglar," said young Stannard, confidently; "it
simply shows his cleverness that he chose a time when he could effect an
entrance easily. He need not have been a rough customer. He may have
been of a gentlemanly type,--even in evening clothes. But he gained
access to my father, I haven't the slightest doubt, and brought to bear
some influence or threat that he hoped would gain him his end. When my
father refused his demands,--this is my theory and belief,--he either
feared discovery or, in a rage of revenge, killed my father with the
nearest weapon he could snatch at."
"And then, you think, Mr. Stannard, that this intruder turned off the
lights and made his exit just before the ladies entered the room?"
"I do. He was evidently a cool hand, and made a quick and clever
getaway."
"And just how did he leave the room? You know, Mrs. Stannard was in the
Billiard Room and Miss Vernon on the Terrace, while Blake was at the
main hall door."
"He made his escape by the large West window," replied Barry. "If you
will examine it on the outside, you will see the marks of the jimmy, or
whatever you call the tool that burglars open windows with."
An officer was sent at once to investigate this, and returned with the
information that there certainly were marks and scratches outside the
window in question. It was a long, French window, opening like a double
door, and near the lock were the tell-tale marks.
Bobsy Roberts cast one comprehensive glance at the West window, and then
closed and reopened one of his rather good-looking grey eyes. He glanced
at Barry, and observed, silently, "Some scheme!" after which, he calmly
awaited developments.
"But how can we think that a man entered at that window," said Lamson,
"when we notice how it is filled with furniture and apparatus?"
"It might have been managed," asserted Barry.
And then Bobsy Roberts spoke out loud. "It couldn't be," he said,
positively. "No one could, by any chance or skill, come in or go out by
that window without moving those plaster casts that are on the floor. No
one could do it without overturning that small easel, whose leg is
directly in the path of the window frame as it swings back. If you will
try it, Inspector, you will see what I mean."
It was true. Even though the window might be opened, it would crash into
and knock over the small, light-weight easel, which held an unfinished
picture on a mounted canvas. And it would also knock down some casts
which leaned against it.
Barry looked crestfallen, the more so, that now the Coroner regarded him
with a sort of suspicion.
"Mr. Stannard," he said, "I don't want to do you an injustice, but your
theory is so suspiciously implausible, that I can't help thinking you
might have made those scratches on the window yourself, for the purpose
of diverting suspicion."
"I did," Barry blurted out, almost like a school-boy. "And I am not
ashamed of it. My father's death is a mystery. So much of a one that I
feel sure it will never be solved. For that reason, I did and do want to
turn your mind away from the absurd and utterly unfounded presumption
you make that the crime could have been committed by either of the two
ladies who, hearing my father's dying struggles, rushed to his
assistance."
"That may be the case," said Lamson, "with one of the ladies you refer
to. But the other is, to all appearances the one responsible for the
crime. It is my duty to prove or disprove this, even though the position
and high character of the ladies make it seem impossible."
"It is impossible!" protested Barry. "I know of facts and conditions
which make it possible and probable that an outsider, a--well, a
blackmailer, perhaps,--might have attacked my father. This is outside of
discovery or proof, but I request,--I demand that you cease to persecute
your present suspects!"
The boy, for in his passionate tirade he seemed even younger than usual,
quivered with the tensity of his emotion and faced the Coroner with a
belligerent antagonism that would have been funny in a case less grave.
Roberts regarded him with interest. "Some chap!" he thought. "I wonder,
now, if he did it himself,--and is trying to scatter the scent. No, I
fancy it's his fear for the dolly-baby girl, and he jimmied the door in
a foolish attempt to make a noise like a burglar."
"Do you know where your father kept his jewels?" asked Lamson, suddenly,
and Barry started, as he said, "No, I've no idea. That is, the ones in
the house. The others are in deposit with the Black Rock Trust Company."
"Who does know the whereabouts of those kept in the house?"
But nobody seemed to know. Joyce had said she did not. Barry disclaimed
the knowledge. Inquired of, Miller, the valet, did not know. Nor Halpin,
the old Butler, nor any of the other servants.
It would seem that Eric Stannard had concealed his treasures in a
hiding-place known only to himself. An officer was sent to search his
personal rooms, and in the meantime Joyce was subjected to a further
grilling.
Exhausted by the nervous strain, her calm, handsome face was pale and
drawn. Wearily, she answered questions that were not always necessary or
tactful.
At last, when Lamson was trying to draw from her an account of what she
was doing or thinking after Courtenay had left her alone in the Billiard
Room, she seemed to lose both patience and control, and burst forth,
impulsively, "I was listening at the Studio door!"
"Ah! And what did you hear?"
"I heard my husband say, 'No, no, my lady, I will not divorce Joyce for
you!' and then he laughed,--a certain laugh of his that I always called
the trouble laugh,--a sarcastic, irritating chuckle, enough to exasperate
anybody,--_anybody_, beyond the point of endurance!"
The Coroner almost gasped, but fearing to check the flow of speech that
promised so much, he said, quietly, "Did you hear anything further?"
"I did. I heard him say, 'I'll give you the emeralds, if you like, but I
really won't marry you.'"
"Your husband was not a cruel man, Mrs. Stannard?"
"On the contrary, he was gentleness itself. He was most courteous and
gallant toward all, but if any one went counter to his wishes or
opinions, he invariably used a good-natured, jeering tone that was most
annoying."
"And to whom were these remarks that you overheard, addressed?"
"How can you ask? I was just about to go into the room, as I felt it my
right, when, at that very moment, the light was extinguished. I was so
surprised at this, that I stood there, uncertain what to do. Then
hearing Eric gasp, as if in distress, I pushed the curtain aside and
went in. The rest, I have told you."
Joyce sat down, and as she did so, a wave of crimson swept over her
face. She looked startled, ashamed, as if she had violated a confidence
or told a secret, which she now regretted. Barry sat beside her, and he
was looking at her curiously.
Then the man who had been sent to search for the jewels returned. He
reported that he had not been able to find any trace of them, but
brought a note he had found on Mr. Stannard's writing desk.
Coroner Lamson read the note, and passed it over to Inspector Bardon.
Eventually it was read aloud. It ran thus:
Goldenheart:
You have a strange power over me--you can sway me to your will when I
am in your presence. But now, alone, I am my own man and my better
self protests at our secret. You know where the jewels are hidden.
Take the emeralds, if you like, and forgive and forget
Eric.
The note fell like a bombshell. Everybody gasped at this revelation of
the artist's intrigue with his model. Joyce turned white to her very
lips, and Barry flushed scarlet.
"Call Miss Vernon," commanded the Coroner, abruptly.
Natalie came in, looking lovelier than ever, and quite composed now.
Without a word, Lamson handed her the note.
The girl read it, and returned it. Except for the trembling of her lip,
which she bit in her endeavour to control it, she was calm and
self-possessed.
"Well?" said the Coroner, as gentle toward her now as he had been fierce
before, "what does that note to you mean?"
Natalie turned the full gaze of her troubled eyes on him. If her angel
face was ever appealing, it was doubly so now, when her drooped mouth
and quivering chin told of her desperate distress.
"It is not to me," she whispered.
"That's right," Bobsy Roberts thought; "stick to that, now. It's fine!"
"It was written to you, and left in Mr. Stannard's desk. Where are the
emeralds? Where are the other jewels hidden?"
"I do not know. I tell you that letter is not mine."
"Not yours, because you didn't receive it. But it was written to you,
and before it was sent, the writer told you, in so many words, the
purport of it here in this very room, and in a rage, you killed him."
Natalie stopped her accuser with a gesture of her hand. Her rosy palm
lifted in protest, she said, "Why do you believe Mrs. Stannard's story
and not mine? What _I_ saw in this room was the jealous wife, cowering
in an agony of fear and terror at sight of her own crime."
Lamson paused. He remembered that the testimony of the two disinterested
witnesses, Mrs. Faulkner and Blake, went to show that these two women
were both there, near the victim, within a brief moment of the crime
itself. Who should say which was guilty, the jealous wife or the
disappointed girl?
And another point. Mrs. Faulkner and Blake had told in detail the
succession of events at the critical moment of the turning off the
lights, of the cry for help, and of their entrance; might not Joyce have
timed her story by this, and claimed an entrance at the same moment?
And, also, might not Natalie merely have patterned her recital after
that of Joyce? Which woman was guilty?
V
Blake's Story
The sapient gentlemen of the Coroner's Jury concluded, after a somewhat
protracted discussion, that Eric Stannard met his death at those
convenient and ever available hands of a person or persons unknown. They
could not bring themselves to accuse either Joyce or Natalie, because
for each suspect they had only the evidence of the other's unsupported
story. And Public Opinion, as represented by the citizens of Rensselaer
Park, would have risen in a body to protest against a verdict that
implicated either or both of these two women. And yet, there were many
exceptions. Many of those whose voices were loudest in declaring the
innocence of Joyce and Natalie, expressed private views that stultified
their statements. And some, wagged their heads wisely, and whispered a
thought of Blake. But most stood out strongly for the burglar theory,
ignoring all obstacles in the way of the marauder's entrance, and
repeatedly insisting that the non-appearance of the jewels was
sufficient proof of robbery.
It may be that Barry's self-confessed scratching of the paint on the
window-frame turned the trend of thought toward a possible burglar or
blackmailer, even if he gained entrance some other way; and it may be
this was the loophole through which the two suspected people escaped
accusation.
But the interest of the police in these two was strengthened rather than
lessened, and their life and conduct were under close scrutiny.
Captain Steele, who had been assigned to the case, declared that he was
glad of the verdict, for it was better to have the suspects at large,
and he was a firm believer in the principle of giving people sufficient
rope and allowing them the privilege of hanging themselves.
Captain Steele was at The Folly, as the house was always called,--in
spite of the Stannards' attempts to use the more attractive name of
Stanhurst,--on the day after the inquest, and Detective Roberts was also
there and one or two other policemen and reporters.
Steele had appropriated the small Reception Room next the studio for his
quarters, and was going over with great care the reports of the
proceedings and evidence of the day before.
"You see, Bobsy," he said, "the burglar stunt won't work. I've tried,
and Carter, here, he's tried, and we couldn't come within a mile of
getting in or out among that art junk in the window, without making
noise and commotion enough to wake the dead."
"I know it," assented Bobsy. "Knew it all the time. Let's cut out Mr.
Burglar. Also, Blake was on the door all the evening, and he would have
looked in the studio in case of a racket."
"Sure. Now, I want to fix the time of the stab act. They all say about
half past eleven, but nobody knows exactly."
"Of course they don't. People in evening togs never know what time it
is. Why should they? They don't have to punch a clock. I think the
footman would just about know, though. Servants have their hours, you
know. And anyway, let's get that man in here."
Blake was summoned, and, though impassive as usual, seemed ready to
answer questions.
He retold his story, with no appreciable deviation from what he had
testified at the inquest.
"Are you sure it all occurred at half past eleven?" asked Steele.
"Yes, sir. I heard the chimes in the studio just before the light went
out."
"How long was the light out?" Roberts put in.
"I should say, not more'n a minute or so. I was that scared when I heard
the sounds, I can't tell about the length of time properly. But it
wasn't two minutes, I'm sure, between the studio light going off and me
turning it on."
"Would you have turned it on, if Mrs. Faulkner hadn't told you to?"
Blake considered. "I can't say. I think, yes, for I heard that 'Help!'
distinctly, for all it was so faint. And I think, if I'd been on my own,
I'd 'a' gone ahead. At such times a servant has to use his judgment,
sir."
"Right you are, Blake," said Bobsy, who had taken a liking to the
footman. "Now, tell us all you know of the whereabouts of every member
of the family--of the household."
"I don't know much as to that. You see, I was on the hall, and I could
only see those who passed through it."
"Well, go clear back, to dinner time, and enumerate them."
"Before dinner, everybody was in the Drawing Room, that's over the
dining room, at the East end of the house. Then they all came down the
grand staircase to dinner, and of course I saw them then. After dinner,
the ladies had their coffee on the Terrace and the gentlemen stayed at
the table. Then, when the men came out of the dining room, they pretty
much scattered all over the house. Everybody was in the studio at one
time, and then some went to the Billiard Room or in this Reception Room
we're now in, or up to the Drawing Room. Then, about eleven, Mr. and
Mrs. Truxton went home, and I showed them out. And Mrs. Faulkner and Mr.
Wadsworth were in the hall at the same time. But after the Truxtons
went, Mrs. Faulkner and Mr. Wadsworth went up to the Drawing Room. You
see,--er----"
"What, Blake?"
"Well, if I may say it, sir, he's--er--sweet on her, and they two went off
by themselves."
"I see," and Bobsy smiled. "Now, as to the other ladies, Mrs. Stannard
and Miss Vernon?"
"Of those I know nothing, for they didn't come around where I was."
"Nor any of the men?"
"No, sir. Well, then, next, Mr. Wadsworth, he came down, and I let him
out. He says, 'Good night, Blake,' sort of gay like, and I thought
perhaps Mrs. Faulkner had smiled on his suit, sir."
"Very likely. And then, Mrs. Faulkner came down?"
"Yes, but you see, just the moment before, I had heard this queer noise
in the studio, and I was listening at the crack of the door. I meant no
harm, and no curiosity,--but Mrs. Faulkner came in sight of me just then,
and she spoke to me. Then, the lights went out----"
"Why, you said they were out before the lady spoke to you."
"Oh, yes, that's right, they were. Well, it's small wonder I get mixed
up. They were, sir, because I told Mrs. Faulkner they were, and she said
it wasn't my place to comment on that. And she was right, it wasn't my
place, to be sure; but I was worried, that's what I was, worried, and
then we both heard the cry of 'Help!' and she told me to turn on the
studio lights and I did."
"Do they all obey one switch?"
"Yes, sir, that is, there's one main key right at the door jamb that
controls all. So when I turned it on, the whole room was ablaze."
"And of course, you couldn't help seeing the exact state of things.
Well, Blake, which lady do you think did it?"
"Oh, sir," and Blake's solemn face grew a shade more so, "I couldn't
say. I'm sure I don't know. But, it must have been one of them, there's
no getting around that. When I saw the three, as you might say, almost
in a row, and the two ladies, sir, both near to Mr. Stannard, sir, and
both looking--oh, I can't describe how they looked! Why if they were both
guilty they couldn't have looked different."
"They weren't both guilty!" cried Roberts. "It couldn't have been
collusion, eh, Steele?"
"Nonsense, of course not," returned Captain Steele; "one stabbed him,
and the other came in at the sound of his voice. The terror and shock of
the culprit and that of the innocent one would both be manifested by the
same expressions of horror and fright."
"I believe that," said Bobsy, after a minute's thought. "Now, Blake, as
to the actual means of getting in and out of that studio. Let's go in
there."
It was rather early in the morning and the members of the household were
as yet in their rooms. It was not the intention of the Police to intrude
upon them until after the funeral, but it was desirable to make certain
inquiries and investigations while the matter was fresh in the minds of
the servants.
Roberts intended to interview others of them afterward, but just now
Blake was proving so satisfactory that he continued to keep him by.
In the studio, both Steele and Roberts examined carefully the marks on
the West window casing.
"Idiot boy!" exclaimed Bobsy. "To think he could fool us into believing
this was professional work!"
"It shows a leaping mind on his part, to fly round here and fix it up so
quickly," said Steele, a bit admiringly.
"That's what Mr. Barry has, sir, the leaping mind," observed Blake, as
if pleased with the phrase. "Often he jumps to a conclusion or decision
that his father'd take hours to reach."
"Mr. Stannard was slow, then?"
"Not to say slow, in some things. He was like lightning at his work. But
as to a matter, now, that he didn't want to bother about, he would put
it off or dawdle about it, something awful."
"And you see," Bobsy went on, "there are only three doors and three
windows in the place. Now we have accounted for----"
"What's the gallery for?" asked Steele, gazing up at the gilded iron
scrollwork of the little balcony.
"Just for ornament, sir," Blake returned. "And I've heard Mr. Stannard
say, it was necessary, to break up that wall. You see, the ceiling is
some twenty feet high, and no windows on that side, being next the main
house."
"It's all one house,--there's no division?"
"No real division, sir, but this end,--the studio and Billiard Room on
this floor, and the rooms directly above,--are all Mr. Stannard's own,
and in a way separate from the rest of the house."
"His sleeping room is above the studio?"
"Yes, sir; and his bath and dressing-room and den. Mrs. Stannard's rooms
are next, over the Reception Room, and all the other bedrooms are over
the dining room end, and in the third story."
"Listen," impatiently cut in Bobsy. "There are six ways of getting in
and out. Now nobody could have entered at the hall door where you were,
Blake?"
"Oh, no, sir. I was there all the evening, and the hall lighted as
bright as day."
"All right. That's one off. Now we'll go round the room. The North
window is out of the question, eh?"
"Yes, sir," said Blake, as the query was to him. "It only opens in those
high, upper sections, by cords, don't you see?"
Blake showed the contrivance that opened and shut the upper panes, and
it was clear to be seen that there was no possibility of entrance that
way.
"Next is the West window," Bobsy went on, "and that's settled by a
glance. Why, look at the chalk dust on the floor. How could any one walk
through that and leave no track?"
This was unanswerable, so they went on to the door to the Billiard Room.
"This is where Mrs. Stannard came in. No other person could have entered
this door unless she had seen him. Now, we come to the East window. This
was open, I am told, but the wire fly-screen makes it safe. Also, Mr.
Courtenay sat on a lawn bench, looking this way, when the light went
out. Had a person climbed in at this window before that he must have
seen him."
"He couldn't climb in, sir, 'count of the screen," said Blake. "It's not
a movable screen. We put them up for the season, and take them down the
middle of October. They all come down next week."
"This door, the last," and Bobsy paused at the door to the Terrace, "is
the one at which Miss Vernon entered. If any one else had come in here
she would have seen him. That completes our circuit. No one could have
gained access to this room except the ones under consideration. Now we
are faced by the fact that one of those two women committed the murder,
and it's up to us to decide which one."
"There's the fireplace," suggested Steele.
"There was a fire there that night," Blake asserted. "That is, there had
been, for the evening was a little chilly, and too, Mrs. Stannard is
fond of an open fire. It was burned out when--when it all happened, but
the embers were smouldering when I came into the room. And no one could
come down the chimney, anyway. It's a crooked flue, and it's full of
soot beside."
"No one ever comes down a chimney," said Roberts, "but it's always well
to look into it." He peered up into the blackness, but the even coat of
soot showed no scratches or marks.
"Then there's no ingress other than those we've noted," Steele mused.
"There's no skylight, no cupboards, no doors up in that balcony place,"
he ran up and across it, as he spoke, tapping on the wainscoated wall.
"Solid," he said, as he came down the other little stair. "Now, is there
any trap door?"
They lifted rugs and hammered on the floor but the oak was an unmarred
surface, and no opening was there of any sort.
"I wanted to be sure," said Roberts, as, a little shamefacedly he
pounded on the floorboards around the West window. "Now, I am sure. We
have only the two doors to deal with. The door from the Terrace and the
one from the studio. Let's look at them both."