at the Bayne house, she had not been murdered on the back road leading from Hilltop House to Crockford—not unless the limousine had retraced its course. There were other back roads, deserted, suited to secret purposes. But a casual farewell call hardly suggested itself as a prelude to murder. Would Mrs. Coatesnash have brought her companion here, paused to chat with a friend, if she had had murder in her mind? Annabelle stirred among her cushions. “Why are you frowning so? Have you thought of something?”
“Nothing of any consequence.”
I hurriedly opened the book. Immediately, on page 33, it fell apart. From the center of the page the picture of a dark young girl gazed out with dark, young, uncomplicated eyes. Jane Coatesnash, class of ’20. President of the Sorosis Club, Treasurer of the Quill Club, class historian. Her average for the four-year term was A; her ambition was social service; she was bound for Mather. Not a beautiful girl. Instead, deadly serious and a little plain.
“Oh,” I said. “I imagined she would be pretty.”
“Jane,” said Annabelle, “was exquisite. More than pretty. Much, much more. She had the virtues that have gone out of fashion. Plus sense and spirit. Plus charm. She wasn’t priggish.” A caption, typical of high school wit, was printed beneath the photograph. I read it: “This is a matter beyond our ken—little Jane craves older men.” A senseless, silly, perplexing rhyme to be associated with the grave young face. I read the couplet a second time.
“What does it refer to?”
Annabelle shrugged. “Those kid things always baffle me. No doubt the lack-wit editor was lamenting the fact that Jane preferred study to callow boys.” The subject was distasteful to her, and she briskly changed it. “Did you hear me say we found the annual done up in wrapping paper? This paper. It struck me as curious. Why should Laura wrap a library book?”
I felt startled. “Perhaps she intended to mail it back.”
“Why mail it back? The car must have gone directly past the Square. Why didn’t she plan to drop it then? Apparently she didn’t. Furthermore, she must remember where she left the book; it’s long overdue, and yet I haven’t heard from her.” Annabelle’s steady gaze fastened upon me. It was my turn to shift the conversation. “Did you see Laura leave the annual?”
“Not actually. However, she was sitting in the Windsor chair beside the bookcase, and I’ve a hazy recollection she carried a squarish package. It lay on her lap awhile.”
Lunch arrived. Perfectly cooked, perfectly served. Annabelle knew wines, herbs and sauces, as her type would, and kept her staff at its culinary best. We ate indifferently, virtually in silence, busy with our separate thoughts. At length my hostess poured coffee, handed me a Wedgwood cup. “I’m certain Laura Twining took those newspapers, stole them in honest fact. I’m equally certain she had no intention of returning the book. But there I stick. I make nothing of it.”
Suddenly, like the long-sought answer to a riddle, a possible explanation occurred to me. There was a hint of the psychic in Annabelle Bayne, or perhaps she only saw my face and guessed. She straightened. Her eyes grew big and almost frightened. “Good God,” she whispered, “is it possible?” She carefully laid down her spoon. “Suppose Jane were still alive. Suppose Laura Twining knew it.”
This approximated my own stumbling theory. But Annabelle appeared to forget me. Her next words were uttered in the musing fashion of one who thinks aloud. “That would explain many things.”
“For instance?”
“It might clear up Laura’s interest in the annual, mightn’t it? Also it would clarify the missing newspapers.”
“Are you being entirely frank?”
The slow exasperating smile emerged. “Compared to you, I’m transparent as a pane of glass. You’re a queer little person, Lola Storm. You sit at my table, stiff as a poker, wary, suspicious, expecting the worst from me. Always the worst.”
I seized the opening. “You puzzle me. Miss Bayne. Enormously.”
“Nonsense. I’m very simple.”
“You weren’t simple yesterday. Why did you say you had never met Franklyn Elliott?” Her expression did not vary, but I fancied she was embarrassed. I cast discretion to the winds. “Thursday night, about eleven o’clock, he came here. I was on the beach. I saw him.”
She flushed, was confused. She recovered herself. “I won’t for a minute deny you’re right. But really I had to lie. Let me explain. It was the day of the inquest; Elliott didn’t wish to testify; he asked me to keep quiet about his being in the village. I promised and I do keep my promises.” She laughed ruefully. “When I can.”
She annoyed me, but I almost liked her. She was one of those dangerous people who readily admit to their faults, and by doing so force you to accept them. I lighted a cigarette. “Would you mind saying what he wanted?”
“Not at all. I am probably Mrs. Coatesnash’s closest friend, and she is his client. We discussed her and nothing else. It was a purely formal interview, quite short. If you had been in the room, you would have been immensely bored.” She sipped stone-cold coffee. “It was my first meeting with Elliott. He’s dull, but we got on fairly well. We had a common interest. I am distressed that Mrs. Coatesnash has been drawn into the Darnley case. So was he.”
I stopped liking her. “Exactly. You are like everyone else in town—watching out for her and letting Jack and me watch out for ourselves.”
She adopted the older-woman attitude. She sighed. “You are young, excitable and—mistaken. No one is persecuting you. Certainly I am not. You deceive yourself and refuse me when I try to help.”
Her words seemed strained, pretentious, artificial. I looked her straight in the eye. “I’m not a child, Miss Bayne. You help only when it suits your own purposes. I daresay you still deny you saw the light. Just as you denied it yesterday.”
“The light?”
“The light in Hilltop House last night. I can assure you there was a light.”
“There was!” Her fingers—strong fingers for a woman—closed about my wrist. “Tell me how you know.”
I declined to answer, and blundered seriously. As I was to discover long afterward, I told her too little or too much. I might have altered the course of our later tragedies, saved one life certainly and possibly two, had I completed the confidence or failed to make it. She shook me.
“I insist you explain about the light.”
I had my small revenge. “I’m awfully sorry, but I gave my information to the police. They asked me not to talk. I promised, and I keep my promises.”
She dropped her hand. Her eyes were filled with unspoken questions, but she uttered no further protest. She assisted me with my wrap and accompanied me to the door. To the end she clung to the fiction that we were in friendly accord, working together toward the same objective. I didn’t know what to make of Annabelle Bayne.
As I walked down the steps, I glanced back and saw her in the foyer. She picked up the telephone, rang the Tally-ho Inn and requested Franklyn Elliott. We know now the tenor of her conversation. She repeated to the New York lawyer everything which had occurred during the meeting at the library and luncheon at the house. Consequently when Franklyn Elliott was interviewed by the police later on that afternoon, the lawyer was prepared.
The luncheon, pregnant with its clouded inferences, occupied less than an hour. Through the fresh, sweet-smelling day I strolled on to Dr. Rand’s offices. His home and office were combined in a large, comfortable, rambling house somewhat in need of paint. Jack, Harkway and the physician were parting on the porch as I arrived. Jack waved at me.
“Sorry to hold you up, Lola. We were longer than we expected.”
“It’s all right. I was sufficiently diverted.”
Harkway gave me a quick look, tipped his cap, asked Dr. Rand