Agatha Webb (2 page)

But before he could enter, some one plucked him by the sleeve.

"Look up!" whispered a voice into his ear.

He did so, and saw a woman's body hanging half out of an upper
window. It hung limp, and the sight made him sick, notwithstanding
his threescore years of experience.

"Who's that?" he cried. "That's not Agatha Webb."

"No, that's Batsy, the cook. She's dead as well as her mistress.
We left her where we found her for the coroner to see."

"But this is horrible," murmured Mr. Sutherland. "Has there been a
butcher here?"

As he uttered these words, he felt another quick pressure on his
arm. Looking down, he saw leaning against him the form of a young
woman, but before he could address her she had started upright
again and was moving on with the throng. It was Miss Page.

"It was the sight of this woman hanging from the window which
first drew attention to the house," volunteered a man who was
standing as a sort of guardian at the main gateway. "Some of the
sailors' wives who had been to the wharves to see their husbands
off on the ship that sailed at daybreak, saw it as they came up
the lane on their way home, and gave the alarm. Without that we
might not have known to this hour what had happened."

"But Mrs. Webb?"

"Come in and see."

There was a board fence about the simple yard within which stood
the humble house forever after to be pointed out as the scene of
Sutherlandtown's most heartrending tragedy. In this fence was a
gate, and through this gate now passed Mr. Sutherland, followed by
his would-be companion, Miss Page. A path bordered by lilac bushes
led up to the house, the door of which stood wide open. As soon as
Mr. Sutherland entered upon this path a man approached him from
the doorway. It was Amos Fenton, the constable.

"Ah, Mr. Sutherland," said he, "sad business, a very sad business!
But what little girl have you there?"

"This is Miss Page, my housekeeper's niece. She would come.
Inquisitiveness the cause. I do not approve of it."

"Miss Page must remain on the doorstep. We allow no one inside
excepting yourself," he said respectfully, in recognition of the
fact that nothing of importance was ever undertaken in Sutherland
town without the presence of Mr. Sutherland.

Miss Page curtsied, looking so bewitching in the fresh morning
light that the tough old constable scratched his chin in grudging
admiration. But he did not reconsider his determination. Seeing
this, she accepted her defeat gracefully, and moved aside to where
the bushes offered her more or less protection from the curiosity
of those about her. Meanwhile Mr. Sutherland had stepped into the
house.

He found himself in a small hall with a staircase in front and an
open door at the left. On the threshold of this open door a man
stood, who at sight of him doffed his hat. Passing by this man,
Mr. Sutherland entered the room beyond. A table spread with
eatables met his view, beside which, in an attitude which struck
him at the moment as peculiar, sat Philemon Webb, the well-known
master of the house.

Astonished at seeing his old friend in this room and in such a
position, he was about to address him, when Mr. Fenton stopped
him.

"Wait!" said he. "Take a look at poor Philemon before you disturb
him. When we broke into the house a half-hour ago he was sitting
just as you see him now, and we have let him be for reasons you
can easily appreciate. Examine him closely, Mr. Sutherland; he
won't notice it."

"But what ails him? Why does he sit crouched against the table? Is
he hurt too?"

"No; look at his eyes."

Mr. Sutherland stooped and pushed aside the long grey locks that
half concealed the countenance of his aged friend.

"Why," he cried, startled, "they are closed! He isn't dead?"

"No, he is asleep."

"Asleep?"

"Yes. He was asleep when we came in and he is asleep yet. Some of
the neighbours wanted to wake him, but I would not let them. His
wits are not strong enough to bear a sudden shock."

"No, no, poor Philemon! But that he should sit sleeping here while
she—But what do these bottles mean and this parade of supper in a
room they were not accustomed to eat in?"

"We don't know. It has not been eaten, you see. He has swallowed a
glass of port, but that is all. The other glasses have had no wine
in them, nor have the victuals been touched."

"Seats set for three and only one occupied," murmured Mr.
Sutherland. "Strange! Could he have expected guests?"

"It looks like it. I didn't know that his wife allowed him such
privileges; but she was always too good to him, and I fear has
paid for it with her life."

"Nonsense! he never killed her. Had his love been anything short
of the worship it was, he stood in too much awe of her to lift his
hand against her, even in his most demented moments."

"I don't trust men of uncertain wits," returned the other. "You
have not noticed everything that is to be seen in this room."

Mr. Sutherland, recalled to himself by these words, looked quickly
about him. With the exception of the table and what was on and by
it there was nothing else in the room. Naturally his glance
returned to Philemon Webb.

"I don't see anything but this poor sleeping man," he began.

"Look at his sleeve."

Mr. Sutherland, with a start, again bent down. The arm of his old
friend lay crooked upon the table, and on its blue cotton sleeve
there was a smear which might have been wine, but which was—
blood.

As Mr. Sutherland became assured of this, he turned slightly pale
and looked inquiringly at the two men who were intently watching
him.

"This is bad," said he. "Any other marks of blood below stairs?"

"No; that one smear is all."

"Oh, Philemon!" burst from Mr. Sutherland, in deep emotion. Then,
as he looked long and shudderingly at his friend, he added slowly:

"He has been in the room where she was killed; so much is evident.
But that he understood what was done there I cannot believe, or he
would not be sleeping here like a log. Come, let us go up-stairs."

Fenton, with an admonitory gesture toward his subordinate, turned
directly toward the staircase. Mr. Sutherland followed him, and
they at once proceeded to the upper hall and into the large front
room which had been the scene of the tragedy.

It was the parlour or sitting-room of this small and unpretentious
house. A rag carpet covered the floor and the furniture was of the
plainest kind, but the woman who lay outstretched on the stiff,
old-fashioned lounge opposite the door was far from being in
accord with the homely type of her surroundings. Though the victim
of a violent death, her face and form, both of a beauty seldom to
be found among women of any station, were so majestic in their
calm repose, that Mr. Sutherland, accustomed as he was to her
noble appearance, experienced a shock of surprise that found vent
in these words:

"Murdered! she? You have made some mistake, my friends. Look at
her face!"

But even in the act of saying this his eyes fell on the blood
which had dyed her cotton dress and he cried:

"Where was she struck and where is the weapon which has made this
ghastly wound?"

"She was struck while standing or sitting at this table," returned
the constable, pointing to two or three drops of blood on its
smooth surface. "The weapon we have not found, but the wound shows
that it was inflicted by a three-sided dagger."

"A three-sided dagger?"

"Yes."

"I didn't know there was such a thing in town. Philemon could have
had no dagger."

"It does not seem so, but one can never tell. Simple cottages like
these often contain the most unlooked-for articles."

"I cannot imagine a dagger being among its effects," declared Mr.
Sutherland. "Where was the body of Mrs. Webb lying when you came
in?"

"Where you see it now. Nothing has been moved or changed."

"She was found here, on this lounge, in the same position in which
we see her now?"

"Yes, sir."

"But that is incredible. Look at the way she lies! Hands crossed,
eyes closed, as though made ready for her burial. Only loving
hands could have done this. What does it mean?"

"It means Philemon; that is what it means Philemon."

Mr. Sutherland shuddered, but said nothing. He was dumbfounded by
these evidences of a crazy man's work. Philemon Webb always seemed
so harmless, though he had been failing in mind for the last ten
years.

"But" cried Mr. Sutherland, suddenly rousing, "there is another
victim. I saw old woman Batsy hanging from a window ledge, dead."

"Yes, she is in this other room; but there is no wound on Batsy."

"How was she killed, then?"

"That the doctors must tell us."

Mr. Sutherland, guided by Mr. Fenton's gesture, entered a small
room opening into the one in which they stood. His attention was
at once attracted by the body of the woman he had seen from below,
lying half in and half out of the open window. That she was dead
was evident; but, as Mr. Fenton had said, no wound was to be seen
upon her, nor were there any marks of blood on or about the place
where she lay.

"This is a dreadful business," groaned Mr. Sutherland, "the worst
I have ever had anything to do with. Help me to lift the woman in;
she has been long enough a show for the people outside."

There was a bed in this room (indeed, it was Mrs. Webb's bedroom),
and upon this poor Batsy was laid. As the face came uppermost both
gentlemen started and looked at each other in amazement. The
expression of terror and alarm which it showed was in striking
contrast to the look of exaltation to be seen on the face of her
dead mistress.

As they re-entered the larger room, they were astonished to come
upon Miss Page standing in the doorway. She was gazing at the
recumbent figure of the dead woman, and for a moment seemed
unconscious of their presence.

"How did you get in? Which of my men was weak enough to let you
pass, against my express instructions?" asked the constable, who
was of an irritable and suspicious nature.

She let the hood drop from her head, and, turning, surveyed him
with a slow smile. There was witchery in that smile sufficient to
affect a much more cultivated and callous nature than his, and
though he had been proof against it once he could not quite resist
the effect of its repetition.

"I insisted upon entering," said she. "Do not blame the men; they
did not want to use force against a woman." She had not a good
voice and she knew it; but she covered up this defect by a choice
of intonations that carried her lightest speech to the heart.
Hard-visaged Amos Fenton gave a grunt, which was as near an
expression of approval as he ever gave to anyone.

"Well! well!" he growled, but not ill-naturedly, "it's a morbid
curiosity that brings you here. Better drop it, girl; it won't do
you any good in the eyes of sensible people."

"Thank you," was her demure reply, her lips dimpling at the
corners in a way to shock the sensitive Mr. Sutherland.

Glancing from her to the still outlines of the noble figure on the
couch, he remarked with an air of mild reproof:

"I do not understand you, Miss Page. If this solemn sight has no
power to stop your coquetries, nothing can. As for your curiosity,
it is both ill-timed and unwomanly. Let me see you leave this
house at once, Miss Page; and if in the few hours which must
elapse before breakfast you can find time to pack your trunks, you
will still farther oblige me."

"Oh, don't send me away, I entreat you."

It was a cry from her inner heart, which she probably regretted,
for she instantly sought to cover up her inadvertent self-betrayal
by a submissive bend of the head and a step backward. Neither Mr.
Fenton nor Mr. Sutherland seemed to hear the one or see the other,
their attention having returned to the more serious matter in
hand.

"The dress which our poor friend wears shows her to have been
struck before retiring," commented Mr. Sutherland, after another
short survey of Mrs. Webb's figure. "If Philemon—"

"Excuse me, sir," interrupted the voice of the young man who had
been left in the hall, "the lady is listening to what you say. She
is still at the head of the stairs."

"She is, is she!" cried Fenton, sharply, his admiration for the
fascinating stranger having oozed out at his companion's rebuff.
"I will soon show her—" But the words melted into thin air as he
reached the door. The young girl had disappeared, and only a faint
perfume remained in the place where she had stood.

"A most extraordinary person," grumbled the constable, turning
back, but stopping again as a faint murmur came up from below.

"The gentleman is waking," called up a voice whose lack of music
was quite perceptible at a distance.

With a bound Mr. Fenton descended the stairs, followed by Mr.
Sutherland.

Miss Page stood before the door of the room in which sat Philemon
Webb. As they reached her side, she made a little bow that was
half mocking, half deprecatory, and slipped from the house. An
almost unbearable sensation of incongruity vanished with her, and
Mr. Sutherland, for one, breathed like a man relieved.

"I wish the doctor would come," Fenton said, as they watched the
slow lifting of Philemon Webb's head. "Our fastest rider has gone
for him, but he's out Portchester way, and it may be an hour yet
before he can get here."

"Philemon!"

Mr. Sutherland had advanced and was standing by his old friend's
side.

"Philemon, what has become of your guests? You've waited for them
here until morning."

The old man with a dazed look surveyed the two plates set on
either side of him and shook his head.

"James and John are getting proud," said he, "or they forget, they
forget."