The Classic Mystery Novel MEGAPACK®. Hay James
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but if Mrs. Coatesnash had him murdered it must have been for another reason. I’ve thought of one good sound reason, and only one, why she might have wanted Hiram Darnley and Laura Twining out of the way.”
“What is it?”
“Think it out yourself, Lola. Concentrate on Mrs. Coatesnash, on the kind of woman she is. How could you hit at her? How could you bring her to the point of murder?”
“You’ll have to spell it out for me,” I said slowly. “Unless—” I hesitated. “—unless you’re thinking about her grand old family name.”
Jack smiled his satisfaction. “That’s it precisely. As I see it, you could hit at Luella only through her family, her infernal pride of race. Now let’s go on from there. Suppose Laura Twining and Hiram Darnley shared a piece of information, a secret, a shameful secret that concerned the Coatesnash family. The honor of the family sounds unmodern, old-fashioned, but Luella doesn’t live in a modern world. She belongs to the generation which cheerfully faced death before disgrace.”
“Still…”
Jack waved aside the interruption. “Wait a minute. Luella learns those two know the secret. Maybe Laura and Darnley threaten her with it. She sees disgrace, a grand old family toppling in the mud; she can’t bear the village knowing, snickering, whispering behind her hack. She…” Suddenly Jack’s eyes blazed. “The daughter, Lola! Jane—remember Jane? Remember the curious drowning? Darnley headed the search. Could he have learned something then, something about the girl, something kept quiet for years, but something hot enough to be news today in Crockford?”
“But where and how and when did Laura and Darnley meet? We have no knowledge they ever did. Laura came to Mrs. Coatesnash after Jane’s death. Darnley hadn’t been in Crockford since then until the other night. Or we don’t know he had.”
“Laura has been in New York.”
“Darnley was a hard-headed business man. If he actually had a secret, why would he choose a chatterbox like Laura to confide in?”
“They may have discovered it simultaneously. The thing for us to do is to establish a friendship if we can. Find out how well they knew each other. Find out everything about them both.”
Shortly afterward Jack belatedly telephoned to the police. He disliked the task of outlining our evening’s questionable activities, but I for one was happy to delegate my own share in any further speculation. I was intolerably weary. Also I have a pragmatic mind, and though Jack’s theory was ingenious, I wanted some solid, substantial evidence to support it.
Standish could not be raised by repeated ringing, but eventually Jack roused Lester Harkway. The young policeman asked excited questions, and promised to leap into clothes and come out at once. As Jack replaced the telephone, the clock on the mantel struck four. Four long silvery notes. Someone began to pound at the cottage door.
I looked at the clock. I looked at Jack. He went quickly to the door, called out, “Who’s there?” A moment later he returned with Dr. Rand. The physician was haggard and worn; his coat was a mass of wrinkles; his shoes were caked and muddy. He walked wearily, gratefully to the fire.
“It’s a lucky thing for me you artists and writers never go to bed. I saw your lights from the road and chanced your being up. Do I smell coffee?”
“Will you have some?”
“Will I! Two cups, if it’s handy, no sugar, but I favor lots of cream. Also I’d like to borrow a gallon of gas. My car ran out down the road a piece. Second time I’ve been caught in twenty years. Not bad, considering…but maybe after all we should have stuck to the horse.”
He took a chair near the fire and yawned prodigiously.
“Babies have a talent for selecting inconvenient hours to make a start in life. It’s a wonder their mothers put up with it. I wonder I do myself.” He rubbed his fingers through his skull-white hair. “I had a nasty shock tonight. It comes to me I’m getting old, damned old—senile, practically. An hour ago I brought Alice Shipman’s baby into the world; eighteen years ago I brought Alice into the world. That’s bad enough, but it’s not the worst of it. The first baby I delivered in Crockford was Alice Shipman’s mother. Thirty-eight years ago almost to the day—thirty-eight years! Does that qualify me for the firing squad, or doesn’t it? No man should be permitted to outlive his arteries.” He yawned again. “There’s no money in babies; there never was. People have them, doctors deliver them, and no one seems to make a penny out of it. Did you ever read Swift’s Modest Proposal? Swift suggested that Irish infants be substituted for pork in the retail markets. I’ve often thought his notion should be applied in Crockford. God, I’m tired. Will you tell me why any sane man takes up a country practice?”
We couldn’t tell him. I brought the coffee. He drank three cups, instead of the threatened two. His shoes were muddy. He borrowed a tea towel and polished them. He fell to discussing the inquest. He said heatedly that Annabelle Bayne should be ducked as a public nuisance. He regretted the passing of old New England customs which had possessed a certain social value.
The clock struck the half hour. The physician glanced at it. “Good Lord, is it that late? What were you kids doing up? Don’t you ever go to bed?” He eyed Jack disapprovingly. “You were knocked unconscious less than a week ago. You should take care of yourself. You’re looking pale around the gills.” The sharp gaze was transferred to me. “You look a little peaked, too.” He peered into my face, felt my wrist, wagged his head. “Saffron eyes at twenty. A jumpy pulse. Wretched color. If you youngsters don’t start sleeping occasionally, when you get my age you’ll have no nerves worth mentioning.”
“It’s fortunate we didn’t turn in tonight,” Jack said at once. “We’ve covered a lot of valuable ground. Most of the credit is due to Lola, but between us we’ve practically worked out a theory for Hiram Darnley’s murder.”
Immediately the physician lost interest. “After drinking your coffee and toasting my feet at your fire, I probably shouldn’t criticize. However, one of the advantages of age, one of the few, is offering unsolicited advice. Polite young people feel obliged to listen. If I were you, young man, I’d pick something better to occupy my time.” He sniffed. “The village is overrun with amateur detectives, poking and prying and chattering among themselves. Ghouls, the lot of ’em! Why class yourself and your wife with a collection of morbid louts? You look normal. So does she.” Jack grinned. “Sure I’m normal. So normal that I actively resent the possibility of being arrested for a murder I didn’t commit.”
“Bosh! If Standish had planned to arrest you, you’d be behind bars now. So long as you behave yourself, you’re safe. Safer than you’ll be if you begin sticking your fingers in a policeman’s pie. When they want your help, you can be sure they’ll ask for it.”
I poured oil on the troubled waters. “You don’t get the point, Dr. Rand. Jack and I are outsiders, and we’ve been made to feel it. We’ve been questioned and harassed and spied on and the rest of it, and Mrs. Coatesnash has gone scot-free. Anywhere else—in New York, say—she’d have been forced to come back from Paris.”
“In a measure I agree. If I had charge of the investigation, Mrs. Coatesnash would have been ordered home. She ought to be here. There’s no question of it. However, I gravely doubt that murders are solved by youngsters who sit up till five in the morning celebrating. They’re solved by evidence and by policemen who go out and dig it up.”
The physician’s thorny mood did not invite an account of our evening. I changed my tactics. I called on guile. “Anyone has a right to be interested where his own safety or convenience is at stake. As ours is. And the case has been badly handled. This evening, for instance, Jack and I have been discussing a person never mentioned in connection with it. Laura Twining. We think that Laura should have been interviewed by the French police.”
Dr. Rand chuckled. “The French are a smart race. The chef de Sûreté—or whatever you call him—probably took a good look at Laura and decided to save his eardrums.”
“She