XX IN THE BOUDOIR
Apparently, Fleming Stone paid little attention to this letter fromPauline. Really, every word engraved itself on his heart, as he read thelines, and when he gave the paper to Gray Haviland, it was only becausehe knew he would never need to refresh his memory as to the messagePauline had sent him.
Stone also read the letter she had written to Gray, and his deep eyesclouded with pain at some of the lines. But he returned it to Havilandwithout comment, and then courteously dismissed the pair.
"He's bothered to death," said Gray, as they went downstairs.
"So'm I," responded Anita. "But nobody cares about me, it's allPauline,--whether she's a----"
"Let up on that, 'Nita!" and Gray spoke warningly. "Don't you callPauline names in my hearing!"
Anita, pouting, flounced away to her own room.
Fleming Stone remained in Miss Lucy Carrington's boudoir. He sat on awindow-seat, and looked out across the wide gardens and the innumerablesteps. There was not much snow now. Merely great wind-swept stretches,dotted with evergreen trees, and the carved stone of the terrace railingsand balustrades.
Long, Stone mused over Pauline's letter. For a time, he gave himself upto thoughts of her in which consideration of crime had no part. He knewhe loved her, loved her with all the strength and power of his greatnature; with all the affection and devotion of his big heart; and withall the passion and adoration of his deep soul. He knew she was notaverse to him. Knew almost, with his marvelous power of knowledge, thatshe cared for him, but he knew, too, that if he let his mind dwell onsuch alluring thoughts or visions, he could not work. And work, he must.Ay, work as he had never before, with an incentive he had never hadbefore. And Fleming Stone's mind was troubled to know whether this lovefor Pauline would help or hinder this work he must do. And he resolved,with all his mighty will-power, that it should help, that he wouldcontrol this surging emotion, so new to him, and would force it to aidand assist his efforts, and to triumph over all doubts or obstacles.
Again he concentrated his whole mentality on the room and its contents.He swore to wrest from the silent witnesses the story of the crime. Thiswas not his usual method of procedure. On the contrary, he almostinvariably learned his points from questioning people, from observingsuspects, or quizzing witnesses. But, he realized the difference inessence between this case and any other in which he had ever engaged. Hehad no more questions to ask. He knew all any one could or would tellhim. He knew all the facts, all the theories, all the evidence, all thetestimony. And none of it was worth a picayune to him, except negatively.This case must be, and should be, solved by the application of hishighest mental powers, by the most intense thought and, doubtless, bymost brilliant and clever deduction from hints not facts, from ideas, notvisible clues. To work, then! To the work that _must_ bring success!
Leaving the window-seat, Stone walked round the room, and finally drew upin front of the mirror the easy chair in which Miss Carrington had satwhen she received the blow given by Bates. Whether she had sat here whiletaking the poison, no one knew. If Stone's theory was right, she had not.
By referring to the photographs taken of Miss Carrington after her death,Stone was able to reconstruct the scene correctly.
He placed the easy chair just as it had been when she sat in it. Heassumed the position she showed in the photographs, and gazed at himselfin the mirror, as she must necessarily have done.
Slowly, he went over that conversation reported by Anita Frayne. Never,for a moment, had he doubted the truth of that report. He was sure MissCarrington had really said all the things Anita repeated, and the clearand indubitable explanation of those remarks would mean, he was sure, thesolution of the mystery.
By way of interviewing his silent witnesses, he endeavored toreconstruct, in thought, Miss Carrington's movements that night. Paulineand Anita had left her, all three of them angry, at a little aftertwelve. Later, Estelle had left her,--that was about quarter to one. Thenshe had on her embroidered robe and some jewels. She was not then sittingat the dressing-table. Nor had she then, presumably, taken the poison.For the doctors insisted that she had swallowed the poison very near thehour of one, but after it rather than before, and had placed the hour ofher death at two. So, Stone reasoned, Miss Carrington must have takenthat aconite at pretty nearly the very time Anita heard her talking. Itseemed to Stone incredible that there could have been a person present towhom Miss Carrington could have addressed those remarks, and who couldhave given or allowed her to take the deadly draught.
The idea that Pauline could have been this person was not among FlemingStone's catalogue of possibilities.
Moreover, the fact of the one voice strongly impressed him. Anothervoice, however low, must have at some point of the conversation risen toan audible sound to a listener with normal hearing. Also, Anita hadasserted that the speeches of Miss Carrington did sound as if addressedto different persons. It was not likely there were two or more intrudersor visitors there at once, and slowly but surely Fleming Stone decided,once for all, that Miss Carrington was alone in that room at that time.This meant, not exactly soliloquy, the mode of address contradicted that,but it meant, to him, at least, that she was addressing some inanimateobject or objects as if they were sentient.
His task was to discover those objects. His first thought was, as he satin the easy chair before the mirror, that the lady had spoken to her ownreflection. But the speeches, of which he had a memorandum, precludedthis hypothesis. She would not say to herself "You are so fond ofpearls," or "You have a beautiful face."
Abandoning that supposition, Stone methodically searched for somethingthat might have been addressed.
Clearly,--that is, if he were on the right track,--the words "Henri, youare the mark I aim at!" could have been spoken to the Count's glove,which she held in her hand. In the same vein, assuming that the glove, toher, represented the Count himself, might have been said the speech aboutthe ten thousand dollars, and the remark that he loved pearls.
Accepting these possibilities as facts, Stone went on to discover more.His method was to repeat to himself her very words and strive to see orsense something to which they might have been addressed.
"You have the most beautiful face I ever saw," he quoted softly and then,scanning the room, went on: "I only wish mine were as beautiful."
His eyes lighted on the picture of Cleopatra, which hung above the mirrorof the dressing-table.
"That's it!" he cried, with instant conviction. "She looked at thatbeautiful face and then in the mirror, at her plain features, and sheinvoluntarily cried out for the beauty denied her! Poor woman, to liveall her lonely, hungry life, surfeited with wealth yet unable to buy thefairness she craved!"
Not doubting for an instant the truth of his conclusion, Stone checkedoff that speech and passed on to the next on his list. If he couldaccount for them all, he would be sure Lucy Carrington met her deathalone, and therefore by her own hand. Of course, she did not knowinglypoison herself, but if persuaded that the prepared draught was someinnocent remedy--oh, well, that was aside the point for the moment.
But, quoting the phrase, "To-morrow I shall be forever free from thiscurse of a plain face,--to-morrow these jewels may all be yours,"--evenhis ingenuity could suggest no meaning but a foreknowledge of approachingdeath. What else could free her from her hated lack of beauty? What butdeath could transfer her fortune of jewels to another? Of course it mightbe that marriage with her would give the jewels to Count Charlier, butthe two speeches were consecutive, and the implication was all toward thefate that was even then almost upon her.
The remark about ten thousand dollars was unimportant, as she hadrecently willed that sum to five different people, and the reference to achange in her will that should cut out Pauline might have been merely aburst of temper. At any rate, Stone ascribed little importance to itthen. He felt that he had learned enough to assume positively that MissCarrington was not talking to a hu
man being when Anita Frayne heard hervoice. Then, he conjectured, as the maid was free of all suspicion on thepoisoning matter, and as the two girls had left the room at a littleafter twelve, the weight of evidence was in favor of the poison beingself-administered, no matter for what reason or intent. Granting this,there must be some trace of the container of the aconite, before it wasplaced in the glass. This must be found. If not, it proved its removal bysome one, either before or after the poisoning actually occurred.
Eagerly, almost feverishly, Stone searched. Exhaustive search had longago been made, but again he went over all the possible places. The ornatewaste-basket beneath the dressing-table still held its store of daintyrubbish. This had been ordered to remain undestroyed. Stone knew thecontents by heart, but in hope of an overlooked clue, he again turned thecontents out on a towel. Some clippings of ribbon, a discarded satinflower, two or three used "powder-leaves," a couple of hairpins and atorn letter were the principal items of the familiar lot. Nothing thatgave the least enlightenment.
Stone got up and wandered around. What had that poison been in before itwas put in that glass?
The ever-recurring thought that some one might have brought it to theboudoir after preparing it elsewhere, he would not recognize. A sort ofsixth sense convinced him that if he kept on looking he must find thatclue.
He went into the bedroom. The beautiful appointments, replicas of MarieAntoinette's, seemed to mock at his quest. "We know," they seemed tolaugh at him, "we know all about it, but we will never tell!"
Untouched since Estelle's deft hand had turned back its silken coverlets,the bed seemed waiting for some fair occupant. With a sigh at the pathosof it, Stone suppressed an involuntary thought of the incongruity of thatgilded, lace-draped nest, and its pitifully unbeautiful owner. There wasa profusion of embroidered pillows, and across the satin puff lay afairy-like night-robe of gossamer texture, and coquettish ribbons. Apeignoir of pink crepe lay beside it, and on the floor a pair of brocade_mules_ waited in vain for feet that would never again slip into theirfurred linings.
There was nothing helpful here, and with a sigh Stone went on to thebath-room. Fit for a princess, the shining white and gleaming silvershowed careful readiness. Embroidered towels, delicate soaps and perfumeswere in place--all showed preparation, not use.
"If I were searching traces of Estelle, now," groaned Stone,despairingly, to himself, "I could find thousands. But Miss Carringtondidn't come in here at all. But, whoever rinsed that glass did!" Thethought caused Stone to start with eagerness. It was the fact of theglass being out of line with the other appointments of the wash-standthat had first attracted his attention to it. After the test, the glasshad been returned to its place, now in strict position between a silvercup and a flask of violet water.
"Spoon in it," mused Stone. "Shows carelessness on the part of whoeverput it there. Don't believe a spoon was in a glass, generally, in thiscelestial bath-room. If----"
His ruminations were cut short by a shock of surprise. Under thewash-stand was a small waste-basket. Had this been overlooked by thesearchers? Not surprising, for thorough search had not been made inbedroom or bath-room, as in the room where death had taken place.
Stone mechanically looked over the contents of the little basket. Therewas only a scant handful of papers. But carefully spreading a towel onthe floor he turned the basket upside down. Tremblingly he fingered thepapers. The first was the wrapper that had contained a cake of Frenchsoap. At a glance, Stone saw the corresponding soap in its silver dish.Estelle had doubtless placed it there, casting away its paper.
But among the scraps was another paper--two more. They were,--they surely_were_ in creases like the folds of a powder paper!
With lightest touch, Stone unfolded them. There was one, about fourinches square, that had been folded as if to contain a powder. This waswhite, and of a texture like writing paper. The other was of a paraffinpaper, exactly the same size and shape, and in similar creases. Alsothere was a bunchy ball of tin-foil, that, when smoothed out, proved tobe of identical shape and size with the other two.
There was no room for doubt. These were unquestionably the wrappers ofthe aconitine! Stone detected on the inside of the paraffin paper tracesof the powder itself, and knew that a test would prove his discovery atrue find.
Now, then, where did he stand? To his own mind, what he had found provedthat Miss Carrington had herself gone to her bath-room, opened thepowder, thrown the papers carelessly in the basket, and then, mixing thestuff with water, had taken it then and there and rinsed the glass andset it back on the shelf. It was all natural and plausible.
But, he well knew, others would say that, remembering her detestation ofmedicaments, Miss Lucy Carrington never did such a thing. Also, theywould say, some one else, some one of whom Miss Lucy felt no fear, hadmixed the draught, and had administered it, by means of some yetundiscovered but plausible misrepresentation.
And only too well he knew whose name would be associated with the deed!
Heavy of heart, he returned to the boudoir and sat in the easy chair,before the mirror.
New thoughts came surging. It was sure, now, that Miss Carrington tookthe aconitine in a glass of water, in her own apartments,--one ofthem,--and took it, if not knowingly or willingly, at least without anygreat objection or disturbance. Clinging to his theory that she wasalone, Stone visualized her taking the draught by herself. Assume for themoment, an intended headache cure,--but no! If she took the aconitinealone and voluntarily, she knew it was poison, for she said "To-morrow Ishall be freed forever from this homely face."
Did it all come back, then, to suicide? No, not with that glad face, thathappy smile, that joyful look of anticipation. A suffering invalid,longing for death, might thus welcome a happy release, but notlife-loving Lucy Carrington.
It was too bewildering, too inexplicable. Again and again Stone scannedthe powder papers. They told nothing more than that they were the powderpapers. That was positive, but what did it prove? To whom did it point?
Frowning, Stone studied his own face in the mirror before him.Desperately, he repeated again all the sentences on Anita's list.
At one of them he paused, even in the act of repetition.
He stared blankly into his own mirrored eyes, a dawning light beginningto flame back at him. Then, a little wildly, he glanced around,--up,down, and back to his almost frenzied, reflected face.
"Oh!" he muttered, through his clinched teeth, for Stone was not a mangiven to strong expletives, "it is! I've got it at last! The powder, thepearls,--the snake! My Heavens! the _snake_! Oh, Pauline, my love, mylove--but who? who? Have I discovered this thing only to lead back toher? I _won't_ have it so! I am on the right track at last, and I'llfollow it to the end--the end, but it shall _not_ lead, I _know_ it willnot--to my heart's idol, my beautiful Pauline!"