The red-headed girl was late. The clock over the courtroom door said
three minutes past ten. She flung herself, breathless, into the seat
next to the lanky young man and inquired in a tragic whisper, “Have
they started?”
“Nope,” replied that imperturbable individual. “Calm yourself. You
haven’t missed a single hear ye. Your hat’s a good deal over one eye.”
“I ran all the way from the station,” gasped the red-headed girl.
“Every step. There’s not a taxi in this whole abominable place. And
you were gone last night before I had a chance to ask you what you
thought of the prosecutor’s speech.”
“Perhaps that’s why I went.”
“No, truly, what did you think of it?”
“Well, I think that boys being boys, jurors being jurors, prosecutors
being prosecutors, and Mrs. Patrick Ives being Mrs. Patrick Ives, he
did about as well as could be expected—better than I expected.”
“He can’t prove all those things, can he?” asked the red-headed girl,
looking a little pale.
“Ah, that’s it! When you get right down to it, the only things of any
importance that he claimed he was going to prove were in one last
sentence: That Bellamy and Sue Ives met and went to the front parlour
of the gardener’s cottage, to confront Mimi Bellamy—that’s his case.
And a pretty good case, too, if you ask me. The rest of it was just a
lot of good fancy, expansive words strung together in order to create
pity, horror, prejudice, and suspicion in the eyes of the jury. And
granted that purpose, they weren’t bad words, though there were a few
bits that absolutely yelled for ‘Hearts and Flowers’ on muted strings
somewhere in the background—that little piece about going through the
starlight to her lover. . . .”
“I thought the idea was that the prosecutor was after truth, not a
conviction,” said the red-headed girl gravely.
“The ideal, not the idea, my child. You didn’t precisely get the
notion that he was urging the jury to consider that, though there was
a pretty strong case against Mrs. Ives and Stephen Bellamy, there were
a whole lot of other people who might have done it too—or did you?”
“He certainly said most distinctly that he wasn’t any bloodhound
baying for a victim.”
“Well, if he isn’t, I’ll bet that he gives such a good imitation of
one that if Eliza should happen to hear him while she was crossing the
ice she’d take two cakes at one jump. What did I tell you about Mr.
Farr and the classics? Did you get ‘she loved not wisely but too
well’? That beats ‘I could not not love thee, dear, so much.’”
Ben Potts’s high, clear voice pulled them abruptly to their feet. “The
Court!”
Through the little door behind the dais came the tall figure of Judge
Carver, his spacious silks folding him in dignity—rather a splendid
figure. The jury, the counsel, the defendants—Mrs. Ives was wearing
the same hat . . .
“Hear ye! Hear ye! Hear ye! All those having business before this
honourable court draw near, give your attention, and you shall be
heard!”
The clear singsong was drowned in the rustle of those in the courtroom
sinking back into their seats.
“Is Mr. Conroy in court?”
“Mr. Herbert Conroy!” intoned the crier.
All heads turned to watch the small spare figure hurrying down the
aisle toward the witness box.
“You do solemnly swear that the testimony that you shall give to the
court and jury in this case now on trial shall be truth, the whole
truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”
“I do.”
Mr. Conroy’s faded blue eyes darted about him quietly as he mounted
the stand, as though he were looking for a way out.
“Mr. Conroy, what is your profession?”
“I am a real-estate broker.”
“Is your office in Rosemont?”
“No, sir; my office is in New York. My home, however, is in Brierdale,
about three miles north of Rosemont.”
“Have you the agency of the Thorne property, Orchards?”
“I have.”
“To whom does that property belong?”
“It was left by Mr. Curtiss Thorne’s will to his two sons, Charles and
Douglas. Charles was killed in the war, and it therefore reverted to
the elder son, Douglas. He is now the sole owner.”
“And he placed it with you to sell?”
“To sell or to rent—preferably to sell.”
“Have you had offers for it?”
“None that we regarded as satisfactory; it was too large a property to
appeal to the average man in the market for a country home, as it
consisted of more than eighty acres and a house of twenty-four rooms.
On the afternoon of the nineteenth of June, 1926, however, I showed
the photographs of the house to a gentleman from Cleveland who was
about to transfer his business to the East. He was delighted with them
and made no quibble about the price if the property proved to be all
that it seemed.”
“You were in New York at this time?”
“Yes; and a dinner engagement there prevented me from taking him out
to Rosemont that afternoon. He was extremely anxious, however, to see
it as soon as possible, as he was leaving for the West the following
afternoon. So I arranged to take him next morning at nine o’clock.”
“And did so?”
“And did so.”
“Now will you be good enough to tell us, Mr. Conroy, just what
happened when you arrived with this gentleman at Orchards on the
morning of the twentieth?”
“We drove out from New York in my roadster, arriving at the lodge
gates of the property shortly after nine o’clock, I should say. I was
to collect the keys under the doormat at the gardener’s cottage, which
was halfway between the lodge and the main house——”
“Just a moment, Mr. Conroy. Was the lodge occupied?”
“No; at this particular time no building on the place was occupied. In
Mr. Curtiss Thorne’s day, the lodge was occupied by the chauffeur and
his family, the gardener’s cottage by the gardener and his family, and
there was another cottage used by a farmer on the extreme western
boundary. None of these had been occupied for some time, with the
exception of the gardener’s cottage, whose occupants had been given a
vacation of two months in order to visit their aged parents in Italy.
Shall I go on?”
“Please.”
“The gardener’s cottage is a low five-room building at a bend of the
road, and is practically concealed as you approach it from the main
driveway by the very high shrubbery that surrounds it—lilacs, syringa,
and the like. There is a little drive that shoots off from the main
driveway and circles the cottage, and we drove in there, to the front
of the house, and mounted the steps to the front porch, as my client
wished to see the interior. Just as I bent down to secure the keys, I
was surprised to see that the door was slightly ajar. I picked up the
keys, pushed it farther open, and went in, rather expecting that sneak
thieves might have preceded me.”
Mr. Conroy paused for a moment in his steady, precise narrative, his
pale face a little paler. “Shall I continue?”
“Certainly.”
“On my left was the dining room, with the door closed; on my right,
the room known as the parlour. The door was open, but only a small
section of the room was visible from the corridor, and it was not
until I had crossed the threshold that I realized that something
frightful had occurred. In the corner of the room farthest from the
door——”
“Just a minute, please. Was your client with you when you entered the
room?”
“He was a step or so behind me, I believe. In the corner of the room
was the—the body of a young woman in a white frock. A small table was
overturned beside her, and at her feet was a lamp, the chimney and
shade shattered and some oil spilled on the floor. The smell of the
kerosene was very strong—very strong indeed.”
Mr. Conroy looked a little ill, as though the odour of that spilled
kerosene were still about him.
“Was the girl’s head toward you, or her feet, Mr. Conroy?”
“Her feet. Her head was resting on the corner of a low fender—a
species of steel railing—that circled the base of a Franklin stove.”
“Did you notice anything else?”
“Yes; I noticed that there was blood.” He glanced about him swiftly,
as though he were startled by the sound of the word, and lowered his
voice. “A great deal of blood.”
“On the dress?”
“Principally on the dress. I believe that there was also a little on
the carpet, though I could not be sure of that. But principally it was
on the dress.”
“Can you tell us about the dress?”
Again Mr. Conroy’s haunted eyes went wandering. “The dress? It was
soaked in blood, sir—I think I may say that it was soaked in blood.”
“No, no—I mean what kind of a dress was it? An evening dress?”
“Well, I hardly know. I suppose you might call it that. Not a ball
gown, you understand—just a thin lacy dress, with the neck cut out a
little and short sleeves. I remember that quite well—the lady’s arms
were bare.”
The prosecutor, who had been carelessly fingering some papers and
pamphlets on the top of a small square box, brushed them impatiently
aside and scooped something else out of its depths.
“Was this the dress, Mr. Conroy?”
The long screech of Mr. Conroy’s chair as he shoved it violently back
tore through the courtroom like something human, echoing through every
heart. The prosecutor was nonchalantly dangling before the broker’s
staring eyes a crumpled object—a white dress, streaked and splotched
and dotted with that most ominous colour known to the eyes of man—the
curious rusted sinister red of dried blood.
“Yes,” said Mr. Conroy, his voice barely above a whisper—“yes, yes;
that is it—that is the dress.”
The fascinated eyes of the spectators wrenched themselves from the
dress to the two defendants. Susan Ives was not looking at it. Her
head was as high as ever, her lips as steady, but her eyes were bent
intently on a scrap of paper that she held in her gloved fingers.
Apparently Mrs. Ives was deeply interested in the contents.
Stephen Bellamy was not reading. He sat watching that handful of lace
and blood as though it were Medusa’s head, his blank, unswerving eyes
riveted to it by something inexorable and intolerable. His face was as
quiet as Susan Ives’s, save for a dreadful little ripple of muscles
about the set mouth—the ripple that comes from clenched teeth,
clenched harder, harder—harder still, lest there escape through them
some sound not meant for decent human ears. Save for that ripple, he
did not move a hairbreadth.
“Was the blood on this dress dry when you first saw it, Mr. Conroy?”
“No, it was not dry.”
“You ascertained that by touching it?”
Mr. Conroy’s small neat body seemed to contract farther into itself.
“No, I did not touch it. It was not necessary to touch it to see that.
It—it was quite apparent.”
“I see. Your Honour, I ask to have this dress marked for
identification.”
“It may be marked,” said Judge Carver quietly, eyeing it steadily and
gravely for a moment before he returned to his notes.
“Got that?” inquired Mr. Farr briskly, handing it over to the clerk of
the court. “I offer it in evidence.”
“Are there any objections?” inquired Judge Carver.
“Your Honour, I fail to see what necessity there is for——”
The judge cut sharply across Lambert’s voice: “You are not required to
be the arbiter of that, Mr. Lambert. The state is conducting its case
without your assistance, to the best of my knowledge. Do you object,
and if so, on what grounds?”
Mr. Lambert’s ruddy countenance became a shade more ruddy. He opened
his mouth, thought better of it, and closed it with an audible snap.
“No objection.”
“Mr. Conroy, did you notice whether the slippers were stained?”
“Yes—yes, they were considerably stained.”
“What type of slippers were they?”
“They were shiny slippers, with very high heels and some kind of
bright, sparkling little buckles, I believe.”
“Like these?” Once more the resourceful Mr. Farr had delved into the
square box, and he placed the result of his research deftly on the
edge of the witness box. A pair of silver slippers with rhinestone
buckles, exquisite and inadequate enough for the most foolish of
women, small enough for a man to hold in one outstretched
hand—sparkling, absurd, and coquettish, they perched on that dark rim,
the buckles gleaming valiantly above the dark and sinister splotches
that turned them from gay and charming toys to tokens of horror.
“Those are the slippers,” said Mr. Conroy, his shaken voice barely
audible.
“I offer them in evidence.”
“No objections.” Mr. Lambert’s voice was an objection in itself.
“Now, Mr. Conroy, will you be good enough to tell us what you did as
soon as you made this discovery?”
“I said to my client, ‘There has been foul play here. We must get the
police.’”
“No, not what you said, Mr. Conroy—what you did.”
“I returned to my roadster with my client, locking the front door
behind me with a key from the ring that I had found under the doormat,
and drove as rapidly as possible to police headquarters in Rosemont,
reporting what I had discovered.”
“Just what did you report?”
“I reported that I had found the body of Mrs. Stephen Bellamy in the
gardener’s cottage of the old Thorne place, and that it looked as
though she had been murdered.”
“Oh, you recognized Mrs. Bellamy?”
“Yes. She was a friend of my sister-in-law, who lives in Rosemont. I
had met her on two occasions.”
“And what did you do then?”
“I considered that the matter was then out of my hands, but I
endeavoured to reach Mr. Douglas Thorne by telephone, to tell him what
had occurred. I was not successful, however, and returned immediately
to New York with my client.”
“He decided not to inspect the place farther?”
For the first time Mr. Conroy permitted himself a small, pallid,
apologetic ghost of a smile. “Exactly. He decided that under the
circumstances he did not desire to go farther with the transaction. It
did not seem to him, if I may so express it, a particularly auspicious
omen.”
“Well, that’s quite comprehensible. Did you notice when you were in
this parlour whether Mrs. Bellamy was wearing any jewellery, Mr.
Conroy?”
“To the best of my recollection, she was not, sir.”
“You are quite sure of that?”
“I am not able to swear to it, but it is my distinct impression that
she was not. I was only in the room a minute or so, you understand,
but I still retain a most vivid picture of it—a most vivid picture, I
may say.”
Mr. Conroy passed a weary hand over his high brow, and that vivid
picture seemed suddenly to float before the eyes of every occupant of
the court.
“You did not see a weapon?”
“No. I could not swear that one was not there, but certainly I did not
see one.”
“I understood you to say that you locked the front door of the
gardener’s cottage with one of the keys that you found on the ring
under the mat. How many keys were on that ring?”
“Seven or eight, I think—a key to the lodge, to the garage opposite
the lodge, to the gardener’s cottage, to the farmer’s house, to the
front and back doors of the main house, and to the cellar—possibly
others.”
“Didn’t it ever strike you as a trifle imprudent to keep these keys in
such an unprotected spot, Mr. Conroy?”
“We did not consider it an unprotected spot, sir. The gardener’s
cottage was a long way from the road, and it did not seem at all
likely that they would be discovered.”
“Whom do you mean by ‘we,’ Mr. Conroy?”
Mr. Conroy made a small restless movement. “I was referring to Mr.
Douglas Thorne and myself.”
“Oh, Mr. Thorne knew that the keys were kept there, did he?”
“Oh, quite so—naturally.”
“Why ‘naturally,’ Mr. Conroy?”
“I said naturally—I said naturally because Mr. Thorne had placed them
there himself.”
“Oh, I see. And when had Mr. Thorne placed them there?”
“He had placed them there on the previous evening.”
“On the previous evening?” Even the prosecutor’s voice sounded
startled.
“Yes.”
“At what time?”
“I am not sure of the exact time.”
“Well, can you tell us approximately?”
“I am not able to state positively even the approximate time.”
“Was it before seven in the evening?”
“I do not believe so.”
“How did you acquire the knowledge that Mr. Thorne was to leave those
keys at the cottage, Mr. Conroy?”
“By telephone.”
“Mr. Thorne telephoned you?”
“No, I telephoned Mr. Thorne.”
“At what time?”
“At about half-past six on the evening of the nineteenth.”
“I see. Will you be good enough to give us the gist of what you said
to him over the telephone?”
“I had been trying to reach Mr. Thorne for some time, both at his home
in Lakedale and in town.”
“Mr. Thorne does not live in Rosemont?”
“No; he lives the other side of Lakedale, which is about twelve miles
nearer New York. When I finally reached him, after his return from a
golf match, I explained to him the urgency of getting into the house
as early as possible the following morning and suggested that he might
drive over after dinner and leave the keys under the mat of the
cottage. I apologized to Mr. Thorne for causing him so much trouble,
and he remarked that it was no trouble at all, as——”
“No, not what he remarked, Mr. Conroy—only what you said.”
“I do not remember that I said anything further of any importance.”
“Do you know at what time Mr. Thorne is in the habit of dining, Mr.
Conroy?”
“I do not, sir.”
“How long should you say that it would take to drive from Mr. Thorne’s
home to Orchards?”
“It is, roughly, about fourteen miles. I should imagine that it would
depend entirely on the rate at which you drove.”
“Driving at an ordinary rate, some thirty-five to forty minutes,
should you say?”
“Possibly.”
“So that if Mr. Thorne had finished his dinner at about eight, he
would have arrived at Orchards shortly before nine?”
“I really couldn’t tell you, Mr. Farr. You know quite as much about
that as I do.”
Mr. Conroy’s small, harassed, unhappy face looked almost defiant for a
moment, and then wavered under the geniality of the prosecutor’s
infrequent smile.
“I believe that you are right, Mr. Conroy.” He turned abruptly toward
the court crier. “Is Mr. Douglas Thorne in court?”
“Mr. Douglas Thorne!” intoned the crier in his high, pleasant
falsetto.
A tall lean man, bronzed and distinguished, rose promptly to his feet
from his seat in the fourth row. “Here, sir.”
“Mr. Thorne, will you be good enough to speak to me after court is
over? . . . Thanks. That will be all, Mr. Conroy. Cross-examine.”
Mr. Lambert approached the witness box with a curious air of caution.
“It was entirely at your suggestion that Mr. Thorne brought the keys,
was it not, Mr. Conroy?”
“Oh, certainly—entirely.”
“He might have left them there at eight o’clock or at even eleven
o’clock, as far as you know?”
“Exactly.”
“That is all, Mr. Conroy.”
“No further questions,” said the prosecutor curtly. “Call Dr. Paul
Stanley.”
“Dr. Paul Stanley!”
The man who took Herbert Conroy’s place in the witness box was a
comfortable-looking individual with a fine thatch of gray hair and an
amiable and intelligent countenance, which he turned benignly on the
prosecutor.
“What is your profession, Dr. Stanley?”
“I am a surgeon. In my early youth I was that now fabulous creature, a
general practitioner.”
He smiled engagingly at the prosecutor, and the crowded courtroom
relaxed. A nice, restful individual, after the haunted little
real-estate broker.
“You have performed autopsies before, Dr. Stanley?”
“Frequently.”
“And in this case you performed the autopsy on the body of Madeleine
Bellamy?”
“I did.”
“Where did you first see the body?”
“In the front room of the gardener’s cottage on the Thorne estate.”
“Did you hear Mr. Conroy’s testimony?”
“Yes.”
“Was the body in the position in which he described it at the time
that he saw it?”
“In exactly that position. Later, for purposes of the autopsy, it was
removed to the room opposite—the dining room.”
“Please tell us under what circumstances you first saw the body.”
“Certainly.” Dr. Stanley settled himself a trifle more comfortably in
his chair and turned a trifle toward the jury, who stared back
gratefully into his friendly countenance. If Dr. Stanley had been
explaining just how he reeled in the biggest trout of the season, he
could not have looked more affably at ease. “I went out to the cottage
with my friend Elias Dutton, the coroner, and two or three state
troopers. Mr. Conroy had turned over the key to the cottage to us, and
we found everything as he had described it to us.”
“Were there signs of a struggle?”
“You mean on the body?”
“Yes—scratches, bruises, torn or disarranged clothing?”
“No, there were no signs of any description of a struggle, save for
the overturned table and the lamp.”
“Might that have happened when Mrs. Bellamy fell?”
“The table might very readily have been overturned at that time; it
was toward Mrs. Bellamy’s head and almost on top of the body. The
lamp, on the other hand, was practically at her feet.”
“Could it have rolled there as the table crashed?”
“Possibly, but it’s doubtful. The fragments of lamp chimney and shade
were there, too, you see, some six feet away from the table.”
“I see. Will you tell us now, Dr. Stanley, just what caused the death
of Mrs. Bellamy?”
“Mrs. Bellamy’s heart was punctured by some sharp instrument—a knife,
I should say.”
“There was only one wound?”
“Yes.”
“Will you please describe it to us?”
“There was a clean incision about three quarters of an inch long in
the skin just over the heart. The instrument had penetrated to a depth
of approximately three inches, and had passed between the ribs over
the heart.”
“Was it necessary that the blow should have been delivered with great
force?”
“Not necessarily. If the knife had struck a rib, it would have taken
considerable force to deflect it, but in this case it encountered no
obstacle whatever.”
“So that a woman with a strong wrist could have struck the blow?”
“Oh, certainly—or a woman with a weak wrist—or a child—or a strong
man, as far as that goes. There is no evidence at all from the wound
as to the force with which the blow was delivered.”
“I see.” Mr. Farr reached casually over to the clerk’s desk and handed
Dr. Stanley the dreadful rag that had been Madeleine Bellamy’s white
lace dress. “Do you recognize this dress, Doctor?”
“Perfectly.”
“Will you be good enough to indicate to us just where the knife
penetrated the fabric?”
Dr. Stanley turned it deftly in his long-fingered, capable hands.
Something in that skilful scientific touch seemed to purge it of
horror—averted eyes travelled back to it warily.
“The knife went through it right here. If you look closely, you can
see the severed threads—just here, where the stain is darkest.”
“Exactly. Would such a wound have caused instantaneous death, Doctor,
in your opinion?”
“Not instantaneous—no. Death would follow very rapidly, however.”
“A minute or so?”
“A few minutes—the loss of blood would be tremendous.”
“Would the victim be likely to make much outcry—screaming, moaning, or
the like?”
“Well, it’s a little difficult to generalize about that. In this
particular case, there is reason to doubt whether there was any outcry
after the blow was struck.”
“What reason have you to suppose that?”
“I think that Mr. Conroy has already testified that Mrs. Bellamy’s
head was resting on the corner of a steel fire guard—a pierced railing
about six inches high. It is my belief that, when she received the
blow, she staggered, clutched at the table, and fell, striking the
back of her head against the railing with sufficient force to render
her totally unconscious. There was a serious abrasion at the back of
the head that leads me to draw that conclusion.”
“I see. Was Mrs. Bellamy wearing any jewellery when you saw her,
Doctor—a necklace, rings, brooches?”
“I saw no jewellery of any kind on the body.”
“What type of knife should you say was used to commit this murder,
Doctor?”
“Well, that’s a little difficult to say. There were no marked
peculiarities about the wound. It might have been caused by almost any
knife with a sharp blade about three quarters of an inch wide and from
three to four inches long—a sheath knife, a small kitchen knife, a
large jackknife or clasp knife—various types, as I say.”
“Could it have been made with this?”
The prosecutor dropped a small dark object into the doctor’s
outstretched hand and stood aside so that the jury, galvanized to
goggle-eyed attention, could see it better. It was a knife—a large
jackknife, with a rough, corrugated bone handle.
Mr. Lambert bore down on the scene at a subdued gallop. “Are you
offering this knife in evidence?”
“I am not.”
Judge Carver leaned forward, his black silk robes rustling ominously.
“What is this knife, Mr. Farr?”
“This is a knife, Your Honour, that I propose to connect up with the
case at a somewhat later stage. At present I ask to have it marked for
identification merely for purposes of the record.”
“You say that you will be able to connect it?”
“Absolutely.”
“Very well, you may answer the question, Dr. Stanley.”
The doctor was inspecting it gravely, his eyes bright with interest.
“I may open it?”
“Please do.”
In the breathless stillness the little click as the large blade sprang
back was clearly audible. Dr. Stanley bent over it attentively, passed
a forefinger reflectively along its shining surface, raised his head.
“Yes, it could quite easily have been done with this.”
The prosecutor snapped the blade to with an enigmatic smile. “Thank
you. That will be all.”
“Miss Kathleen Page!”
Before the ring of that high imperious summons had died in the air,
she was there—a demure and dainty wraith, all in gray from the close
feathered hat to the little buckled shoes. A pale oval face that might
have belonged to the youngest and smallest of Botticelli’s Madonnas;
cloudy eyes to match her frock, extravagantly fringed with heavy
lashes; a forlorn, coaxing little mouth; sleek coils of dark hair. A
murmur of interest rose, swelled, and died under Judge Carver’s eagle
eye.
“Miss Page, what is your present occupation?”
“I am a librarian at a branch public library in New York.”
“Is that your regular occupation?”
“It has been for the past six months.”
“Was it previous to that time?”
“Do you mean immediately previous?”
“At any time previous.”
“I was assistant librarian in White Plains from 1921 to 1925.”
“And after that?”
“During February of 1925 I had a serious attack of flu. It left me in
rather bad shape, and the doctor recommended that I try to get some
work in the country that would keep me outdoors a good deal and give
me plenty of sleep.”
“And did you decide on any occupation that would fit those
requirements?”
“Yes. Dr. Leonard suggested that I might try for a position as
governess. One of his patients was looking for a temporary governess
for her children, and he suggested that I might try that.”
“And did you?”
“Yes.”
“You were successful?”
“Yes.”
“Who was the patient suggested by Dr. Leonard?”
“Mrs. Ives.”
As though the name were a magnet, the faces in the courtroom swung in
a brief half circle toward its owner. There she sat in her brief tweed
skirt and loose jacket, the bright little felt hat pulled severely
down over the shining wings of her hair, her hidden eyes riveted on
her clasped hands in their fawn-coloured gauntlets. At the sound of
her name she lifted her head, glanced briefly and levelly at the
greedy, curious faces pressing toward her, less briefly and more
levelly at the seraphic countenance under the drooping feather on the
witness stand, and returned to the gloves. Only the curve of her lips
remained for the benefit of those prying eyes—a lovely curve, ironic
and inscrutable. The half circle swung back to the demure occupant of
the witness box.
“And how long were you in Mrs. Ives’s employment?”
“Until June, 1926.”
“What day of the month?”
“The twenty-first.”
“Then on the night of the nineteenth of June you were still in the
employment of Mrs. Ives?”
“Yes.”
“Will you be good enough to tell us just what you were doing at eight
o’clock that evening?”
“I had finished supper at a little before eight and was just settling
down to read in the day nursery when I remembered that I had left my
book down by the sand pile at the end of the garden, where I had been
playing with the children before supper. So I went down to get it.”
“Had you any way of fixing the time?”
“Yes. I heard the dining room clock strike eight as I went by. I
noticed it especially, as I thought, ‘That’s eight o’clock and it’s
still broad daylight.’”
“Did you see anyone on your way out of the house?”
“I met Mr. Ives just outside the nursery door. He had come in late to
dinner and hadn’t come up to say good-night to the children before. He
asked if they had gone to bed. . . . Shall I go on?”
“Certainly.”
“I said that they were in bed but not asleep, and asked him please not
to get them too excited. He had a boat for little Peter in his hand
and I was afraid that he would get him in such a state that I wouldn’t
be able to do anything with him at all.”
“A boat? What kind of a boat?”
“A little sailboat—a model of a schooner. Mr. Ives had been working on
it for some time.”
“Made it himself, had he?”
“Yes. He was very clever at that kind of thing. He’d made Polly a
wonderful doll house.”
“Your Honour——”
“Try to confine yourself directly to the question, Miss Page.”
“Yes, Your Honour.” The meek contrition of the velvet-voiced Miss Page
was a model for all future witnesses.
“Was Mr. Ives fond of the children?”
“Oh, yes, he adored——”
“I object to that question, Your Honour.” The preliminary tossings had
resolved themselves into an actual upheaval this time and all of the
two hundred and fifty pounds of Mr. Lambert were on his feet.
“Very well, Mr. Lambert, you may be heard. You object on what
grounds?”
“I object to this entire line of questioning as absolutely immaterial,
incompetent and irrelevant. How is Miss Page qualified to judge as to
Mr. Ives’s affection for his children? And even if her opinion had the
slightest weight, what has his affection for his children got to do
with the murder of this girl? For reasons which I don’t pretend to
grasp, the learned counsel for the prosecution is simply wasting the
time of this court.”
“You might permit the Court to be the judge of that.” Judge Carver’s
fine dark eyes rested somewhat critically on the protestant bulk
before him. “Mr. Farr, you may be heard.”
“Of course, Your Honour, with all due deference to my brilliant
opponent’s fireworks, he’s talking pure nonsense. Miss Page is
perfectly——”
Judge Carver’s gavel fell with a crash. “Mr. Farr, the Court must ask
you once and for all to keep to the matter in hand. Can you connect
your question with this case?”
“Most certainly. It is the contention of the state that Mrs. Ives
realized perfectly that if Mr. Ives decided that he wanted a divorce
he would fight vigorously for at least partial custody of his
children, whom, as Miss Page was about to tell us, he adored.
Moreover, Mrs. Ives had strong religious objections to divorce. It was
therefore essential to her to get rid of anyone who threatened her
security if she wanted to keep the children. In order to prove this,
it is necessary to establish Mr. Ives’s affection. And it ought to be
perfectly obvious to anyone that Miss Page is in an excellent position
to tell us what that affection was. I maintain that this question is
absolutely relevant and material, and that Miss Page is perfectly
competent to reply to it.”
“The question may be answered.”
“Exception.”
“Mr. Ives adored the children and they adored him. He was with them
constantly.”
“Was Mrs. Ives fond of them?”
“Objection on the same grounds, Your Honour.”
“The question is allowed.”
“Exception.”
“Oh, yes, she was devoted to them.”
“As devoted to them as Mr. Ives?”
“Now, Your Honour——”
Judge Carver eyed the impassioned Lambert with temperate interest.
“That seems a fairly broad question, Mr. Farr, calling for a
conclusion.”
“Very well, Your Honour, I’ll reframe it. Did she seem as fond of them
as Mr. Ives?”
“Oh, quite, I should think—though, of course, Mrs. Ives is not
demonstrative.”
“I see—not demonstrative. Cold and reserved, eh?”
Judge Carver’s stern voice cut sharply across Miss Page’s pretty,
distressed, appealing murmur: “Mr. Farr, the Court is anxious to give
you as much latitude as possible, but we believe that you have gone
quite far enough along this particular line.”
“I defer entirely to Your Honour’s judgment. . . . Miss Page, was Mrs.
Ives with Mr. Ives when you met him coming into the nursery with the
boat in his hand?”
“No, Mrs. Ives had already said good-night to the children before her
dinner.”
“Did Mr. Ives go into the nursery before you went downstairs?”
“He went past me into the day nursery, and I have no doubt that he
then went into the night nursery.”
“Never mind that. I only want the facts that are in your actual
knowledge. There were two nurseries, you say?”
“Yes.”
“Will you be good enough to tell us how they were arranged?”
“The day and night nurseries are in the right wing of the house, on
the third floor.”
“What other rooms are on that floor?”
“My room, a bathroom, and a small sewing room.”
“Please tell us what the arrangement would be as you enter the front
door.”
“Let me see—when you come in through the door you come into a very
large hall that takes up almost all the central portion of the house.
The central portion was an old farmhouse, and the wings, that contain
all the rooms really, were added by Mrs. Ives. She knocked out the
inside structure of the farmhouse and left it just a shell that she
made into a big hall three stories high, with galleries around it on
the second and third floors leading to the bedroom wings. There were
two staircases at the back of the hall, leading to the right and left
of the galleries. I’m afraid that I’m not being very clear, but it’s a
little confusing.”
“You are being quite clear. Tell us just how the rooms open out as you
come through the door.”
“Well, to the right is a small cloakroom and the big living room. It’s
very large—it forms the whole ground floor of the right wing in fact.
Over it are Mr. and Mrs. Ives’s rooms.”
“Did Mr. and Mrs. Ives occupy separate rooms?”
“Oh, no, there was a large bedroom, and on one side of it was Mrs.
Ives’s dressing room and bath, and to the left Mr. Ives’s dressing
room and bath. On the third floor were the nurseries and my room. On
the left downstairs as you came in was a little flower room.”
“A flower room?”
“A room that was used for arranging flowers, you know. Mrs. Daniel
Ives used it a great deal. It had shelves of vases and a sink and a
big porcelain-topped table. The downstairs telephone was in there,
too, and——”
“Your Honour, may we ask where all this is leading?” Mr. Lambert’s
tone was tremulous with impatience.
“You may. The Court was about to make the same inquiry. Is this
exhaustive questioning necessary, Mr. Farr?”
“Absolutely necessary, Your Honour. I can assure Mr. Lambert that it
is leading to a very interesting conclusion, however distasteful he
may find both the path and the goal. I will be as brief as possible, I
promise.”
“Very well, you may continue, Miss Page.”
Miss Page raised limpid eyes in appealing deprecation. “I’m so
frightfully sorry. I’ve absolutely forgotten where I was.”
“You were telling us that there was a telephone in the flower room.”
“Oh, yes—that is in the first room to the left as you come in. It’s
really part of the hall.”
“You mean that it has no door?”
“No, no, it has a door. I simply meant that you came to it before you
entered the left wing. It balances the cloakroom on the right-hand
side. They’re rather like very large closets, you know, except that
they both have windows.”
“What do the windows open on to?”
“The front porch. . . . Shall I go on with the rooms?”
“Please, and as briefly as possible.”
“The first room in the left wing is Mr. Ives’s study. It opens into
the dining room. They form the ground floor of the left wing. Above
them are Mrs. Daniel Ives’s room and bath and two guest rooms and
another bath. Above these on the third floor are the servants’
quarters.”
“How many servants were there?”
“Let me see—there were six, I think, but only the four maids lived in
the house.”
“Please tell us who they were.”
“There was the cook, Anna Baker; the waitress, Melanie Cordier; the
chambermaid, Katie Brien; and Laura Roberts, Mrs. Ives’s personal maid
and seamstress. They had four small rooms in the left wing, third
floor. James and Robert MacDonald, the chauffeur and gardener, were
brothers and lived in quarters over the garage. Oh, there was a
laundress, too, but I don’t remember her name. She didn’t live in the
house—only came in four days a week.”
“You have described the entire household?”
“Yes.”
“And the entire layout of the house?”
“Yes—well, with the exception of the service quarters. You reached
them through a door at the back of the big hall—kitchen, laundry,
servants’ dining room and pantry, which opened also into the dining
room. They ran across the back of the house. Do you want me to
describe them further?”
“Thanks, no. We can go on with your story now. Did you see anyone but
Mr. Ives on your way to the sand pile?”
“Not in the house. I passed Mrs. Daniel Ives on my way through the
rose garden. She always used to work there after dinner until it got
dark. She asked me as I went by if the children were asleep, and I
told her that Mr. Ives was with them.”
“What did you do then?”
“I found the book in the swing by the sand pile and went back across
the lawn to the house. As I was starting up the steps, I heard Mrs.
Patrick Ives’s voice, speaking from the flower room at the left of the
front door. She was speaking very softly, but the window on to the
porch was open and I could hear her distinctly.”
“Was she speaking to someone in the room?”
“No, she was telephoning. I think that I’ve already said that the
downstairs ’phone is in that room. She was giving a telephone
number—Rosemont 200.”
“Were you familiar with that number?”
“Oh, quite. I had called it up for Mrs. Ives several times.”
“Whose number was it, Miss Page?”
“It was Mr. Stephen Bellamy’s telephone number.”
The courtroom pulsed to galvanized attention, its eyes whipping to
Stephen Bellamy’s tired, dark face. It was lit with a strange,
friendly, reassuring smile, directed straight at Susan Ives’s startled
countenance. For a moment she stared back at him soberly, then slowly
the colour came back into her parted lips, which curved gravely to
mirror that voiceless greeting. For a long moment their eyes rested on
each other before they returned to their accustomed guarded
inscrutability. As clearly as though they were shouting across the
straining faces, those lingering eyes called to each other, “Courage!”
“You say that you could hear Mrs. Ives distinctly, Miss Page?”
“Very distinctly.”
“Will you tell us just what she said?”
“She said”—Miss Page frowned a little in concentration and then went
on steadily—“she said, ‘Is that you, Stephen? . . . It’s Sue—Sue Ives.
Is Mimi there? . . . How long ago did she leave? . . . Are you sure
she went there? . . . No, wait—this is vital. I have to see you at
once. Can you get the car here in ten minutes? . . . No, not at the
house. Stop at the far corner of the back road. I’ll come through the
back gate to meet you. . . . Elliot didn’t say anything to you? . . .
No, no, never mind that—just hurry.’”
“Is that all that she said?”
“She said good-bye.”
“Nothing else?”
“Nothing else.”
“What did you do then?”
“I turned back from the porch steps and circled the house to the
right, going in by the side door and on up to the nursery.”
“Why did you do that?”
“I didn’t want Mrs. Ives to know that I had overheard her
conversation. I thought if by any chance she saw me coming in through
the side door, it would not occur to her that I could have heard it
from there.”
“I see. When you got up to the nursery was Mr. Ives still there?”
“Yes; he came out of the night nursery when he heard me and said that
the children were quiet now.”
“Did he say anything else to you?”
“Yes; he still had the boat in his hand, and he said there was
something that he wanted to fix about the rudder, and that he’d bring
it back in the morning.”
“Did you say anything to him?”
“Yes.”
“Please tell us what you said.”
“I told him that I had just overheard a telephone conversation that
his wife was having with Mr. Bellamy, and that I thought he should
know about it.”
“Did you tell him about it?”
“Not at that moment. As I was about to do so, Mrs. Ives herself called
up from the foot of the stairs to ask Mr. Ives if he still intended to
go to the poker game at the Dallases. . . . Shall I go on?”
“Certainly.”
“Mr. Ives said yes, and Mrs. Ives said that in that case she would go
to the movies with the Conroys, who had asked her before dinner. Mr.
Ives asked her if he couldn’t drop her there, and she said no—that it
was only a short walk and that she needed the exercise. She went
straight out of the front door, I think. I heard it slam behind her.”
“What did you do then?”
“I said, ‘Your wife has gone to meet Stephen Bellamy.’”
“And then what happened?”
“Mr. Ives said, ‘Don’t be a damned little fool.’”
Miss Page smiled meekly and appreciatively at the audible ripple from
the other side of the railing.
“Did you say anything to that?”
“I simply repeated the telephone conversation.”
“Word for word?”
“Word for word, and when I’d finished, he said, ‘My God, somebody’s
told her.’”
“I object. Your Honour, I ask that that be stricken from the record!”
Lambert’s frenzied clamour filled the room. “What Mr. Ives said——”
“It may be stricken out.”
Judge Carver’s tone was the sternest of rebukes, but the unchastened
prosecutor stood staring down at her demure face triumphant for
a moment, and then, with a brief expressive gesture toward the
defense, turned her abruptly over to their mercies. “That’s all.
Cross-examine.”
“No lunch to-day either?”
“No, I’ve got to get these notes off.”
The red-headed girl proudly exhibited an untidy pile of telegraph
blanks and a much-bitten pencil. The gold pencil and the black leather
notebook had been flung contemptuously out of the cab window on the
way back to the boarding house the night before.
“Me too. We’ll finish ’em up here and I’ll get ’em off for you. . . .
Here’s your apple.”
The red-headed girl took it obediently, a fine glow invading her. How
simply superb to be working there beside a real reporter; such a fire
of comradeship and good will burned in her that it set twin fires
flaming in her cheeks. The newspaper game! There was nothing like it,
absolutely. Her pencil tore across the page in a fever of industry.
It was almost fifty minutes before the reporter spoke again, and then
it was only in reply to a question: “What—what did you think of her?”
“Think of whom?”
“Of Kathleen Page.”
“Well, you don’t happen to have a pat of the very best butter about
you?”
“Whatever for?”
“To see if it would melt in her mouth.”
“It wouldn’t,” said the red-headed girl; and added fiercely, “I hate
her—nasty, hypocritical, unprincipled little toad!”
“Oh, come, come! I hope that you won’t allow any of this to creep into
those notes of yours.”
“She probably killed Mimi Bellamy herself,” replied the newest member
of the Fourth Estate darkly. “I wouldn’t put it past her for a moment.
She——”
“The Court!”
The red-headed girl flounced to her feet, the fires still burning in
her cheeks, eyeing Miss Page’s graceful ascent to the witness box with
a baleful eye. “I hope she’s headed straight for all the trouble there
is,” she remarked between clenched teeth to the reporter.
For the moment it looked as though her wish were about to be
gratified.
Mr. Lambert lumbered menacingly toward the witness box, his ruddy face
grim and relentless. “You remember a great deal about that evening,
don’t you, Miss Page?”
“I have a very good memory.” Miss Page’s voice was the prettiest
mixture of pride and humility.
“Do you happen to remember the book that you were reading?”
“Perfectly.”
“Give us the title, please.”
“The book was _Cytherea_, one of Hergesheimer’s old novels.”
“Was it your own book?”
“No, it came from Mr. Ives’s study.”
“Had he loaned it to you?”
“No.”
“Had Mrs. Ives loaned it to you?”
“No one had loaned it to me; I had simply borrowed it from the study.”
“Oh, you were given the run of the books in Mr. Ives’s study? I see.”
Miss Page sat silent, eyeing him steadily, only a slight stain of
colour under the clear, pale skin betraying the fact that she had
heard him. “Were you?” demanded Mr. Lambert savagely, leaning toward
her.
“Was I what?”
“Were you given the run of Mr. Ives’s library?”
“I had never stopped to formulate it in that way. I supposed that
there could be no possible objection to taking an occasional book.”
“I see. You regarded yourself as one of the family?”
“Oh, hardly that.”
“Did you take your meals with them?”
“No.”
“Spend the evenings with them?”
“No.”
Miss Page’s fringed eyes were as luminous and steady as ever, but the
stain in her cheeks had spread to her throat.
“You resented that fact, didn’t you?”
The prosecutor’s voice whipped out of the brief silence like a sword
leaping from the scabbard: “I object to that question. To paraphrase
my learned opponent, what possible relevance has Miss Page’s sense of
resentment or contentment got to do with the murder of this girl?”
“And to quote my witty adversary’s reply, Your Honour, it has
everything to do with it. We propose definitely to attack Miss Page’s
credibility. We believe we can show that she detested Mrs. Ives and
would not hesitate to do her a disservice.”
“Oh,” said the prosecutor, with much deliberation, “that’s what you
propose to show, is it?”
Even the clatter of the judge’s gavel did not cause him to turn his
head an inch. He continued to gaze imperturbably at the occupant in
the box, who, demure and pensive, returned it unswervingly. In the
brief moment occupied by the prosecutor’s skilful intervention the
flush had faded entirely. Miss Page looked as cool and tranquil as a
little spring in the forest.
“You may answer the question, Miss Page,” said the judge a trifle
sternly.
“May I have the question repeated?”
“I asked whether you didn’t resent the fact that you were treated as a
servant rather than as a member of the household.”
“It never entered my head that I was being treated as a servant,” said
Miss Page gently.
“It never entered your head?”
“Not for a moment.”
“You were perfectly satisfied with your situation in every way?”
“Oh, perfectly.”
“No cause for complaint whatever?”
“None whatever.”
“Miss Page, is this your writing? Don’t trouble to read it—simply tell
me whether it is your writing.”
Miss Page bent docilely over the square of pale blue paper. “It looks
like my writing.”
“I didn’t ask you whether it looked like it—I asked you if it was your
writing.”
“I really couldn’t tell you that. Handwriting can be perfectly
imitated, can’t it?”
“Are you cross-examining me or am I cross-examining you?”
Miss Page permitted herself a small, fugitive smile. “I believe that
you are supposed to be cross-examining me.”
“Then be good enough to answer my question. To the best of your
belief, is this your writing?”
“It is either my writing or a very good imitation of it.”
The outraged Mr. Lambert snatched the innocuous bit of paper from
under his composed victim’s nose and proffered it to the clerk of the
court as though it were something unclean. “I offer this letter in
evidence.”
“Just one moment,” said the prosecutor gently. “I don’t want to waste
the Court’s time with a lot of useless objections, but it seems to me
that this letter has not yet been identified by Miss Page, and as you
are evidently unwilling to let her read it, for some occult reason
that I don’t presume to understand, I must object to its being offered
in evidence.”
“What does this letter purport to be, Mr. Lambert?” inquired the judge
amiably.
Mr. Lambert turned his flaming countenance on the Court. “It purports
to be exactly what it is, Your Honour—a letter from Miss Page to her
former employer, Mrs. Ives. And I am simply amazed at this hocus-pocus
about her not being able to identify her own writing being tolerated
for a minute. I——”
“Kindly permit the Court to decide what will be tolerated in the
conduct of this case,” remarked the judge, in a voice from which all
traces of amiability had been swept as by a cold wind. “What is the
date of the purported letter?”
“May 7, 1925.”
“Did you write Mrs. Ives a letter on that date, Miss Page?”
“That’s quite a time ago, Your Honour. I certainly shouldn’t like to
make any such statement under oath.”
“Would it refresh your memory if you were to look over the letter?”
“Oh, certainly.”
“I think that you had better let Miss Page look over the letter if you
wish to offer it in evidence, Mr. Lambert.”
Once more Mr. Lambert menacingly tendered the blue square, which Miss
Page considered in a leisurely and composed manner in no way
calculated to tranquillize the storm of indignation that was rocking
him. Her perusal completed, she lifted a gracious countenance to the
inflamed one before her. “Oh, yes, that is my letter.”
Mr. Lambert snatched it ungratefully. “I again offer this in
evidence.”
“No objection,” said the prosecutor blandly.
“Now that you have fortified yourself with its contents, Miss Page, I
will ask you to reconcile some of the statements that it contains with
some later statements of yours made here under oath this afternoon:
“My dear Mrs. Ives:
“I would like to call your attention to the fact that for the past
three nights the food served me has evidently been that discarded by
your servants as unfit for consumption. As you do not care to
discuss these matters with me personally, I am forced to resort to
this means of communication, and I ask you to believe that it is
literally impossible to eat the type of meal that has been put
before me lately. Boiled mutton which closely resembled boiled
dishrags, stewed turnips, and a kind of white jelly that I was later
informed was intended to be rice, and a savoury concoction of dried
apricots, and sour milk was the menu for yesterday evening. You have
made it abundantly clear to me that you regard me as a species of
overpaid servant, but I confess that I had not gathered that slow
starvation was to be one of my duties.
“Sincerely,
“Kathleen Page.”
“Kindly reconcile your statement that it had never entered your head
that you were being treated as a servant with this sentence: ‘You have
made it abundantly clear that you regard me as a species of overpaid
servant.’”
“That was a silly overwrought letter written by me when I was still
suffering from the effects of a nervous and physical collapse. I had
completely forgotten ever having written it.”
“Oh, you had, had you? Completely forgotten it, eh? Never thought of
it from that day to this? Well, just give us the benefit of that
wonderful memory of yours once more and tell us the effect of this
letter on your relations with Mrs. Ives?”
“It had a very fortunate effect,” said Miss Page, with her prettiest
smile. “Mrs. Ives very kindly rectified the situation that I was
indiscreet enough to complain of, and the whole matter was cleared up
and adjusted most happily.”
“What?” The astounded monosyllable cracked through the courtroom like
a rifle shot.
“I said that it was all adjusted most happily,” replied Miss Page
sunnily and helpfully, raising her voice slightly.
Actual stupor had apparently descended on her interrogator.
“Miss Page, you make it difficult for me to credit my ears. Is it not
the fact that Mrs. Ives sent for you at once on receipt of that note,
offered you a month’s wages in lieu of notice, and requested you to
leave the following day?”
“Nothing could be farther from the fact.”
Mr. Lambert’s voice seemed about to forsake him at the calm finality
of this reply. He opened his mouth twice with no audible results, but
at the third effort something closely resembling a roar emerged: “Are
you telling me that you did not go on your knees to Mrs. Ives in
floods of tears and tell her that it would be signing your death
warrant to turn you out then, and implore her to give you another
chance?”
“I am telling you,” said Miss Page equably, “that nothing remotely
resembling that occurred. Mrs. Ives was extremely regretful and
considerate, and there was not a word as to my leaving.”
Apoplexy hovered tentatively over Mr. Lambert’s bulky shoulder. “Do
you deny that two days before this murder your insolence had once more
precipitated a scene that had resulted in your dismissal, and that you
were intending to leave on the following Monday?”
“Most certainly I deny it.”
“A scene that arose from the fact that during Mrs. Ives’s absence in
town you ordered the car to take you and a friend of yours from White
Plains for a three-hour drive in the country, and that when Mrs. Ives
telephoned from town to have the car meet her, as she was returning
that afternoon instead of the next day, she was informed that you were
out in it and she was obliged to take a taxi?”
“That is not true either.”
“It is not true that you went for a drive with a young man that
afternoon?”
“Oh, that is quite true; but I had Mrs. Ives’s permission to do so
before she left.”
For a moment Mr. Lambert turned his crimson countenance toward Susan
Ives. She had lifted her head and was staring, steadily and
contemptuously, at her erstwhile nursery governess, whose limpid eyes
moved only from Mr. Lambert to Mr. Farr and back. Even the contempt
could not extinguish a frankly diverted twist to her lips at the pat
audacity of the gentle replies. Evidently Mr. Lambert could find no
comfort there. He turned back to his witness.
“Miss Page, do you know what perjury is?”
“Your Honour——”
Miss Page’s lightning promptitude cut through the prosecutor’s voice:
“It’s a demonstrably false statement made under oath, isn’t it?”
“Just wait a minute, please, Miss Page. Your Honour, I respectfully
submit that this entire line of cross-examination by Mr. Lambert is
extremely objectionable. I have let it go this far because I don’t
want to prolong this trial with a lot of unnecessary bickering; but,
as far as I can see, he has simply been entertaining the jury with a
series of exciting little episodes that there is not a shred of reason
to believe are not the offspring of his own fertile imagination.
According to Miss Page, they are just exactly that. They are, however,
skilfully calculated to prejudice her in the eyes of the jury, and
when Mr. Lambert goes so far as to imply in no uncertain manner that
Miss Page’s denial of these fantasies is perjury, I can no longer——”
“Your Honour, do you consider this oration for the benefit of the jury
proper?” Mr. Lambert’s voice was unsteady with rage.
“I do not, sir. Nor do I consider it the only impropriety that has
occurred. I see no legitimate place in cross-examination for a request
for a definition of perjury. However, you have received your reply.
You may proceed with your cross-examination.”
“Miss Page, when you realized that Mrs. Ives was talking to someone on
the telephone, why did you not go on into the house?”
“Because I was interested in what she was saying.”
“So you eavesdropped, eh?”
“Yes.”
“A very pretty, honourable, decent thing to do in your opinion?”
“Oh,” said Miss Page, with her most disarming smile, “I don’t pretend
not to be human.”
“Well, that’s very reassuring. Can you tell us why Mrs. Ives didn’t
hear you outside on the porch, Miss Page?”
“I wasn’t on the porch. I had just started to come up the steps when I
stopped to listen. I had on tennis shoes, which wouldn’t make any
noise at all on the lawn.”
“You say that you could hear Mrs. Ives distinctly?”
“Oh, quite.”
“So that anybody else could have heard her distinctly too?”
“Anyone who was standing in that place could have—yes.”
“She was making a secret rendezvous and yet was speaking in a tone
sufficiently audible for any passer-by to hear?”
“She probably thought that there would be no passer-by.”
“Your Honour, I ask to have that stricken from the record as
deliberately unresponsive.”
“You were not asked as to Mrs. Ives’s thoughts, Miss Page. Mr. Lambert
asked you whether any passer-by could not have heard Mrs. Ives’s
conversation.”
“Anyone who passed over the route that I did could have heard it
perfectly.”
“Mr. Patrick Ives could have heard it?”
“Mr. Patrick Ives was upstairs.”
“That was not my question. I asked you if Patrick Ives could not have
heard it quite as readily as you?”
“He could, if he had been there.”
“Miss Page, will you be good enough to repeat that conversation for us
once again?”
“The whole thing?”
“Certainly.”
“Mrs. Ives said”—again the little frown of concentration—“she said,
‘Is that you Stephen? . . . It’s Sue—Sue Ives. Is Mimi there? . . .
How long ago did she leave? . . . Are you sure she went there? . . .
No, wait—this is vital—I have to see you at once. Can you get the car
here in ten minutes? . . . No, not at the house. Stop at the far
corner of the back road. I’ll come through the back gate to meet
you. . . . Elliot hasn’t said anything to you? . . . No, no, never
mind that—just hurry. . . . Good-bye.’”
Mr. Lambert beamed at her—a ferocious and colossal beam. “Now, that’s
very nice—very nice, indeed, Miss Page. Every word pat, eh? Almost as
though you’d learned it by heart, shouldn’t you say?”
“That’s probably because I did learn it by heart,” proffered Miss Page
helpfully.
The beam forsook Mr. Lambert’s countenance, leaving the ferocity. “Oh,
you learned it by heart, did you? Between the front steps and the side
door, I suppose?”
“Not exactly. I wrote it down before I went in the side door.”
“You did what?”
“I wrote it down while Mrs. Ives was talking, most of it. The last
sentence or so I did just before I came in.”
Mr. Lambert took a convulsive grip on his sagging jaw. “Oh, indeed!
Brought back a portable typewriter and a fountain pen and a box of
notepaper from the sand pile, too, I suppose?”
Miss Page smiled patiently and politely.
“No; but I had some crayons of the children’s in my sweater pocket.”
“And half a dozen pads, too, no doubt?”
“No, I wrote it on the flyleaf of the book—_Cytherea_, you know.”
“For what purpose did you write this down?” The voice of Mr. Lambert
was the voice of one who has run hard and long toward a receding goal.
“It sounded important to me; I didn’t want to make any mistakes.”
“Quite so. So your story is that you took this information, which you
admit you acquired by eavesdropping on the woman you claim had been
invariably kind and generous to you, straight to her husband, in the
fond expectation of ruining both their lives?”
“Oh, no, indeed—in the expectation of saving them. Mr. Ives had been
even kinder to me than Mrs. Ives; I was desperately anxious to help
them both.”
“And this was your idea of helping them?”
“It was probably a stupid way,” said Miss Page humbly. “But it was the
only one that I could think of. I was afraid they were planning to
elope, and I thought that Mr. Ives might be able to stop them. You
see, I hadn’t realized then the real significance of the telephone
conversation.”
“What real significance, if you please?”
“The fact that someone must have told Mrs. Ives all about Mr. Ives’s
affair with Mrs. Bellamy before she went out that night,” said Miss
Page softly.
“Your Honour,” said the flagging voice— “Your Honour, I ask that that
reply be stricken from the record as unresponsive.”
“The Court does not regard it as unresponsive. You requested Miss Page
to give her final interpretation of the telephone conversation and she
has given it.”
“May I have an exception, Your Honour?”
“Certainly.”
“Then the story that you expect this jury to believe, Miss Page,
is that nothing but affectionate zeal prompted you to spy on
this benefactress of yours and to bear the glad tidings of her
infidelity to her unsuspecting husband—tidings acquired through a
reputed conversation of which you were the sole witness and the
self-constituted recorder?”
“I hope that they will believe me,” said Miss Page meekly. For one
brief moment her ingenuous eyes rested appealingly on the twelve
stolid and inscrutable countenances.
“And I hope that you are unduly optimistic,” said Mr. Lambert heavily.
“That is all, Miss Page.”
“Just one moment,” said the prosecutor easily. “Miss Page, when Mr.
Lambert asked you whether anyone couldn’t have overheard that
conversation, he prevented you from explaining why no one was likely
to. Let’s first get that straight. Where was Mrs. Daniel Ives?”
“In the rose garden.”
“That was where she usually went after dinner, wasn’t it?”
“Always, I think. She used to work out there for an hour or so until
it got dark, because that was the coolest part of the day.”
“Was the rose garden visible from the study?”
“Quite clearly. A window overlooked the little paved terrace that led
down into the rose garden.”
“So that it would have been simple for Mrs. Ives to verify whether
Mrs. Daniel Ives was in the garden?”
“Oh, quite.”
“Where were the servants apt to be at that time?”
“They would be having their dinner in the back part of the house—they
dined after the family.”
“What about Mr. Patrick Ives?”
“Mrs. Ives knew that he had gone upstairs. He told me that she had
been helping him to fasten the little pennant on in the study just
before he came up.”
“And she thought that you were upstairs, too, didn’t she?”
“Oh, yes; I was not in the habit of coming down after dinner. I had my
meals in the nursery.”
“Did Mr. Ives use the study much—to write or to work in, I mean?”
“I don’t know how much he worked in it; he had quite a collection of
technical volumes in it, but I don’t believe that he did much writing,
though. He had a very large, flat-topped desk that he used as a kind
of work bench.”
“Where he made the boats and dollhouses?”
“Yes.”
“Kept his tools and materials?”
“Yes.”
“Was that desk visible from the door?”
“Yes; it was directly opposite the door into the hall.”
“Would a person going from the flower room to the foot of the nursery
stairs pass it?”
“They could not very well avoid doing so.”
“Would the contents of the top of the desk be visible from the
doorway?”
“Oh, surely. The study is not a large room.”
The prosecutor made two strides toward the witness box. Something
small and dark and bright glinted for a moment in his hand. “Miss
Page, have you ever seen this knife before?”
Very delicately Miss Page lifted it in her slender fingers, eyeing it
gravely and fastidiously. “Yes,” she said quietly.
A little wind seemed to blow suddenly through the courtroom—a little,
cold, ominous wind.
“Where?”
“On the desk in Mr. Patrick Ives’s study on the afternoon of the
nineteenth of June, 1926.”
In a voice almost as gentle as her own, the prosecutor said, “That
will be all, Miss Page. You may go.”
And as lightly, as softly as she had come, Miss Page slipped from the
witness box and was gone.
The second day of the Bellamy trial was over.