Agatha Webb (7 page)

There was such unusual feeling in his voice, a feeling that none
had ever suspected him capable of before, that Miss Halliday
regarded him with astonishment and quite forgot to indulge in her
usual banter. Even the gentlemen sat still, and there was a
momentary silence, through which there presently broke the
incongruous sound of a shrill and mocking laugh.

It came from Amabel, who had just finished gathering her bouquet
in the garden outside.

Meanwhile, in a small room at the court-house, a still more
serious conversation was in progress. Dr. Talbot, Mr. Fenton, and
a certain able lawyer in town by the name of Harvey, were in close
discussion. The last had broken the silence of years, and was
telling what he knew of Mrs. Webb's affairs.

He was a shrewd man, of unblemished reputation. When called upon
to talk, he talked well, but he much preferred listening, and was,
as now appeared, the safest repository of secrets to be found in
all that region. He had been married three times, and could still
count thirteen children around his board, one reason, perhaps, why
he had learned to cultivate silence to such a degree. Happily, the
time had come for him to talk, and he talked. This is what he
said:

"Some fifteen years ago Philemon Webb came to me with a small sum
of money, which he said he wished to have me invest for his wife.
It was the fruit of a small speculation of his and he wanted it
given unconditionally to her without her knowledge or that of the
neighbours. I accordingly made out a deed of gift, which he signed
with joyful alacrity, and then after due thought and careful
investigation, I put the money into a new enterprise then being
started in Boston. It was the best stroke of business I ever did
in my life. At the end of a year it paid double, and after five
had rolled away the accumulated interest had reached such a sum
that both Philemon and myself thought it wisest to let her know
what she was worth and what was being done with the money. I was
in hopes it would lead her to make some change in her mode of
living, which seemed to me out of keeping with her appearance and
mental qualifications; while he, I imagine, looked for something
more important still—a smile on the face which had somehow lost
the trick of merriment, though it had never acquired that of ill
nature. But we did not know Agatha; at least I did not. When she
learned that she was rich, she looked at first awestruck and then
heart-pierced. Forgetting me, or ignoring me, it makes no matter
which, she threw herself into Philemon's arms and wept, while he,
poor faithful fellow, looked as distressed as if he had brought
news of failure instead of triumphant success. I suppose she
thought of her buried children, and what the money would have been
to her if they had lived; but she did not speak of them, nor am I
quite sure they were in her thoughts when, after the first
excitement was over, she drew back and said quietly, but in a tone
of strong feeling, to Philemon: 'You meant me a happy surprise,
and you must not be disappointed. This is heart money; we will use
it to make our townsfolk happy.' I saw him glance at her dress,
which was a purple calico. I remember it because of that look and
because of the sad smile with which she followed his glance. 'Can
we not afford now,' he ventured, 'a little show of luxury, or at
least a ribbon or so for this beautiful throat of yours?' She did
not answer him; but her look had a rare compassion in it, a
compassion, strange to say, that seemed to be expended upon him
rather than upon herself. Philemon swallowed his disappointment.
'Agatha is right,' he said to me. 'We do not need luxury. I do not
know how I so far forgot myself as to mention it.' That was ten
years ago, and every day since then her property has increased. I
did not know then, and I do not know now, why they were both so
anxious that all knowledge of their good fortune should be kept
from those about them; but that it was to be &o kept was made very
evident to me; and, notwithstanding all temptations to the
contrary, I have refrained from uttering a word likely to give
away their secret. The money, which to all appearance was the
cause of her tragic and untimely death, was interest money which I
was delegated to deliver her. I took it to her day before
yesterday, and it was all in crisp new notes, some of them
twenties, but most of them tens and fives. I am free to say there
was not such another roll of fresh money in town."

"Warn all shopkeepers to keep a sharp lookout for new bills in the
money they receive," was Dr. Talbot's comment to the constable.
"Fresh ten-and twenty-dollar bills are none too common in this
town. And now about her will. Did you draw that up, Harvey?"

"No. I did not know she had made one. I often spoke to her about
the advisability of her doing so, but she always put me off. And
now it seems that she had it drawn up in Boston. Could not trust
her old friend with too many secrets, I suppose."

"So you don't know how her money has been left?"

"No more than you do."

Here an interruption occurred. The door opened and a slim young
man, wearing spectacles, came in. At sight of him they all rose.

"Well?" eagerly inquired Dr. Talbot.

"Nothing new," answered the young man, with a consequential air.
"The elder woman died from loss of blood consequent upon a blow
given by a small, three-sided, slender blade; the younger from a
stroke of apoplexy, induced by fright."

"Good! I am glad to hear my instincts were not at fault. Loss of
blood, eh? Death, then, was not instantaneous?"

"No."

"Strange!" fell from the lips of his two listeners. "She lived,
yet gave no alarm."

"None that was heard," suggested the young doctor, who was from
another town.

"Or, if heard, reached no ears but Philemon's," observed the
constable. "Something must have taken him upstairs."

"I am not so sure," said the coroner, "that Philemon is not
answerable for the whole crime, notwithstanding our failure to
find the missing money anywhere in the house. How else account for
the resignation with which she evidently met her death? Had a
stranger struck her, Agatha Webb would have struggled. There is no
sign of struggle in the room."

"She would have struggled against Philemon had she had strength to
struggle. I think she was asleep when she was struck."

"Ah! And was not standing by the table? How about the blood there,
then?"

"Shaken from the murderer's fingers in fright or disgust."

"There was no blood on Philemon's fingers."

"No; he wiped them on his sleeve."

"If he was the one to use the dagger against her, where is the
dagger? Should we not be able to find it somewhere about the
premises?"

"He may have buried it outside. Crazy men are super naturally
cunning."

"When you can produce it from any place inside that board fence, I
will consider your theory. At present I limit my suspicions of
Philemon to the half-unconscious attentions which a man of
disordered intellect might give a wife bleeding and dying under
his eyes. My idea on the subject is—"

"Would you be so kind as not to give utterance to your ideas until
I have been able to form some for myself?" interrupted a voice
from the doorway.

As this voice was unexpected, they all turned. A small man with
sleek dark hair and expressionless features stood before them.
Behind him was Abel, carrying a hand-bag and umbrella.

"The detective from Boston," announced the latter. Coroner Talbot
rose.

"You are in good time," he remarked. "We have work of no ordinary
nature for you."

The man failed to look interested. But then his countenance was
not one to show emotion.

"My name is Knapp," said he. "I have had my supper, and am ready
to go to work. I have read the newspapers; all I want now is any
additional facts that have come to light since the telegraphic
dispatches were sent to Boston. Facts, mind you; not theories. I
never allow myself to be hampered by other persons' theories."

Not liking his manner, which was brusque and too self-important
for a man of such insignificant appearance, Coroner Talbot
referred him to Mr. Fenton, who immediately proceeded to give him
the result of such investigations as he and his men had been able
to make; which done, Mr. Knapp put on his hat and turned toward
the door.

"I will go to the house and see for myself what is to be learned
there," said he. "May I ask the privilege of going alone?" he
added, as Mr. Fenton moved. "Abel will see that I am given
admittance."

"Show me your credentials," said the coroner. He did so. "They
seem all right, and you should be a man who understands his
business. Go alone, if you prefer, but bring your conclusions
here. They may need some correcting."

"Oh, I will return," Knapp nonchalantly remarked, and went out,
having made anything but a favourable impression upon the
assembled gentlemen.

"I wish we had shown more grit and tried to handle this thing
ourselves," observed Mr. Fenton. "I cannot bear to think of that
cold, bloodless creature hovering over our beloved Agatha."

"I wonder at Carson. Why should he send us such a man? Could he
not see the matter demanded extraordinary skill and judgment?"

"Oh, this fellow may have skill. But he is so unpleasant. I hate
to deal with folks of such fish-like characteristics. But who is
this?" he asked as a gentle tap was heard at the door. "Why, it's
Loton. What can he want here?"

The man whose presence in the doorway had called out this
exclamation started at the sound of the doctor's heavy voice, and
came very hesitatingly forward. He was of a weak, irritable type,
and seemed to be in a state of great excitement.

"I beg pardon," said he, "for showing myself. I don't like to
intrude into such company, but I have something to tell you which
may be of use, sirs, though it isn't any great thing, either."

"Something about the murder which has taken place?" asked the
coroner, in a milder tone. He knew Loton well, and realised the
advisability of encouragement in his case.

"The murder! Oh, I wouldn't presume to say anything about the
murder. I'm not the man to stir up any such subject as that. It's
about the money—or some money—more money than usually falls into
my till. It—it was rather queer, sirs, and I have felt the
flutter of it all day. Shall I tell you about it? It happened last
night, late last night, sirs, so late that I was in bed with my
wife, and had been snoring, she said, four hours."

"What money? New money? Crisp, fresh bills, Loton?" eagerly
questioned Mr. Fenton.

Loton, who was the keeper of a small confectionery and bakery
store on one of the side streets leading up the hill, shifted
uneasily between his two interrogators, and finally addressed
himself to the coroner:

"It was new money. I thought it felt so at night, but I was sure
of it in the morning. A brand-new bill, sir, a—But that isn't
the queerest thing about it. I was asleep, sir, sound asleep, and
dreaming of my courting days (for I asked Sally at the circus,
sirs, and the band playing on the hill made me think of it), when
I was suddenly shook awake by Sally herself, who says she hadn't
slept a wink for listening to the music and wishing she was a girl
again. 'There's a man at the shop door,' cries she. 'He's a-
calling of you; go and see what he wants.' I was mad at being
wakened. Dreaming is pleasant, specially when clowns and kissing
get mixed up in it, but duty is duty, and so into the shop I
stumbled, swearing a bit perhaps, for I hadn't stopped for a light
and it was as dark as double shutters could make it. The hammering
had become deafening. No let up till I reached the door, when it
suddenly ceased.

"'What is it?' I cried. 'Who's there and what do you want?'

"A trembling voice answered me. 'Let me in,' it said. 'I want to
buy something to eat. For God's sake, open the door!'

"I don't know why I obeyed, for it was late, and I did not know
the voice, but something in the impatient rattling of the door
which accompanied the words affected me in spite of myself, and I
slowly opened my shop to this midnight customer.

"'You must be hungry,' I began. But the person who had crowded in
as soon as the opening was large enough wouldn't let me finish.

"'Bread! I want bread, or crackers, or anything that you can find
easiest,' he gasped, like a man who had been running. 'Here's
money'; and he poked into my hand a bill so stiff that it rattled.
'It's more than enough,' he hastened to say, as I hesitated over
it, 'but never mind that; I'll come for the change in the
morning.'

"'Who are you? I cried. 'You are not Blind Willy, I'm sure.'

"But his only answer was 'Bread!' while he leaned so hard against
the counter I felt it shake.

"I could not stand that cry of 'Bread!' so I groped about in the
dark, and found him a stale loaf, which I put into his arms, with
a short, 'There! Now tell me what your name is.'

"But at this he seemed to shrink into himself; and muttering
something that might pass for thanks, he stumbled towards the door
and rushed hastily out. Running after him, I listened eagerly to
his steps. They went up the hill."

"And the money? What about the money?" asked the coroner. "Didn't
he come back for the change?"

"No. I put it in the till, thinking it was a dollar bill. But when
I came to look at it in the morning, it was a twenty; yes, sirs, a
twenty!"

This was startling. The coroner and the constable looked at each
other before looking again at him.

"And where is that bill now?" asked the former. "Have you brought
it with you?"

"I have, sir. It's been in and out of the till twenty times to-
day. I haven't known what to do with it. I don't like to think
wrong of anybody, but when I heard that Mrs. Webb (God bless her!)
was murdered last night for money, I couldn't rest for the weight
of this thing on my conscience. Here's the bill, sir. I wish I had
let the old man rap on my door till morning before I had taken it
from him."