CONCERNING THOMAS
“Mr. Jamieson,” I said, when we found ourselves alone after dinner that
night, “the inquest yesterday seemed to me the merest recapitulation of
things that were already known. It developed nothing new beyond the
story of Doctor Stewart’s, and that was volunteered.”
“An inquest is only a necessary formality, Miss Innes,” he replied.
“Unless a crime is committed in the open, the inquest does nothing
beyond getting evidence from witnesses while events are still in their
minds. The police step in later. You and I both know how many important
things never transpired. For instance: the dead man had no key, and yet
Miss Gertrude testified to a fumbling at the lock, and then the opening
of the door. The piece of evidence you mention, Doctor Stewart’s story,
is one of those things we have to take cautiously: the doctor has a
patient who wears black and does not raise her veil. Why, it is the
typical mysterious lady! Then the good doctor comes across Arnold
Armstrong, who was a graceless scamp—_de mortuis_—what’s the rest of
it?—and he is quarreling with a lady in black. Behold, says the doctor,
they are one and the same.”
“Why was Mr. Bailey not present at the inquest?”
The detective’s expression was peculiar.
“Because his physician testified that he is ill, and unable to leave
his bed.”
“Ill!” I exclaimed. “Why, neither Halsey nor Gertrude has told me
that.”
“There are more things than that, Miss Innes, that are puzzling. Bailey
gives the impression that he knew nothing of the crash at the bank
until he read it in the paper Monday night, and that he went back and
surrendered himself immediately. I do not believe it. Jonas, the
watchman at the Traders’ Bank, tells a different story. He says that on
the Thursday night before, about eight-thirty, Bailey went back to the
bank. Jonas admitted him, and he says the cashier was in a state almost
of collapse. Bailey worked until midnight, then he closed the vault and
went away. The occurrence was so unusual that the watchman pondered
over it all the rest of the night. What did Bailey do when he went back
to the Knickerbocker apartments that night? He packed a suit-case ready
for instant departure. But he held off too long; he waited for
something. My personal opinion is that he waited to see Miss Gertrude
before flying from the country. Then, when he had shot down Arnold
Armstrong that night, he had to choose between two evils. He did the
thing that would immediately turn public opinion in his favor, and
surrendered himself, as an innocent man. The strongest thing against
him is his preparation for flight, and his deciding to come back after
the murder of Arnold Armstrong. He was shrewd enough to disarm
suspicion as to the graver charge.”
The evening dragged along slowly. Mrs. Watson came to my bedroom before
I went to bed and asked if I had any arnica. She showed me a badly
swollen hand, with reddish streaks running toward the elbow; she said
it was the hand she had hurt the night of the murder a week before, and
that she had not slept well since. It looked to me as if it might be
serious, and I told her to let Doctor Stewart see it.
The next morning Mrs. Watson went up to town on the eleven train, and
was admitted to the Charity Hospital. She was suffering from
blood-poisoning. I fully meant to go up and see her there, but other
things drove her entirely from my mind. I telephoned to the hospital
that day, however, and ordered a private room for her, and whatever
comforts she might be allowed.
Mrs. Armstrong arrived Monday evening with her husband’s body, and the
services were set for the next day. The house on Chestnut Street, in
town, had been opened, and Tuesday morning Louise left us to go home.
She sent for me before she went, and I saw she had been crying.
“How can I thank you, Miss Innes?” she said. “You have taken me on
faith, and—you have not asked me any questions. Some time, perhaps, I
can tell you; and when that time comes, you will all despise
me,—Halsey, too.”
I tried to tell her how glad I was to have had her but there was
something else she wanted to say. She said it finally, when she had
bade a constrained good-by to Halsey and the car was waiting at the
door.
“Miss Innes,” she said in a low tone, “if they—if there is any attempt
made to—to have you give up the house, do it, if you possibly can. I am
afraid—to have you stay.”
That was all. Gertrude went into town with her and saw her safely home.
She reported a decided coolness in the greeting between Louise and her
mother, and that Doctor Walker was there, apparently in charge of the
arrangements for the funeral. Halsey disappeared shortly after Louise
left and came home about nine that night, muddy and tired. As for
Thomas, he went around dejected and sad, and I saw the detective
watching him closely at dinner. Even now I wonder—what did Thomas know?
What did he suspect?
At ten o’clock the household had settled down for the night. Liddy, who
was taking Mrs. Watson’s place, had finished examining the tea-towels
and the corners of the shelves in the cooling-room, and had gone to
bed. Alex, the gardener, had gone heavily up the circular staircase to
his room, and Mr. Jamieson was examining the locks of the windows.
Halsey dropped into a chair in the living-room, and stared moodily
ahead. Once he roused.
“What sort of a looking chap is that Walker, Gertrude?” he asked!
“Rather tall, very dark, smooth-shaven. Not bad looking,” Gertrude
said, putting down the book she had been pretending to read. Halsey
kicked a taboret viciously.
“Lovely place this village must be in the winter,” he said
irrelevantly. “A girl would be buried alive here.”
It was then some one rapped at the knocker on the heavy front door.
Halsey got up leisurely and opened it, admitting Warner. He was out of
breath from running, and he looked half abashed.
“I am sorry to disturb you,” he said. “But I didn’t know what else to
do. It’s about Thomas.”
“What about Thomas?” I asked. Mr. Jamieson had come into the hall and
we all stared at Warner.
“He’s acting queer,” Warner explained. “He’s sitting down there on the
edge of the porch, and he says he has seen a ghost. The old man looks
bad, too; he can scarcely speak.”
“He’s as full of superstition as an egg is of meat,” I said. “Halsey,
bring some whisky and we will all go down.”
No one moved to get the whisky, from which I judged there were three
pocket flasks ready for emergency. Gertrude threw a shawl around my
shoulders, and we all started down over the hill: I had made so many
nocturnal excursions around the place that I knew my way perfectly. But
Thomas was not on the veranda, nor was he inside the house. The men
exchanged significant glances, and Warner got a lantern.
“He can’t have gone far,” he said. “He was trembling so that he
couldn’t stand, when I left.”
Jamieson and Halsey together made the round of the lodge, occasionally
calling the old man by name. But there was no response. No Thomas came,
bowing and showing his white teeth through the darkness. I began to be
vaguely uneasy, for the first time. Gertrude, who was never nervous in
the dark, went alone down the drive to the gate, and stood there,
looking along the yellowish line of the road, while I waited on the
tiny veranda.
Warner was puzzled. He came around to the edge of the veranda and stood
looking at it as if it ought to know and explain.
“He might have stumbled into the house,” he said, “but he could not
have climbed the stairs. Anyhow, he’s not inside or outside, that I can
see.” The other members of the party had come back now, and no one had
found any trace of the old man. His pipe, still warm, rested on the
edge of the rail, and inside on the table his old gray hat showed that
its owner had not gone far.
He was not far, after all. From the table my eyes traveled around the
room, and stopped at the door of a closet. I hardly know what impulse
moved me, but I went in and turned the knob. It burst open with the
impetus of a weight behind it, and something fell partly forward in a
heap on the floor. It was Thomas—Thomas without a mark of injury on
him, and dead.