The Step In The House

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 468, 25 September 1928, Page 5

The Step In The House

4. By

Rina Ramsay.

CHAPTER VI. 'Yes,” said Johnny. “You left me out entirely—the way you rushed off with her in the motor I signalled for. You certainly were the hero on that occasion—l say, how did she feel after that scene at the churchyard? I called in to ask, but old Mrs. Beamish said she was resting and shut up her mouth like an oyster. She knows now, I suppose, about the verdict —?” “Yes,” she knows,” said the doctor. “Ah,” said Johnny. “Perhaps she’ll bolt.” He pondered a little, keeping alongside. “Well,” he said. “1 shall know in the morning. I’ve asked for an appointment to go into business matters. Lord, Richardson, you're no Idea how wealthy the old chap was, and she’s got it all, every penny. Unless, of course, they bring the thing home to her! I say, what a match she would be "for any man who had the pluck—yet no man in his'senpes would risk it, would he? It’s all very well to marry for money—but think what they’d say of him! I’m not too scrupulous myself, but I couldn’t stomach it. Good Heavens, no, not that! He gave the doctor a sidelong glance. Richardson hardly knew how he got rid of him.

Like a drenching of eold water, the lawyer’s last words had dropped on one wild thought that had been taking possession of him. He had been thinking of her as friendless, helpless, a forlorn thing to be defended. He had actually had a rash thought in his head of going to her and telling her that he loved her and wanted nothing in the whole world so much as to show these fools that he was proud to be her husband. He forgot that sordid side of it; that accursed money. No, he could not do that now. He did not care for the despicable construction that public opinion might put upon what he did. But if she were to look at him with contempt in her blue eyes, with a dreadful fancy that he was trying to secure in one way what he had lost in another, and to that end putting up with whatever obloquy was her portion—he could not bear it. It might be cowardly of him, but it was something he could not face. There is nobody so proud as a lover. He could not. . . he could not. Perhaps he did not yet love her quite enough. * Two days later he took her out with him on his round, to the scandal of the town. She had been closeted most of that time with Johnny Adams, going through the papers with which old Dodds’s cupboards w-ere stuffed, attending to the formalities that had to be carried through in spite of the cloud of suspicion that hung about

her. And there was very little air in the house, that house of narrow windows, shut In in an old-fashioned street. So he asked her if she would come out with him. She shrank a moment.

“On my country round,” he said, “you will see nobody but my village patients. Nobody shall stare at you. You will be miles away from all this, with the winds blowing round you.” She submitted, wrapped herself up in a cloak, and came. It was one of those autumn mornings when a haze is drawn up slowly by the sun, and the lanes are touched with gold. Flowers were nearly over, but the leaves were a treasure house. And blackberries . . she had never gathered blackberries in her life. “I don’t know England,” she said to him rather sadly. Well, he would teach her that England was not only a place of hard suspicions, hostile faces. He would give her at least one day of country fancies and homeliness, and the clean breath of cornfields. There was the whirr of partridges in the stubble, here the car was held up by a flock of sheep. And the drovers knew him. They touched their hats with a grin. “It’ll bring you luck, doctor,” said one, and looked respectfully but with enormous interest at the lady. There had never been one in his car before. He got her lunch at a village inn, and the landlady made her welcome, gave her cowslip wine to drink, and told her how to make it. At the other side of the passage, in the countrified bar, two or three men were drinking beer.

"Oh,” she said suddenly, “I am enjoying myself so much. And thank you. You have been wonderfully good to me.” “I shall go on being good to you if you will let me,” he said as lightly as he could. “I don’t know if I ought to. It must do you harm with—with other* people, if you are too kind,” she said. “Oh, I didn’t look, but they were watching me come out of the house—all sorts of people. They turned their heads in the street. I won’t think of it —I won’t think of it —I’ll just be happy for one afternoon.” He took her back in a different mood. She had shaken off the strain that was telling on her. There was something like defiance in the way she flung back her head and walked from his car to the door. What a brave little thing she was! Going without a falter into the dead man’s house. When he got back to his own place he found a stranger waiting to see him. He looked at the man’s card, and started. His name was quite harmless, Mr. James Smith, but there was something else on the card. Of, course, there was bound to be an investigation. He was not fool enough to imagine they would let the matter rest, or that the local police would be left to puzzle the matter out by themselves. He went quickly to his study. “I am glad to see you,” he said. “If I can do anything to help you to clear up this awful business I shall be thankful. You are a detective, I suppose?” The other man smiled.

“I’m afraid so. I shall have to ask you a few things, doctor. We want to work quietly, you understand. We are not going about making arrests at

random to satisfy the popular idea. All I want to-night is a confidential talk with you. I have looked over the house, of course. The local police did their part. Put their hoof-marks pretty thoroughly all over the house, including the window ledges. And then, naturally, having destroyed every possibility open to them, they send for us. I have the notes of your evidence at the inquest, doctor, and the statement you made to the local police. Now, tell me ■” He paused. “You heard someone walking on the landing a few minutes before the discovery was made that your patient had been smothered?” “X didn’t say so,” said Richardson. “I was not certain.” “No, and in your statement you confined yourself to positive facts, I see. But you did imagine you heard —a noise?” “Scarcely a noise. There was something,” said the doctor. “Might have been a cat?” “Why do you say that?” said Richardson, surprised. “We like to exhaust every possible explanation,” said the other man quietly, and then, with a peculiar smile, “I suggested it to Mr. Adams, from whom I had this piece of information, but he was positive it was no cat you heard.” “How could he know?” said Richardson. “Yes, exactly, but you would know, doctor. Please tell me what you thought.” “Well, it certainly was not like a

cat,” said Richardson. “A cat would make no noise walking on a carpet. It doesn’t tread heavily like a dog. It was like a soft step.” “Light?” “No, not so much light as rapid — hurried.” ~ . . “You heard nothing on the stairs no step at all descending?” “Well, Adams was crackling his papers, and he got up just then and pushed back his chair,” said the doctor. “I might have missed it,. of course, but I did not hear anything more.” , . “And the windows above were shut —the bathroom window?”

“Yes.” “Fastened?” ‘“No, the catch was broken. “I see. You mean it could not have been fastened, because it was already broken. You don’t mean it was found so far the first time then?” “No,” said the doctor, “I inquired about that. It had been so for some time.” . “Thank you,” said Mr. Smith. “That’s just whet I could not get out of that old servant. She couldn’t remember, would not remember. She smelt me out immediately, and became like a hedgehog, all her prickles out. These old countrywomen are so pig-headed. I couldn’t touch her, and the old man was deaf.” “Deaf—Sam?” said the doctor involuntarily. The detective smiled. “Oh, she said to me before him, ‘My poor old man is as deaf as a post, sir, and so of course he was. Silly old fool. Impossible to make her see she would do a lot more good to her mistress by being open. I believe she thinks the girl did it and was properly justified.’' “You don’t?” said Richardson ab-

ruptly. He felt that the other man was noting his eagerness, but he did not care. He watched his face. “I would not say that,” said the detective stoutly. “I will be frank with you, doctor, because you have been square with me. It’s rather good to come across anyone who does not consciously or unconsciously treat the facts in his possession to suit himself. You have your opinion—you hold it thoroughly. But you are hon est enough to give me, without twisting them in any way, the very details that tell most against your own belief.” ■ “How do you know that?” said Richardson, startled. “Well,” said Mr. Smith quietly, “you have given me some very clear information about that furtive step.” “Furtive, yes—that is just the word —that exactly describes my impression,” said the doctor involuntarily. “I thought so,” said Mr. Smith. “You are a straight man, doctor. You feel Miss de Stair had nothing to do with the murder —I can see that —and yet you must know that the only real bit of evidence against her is what you have said just now.” There was half a minute’s silence. The two men looked at each other. “Perhaps,” said the doctor at last. “My faith in her is so—unshakeable, that I can imagine no circumstance that could possibly come to light without in some way working toward her vindication from —from the horror.”

“Good,” said the detective. “Look here, doctor, we’re not as a rule impressed by the prejudice of the herd. I gather there’s a lot of feeling in the place against her. But she’s a complete stranger to all of them. They know nothing about her except

that a few days before this catastrophe she arrived in their village—l beg their pardon, the town —and was acknowledged by the old man as his niece. Local feeling, where there is real knowledge of the individual is a guide. In this instance it is no use to us. She is not one of themselves." “Have you seen her?” said Richardson. “No,” said Mr. Smith. “When I called there she was out in the country with you. I was obliged to you, doctor. It was convenient.” “But you will want to see her, I suppose?” said Richardson reluctantly. He loathed the idea of her having to undergo this man’s dispassionate scrutiny. It offended him, filled him with an unreasonable auger. (To be continued)