Chapter XIV Found!
“Awful rubbish!” Fred Crane whispered to Leila; “fancy Justin, in his evening clothes, rambling around these musty old attics! He’s too fastidious to think of such a thing! You know how he hates a speck of dust or dirt.”
“I know,” said Leila; “but I suppose Mr. Wheeler must be theorizing that Justin was escaping from somebody or something.”
“Nonsense! don’t be melodramatic. What could he be fleeing from?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure. If we knew that, we could soon solve the mystery.”
“I say,” began Crane, addressing the detective, “this is all useless, you know. Arnold simply couldn’t be up here.”
“Unless you can suggest where he could be, Mr. Crane, I must continue this search in my own way.”
“Oh, that’s all right, no offence; but we’re wasting good time, it seems to me.”
“And how would you propose putting in the time to better advantage?”
As Crane had nothing to offer by way of improvement on the detective’s methods, the tour of the attics continued.
In rotation, the other stories were searched with the same infinite care. The detective was looking not only for the missing man, but for any clue or indication that might point toward his whereabouts.
Leila grew a little weary of the delay occasioned by such excessive minutiae of searching, but she would not listen to Gale’s suggestion that they return to the library and join the others, for she was determined to follow the detective.
Of course a careful investigation was made in Arnold’s own rooms, but these were as unproductive as the rest of the house. The rooms on the ground floor also yielded no clue, and, after a search of the kitchens and servants’ quarters, Mr. Wheeler started for the cellars.
Both Gale and Leila were interested in the appointments of the basement, for many of its various rooms were fitted up with modern household inventions and domestic appliances. Mr. Crane kept up a running fire of comment on what he saw, and also gave choice bits of unsolicited advice to the detective, whose mind was intent only on letting no obscure bit of space elude his vigilance.
They came at last to the cellars under the oldest part of the house. These, being built in the time of Justin’s grandfather, and not having been improved upon since, were quaint and interesting. They were unused, and contained many kitchen utensils and pieces of antique furniture that would have delighted the heart of a collector. But while Gale and Leila paused to examine an old fireplace with a hinged crane, or an old settle or churn, Mr. Wheeler darted from one small room to another, flashing his electric torch everywhere.
“What a lot of old rubbish,” exclaimed Crane, who had followed the search through the whole house, futile though he considered it.
“It isn’t exactly rubbish,” said Leila, who liked antiques. “See this old pewter lamp; this was used for what they called ‘burning fluid.’ I think these things are interesting. And here’s an old workbench, with a,—what is this thing?—attached to it.”
“That’s a vise,” replied Crane. “I suppose some one of Justin’s old ancestors used to amuse himself with carpentering now and then. But we’re not finding out anything. I believe I’ll go back upstairs. I daresay Mabel is looking for me.”
But just as Crane turned toward the stairs, Detective Wheeler suddenly appeared in the doorway of the room they were in.
“Miss Duane,” he said peremptorily, and in a quick, excited voice, “go upstairs at once.”
“Why?” demanded Leila, in surprise, but a glance at Wheeler’s face impelled her to obey him.
“Don’t ask why,” he went on gravely. “Go back upstairs at once—and join the others in the library, or wherever they are, and stay there. Mr. Gale, please remain here.”
Leila was already on the staircase, an old flight of wooden steps, and Gale was about to follow her, when detained by Wheeler.
Realizing that ill news was impending, Gale waited only until Leila had disappeared through the door at the head of the stairs, and had closed it behind her, then, turning to Wheeler, he said, “Where is he?”
“Come,” returned the detective, and led the way to the next room, where the two footmen stood shivering and with horror-stricken faces. It was a small apartment, with walls that had once been whitewashed, but were now blackened with age. It contained one or two old tables and broken chairs, and a large brick structure with an iron door. Although Gale had only indefinite knowledge of such a thing, he knew at once it was the door of an old-fashioned brick oven.
The oven was an enormous affair, built against the cellar wall, and in shape not unlike a great safe. It was, of course, connected with the chimney, and had doubtless baked the bread of the original Arnolds who built the house. There was a big iron door to it, and a smaller one below, where the fuel was put in.
“We have solved the mystery,” said Mr. Wheeler, very gravely, “and it is a tragedy. Be prepared for the worst.”
He opened the door of the huge old bake-oven, and within Emory Gale saw the bent body of a man, fully dressed.
“It is Justin!” he exclaimed. “It is murder! It cannot be suicide, can it?”
“Not unless the man was really demented,” said Wheeler. “I think, Mr. Gale, we should send for the coroner at once, but I think it wiser to take out the body and examine it first.”
“But is it not forbidden to touch a body until the coroner arrives?”
“That is a fallacy believed in by many people, but untrue. I think, if you agree, Mr. Gale, our wisest course is to learn any further detail we may concerning Mr. Arnold’s death—for he is certainly dead—before we make a report upstairs.”
In the excitement of the moment, both men had forgotten Fred Crane, who stood in the background, as dumb with horror as were the two servants.
It was somewhat to Crane’s credit that he offered no advice at this juncture, but stepped forward and announced himself entirely at Mr. Wheeler’s orders, if he could be of any assistance.
The two footmen were practically useless, and it devolved on the others to remove the body of Justin Arnold from the old oven and lay it upon a table.
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Gale, with a little gasp, “there’s the sofa-pillow!”
The green silk sofa-pillow which had been missed by Leila lay against Arnold’s breast, and was bound about his body by its own gilt cord, which had been torn from its edges.
With his usual swift, deft movements, Mr. Wheeler unbound the pillow, and, turning to the others, said, “You see! Mr. Arnold was stabbed through the heart, probably while in the library, for the murderer has bound this pillow over the wound to staunch the flow of blood.”
There was no doubt about it, and the detective’s statement of facts made the others realize that this was no time for emotion or grief, but a stern situation to be met and coped with.
Suppressing a sob, Emory Gale said, “You are quite right, Mr. Wheeler; there is no doubt poor old Justin has been murdered. It only remains for us now to do all we can to break it gently to the others, and to attend to the sad details for them. I thank you, Mr. Wheeler, for your thoughtful tact in sending Miss Duane away before you disclosed the tragedy.”
“Yes, yes,” returned Wheeler, his mind preoccupied with various details of what his own duties now must be.
As the detective had now performed his task, and the case must go to the coroner and the police, Emory Gale accepted, at least temporarily, the directorship of the situation.
“You two men,” he said to the shuddering footmen, “must stay here in reverent charge of your master’s body, until some official shall come to relieve you. Mr. Wheeler, you must do whatever your judgment dictates, and Mr. Crane and I will take upon ourselves the task of informing the family.”
“Yes, yes, quite right,” said Wheeler; “quite a correct arrangement. I will go upstairs with you, as of course you must know, gentlemen, that after more immediate details are attended to we must find the wretch who murdered Mr. Arnold.”
“Who could it have been?” exclaimed Fred Crane, realizing for the first time that they were in the presence of an even greater tragedy than that of death.
“That’s not a question to be asked now, and perhaps not to be answered soon,” replied Wheeler. “Come, let us go upstairs.”
The three men went to the library, where all of the others were assembled. Leila’s sudden and frightened appearance among them had led them to expect some startling development, but they were all unprepared for the news they must hear.
Though a terrible ordeal, Emory Gale was obliged to tell the story, but the audience had already read in the faces of the three men more than a hint of a tragedy.
“What has become of Justin Arnold is no longer a mystery,” Gale began, and though he knew his deepest sympathies should be for Dorothy and Miss Wadsworth, yet his glance wandered uncontrollably to Leila. “We know what has happened to him; and it is the most tragic fate that could overtake a man.” He hesitated a moment, and then, realizing that perhaps it were kinder to end the suspense, he added in a low tone, “He has been killed.”
To the credit of the nerves of the women present, not one of them fainted or made any outcry. Dorothy put her head down on her mother’s shoulder and wept softly. Leila and Mabel Crane were stunned by the news, but bore it with outward calm. Miss Wadsworth, with a manner highly indicative of her own strength of character, sat bolt upright in her chair and looked steadily at Gale. “I don’t quite understand,” she said, and the tremble in her voice was pathetic. “What do you mean, Mr. Gale?”
“I cannot bear to tell you the details, Miss Wadsworth,” said Gale, with a pitying glance at the old lady; “but the simple and dreadful fact is that we have discovered Justin’s body, and have learned that he was murdered—by whom we do not know.”
Miss Wadsworth almost fainted, as she at last realized what had happened.
Ernest Chapin rose and went to her side, but as he sat down by her he found himself unable to speak. Campbell Crosby, too, though he essayed to say something, found his voice choked beyond utterance.