The Moving Finger, Page 2

  As they came into view Hugh Wyndham left his post by Brainard’s door and darted toward them. Millicent waved him back and shrank from his proffered hand.

  “Not now, dear Hugh,” she stammered, reading the compassion in his fine dark eyes. “I must see mother—and alone.” With the false strength induced by the cognac she freed herself gently from Vera’s encircling arm and, entering her mother’s bedroom, closed the door behind her.

  Wyndham and Vera regarded each other in silence. “Better so,” he muttered. “I confess I dreaded breaking the news to Aunt Margaret.” The gong in the front hall rang loudly and he started. “Who’s coming here at this hour?” he questioned, turning to descend the stairs.

  “It is probably Dr. Thorne, the justice of the peace,” volunteered Vera, taking a reluctant step toward Brainard’s bedroom. “He said he would run right over.”

  “Run over!” echoed Wyndham blankly. “Thorne? You surely don’t mean Beverly Thorne?”

  “Yes.”

  Wyndham missed a step and recovered his balance with difficulty just as a sleepy, half-dressed footman appeared in the hall below hastening to the front door. Wyndham continued to gaze at Vera as if not crediting the evidence of his ears. From below came the murmur of voices, then a man stepped past the bewildered servant and approached the staircase. Then only did Wyndham recover his customary poise.

  “This way, Dr. Thorne,” he called softly, and waited while the newcomer handed his overcoat and hat to the footman and joined him on the stairs. Vera, an interested spectator, watched the two men greet each other stiffly, then turning she led the way into Brainard’s bedroom.

  Neither man guessed the effort it cost Vera to keep her eyes turned on the dead man as with a tremor now and then in her voice she recounted how she had entered the bedroom to see her patient and had made the ghastly discovery.

  “I then notified Mr. Wyndham,” she concluded.

  “Did you visit your patient during the night?” questioned Thorne, never taking his eyes from the beautiful woman facing him.

  “Yes, doctor, at half past one o’clock. Mr. Brainard was fast asleep.”

  “And the remainder of the night—”

  “I spent with my other patient, Mr. Craig Porter.” Vera moved restlessly. “If you do not require my assistance, doctor, I will return to Mr. Porter,” and barely waiting for Thorne’s affirmative nod, she slipped away, and resumed her seat in the adjoining bedroom half-way between the window and Craig Porter’s bedside.

  From that vantage point she had an unobstructed view of the shapely head and broad shoulders of the young athlete whose prowess in college sports had gained a name for him even before his valor in the aviation corps of the French army had heralded him far and near. He had been taken from under his shattered aeroplane six months before in a supposedly dying condition, but modern science had wrought its miracle and snatched him from the grave to bring him back to his native land a hopeless paralytic, unable to move hand or foot.

  As she listened to Craig Porter’s regular breathing Vera permitted her thoughts to turn to Beverly Thorne; his quiet, self-possessed manner, his finely molded mouth and chin and expressive gray eyes, had all impressed her favorably, but how account for his lack of interest in Bruce Brainard—he had never once glanced toward the bed while she was recounting her discovery of the tragedy. Why had he looked only at her so persistently?

  Had Vera been able to see through lath and plaster, her views would have undergone a change. Working with a skill and deftness that aroused Wyndham’s reluctant admiration, Beverly Thorne made a thorough examination of the body and the bed, taking care not to disarrange anything. Each piece of furniture and the articles on tables, dresser, and mantel received his attention, even the curtains before the window were scrutinized.

  “Has any one besides you and Miss Deane been in this room since the discovery of the tragedy?” asked Thorne, breaking his long silence.

  “No.”

  “When was Mr. Brainard taken ill?”

  “During dinner last night. Dr. Noyes said it would be unwise for him to return to Washington, so Mrs. Porter suggested that he stay here all night, and I loaned him a pair of pajamas,” Wyndham, talking in short, jerky sentences, felt Thorne’s eyes boring into him.

  “I should like to see Dr. Noyes,” began Thorne. “Where—”

  “I’ll get him,” Wyndham broke in, hastening to the door; he disappeared out of the room just as Thorne picked up the razor and holding it between thumb and forefinger examined it with deep interest.

  However, Wyndham was destined to forget his errand for, as he sped down the hall, a door opened and his aunt confronted him.

  “Wait, Hugh.” Mrs. Porter held up an imperative hand. “Millicent has told me of poor Bruce’s tragic death, and Murray,” indicating the footman standing behind her, “informs me that Dr. Beverly Thorne has had the effrontery to force his way into this house—and at such a time.”

  She spoke louder than customary under the stress of indignation, and her words reached Beverly Thorne as he appeared in the hall. He never paused in his rapid stride until he joined the little group, and his eyes did not fall before the angry woman’s gaze.

  “It is only at such a time as this that I would think of intruding,” he said. “Kindly remember, madam, that I am here in my official capacity only. Before I sign a death certificate, an inquest must decide whether your guest, Bruce Brainard, committed suicide—or was murdered.”

  Chapter III

  Testimony

  The day nurse, Mrs. Christine Hall, the severe lines of her face showing more plainly in the strong afternoon light and her forehead puckered in a frown, watched from the bedroom window the parking of automobiles on the lawn before “Dewdrop Inn,” with an ear attentively cocked to catch any sound from the bed where Craig Porter lay looking at the opposite wall with expressionless eyes. The mud-incrusted automobiles were little varied in shape or make, and the men who climbed out of them were mostly of middle age, and the seriousness of their manner as they greeted each other, or stood in groups chatting with late comers, impressed Nurse Hall. As the last one disappeared up the steps of the portico and out of her line of vision, she left the window and hurried to a closed door, but before she could turn the knob the door opened and Vera Deane stepped into the bedroom.

  “I was just going to call you,” exclaimed Nurse Hall. “The men seem all to have arrived.”

  Vera consulted her wrist watch. “The inquest was called for two o’clock; they are prompt.”

  “To the minute,” agreed her companion. “Are you going downstairs immediately?”

  “No, not until sent for.” Vera turned and wandered restlessly about the room, taking care, however, that her footfall made no sound which might disturb Craig Porter. She stopped in the shadow of a large wing chair and regarded the motionless figure on the bed long and intently. When she looked away she found Nurse Hall at her side.

  “Does he always stare straight before him?” she asked, almost below her breath.

  “Yes.” Nurse Hall shuddered. “Always that same fixed stare. You can bless your stars that you have him at night when he is generally asleep. Sometimes he gives me the creeps.”

  “Does he never speak?”

  “No, never, and I don’t believe he ever will; the muscles of his throat are paralyzed. But you need not whisper”—raising her voice. “He doesn’t understand a word we say.”

  “But our talking may annoy him.” The older woman colored; she was sensitive about her voice, never having been able to conquer its shrill quality, and she did not take kindly to any criticism of her conduct of a sick room, especially from a younger and more inexperienced nurse. Vera laid a quiet hand on her arm. “Forgive the suggestion, but I cannot rid myself of the belief that often those we think unconscious hear and understand more than we imagine.”

  “Tut, my dear, not in this case. Mr. Porter understands nothing said to him, even by his mother; and it’s been that way
from the first,” Nurse Hall added, seating herself in the armchair. “I was here when they brought him back from Europe, and I must say that Dr. Noyes has worked wonders—”

  Vera was not listening—voices in the hall and the sound of advancing footsteps came to them through the half-open door.

  “Have you been notified to attend the inquest?” she asked. Her question passed unheeded until Nurse Hall, raising a very red face from the exertion of stooping, had tied her shoestring.

  “No, I don’t have to go down,” she answered, puffing slightly. “I slept soundly all last night. It is too bad your rest has to be disturbed this afternoon; if you wish”—a sidelong glance accompanied the words—“I will continue on duty until midnight and give you an opportunity to make up lost sleep.”

  “I don’t believe I could sleep now, thanks all the same. You forget I found the—the body,” and a shudder which she could not suppress shook Vera. “I see it whenever I close my eyes.”

  “You poor thing!” Her companion patted her arm sympathetically. “We’ll sleep better and feel differently after the inquest and they remove the body. Someone is stopping at the door.”

  Not waiting for the low rap that sounded a second later, Vera had sped to open the door, and she found Murray, the footman, standing in the hall.

  “You are wanted, miss, in the library,” he said, and without a backward glance Vera closed the bedroom door and followed the servant down the staircase.

  Two men, strangers to her, were lounging in the square entrance hall near the front door, and at her approach they turned and watched her until the portieres, which divided the hall, hid her tall, graceful figure from their sight. Vera paused an instant before opening the library door, then, taking a deep breath, she stepped inside the room.

  Grouped about the long center table were six men, while an elderly man occupied a chair near at hand, and the eighth man in the room sat before a side table taking notes. The elderly man, whose authoritative air rightly led Vera to conclude that he was Coroner Black, was on his feet instantly on catching sight of the new witness, and pulled forward a chair for her.

  “Miss Deane?” he questioned, and she bowed a silent response. “Then sit here, madam, after McPherson administers the oath,” and at his words the man at the small table stepped forward, Bible in hand.

  The homelike appearance of the library and the comfortably seated men, some with up-tilted chairs and sprawling legs, robbed the inquest of its legal atmosphere, but as Vera repeated the oath “to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God!” she became conscious of the concentrated regard of her companions, and her back stiffened as she seated herself bolt upright in the chair evidently set aside for the witnesses. She faced the windows, and the afternoon sunshine, like kindly fingers, touched her quaint snow-white cap, and gave a tint of red to her waving, curly hair, as her hazel eyes were calmly lifted to encounter the coroner’s penetrating gaze.

  “Are you a native of Washington City, Miss Deane?” he asked, first giving Deputy Coroner McPherson time to resume his seat and prepare to take notes.

  “I was born in Washington twenty-six years ago,” was the quiet reply.

  “Have you resided continuously in Washington?”

  “No, sir, not after the death of my parents,” replied Vera. “I went West, then later studied to be a trained nurse at the University of Pennsylvania, graduating from there four years ago.”

  “How long have you been attending Mr. Craig Porter?”

  “A little over three months.”

  “And what do your duties comprise?”

  “I am night nurse.” Her concise reply won an approving nod from one of the jurors.

  “Were you summoned to nurse Mr. Bruce Brainard when he became ill last night?”

  “I was, sir.”

  “Then did you spend the night by his bedside?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Why not?”

  The question shot from the coroner, and Vera’s fingers tightened their grip on the arm of her chair, but her voice was not raised or ruffled as she answered slowly:

  “Mr. Brainard’s condition was so improved after taking the medicine prescribed by Dr. Noyes that he did not require my attendance, and I therefore returned to my customary duties in Mr. Porter’s bedroom.”

  “Do the bedrooms occupied by Mr. Porter and Mr. Brainard adjoin each other?” inquired Coroner Black.

  “They do, sir, but there is no communicating door between them.”

  “Ah! Then to enter Mr. Brainard’s bedroom from Mr. Porter’s you had to go into the main hall and from there into Mr. Brainard’s bedroom?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then while with Mr. Porter you were cut off by a solid wall from all communication with your other patient?” questioned the coroner, intently studying a rough sketch of the interior of the house which he held in his hand.

  “Not entirely,” explained Vera quickly. “There is a transom between the two rooms which remains open, and I would have heard instantly if Mr. Brainard had called me.”

  “Did he call you?” asked the coroner eagerly, and his face fell at her monosyllabic “No.”

  “Did you hear any noise in Mr. Brainard’s bedroom during the night?” he began, after a pause.

  “Not a sound, sir.”

  “Did you go in to see how he was during the night?”

  “Yes, once, about half past one. Judging from his regular breathing that Mr. Brainard was sleeping I tiptoed out of the room without approaching his bed, and resumed my watch in the next room.”

  “Was there any light in Mr. Brainard’s room?”

  “Yes, I placed a night light on the bed-stand.”

  “Did the candle give sufficient light for you to see Mr. Brainard’s position in bed?” questioned Coroner Black.

  “Yes, sir; he lay on his left side with his face turned toward the door,” answered Vera. “His face was somewhat in shadow as his back was turned to the bed-table on which the night light stood, but I could see that his eyes were closed.”

  “Was he lying in the same position when you found him dead the next morning?”

  “No.” Vera whitened as the scene of the tragedy flashed before her mental vision. “Mr. B-Brainard then lay on his back staring straight up at the ceiling, his head twisted to one side. Oh!” and one hand flew upward covering her eyes. “I can never forget the expression of his face—the look of fear—of agony. Gentlemen”—her hand dropping to her side, while she steadied herself with determined effort—“he must have suffered horribly—before he died.”

  “And you, awake in the next room, heard no sound?” Coroner Black repeated his former question with quiet persistence.

  “I heard no sound,” responded Vera mechanically. “Absolutely no sound.”

  A pause followed as Coroner Black fumbled among the papers lying on the table. When he removed his hand his fingers clutched a razor.

  “Have you seen this razor before?” he inquired, offering it to her.

  Vera shrank back. “I saw a razor lying on the bed beside Mr. Brainard. I did not pick it up or examine it closely.”

  “You mean that you cannot identify this as the razor which you saw lying on Mr. Brainard’s bed this morning?”

  “Yes,” and there was a change in her tone, too subtle to be detected by the coroner. She hurried on before he could ask another question: “On discovering Mr. Brainard’s condition this morning I went for Dr. Noyes, and as he was not in his room, I hastened to get Mr. Hugh Wyndham.”

  “How do you know that Dr. Noyes was not in his room?” demanded Coroner Black.

  Vera looked at him in surprise. “When I received no response to my repeated raps, I turned the handle of the door and entered his bedroom—it was empty.”

  “Did you meet anyone in the hall on your way to summon Dr. Noyes and Mr. Wyndham?”

  “No, sir, no one.”

  Coroner Black rose. “I think that is all, Miss Deane
; no, stay, there is one other point—were you sent for when Mr. Brainard was taken ill at the dinner table?”

  “No. I was not aware of his illness until Dr. Noyes informed me that he and Mr. Wyndham had assisted a guest, who was suffering from vertigo, into the spare bedroom, and directed me to administer a dose of aromatic spirits of ammonia, and to make him comfortable for the night, and then to return to Mr. Porter.”

  Coroner Black referred to his notes before again addressing her.

  “Did you observe where Mr. Brainard’s clothes had been placed?” he asked.

  Vera wrinkled her pretty forehead in thought. “I believe they were lying on the sofa, but I cannot swear to it,” she replied.

  “Do you recall seeing the clothes this morning?”

  “I do not, sir,” was her prompt reply. “My whole attention was absorbed by the—the figure on the bed. I was too—too terrified to observe anything else in the room.”

  Coroner Black stared at her intently; her repose of manner and air of efficiency were at variance with her words. Judging from appearances she seemed the last person to lose her head in an emergency.

  “That is all,” he announced, and covered his abruptness with an old-fashioned bow as he preceded her to the door. “I thank you, Miss Deane.”

  With a slight inclination of her head to the jurors Vera slipped out of the room and made haste toward the staircase, but not before she heard Coroner Black’s low-toned command to the footman to enter the library.

  The well-trained servant stood while the oath was being administered to him, then subsided into the seat indicated and waited patiently for the coroner to address him.

  “State your full name and occupation,” directed the latter, examining the footman’s intelligent face, somber livery, and general air of respectability.

  “Murray, sir, John Murray,” and the Scotch burr was unmistakable. “I’ve been second man to Mrs. Porter, sir, for going on seven years.”

  “Did you admit Mr. Brainard when he arrived here last night?”

  “I did, sir.”

  “Did he have a bag or suitcase with him?”