CHAPTER VII THE INQUEST
The inquest was an interesting affair.
I gathered from Coroner Hart’s manner that he had picked up someinformation or some bits of evidence that meant a lot to him, and heseemed impatient to begin his questioning.
The setting of the scene was far too beautiful to be wasted on a crimesession and I looked about at the curious crowd of neighbours andvillagers with distaste.
We were in the great ballroom, which occupies the lower floor of the wingcontaining Sampson Tracy’s rooms. On three sides, the Sunless Sea lappedits dark waters against its rocky shores, and the merest glance into itsblack depths was enough to deter the stoutest heart from an unnecessarydive therein. But an escaping murderer, if brave enough to risk thedanger, and skilled enough in diving and sufficiently familiar with theposition of the principal rocks, might make the goal. It was a comfort tome to think that, since the authorities assumed that was the way thecriminal got out, it rather freed Alma Remsen from suspicion.
For that delicate girl, even though a good diver, as I had heard, couldnever have committed that brutal murder, and then have dived into thoseperilous depths at desperate risk of her own life.
Seats had been reserved for our crowd, and as we took them I glanced atthe coroner’s jury. All well to do and fine looking men from the largeestates that bordered the whole length of Deep Lake. Some were grave,some seemed unable to quell a naturally gay and jolly disposition, butall were alert and alive, and I felt that the case was in good hands.
I knew few of the audience. Mrs. Dallas was accompanied by severalfriends, and I also noted the young girl, Posy May, who had been at theMoores’ dinner party.
Then I saw Alma Remsen. She sat near Posy and she was accompanied by awoman who impressed me strongly. Never have I seen a face of moredetermination and grim endurance than that of Mrs. Merivale, which Ilater learned was her name.
She was the nurse who had cared for Alma since she was born. She livedwith the girl in her island home, and surely no one could ask for a morecapable and efficient-looking guardian.
Not a fine lady, but beyond all doubt a fine woman, Mrs. Merivale wastall and gaunt of figure and possessed a large, bony face whose stern,set mouth was belied by a touch of humour quite evident in the shrewdgray eyes.
But what most impressed me was her expression of wisdom. Surely, this wasa woman to whom all the experiences of life were as an open book. She hadthe look of a witch or sibyl, although her gray hair was decorouslysmooth beneath her small black hat.
She noted every new arrival, she swept the jury with her all-seeingglance and finally concentrated her attention on the coroner, until, witha quick nod of satisfaction, she ended that scrutiny.
Then she turned a little to contemplate the girl beside her.
Alma Remsen, to-day in a costume of soft beige-coloured silk weave,looked nervous and worried. Her golden hair, escaping at the sides fromher close little hat, framed a face that was clearly worn and wan from asleepless night. At least it seemed that way to me, and I longed to tellher her secret was safe with me. Never would I divulge to any one thefact that she visited Pleasure Dome on the night of the tragedy. So far,I hadn’t heard a hint of such a thing, and I hoped there would be none.
Though we hadn’t been formally introduced, and I had never had a word ofconversation with her, I nodded a greeting and smiled.
She inclined her head in slight acknowledgment, and then, to myamazement, a look of fright crossed her face.
I tried to persuade myself that she had seen some one else or heard someword that alarmed her, but in my heart I felt sure that the shadow offear was caused by the sight of me.
What could it mean? I saw her slip her hand into that of the nurse besideher, and I noted the reassuring pat the woman gave her.
It seemed to comfort the girl, and she gave a little smile at hercompanion.
Not wanting to embarrass her further I turned my glance toward Mrs.Dallas. She looked superb this morning. Garbed all in black, yet a blackthat hinted Paris in its every line and fold, her beautiful face and hergreat gray eyes showed a quiet sadness that spoke of a deeper grief thanemotion could show.
Her lovely gray hair was tucked under a black hat, and her lips andcheeks, quite evidently the result of a well-equipped vanity box, werethe only touch of colour about her.
She sat between Harper Ames and Charles Everett, the post of chiefmourner seemingly accorded her as her right.
Yet though she was calm and composed, it seemed to me there was anundercurrent of anxiety, a hint of dread or apprehension.
Nor was this to be wondered at. The occasion was a tragic one, and as theperson most deeply affected by the tragedy, it was only natural thatKatherine Dallas should be nervous.
Hart first questioned the servants. Though new matter to the jury, we hadheard their stories before, and no fresh fact or bit of evidence wasforthcoming.
No articles had been missed from Sampson Tracy’s rooms except two of hisfancy waistcoats and the gayly painted Totem Pole.
Several of the servants testified as to Mr. Tracy’s previous possessionof these three articles and of their unaccountable absence at present.
None of them had heard any sounds during the night or could throw anylight on the mystery of the criminal’s entrance or exit, if, indeed, hewas not an inmate of the house.
All testified to the kindness and generosity of the master, and thoughall inherited a sum of money by his will, there seemed no real reason tosuspect that any one of them had hastened the demise.
As Doctor Rogers was absent, Hart himself was the only one to give themedical report, and he told the jury succinctly and clearly the detailsof the death and how both doctors had thought it apoplexy at first, asthe symptoms were of such an attack.
“Without doubt, the autopsy would have disclosed the truth,” Hart said,“but before that, Mr. Moore, the famous New York City detective, noticedthere was a tiny metal disk visible through the hair of the dead man.Investigation proved this to be the head of a nail, about two incheslong, that had been driven with great force into Mr. Tracy’s skull,presumably while he was alive and asleep.”
“Could a nail be so driven, through the bone?” asked a mild manneredjuryman.
“Yes,” the coroner told him. “It would require a heavy drivinginstrument, and a strong hand, as well as a callous brain, for a man toaccomplish that fiendish deed.”
The bizarre decorations on the bed were then told about, and referencemade to the watch found in the water pitcher and the absence of the platethat had held the fruit and the crackers. But these things were merelytouched on, for the jury had only to discover the cause of the death, andthese details were of slight help.
Individual testimony was another matter, and I felt a deep interest asHarper Ames was called to the stand.
I could see Keeley Moore also eager to learn what the visitor of thehouse would have to say.
Ames was in grumpy mood, as usual. More, he seemed belligerent, and Iwondered whether the Coroner would try to placate him or would ruffle himstill more.
“Will you state, in your own words, Mr. Ames, the circumstances of yourreturn to this house, after a dinner party on Wednesday night?”
The question sounded abrupt, and, perhaps for that reason, it seemed torouse Ames’s resentment.
“That’s about all there is to tell,” he declared, frowning. “I came homefrom a dinner party next door, about eleven o’clock. I chatted with Mr.Tracy for a while and then we both went upstairs to bed. That’s all.”
He glared about him, as if he were being imposed on to have to testify atall. I tried to analyze the man. He had been insistent that Keeley Mooreshould take the case. Was this a gigantic bluff? I mean, could it be thatAmes was himself the murderer, and sought to escape suspicion by franklyasking the detective to solve the mystery? Did he think he had so coveredhis tracks that he was safe from even the astute cleverness of Keel
eyMoore?
If this were the case, he was greatly mistaken. I had no idea whetherAmes was the murderer or not, but if so, then he stood no chance ofescaping the detection of my friend.
But Hart was proceeding, in a suave, pleasant way, calculated to sootheAmes’s antagonism.
“You were Mr. Tracy’s best friend?” he asked.
“That’s saying a great deal, but I was certainly one of them. We haveknown each other from boyhood, and though we bandied words now and then,we never had a real quarrel in our lives.”
“You owed him money?”
Harper Ames’s eyes flashed, and he seemed about to fly into a rage. Then,apparently thinking better of it, he calmed down and said, quietly, butsullenly still:
“Yes, though I don’t know that it’s your business. Tracy has let me owehim money for a long time, and as he had no objections to it, I can’t seeyour right to inquire about it.”
“Yes, I have a right,” Hart said, “and I propose to use it. How much didyou owe him?”
“Some thousands,” and now Ames’s frown became a real scowl.
“And his will gives you a bequest of many thousands. It is a fortunateoccurrence for you.”
I thought and still think that Harper Ames had a right to get angry atthe Coroner. If Hart suspected his witness he should have said so, andnot cast these innuendoes at him.
Yet Ames said nothing. He contented himself with such a venomous glanceof hatred at the Coroner, that I shivered at the sight. Keeley Moore,too, looked amazed at the way things were going. Then we both realizedthat this was doubtless Hart’s first murder case. Such things didn’toften happen up here in the peaceful lake region, and the suddenresponsibility and authority had rather gone to Hart’s head and made hima little uncertain of procedure.
Next he flung out the query, “Are you a good diver?”
At this Ames gave a sardonic smile.
“No,” he returned, “I am not. To begin with I didn’t kill Sampson Tracy,I didn’t jump out of the window of his locked room, and I didn’t bedeckhis bed with flowers and ornaments. If these are the things you want toknow, I am telling you.”
“Yes,” and the Coroner’s air was imperturbable, “but I have only yourunsupported word for all that.”
Harper Ames stared at him as if he would like to drive a nail into hishalf-witted head, and then, drawing himself up with a new dignity, hesaid:
“That is true, Mr. Coroner. But I can’t bring forward any witnesses toprove my statements. That is why I have been trying to engage theservices of the famous Mr. Moore to take on this case, and to discoverthe true murderer of Sampson Tracy, for only such a course will prove theinnocence of other suspects.”
This was fine talk, but to me it didn’t ring true. If Ames had done thefoul deed himself, he might have put forth this very line of argument. Hemight have demanded the services of a great detective, feeling surenobody could detect his guilt.
Well, it wasn’t up to me to decide these things.
A few more inquiries of small importance finished up Ames’s testimony andthen Mrs. Dallas was questioned.
She was dignified of appearance and calm of speech. She said she was thefiancée of Mr. Tracy and they had expected to be married in the fall. Shesaid they occasionally had little differences, but always made them upand were really very fond of one another. Her statements were allrational and straightforward. She spoke as might a cultured and maturewoman of her accepted suitor.
Asked as to the terms of Mr. Tracy’s will, she replied that so far as sheknew his fortune was left to his niece, Miss Remsen. But, she added, hehad told her that after they were married, he would change his will andmake suitable arrangements for his wife. She said she had given thematter no thought, knowing that Mr. Tracy would do what was right.
This seemed to remove from her any possible suspicion that might haveformed in the minds of the jury. Surely, Mrs. Dallas had no reason tokill the man she loved and expected to marry.
No reference was made to the disagreement the engaged pair had had, andwhich had resulted in Mr. Tracy’s absence from the Moores’ dinner party.
I rejoiced at this, for I dreaded to have Alma’s name brought in at all.But as I thought it over, I became a little alarmed. Had Hart omitted thepoint in order to tax Alma herself with it later? To ask her what was thetale her uncle desired to tell Mrs. Dallas? To see if it could be somedisgraceful story that might militate against the girl herself?
The two secretaries followed Mrs. Dallas.
Everett, quiet-mannered and polite, as always, answered questions readilyenough, but offered no additional information.
He repeated his story of the evening, how he had been with Mr. Tracyuntil about ten o’clock, and then had gone to his room and to bed.
“You heard no unusual sounds during the night?”
“No,” said Everett, but it seemed to me he had hesitated.
Hart must have noticed this, too, for he said, “Are you quite sure? Nosounds inside the house or out?”
Apparently Charlie Everett was a truthful man. But it was equally evidenthe did not want to testify further.
“I must press you for an answer, Mr. Everett,” the Coroner prodded him.
“Well, to be strictly accurate, I may say that I thought I heard thesound of a boat on the lake some time after midnight.”
“What sort of boat?”
“I don’t know. And it may not have been any. I was asleep, and Ipartially awaked and seemed to hear a slight sound as of paddles. But itmay well be that I dreamed it, for I heard no further sounds.”
“Do you know the time this happened?”
“No, except that I seemed to have been asleep some hours. I thoughtnothing of it, and directly went to sleep again.”
“You didn’t look out of the window?”
“No, I didn’t rise from my bed.”
I thanked my lucky stars that he hadn’t! That he hadn’t seen Alma Remsen,in her canoe, some time after midnight!
But if the Coroner thought much about this bit of evidence he gave nosign of doing so, and the rest of the inquiries he put to Everett were ofa stereotyped sort and led nowhere.
Then came Billy Dean. That cheerful young man was chipper as always andtold all he had to tell in a clear and concise way.
“Did you hear any sound in the night as of a passing boat?” Hart askedhim.
“No,” Dean declared, and his voice was steady and all would have beenwell but that the silly chap turned brick red from the roots of his hairto the top of his collar.
“Then,” said Hart, with a full intention of embarrassing him, “why areyou blushing like a turkey cock?”
“I’m not!” Dean stormed at him, getting redder yet. “But you barge intome with sudden questions and it knocks me off my base.”
Clever! His winning smile and his sudden carrying of the war into theenemy’s quarters succeeded, as I was sure he had hoped, in diverting thejury’s attention from his palpable mendacity.
“Then you heard no boat?” Hart went back to his subject.
“I heard a motor boat, but that was about twelve o’clock,” Dean said,reminiscently. “I heard none later, for I went to sleep then.”
He had himself perfectly in hand, now, and though I confidently believedhe had seen Alma Remsen in her canoe, I knew, too, that wild horsescouldn’t drag the fact from him.
“And you heard no further noises?”
“Not till morning, when Everett rapped on my door, and told me to getup.”
There seemed to be nothing more to get out of young Dean, and he wasdismissed. He had made a good effect on the jury, I could see that. Sincethey didn’t have my knowledge of the girl in the boat, they were notgreatly interested in the vague sounds mentioned by Everett.
In fact, I could gather from the whole trend of the inquest thatsuspicion centred on the inmates of the house. There was little thoughtgiven to the outer world.
Then Alma Remsen was called.
Without asking pe
rmission, Mrs. Merivale rose and went with her charge tothe witness chair. She took another chair beside Alma, and her big, hardface looked like a tower of strength, should such be needed.
“You were not at this house on Wednesday evening or night at any time?”the Coroner said. It was more a statement than a question, and it soundedto me as if Hart wanted to shut up this point once and for all.
“No, I was not,” Alma replied, and I hoped nobody except me noticed thequivering of her eyelids.
That was the only way she showed any nervousness. Her hands lay quietlyin her lap, her lips were not trembling, her eyes were clear and steadyin their gaze, but the eyelids fluttered once, twice, as if she washolding herself together by sheer force of will.
“Where were you that evening?”
“At home, in my own house.”
“All the evening?”
“Yes.”
“Who is your companion?”
“Mrs. Merivale. My housekeeper and friend.”
“Will she corroborate your presence in your home?”
Hart’s voice was most courteous, but it also was decided.
“Surely,” said Alma. “Will you question her?”
“Miss Remsen was at home all Wednesday evening?” he said.
“Yes, sir,” the woman’s voice was respectful but far from servile.
“And all night?”
“Oh, yes, sir, of course.”
“Why of course?”
“Because,” Mrs. Merivale spoke patiently, as if to a dull child, “if shewas in all evening she would scarcely go out later, sir.”
“You are her caretaker?”
“I have been her nurse ever since she was born. I am now her housekeeperand I take all care of her.”
There was something fine about Mrs. Merivale. She gave an impression ofone who was tolerating the inquiries of a lot of zanies who must behumoured because they represented the law.
“You live in an island home?”
“Yes.” Alma took up the answering again, seeing no reason why Mrs.Merivale should be her spokesman save by way of corroboration.
Then Hart asked the same questions he had asked her before, as to herrelations with her uncle, her expectations at his death, and to all thegirl replied with a gentle, demure manner that won the admiration andrespect of all present.
At last Hart said, plainly:
“I regret the necessity of this, Miss Remsen, but it must be said. Youare the one to benefit by the decease of your uncle.”
“Yes,” she looked at him steadily, with no sign of fear, but again Idetected that slight quiver of her eyelid, and wondered what itportended.
“You would have opportunity to reach his room.”
“Opportunity?” she looked a little bewildered, and I noticed the linesaround the firm set lips of Mrs. Merivale grow even tenser.
“Yes, you possess a latchkey to this house.”
“Oh, that!” Alma smiled and I felt sure it was a smile of relief. “Yes, Ihave always had a latchkey. My uncle gave it to me.”
“When?”
“Oh, years ago. When I lived here. Then when I went to live on the islandhe bade me keep it so I could come over whenever I chose and let myselfin.”
“Yes. That gave you what we call opportunity.”
“And my desire to inherit his estate gave me motive!” she wasn’t quitesmiling, but nearly. “Well, Mr. Coroner, that may be true, but I didn’tcome over here with my latchkey and kill my uncle and trick out his bedwith flowers. The motive was not strong enough and the opportunity wasnegligible. I hope you can find my uncle’s murderer, but it was not I.”
There was something in her simple plain speech that carried conviction.Had I been one of those jurymen I could not have helped believing in thesincerity of that clear, sweet young voice that rang true in its everycadence.
“Then, Miss Remsen, you know nothing of the missing waistcoats?”
“Missing waistcoats?” she repeated, and now I saw that eyelid quiverpitifully.
“Yes, don’t repeat my words to gain time. Where are those two waistcoatsthat disappeared the night your uncle was killed?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea.”
“Then I will tell you. They have been found, and they were found under asettee in your boathouse——”
“My boathouse!”
“Yes. And wrapped up in them was the Totem Pole that vanished that samenight.”
Mrs. Merivale’s hand shot out and clasped the girl’s trembling fingers.
“It is a plant!” she said, “a deep-laid plot to incriminate this innocentchild!”