Leave Her to Heaven (31 page)

H
ARLAND had instructed Mrs. Huston to arrange during had instructed Mrs. Huston to arrange during their absence that all Ruth's more personal possessions should be brought from her apartment to the Chestnut Street house; and when now he carried their bags upstairs, the old woman came to show proudly how she had disposed Ruth's garments in bureau drawers and closets, and Ruth approved all she had done, and after Mrs. Huston had gone to set their dinner on, Ruth gave Harland a happy hug and a kiss.

‘She worships you, doesn't she?' she said. ‘I'll have to be good to you, or she'll scratch my eyes out.'

He chuckled. ‘If she tries to discipline you, you just get sick,' he advised. ‘No matter what you do to me, she'll forgive you if you're sick enough.'

They made a merry hour of their first dinner at home together, and Harland fought out of his mind the frightening wonder why Quinton was here, refusing to remember Danny's death and what the State Attorney's coming might foreshadow. But almost at once after they went into the living room the doorbell rang. Mrs. Huston was busy in the kitchen, so Harland himself, saying impatiently, ‘Drat it, that must be Quinton,' went to answer.

When he opened the door he saw that Quinton was not alone. A man and a woman stood beside and behind him. Quinton stepped briskly into the hall, and the others pressed on his heels, so that Harland felt himself crowded back. Quinton said, with importance in his tone: ‘Good evening, Mr. Harland. This is Deputy Sheriff Hatch, and my secretary, Mrs. Parkins.'

Harland, feeling a cold touch on his spine, took the deputy's soft hand, bowed to Mrs. Parkins. Ruth came to greet them, acknowledging Quinton's introductions, bidding them into the living room. She seemed to find nothing unusual in this visitation; but Harland knew she must be as disturbed as he, and he crossed to stand by her side at the hearth, watching Quinton and these others with a wary eye. Deputy Hatch, a large fat man who, it was clear, habitually ate too much, sat down on the couch, turning his hat over and over on his knees, looking all around, obviously impressed. by his surroundings. Mrs. Parkins, a grim young woman with a tight mouth, watched to see what Quinton would do; and when he chose a straight chair at one end of the table she drew up another and seated herself beside him, stripped off her gloves, took from her handbag a stenographer's notebook and a pen, and sat waiting expectantly.

Their movements were ominous, but Ruth said in a pleasant tone: ‘You're our first callers. We only just got home.'

Harland tried to laugh. ‘You were practically sitting on the doorstep.'

Quinton cleared his throat. ‘We're here on business,' he said impressively. ‘I want to ask you some questions. Your lawyer would advise you not to answer. I warn you that Mrs. Parkins here will take down whatever you say and it may be used in evidence against you.'

Harland, sure now that Quinton had somehow stumbled on the truth about Danny's death, saw Mrs. Parkins's pen begin to race across the first page of her notebook. His palms were moist and he felt a damp coolness on his brow, and his voice when he tried to speak caught in his throat. He asked hoarsely, pretending an uncertainty he did not feel:

‘What the Hell are you talking about?'

‘I'm not answering questions,' Quinton told him. ‘I'm asking them. Mind you, you can refuse to answer; but your refusal will be noted.'

Ruth, beside Harland near the hearth, said seriously: ‘Aren't you being unnecessarily mysterious? What is it? We'll gladly
answer any questions you care to ask, I'm sure.' Harland remembered that she — since she did not know Ellen's part in Danny's drowning — had nothing to hide; but guilt lay heavy on his shoulders, and he tried to guess how much Quinton knew — and how he had discovered it. Certainly not from Leick, who though he had seen the truth from the beginning would never speak. Yet Quinton must know, or at least suspect. There was no other possible explanation for his coming tonight.

Harland was so sure of this that the other's first word came as relief and reassurance, for it did not concern Danny at all. ‘I want to ask you, Mrs. Harland,' the State Attorney explained, ‘about that picnic the day your sister died.'

Ruth echoed in bewilderment: ‘About the picnic?' Harland was as surprised as she; and he was for the moment so grateful to find Danny's death was not in question that his thoughts failed to focus.

‘Yes,' said Quinton. ‘Guess you haven't forgotten it.' There was something so derisive in his tone that Harland, his fears now banished, spoke in quick anger.

‘What's the idea?' he demanded.

Quinton told him, as one silences an obstreperous child: ‘Now, now, Mr. Harland! We'll get along faster if you speak when you're spoken to. I want Mrs. Harland to do the talking. '

Ruth touched Harland's arm to quiet him. ‘What is it you want to know?' she asked Quinton.

‘Well, let's start at the beginning,' he proposed. ‘Whose idea was that picnic, anyway?'

‘Why, I don't remember,' Ruth confessed. She looked at Harland. ‘Mr. Harland's, I think. He wanted to see Leick, and we decided to take our lunch over to Leick's farm, that's all.'

‘Did your sister like the idea?'

‘Yes, of course.'

In the brief silences after Ruth's every answer, Mrs. Parkins's pen made a slight scratching sound; and Harland, frowning in a
strained attention, could hear the deputy's heavy breathing, as though the fat man were on the verge of a snore.

‘What did you take to eat?'

Ruth hesitated. ‘I'm not sure. Potato salad, or possibly potato chips, and some bread and butter sandwiches, and I think some of Mrs. Freeman's chocolate doughnuts, and thermos bottles full of coffee. I don't remember anything else. Oh, we had ice cream, too.'

‘Lobsters?'

‘Leick was to have some ready for us.'

Deputy Hatch made an audible digestive sound, his eyes opening wide; and Quinton looked sharply toward him and he mumbled something apologetic.

‘Who put up the lunch?' Quinton asked.

‘Mrs. Freeman and I.'

‘How'd you carry it?'

‘In one of those fitted hampers,' Ruth said, and then, remembering: ‘It was the one you once gave Ellen, Mr. Quinton.' She added: ‘And we took lemons, and mustard, and Worcestershire sauce, and salt and pepper. I always make a tamale sauce for lobsters, and I did that day.'

‘Take along sugar and cream for the coffee?'

‘None of us used cream. I took some sugar for Ellen.'

‘She'd lost the sugar canister out of that hamper, the time we used it.'

Ruth nodded. ‘Yes. I put some in an envelope.'

‘She was the only one put sugar in their coffee?'

‘Yes.'

Harland watched and listened, his eyes swinging with each question and answer from Quinton to Ruth and back again, as a spectator at a tennis match watches the ball dart to and fro.

‘She used the sugar out of that envelope you put it in?'

‘Yes.'

‘After you'd eaten lunch, what did you do?'

‘Ellen and I went up the bank and lay on the grass. Mr. Harland and Leick stayed by the fire.'

‘How long was it after lunch till Ellen took sick?'

Ruth's eyes closed for a moment. ‘Quite late in the afternoon,' she said then.

‘Where was she?'

‘Up on the bank with me.'

‘What'd you do?' The questions were coming sharply now.

‘Why, Mr. Harland and Leick tried to carry her to the house, sitting on their hands; but she was so sick she couldn't sit up, and Leick went to get a door to carry her on, like a stretcher. Then Mr. Harland and I put her to bed while Leick went for the doctor.'

‘What time did she die?'

‘Toward morning.'

‘You were with her right along?'

‘Yes.'

Harland, remembering those hours of Ellen's agony and his, for a little ceased to listen. Quinton had asked some question about Ellen's earlier, similar attacks, and Ruth answered him at length, while Harland lived through again that night of Ellen's suffering and death.

‘When did you decide Dr. Seyffert wasn't doing her any good?' Quinton asked at last.

‘I don't know. It was late, long after she was taken sick.'

‘Did you try to get another doctor?'

‘It would have taken hours. I didn't know who to get, nearer than Bangor. Our doctor at Bar Harbor had gone home, gone back to New York.'

Quinton harshly repeated his question. ‘Did you try to get another doctor?'

‘No.' Ruth's color rose at his tone.

Quinton looked at Harland. ‘Did you?' he challenged.

Harland shook his head. ‘Damn it, I was distracted!' he cried. ‘We all were. We knew Ellen was dying. What's this all about, anyway?'

‘You knew she was dying,' Quinton said implacably, ‘and you let her die.'

‘What's back of all this?' Harland insisted. ‘Come out with it, man!'

Quinton said flatly: ‘Keep your shirt on, Mr. Harland.' He turned to Ruth again. ‘Your father used to kill birds and stuff them.'

‘Of course.'

‘Had a workshop at Bar Harbor, didn't he?'

‘Yes, and one in our house in Boston, too.'

‘You've cleared his stuff out, made his study and workshop into a cottage for yourself, haven't you?'

‘Yes. I hoped to rent the big house, planned to live in the cottage.'

‘What did you do with your father's things?'

‘I gave some to the Museum of Natural History, here in Boston; packed some and stored them.'

‘Throw anything away?'

‘Things for which I could see no use, yes.'

Quinton hesitated. Then he asked: ‘When he killed these birds, how'd he preserve the skins?'

‘Sprinkled them with arsenic.'

‘Any arsenic in his workshop at Bar Harbor when you cleaned it out?'

‘Yes, a full jar, and one half full.' Harland saw that Ruth's lips now were white.

‘What did you do with it?'

‘I took those jars and some other jars and cans down to the dory and rowed offshore and emptied them into the water and then sank them.'

‘Empty out the arsenic?'

‘Yes.'

‘All of it?'

‘Yes.'

‘Knew what it was, did you?'

‘Of course.'

‘When'd you do all that?'

‘Last summer.' Ruth bit her lips.

‘That envelope you put the sugar in, what'd she do with it after she got through using it?'

‘Why, I don't know. Put it back in the hamper, I suppose.'

‘The rest of you didn't take sugar?'

‘No.'

‘You knew beforehand that you and Mr. Harland wouldn't take any, didn't you?'

‘Yes.'

‘Knew Leick wouldn't drink any coffee, didn't you?'

‘Why yes. I knew he never drank any on the camping trip we all took together, earlier that summer. I meant to take along some tea for him, but I forgot.'

‘So you knew Ellen'd be the only one using that sugar.'

‘I suppose so.' Her voice suddenly was weak, and Harland cried furiously:

‘That's enough, Quinton! We'll not answer another damned question till you tell us what this is all about.'

Quinton met his eyes, and the chubby man smiled that mirthless smile which always came too easily to him. ‘Notice any lies in what she's said?' he asked.

‘Of course not. She's told the plain truth.'

‘Think of anything she's left out?'

‘Blast you, Quinton! What are you up to?'

Quinton looked at Mrs. Parkins. Got it all down, have you, Sophy?' he asked. She nodded, and he turned to Harland again. ‘I've been talking to her, up to now, but now I'll ask you a question,' he said triumphantly. ‘Suppose I told you Ellen died of arsenic poisoning?' Harland sagged under the sudden shock, and Quinton grinned. ‘Take your time. We've got all night. Suppose I told you that. What would you say?'