Book: Raspberry Jam

C >> Carolyn Wells >> Raspberry Jam




"Of course he was," said Eunice, biting the words off crisply.
"He went to the Athletic Clubhe's a candidate for the
presidency--"

"I know--I know--"

"And I--I was at a party. On his way from the club he called for
me and brought me home in our car. Then he went to bed almost at
once-and so did I. That's all."

"You heard no sound from him whatever during the night?"

"None."

"As nearly as I can judge, he died about daybreak. But it is
impossible to say positively as to that. Especially as I cannot
find the immediate cause of death. You heard nothing during the
night, Miss Ames?"

"I did and I didn't," was the strange reply.

"Just what does that mean? "and Doctor Harper looked at her
curiously.

"Well," and Aunt Abby spoke very solemnly, "Sanford appeared to
me in a vision, just as he died--"

"Oh, Aunt Abby," Eunice groaned, "don't begin that sort of talk!
Miss Ames is a sort of a spiritualist, doctor, and she has
hallucinations."

"Not hallucinations--visions," corrected the old, lady. "And it
is not an unheard of phenomenon to have a dying person appear to
a friend at the moment of death. It was the passing of Sanford,
and I did see him!"

Eunice rose and left the table. Her shattered nerves couldn't
stand this, to her mind, foolishness at the moment.

She went from the dining-room into the livingroom, and stood,
gazing out of the window, but seeing nothing.

Dr. Harper pushed back his chair from the table.

"Just a word more about that, Miss Ames," he said. "I'm rather
interested in those matters myself. You thought you saw Mr.
Embury?"

"I did see him. It was a vague, shadowy form, but I recognized
him. He came into my room from Eunice's room. He paused at my
bedside and leaned over me, as if for a farewell. He said
nothing--and in a moment he disappeared. But I know it was
Sanford's spirit taking flight."

"This is interesting, but I can't discuss it further now. I have
heard of such cases, but never so directly. But my duty now is
to Mrs, Embury. I fear she will have a nervous breakdown. May I
ask you, Miss Ames, not to talk about you--your vision to her? I
think it disturbs her."

"Don't you tell me, doctor, what to talk to Eunice about, and
what not to! I brought up that girl from a baby, and I know her
clear through! If it upsets her nerves to hear about my
experience last night, of course, I shall not talk about it to
her, but trust me, please, to know what is best to do about
that!"

"Peppery women--both of them!" was Dr. Harper's mental comment;
but he only nodded his head pleasantly and went to Eunice.

"If you've no objections, I'll call Marsden here at once," he
said, already taking up the telephone.

Eunice listlessly acquiesced, and then the doctor returned to
Embury's bedroom.

He looked carefully about. All the details of the room, the
position of clothing, the opened book, face down, on the night
table, the half-emptied water-glass, the penciled memorandum on
the chiffonier--all seemed to bear witness to the well, strong
man, who expected to rise and go about his day as usual.

"Not a chance of suicide," mused the doctor, hunting about the
room and scrutinizing its handsome appointments. He stepped into
Embury's bathroom, and could find nothing that gave him the least
hint of anything unusual in the man's life. A chart near the
white, enameled scale showed that Embury had recorded his weight
the night before in his regular, methodical way. The written
figures were clear and firm, as always. Positively the man had
no premonition of his swiftly approaching end.

What could have caused it? What could have snapped short the
life thread of this strong, sound specimen of human vitality?
Dr. Harper could find no possible answer, and he was glad to hear
Ferdinand's voice as he announced the arrival of Dr. Marsden.
The two men held earnest consultation.

The newcomer was quite as much mystified as his colleague, and
they marveled together.

"Autopsy, of course," said Marsden, finally; "the widow must be
brought to consent. Why does she object so strongly?"

"I don't know of any reason except the usual dislike the members
of the family feel toward it. I've no doubt she will agree, when
you advise it."

Eunice Embury did agree, but it was only after the strenuous
insistence of Dr. Marsden.

She flew into a rage at first, and the doctor, who was
unacquainted with her, wondered at her fiery exhibition of
temper.

And, but for the arrival of Mason Elliott on the scene, she might
have resisted longer.

Elliott had telephoned, wishing to consult Embury on some matter,
and Ferdinand's incoherent and emotional words had brought out
the facts, so of course Elliott had come right over to the house.

"What is it, Eunice?" he asked, as he entered, seeing her
fiercely quarreling with the doctors. "Let me help you--advise
you. Poor child, you ought to be in bed."

His kindly, assertive voice calmed her, and turning her sad eyes
to him, she moaned, plaintively, "Don't let them do it--they
mustn't do it."

"Do what? "Elliott turned to the doctors, and soon was listening
to the whole strange story.

"Certainly an autopsy!" he declared; "why, it's the only thing to
do. Hush, Eunice, make no further objection. It's absolutely
necessary. Give your consent at once."

Almost as if hypnotized, Eunice Embury gave her consent, and the
two doctors went away together.

"Tell me all about it," said Elliott; "all you know--" And then
he saw how weak and unnerved Eunice was, and he quickly added,
"No, not now. Go and lie down for a time--where's Miss Ames?"

"Here," and Aunt Abby reappeared from her room. "Yes, go and lie
down, Eunice; Maggie has made up our rooms, and your bed is in
order. Go, dear child."

"I don't want to," and Eunice's eyes looked unusually large and
bright. "I'm not the sort of woman who can cure everything by
'lying down'! I'd rather talk. Mason, what happened to
Sanford?"

"I don't know, Eunice. It's the strangest thing I ever heard of.
If you want to talk, really, tell me what occurred last night.
Did you two have a quarrel?"

"Yes, we did--" Eunice looked defiant rather than penitent. "But
that couldn't have done it! I mean, we didn't quarrel so
violently that San burst a blood-vessel--or that sort of thing!"

"Of course not; in that case the doctors would know. That's the
queerest thing to me. A man dies, and two first-class physicians
can't say what killed him!"

"But what difference does it make, Mason? I'm sure I don't care
what he died of--I mean I don't want him all cut up to satisfy
the curiosity of those inquisitive doctors!"

"It isn't that, Eunice; they have to know the cause, to make out
a death certificate."

"Why do they have to make it out? We all know he's dead."

"The law requires it. The Bureau of Vital Statistics must be
notified and must be told the cause of death. Try to realize
that these matters are important--you cannot put your own
personal preferences above them. Leave it to me, Eunice; I'll
take charge and look after all the details. Poor old San--I
can't realize it! He was so big and strong and healthy. And so
full of life and vitality. And, by Jove, Eunice, think of the
election!"

Though a warm friend of Embury, it was characteristic of Elliott
that his thoughts should fly to the consequences of the tragic
death outside the family circle. He was silent as he realized
that the removal of the other candidate left Alvord Hendricks the
winner in the race for president of the club.

That is, if the election should be held. It was highly probable
that it would be postponed--the club people ought to be notified
at once--Hendricks ought to be told.

"I say, Eunice, there's lots of things to do. I think I ought to
telephone the club, and several people. Do you mind?"

"No; of course not. Do whatever is right, Mason. I'm so glad to
have you here, it takes a load of responsibility off of me.
You're a tower of strength."

"Then do what you can to help me, Eunice. Try, won't you, to be
quiet and calm. Don't get so wrought up over these things that
are unpleasant but unavoidable. I don't underrate your grief or
your peculiarly hard position. The nervous shock is enough to
make you ill--but try to control yourself--that's a goody girl."

"I will, Mason. Honest I will."

Soon after noon Hendricks arrived. He had returned from Boston
on an early morning train, and hearing of the tragedy, came at
once to the Embury home.

At sight of his grave, sympathetic face, Eunice burst into tears,
the first she had been able to shed, and they were a real relief
to her overburdened heart.

"Oh, Alvord," she cried, hysterically, "now you can be
president!"

"Hush, hush, Eunice, dear," he soothed her; "don't let's speak of
that now. I'm just in from Boston--I hurried over as soon as I
heard. Tell me, somebody--not you, Eunice--you tell me, Aunt
Abby, how it happened."

"That's the strange part," said Elliott, who was sitting at the
telephone, and was, at the moment, waiting for a response to a
call, "the doctors can't tell what ailed Sanford!"

"What! Can't tell what made him die!"

"No;" Aunt Abby took up the tale, as Elliott turned hack to the
telephone; "and I think it's very queer. Did you ever know a
man to die, Alvord, and nobody be able to tell what killed him?"

"I certainly never did! What had he eaten?"

"Oh, it's nothing like that," Eunice spoke up; "it must be that
something gave way--his heart, or lungs--"

"Never! Sanford was a sound as a dollar!"

"That's what Dr. Harper says. They're--they're going to have an
autopsy."

"Of course. We'd never be satisfied without that. They'll find
the cause that way, of course. Dear Eunice, I'm so sorry for
you."

"It's awful for Eunice," said Aunt Abby "the excitement and the
mystery--oh, Alvord, do let me tell you what I saw!"

"What?" he asked, with interest.

"Why, it was almost dawn--just beginning to be daylight, and, you
know--Dr. Harper says Sanford died about daybreak--he thinks--and
I was sort of between asleep and awake--don't you know how you
are like that sometimes--"

"Yes."

"And I saw--"

"Aunt Abby, if you're going to tell that yarn over again, I'll go
away! I can't stand it!"

"Go on, Eunice," and Aunt Abby spoke gently. "I wish you would
go to your room and lie down for awhile. Even if you don't want
to, it will rest your nerves."

To her surprise, Eunice rose and without a word went to her own
room.

Aunt Abby sent Maggie to look after her, and resumed her story.

"I'm going to tell you, Alvord, for I must tell somebody, and
Eunice won't listen, and Mason is busy telephoning--he's been at
it all day--off and on--"

"Fire away, Aunt Abby, dear," Hendricks said. He had small
desire to hear her meandering tales, but he felt sorry for the
pathetic face she showed and listened out of sheer charity.

"Yes, it was near dawn, and I was sort of dozing but yet, awake,
too--and I heard a step--no, not a step, just a sort of gliding
footfall, like a person shufing in slippers.

"And then, I saw a vague shadowy shape--like Sanford's--and it
passed slowly through the room--not stepping, more like floating
--and it stopped right at my bedside, and leaned over me--"

"You saw this!"

"Well, it was so dark, I can't say I saw it--but I was--I don't
know how to describe it--I was conscious of its presence, that's
all!"

"And you think it was Sanford's ghost?"

"Don't put it that way, Al. It was Sanford's spirit, leaving the
earth, and bidding me good-by as it wafted past."

"Why didn't he bid his wife good-by?" Hendricks was blunt, but
he deemed it best to speak thus, rather than to encourage the
ghost talk.

"He probably tried to, but Eunice must have been asleep. I don't
know as to that--but, you know, Alvord, it is not an uncommon
thing for such experiences to happen--why, there are thousands of
authenticated cases--"

"Authenticated fiddlesticks!"

"Your scorn doesn't alter the truth. I saw him, I tell you, and
it was not a dream, or my imagination. I really saw him, though
dimly."

"What did he have on?"

"That's the queer part. Not his usual clothes, but that sort of
a jersey he wears when he's doing his exercise."

"Oh, his gym suit? You saw it plainly?"

"Not so very plainly--but--I felt it!"

"Felt it! What are you talking about?"

"I did, I tell you. He leaned over me, and I put out my hand and
touched his arm, and I--I think I felt a tight woolen jersey
sleeve."

"Oh, you think you did! Well, that's all right, then, but you
mustn't say you felt a ghost. They're not material, you know."

"You're making fun of me, Alvord, but you mustn't. I know more
about these things than you do. Why shouldn't I? I've made a
study of them--I've read lots of books, and been to lots of
seances, and lectures--oh, I know it was a manifestation of San
himself!"

"Well, Aunt Abby, if it gives you any comfort to think it was,
why, just keep right on thinking. I don't say there aren't such
happenings. I only say I don't believe there are. I don't doubt
your word, you understand, but I can't make my hard common sense
take it in. My mind isn't built that way. Did you hear
anything?"

"I heard--" Aunt Abby paused, and blushed a little--"you'll
laugh, I know, but I heard--his watch ticking!"

"Oh, come now, Aunt Abby, that's a little too much! I can't help
smiling at that! For I'm sure ghosts don't carry watches, and
anyway not in a gymnasium suit!"

"I knew you'd jeer at it, but I did hear the ticking, all the
same."

"Wasn't your own watch under your pillow?"

"Yes."

"Oh, all right. I haven't a word to say."

"But it wasn't any watch I heard--it was a different sort of
tick."

"Yes, of course it was. Ghosts' watches have a peculiar tick of
their own--"

"Alvord, stop! It's mean of you to poke fun at me!"

"Forgive me, do; I apologize. It was mean, and I'll stop. What
else happened?"

"Nothing," Aunt Abby was clearly piqued.

"Yes, tell me. What became of the--the figure?"

"Why, it disappeared. Gradually you know--just seemed to float
away into nothingness."

"He gave you no message?"

"Not in words, no. They rarely do. But the appearance, the
visibility is the usual way of manifestation. I'm glad it
occurred. Oh, I'm awfully sorry Sanford is dead--I didn't mean
that but, since he had to go, I'm glad he bade me good-by,
as he passed on."

"Well, I'm glad, too, if it is any comfort to you. Are you sure
Eunice had no such experience?"

"Oh, no--if she had she'd have told me. She hates all such
ideas. I suppose if she had seen Sanford--as I did--she would
have become a believer--but I'm sure she didn't."

"Poor Eunice. She is terribly broken up."

"Yes, of course. They were so devoted. They had a tiff now and
then, but that was because of Eunice's quick temper. She flares
up so easily," Aunt Abby sighed. "San couldn't manage her at
times."

"I know. Poor girl, I don't blame her for those spasms of rage.
She can't help it, you know. And she's improving every day."

"That's what Sanford said. He thought he helped her, and I dare
say he did. But sometimes he had to speak pretty sharply to her.
Just as one would to a naughty child."

"That's what she is, bless her heart! Just a naughty child. We
must be very considerate of her now, Aunt Abby, mustn't we?"

"Yes, indeed. She is sorely to be pitied. She adored Sanford.
I don't know what she will do."




CHAPTER VIII

THE EXAMINER


When after the autopsy, Dr. Harper announced that it was
necessary to send for the Medical Chief Examiner, Eunice cried
out, "Why, what do you mean? He's the same as a Coroner!"

"He takes the place of the Coroner, nowadays," rejoined Harper,
"and in Dr. Marsden's opinion his attendance is necessary."

"Do you mean Sanford was murdered?"

Eunice whispered, her face white and drawn.

"We can't tell, Mrs, Embury. It is a most unusual case. There
is absolutely no indication of foul play, but, on the other hand,
there is no symptom or condition that tells the reason of his
death. That is your finding, Dr. Marsden?"

"Yes," agreed the other. "Mr. Embury died because of a sudden
and complete paralysis of respiration and circulation. There is
nothing we can find to account for that and by elimination of all
other possible causes we are brought to the consideration of
poison. Not any known or evident poison, but a subtle,
mysteriously administered toxic agent of some sort--"

"You must be crazy!" and Eunice faced him with scornful glance
and angry eyes. "Who would poison my husband? How could any one
get at him to do it? Why would they, anyway?"

Dr. Marsden looked at her curiously. "Those questions are not
for me, madame," he said, a little curtly. "I shall call
Examiner Crowell, and he will take charge of the case."

"He's the same as a coroner! I won't have him!" Eunice declared.

"It isn't for you to say," Dr. Marsden was already at the
telephone. "The course of events makes it imperative that I
should call Dr. Crowell. He is not a coroner. He is, of course,
a Civil Service appointee, and as such, in authority. You will
do whatever he directs."

Eunice Embury was silent from sheer astonishment. Never before
had she been talked to like this. Accustomed to dictate, to give
orders, to have her lightest word obeyed, she was dumfounded at
being overruled in this fashion.

The men took in the situation more clearly.

"Medical Examiner!" exclaimed Hendricks. "Is it a case for him?"

"Yes," returned Marsden, gravely. "At least, it is a very
mysterious death. Mystery implies wrong--of some sort. Had Mr.
Embury been a man with a weak heart, or any affected organ, I
should have been able to make a satisfactory diagnosis. But his
sound, perfect condition precludes any reason for this sudden
death. It must be looked into. It may be the Examiner will find
a simple, logical cause, but I admit I can find none--and I am
not inexperienced."

"But if he were poisoned," began Hendricks, "as you have implied,
surely, you could find some trace."

"That's just the point," agreed Marsden. "I certainly think I
could. And, since I can't, I feel it my duty to report it as a
mysterious and, to me, inexplicable death."

"You're right," said Elliott. "If you can't find the cause, for
heaven's sake get somebody who can! I don't for a minute believe
it's a murder, but the barest suspicion of such a thing must be
set at rest once and for all! Murder! Ridiculous! But get the
Examiner, by all means!"

So Eunice's continued objections were set aside and Dr. Crowell
was called in.

A strange little man the Examiner proved to be. He had sharp,
bird-like eyes, that darted from one person to another, and
seemed to read their very thoughts. On his entrance, he went
straight to Eunice, and took her hand.

"Mrs, Embury? "he said, positively, rather than interrogatively.
"Do not fear me, ma'am. I want to help you, not annoy you."

Impressed by his magnetic manner and his encouraging handclasp,
Eunice melted a little and her look of angry scorn changed to a
half-pleased expression of greeting.

"Miss Ames--my aunt," she volunteered, as Dr. Crowell paused
before Aunt Abby.

And then the newcomer spoke to the two doctors already present,
was introduced to Elliott and Hendricks, who were still there,
and in a very decided manner took affairs into his own hands.

"Yes, yes," he chattered on; "I will help you, Mrs, Embury. Now,
Dr. Harper, this is your case, I understand? Dr. Marsden--yours,
too? Yes, yes--mysterious, you say? Maybe so--maybe so. Let us
proceed at once."

The little man stood, nervously teetering up and down on his
toes, almost like a schoolboy preparing to speak a piece.
"Now--if you please--now--" he looked eagerly toward the other
doctors.

They all went into Embury's room and closed the door.

Then Eunice's temporary calm forsook her.

"It's awful!" she cried. "I don't want them to bother poor
Sanford. Why can't they let him alone? I don't care what killed
him! He's dead, and no doctors can help that! Oh, Alvord, can't
you make them let San alone?"

"No, Eunice; it has to be. Keep quiet, dear. It can do no good
for you to get all wrought up, and if you'd go and lie down--"

"For heaven's sake, stop telling me to go and lie down! If one
more person says that to me I shall just perfectly fly!"

"Now, Eunice," began Aunt Abby, "it's only 'for your own good,
dear. You are all excited and nervous--"

"Of course, I am! Who wouldn't be? Mason," she looked around at
the concerned faces, "I believe you understand me best. You know
I don't want to go and lie down, don't you?"

"Stay where you are, child," Elliott smiled kindly at her. "Of
course, you're nervous and upset--all you can do is to try to
hold yourself together--and don't try that too hard, either--for
you may defeat your own ends thereby. Just wait, Eunice; sit
still and wait."

They all waited, and after what seemed an interminable time the
Examiner reappeared and the other two doctors with him.

"Well, well," Crowell began, his restless hands twisting
themselves round each other. "Now, be quiet, Mrs, Embury--I
declare, I don't know how to say what I have to say, if you sit
there like a chained tiger--"

"Go on!" Eunice now seemed to usurp something of Crowell's own
dictatorship. "Go on, Dr. Crowell!"

"Well, ma'am, I will. But there's not much to tell. Our
principal evidence is lack of evidence--"

"What do you mean? "cried Eunice. "Talk English, please!"

"I am doing so. There is positively no evidence that Mr. Embury
was poisoned, yet owing to the absolute lack of any hint of any
other means of death, we are forced to the conclusion that he was
poisoned."

"By his own hand?" asked Hendricks, his face grave.

"Probably not. You see, sir, with no knowledge of how the poison
was administered--with no suspicion of any reason for its being
administered--we are working in the dark--"

"I should say so!" exclaimed Elliott; "black darkness, I call it.
Are you within your rights in assuming poison?"

"Entirely; it has to be the truth. No agent but a swift, subtle
poison could have cut off the victim's life like that."

Crowell was now walking up and down the room. He was a restless,
nervous man, and under stress of anxiety he became almost
hysterical.

"I don't know!" he cried out, as one in an extremity of
uncertainty. "It must be poison--it must have been--murder!"

He pronounced the last word in a gasping way--as if afraid to
suggest it but forced to do so.

Hendricks looked at him with a slight touch of contempt in his
glance, but seeing this, Dr. Harper interjected:

"The Examiner is regretting the necessity of thrusting his
convictions upon you, but he knows it must be done."

"Yes," said Crowell, more decidedly now, "I have had cases before
where murder was committed in such an almost undiscoverable way
as this. Never a case quite so mysterious, but nearly so."

"What is your theory of the method?" asked Elliott, who was
staggered by the rush of thoughts and conclusions made inevitable
by the Examiner's report.

"That's the greatest mystery of all," Crowell replied. He was
quite calm now--apparently it was concern for the family that had
made him so disturbed.

"Poison was not taken by way of the stomach, that is certain.
Therefore, it must have been introduced through some other
channel. But we find no trace of a hypodermic needle--"

"How utterly ridiculous!" Eunice exclaimed, her eyes blazing with
scorn. "How could any one get in to poison my husband? Why, we
lock all our doors at night--we always have."

"Yes'm--exactly, ma'am," Crowell began, rubbing his hands again;
"and now, please tell me of the locking up last night. As usual,
ma'am, as usual?"

"Precisely. Our sleeping rooms are those three," she pointed to
the bedrooms. "When they are locked, they form a unit by
themselves, quite apart from the rest of the apartment."

Dr. Crowell looked interested.

The apartment faced on Park Avenue, and being on the corner had
also windows on the side street.

Front, enumerating from the corner and running south, were the
dining-room, the large living-room, and the good-sized reception
hall.

Directly back of these, and with windows on a large court, were
the three bedrooms, Eunice's in the middle, Sanford's back of the
hall, and Aunt Abby's back of the dining-room. Aunt Abby's room
was ordinarily Eunice's boudoir and dressing-room, but was used
as a guest chamber on occasion.

These three bedrooms, as was shown to Examiner Crowell, when
locked from the inside were shut off by themselves, although
allowing free communication from one to another of them.

"Lock with keys?" he asked.

"No," Eunice replied. "There are big, strong, snap-locks on the
inside of the doors. I mean locks that fasten themselves when
you shut the door, unless you have previously put up the catch."

"Yes, I see," and Crowell looked into the matter for himself.
"Spring catches, and mighty strong ones, too. And these were
always fastened at night?"

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