Another Woman's House (16 page)

“Yes, naturally. I thought you …”

“I didn't realize that,” said Alice sitting back. “I didn't think—I—it's all so horrible to me, you know. Does it mean police, questions, everything all over again? I thought they were only going to try Webb!”

“They'll try Webb for perjury. You'd better rest, Alice. Try not to think of it.”

How strange it was that she could hate Alice and feel sorry for her at the same time. Hate her? But she did not hate her. It was impossible to hate Alice; and Alice was in the right. It always came back to that.

Alice said, “I thought Webb killed him! Nobody was here except Webb! And then Tim …” She broke off to stare at Myra and cried suddenly, “They
can't
suspect Tim! Tim wouldn't hurt anything!” Her face sobered. “Tim … I must see him, Myra. Tell him I must see him. I want him to know that I understand everything. He didn't mean to hurt me; he suffered, poor Tim. No matter how important the curtains were he couldn't help forgetting. Why I—even I, Myra—couldn't have said whether they were open or closed when the shots came. They asked me that night. I didn't know. Why should I? Tell Tim I understand and I want to see him.”

“But Tim didn't …” began Myra and realized that Richard hadn't told Alice of Tim's lie which had so successfully and unexpectedly proved to be the truth. Why not? Because Alice might, unintentionally, tell it?

Alice said curiously, “Tim didn't what?”

“He didn't mean to injure you,” said Myra slowly.

“I know that,” said Alice. “I must tell him …”

Someone knocked, Myra opened the door and Francine, eyes glittering, said, “If you please, Miss Cornelia, says they are waiting, Miss Myra.”

Alice said quickly, “Darling, I've kept you! Go on down to dinner. I shall be quite all right. You might just build up the fire, Francine.”

Myra closed the door behind her.

The present pattern, the immediate path lay directly ahead of her. Some time she'd forget; some time pain would be only a memory of pain.

She went down the stairs. This time she kept herself from touching the newel post. The others were in the dining room, around the table, the candles lighted, the silver and crystal glimmering. Miss Cornelia in her wheel chair sat at the head of the table. Richard was not there. But then he'd already had dinner with Alice.

Miss Cornelia smiled and nodded toward the vacant chair. “We didn't wait.” She turned to Sam, continuing their conversation, frankly, it seemed, before Barton, because he already knew so much. “Are we, do you think, to expect a perfect deluge of notoriety?”

Myra slid into the chair. Tim, silent, was opposite her.

Sam said, “We can't escape a certain amount of it. The police may help us there. Indeed I'm surprised there is not a police guard already here.” He went on to talk of past experiences, nervously, watching the door.

Myra listened, hearing only the words. How swiftly and unerringly Alice had guessed the truth, and then as unerringly had gone about it to prove or disprove her suspicion. “
It is true then,
” she had said.

That perhaps was the really astonishing part of their astonishing talk. Alice's instantaneous efficiency and courage in grappling with the situation in the very moment, practically speaking, of her return. Yet she had always been swift thinking and efficient, and, in spite of her fragile look, very courageous. Even the reporters, writing of the trial, had complimented her composure and dignity—understandable now. She had had the support of her own knowledge of the truth.

They were talking again of the investigation. Sam replied to some question of Aunt Cornelia's and part of his reply caught Myra from her thoughts of Alice. “… the district attorney may have a new angle. A new clue.”

“A new clue? Such as”—Aunt Cornelia faltered but finished—“Richard's gun.”

Sam nodded. “But of course I may be wrong. Perhaps he has no new angle so consequently is fishing for one.”

“Fishing?” inquired Aunt Cornelia sharply.

Sam explained. “Suppose they have no new clues, suppose there is no angle they haven't already covered. So suppose the district attorney says to the Governor, release Alice. Tell everybody there is to be a new investigation. Scare the hell out of them if you can—and see what happens.”

Tim's sleek head jerked up. “A new round?”

“Exactly. Give everybody a new set of chips and see,” said Sam deliberately, “who bets, and how many cards they want and …”

Richard returned. They heard the heavy slam of the door directly across the hall and all turned. He was bareheaded and a topcoat was slung over his shoulders. He walked across to the dining room, gathering them in one quick glance, meeting Myra's eyes, but so swiftly that the fleeting look told her nothing. “Hello, Sam.”

Sam rose and went to meet him. “Hello, Dick. I came straight from the club.”

“I've been to see Webb.”

“Webb Manders!”

“He's coming here. He'll be here in a few minutes.”

A number of things happened all at once. Barton came in with peaches on a silver dish. The front door opened and closed again heavily. Aunt Cornelia's hands clenched hard on the lace cloth, her sapphires glittering. Tim got up and dropped his napkin. Mildred Wilkinson crossed the hall behind Richard and stopped, peering over his shoulder.

Sam said to Richard, “
Why did you do that?
”

Mildred said, fluttering, “I came up the drive just after you, Richard. I didn't ring. …”

Tim said, “If Webb shot him, what did he do with the gun?”

Myra saw every detail and heard every word but in the same moment a question, a frightening and terrible project came into full being in her mind.

Perhaps it had been there for some time unrecognized. Perhaps it had been planted by Sam.

If Sam could make a trap of the gun—could she?

Mildred, peering, fluttering, said, “I hope I'm not intruding. I simply can't wait any longer to see Alice. Have I come at the wrong time?”

Aunt Cornelia unclenched her hands deliberately and looked at Myra. “Please take Mildred to Alice,” she said.

Her look said, “Get this woman out of here.”

B
UT MILDRED LINGERED, LETTING
her coat drop, stooping, fumbling to pick it up, delaying long enough to hear Richard's reply to Sam's question.

“I thought we'd better talk. All of us.”

“You and Webb and Tim …”

“Webb has admitted to so much of the truth; maybe he knows more.”

Sam asked slowly, “Do you think he'll tell it?”

“He might—if you question him, Sam.”

Mildred had the coat up nearly to her shoulders and dropped it again, her face blank with listening. Sam said, “How did you get him to come?”

“Told him facts. Told him we had till morning to pool what we knew. The truth is somewhere, Sam.”

“If Webb killed him he's going to keep a close mouth.”

“But if he didn't we're in the same boat, Webb and I …”

“I'm in there, too,” said Tim. “Only, I don't see how Webb could have killed him, even if he wanted to. I saw his car pass me, I heard him shut off the engine, and then only seconds later the sound of the shots. There simply wasn't time for him to get out of the car, get around the library wing of the house and across the terrace in time for that.”

Aunt Cornelia said suddenly, “Tim, I never asked, I never thought—perhaps they asked you then. But are you sure it
was
Webb in the car?”

Mildred got her coat over one bony, freckled arm. Tim said, “It was Webb's car, and when I got to the terrace Webb was there in the library.”

“But did you see him?”

“Not actually—no. The lights of the car were in my eyes. He said he saw me walking along the driveway.”

There was a short silence. Sam said, “Everything's different now; the whole set-up is different. Well …” he paused again, his dark eyes narrow and thoughtful.

Richard said, “That's not why he's coming though. He's coming because he's scared …”

“Aren't we all,” said Tim.

“… and wants to know what we intend to do.”

Mildred's coat started to slide again and this time Myra caught it and said, “Alice will want to see you. …” She led the way along the hall and up the wide stairway. Mildred followed reluctantly, still, Myra thought, straining her ears toward the murmur of voices from the dining room. It was so strong an impression that she turned and Mildred had actually stopped and was leaning over the banister, her hand on the newel post.

Again Myra's heart gave a sickening lurch. Mildred? But Mildred knew nothing of the gun. Mildred had never in any way entered the case. But, in spite of herself, Myra watched.

Sam had said, a new round, new chips, new bets. He'd said the gun was important. It had been safe during Alice's imprisonment; it had endangered nobody.

It was different now.

Mildred knew that Myra was watching her. She saw recognition of it come into Mildred's face. She saw Mildred turn her head slowly to meet Myra's eyes. She could not read the look in Mildred's eyes, but her hand slowly let go the newel post. She said, “How terribly bewildering it all is! Webb—how could he have killed his brother?”

Her face in the dim light seemed very drawn and white. “Perhaps he didn't.”

“Someone killed him,” said Mildred, and started up the stairway again, her limp green chiffons trailing after her.

All of them said and thought that: someone killed him.

They reached Alice's door and knocked and Alice told them to come in.

“Mildred!” she cried.

She was still in the chaise longue, and already, like a child, looking at her possessions, her jewels. A square leather jewel box stood open on the foot of the chaise longue and odd pieces of jewelry littered the table and Alice's lap. She cried, “Mildred …” and put out her arms, her hands full of jewelry.

Something dropped, a linked bracelet, with a tiny jewel watch. Myra picked it up as the two women embraced, and put it on the table. Alice had always loved jewelry and wore it constantly.

Mildred sat down in the little green slipper chair beside Alice, and slipped off her coat again.

“Alice, how wonderful you look. What was it like? How terrible it must have been! And here you are back in your own beautiful room after that cell …”

“Well, it wasn't exactly a cell, Mildred. It was a—a sort of room, you know. Quite sunny really and very clean …”

“So unexpected! Not that I ever believed you did it. You know that, Alice. How
could
Webb have lied so horribly! Alice …” Mildred bent to pick up another piece of jewelry that had dropped—a small locket, old-fashioned, in black enamel and pearls. Myra murmured something about leaving them and opened the door. Mildred, her voice sharp and avid said, “Alice, what is this? I never saw it before. …”

“What? Oh, that, I've had it ages. …”

“Where did you get it?”

“Why, I suppose Richard gave me so much …”

Even at the moment of their reunion Mildred's curiosity operated. Myra closed the door and walked slowly back toward the stairway.

She must make a decision about the gun. And she must explore—quickly—the path of speculation she had instinctively wished to avoid. Well, then: first it
was
Richard's gun and, above everybody else, Richard was suspect for the murder of Jack Manders. So she could not give the gun to the police or to anybody except Richard himself. It might conceivably clear him, but that was too dangerous a risk to run. It was far more likely to bolster their case against him. His gun, his house, his wife—and the gun had been safely hidden in his house probably all the time since the murder.

But then, she thought, wouldn't he have removed it? Wouldn't the police see that?

It was dangerous, too, to take that risk. Besides, they'd say it
was
safe, so long as Alice was in prison. Or would they say even that he had expected that very fact to operate to prove his innocence and Alice's guilt—in case of the exact shift in circumstances which now confronted them? It was a tortuous line of reasoning; yet ominously clear, too. No, she'd not give it to the police.

And she could not give it to Richard, for suppose—only suppose—Richard had put it there.

It was, of course, the frightening curve in the path, beyond which she would not look and now must look. Well, then: Sam had said suppose Richard came home and found Alice and Jack and saw red. His gun, his wife, his home that he loved. If he had killed Jack, suppose there had been provocation.

Instantly a passion of denial rose against that. He couldn't have killed Jack because he wouldn't have let Alice go to trial for it. Not Richard.

The debate had this time a conclusion; it had to have. Leave the gun where it is; it is unloaded, it is safe; see what happens.

Sam would have done it; it was what he had meant. Why shouldn't she do it, when so much was at stake? Sheer faith and love demand courage; courage, indeed, was better than blind and unreasoning faith. That suddenly seemed clear, like a debt she owed to Richard. She went slowly down the stairs, doubting, nevertheless, her own decision.

Aunt Cornelia was at the foot of the stairs with Barton and Tim preparing to carry her up. She said, as Myra reached her, “I'll stop and speak to Alice. I'll get Mildred out of the house; it's better.” Tim said, “Steady her a minute, Myra. Now then, my lady, here's a chariot.”

She slid again upon their linked hands. This time no one touched or seemed at all aware of the newel post.

Sam and Richard were in the dining room talking. Myra went slowly through the library where Barton had built up the fire, and out upon the terrace.

It was much colder yet below the chill there was still the mysterious earthy promise of spring. Gradually her eyes adjusted themselves to the night. There were a few stars and a scattering of swiftly moving clouds. The balustrade, rimmed below with a thick growth of shrubbery, loomed up solid and black before her. She walked toward it, her slippers making little taps along the chill flagstones.