Unexpected Night (8 page)

“Oh—yes. Do you know,” and Mrs. Barclay smiled at him, “I keep forgetting! We are so used to thinking of the child as nearly penniless. Which brings me to what I wanted to say to you. You know about that will of my nephew's, Mr. Mitchell?”

“Yes, I heard about it.”

“You know it is lost?”

“We haven't found it, yet.”

“Mr. Mitchell, that will must be found! No stone must be left unturned. Have you a search warrant?”

“Well, no. I didn't expect to need one.”

“You do indeed need one.”

“Who would you like me to search, ma'am?”

“Everybody, and every room they occupy! It is a serious matter, Mr. Mitchell. Do you know what was in that will?”

“Yes, I heard what was in it.”

“I make no accusations; I insinuate nothing. I am willing to believe that it has been mislaid; but I insist that every effort be made to find it. Mr. Gamadge saw it, in our cottage, and he saw it replaced in Amberley's pocket; so much for
us
. We are out of it; and, moreover, nobody has a stronger motive than ours for wanting it found.”

“Except this Atwood.”

Mrs. Barclay winced. “Which makes it all the more absurd,” she went on, recovering herself, “to think that
he
is sequestering it.”

“Let me get this clear, Mrs. Barclay. Is it your idea that Miss Cowden is sequestering it? She's the only person I know of that has any motive for doing such a thing.”

“I said, Mr. Mitchell, that I accuse no one, and I insinuate nothing. All I say is, that will must not be allowed to disappear without a search being made for it. A search by experts. Do you realise that the bequests in it amount to more than three hundred thousand dollars?”

“Well, yes, Mrs. Barclay; but the thing wasn't signed or witnessed, you know.”

“I have been told, on good authority, that in some cases, and under certain conditions, the bequests in a holograph will are upheld by the courts, even if that will is not signed or witnessed.”

“You may be right, ma'am. I'm no lawyer. We're looking for it.”

“I am not a beneficiary, but I shall gladly pay an investigator; payment to depend on finding and proving the will, of course.”

“You might find somebody to do it for you on those terms.”

“Or I might offer a contingent reward.”

“I'll tell you something, ma'am; we haven't done looking, yet; but if we don't find it, you can be pretty sure it won't be found. It don't take long to destroy a piece of paper, and if anybody took it, they'd destroy it. That's the only reason they would take it.”

“Then,” said Mrs. Barclay, compressing her lips, “I shall make trouble.”

“Watch your step, ma'am. That's dangerous. The kind of trouble you mean involves talk, doesn't it?”

“Talk to the proper authorities isn't slander, Mr. Mitchell.”

“But the proper authorities know all there is to know now, don't they? Or don't they?” asked Mitchell, hopefully. “You got any information about last night, Mrs. Barclay?”

“I know nothing about what happened last night.”

“So the Colonel said.”

“What should we know about it? We were all in bed fifteen or twenty minutes after the Cowdens left, soon after half-past twelve. We stacked the glasses, and we went to bed.”

“You know of your own knowledge that the Colonel and Mr. Barclay went to bed?”

“Of course I know it. What else should they do?”

“But the Colonel says you all have separate rooms, and sleep with the doors shut.”

“We do, of course. The draughts in our cottage are dreadful; and Fred says his father snores.”

“You have no maid?”

“Not here, Mr. Mitchell. We camp, at the beach. It makes us so much more independent. I fail to see why you are asking me these questions.”

“You talked as if you had some inside information, ma'am.”

“My information lies in the realm of psychology, Mr. Mitchell. Alma Cowden is completely under the influence of her aunt; she will not be permitted to carry out her brother's wishes. If enough publicity is given to the loss of that will, they may be forced, in self–defence, to do the proper thing. That is all I meant.”

“Just watch your step; you might run into something tough, there.”

There was a sharp knock at the door, and Fred Barclay came in without waiting to be invited. He cast a long, slow look about the room, and said: “Hello, Gamadge. On the carpet? He's an innocent bystander, Mitchell.”

A subtle change had come over Lieutenant Barclay since the preceding night. Gamadge could not make out where it lay, or exactly how it manifested itself; the young man's impassivity was as it had always been, his ironical air the same, his calm drawl unaltered; but Gamadge wondered whether all this façade, instead of being a sort of second nature, were not now, for the first time, deliberately assumed and used to hide something. There was a lack of spontaneity somewhere.

“Telling all, Mum?” continued Barclay. “Dad
will
be pleased. You know you promised—”

“Freddy, I cannot help it! With your whole future at stake—”

“You be careful. You know Aunt El isn't the woman to stand that sort of thing. Pay no attention to Mother, you two; she's had a disappointment. Or that's rather a mild way of putting it. A blow—a staggering blow. So have one or two others. And that's what money does to the human animal; it isn't poor old Amby we're shedding tears over this morning.”

“Freddy!” Mrs. Barclay's eyes began to water. “You know very well—”

“I know. Never mind. Have you seen Alma?”

“No. Eleanor wouldn't let me.”

“
Incommunicado
, is she?”

“I do wish she would take some of Aunt Julia's tonic. It always soothes the nerves, and there is no harmful reaction.”

“You and your tonic.” Mr. Barclay took his mother's arm and helped her up, not unkindly. “You come on down to the beach, or back home, before you get us all in a jam. Forget it.”

He nodded to the others, and escorted Mrs. Barclay firmly from the room. After a pause Gamadge remarked: “I should have said there was nothing terrifying about Mrs. Barclay but her opening four bid at bridge.”

“She's loony about that boy of hers,” said Mitchell.

He led the way across the hall, and knocked at the door of Room 21. A quiet voice told them to come in.

Mrs. Cowden sat beside the north window of a large, square room, which was pleasantly furnished with flowery chintz and green wicker. There was a pen in her hand, and a pile of telegraph forms in front of her; she wore a plain white blouse and skirt; and white shoes. Her reading glasses changed her very much. They, and her pallor, had aged her by ten years.

She took them off, and got up. “Is this Mr. Mitchell?” she asked.

“Yes, Mrs. Cowden. I wouldn't have thought of bothering you to-day, only Mr. Gamadge—”

“He was quite right. It isn't for me to collapse. There is too much to do, and Alma to be taken care of. You were very kind to offer to help, Mr. Gamadge. Won't you both sit down?”

They did so, and Mitchell got out a notebook. “I just want some statistics,” he said.

“For the inquest?”

“Well, yes, ma'am. Then you won't have to attend.”

“I'll go if necessary.”

“Colonel Barclay will do that. You were the guardian of this young man, Mrs. Cowden?”

“Yes, and his sister's. My husband was appointed under their father's will, and when he died the court appointed me.”

“Miss Cowden is her brother's heir, I understand.”

“Yes. They have no blood relations except their aunt, Mrs. Barclay, and Fred Barclay, and Arthur Atwood. He's another cousin.”

“I've heard of him. How old is the young lady?”

“Nineteen.”

“Who's going to administer her estate for her?”

“I have no idea. I have asked Mr. Ormville, our lawyer, to come up; he'll be here in the morning, and he'll tell you all about it.”

“We know how you must feel about all this, Mrs. Cowden, and the sheriff don't want you to have any more trouble than we can help. It was a natural death, far as we can tell, only when the newspapers get hold of it, they'll say the circumstances were mysterious. You know how they go on. So if we could find out why your nephew went down there to that rock, it would cut your publicity down to about one-fiftieth.”

“I know, Mr. Mitchell. Unfortunately, to me and to all the rest of us here the circumstances
are
mysterious. We cannot imagine why he went down there, unless it was to meet his cousin Arthur. I didn't even know that he meant to leave us to-day. Poor Hugh Sanderson gave me my first news of that this morning. Of course I knew that he wanted to go off somewhere, as soon as he came of age; but I hoped he would give it up, or take a short trip with Mr. Sanderson.”

The communicating door was flung open, and Alma Cowden dashed into the room. She wore a white linen dress, much crumpled, and she held out a little package. She said, violently: “I won't take this stuff, Aunt Eleanor. I won't do it.”

Mrs. Cowden addressed her niece mildly. “You remember Mr. Gamadge, Alma? And this is State Detective Mitchell.”

Miss Cowden checked, nodded shortly, and repeated; “I won't take this and go to sleep. I want to get out of here.”

Her eyelids were swollen, her face flushed, and her dark eyes wild and glazed like those of a frightened colt. Her aunt said: “You can go for a drive, my dearest child, as soon as Hugh Sanderson has time to take you.”

“I can't stay in that room a minute longer.”

“You could, if you would just take—”

“I want to go for a walk by myself.”

“You simply can't wander about alone to-day.”

“There might be newspaper fellers around, photographers, all kinds of people,” said Mitchell, sympathetically.

“Please do what Doctor Baines ordered.” Mrs. Cowden, in spite of her iron control, was visibly at the end of her tether. The girl gazed about her as if in desperation, then went over to the east window and stood with her back to the room. Gamadge sat watching her, and then, while Mitchell's benevolent voice continued to ask questions, which were followed by Mrs. Cowden's prompt, taut replies, he got up and lurched across. She did not move when he propped himself against the window seat. After a moment he asked: “Why don't you bite on it?”

She flashed a look on him, and looked away.

“When a thing like this happens,” he went on, “it's bad for everybody. Nothing's finer than being a sheltered member of the community, with friends among the traffic cops, and everybody falling over themselves to keep you comfortable, and the law—even in a little place like this—shooting around looking after you. But it's an awfully poor preparation for you, if things don't go right, and you have to pay the price.”

She glanced at him again, looked away, and looked back. “Price?”

“The price of living in a civilised world,” he said. “If, through no fault of your own, you get involved in these complicated machines we have set going to keep us going, you have to become a well-oiled cog, or you get smashed. Now you're trying to behave and feel as if nothing had happened, except a personal bereavement. Why? You don't look stupid to me, and you don't look like an egomaniac. All that's asked of you is to take some dope and go to sleep. Why don't you do it?”

She said: “I'm afraid of sleeping stuff.”

“No, you're not. But you look to me as if you were afraid of something else.”

“What do you say that for? I'm all right.” She stared at him, sideways; the whites of her eyes showed, more coltishly than ever.

“No, you're not. Look here, Baines knows his business. He wouldn't have sent you that stuff for fun. Why don't you take it? Take your medicine, as the phrase goes?” As she made no answer, he went on, so low that the others could not hear what he said: “What's scared you half out of your wits?”

“Nothing.”

“Don't tell me that. You're so scared you think you'd better keep your wits about you. That's why you won't take sleeping stuff.” He added, “I won't tell anybody.”

She said, in a muffled voice: “That will Amby was going to sign.”

“Yes; what about it?”

“I'm going to pay all those legacies, when I get the money.”

“Very nice of you. When do you get it?”

“I don't know. Shall I have to wait two years—till I'm of age?”

“I should think so.”

“But I could let everybody know I was going to pay them the money.”