Deadly Nightshade (17 page)

“A
ND WHY DID YOU
engineer that elopement?” Gamadge turned an amused eye on Mitchell, who replied shortly:

“Don't you ask me that. If you'd let the boy stay and take a look at the Walworth woman, perhaps we could have done something about her. Now she's wandering around loose—”

“Not entirely so, I trust?”

“I'll put a man on her trail as soon as I can get hold of a telephone.”

“Two men, I hope; don't forget that four A.M. is as respectable an hour—”

“Oh, heck take it.”

“I wondered whether you weren't beginning to worry about the moral qualities of the Ormistons, also.”

Mitchell said with cold conviction: “So far as I'm concerned, the case is closed. Walworth may be crazy, or shamming crazy and as sane as we are, but she gave those children that nightshade. She had two good reasons for doing it—religious mania, or plain revenge, or both; she had opportunity; and she's flighty enough to take risks. We have no evidence against her, or rather the lawyers would say we hadn't. I don't want to run up against medical experts. We won't get a thing out of them that will put her behind bars. I'll see Loring, and find out whether he thinks there's a chance of getting her back into her sanatorium before she commits any more murders. Perhaps William Stanley is old enough so you'll think it's proper to have him look at her and say how she stopped him and took his picture and gave him candy; I suppose she'd run out of nightshade berries by the time she got around to him.”

“How very inaccurate you are, Mitchell. The lady who
started
to take William's picture was a stranger to him; he and his tribe have met Miss Walworth; she says so herself.”

“That's so. I forgot that.”

“There's another benevolent tourist going about the countryside; Miss Walworth has a rival. You haven't answered my other query: Don't you like the idea of Miss Strangways keeping on with the Ormistons?”

“No, I don't; but I can't exactly tell you why. You put something funny into my head, with that poetry of yours.”

“But I improvised that when I still thought Tommy might be the child of unnatural parents.”

“I know; just the same, I don't like the setup there. Ormiston may find himself in trouble about those pictures, before we get through with him; we'll have to follow up that lead about the Bartram money. And if there's an investigation, somebody will rake up the Strangways girl's past. I say, leave her out of it. If she borrows young Breck's money, and can't pay, she may decide to marry him.”

Gamadge, vastly entertained, contemplated Mitchell's wooden profile with affection. “One good thing, there isn't much Walworth apparent in Tom,” he said. “Ormiston's experiment would have been a dud.”

Mitchell made a sound of disgust. They turned south, passed sand dunes, then pastures, and arrived in front of a big red barn. Gamadge left the car. He walked up the ancient ramp, in the crevices of which the hayseed of summer still clung, and stood in the wide doorway, peering into stillness and gloom. Six kittens suddenly rushed from all directions, and flung themselves upon his shoes; he bent to stroke each head, and to allow six pairs of forepaws to embrace his finger. Then he straightened, and looked at the nail from which hung five bright-colored ribbons and five tiny bells.

“Whitey,” he said, addressing a pearl-colored creature which lay on its back, biting one of his shoestrings, “I think I have something of yours. See you later.”

He left the barn, wandered around to the back of it, and slowly climbed to the top of a rise; thence he looked down at the subtle red and yellow of the marsh, and its blue canals; their water as calm and as blue as the cobalt sky. He turned, and went back to the car.

The farmhouse stood back from the road on a small hill of its own, among tall maples. They went up a gravel path bordered with tiger lilies and petunias, and turned, at the porch steps, to remark that lilac bushes cut off their view of Mitchell's car.

“And you can't see the barn at all,” he said.

“No. Or much more than a glimpse of the road.”

“Those elms on the right cut off that hill behind the barn.”

“So they do.”

“I kind of hate to bother Mrs. Beasley again.” Mitchell rang, and the door was opened part way by an alert-looking, black-haired girl of fourteen.

“Mother can't see no strangers,” she said, resolutely.

“We ain't strangers,” Mitchell reminded her. “At least I ain't. You've seen me before, Claribel; and this is a friend of mine come all the way from New York—”

“To borrow a kitten,” finished Gamadge.

This statement not only caused Claribel to stare, but drew poor Mrs. Beasley herself from her seclusion. She appeared behind the girl, and looked wonderingly at Gamadge; a dignified and straight-backed figure, with dark hair like her daughter's, and fine dark eyes.

Gamadge said: “Do please forgive us for coming in on you like this, Mrs. Beasley, without an invitation. That little girl down at the Bartrams', George Bartram's little girl, you know; she had to leave her cat behind in Europe, when they came over. She misses it. She's a nice little thing, and she's a little lonely down there. I thought you might spare her one of your kittens. The white one, as a matter of fact. She wants a white one.”

Mrs. Beasley said, opening the door wide, “Claribel, go get a small peach basket, and a piece of cheesecloth.”

Claribel disappeared along a narrow hall. Mrs. Beasley continued: “Won't you come in while she's catching the kitten?” She motioned them into a room on the right, and they all sat down in cool dusk, smelling of geraniums and mildew. Gamadge and Mrs. Beasley contemplated each other in silence. At last he inquired:

“Do you have the gypsies up here much in the summertime, Mrs. Beasley?”

“No, they don't bother. We don't buy from them.”

“They don't pass along the road often, then?”

“No. We brought the children up to be kind of afraid of gypsies.”

“Many other people drop in on you here? It's not really out of the beaten track, is it? I mean, lots of people must come through, from Portland and Bailtown.”

“They don't, much. There's a better route above here.”

“Then you don't get tourists looking for drinks of water, people with car trouble, that kind of thing.”

“No. Our house ain't very close to the road.”

“There's a lady with a little car; fond of children, likes old-fashioned places. I wondered if she'd called on you this last week. I happen to know her, slightly. She—”

Mrs. Beasley interrupted him, with a slight show of animation:

“You mean Miss Humphrey?”

“Er…” Gamadge, completely stumped, wondered whether to say yes, or to say no. Miss Walworth's foibles might include the use of an alias. Mrs. Beasley saved him the trouble of making up his mind:

“The lady photographer. She come on Labor Day, late afternoon.”

“Oh. The lady photographer. No, I don't think—” Gamadge cast a side glance at Mitchell, whose face was squarer and blanker than he had ever seen it before, and said quickly: “I did hear something about a lady photographer.”

“She come for Sairy's picture. She was takin' pictures of six-to eight-year-old children for the competition.”

“Really!”

“Yes. She was takin' for the whole county.”

“What competition, Mrs. Beasley?”

“For a magazine—
Health In The Home
, she said it was. She said the competition was for the finest child in Maine.”

“How very interesting.”

“The child that got the most votes in a county got a prize; and the one that got the most votes of all, got a hundred dollars. This Miss Humphrey—cute little camera she had. First she wanted me to give her a picture of Sairy, or tell her where to get one; but I didn't have any except a snapshot, that wasn't good. So she took the photograph herself. She promised me one, if Sairy got a prize.”

“And the children were all to be of a certain age, Mrs. Beasley?”

“Six to eight. But she was willin' to take younger ones, if she thought they'd take a good picture.”

“This was on Monday, you say.”

“Yes, about four thirty.”

“When are the pictures to come out?”

“She couldn't say. Beasley thinks it's a scheme to make us subscribe to the magazine.”

“I don't believe it is. A good picture, you know, would cost more than the average subscription.”

“I'll tell Beasley that.” Mrs. Beasley's tragic face had lightened a little.

“I wonder if she's the woman I've seen about here. How does she dress? I suppose she'd be smart and up-to-date; most of these people are.”

Mrs. Beasley's eye held a glint of amusement. “She was pretty smart, any way you look at it. But she was painted too thick, and her hair was dyed—I never see such a yeller. There was curls of it stickin' out, under her hat. She wore one of those short veils, with embroidery on it.”

“Very smart indeed. Young woman, was she, Mrs. Beasley?”

“No, I wouldn't call her young. She was spry enough. She looked quite nice, I must say, and she talked real pleasant. Claribel can tell you just how she looked.”

“Was she driving herself?”

“I don't know. You can't see the road good from here, and I didn't go down to the gate.”

Claribel came in, carrying a basket covered with cheesecloth; something bounced obscurely within, and Gamadge inspected it with sympathy.

“Poor Whitey!” he murmured. “We'd better get back with you as soon as possible. You seem very frantic. They always are frantic, aren't they, in circumstances such as these?” He took the basket, and rose. “You remember that photographer woman, Claribel?”

“Miss Humphrey. Yes, I do,” said Claribel, eagerly.

“Your mother says you know just how she was dressed.”

“She had on a long coat, down to the edge of her dress, with big black and white checks on it. She had a little white hat with a black nose veil, pearl earrings, quite big ones, and a diamond pin in the neck of her shirtwaist. It was a white silk shirtwaist, and she had black and white pumps without any toes, and flesh-colored silk stockings. There was a bug embroidered on her veil, right over one eye.”

“Bug, was there?”

“Dragonfly or something. A big one.”

“Was
she
big?”

“Kind of tall.”

“Thin?”

“Kind of big.”

“I'd call her a big woman,” said Mrs. Beasley.

“Would you know her again, Claribel?” asked Gamadge.

“I'd know her if she was dressed the same.”

“Not much view of her face, was there?”

“Only her mouth.”

“With the lipstick on it,” said Mrs. Beasley, dryly. “Claribel's just livin' to get some on her own mouth, like her sisters have. They're comin' tomorrow, and all their husbands and children, and the boys are comin', and their wives. We don't hardly know where we'll put 'em. Jennie's comin' all the way from St. Paul.”

“That's pretty nice, Mrs. Beasley.”

“I guess it is.”

“You must be cooking like mad. We'll leave you to it.” He moved towards the door, but turned to ask: “Did Miss Humphrey take any pictures of the place? Get you to show her around?”

“No, she was in an awful hurry. Wouldn't let me change Sairy's dress, or crimp her hair.”

“Well, I'm greatly obliged for the cat. If they aren't too rushed getting off—they're going on Monday—they'll probably drive up and thank you themselves.”

Gamadge went down to the car, Mitchell lingering to use the telephone. Then they were once more on the road, and driving back towards Harper's Rocks; no word having been exchanged as to this return upon their tracks. Gamadge said at last:

“Another lady in a car. There will be half a dozen, before we get through with them. I forgot, though; if the case is closed, as you say, Miss Humphrey is Miss Walworth in disguise. I should love to see her in a blond wig, an inch of make-up, a nose veil, and pumps.”

“That contest may be on the level.”

“There may even be a magazine called
Health In The Home
, but we don't think so, or we should not be rushing back to ask the Ormistons and the Bartrams whether they also had a visit from Miss Humphrey, the lady photographer.”

“I wish people didn't withhold information; I asked the Beasleys fifty times if there had been strangers around.”

“Only you didn't make any inquiries about Monday.”

“And why the dickens should this woman go around Monday, or any other time, taking pictures?”

“Somebody had to spy out the land; these poisonings were timed, as I keep telling you.”

“That was a good disguise.”

“Yes. Those veils don't merely conceal most of the features—they distort them. I wonder if Miss Walworth has an effective alibi for Monday afternoon.”

“I bet she hasn't any alibi for any time; her with her outside staircase.”

“When did she arrive at the Pegram House?”

“Tuesday—suppertime.”

The whole length of the north road was deserted except for sandpipers, screaming and whirling gulls, and a curious seal, whose head bobbed in the still waters beyond the surf. As they rounded the eastern bend Mitchell said: “The George Bartrams could have made it. They could have driven right down here Monday afternoon, and got back to Haverley for supper.”

“You can build Mrs. Bartram up into Miss Humphrey, I suppose; but I hardly think that George Bartram will trim down to her.”

“No, and the gypsies won't fit. I'd laugh if she was a real canvasser, after all.”

“I shouldn't; I should fall insensible.”

Mitchell swooped down on the Ormiston cottage with a scattering of pebbles, and was out of the car before Gamadge had untangled his legs and deposited Whitey's basket on the seat. He reached the foot of the path when Mitchell had charged up the first half of the slope. Mrs. Ormiston, sitting beside the sand pile in the attitude of the Thinker, Tommy's shovel in her hand, looked up, surprised.