I will not go to my room and lie down,” Anne declared; “who killed my husband?”
She was strangely calm,—so calm, that I knew she was straining every nerve to preserve her poise, and I feared her sudden breakdown.
“That is yet to be discovered,” said Doctor Mason; “if, indeed, we do not find out that he took his own life.”
“He did not do that,” said Anne; “he never would do that!”
Her voice was almost inaudible, and her face was white as death. She still clutched the old doctor’s arm, as if unable to stand alone.
We three men stood, looking at her. I felt sure all three loved her; Archer, Moreland and I. It was a strange situation, for a subtle sense told me that we all wanted to go to her assistance, but none dared do so. We seemed, almost, to be waiting, till she should make a choice of one of us.
But she did not heed us. Addressing herself entirely to the doctor, she rambled on, not hysterically, but with a far-away look, as if only half-conscious of what she was saying.
“No; David would not commit suicide,—of that, I am sure. Somebody killed him,—murdered him,—but who? Could it have been—” her voice died away in an unintelligible murmur, and she fainted.
Doctor Mason held her in his arms, as we all sprang forward.
“Morland,” said the doctor, making his own choice, “help me carry Mrs. Van Wyck to her room. Where is her maid?”
They took Anne away, and I turned to Archer.
“Her bedroom is on this floor?” I asked.
“Yes; Van Wyck used to have his rooms on the second floor. But when he married his present wife, he had a magnificent suite of apartments furnished for them on this floor. Partly because they are beautiful rooms, and partly to be nearer this study.”
“It seems strangely appropriate that he should die in this room,” I said, glancing toward the still figure.
“It seems appropriate that he should die anywhere!” Archer muttered, in a savage undertone. And in answer to my look of surprise at this outburst, he added: “He was a brute to his wife. I’m sorry his death occurred in this horrible way, but I am not sorry he’s gone.”
I could make no reply; for, though I never should have put it into words, my feeling was the same.
But the death had occurred in a horrible way, and the exigencies and consequences of it must be met.
Doctor Mason reappeared, and in response to our inquiries, he said that Mrs. Van Wyck had regained consciousness, and was being looked after by her maid and by Mrs. Carstairs.
“I shall now telephone for the coroner,” he went on. “I assume that Morland will take charge of his father’s affairs; and I think that Miss Barbara should be told at once what has happened.”
I couldn’t help admiring the poise and practical good sense of Doctor Mason. He had been the family physician of the Van Wycks for many years, and whatever his personal feeling toward the head of the house, he now remembered only his professional responsibility and acted accordingly.
While he was telephoning the coroner, a young man came into the study, who was a stranger to me.
“Is that you, Lasseter?” said Morland, looking up. “A tragedy has occurred, and my father has been killed; by himself or another, we don’t know.” Morland spoke mechanically, almost as if he felt it incumbent upon him to explain the situation.
I soon discovered that Barclay Lasseter was Mr. Van Wyck’s secretary. He did not live in the house, but came every morning to the study. He was the tallest man I had ever seen; of slight build, with a dark, somewhat sinister face. I couldn’t help wondering if he were in any way implicated in the tragedy. Like the rest of us, he was self-possessed, and, though shocked, seemed anxious, principally, to do anything he might to help.
“Could it have been the work of burglars?” he said. “Has anything been stolen?”
“I don’t know,” I replied, as no one else spoke. “Do you miss anything?”
Lasseter glanced over the desk, and, taking some keys from his pocket, opened one or two drawers.
“Check-book and petty cash all right,” he said briefly. “Haven’t you looked in the safe?”
“No,” said Morland; but he made no move to follow up Lasseter’s suggestion.
I heard no sound at the doorway, but seeing Doctor Mason’s eyes turn from the telephone in that direction, I looked, too, and saw Mrs. Carstairs come in.
She entered noiselessly, as she always moved, and though she was wearing the same white gown I had admired earlier that morning, she appeared altogether different. No longer was the smartness of her costume its chief characteristic. But,—and it must have been owing to the woman’s wonderful dramatic ability,—her white linen garb had the effect of the uniform of a trained nurse. With a swift, comprehending glance, she looked in every one of our faces, and then, without a word glided to the chair where sat the still figure of David Van Wyck.
She betrayed no trace of self-consciousness, indeed, she seemed unaware of our presence, as she stood looking at the dead man’s face. Then she spoke.
“It was suicide,” she said, with an air of certainty. “Mr. Van Wyck was an unhappy man, and he sought refuge in death.”
For the first time, she assumed a melodramatic pose, and stood, looking at us all, as if to challenge contradiction.
“I know what you mean!” began Morland hotly; “but it is not true! My father was not an unhappy man.”
Mrs. Carstairs merely gave a Frenchy shrug of her well-formed shoulders, and said nothing. With her hanging hands lightly clasped in front of her, she stood, cool and self-possessed, while Morland went on, irately.
“Since you have said that, Mrs. Carstairs, please explain yourself. Why do you say my father was unhappy?”
“I speak of what I know,” she returned, her gaze at him not flinching. “But I deny your right to question me concerning my knowledge.”
“If you know anything that can help to throw any light on this sad occurrence, it is your duty to tell it, Mrs. Carstairs,” said Doctor Mason, speaking rather sternly.
“When I am questioned by authority, it will be time for me to speak,” she returned, calmly.
Her manner and voice,—even her words,—seemed to betoken that she was in possession of great secrets, but I had an intuitive conviction that it was only pretense. I felt sure she wanted to appear sensationally important; and I wondered if she meant, in any way to make trouble for Anne.
I think the same notion was in Archer’s mind, for he said:
“Any facts you may know, Mrs. Carstairs, must be told at the inquest. But opinions or fancies carry no weight.”
She gave him a glance that seemed tinged with mockery, but she only said: “Mine is not a nature to exploit opinions or fancies.” Then she turned to Doctor Mason, and speaking in her capacity of housekeeper, asked him concerning the removal of the body to another room.
“Not until the coroner gives permission,” he replied. “He will be here shortly; and until then, we can make no changes or definite plans.”
Barbara came to the study door, accompanied by Mrs. Stelton and Beth Fordyce. Mrs. Carstairs moved swiftly to meet them, but though she admitted Barbara, she refused entrance to the others. I did not hear her words, as she spoke with them, but they seemed willing to accept her dictum, and turned away together. I couldn’t help admiring her wisdom and tact in keeping them out, for they were emotional women, and their exclamations would have jarred the overwrought nerves of us all.
Mrs. Carstairs was charming. She told Barbara in a few words, all that we knew,