The Craig Kennedy Scientific Detective MEGAPACK ®. Brander Matthews
her gums, where they joined the teeth, a peculiar bluish-black line.
Kennedy had been careful to address only Mrs. Pearcy at first, and as he continued questioning her, she seemed to realize that he was trying to lead her along.
“I must positively refuse to talk any more,” she repeated finally, rising. “I am not to be tricked into saying anything.”
She had left the room, evidently expecting that Isabel would follow. She did not. In fact I felt that Miss Pearcy was visibly relieved by the departure of her stepmother. She seemed anxious to ask us something and now took the first opportunity.
“Tell me,” she said eagerly, “how did Mr. Minturn die? What do they really think of it in New York?”
“They think it is poisoning,” replied Craig, noting the look on her face.
She betrayed nothing, as far as I could see, except a natural neighborly interest. “Poisoning?” she repeated. “By what?”
“Lead poisoning,” he replied evasively.
She said nothing. It was evident that, slip of a girl though she was, she was quite the match of anyone who attempted leading questions. Kennedy changed his method.
“You will pardon me,” he said apologetically, “for recalling what must be distressing. But we newspapermen often have to do things and ask questions that are distasteful. I believe it is rumored that your father suffered from lead poisoning?”
“Oh, I don’t know what it was—none of us do,” she cried, almost pathetically. “I had been living at the settlement until lately. When father grew worse, I came home. He had such strange visions—hallucinations, I suppose you would call them. In the daytime he would be so very morose and melancholy. Then, too, there were terrible pains in his stomach, and his eyesight began to fail. Yes, I believe that Dr. Gunther did say it was lead poisoning. But—they have said so many things—so many things,” she repeated, plainly distressed at the subject of her recent bereavement.
“Your brother is not at home?” asked Kennedy, quickly changing the subject.
“No,” she answered, then with a flash as though lifting the veil of a confidence, added: “You know, neither Warner nor I have lived here much this year. He has been in New York most of the time and I have been at the settlement, as I already told you.”
She hesitated, as if wondering whether she should say more, then added quickly: “It has been repeated often enough; there is no reason why I shouldn’t say it to you. Neither of us exactly approved of father’s marriage.”
She checked herself and glanced about, somewhat with the air of one who has suddenly considered the possibility of being overheard.
“May I have a glass of water?” asked Kennedy suddenly.
“Why, certainly,” she answered, going to the door, apparently eager for an excuse to find out whether there was some one on the other side of it.
There was not, nor any indication that there had been.
“Evidently she does not have any suspicions of that,” remarked Kennedy in an undertone, half to himself.
I had no chance to question him, for she returned almost immediately. Instead of drinking the water, however, he held it carefully up to the light. It was slightly turbid.
“You drink the water from the tap?” he asked, as he poured some of it into a sterilized vial which he drew quickly from his vest pocket.
“Certainly,” she replied, for the moment nonplussed at his strange actions. “Everybody drinks the town water in Stratfield.”
A few more questions, none of which were of importance, and Kennedy and I excused ourselves.
At the gate, instead of turning toward the town, however, Kennedy went on and entered the grounds of the Minturn house next door. The lawyer, I had understood, was a widower and, though he lived in Stratfield only part of the time, still maintained his house there.
We rang the bell and a middle-aged housekeeper answered.
“I am from the water company,” he began politely. “We are testing the water, perhaps will supply consumers with filters. Can you let me have a sample?”
She did not demur, but invited us in. As she drew the water, Craig watched her hands closely. She seemed to have difficulty in holding the glass, and as she handed it to him, I noticed a peculiar hanging down of the wrist. Kennedy poured the sample into a second vial, and I noticed that it was turbid, too. With no mention of the tragedy to her employer, he excused himself, and we walked slowly back to the road.
Between the two houses Kennedy paused, and for several moments appeared to be studying them.
We walked slowly back along the road to the town. As we passed the local drug store, Kennedy turned and sauntered in.
He found it easy enough to get into conversation with the druggist, after making a small purchase, and in the course of a few minutes we found ourselves gossiping behind the partition that shut off the arcana of the prescription counter from the rest of the store.
Gradually Kennedy led the conversation around to the point which he wanted, and asked, “I wish you’d let me fix up a little sulphureted hydrogen.”
“Go ahead,” granted the druggist good-naturedly. “I guess you can do it. You know as much about drugs as I do. I can stand the smell, if you can.”
Kennedy smiled and set to work.
Slowly he passed the gas through the samples of water he had taken from the two houses. As he did so the gas, bubbling through, made a blackish precipitate.
“What is it?” asked the druggist curiously.
“Lead sulphide,” replied Kennedy, stroking his chin. “This is an extremely delicate test. Why, one can get a distinct brownish tinge if lead is present in even incredibly minute quantities.”
He continued to work over the vials ranged on the table before him.
“The water contains, I should say, from ten to fifteen hundredths of a grain of lead to the gallon,” he remarked finally.
“Where did it come from?” asked the druggist, unable longer to restrain his curiosity.
“I got it up at Pearcy’s,” Kennedy replied frankly, turning to observe whether the druggist might betray any knowledge of it.
“That’s strange,” he replied in genuine surprise. “Our water in Stratfield is supplied by a company to a large area, and it has always seemed to me to be of great organic purity.”
“But the pipes are of lead, are they not?” asked Kennedy.
“Y-yes,” answered the druggist, “I think in most places the service pipes are of lead. But,” he added earnestly as he saw the implication of his admission, “water has never to my knowledge been found to attack the pipes so as to affect its quality injuriously.”
He turned his own faucet and drew a glassful. “It is normally quite clear,” he added, holding the glass up.
It was in fact perfectly clear, and when he passed some of the gas through it nothing happened at all.
Just then a man lounged into the store.
“Hello, Doctor,” greeted the druggist. “Here are a couple of fellows that have been investigating the water up at Pearcy’s. They’ve found lead in it. That ought to interest you. This is Dr. Gunther,” he introduced, turning to us.
It was an unexpected encounter, one I imagine that Kennedy might have preferred to take place under other circumstances. But he was equal to the occasion.
“We’ve been sent up here to look into the case for the New York Star,” Kennedy said quickly. “I intended to come around to see you, but you have saved me the trouble.”
Dr. Gunther looked