Chapter XV The Scarlet Sage
Leila Duane spoke first. “Who did it?” she asked in a small, shocked voice.
“We don’t know yet,” replied Mr. Wheeler. “It is a mystery. But the murderer must be found and brought to justice. Had Mr. Arnold any enemies?”
“No,” said Campbell Crosby; “and if he had, they couldn’t get into this house in the night Do you know, Mr. Wheeler, how it is locked and barred?”
“Yes. I’ve heard about it and tried the alarm, and all that. But, Mr. Crosby, we must conclude somebody did force an entrance. Unless we allow ourselves to suspect some member of the household or one of the servants of this dreadful deed.”
“Oh, no!” cried Mabel Crane. “That is unthinkable! Some one must have gained entrance from outside, in some way or other.”
Mr. Wheeler looked deeply thoughtful. “Although,” he went on, “the work for which I was employed is accomplished, I will, if I may, continue to direct affairs here for a brief period. It is necessary that the coroner be summoned at once, and as upon his arrival he will take full charge of the case, I assume I may consider my services no longer required.”
But Miss Wadsworth was of a sort that could rise to an emergency. Bravely striving to put aside her grief, she forced herself to consider the immediate requirements of the case.
“Mr. Wheeler,” she began, “you have indeed accomplished the work for which you were employed, but; for my part, I do not feel ready to dispense with your services. We have found my cousin”—here the old voice trembled, but immediately became steady again—”now we must find his murderer and avenge his death. An Arnold shall not be killed without every effort being made to bring justice to the miserable wretch who committed the deed! In so far as I have any authority, I wish to employ you, Mr. Wheeler, to discover whose was the hand that killed him.”
Mr. Wheeler merely bowed in acknowledgment of this, for he was not quite sure that Miss Wadsworth was sufficiently in authority to employ him.
“Although I have been seemingly directing matters here,” said Emory Gale, “it is not now my province to continue. My partner, Mr. Crosby, is Justin Arnold’s cousin, and is naturally heir to his estate, unless it be otherwise willed. Campbell Crosby therefore ought now to assume his place as head of this house.”
Crosby’s handsome face looked disturbed and troubled. It seemed as if he were unwilling to profit thus suddenly by his cousin’s terrible death. Indeed, all present were unnerved and bewildered by the shock they had received, and it was difficult for any of them to think coherently.
When Campbell Crosby spoke, it was not directly in reply to Gale’s suggestion.
“It seems to me,” he said slowly, almost as if thinking aloud, “that, even before notifying the coroner, we should send for Justin’s family physician.
“Of course,” agreed Mr. Wheeler, in his quick way; “I should have thought of that myself. But I’m unaccustomed to managing outside my own field of labor, and I confess I did not think of it. Certainly we must send for the doctor.”
The men began to pull themselves together, and if Mr. Crane was perhaps a little over-officious in his offers of assistance, those more nearly related to the dead man were glad to have his aid.
So Mr. Crane telephoned for Doctor Gaspard, and took it upon himself to go and notify the servants of the tragedy, incidentally taking the opportunity to give them some orders on his own account. Mr. Crane rarely had opportunity to give orders to a corps of trained servants, and he thought it no harm to snatch his chance when it offered.
Meantime, Mr. Wheeler notified the coroner, and advised him to come as soon as possible.
“It is perfectly clear,” said Wheeler to Campbell Crosby, whom he now looked upon as the head of the house, “that the murderer must have been some one already in the house, as of course no one could get in after the alarm was turned on. Therefore, Mr. Crosby, I’m sure you will agree with me in thinking it was either one of the servants or some intruder who was concealed in the house during the evening.”
“I think your second theory is better,” said Crosby thoughtfully. “I cannot believe it of one of the servants. They are nearly all old and trustworthy retainers. And he was such a kind master—who could have had a motive?”
“I know so little about Mr. Arnold, I cannot yet judge,” said the detective, “but surely, with this sealed house, it cannot be difficult to discover which of its inmates is guilty.”
“It would seem so,” agreed Crosby; “and yet sometimes what seem to be the simplest cases turn out the most complex.”
The two indulged in no further theorizing just then, for Doctor Gaspard arrived. He immediately went downstairs to see what he could learn from an examination of the body of Justin Arnold.
On his return he had little to report further than they already knew.
He said that Arnold had been killed by a stab from some long, pointed instrument, probably a dagger. The deed must have been done so swiftly that the victim could not even cry out. The fact of the body being placed where the flue of the chimney made a continuous draft had caused it to remain in a state of preservation. The sofa-pillow had been placed immediately against Arnold’s breast in order that no blood might fall from the wound. It had then doubtless been bound to the body, by its own cord, hastily torn off, and the body carried to the cellar.
The fact that the pillow had been used seemed to show that the murder had been committed in the library, and the body taken downstairs for the purpose of concealment. How the murderer came or went, of course the doctor could not even suggest. That was a matter to be taken up later by the detective.
Aside from his professional interest in the Arnold family, Doctor Gaspard had always been a warm friend, both of Justin and his father. The present tragedy almost unnerved the old gentleman, and, though he remained to luncheon, he ate scarcely anything, and seemed unable to shake off his depression.
Nor did the others have any appetite for the meal. The dreadful happening seemed to have changed everything, and made even the ordinary routine of the day seem strange and distorted. Dorothy’s pretty face looked white and drawn, and her dark eyes seemed twice their normal size.
Leila, less personally interested, was excited by the strangeness and mystery of it all. She wanted to set to work at once to discover the criminal, and waited impatiently for the coroner and his hoped-for revelations.
The farce of luncheon over, various groups gathered here and there to talk about the subject that engrossed them all.
Just before he left the house, Doctor Gaspard looked about him in a sort of bewildered way. He looked at Miss Wadsworth, and then shook his head. He glanced at the detective, Mr. Wheeler, and started toward him as he stood on the verandah, but just before the doctor reached him, the detective turned hurriedly to speak to some one else.
“What is it, Doctor Gaspard,” said Fred Crane; “can I do anything for you?”
“It’s only this.” The doctor spoke undecidedly, and in low tones.
“Let us step down the path,” said Crane, leading the other down the steps and along the garden walk. “Now tell me.”
“It’s probably nothing of any account. But I want to tell somebody about it. I tried to get hold of the detective.”
“Tell me, doctor. I am helping Mr. Wheeler, and doubtless I can repeat your message to him better than the others.”
“Very well, Mr. Crane. It is this. When I made the examination of poor Justin’s body, and found the stab wound, I found nothing else indicative or unusual, except this.” Dr. Gaspard took from a pocketbook a small sprig of scarlet sage. It was withered and crushed, but intact. “This was tightly clasped in Justin’s dead hand. I was about to throw it away, when I thought it might be of value as evidence in hunting the criminal. I know nothing of detective work, and ‘clues’ as they call them, but I felt I must save this. Was it foolish?”
“Not at all,” said Fred Crane, more to humor the old man than because he thought the “clue” of any consequence. “If you will entrust it to me, Doctor, I will see that Mr. Wheeler gets it, and I will tell him where you found it.”
“Thank you, Mr. Crane. Is Wheeler a smart man? Will he find Justin’s murderer, do you think?”
“I hope so, I’m sure. It’s all so sudden, and such a shock, that we none of us know which way to turn. But of course the murderer must be found, and made to expiate his crime. I’m a sort of detective, myself, and if Wheeler can’t lay his finger on the criminal, I shall take the case in hand. I’ve not interfered in his work, for it was not my place. But my wife is a cousin of the Arnold family, and I shan’t feel that I’m doing my duty unless I help all I can to avenge this crime.”
Doctor Gaspard went away, and Crane put the withered blossom in his own pocketbook, smiling a little at the deed. “It’s of no earthly use,” he thought. “To find the weapon the man was killed with is the thing to do. I’m going to start in by looking for that. If I find it, I rather guess old Wheeler will open his eyes.”
Crane made at once for the cellar. The body of Justin Arnold was lying on a table, covered with a sheet and guarded by the two white-faced footmen. They stood immovable as sentries, and after a word with them, Crane began his search. He hunted everywhere for a dirk or dagger, looking behind benches and into cupboards and dark alcoves where it might have been thrown.