Agatha Webb (3 page)

James and John. He must mean the Zabels, yet there were many
others answering to these names in town. Mr. Sutherland made
another effort.

"Philemon, where is your wife? I do not see any place set here for
her!"

"Agatha's sick, Agatha's cross; she don't care for a poor old man
like me."

"Agatha's dead and you know it," thundered back the constable,
with ill-judged severity. "Who killed her? tell me that. Who
killed her?"

A sudden quenching of the last spark of intelligence in the old
man's eye was the dreadful effect of these words. Laughing with
that strange gurgle which proclaims an utterly irresponsible mind,
he cried:

"The pussy cat! It was the pussy cat. Who's killed? I'm not
killed. Let's go to Jericho."

Mr. Sutherland took him by the arm and led him up-stairs. Perhaps
the sight of his dead wife would restore him. But he looked at her
with the same indifference he showed to everything else.

"I don't like her calico dresses," said he. "She might have worn
silk, but she wouldn't. Agatha, will you wear silk to my funeral?"

The experiment was too painful, and they drew him away. But the
constable's curiosity had been roused, and after they had found
some one to take care of him, he drew Mr. Sutherland aside and
said:

"What did the old man mean by saying she might have worn silk? Are
they better off than they seem?" Mr. Sutherland closed the door
before replying.

"They are rich," he declared, to the utter amazement of the other.
"That is, they were; but they may have been robbed; if so,
Philemon was not the wretch who killed her. I have been told that
she kept her money in an old-fashioned cupboard. Do you suppose
they alluded to that one?"

He pointed to a door set in the wall over the fireplace, and Mr.
Fenton, perceiving a key sticking in the lock, stepped quickly
across the floor and opened it. A row of books met his eyes, but
on taking them down a couple of drawers were seen at the back.

"Are they locked?" asked Mr. Sutherland.

"One is and one is not."

"Open the one that is unlocked."

Mr. Fenton did so.

"It is empty," said he.

Mr. Sutherland cast a look toward the dead woman, and again the
perfect serenity of her countenance struck him.

"I do not know whether to regard her as the victim of her
husband's imbecility or of some vile robber's cupidity. Can you
find the key to the other drawer?"

"I will try."

"Suppose you begin, then, by looking on her person. It should be
in her pocket, if no marauder has been here."

"It is not in her pocket."

"Hanging to her neck, then, by a string?"

"No; there is a locket here, but no key. A very handsome locket,
Mr. Sutherland, with a child's lock of golden hair—"

"Never mind, we will see that later; it is the key we want just
now."

"Good heavens!"

"What is it?"

"It is in her hand; the one that lies underneath."

"Ah! A point, Fenton."

"A great point."

"Stand by her, Fenton. Don't let anyone rob her of that key till
the coroner comes, and we are at liberty to take it."

"I will not leave her for an instant."

"Meanwhile, I will put back these books."

He had scarcely done so when a fresh arrival occurred. This time
it was one of the village clergymen.

This gentleman had some information to give. It seems that at an
early hour of this same night he had gone by this house on his way
home from the bedside of a sick parishioner. As he was passing the
gate he was run into by a man who came rushing out of the yard, in
a state of violent agitation. In this man's hand was something
that glittered, and though the encounter nearly upset them both,
he had not stopped to utter an apology, but stumbled away out of
sight with a hasty but infirm step, which showed he was neither
young nor active. The minister had failed to see his face, but
noticed the ends of a long beard blowing over his shoulder as he
hurried away.

Philemon was a clean-shaven man.

Asked if he could give the time of this encounter, he replied that
it was not far from midnight, as he was in his own house by half-
past twelve.

"Did you glance up at these windows in passing?" asked Mr. Fenton.

"I must have; for I now remember they were both lighted."

"Were the shades up?"

"I think not. I would have noticed it if they had been."

"How were the shades when you broke into the house this morning?"
inquired Mr. Sutherland of the constable.

"Just as they are now; we have moved nothing. The shades were both
down—one of them over an open window."

"Well, we may find this encounter of yours with this unknown man a
matter of vital importance, Mr. Crane."

"I wish I had seen his face."

"What do you think the object was you saw glittering in his hand?"

"I should not like to say; I saw it but an instant."

"Could it have been a knife or an old-fashioned dagger?"

"It might have been."

"Alas! poor Agatha! That she, who so despised money, should fall a
victim to man's cupidity! Unhappy life, unhappy death! Fenton, I
shall always mourn for Agatha Webb."

"Yet she seems to have found peace at last," observed the
minister. "I have never seen her look so contented." And leading
Mr. Sutherland aside, he whispered: "What is this you say about
money? Had she, in spite of appearances, any considerable amount?
I ask, because in spite of her humble home and simple manner of
living, she always put more on the plate than any of her
neighbours. Besides which, I have from time to time during my
pastorate received anonymously certain contributions, which, as
they were always for sick or suffering children—"

"Yes, yes; they came from her, I have no doubt of it. She was by
no means poor, though I myself never knew the extent of her means
till lately. Philemon was a good business man once; but they
evidently preferred to live simply, having no children living—"

"They have lost six, I have been told."

"So the Portchester folks say. They probably had no heart for
display or for even the simplest luxuries. At all events, they did
not indulge in them."

"Philemon has long been past indulging in anything."

"Oh, he likes his comfort, and he has had it too. Agatha never
stinted him."

"But why do you think her death was due to her having money?"

"She had a large sum in the house, and there are those in town who
knew this."

"And is it gone?"

"That we shall know later."

As the coroner arrived at this moment, the minister's curiosity
had to wait. Fortunately for his equanimity, no one had the
presumption to ask him to leave the room.

The coroner was a man of but few words, and but little given to
emotion. Yet they were surprised at his first question:

"Who is the young woman standing outside there, the only one in
the yard?"

Mr. Sutherland, moving rapidly to the window, drew aside the
shade.

"It is Miss Page, my housekeeper's niece," he explained. "I do not
understand her interest in this affair. She followed me here from
the house and could hardly be got to leave this room, into which
she intruded herself against my express command."

"But look at her attitude!" It was Mr. Fenton who spoke. "She's
crazier than Philemon, it seems to me."

There was some reason for this remark. Guarded by the high fence
from the gaze of the pushing crowd without, she stood upright and
immovable in the middle of the yard, like one on watch. The hood,
which she had dropped from her head when she thought her eyes and
smile might be of use to her in the furtherance of her plans, had
been drawn over it again, so that she looked more like a statue in
grey than a living, breathing woman. Yet there was menace in her
attitude and a purpose in the solitary stand she took in that
circle of board-girded grass, which caused a thrill in the breasts
of those who looked at her from that chamber of death.

"A mysterious young woman," muttered the minister.

"And one that I neither countenance nor under-stand," interpolated
Mr. Sutherland. "I have just shown my displeasure at her actions
by dismissing her from my house."

The coroner gave him a quick look, seemed about to speak, but
changed his mind and turned toward the dead woman.

"We have a sad duty before us," said he.

The investigations which followed elicited one or two new facts.
First, that all the doors of the house were found unlocked; and,
secondly, that the constable had been among the first to enter, so
that he could vouch that no disarrangement had been made in the
rooms, with the exception of Batsy's removal to the bed.

Then, his attention being drawn to the dead woman, he discovered
the key in her tightly closed hand.

"Where does this key belong?" he asked.

They showed him the drawers in the cupboard.

"One is empty," remarked Mi. Sutherland. "If the other is found to
be in the same condition, then her money has been taken. That key
she holds should open both these drawers."

"Then let it be made use of at once. It is important that we
should know whether theft has been committed here as well as
murder." And drawing the key out, he handed it to Mr. Fenton.

The constable immediately unlocked the drawer and brought it and
its contents to the table.

"No money here," said he.

"But papers as good as money," announced the doctor. "See! here
are deeds and more than one valuable bond. I judge she was a
richer woman than any of us knew."

Mr. Sutherland, meantime, was looking with an air of
disappointment into the now empty drawer.

"Just as I feared," said he. "She has been robbed of her ready
money. It was doubtless in the other drawer."

"How came she by the key, then?"

"That is one of the mysteries of the affair; this murder is by no
means a simple one. I begin to think we shall find it full of
mysteries."

"Batsy's death, for instance?"

"O yes, Batsy! I forgot that she was found dead too."

"Without a wound, doctor."

"She had heart disease. I doctored her for it. The fright has
killed her."

"The look of her face confirms that."

"Let me see! So it does; but we must have an autopsy to prove it."

"I would like to explain before any further measures are taken,
how I came to know that Agatha Webb had money in her house," said
Mr. Sutherland, as they stepped back into the other room. "Two
days ago, as I was sitting with my family at table, old gossip
Judy came in. Had Mrs. Sutherland been living, this old crone
would not have presumed to intrude upon us at mealtime, but as we
have no one now to uphold our dignity, this woman rushed into our
presence panting with news, and told us all in one breath how she
had just come from Mrs. Webb; that Mrs. Webb had money; that she
had seen it, she herself; that, going into the house as usual
without knocking, she had heard Agatha stepping overhead and had
gone up; and finding the door of the sitting-room ajar, had looked
in, and seen Agatha crossing the room with her hands full of
bills; that these bills were big bills, for she heard Agatha cry,
as she locked them up in the cupboard behind the book-shelves, 'A
thousand dollars! That is too much money to have in one's house';
that she, Judy, thought so too, and being frightened at what she
had seen, had crept away as silently as she had entered and run
away to tell the neighbours. Happily, I was the first she found up
that morning, but I have no doubt that, in spite of my express
injunctions, she has since related the news to half the people in
town."

"Was the young woman down yonder present when Judy told this
story?" asked the coroner, pointing towards the yard.

Mr. Sutherland pondered. "Possibly; I do not remember. Frederick
was seated at the table with me, and my housekeeper was pouring
out the coffee, but it was early for Miss Page. She has been
putting on great airs of late."

"Can it be possible he is trying to blind himself to the fact that
his son Frederick wishes to marry this girl?" muttered the
clergyman into the constable's ear.

The constable shook his head. Mr. Sutherland was one of those
debonair men, whose very mildness makes them impenetrable.

The coroner, on leaving the house, was followed by Mr. Sutherland.
As the fine figures of the two men appeared on the doorstep, a
faint cheer was heard from the two or three favoured persons who
were allowed to look through the gate. But to this token of
welcome neither gentleman responded by so much as a look, all
their attention being engrossed by the sight of the solitary
figure of Miss Page, who still held her stand upon the lawn.
Motionless as a statue, but with her eyes fixed upon their faces,
she awaited their approach. When they were near her she thrust one
hand from under her cloak, and pointing to the grass at her feet,
said quietly:

"See this?"

They hastened towards her and bent down to examine the spot she
indicated.

"What do you find there?" cried Mr. Sutherland, whose eyesight was
not good.

"Blood," responded the coroner, plucking up a blade of grass and
surveying it closely.

"Blood," echoed Miss Page, with so suggestive a glance that Mr.
Sutherland stared at her in amazement, not understanding his own
emotion.

"How were you able to discern a stain so nearly imperceptible?"
asked the coroner.

"Imperceptible? It is the only thing I see in the whole yard," she
retorted, and with a slight bow, which was not without its element
of mockery, she turned toward the gate.

"A most unaccountable girl," commented the doctor. "But she is
right about these stains. Abel," he called to the man at the
gate, "bring a box or barrel here and cover up this spot. I don't
want it disturbed by trampling feet."