In Jeopardy
the strickening of his father; and it could not be pleasant for him to
be accepting my hospitality.
Doctor Marcy waited until Thaneford had finished his breakfast; then he
bluntly asked for the holding of an inquest on Francis Graeme's death.
"I formally withdraw the medical certificate," he continued, "on the
ground that new evidence has come to light."
"What new evidence?" inquired John Thaneford, his beetling eyebrows
contracting angrily.
"I'll submit it to your jury," retorted the doctor.
There was no further discussion of the main point. Legally it was for
Thaneford alone to decide upon the necessity for an inquest, and for a
moment or two I thought he looked disinclined to give in. Then,
apparently, he changed his mind. "You don't seem to have much confidence
in your own medical opinions," he said nastily. "But I'm as anxious as
anybody to ferret out the truth behind this business. And possibly we
may get some light upon the making of that remarkable will. I take it
that Mr. Hugh Hildebrand will offer no objection." I made no answer to
the taunt, and Thaneford went to the telephone to call his jurors
together.
It was not until two days later that the members of the jury were
finally assembled at the "Hundred." Two of them were neighboring
farmers; there were also a couple of small business men from Calverton.
The fifth man was a Mr. Chalmers Warriner, a chemist and the head of the
experimental department of the Severn Optical Glass Works; and, greatly
to my surprise, I was ordered by the coroner to take the sixth and last
place in the panel. All of my associates had known Francis Graeme
personally, and it was apparent that the unusual circumstance of the
holding of the inquest after the interment had aroused curiosity and no
small amount of speculation.
By direction of the coroner the body had been exhumed and an autopsy
performed. The expert examination had been made by Dr. Clayton Williams
of the Johns Hopkins Medical School, and he was the first witness
called.
Doctor Williams told the jury that while the wound on the temple might
have been sufficient to cause death still he was not prepared to
pronounce positively upon the point. In answer to a question from
Professor Warriner, Doctor Williams went on to say that the autopsy had
revealed a very peculiar condition of the brain--a lesion of most
unusual character.
"Not necessarily caused by the blow on the temple?" asked Warriner.
"I do not think so," answered the witness.
"Can you assign a cause?"
"I have never seen anything quite like it, Mr. Warriner. In consequence,
I haven't any theory of causation to advance."
"But you must have come to some conclusions," persisted Warriner.
"All I can say is that the degenerative process observed by me resembled
that induced by sunstroke, but on a greatly intensified scale. It is
possible, of course, that Mr. Graeme may have had some obscure brain
disease, and that it had progressed to a critical stage quite
unsuspected by himself, or even by his medical advisers."
"You mean," continued Warriner, "that the deceased may have had a sudden
seizure, resulting in his falling from his chair and striking his head
upon the corner of that iron despatch-box placed in evidence by Doctor
Marcy?"
"It is possible."
"Then it is a perfectly plain case?"
"I'm not so sure about that," returned Doctor Williams. "The brain
lesion may have killed him before he fell; the superficial injury may
have no importance whatever. Or the wound may have been caused by a
weapon in the hands of another person."
"But there is no question of another person," put in John Thaneford.
There was nothing more of a tangible character to be obtained from the
testimony of the medical gentlemen; for Doctor Marcy could only
reiterate his belief that Francis Graeme had appeared to be in perfect
health on that fatal morning. Of course there had been no opportunity
for the usual laboratory tests, but his physical condition could not
have been precarious; that was unthinkable. There were just two factors
in evidence--the internal lesion and the external injury. Which was the
predetermining cause, and which was the final effect? Or was it that
neither fact had any real relation to the death of Francis Graeme? No
one could say, and Doctor Williams was finally permitted to retire. I
fancied that the saturnine countenance of Coroner Thaneford showed a
secret satisfaction in the apparent confusion of testimony.
The customary depositions were taken from the house servants, but they
added little or nothing to our stock of knowledge. Effingham, the
butler, was asked to explain his five minutes' absence from sentry duty
at the library door while Doctor Marcy was engaged in meeting Miss
Graeme. He answered very simply that Miss Eunice Trevor had sent him to
her dressing-room for smelling-salts and a bottle of aromatic spirits of
ammonia. When questioned about the master-key he declared that no one
knew of its hiding place behind the clock in the pantry; he did not
believe that it had been touched until he had taken it himself, shortly
before two o'clock, for the purpose of unlocking the library door.
Finally Doctor Marcy told the jury of the peculiar circumstances
concerning the iron despatch-box. But he could not positively affirm
that the box was not in the room when he first examined the body; he was
obliged to admit that he might have merely overlooked its presence.
John Thaneford turned to the jury. "Is there any use in going on with
the inquiry?" he asked. "I don't believe we can do more than return a
non-committal verdict--dead by the visitation of God, or something like
that."
"Or alternatively, by the act of party or parties unknown," interpolated
Warriner.
"Don't see why you should say that," retorted Thaneford, scowling
darkly.
"Well, Doctor Marcy has pointed out the unexplained disappearance of the
iron despatch-box; I mean between his first and second visit to the
room. I think we ought to make sure that no other person entered the
library in the interim, or had the opportunity and means to do so."
"Just what do you want?" demanded Thaneford truculently.
"Let's have Effingham back again," said Warriner calmly. "I want to ask
some questions that I didn't think of before."
There could be no valid objection to this procedure; and, accordingly,
the coroner directed that the negro butler should be recalled.
While we were waiting Warriner had risen and was walking about the room,
examining its details with profound attention. He was particular in
assuring himself that the main windows could not be opened, and that the
apertures provided by the swinging of the pridellas on their pivots were
impracticable to anyone except a really small boy. When Effingham
reappeared Warriner took the examination into his own hands.
"Now, Effingham," he began, "I want to know everything about this room.
Are there any traps leading to the cellar, any scuttle-panels in the
dome?"
"Nossir. It am tight all roun'--like um bottle. Doan know nuffin' 'bout
traps and scuttles."
"Undoubtedly correct," commented Warriner, looking around at us. "I have
tested the floor pretty thoroughly, and it is solid everywhere. The
same, I think, may be said of the dome and ceiling--not the sign of a
crack or jointure." He turned savagely on Effingham. "Now tell me, you
black scoundrel, where the secret door is?"
Effingham's countenance of shining ebony took on the ashy tinge peculiar
to his race under the emotional stress of fright or duress. "Nebber
heard of 'im," he said quickly, and relapsed into wary silence.
"You know me," continued Warriner, "and what I can put on you if you
don't obey me and answer my questions. Where is it?"
Effingham's knees shook in visible terror. Professor Warriner enjoyed a
wide reputation among the colored folk as a dealer in "cunjers" and
other forbidden arts; was not his physical laboratory the veritable
anteroom to the infernal regions. The old negro, torn between
superstitious fears and his inherited sense of loyalty to the
Hildebrand family, trembled and gasped as he tried to face his terrible
inquisitor. "Whuffer you pick on ole Effingham?" he protested feebly. "I
doan know nuffin 'bout any secret doah."
"Do what the gentleman tells you, Effingham." The voice was quiet and
controlled, and yet there was an undertone of emotional vibration in it;
I turned and saw Miss Trevor, who had entered the room unbidden and
unannounced. I thought that John Thaneford looked both angry and
dismayed, but he did not attempt to exercise his official authority.
"Yessum," returned Effingham with cheerful alacrity. Since one of the
ladies of the family had assumed the responsibility it was not for him
to offer any further objection. He went over to the right side of the
great fireplace and touched a spring in the paneling; a door, just high
and wide enough to accommodate an ordinary sized person, swung open.
"Nothing very romantic about this door," commented Miss Trevor. "It is
merely a short cut to the terrace and gardens, besides being a
convenient means of avoiding uncongenial visitors. But I don't think Mr.
Graeme often used it, and none of the servants, except Effingham, are
even aware of its existence."
We all crowded around the secret entrance. The short passage turned
sharply to the left behind the massive bulk of the chimney breast; we
caught just a glimpse of a second and outer door, strongly built and
banded with stout iron.
Warriner stepped forward and entered the passage, reappearing almost
immediately. "The outside door is unlocked," he said. "But that doesn't
prove anything of itself. Before proceeding further I think it would be
wise to examine the exterior situation."
I happened to catch Miss Trevor's eye, and I could have sworn that a
spark of relief-cum-triumph burned there for the infinitesimal part of a
second. We trooped into the hall and left the house in order to gain the
library terrace.
There was the door, cleverly masked by vines, in a corner of the chimney
stack. Moreover, its wooden surface had been veneered with stucco,
colored and lined to simulate the brick of the chimney; the deception
was quite good enough to pass casual inspection.
"The vines don't count for much," said Warriner. "Easy to push them
aside. But hullo! what's that?"
Plastered squarely on the line of the door opening was the empty cocoon
of a moth. It was perfectly evident that the door could not have been
opened without destroying the fragile structure, and of course it must
have been fixed in position months before to give time for the
transformation of the pupa into the perfect insect. That seemed to
settle the question of either entrance or exit for a period long
antedating the death of Francis Graeme.
"Pretty conclusive testimony," remarked Warriner. "I take it we're all
witness to the fact, and so if no one has any objection----" And then,
before a protest could have been voiced, he coolly picked off the cocoon
and dropped it into his pocket.
When we were reassembled in the library John Thaneford again suggested
that we might proceed to the formality of a verdict; he pointed out that
there was no shred of evidence connecting any definite person with the
tragedy. But once more Warriner was ready with a counter-proposal; he
wanted to examine the two negroes who were working on the south lawn
between those fateful hours of noon and two o'clock on the twenty-first
of June.
"But Doctor Marcy has their positive assurance," urged Thaneford, "that
no stranger was seen about the place that day. Isn't that so, doctor?"
he continued, turning to Marcy.
Doctor Marcy nodded. "Yes, and I've known both men all my life," he
said. "I can vouch for them as being perfectly straight."