The Classic Mystery Novel MEGAPACK®. Hay James
incivility, who had telephoned or why. Reconstructing the crime or piecing together any background which might explain it was out of the question.
It was seven days after the murder, and we were completely up in the air. Our theories were non-existent. Our brains were addled. We turned to tangibilities. Two people provoked our attention. They were Annabelle Bayne and Franklyn Elliott. We suspected both the lawyer and the lady of possessing knowledge which might aid us materially in a better understanding of the case. We attempted to concoct a sensible method of tapping these twin sources. A method eluded us. We had called upon Elliott in New York and had been fobbed off with polite evasions. To seek an interview with Annabelle Bayne, I suggested, would be like seeking an interview with an Arkansas bobcat, and Jack laughed and agreed.
I collected the scattered newspapers and carried them to the kitchen kindling box. Unannounced, Silas shambled up from the cellar. As usual, his errand was financial. For the sake of my peace of mind, we were keeping Reuben at the cottage. The stipend to Silas was twenty-five cents per day; he now thought fifty more equitable.
“You agreed to twenty-five.”
“I can’t help it, Mrs. Storm. I’d really like the dog myself.
It’s lonesome at the Lodge. Specially nights.”
The murder had affected him to a surprising degree, and his cowardice infuriated me. He jumped at shadows and refused to enter the cellar until, to the ruin of electric bills, we left burning there a permanent light.
Jack said he probably didn’t enjoy the company of a pair of putative murderers, and I know I was increasingly exasperated by his habit of slipping noiselessly into the kitchen and not speaking until I discovered him. I had an uneasy feeling that he might be peering at me from around any corner—peering and wondering.
We haggled over Reuben’s price, settled finally at thirty-five cents a day, with the privilege to Silas of breaking the bargain whenever he chose. He went off, doubtful and dissatisfied.
I washed the dishes, tidied the house and took the expensive Reuben for a walk. At four o’clock the dog and I were engaged in a game of ball when a smart car rolled suavely into our driveway. I turned around to look at it. Annabelle Bayne alighted and walked slowly across the lawn. I dropped the ball, stood, stared. She reached my side, laughed a little nervously, but was otherwise composed.
“Please let me say my piece before you order me off the place. I’ve come to say I’m sorry for what happened yesterday. I—well—let’s say I was mistaken. Will you forgive me?”
I simply couldn’t find my voice, Jack emerged from the cottage, stared as I had stared, and then she was upon him repeating the same astonishing apologies. She had hated him yesterday, but today it seemed she wanted to be his friend. Jack recovered himself sufficiently to remember what I had forgotten—that we desired a talk with Annabelle Bayne. He invited her into the house. She went eagerly.
“Such a darling place,” she murmured. “Mrs. Storm, you have perfect taste.”
“Mrs. Coatesnash,” I said shortly, “is responsible for the taste. We rent the cottage furnished.”
“Now you’re being modest. You’ve moved the couch and changed those chairs.” Her bright eyes darted to the walls. “And you’ve taken down the dreadful portraits. Uncle Will and Aunt Maria and Cousin God-Knows-Who. I wonder what became of them.”
“I think they’re in the attic,” said T. “Have you been here before?”
“Often. As a child I almost lived here, played here every day. Jane Coatesnash and T used to come to see Jane’s aunt, who had the cottage then. There were trunks in the attic full of ridiculous clothes, and we’d drag them out and put them on—you know how children are.” She assumed an air of sweet appeal. “Would you mind too much if I went through the house?”
Taking permission for granted, she linked an arm through mine and we began the tour. Her eyes flashed everywhere. She saw the attic; she found the battered trunks; she saw the cellar and pointed out the broken tea pot which she and the long-dead Jane had used for tea.
She sighed. “What fun we had! Those days were the happiest of my life.”
Last we went into the bedroom. Annabelle had no associations here; at any rate, she mentioned none. Still she seemed loath to leave. She spoke of the curtains, the rugs, the furnishings. She covertly examined the doors. She approached the closet.
“Is this where your burglar hid?”
“Who told you there had been a burglar?”
She smiled amusedly. “You haven’t lived in a small town long. Do you think you can keep anything a secret in a town the size of Crockford? You’ll learn, Mrs. Storm you’ll learn.”
“Then you’ve heard all about it?”
“From a dozen different people.”
Reentering the living room, she settled gracefully in an easy chair. Jack and I exchanged a glance of deep perplexity. Annabelle was clever, but so were we. If she had hoped to convince us that her call was merely friendly, she had failed. What did she want of Jack and Lola Storm?
She finally told us. “You’re in a jam. I am, too. Since—” she smiled faintly “—since that foolish exhibition yesterday, I’ve had plenty of policemen in my hair. I’m a selfish beast, and my own troubles probably made me think of yours.” She laughed.
“Made me realize that since I was innocent, so could you be. There’s human nature for you! Anyhow, I thought this. Standish is nothing but a stupid, routine village cop. Harkway is very little better. Between them they’ll never solve the case. But the three of us—if we pooled our resources—might solve it.”
The words were smoothly spoken, and entirely unconvincing. Jack said dryly, “Where do you propose we begin?”
She had her idea ready. “First, you must dismiss Luella Coatesnash from your mind. Whatever you were told by telephone, it’s absurd to imagine she had anything to do with Darnley’s coming here. I know. Although Mrs. Coatesnash was fond of Hiram Darnley, she was on purely formal terms with him, had been for many years. I doubt she’s talked to him a full ten minutes since those days at Mather.”
“Mather? Was Hiram Darnley present during the search for Mrs. Coatesnash’s daughter?”
“Indeed, yes. He spent days there, hardly ate or slept, did all that was possible, and more too. I say it, who disliked him. Afterward Mrs. Coatesnash felt eternally grateful.”
“Weren’t you,” Jack said carefully, “in Mather at that time?”
“Yes, of course. I stayed until we gave up hope.”
“Then how does it happen you told Dr. Rand you had seen Darnley only here in Crockford?”
“I lied,” said Annabelle Bayne, without an instant’s hesitation. “I should warn you that I’ll always lie to save myself a little trouble. Of course, I recognized the body, but I owed Hiram Darnley nothing, didn’t even like him. My name is poison in the village anyhow, and it seemed best to just keep quiet.” I decided then that Annabelle was perhaps more clever than her audience. Seemingly she had shown all her cards; in reality she had told us only what we already knew. She had chosen the time and place; No one heard the damaging admission except myself and Jack.
“Suppose,” said Jack, and gave her a level look, “we do drop Mrs. Coatesnash from our present calculations. Must we also drop Franklyn Elliott?”
“Elliott? Oh, you mean Darnley’s partner.” The straight brows drew together. “I hadn’t thought of him at all. Surely you don’t suspect“…”
“What,” said Jack, “is he doing here in Crockford?”
“Here in Crockford!” The brows went up, the full mouth framed an astonished circle. “Is he in Crockford? I understood he was too ill to leave New York.”
Apparently