CHAPTER XVI
WHISTLING REEDS
MARCH called in at Variable Winds on his way to the Tracy funeral. We were all ready to go, for though none of us wanted to, it was a matter of convention and the whole village would have commented unkindly had we stayed away.
I, especially, dreaded it, for I dislike funerals, and I hated the thought of the entire community sitting up there, casting glances at Alma and making whispered remarks about her.
But I had to go, so I made the best of it, and, garbed in appropriate black, I sat with the others awaiting the time to start.
March came in, looking harassed and worn.
“It’s all too dreadful,” he said, sinking into a chair. “Everything seems to point to Alma Remsen, yet I am not convinced of her guilt.”
I started to speak, but thought better of it. Since March held that opinion nothing I could say would help any. I’d better keep still.
“I’m going to the funeral,” March went on, “because it’s wiser to show myself there. But I shall slip out, during the service, and go over to the island house. How about going with me, Mr. Norris?”
“What for?” I asked, a little suspicious of his motives.
“Partly to help along by corroborating anything I may learn or discover and partly that you may tell Mr. Moore all about it later, and save me that much work. I’ve none too much time for what I have to do.”
“Go ahead, Gray,” Keeley said. “I can’t leave the funeral, of course, but your absence will not be noticed. As neighbours, we must show proper respect, but our guests may be excused.”
“Very well, then, I’ll go,” I told March. For I felt I’d rather know exactly what he found out and so know what steps to take myself.
I was formulating in my mind a course of procedure that I hoped might free Alma from these monstrous and false suspicions.
“I’ll go,” I repeated, “but not because I foresee any new evidence against Miss Remsen. It’s too absurd to suspect her.”
“It’s too absurd not to,” March said. “The evidence is piling up. The fingerprints and footsteps and the maid’s story of seeing her that night all seem to prove she was there at the fatal hour. The strange decorations on the deathbed look like the work of a diseased mind. Posy May’s story seems to prove that Miss Remsen is afflicted with some sort of spells that transform her into a demoniac. Then, add the details of the waistcoats and Totem Pole, the fact that she is an expert swimmer and the strong motive of the approaching loss of her uncle’s fortune”
“You’re going too fast, Mr. March,” I interrupted him. “Posy May’s story should not be taken without some outside corroboration. She is an irresponsible child, and not fit to be a real witness. The maid, Jennie, I think, comes in the same category. I, for one, am unwilling to admit Miss Remsen the victim of any sort of malady or disease until we have a doctor’s opinion on that subject. It seems to me this is only fair to the young lady.”
“Norris is right about that,” Keeley agreed with me. “Keep these developments quiet for another twenty-four hours, March. No good can come from exploiting them.”
“No, and I don’t mean to. But no harm can come of going over to the Remsen house, even if it does no good.”
“All right as to that. Go ahead. Go with him, Gray, and keep your eyes and ears open. The two Merivales will probably be at the funeral, but there’ll doubtless be some one in charge of the place.”
It was time to start then, and we walked sedately out to the car, our funeral manner already upon us.
The two Moores and Maud went up toward the front seats, while March and I took seats in the back of the room.
The services were held at Pleasure Dome, in the great ballroom that was beneath the rooms of Sampson Tracy’s suite.
I looked out the window at the deep, dark lake. Sunless Sea was an apt name for it, as the trees grew thickly right down to the very edge of the water, and the great house also shaded it. A sombre-looking scene, yet of a certain still peacefulness that had its own appeal.
Here and there a rock lifted its jagged form up out of the water, but I realized that if a diver or swimmer were familiar with the place, he could easily avoid danger.
My heart was sick at the black clouds that seemed to be closing in round the girl I loved, and I resolved anew to devote my whole heart and soul to the task of setting her free.
I had no doubt of her innocence, no doubt but that these seemingly true counts against her were really capable of some other explanation, but even if she were guilty, even if she had killed her uncle, whether in her right mind or not, she was still the one girl in the world for me. I would comfort and help her in her adversity as I would in more joyful hours, should such ever come to us.
Then I saw her come in—saw Alma enter, her arm through that of the faithful Merry, while John Merivale stalked behind them like a bodyguard.
What a pair those Merivales were! Invincible seemed to be the only word that described them. Strong, brave, keen-witted, they looked forceful and capable enough to ward off all trouble from the girl they loved. But whether they could do so or not was the question.
Alma, white-faced but composed, walked with a steady step, and took the seat the usher offered, in the front row, her faithful henchmen on either side.
Mrs. Dallas was also in the front row, and the secretaries and Harper Ames.
In the next row sat the entire staff of the Pleasure Dome servants. Then came the neighbours and villagers. The room was quickly filled and many were turned away or relegated to other rooms in the house.
The air was heavy with the scent of hothouse flowers, for the well-meaning donors were not content to send the lovely garden flowers blooming on their own estates.
Exquisite music sounded from behind a screen of tall palms, and as the services began, March looked at me, and we silently rose and went out.
“Horrible affairs, funerals,” I said, wiping my brow with my handkerchief.
“Oh, I don’t know,” the detective responded, “I rather like them. I like that exotic effect of the flowers and music and the solemn-faced audience, and the still peaceful figure in the casket. Yes, it impresses me rather pleasantly.”
“Then you’re a ghoul,” I told him, irritably, which was unjust on the face of it.
The good-natured chap only smiled, for he realized, I think, that my nerves were on edge.
“I don’t know you very well, Mr. Norris,” he said, after a pause, “but I’m going to venture on a bit of advice. I know, of course, your regard for Miss Remsen, and I’m going to warn you that you may hinder rather than help her cause, unless you learn to control your feelings. Don’t lose your temper when you see us detectives prying into matters that seem to you sacred. These things must be done. Your objections have no weight, and it is far wiser not to raise them. Maybe I am offending you, but my intentions are good, and you can take it or leave it.”
The man’s honest countenance and kindly smile affected me more pleasantly than his words, and after a moment I said, heartily:
“I take it, Mr. March. I realize I am a blundering ass, and I’m grateful for a pull-up. But, to be frank, I never was in love before, and to find suddenly that I care for a woman with all my heart and soul, and then find her under a terrible suspicion—well, I daresay you’ll admit it is a hard position.”
“I do. Indeed, I do. And you mustn’t give up hope yet. I always keep an open mind just as long as possible. It may be some other claimant for the honour of being the criminal will turn up. I surely hope so. But in the meantime we must just dig into things and do all we can to get more light.”
“You’re going to search the house on the Island?”
“I certainly am, if I can get in any way. Maybe there’s no one there.”
“Then you’d break in, I suppose.”
“Maybe, maybe. I’d do anything to learn a few things I want to know.”
We had reached the Pleasure Dome boathouse now, and from an attendant there March commandeered a small boat, which he said he would row himself.
“I like a bit of exercise,” he told me, “and rowing is my preference.”
So we went on, past Variable Winds, on down to the Island of Whistling Reeds.
A quiet, rather grim-faced man helped us to make our landing and we went up to the house.
Before we reached it, March paused to give it a moment’s study.
We looked at its pleasant porches and its windows with light, fluttering curtains. From one window, on the second floor, a face looked out at us, a girl’s face, with dark, bobbed hair.
The head was quickly withdrawn, and we went up the steps and March rang the bell.
In a moment the door was opened by the girl whose face we had seen at the window. She now wore a bit of a frilled cap with a black velvet bow.
This she had obviously donned at the sound of the doorbell.
“We have come,” March said to her, in his pleasant way, “to look over the house.”
“It isn’t for sale,” she said, not frightened at all, but seeming a little amused.
“I know. I don’t want to buy or rent it. Are you the parlour maid?”
“I’m Miss Remsen’s personal maid—lady’s maid,” she returned, bridling a bit, as if to be a parlour maid was beneath her rank.
“Oh, I see. I thought Miss Remsen had her nurse”
“Yes. Mrs. Merivale is my mother. We both look after Miss Alma.”
“I’m sure she’s well taken care of. Now”
“Dora, sir,” she said, divining his question with quick intuition.
“Well, Dora, I suppose you are devoted to Miss Remsen?”
“Oh, that I am, sir. I’d die for her!”
“Well, we don’t want you to do that, but something far easier. We just want you to answer a few questions. Is anybody in the house beside yourself?”
“Nobody, sir.”
“All gone to the funeral?”
“Yes, sir. All but Michael, down at the dock, and me.”
“Very well. Now, do you remember the night Mr. Tracy died?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where was Miss Remsen that night?”
“Here at home, sir.”
“What did she do through the evening?”
“She read in a book, sir, then she played the piano a bit and then she went to bed.”
This was reeled off glibly, a little too glibly, I thought. It sounded parrot-like, as if a lesson, learned by rote. Evidently March thought so too, for he said, looking at her closely:
“How do you know this?”
“How do I know?” she looked a little blank. “Oh, yes, I know, because I saw her now and again as I passed through the hall.”
“I see. Now, what book was she reading? Do you know?”
“No, sir, I don’t know that.”
“But you saw her reading?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, what kind of book was it? A big book?”
“No—no, sir, I think not. I think it was a smallish book”
“With a paper cover?”
“Yes, sir, with a paper cover.”
“Stop it, March,” I cried, involuntarily. “You sha’n’t put words into her mouth!”
“Keep still, Norris,” he said, sternly, “and remember what I told you.”
I supposed he meant that I could serve Alma best by learning everything possible about her, but I resented this sort of procedure.
The girl was frightened, too. She drew her breath quickly, as if fearing she had been indiscreet, but March restored her equanimity by his next words.
“That’s all right, Dora,” he said, “it doesn’t matter what book she had or what music she played. Then she went to bed? She didn’t go out anywhere?”
“Oh, no, sir, it was near ten, then. Miss Remsen never goes out evenings unless to a party and then somebody fetches her or Mother goes with her.”
“Well, you’ve told a straight story, and that’s all we want to know. Now, I’m going to give the house the once over.”
“What’s that, sir?”
“A glance about. You see, Dora, I’m connected with the police and”
“The police, sir!” she cried, and sank into a chair.
But suddenly she sprang to her feet again, and said, in a low, tense tone, “Will you please go away, sir? Go away, and come when my father or mother shall be here?”
“No, Dora, we can’t do that. You ought to know that the police cannot be told what to do. But rest assured, we mean no harm to your young mistress, and we are hoping to find some clues or evidence that will free her from suspicion.”
Dora looked thoroughly perplexed. She glanced from the window, as if of a mind to call Michael, but he was not in sight.
“And I may as well tell you,” March continued, his iron hand still in a velvet glove, “that you’d better let us have our way, without raising any objection. For you can’t stop us, and you’d only create unpleasantness for yourself.”
Dora seemed to see reason, and she nodded her head in assent.
“What do you want me to do?” she asked, in a subdued voice.
“Go with us and show us the rooms. That’s all. We shall not really disturb anything and it will save Miss Remsen trouble if we can get through before her return.”
So Dora went ahead, with an air of obedience under protest that showed itself in her dragging footsteps and her sombre eyes.
“This is the living room,” she said, indicating the room we already knew.
March stepped inside. He quickly scanned the appointments, but he had seen them before and paid real attention only to the bookcase. This produced nothing of interest, however, and we went on through a cozy little writing room to the dining room, a delightful cheery room hung with chintzes and gay with bowls of flowers.
To my amazement, the detective devoted his scrutiny to the dining table. He examined the wood of it carefully and then drawing a lens from his pocket peered through it in true Sherlock Holmes fashion.
I wondered if this was meant to impress the staring Dora, but March seemed to be interested on his own account, and he pocketed his lens with a sigh of satisfaction.
“Now the kitchen,” he said, and we went thither.
A modern, immaculate kitchen it was, with all the up-to-date contrivances for lightening labour and for achieving quick results.
March took in most of it at a glance, pausing only to turn round a can of cocoa on a shelf in the glass-doored cupboard.
“Yes,” he said, smiling at Dora, “I think that’s the best brand, too.”
Then we went upstairs.
It seemed sacrilege to me to go into Alma’s bedroom, but March strode forward as a general to an attack.
He made no noise or disturbance, he opened no cupboards or bureau drawers. He looked closely at the bedside table, which showed only a reading lamp, a book or two, a small flask of cologne water and an engagement pad and pencil.
“Miss Alma has her breakfast in bed,” he said, interrogatively, and I wondered if he had seen a spot on the lace table cover, or how he knew.
“Yes, sir. Both—both Sundays and weekdays, sir.”
Dora was blushing furiously now, though I could see no reason for it at mere mention of breakfast in bed.
March seemed not to see it, and went on to the next room. This was a large and delightful room, the counterpart of Alma’s bedroom.
“The guest room,” Dora said, and stood aside to let us enter.
“And a pretty one. Are there guests often?”
“Oh, yes, sir. Miss Alma frequently has young ladies to stay the night with her.”
“I see. A charming room.” He set down his stick, while he leaned out of the window for a glimpse of the lake.
He looked into the guest bathroom, but it showed only the immaculate cleanliness beloved of all good housekeepers, and then we went back into the hall.
“Where are the servants’ rooms?” he asked.
“Up in the third story, sir. Want to go up?”
Dora opened a door at the foot of a flight of stairs, but March said, “No, not necessary,” and she closed it again.
“Now, we’ll go downstairs,” he said, and we started. He let Dora precede and then pushed me along next.
Exclaiming, “Oh, I’ve left my stick!” he returned to the guest room, and came out again, carrying the stick in question.
I felt sure the stick was a blind of some sort, but I couldn’t see how he had found any clue in the guest room, and I was weary of the farce anyway.
What did he expect to find? As far as I could see, he hadn’t found anything at all.
“Well, Dora,” he said, as we regained the porch, and were about to leave. “You’ve been very kind. You can tell Miss Remsen and your parents all about it, and tell them you behaved just exactly right.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“Has Miss Remsen a beau?”
“She’s not engaged, sir, but several young men are sweet on her.”
“Who?” I cried, feeling that I’d like to knock the several heads together.
“I think Mr. Billy Dean is the nicest,” Dora said, apparently quite willing to gossip.
“Miss Remsen is never ill, is she?” March broke in.
“Oh, no, sir, never.”
“Never has to take anything to induce sleep?”
“Oh, n’ no—never.” But this time there was hesitation, and I pictured Alma as unable to sleep and resorting to a mild sedative.
“All right, Dora, good-bye, and many thanks.”
We went down to the boathouse, and the man there was still glum and unsmiling. Nor did our substantial douceur give him any apparent pleasure. He pocketed it without a word, and pushed off our boat with a jerk that had the effect of his being glad to be rid of us.
March was unperturbed by all this and of course it mattered little to me.
I was consumed with curiosity to know if March had learned anything indicative.
“I found a few trifles,” he vouchsafed to tell me, “but I can’t describe them at the moment.”
“Being a detective, you have to be mysterious,” I growled.
“Yes, just that,” he agreed, cheerfully, and we proceeded in silence. “They’re just leaving the burying ground,” he said, at last. “Shall we go and pay our final respects?”
“If you like,” I said, indifferently.
So we landed at Pleasure Dome, and then betook ourselves to the tiny graveyard, which was down beyond the orchard.
It was a lovely spot, shaded by the long branches of weeping willows and brightened by beds of carefully tended flowers. Lilies abounded, and there were patches of the lovely California poppies and screens covered with sweet peas.
I became interested in the graves, and March pointed out those of Alma’s parents and her little sister.
“The child was eight years old when she died,” I commented. “I thought it was an infant.”
“No, a girl. Alma remembers her, of course. But it was all before my day. I’ve only lived here seven years. Flowers enough on Tracy’s grave, in all conscience.”
The mound of the new grave was heaped with flowers, indeed an impressive sight. The growing flowers and the cut blossoms vied with each other in beauty, and harmonized into one glorious whole of gorgeous bloom.
All had left but two or three workmen, and they withdrew to a respectful distance while March and I stood there.
“Tell me, March, did you find anything? I can’t bear this suspense!”
“Please believe I don’t want to keep you on tenterhooks,” he said, with real regret in his tone. “But what I did discover is so contradictory, so impossible of solution, at present, that I can’t divulge it until I find some meaning to it. What did you make of the girl, Dora?”
“Nothing. She seemed to me just an ordinary servant”
“Don’t you believe it! She’s far from being an ordinary servant! That girl knows all there is to know.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just what I say. And we’ve got to get that knowledge.”
“Of course, then, if she knows anything, it’s to do with Alma. She couldn’t know anything about any other suspect.”
“Look here, Norris, you’ll have to remember that I’m out to find the murderer of Sampson Tracy. I’m not considering whether the evidence I collect is going to implicate this one or that one, or whether it isn’t. I want only the truth.”
“Well, I don’t,” I told him. “I want to clear Alma Remsen, and I’d perjure myself straight into perdition if it would do her any good.”
“Well, it wouldn’t. Your word, after that speech, isn’t worth the effort it takes to speak it, as you must see for yourself. Why don’t you try to realize that that sort of talk won’t get you anywhere, nor help the girl either. Why don’t you try to understand that to find the real murderer is the only thing to free Miss Remsen, and the only way to do that is to investigate.”
All of a sudden, I saw myself for a silly fool.
“You’re right, March,” I said, earnestly; “and I’m going to try.”
“That’s more like it,” he applauded. “Come on, we’ll work together.”