Afternoon Tea Mysteries [Vol Three] Read online

  “Let us go see!” the doctor suggested.

  I followed him without a thought. As we passed Alfred’s door, we could see him standing in the middle of the room in a state of rage which made him oblivious of our approach. He was tearing into morsels a piece of paper which had the same appearance as the one he had formerly thrust into the waste-paper basket, and as he tore, he muttered words amongst which I caught the following:

  “Why should I write? If she loved me she would wait. She would not run away now, unless he—”

  Dr. Bennett, with his finger on his lip, slid by. I hastened after him, and together we mounted the last flight.

  We were now in a portion of the building as new to the doctor as to myself. When we reached the top of the stairs we found the whole place dark save for a little glimmer towards the front which proved to be a gas-jet burning low in one of the attic rooms.

  Turning this up we looked around, opened a closet-door or two, then walked into the back, where the doctor struck a match. Two closed doors met our eyes. One of these upon being opened disclosed a well-furnished room, similar in appearance to those in front, the other an unfinished garret half filled with trunks and boxes.

  “Well!” he ejaculated, as the match went out upon this scene. “This is a mystery.”

  “Hark!” I urged; “our ears rather than our eyes must do service in this emergency.”

  He took the hint, and together we listened till some sound—was it the breathing of a person concealed near us?—caused us both to start and the doctor to light another match.

  This time we saw something, but the match went out before we could determine what.

  Annoyed by these momentary flashes of light, I dashed back into one of the rooms we had left, and catching up a candle I had previously noted there, lit it at the gas-jet, and proceeded back with it to this garret room.

  Instantly a sight full of the strangest interest revealed itself.

  Crouched against the farther wall, with wide-extended eyes fixed full upon us, we perceived a woman, upon whose pallid face and risen locks terror or some other equally emphatic passion had so fixed its impress that she looked like some affrighted creature balked in flight by some dreadful, some unprecedented sight which held her spellbound. That she was beautiful, in that touching, feminine way which goes to the heart, did not lessen the effect of her appearance, nor were we unmoved by the fact that the child for whom the house had just been ransacked lay curled up and asleep at her feet.

  “Who is it?” I asked. “Miss Meredith?”

  The doctor pressed my hand. “We must be careful,” he whispered. “She seems on the verge of delirium.”

  “The child shows no fear,” I murmured.

  Meanwhile the doctor was approaching the new object of his care.

  “Why choose so cold a place?” he asked, smiling on the young girl who still clung, as if fastened, to the wall against which she had drawn herself. “Claire will catch cold; had you not better come down stairs?”

  With a start she looked down at the little one resting at her feet, and her eyes showed a sudden intelligence.

  “How did she come here?” she asked. “I did not call her.”

  “And how came you to be here?” he smiled. “Your white dress looks out of place in this garret.”

  She lifted herself straight up, with her back to the wall. Claire, who was thus dislodged from the place at her feet woke, and began to cry.

  “I heard that Mr. Gillespie was dead,” came from lips so stiff with fright or some other deep emotion that I wondered they could form the words. “I loved Mr. Gillespie, and I brought my grief here.”

  She was still standing pressed against the wall, her hands behind her; and disguise the fact as I would, I could see that her teeth were chattering with some thing more than cold, or even such fear as might follow the sudden death of a near friend and benefactor.

  “Will you not come below?” urged the doctor, taking up Claire to his fatherly breast.

  “Never!” her lips seemed to cry; but I heard no sound, and when the doctor, giving me the child, threw his arm about her and drew her away, she yielded pliantly enough, though with a steady look into his face I did not understand then nor for a long time afterwards.

  At the stair-head we met Alfred. Perhaps he had heard us go up, perhaps he had simply thought of searching the attic himself. His recoil and the exclamation he made were simultaneous.

  “You have found her!” was his cry, a cry which did not refer to the child. Then in reproachful tones: “Hope, why should you give us such a scare? Had we not enough to face without having our hearts wrung with terror for you?

  Her answer was a murmur. With the first moment of encounter with this man her face had become a mask.

  IV. “He Drank It Alone”

  IN making this statement it is not my wish to create any special prejudice against Alfred. Indeed, I have no right to do so, for when a few minutes later his brother Leighton came running up the stairs at sound of his child’s voice, I noticed the same recoil on her part, followed by the same impassibility. Nor did she show a different feeling when in the hall below George came forward with the inquiries her surprising absence had naturally provoked. From one and all she involuntarily shrank, but not without suffering to herself and an obvious attempt to hide this natural impulse under a demeanour more in accordance with her near relationship to these three men. In Alfred this chilling conduct awakened emotions only too easy to read; in Leighton, surprise, and in George, a distrust bordering upon a passion so fierce that he turned from white to red and from red to white in an instant. Evanescent expressions all of them, but important as showing the feelings entertained towards her by these men among whom she had been living for more of less time as a sister.

  But of my personal sensations you have already heard too much, especially at this period of my story. Happily, I was able to hide them from other eyes, and simply showed a natural curiosity when Dr. Bennett, with a sly look in her direction, whispered in my ear:

  “How came she to know of her uncle’s death so soon after its occurrence? You say you heard her rush upstairs while you were in Alfred’s room. That was very soon after you laid the old gentleman out of your arms. Is it possible that you had already met Miss Meredith? Did she share that first alarm with you?”

  “Not to my knowledge,” I returned. “My first view of her was in the attic with you. Yet she may have been somewhere in this great hall, or in some of the many rooms I see about us.”

  Meanwhile I was taking in her beauty, or what I must call beauty from the lack of any other adequate word. I believe she was not what people call beautiful. She did not need to be; her charm was incontestable without it; too incontestable, I fear, for the peace of mind of more men than Alfred and George Gillespie.

  She was standing by the newel-post, in a position startlingly like that she had maintained above; and while I shrank from the doubts thus called up, I could not but perceive in the straightforward look of her eyes, and the fierce clutch of her hands behind her, that some determination was absorbing all her energies; a determination little in accord, I fear, with the attitude of simple grief she made such an effort to maintain. Leighton appeared to see this also, for he set down the child he had been straining to his breast, and approaching his cousin, plied her with a few hurried questions.

  But the coroner, who had shown some embarrassment at the appearance on the scene of so young and charming a lady, advanced at this juncture and prevented the answer which was slowly forming on her lips.

  “If you are Miss Meredith, Mr. Gillespie’s niece and assistant, you are justified in your grief. Mr. Gillespie has passed away under very extraordinary circumstances.”

  Her hands which had been behind her, came suddenly together in front, but she did not shift her eyes from the point where she had fixed them. Perhaps she dreaded to encounter the gaze of the three young men grouped behind the man addressing her.

  “Have those circumsta
nces been related to you?” resumed Dr. Frisbie with the encouragement in his tone which her loveliness and sorrow naturally called forth.

  “No.”

  The answer came quickly, and with a sharp accentuation which showed her to be a woman of force, notwithstanding the condition in which we had first found her.

  “Then this little one had said nothing,” he continued with a glance at Claire who had nestled again at her cousin’s feet.

  “Claire?” she exclaimed in evident surprise. “Claire?” and her eyes followed his till they fell inquiringly upon the child whose presence up to this moment she had probably not noticed. “No, she has said nothing; at least nothing that I have heard.” And her hand went out as if she would urge the child away. But she did not complete the gesture, and 1 doubt if anyone understood her movement unless it was myself.

  The coroner seemed anxious to spare her feelings. “Dr. Bennett will communicate to you our conclusions in this matter,” said he. “I simply want to ask you when you last saw Mr. Gillespie.”

  “Alive?” she asked, her eyes stealing towards the door of the little den.

  “Yes, miss; you surely have not seen him dead.”

  “I was with him at supper,” she returned. “We were all there”; and for the first time she let her gaze fall on each one of her cousins in succession. “My uncle seemed as well then as at any time since his illness. He ate a good meal and drank—”

  “And drank,” repeated the coroner with a stern look behind him at the young men who had all moved at this.

  “His usual glass of wine at dessert. He drank it alone!” she suddenly emphasised, her tone rising in sudden excitement. “I can never forget that he drank it alone.”

  A sigh or a suspicion of a sigh answered her. It came from one of her cousins, but I never knew from which. At its sound she shrank as if heart-pierced, and put up her hands—those tell-tale hands—and covered her ears; then she as quickly dropped them, and regarded the young men before her slowly, separately, and with a heartrending significance.

  “I would so gladly have joined him in this attempt at old-time sociability had I but known it would have been his last,” she said, and dropped her head again with a sob.

  At this look and simple action a burden rolled from my heart. But upon the coroner and the physician lingering near my side, both look and words fell with a weight which made this investigation, if investigation it could be called, halt a moment.

  “I do not understand you,” observed the former after a momentary interval surcharged with deep emotion. “Was Mr. Gillespie in the habit of sharing his wine with those who sat at his board, that you feel the pathos of that lonely glass so keenly?”

  “Yes. I never knew the dinner to close before without some sort of toast from one of his sons. It is the coincidence that affects me. But I should not have mentioned it. No one could have known that this was destined to be our last meal together.”

  She was looking straight before her now. Though it seems more or less incredible, she was evidently unconscious of having raised the black banner of suspicion over the heads of her three cousins. But the blank silence which followed her words appeared to give her some idea of what she had done, for with a sudden start and a change in her appearance which startled us all, she threw out her arms with the cry:

  “You are keeping something from me. How did my uncle die? Tell me! tell me at once!”

  Leighton sprang for his child, caught her up and fled with her into a farther room. George tottered, then drew himself proudly erect. Alfred, who had been gnawing his finger-ends in restrained passion, alone stepped forward to her aid, though in a deprecatory way which robbed him of a large part of his natural grace. But she appeared insensible to them all. Her attention was fixed upon the doctor, whom she followed with an agonising gaze, which warned him to be brief if she was to hear his words at all.

  “Your uncle is the victim of poison,” said he. “But we have reason to think he took it some time later than at the evening meal. Prussic acid makes quick work.”

  The latter explanation fell unheeded. She had fallen at the word poison.

  V. Hope

  THIS was the proper moment for me to leave, or rather it would have been had it not been for the communication in my pocket which remained to be delivered. To go without fulfilling my duty in this regard or at least without stating to the coroner that I held in charge a paper of so much importance, seemed an improper if not criminal proceeding, while to speak, and thus give up to public perusal an enclosure upon the right delivery of which the dying man laid such stress, struck me as an equal breach of trust only to be justified by my total inability to carry out the wish of the deceased as expressed to me in his last intelligible appeal.

  That this inability was an assured fact I was not yet convinced. An idea had come to me in the last few minutes which, if properly acted upon, might open a way for me out of this dilemma. But before making use of it I felt it necessary to know more of this family and the ties which bound them. To gain this knowledge was, therefore, of not only great but immediate importance; and where could I hope to gain it so soon or so well as here.

  I consequently lingered, and the young medical friend of George, having for some reason shown the same disregard as myself to the open hint thrown out by the coroner, we drew together near the front door, and fell immediately into conversation. As he seemed on fire to speak, I left it for him to make the opening remark.

  “Fine girl!” he exclaimed. “Very fond of her uncle. Used to help him with his correspondence. I hate to see women faint. Though I have been in practice now two years I have never got used to it.”

  Anxious as I was to understand the very relation ship he hinted at, it was so obnoxious to me to discuss Miss Meredith with this man whom I had first seen in a condition little calculated to prejudice me in his favour, that somewhat inconsistently, I own, I turned the conversation upon Mr. Gillespie.

  “Mr. Gillespie was then a very busy man,” I observed. “I judged so from the look of his den or study. Overwork often drives men to suicide.”

  The glance this called out from the now thoroughly sobered young doctor was a sharp one.

  “Yes,” he acquiesced; but it was an acquiescence which, from the tone in which it was uttered, had a most suspicious ring.

  My position had now become an embarrassing one. I looked around for the coroner, and saw him talking earnestly with the old and enfeebled butler, who seemed ready to sink with distress. At the same instant, the rattling of two keys could be heard in their several locks. The dining-room was being closed against intrusion, and it was to the coroner the keys were brought.

  Miss Meredith, who had been carried into an adjoining room, was slowly recovering. This was evident from the countenance and attitude of Alfred Gillespie, who stood half in and half out of the room, with his eyes fixed upon her face. This left the hall clear, and, as my companion chose to preserve silence, I presently could hear the story the old butler was endeavouring to relate.

  “I was waiting on the table as usual, sir, and it was my hand which uncorked the bottle and set it down before Mr. Gillespie. The young gentlemen had nothing to do with that bottle; they did not even touch it, for none of them seemed inclined to drink. Mr. George said he had a headache, and Mr. Leighton, well, he makes a point of not touching port; while Mr. Alfred gave no excuse; simply waved it away when I passed it, so that the old gentleman drank alone. He didn’t seem to feel quite happy, sir, and that was why Miss Meredith got so excited. She never could bear to see her uncle displeased with her cousins.”

  “And where is that bottle of port and the glass out of which Mr. Gillespie drank at the table?”

  “O, sir, you must excuse me, sir, but—but—I drank what was left in that bottle. I often do when there is only a little left. Master didn’t mind. He often said, if he was in the mood to remember me, ‘You may finish that, Hewson,’ and though he did not say it to-night, I made so bold as to remember the times h
e had. You see I have lived for twenty years in the family. I was a young man when Mr. Gillespie took me into his service first, and we had become used to each other’s ways. As for the glass, that was washed, sir, long ago. He was well enough up to nine o’clock, you see, sir.”

  “Or until after he had taken the sherry?

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Which you also brought him?”

  “No, sir; I took it out of the buffet, sir; but it was Mr. Leighton who carried it into the den. He rang for me from the dining-room, and when I came up he asked for his father’s bottle of sherry, and I gave it to him. Then I went downstairs again.”

  “And that bottle has not been found?”

  “I have not seen it, sir. Perhaps someone else has. It was not a full one. He had had a glass or two out of it before.”

  “You have not said where the glass came from, from which Mr. Gillespie drank the sherry?”

  “From the buffet also. We always keep a supply in one of the lower cupboards, sir.”

  “Did you take it out?”

  “I think so, sir.”

  “Did you take the first one you came to and hand it directly to Mr. Leighton?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Was the room light or dark? Could you see plainly where to lay your hand, or did you have to feel about for a glass?”

  “I don’t remember it as being any too light. There was only one gas-jet turned on, and the room is a big one. But I saw the glasses plainly enough. I know just where to find them, you see, sir.”

  “Very good. Then you probably noticed whether the one you took out was clean.”

  “They are always clean. I wear my spectacles when I wash them.” The old butler seemed quite indignant.

  “Yes, yes; then you have to wear spectacles?”

  “When I wipe the glasses? Yes, sir.”

  The coroner pushed the matter no further. I think he feared it would seem like an attempt to fix the guilt on Leighton. Besides, he had no time to do so, for at this moment Miss Meredith appeared on the threshold of the room into which she had been carried, and, pausing there, stood looking up and down the hall with an ardent and disquieted gaze which Alfred, who had started aside at her approach, tried in vain to draw upon himself.