TESTIMONY
In the interval that followed the members of the jury relaxed and leaned
back in their comfortable chairs, but no one broke the silence. Only the
rustle of paper at the press table as reporters prepared copy could be
heard, and David Curtis waited with the patience and quietude which his
long convalescence in hospitals had engendered. He was not aware of the
many curious glances cast in his direction, but the keen-eyed reporters
who had scented a story of unusual interest in the rumored marriage
between the blind surgeon and Anne Meredith, gained nothing by their
scrutiny. Curtis’ expression was not indicative of his feelings.
When on the witness stand he had contented himself with answering the
questions put to him. He had evaded nothing, nor had he volunteered
information. No one had questioned him as to his having gone to John
Meredith’s bedroom instead of his own, and he had not mentioned the
presence of a woman in the dead man’s room. Could it be that she was the
“female” of Herman’s story, and was that “female” Anne Meredith, as the
butler evidently believed? If so, what then did the parrot’s cry,
“Anne—I’ve caught you—you devil!” signify? Had the parrot repeated
Meredith’s death cry?
The lines about Curtis’ firm mouth tightened. His creed in life was
simple: to live straight, never forget a friend, and never go back on a
woman. Some natures there are with a direct appeal to each other—deep
calling to deep—and since his first meeting with Anne he had found his
thoughts engrossed by her charming, piquant personality. The first
impression had deepened, and then had come Meredith’s extraordinary plan
for their marriage. Small wonder that Curtis had been unable to put Anne
out of his thoughts.
The opening and shutting of the folding doors and the sound of men
rising indicated the arrival of Mrs. Meredith, and Curtis moved his
chair forward that he might not miss any of the proceedings. Mrs.
Meredith was conscious of the concentrated regard which her entrance
attracted.
With a courteous inclination of her head to the coroner she took the
chair he indicated and waited with outward serenity for her examination
to commence.
“Are you a resident of Washington, madam?” asked Coroner Penfield, after
the oath had been administered and the usual first questions answered.
“I make my winter home in Washington,” replied Mrs. Meredith. “I am a
native New Yorker.”
“Your name before your marriage?”
“Anabelle Rutherford.” Mrs. Meredith settled back into a more
comfortable position. “I married Marshall Meredith twenty-three years
ago and came with him to Washington. After his death I spent a great
deal of time traveling, but at the earnest solicitation of my
brother-in-law I decided again to make Washington my permanent
residence.”
“And did you make your home with him?”
“No. I have an apartment at the Dresden. My daughter Anne and I
generally spend every holiday and week-end here at Ten Acres with my
brother-in-law, however.” Mrs. Meredith was given to short sentences,
loquacity not being one of her failings. “Mr. John Meredith was devoted
to Anne and desired to have her with him as much as possible.”
“Mrs. Meredith,” Penfield laid down his pencil and looked keenly at the
handsome widow. The black gown which she had donned was modish in cut
and very becoming, but it occurred to the coroner that her beautiful
diamond earrings were inappropriate for the occasion and the deep
mourning of her attire. “Did your brother-in-law appear in his usual
spirits yesterday, or did he seem troubled in mind?”
“John appeared about as usual,” she replied, “except for his excitement
over the prospective marriage of my daughter to Doctor Curtis. That
absorbed his attention to the exclusion of all else.”
At mention of Curtis’ name Penfield glanced involuntarily toward the
spot where the surgeon was sitting and Mrs. Meredith caught his look.
Until then she had not observed Curtis and had not realized that he
might be in the room. Mrs. Meredith smoothed the frown from her forehead
and again fixed her gaze on Coroner Penfield.
“When did you last see John Meredith alive?” he asked.
“At dinner,” she answered. “He complained of a headache and went to his
room soon afterward.” Penfield paused and referred to his notes, before
putting the next question. “Did you retire early, Mrs. Meredith?”
“No, it must have been about eleven-thirty or a quarter of twelve.” She
twisted her lorgnette chain in and out of her fingers. “I read in bed
for a little while and then fell asleep.”
“And did no sound disturb you? Did you sleep through the entire night?”
asked Penfield. A certain eagerness crept into his voice and Mrs.
Meredith caught its warning note in time to be on her guard.
“On the contrary, I was very restless,” she said. “My daughter Anne is a
wretched sleeper and I heard her moving about a number of times during
the night.”
Penfield looked at her steadily for a second. “And what was your
daughter doing in the hall at the time John Meredith died?” he asked.
The crepe trimming on Mrs. Meredith’s gown betrayed her rapid breathing,
otherwise she sat calmly facing them.
“Anne started to get a book from the library,” she explained, and her
voice was admirably controlled. “I heard her walking through the boudoir
which separates our bedrooms and went to remonstrate with her. When we
found the hall in darkness she returned to her bedroom.”
Penfield raised his eyebrows. “Without being aware that her uncle lay
dead only a short distance down the hall?” he asked.
“The hall is winding and was also unlighted,” she reminded him quietly.
“We were informed of Mr. Meredith’s death by Doctor McLane very early
this morning.”
The coroner looked a trifle nonplused and drummed his fingers on the
table in indecision for a second.
“Was Mr. Meredith on good terms with every member of his household?” he
asked finally.
“To the best of my knowledge he was,” she stated, meeting his eyes with
a level gaze. “I assure you, sir, I know of no reason for my
brother-in-law’s rash and unhappy act.”
“Act, madam?”
“In committing suicide.” Again her fingers played with her lorgnette
chain. “The tragedy has quite unnerved the entire household. Aside from
the first shock, we grieve for the loss of a courtly gentleman and dear
friend.”
Curtis would have given much to have been able to study Mrs. Meredith’s
expression. He had followed every word of her testimony with keenest
attention, his ears attuned to catch every inflection in her voice,
every hesitation, however momentary, and he admitted defeat. She had
shown admirable composure and nimbleness of wit. Her explanation of the
scene in the hall with Anne, which he had overheard, was quick—too quick
to convince him of its truth.
Penfield considered Mrs. Meredith in silence for a moment. “I think that
is all just now, madam,” he said courteously. “In case we should require
you again at this hearing, kindly remain in your bedroom.”
With one last comprehensive look at the silent jury and the busy
reporters, Mrs. Meredith wasted no time in leaving the room. Her place
was taken in rapid succession by Jules, the chef, and Fernando, the
Filipino, both of whom stated that they had retired early, slept soundly
through the night and knew nothing of the death of John Meredith until
awakened by Herman the next morning. Susanne, Mrs. Meredith’s maid, told
of sharing her bedroom with Gretchen, the chambermaid, and of sound and
dreamless slumber until also awakened by the agitated butler. Gretchen,
the next witness, stuttered and stammered to such an extent that
Penfield finally lost patience with her.
“There is no occasion for tears,” he said. “Just answer my question. Did
you hear any unusual noise last night?”
Gretchen nodded her head dumbly; two big tears in her blue eyes
obstructed her vision and she brushed them away with the hem of her
white apron. She was an extremely pretty girl and the foreman of the
jury eyed her admiringly. She spoke fairly good English, considering her
short stay in the country.
“What sort of a noise was it?” demanded Penfield as she remained silent.
“When did you hear it and where?”
“Peoples—they talk under my window,” she stammered. “My bed it is—how
you say?” with a graceful gesture, “it is close by. The woman she say: I
will do it to-night.’ And the man he reply: ‘Don’t lose your nerve.’
Then, gentlemens, I hear,” her eyes were twice their usual size, “the
north door shut and by and by feetsteps go softly, softly by my door.
Then—” her voice trailed off.
“Well, what?” asked Penfield, after a second’s wait.
“Nothings, gentlemens; I go to sleep.” There was more than a hint of
obstinacy in both tone and appearance, and Penfield showed his
displeasure.
“Come, come!” he exclaimed. “You can tell us more than that. If you
don’t, you will get into serious trouble with the police.”
“But, indeed, gentlemens, I go to sleep,” she protested, tears again
welling to her eyes. “Nothing more do I know until Herman bang upon our
door this morning and say the master is dead.”
Penfield eyed her steadily. “Did you recognize the woman’s voice?” he
asked.
“Please, gentlemens, it was,” she gazed in fright about the room. “It
was—” her eyes had strayed to David Curtis. She saw him facing her, his
whole expression one of suspense. Her voice ended in a gurgle.
“Go for some aromatic spirits of ammonia,” directed Penfield, as Doctor
Mayo sprang to his assistance. “The girl will be all right in a minute;
there, let in the air, the room is stuffy. What think ye, doctor,” as
Curtis approached. “A fake or faint?”
Curtis ran his fingers gently over the girl’s forehead and across her
closed eyelids, then listened to her rapid breathing.
“A case of excitement and fright combined,” he said, as smelling salts
were thrust into his hand by Fernando, who had stuck his head inside the
door at the sound of the commotion and, with the quickness which
characterized all his movements, secured Anne’s bottle of salts which
she had left on the hall mantelpiece some days before and forgotten.
Curtis moved the salts back and forth before Gretchen, and in a few
minutes her blue eyes opened, only to close the next instant as he bent
over her.
“It is all right, Gretchen.” His calm voice held a soothing quality
which brought confidence to overwrought nerves. “You have nothing to
fear.”
“But the gentlemens—he say—” her voice was husky with emotion. “I don’t
tell on my young Mees.”
Curtis’ heart contracted suddenly. Was Anne again to be dragged into the
investigation? Coroner Penfield, at his elbow, allowed no time for
thought.
“You mean Miss Anne Meredith?” he demanded.
A nod was the only answer of which she was capable, but it satisfied
Penfield. He exchanged a look with Mayo, then continued his examination
as his assistant gave the girl a dose of aromatic spirits of ammonia.
“And the man,” he began. “Did you recognize his voice also?”
“No, gentlemens.” Gretchen straightened up and handed the empty glass to
Mayo. “I tell everyting I know,” and she held out her hands in appeal.
“Everyting.”
“You are excused,” exclaimed Penfield, and Gretchen, with a sidelong
glance at Curtis, slid out of the witness chair and from the room as the
surgeon went back to his seat by the fireplace.
Gretchen’s place was taken by Damason. His facial resemblance to his
brother was marked, but whereas Fernando was thin and wiry, Damason was
above medium height and thick-set. His testimony was brief and to the
point. He corroborated Herman’s statement of having been aroused the
night before by the butler and Gerald Armstrong.
“Mr. Armstrong got his car,” he went on to say. “And when he drove away
I went back to bed.”
“Did you hear any one walking about the place, Damason?” questioned
Penfield.
“No, sir.”
“That is all, thanks.” And at a sign from the coroner Damason rose and
stepped toward the door with alacrity, then halted and turned back.
“I forgot, please, sir,” he said, with a low bow. “This note has just
come for you, sir.”
Penfield tore off the envelope and read the few lines penned on the note
paper. Turning he addressed the jury.
“This is a note from Mr. Gerald Armstrong,” he began. “In it Mr.
Armstrong states that,” he replaced his eyeglasses and read aloud, “‘The
news of Mr. John Meredith’s tragic death has proved a great shock. I
have just learned that the inquest is called for three o’clock.
Unfortunately I have an engagement which I am unable to break and cannot
be present. As you probably have been told, I left Ten Acres just before
midnight, therefore know nothing of the distressing event which
transpired there after my departure, and my testimony would not aid your
investigation.’”
Penfield laid down the note without comment. “Mayo,” he said, “kindly
request Miss Lucille Hull to step here.”