Book: Raspberry Jam

C >> Carolyn Wells >> Raspberry Jam




"Snuff, ma'am," he replied, with a comical wink, which ought to
have shocked the old lady, but which, somehow, had a contrary
effect.

"Do you like candy?" she asked--unnecessarily, she knew--and
offered him a box from a drawer.

Fibsy felt that a verbal answer was not called for, and, helping
himself, proceeded to munch the sweets, contentedly and
continuously.

"Say," he burst out, after a thoughtful study of the room, "where
was that there dropper thing found, anyhow?"

"In this medicine chest--"

"Naw; I mean where'd the girl find it?--the housework girl."

"You seem to know a lot about the matter!"

"Sure I do. Where'd you say?"

"Right here," and Aunt Abby pointed to a place on the rug near
the head of her bed. It was a narrow bed, which had been brought
there for her during her stay.

"Huh! Now you could'a dropped it there?"

"I know," and Aunt Abby whispered, "Nobody'll believe me, but I
know!"

"You do! Say, you're some wiz! Spill it to me, there's a dear!"

Fibsy was, in his way, a psychologist, and he knew by instinct
that this old lady would like him better if he retained his
ignorant, untutored ways, than if he used the more polished
speech, which he had painstakingly acquired for other kinds of
occasions.

"I wonder if you'd understand. For a boy, you're a bright one--"

"Oh, yes, ma'am. I am! They don't make 'em no brighter 'n me!
Try me, do, Miss Ames! I'm right there with the goods."

"Well, child, it's this: I saw a--a vision--"

"Yes'm, I know--I mean I know what visions are, they're fine,
too!" He fairly smacked his lips in gusto, and it encouraged
Aunt Abby to proceed.

"Yes, and it was the ghost of--who do you suppose it was?"

"Your grandmother, ma'am?" The boy's attitude was eagerly
attentive and his freckled little face was drawn in a desperate
interest.

"No!" Aunt Abby drew closer and just breathed the words, "Mr.
Embury!"

"Oh!" Fibsy was really startled, and his eyes opened wide, as he
urged, "Go on, ma'am!"

"Yes. Well, it was just at the moment that Mr. Embury was--that
he died--you know."

"Yes'm, they always comes then, ma'am!"

"I know it, and oh, child, this is a true story!"

"Oh, yes, ma'am--I know it is!"

Indeed one could scarcely doubt it, for Aunt Abby, having found
an interested listener at last, poured forth her account of her
strange experience, not caring for comment or explanation, since
she had found some one who believed!

"Yes, it was just at that time--I know, because it was almost
daylight--just before dawn--and I was asleep, but not entirely
asleep--"

"Sort'a half dozing--"

"Yes; and Sanford--Mr, Embury, you know, came gliding through my
room, and he stopped at my bedside to say good-by--"

"Was he alive?" asked Fibsy, awe-struck at her hushed tones and
bright, glittering eyes.

"Oh, no, it was his spirit, you see--his disembodied spirit"

"How could you see it, then?"

"When spirits appear like that, they are visible."

"Oh, ma'am--I didn't know."

"Yes, and I not only saw him but he was evident to all my five
senses!"

"What, ma'am? What do you mean?"

Fibsy drew back, a little scared, as Aunt Abby clutched his
sleeve in her excitement. He felt uneasy, for it was growing
dusk, and the old lady was in such a state of nervous
exhilaration that he shrank a little from her proximity.

But Fibsy was game. "Go on, ma'am," he whispered.

"Yes," Aunt Abby declared, with an eerie smile of triumph, "I saw
him--I heard him--I felt him--I smelled him--and, I tasted him!"

Fibsy nearly shrieked, for at each enumeration of her marvelous
experiences, Miss Ames grasped his arm tighter and emphasized her
statements by pounding on his shoulder.

She seemed unaware of his personal presence--she talked more as
if recounting the matter to herself, but she used him as a
general audience and the boy had to make a desperate effort to
preserve his poise.

And then it struck him that the old lady was crazy, or else she
really had an important story to tell. In either case, it was
his duty to let Fleming Stone hear it, at first hand, if
possible. But he felt sure that to call in the rest of the
household, or to take the narrator out to them would--as he
expressed it to himself "upset her applecart and spill the
beans!"




CHAPTER XIV

THE FIVE SENSES


However he decided quickly, it must be done, so he said,
diplomatically, "This is awful int'restin', Miss Ames, and I'm
just dead sure and certain Mr. Stone'd think so, too. Let's go
out and get it off where he c'n hear it. What say?"

The boy had risen and was edging toward the door. Rather than
lose her audience, Aunt Abby followed, and in a moment the pair
appeared in the living-room, where Fleming Stone was still
talking to Eunice and Mr. Elliott.

"Miss Ames, now, she's got somethin' worth tellin'," Fibsy
announced. "This yarn of hers is pure gold and a yard wide, Mr.
Stone, and you oughter hear it, sir."

"Gladly," and Stone gave Aunt Abby a welcoming smile.

Nothing loath to achieve the center of the stage, the old lady
seated herself in her favorite arm-chair, and began:

"It was almost morning," she said, "a faint dawn began to make
objects about the room visible, when I opened my eyes and saw a
dim, gliding figure--"

Eunice gave an angry exclamation, and rising quickly from her
chair, walked into her own room, and closed the door with a slam
that left no doubt as to her state of mind.

"Let her alone," advised Elliott; "she's better off in there.
What is this story, Aunt Abby? I've never heard it in full."

"No; Eunice never would let me tell it. But it will solve all
mystery of Sanford's death."

"Then it is indeed important," and Stone looked at the speaker
intently.

"Yes, Mr. Stone, it will prove beyond all doubt that Mr. Embury
was a suicide."

"Go on, then," said Elliott, briefly.

"I will. In the half light, I saw this figure I just mentioned.
It wasn't discernible clearly--it was merely a moving shadow--a
vague shape. It came toward me--"

"From which direction? "asked Stone, with decided interest.

"From Eunice's room--that is, it had, of course, come from Mr.
Embury's room, through Eunice's room, and so on into my room.
For it was Sanford Embury's spirit--get that firmly in your
minds!"

The old lady spoke with asperity, for she was afraid of
contradiction, and resented their quite apparent scepticism.

"Go on, please," urged Stone.

"Well, the spirit came nearer my bed, and paused and looked down
on me where I lay."

"Did you see his face?" asked Elliott.

"Dimly. I can't seem to make you understand how vague the whole
thing was--and yet it was there! As he leaned over me, I saw
him--saw the indistinct shape--and I heard the sound of a watch
ticking. It was not my watch, it was a very faint ticking one,
but all else was so still, that I positively heard it."

"Gee!" said Fibsy, in an explosive whisper.

"Then he seemed about to move away. Impulsively, I made a
movement to detain him. Almost without volition--acting on
instinct--I put out my hand and clutched his arm. I felt his
sleeve--it wasn't a coat sleeve--nor a pajama sleeve--it seemed
to have on his gymnasium suit--the sleeve was like woolen
jersey--"

"And you felt this?"

"Yes, Mr. Stone, I felt it distinctly--and not only with my hand
as I grasped at his arm but" Aunt Abby hesitated an instant, then
went on, "But I bit at him! Yes, I did! I don't know why, only
I was possessed with an impulse to hold him--and he was slipping
away. I didn't realize at the time--who--what it was, and I sort
of thought it was a burglar. But, anyway, I bit at him, and so I
bit at the woolen sleeve--it was unmistakable--and on it I tasted
raspberry jam."

"What!" cried her hearers almost in concert.

"Yes--you needn't laugh--I guess I know the taste of raspberry
jam, and it was on that sleeve, as sure as I'm sitting here!"

"Gee!" repeated Fibsy, his fists clenched on his knees and his
bright eyes fairly boring into the old lady's countenance. "Gee
whiz!"

"Go on," said Stone, quietly.

"And--I smelt gasoline," concluded Miss Ames defiantly. "Now,
sir, there's the story. Make what you will out of it, it's every
word true. I've thought it over and over, since I realized what
it all meant, and had I known at the time it was Sanford's
spirit, I should have spoken to him. But as it was, I was too
stunned to speak, and when I tried to hold him, he slipped away,
and disappeared. But it was positively a materialization of
Sanford Embury's flitting spirit--and nothing else."

"The vision may argue a passing soul," Stone said kindly, as if
humoring her, "but the effect on your other senses, seems to me
to indicate a living person."

"No," and Aunt Abby spoke with deep solemnity, "a materialized
spirit is evident to our senses--one or another of them. In
this case I discerned it by all five senses, which is unusual
--possibly unique; but I am very psychic--very sensitive to
spiritual manifestations."

"You have seen ghosts before, then?"

"Oh, yes. I have visions often. But never such a strange one."

"And where did this spirit disappear to?"

"It just faded. It seemed to waft on across the room. I closed
my eyes involuntarily, and when I opened them again it was gone."

"Leaving no trace behind?"

"The faint odor of gasoline--and the taste of raspberry jam on my
tongue."

Fibsy snickered, but suppressed it at once, and said, "And he
left the little dropper-thing beside your bed?"

"Yes, boy! You seem clairvoyant yourself! He did. It was
Sanford, of course; he had killed himself with the poison, and he
tried to tell me so--but he couldn't make any communication--they
rarely can--so he left the tiny implement, that we might know and
understand."

"H'm, yes;" and Stone sat thinking. "Now, Miss Ames, you must
not be offended at what I'm about to say. I don't disbelieve
your story at all. You tell it too honestly for that. I fully
believe you saw what you call a 'vision.' But you have thought
over it and brooded over it, until you think you saw more than
you did--or less! But, leaving that aside for the moment, I want
you to realize that your theory of suicide, based on the 'vision'
is not logical. Supposing your niece were guilty--as the
detectives think--might not Mr. Embury's spirit have pursued the
same course?"

Aunt Abby pondered. Then, her eyes flashing, she cried, "Do you
mean he put the dropper in my room to throw suspicion on me,
instead of on his wife?"

"There is a chance for such a theory."

"Sanford wouldn't do such a thing! He was truly fond of me!"

"But to save his wife?"

"I never thought of all that. Maybe he did--or, maybe he dropped
the thing accidentally--"

"Maybe." Stone spoke preoccupiedly.

Mason Elliott, too, sat in deep thought. At last he said:

"Aunt Abby, if I were you, I wouldn't tell that yarn to anybody
else. Let's all forget it, and call it merely a dream."

"What do you mean, Mason? "The old lady bridled, having no wish
to hear her marvelous experience belittled. "It wasn't a dream
--not an ordinary dream--it was a true appearance of Sanford,
after his death. You know such things do happen--look at that
son of Sir Oliver Lodge. You don't doubt that, do you?"

"Never mind those things. But I earnestly beg of you, Aunt Abby,
to forget the episode--or, at least, to promise me you'll not
repeat it to any one else."

"Why?"

"I think it wiser for all concerned--for all concerned--that the
tale shall not become public property."

"But why?"

"Oh, my land!" burst out Fibsy; "don't you see? The ghost was
Mrs, Embury!"

The boy had put into words what was in the thoughts of both Stone
and Elliott. They realized that, while Aunt Abby's experience
might have been entirely a dream, it was so circumstantial as to
indicate a real occurrence, and in that case, what solution so
plausible as that Eunice, after committing the crime, wandered
into her aunt's room, and whether purposely or accidentally,
dropped the implement of death?

Stone, bent on investigation, plied Miss Ames with questions.

Elliott, sorely afraid for Eunice, begged the old lady not to
answer.

"You are inventing!" he cried. "You are drawing on your
imagination! Don't believe all that, Mr. Stone. It isn't fair
to--to Mrs, Embury!"

"Then you see it as I do, Mr. Elliott?" and Stone turned to him
quickly. "But, even so, we must look into this story. Suppose,
as an experiment, we build up a case against Mrs, Embury, for the
purpose of knocking it down again. A man of straw--you know."

"Don't," pleaded Elliott. "Just forget the rigmarole of the
nocturnal vision--and devote your energies to finding the real
murderer. I have a theory--"

"Wait, Mr. Elliott, I fear you are an interested investigator.
Don't forget that you have been mentioned as one of those with
'motive but no opportunity.' "

"Since you have raised that issue, Mr. Stone, let me say right
here that my regard for Mrs, Embury is very great. It is also
honorable and lifelong. I make no secret of it, but I declare to
you that its very purity and intensity puts it far above and
beyond any suspicion of being 'motive' for the murder of Mrs,
Embury's huband."

Mason Elliott looked Fleming Stone straight in the eye and the
speaker's tone and expression carried a strong conviction of
sincerity.

Fibsy, too, scrutinized Elliott.

"Good egg!" he observed to himself; "trouble is--he'd give us
that same song and dance if he'd croaked the guy his own self!"

"Furthermore," Stone went on, "Mrs, Embury shows a peculiarly
strong repugnance to hearing this story of Miss Ames' experience.
That looks--"

"Oh, fiddlesticks!" cried Miss Ames, who had been listening in
amazement; "it wasn't Eunice! Why would she rig up in Sanford's
gym jersey?"

"Why wouldn't she?" countered Stone. "As I said, we're building
up a supposititious case. Assume that it was Mrs, Embury, not at
all enacting a ghost, but merely wandering around after her
impulsive deed--for if she is the guilty party it must have been
an impulsive deed. You know her uncontrollable temper--her
sudden spasms of rage--"

"Mr. Stone, a 'man of straw,' as you call it, is much more easily
built up than knocked down." Elliott spoke sternly. "I hold you
have no right to assume Mrs, Embury's identity in this story Miss
Ames tells."

"Is there anything that points to her in your discernment by your
five senses, Miss Ames?" Stone asked, very gravely. "Has Mrs,
Embury a faintly ticking watch?"

"Yes, her wrist-watch," Aunt Abby answered, though speaking
evidently against her will.

"And it is possible that she slipped on her husband's jersey; and
it is possible there was raspberry jam on the sleeve of it. You
see, I am not doubting the evidence of your senses. Now, as to
the gasoline. Had Mrs, Embury, or her maid, by any chance, been
cleaning any laces or finery with gasoline?"

"I won't tell you!" and Aunt Abby shook her head so obstinately
that it was quite equivalent to an affirmative answer!

"Now, you see, Aunt Abby," protested Elliott, in an agonized
voice, "why I want you to shut up about that confounded 'vision'!
You are responsible for this case Mr. Stone is so ingeniously
building up against Eunice! You are getting her into a desperate
coil, from which it will be difficult to extricate her! If Shane
got hold of this absurd yarn--"

"It's not entirely absurd," broke in Stone, "but I agree with
you, Mr. Elliott; if Shane learns of it--he won't investigate any
further!"

"He shan't know of it," was the angry retort. "I got you here,
Mr. Stone--"

"To discover the truth, or to free Mrs, Embury?"

There was a pause, and the two men looked at each other. Then
Mason Elliott said, in a low voice, "To free Mrs, Embury."

"I can't take the case that way," Stone replied. "I will abandon
the whole affair, or--I will find out the truth."

"Abandon it!" cried a ringing voice, and the door of her bedroom
was flung open as Eunice again appeared.

She was in a towering fury, her face was white and her lips
compressed to a straight scarlet line.

"Give up the case! I will take my chances with any judge or jury
rather than with you!" She faced Stone like the "Tiger" her
husband had nicknamed her. "I have heard every word--Aunt Abby's
story--and your conclusions! Your despicable 'deductions,' as I
suppose you call them! I've had enough of the 'celebrated
detective'! Quite enough of Fleming Stone--and his work!"

She stepped back and gazed at him with utter scorn beautiful as a
sculptured Medea, haughty as a tragedy queen.

"Independent as a pig on ice!" Fibsy communicated with himself,
and he stared at her with undisguised admiration.

"Eunice," and the pain in Mason Elliott's voice was noticeable;
"Eunice, dear, don't do yourself such injustice."

"Why not? When everybody is unjust to me! You, Mason, you and
this--this infallible detective sit here and deliberately build
up what you call a 'case' against me--me, Eunice Embury! Oh--I
hate you all!"

A veritable figure of hate incarnate, she stood, her white hands
clasping each other tightly, as they hung against her black gown.
Her head held high, her whole attitude fiercely defiant, she
flung out her words with a bitterness that betokened the end of
her endurance--the limit of her patience.

Then her hands fell apart, her whole body drooped, and sinking
down on the wide sofa, she sat, hopelessly facing them, but with
head erect and the air of one vanquished but very much unsubdued.

"Take that back, Eunice," Elliott spoke passionately, and quite
as if there were no others present; "you do not hate me--I am
here to help you!"

"You can't, Mason; no one can help me. No one can protect me
from Fleming Stone!"

The name was uttered with such scorn as to seem an invective of
itself!

Stone betrayed no annoyance at her attitude toward him, but
rather seemed impressed with her personality. He gave her a
glance that was not untinged with admiration, but he made no
defence.

"I can," cried Fibsy, who was utterly routed by Eunice's
imperious beauty. "You go ahead with Mr. F. Stone, ma'am, and
I'll see to it that they ain't no injustice done to you!"

Stone looked at his excited young assistant with surprise, and
then good-naturedly contented himself with a shake of his head,
and a

"Careful, Terence."

"Yes, sir--but, oh, Mr. Stone--" and then, at a gesture from the
great detective the boy paused, abashed, and remained silent.

"Now, Miss Ames," Stone began, "in Mrs, Embury's presence, I'll
ask you--"

"You won't ask me anything, sir," she returned crisply. "I'm
going out. I've a very important errand to do."

"Oh, I don't know about that," Elliott said; "it's almost six
o'clock, Aunt Abby. Where are you going?"

"I've got an errand--a very important errand--an appointment, in
fact. I must go--don't you dare oppose me, Mason. You'll be
sorry if you do!"

Even as she spoke, the old lady was scurrying to her room, from
which she returned shortly, garbed for the street.

"All right," Stone said, in reply to a whisper from Fibsy, and
the boy offered, respectfully:

"Let me go with you, Miss Ames. It ain't fittin' you should go
alone. It's 'most dark."

"Come on, boy," Aunt Abby regarded him kindly; "I'd be glad of
your company."

At the street door, the old lady asked for a taxicab, and the
strangely assorted pair were soon on their way.

"You're a bright lad, Fibsy," she said; "by the way, what's your
real name--I forget."

"Terence, ma'am; Terence McGuire. I wish't I was old enough to
be called McGuire! I'd like that."

"I'll call you that, if you wish. You're old for your age, I'm
sure. How old are you?"

"Goin' on about fifteen or sixteen--I think. I sort'a forget."

"Nonsense! You can't forget your age! Why do they call you
Fibsy?"

"'Cause I'm a born liar--'scuse me--a congenital prevaricator, I
meant to say. You see, ma'am, it's necessary in my business not
always to employ the plain unvarnished. But don't be alarmed,
ma'am; when I take a fancy to anybuddy, as I have to you, ma'am,
I don't never lie to 'em. Not that I s'pose you'd care, eh,
ma'am?"

Aunt Abby laughed. "You are a queer lad! Why, I'm not sure I'd
care, if it didn't affect me in any way. I'm not responsible for
your truthfulness--though I don't mind advising you that you
ought to be a truthful boy."

"Land, ma'am! Don't you s'pose I know that? But, honest now,
are you always just exactly, abserlutely truthful, yourself?"

"Certainly I am! What do you mean by speaking to me like that?"

"Well, don't you ever touch up a yarn a little jest sort'a to
make it more interestin' like? Most ladies do--that is, most
ladies of intelligence and brains--which you sure have got in
plenty!"

"There, there, boy; I'm afraid I've humored you too much you're
presuming."

"I presume I am. But one question more, while we're on this
absorbin' subject. Didn't you, now, just add a jot or a tittle
to that ghost story you put over? Was it every bit on the dead
level?"

"Yes, child," Aunt Abby took his question seriously; "it was
every word true. I didn't make up the least word of it!"

"I believe you, ma'am, and I congratulate you on your clarviant
powers. Now, about that raspberry jam, ma'am. That's a mighty
unmistakable taste--ain't it, now."

"It is, McGuire. It certainly is. And I tasted it, just as
surely as I'm here telling you about it."

"Have you had it for supper lately, ma'am?"

"No; Eunice hasn't had it on her table since I've been visiting
her."

"Is that so, ma'am?"




CHAPTER XV

MARIGNY THE MEDIUM


The journey ended at the rooms of Marigny, the psychic
recommended by Willy Hanlon.

As Fibsy, his bright eyes wide with wonder, found himself in the
unmistakable surroundings of dingy draperies, a curtained cabinet
and an odor of burning incense, he exclaimed to himself, "Gee! a
clairviant! Now for some fun!"

Aunt Abby, apparently aware of the proprieties of the occasion,
seated herself, and waited patiently.

At a gesture from her, Fibsy obediently took a seat near her, and
waited quietly, too.

Soon the psychic entered. He was robed in a long, black garment,
and wore a heavy, white turban, swathed in folds. His face was
olive-colored--what was visible of it for his beard was white and
flowing, and a heavy drooping moustache fell over his lips.
Locks of white hair showed from the turban's edge, and a pair of
big, rubber-rimmed glasses of an amber tint partially hid his
eyes.

The whole make-up was false, it was clear to be seen, but a
psychic has a right to disguise himself, if he choose.

Fibsy gave Marigny one quick glance and then the boy assumed
an expression of face quite different from his usual one. He
managed to look positively vacant-minded. His eyes became
lack-luster, his mouth, slightly open, looked almost imbecile,
and his roving glance betokened no interest whatever in the
proceedings.

"Mr. Marigny?" said Miss Ames, eagerly anxious for the seance to
begin.

"Yes, madam. You are three minutes late!"

"I couldn't help it--the traffic is very heavy at this hour."

"And you should have come alone. I cannot concentrate with an
alien influence in the room."

"Oh, the boy isn't an alien influence. He's a little friend of
mine--he'll do no harm."

"I'll go out, if you say, mister," Fibsy turned his indifferent
gaze on the clairvoyant.

"You'll do nothing of the sort," spoke up Miss Ames. "I'm
accustomed to seances, Mr. Marigny, and if you're all right--as I
was told you were--a child's presence won't interfere."

Evidently the psychic saw he had no novice to deal with, and he
accepted the situation.

"What do you want to know? "he asked his client.

"Who killed Sanford Embury--or, did he kill himself." I want you
to get into communication with his spirit and find out from him.
But I don't want any make-believe. If you can't succeed, that's
all right--I'll pay your fee just the same. But no poppycock."

"That's the way to look at it, madam. I will go into the
silence, and I will give you only such information as I get
myself."

The man leaned back in his chair, and gradually seemed to enter a
hypnotic state. His muscles relaxed, his face became still and
set, and his breathing was slow and a little labored.

Fibsy retained his vacuous look he even fidgeted a little, in a
bored way--and rarely glanced toward the man of "clear sight."

Miss Ames, though anxious for results, was alert and quite on her
guard against fraud. Experienced in fake mediums, she believed
Willy Hanlon's assertion that this man was one of the few genuine
mystics, but she proposed to judge for herself.

At last Marigny spoke. His voice was low, his tones monotonous
and uninflected.

"Aunt Abby--Aunt Westminster Abbey" the words came slowly.

Miss Ames gave a startled jump. Her face blanched and she
trembled as she clutched Fibsy's arm.

"That's what Sanford used to call me!" she whispered. "Can it
really be his spirit talking to me through the medium!"

"Don't worry," the voice went on, "don't grieve for me--it's all
right--let it go that I took my own life--"

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