A QUESTION OF COLOR
Coroner Penfield waited with untiring patience for Inspector Mitchell to
complete his examination before signing to the undertaker’s assistants,
who stood grouped at the further end of the hall, to remove the body. In
utter silence the men came forward with their stretcher, and all that
was mortal of John Meredith was tenderly lifted and carried to a spare
bedroom. As the bearers passed Mrs. Meredith’s boudoir door it opened
and Anne Meredith stepped across the threshold.
Dressed in her white pegnoir and the unnatural pallor of her cheeks
enhanced by the deep shadows under her eyes, she appeared, in the
uncompromising glare of the early morning sunlight, like a wraith, and
the men halted involuntarily. Before any one could stop her, Anne
stepped to the side of the stretcher and drew back the sheet. A shudder
shook her at sight of the bloodstains. With a self-control little short
of marvelous in one so young she mastered her emotion and laid her hand,
with caressing tenderness, against the cold cheek.
“Poor Uncle John!” she murmured. Her hand slipped downward across the
broad chest. There was an instant’s pause, then stooping over, she
kissed him as some one touched her on the shoulder.
“Anne,” her mother’s voice sounded coldly in her ear. “Come away, _at
once_.”
Under cover of the sheet Anne plucked at a button on the jacket, then
with a single sweep of her arm she tossed the sheet over the dead man’s
face.
“Pardon me,” she stammered as Coroner Penfield walked over to the
stretcher. “Uncle John was very dear to me,” her voice ended in a sob.
“I—I—had to see him—to—to—convince myself that this awful thing had
really happened. Oh, merciful God—”
Her mother’s firm grasp on her arm checked her inclination to hysterics.
“Come.” There was no mistaking the power of the imperious command. With
a grave inclination of her head to Coroner Penfield and Inspector
Mitchell, who had stood a silent spectator of the little scene, she led
her daughter inside the boudoir and closed the door. Not until Anne was
in her own bedroom did Mrs. Meredith release her hold upon her arm.
“I trust your morbid curiosity is satisfied,” she said, making no effort
to conceal her deep displeasure.
Anne walked over to her bureau and, turning her back upon her mother,
opened a small silver bonbon box and in feverish haste slipped several
hairs, which she had held tightly clenched between the fingers of her
left hand, under the peppermints which the box contained.
“I am quite satisfied, mother,” her voice shook pitifully. “Would you
mind sending Susanne to me. I—I will lie down for awhile.”
“An excellent plan.” Mrs. Meredith turned back to the door connecting
Anne’s bedroom with the boudoir. “Doctor McLane expressly ordered us to
remain in our rooms until Coroner Penfield sent for us. Have you—” she
paused—“have you seen Lucille?”
“No.” Anne looked around quickly. “Has she been told about Uncle John?”
“She was still asleep when I went to her room half an hour ago, and I
thought it best not to awaken her.” Mrs. Meredith laid her hand on the
knob of the door, preparatory to closing it behind her. “I will go there
shortly. Try and rest, Anne; a little rose water might make your eyes
less red,” and with this parting shot, her mother retreated.
Crossing the boudoir Mrs. Meredith hastened into her bedroom. The suite
of rooms which she and her daughter occupied were the prettiest in the
old mansion, overlooking the well-kept grounds and lovely elm trees, but
she did not pause to contemplate her surroundings, although the large
bedroom and its handsome mahogany furniture were worthy a second look.
“Susanne,” she called. “Order my breakfast at once, then go to Miss
Anne.”
“_Oui, madame_” The Frenchwoman emerged in haste from the closet where
she had been rearranging Mrs. Meredith’s dinner gowns. She smiled
shrewdly as she went below stairs. “You give orders as if you were
already mistress here,” she muttered, below her breath. “But wait,
madame, but wait.” And with a shrug of her pretty shoulders Susanne
hastened to find the chef.
Mrs. Meredith regarded herself attentively in the long cheval glass,
added a touch of rouge, then rubbed it off vigorously. Pale cheeks were
not amiss after the tragedy of the night. Powder, delicately applied,
removed all traces of sleeplessness, and finally satisfied with her
appearance, she left her bedroom. The old mansion had but two stories,
with rambling corridors and unexpected niches and alcoves. The wide
attic was lighted by dormer windows and a deep cellar extended under the
entire building.
The large drawing-room, library, billiard room and dining-room were on
the first floor, the servants’ quarters in a wing over the kitchen and
three large pantries, and the ten masters’ rooms took up all the space
on the second floor. A second wing, added at the time John Meredith had
had electricity and plumbing installed, furnished three additional
bedrooms and baths and were reserved for bachelor guests. The ground
floor of this wing made a commodious garage.
As Mrs. Meredith walked down the broad corridor she noted two detectives
loitering by the head of the circular staircase and frowned heavily. Her
pause in front of the door leading to the bedroom occupied by Lucille
Hull was brief. She knew, from her earlier visit that morning, that her
cousin had neglected to lock the door upon retiring the night before.
Without the formality of knocking she turned the knob and entered. The
dark green Holland shades were drawn and in the semidarkness Mrs.
Meredith failed to see a pair of bright eyes watching her approach. By
the time Mrs. Meredith reached the bedside, Lucille was in deep slumber,
judging by her closed eyes and regular breathing.
Lucille’s good looks were not due to cosmetics, Mrs. Meredith conceded
to herself as she stood looking down at her. Even in the darkened room
the girl’s regular features and beautiful auburn hair which, flying
loose, partly covered the pillow, made an attractive picture. Mrs.
Meredith laid a cool hand on the girl’s exposed arm, and gave it a
gentle shake.
“Lucille,” she called softly. “Wake up.”
Slowly the handsome eyes opened. Her first glance at the older woman
became a stare.
“Good gracious, Cousin Belle, you!” she exclaimed. “And fully dressed.
Am I very late? Have I slept the clock around?”
“On the contrary it is very early; only six o’clock.” Mrs. Meredith’s
somewhat metallic voice was carefully lowered. “I have distressing
news—”
Lucille raised herself upon her elbow, her eyes large with fear.
“What is it? Father—? Oh, Cousin Belle, don’t keep me in suspense.”
“Hush, calm yourself! My news has nothing to do with your immediate
family.” Mrs. Meredith was not to be hurried. “Turn up that bed light,
Lucille; I cannot talk in the dark.”
Bending sideways the girl pushed the button of the reading lamp. Its
adjusted shade threw the light over the bed, but her face remained in
shadow. “Go on,” she urged. “Go on!”
“Your Cousin John has—has—committed suicide.”
With a convulsive bound the girl swung herself out of bed.
“W-what?” she stammered. “W-what are you saying? Cousin John a suicide?”
“Yes.”
She stared at Mrs. Meredith for a full second. “Did he kill himself?”
she asked, in little above a whisper.
Mrs. Meredith nodded. “His dead body was found in the hall near the
staircase early this morning,” she said. “It has shocked me
unutterably.”
“Cousin John dead! I cannot believe it. It is dreadful.” Lucille spoke
as one stunned. She covered her eyes with her hand in an attitude of
prayer, then rose and walked over to the windows and raised the shades
until the bedroom was flooded with light.
“And Anne?” she questioned. “Has Anne been told?”
“Yes.” Lucille, still with her back to her cousin, felt that the keen
eyes watching her were boring a hole through her head. “Doctor McLane
broke the news to Anne after he had spoken to me. I fear she is inclined
to be hysterical.”
“Poor Anne!” Lucille whirled around with sudden feverish energy. “I will
dress at once and go to her.”
“Not just now, she is lying down and absolute quiet is what she needs,”
Mrs. Meredith’s manner, which had thawed at sight of the girl’s emotion,
stiffened. “If you will come to the dining room, breakfast will be
served shortly.”
“Breakfast!” Lucille shuddered. “I don’t feel as if I could ever eat a
mouthful again. Oh, Cousin Belle, how can you be so—so callous?”
“So what—” Mrs. Meredith stopped on her way to the door, and under the
steady regard of her fine dark eyes Lucille’s burst of temper waned.
“So calm,” she replied hastily. “I wish that I had your self-control.”
A faint ironical smile crossed Mrs. Meredith’s pale face. “Self-control
will come when you cease smoking,” she remarked dryly, pointing to an
empty cigarette package and a filled ash tray by the bed. “And, you
doubtless recall your discussion, only yesterday, with Cousin John on
the subject of keeping early hours.”
Lucille flushed. “Cousin John was absurdly puritanical,” she protested.
“We—ah—” she hesitated. “How has Cousin John’s death affected his plans
for that extraordinary marriage? Surely, Anne won’t be forced to wed
that blind surgeon. Doctor Curtis?”
“Our thoughts have not gone beyond the moment,” replied Mrs. Meredith.
“We can think of nothing but John’s tragic death; all else is secondary.
We must adjust ourselves,” she paused. “Hurry, Lucille, and join me in
the dining room.”
Lucille dressed with absolute disregard of detail, a novel experience,
as her personal appearance usually was a consideration which loomed
large on her horizon, and generally consumed a good part of two hours of
every morning. Loving luxury, the idol of an indulgent father, she had
spent twenty-six indolent years, petted by men and gossiped about by
women. She had made her debut into Washington society upon her
eighteenth birthday and, in spite of the many predictions of her
approaching engagement to this man and that, one season had followed
another and she still remained unmarried.
Her father, Julian Hull, by courtesy a colonel, was a first cousin of
John Meredith, and at one time a business associate. But unlike Colonel
Hull, John Meredith had early deserted the stock-brokerage field and
devoted his financial interests and his business ability to banking. He
had climbed rapidly in his chosen profession, and finally attained the
presidency of one of the oldest banks in the District of Columbia, a
position which he had held until, upon advice of Doctor McLane, he had
resigned owing to ill health. The brokerage firm of Hull and Armstrong
had likewise prospered and, upon the death of its junior member, his
son, Gerald Armstrong, had been taken into partnership, a partnership
which, rumor predicted, would culminate in his marriage to Lucille.
Lucille and her father were frequent week-end visitors at Ten Acres, and
Lucille was often called upon to act as hostess at dinners and dances
when Mrs. Marshall Meredith was not present. John Meredith’s affection
for his niece, Anne, and his cousin’s daughter had appeared to be about
equally divided until Anne graduated from her convent school and came,
as he expressed it, to make her home permanently with her uncle. Her
half-shy, wholly charming manner, her old-world courtesy and
consideration for others, and her delicate, almost ethereal beauty had
made instant appeal, and John Meredith had been outspoken in his
affectionate admiration. His marked preference for Anne had brought no
appreciable alteration in the friendship between the cousins, and, in
spite of the eight years difference in their ages, she and Lucille were
inseparable companions.
It had been Meredith’s custom to have guests every week-end from January
to June and from June to January at Ten Acres. He never wearied of
improving the stately old mansion and its surrounding land and enjoyed
having others share its beauty. Anne’s nineteenth birthday anniversary
two days before had proved the occasion for much jollification, but the
house party, to the surprise of Mrs. Meredith, had only included Lucille
Hull, Sam Hollister and Gerald Armstrong. The arrival of David Curtis
just in time to be present at the birthday dinner had aroused only a
temporary interest in the blind surgeon and a feeling of pity, tinged
with admiration on Anne’s part, for Curtis’ plucky acceptance of the
fate meted out to him. What had occasioned surprise was Meredith’s
absorption in his blind guest the night of the dinner and the following
day; then had come his interview with his sister-in-law and the
peremptory statement of his wishes respecting a marriage between Anne
and David Curtis. In every way it had proved an eventful Sunday, ending
with John Meredith’s suicide.
Lucille checked her rapid walk down the corridor only to collide with
some vigor with David Curtis as she turned the corner leading from her
bedroom into the main hallway.
“Oh, ah—excuse me!” she gasped, as he put out a steadying hand. “Let me
pick up your cane,” and before he could stop her she had stooped to get
it.
“Thank you,” he said, as she put the cane back in his hand. “It was
awkward of me to drop it. I hope that I did not startle you, Miss Hull?”
Lucille looked at him queerly for a moment, “Miss Hull,” she repeated.
“Why not Anne Meredith?”
“No. _Miss Hull_,” his smile was very engaging; and again she noted the
deep blue of his sightless eyes.
“You are very quick to guess identities, Doctor Curtis,” she remarked.
“Are you coming downstairs?”
“Not just now. Coroner Penfield is waiting for me,” he added by way of
explanation.
“Then I will see you later,” and with a quick bow Lucille hurried toward
the staircase.
As Curtis stood listening to her light footfall he heard some one
approaching from the servants’ wing of the house.
“That you, Fernando?” he questioned.
“Yes, sir,” and the Filipino boy bowed respectfully. “I ver’ late.
Please pardon. This way, sir,” and he touched Curtis’ arm to indicate
the direction.
“Just a moment,” Curtis lowered his voice. “What color is Miss Hull’s
hair?”
“Mees Hull,” Fernando paused in thought. “She got what you call red
hair.”
Curtis tucked his cane under his arm and took out his wallet. Opening it
he carefully drew out several hairs.
“What color are these, Fernando?” he asked. “Look carefully.”
Fernando bent over and then glanced up, a mild surprise at the question
in his sharp black eyes.
“These, honorable sir,” he said slowly, “these are white hairs.”