Chapter VII: Investigation

Sheriff Redden, at least, seemed quite untouched by the paralysis of thought which held us all. He cleared his throat briskly, ran a watery eye over our blank visages, and stooped over the dead man.

“H’m,” said he. “Plumb center--with a shotgun, held clost enough to scorch his shirt some. Who found him?”

A quail whistled sharply, as if in mockery, and its shrill note struck exactly the key of the high sheriff’s squeaky voice. It was ridiculous enough, yet none of us seemed moved to laugh. Indeed, I valued the sheriff’s intelligence the higher, that he asked: “Who found him?” instead of “Who did it?”

“I found him!” answered Lewis and the constable, almost together. “That is----” and both stopped short.

“You first,” ordered the sheriff, flipping a calloused palm at my nephew. And he listened attentively, his wizen, wrinkled face inscrutable, while the boy told his faltering tale.

“I was coming down the path, and I thought I saw a quail on that limb, right there. I cocked the gun and started to raise it; and then I tripped, and it went off. But I didn’t see a soul or hear a sound; I swear I didn’t!”

“H’m,” said Sheriff Redden, blinking his little, red-rimmed eyes. “H’m! What was you doin’ out here with a gun, right in th’ village?”

“It was the quail,” said Lewis. He seemed dazed, incapable of thought. He began to repeat his story: “I was coming down the path----”

“The birds annoyed Miss McGregor so much she couldn’t sleep. She’s an invalid, you know.” And I told him of Aunt Mary’s complaints and my nephew’s promise.

“H’m,” repeated the sheriff. “So you come out t’ kill off them pa’tridge? H’m! Didn’t look t’ see Doc Gaskell out here? What was th’ doc doin’ in McGregors’ back yard that time o’ mornin’, yuh s’pose?”

“Somebody sick, probably,” I answered. “He had his medicine case, you see.”

The sheriff blinked down at the black bag, which Gaskell’s dead hand still gripped. “H’m! Like enough. We c’n see after that later. Hey, Burgess!”

He turned toward the street, whence came a reply to his shrill summons. A battered roadster stood in front of Fort House, and a stout, middle-aged man, bearded thickly, was just climbing out of it. He held a stout satchel.

“Doc Burgess, th’ coroner,” explained the sheriff. “Better let him have a look fust; then we c’n take th’ body home.”

The coroner came toward us briskly, with a fat man’s rolling gait. He set down his bag and knelt beside the dead man, grunting.

His examination took but a moment. “Stone dead,” he announced, and his thick beard moved to the words. “Never knew what hit him. Must have dropped where he stood. All right, you can move him now, sheriff. I’d better have a complete autopsy done, I suppose, though I’d be ready to swear to the cause of death right now.”

“H’m! How long’s he bin daid, you reckon?”

Doctor Burgess touched the dead man’s breast, moved an arm tentatively. “We-ell, two hours, anyhow--maybe longer. Can’t say exactly.”

The sheriff looked at his watch. “Seven-fifteen. You was out here at five, Parker?”

I nodded. “I’d looked at my watch just a minute before I saw him shoot.”

“Saw him shoot?” the sheriff repeated. “Where was you?”

“Up at that window, looking out.”

“H’m! You see Doc Gaskell?”

“No. There wasn’t a soul in sight. The bushes didn’t move even.”

“H’m,” repeated the sheriff. “Well, let’s git goin’.”

He beckoned to a lounger, who had retreated only to the street, and presently a couple of boards were found. Constable and coroner lifted the dead man gently, and four volunteers carried him away toward his own house. The bright sun shone down as cheerily as if all had been well in Pinelands; and the quail whistled “bob_white_! bob_white_!” without faltering upon a single note. To my disturbed mind, they seemed to jeer at us, to rejoice in this tragedy which they had caused.

“Rufe, you go over an’ stay with th’ body,” said the sheriff. “Keep all them folks away. I gotta git word t’ Mis’ Gaskell, an’ find out where the doc was goin’, an’----”

“He was coming to my place, sheriff.” It was Olsen, the druggist, who spoke. He had joined the ragged fringe of curious ones who still hung about, but at a respectful distance. “My little girl woke up with awful pains in her stomach, and we phoned after the doctor. Say, Redden, isn’t this a dreadful thing!”

“H’m,” said the sheriff. “Somebody oughta let Mis’ Gaskell know about it. Whereabouts is she, Olsen? Do you know?”

“Why, yes; she went to Jackson Springs for a few days with the Ruggleses. I’ll take care of that, sheriff; I’ll send for Mrs. Gaskell, and the lodge will make arrangements for the funeral and all.”

“All right, you-all c’n see to that end of it. An’ now”--the sheriff turned a quizzical, blinking eye upon me--“th’ next mos’ important thing seems t’ be, when do we eat?”

The old gentleman was bearing himself with extraordinary courtesy and kindliness, I thought. He kept a keen, faded eye upon Lewis, of course; he saw to it that the boy did not wander far from his side, but he had not so much as mentioned that he was under arrest.

“Come over to our house,” I invited. “I expect Rosina can scrape us up something.”

We were standing by the corner of the Fort House porch; and now a sweet, tremulous voice from above cut across my words.

“Of course not! You come right in here, Uncle George, and bring Lewis and these--these gentlemen--both of them. Breakfast is waiting for you.”

We started, and I looked up. Dorothy McGregor leaned over the porch rail, smiling down at us bravely, if tearfully--a vision of loveliness. The old sheriff swept off his broad-brimmed hat and bowed with old-fashioned courtesy; the coroner bowed also, a pleased smile upon his grave, bearded face.

“I thank you, ma’am. Sorry to intrude on you-all, but I reckon we better accept yo’r kind invitation. Yuh see, ah--circumstances is such--well, I gotta stay with Doctor Parker, ma’am, f’r th’ present, or I wouldn’t butt in on you-all this a way.”

He stammered, wiping his leathery old face in sincere embarrassment. Though they had never met, the sheriff knew Dorothy, as did every one else in town. He knew that she was about to be married to my nephew, and he dreaded to tell her that the boy was under arrest.

But he need not have been troubled. Dorothy met him at the steps, still smiling courageously, despite trembling lips, and gave him a cordial hand. “Mr. Redden, isn’t it? Of course I know who you are, sheriff, and I understand that you’ve had to arrest Lewis. But it’s only for a day or so, isn’t it?” she asked. “Just until he’s cleared, or whatever you call it? And it’s just sweet of you, sheriff, to let him come in for a little while before he--g-goes.”

“H’m! Yessum, jus’ f’r a little while, o’ course. I--I--this is Doc Burgess, Miss Dorothy, a--a friend o’ mine.”

“How do you do, doctor? Now come in, everybody. The waffles will be ready, and it makes Rosina awfully mad if they have to stand a minute.”

She led the way to the dining room, still chattering bravely, but I saw how her hand trembled upon Lewis’ arm.

Dorothy seated us all about the big, round table, and breakfast was served at once. Conversation languished, as one might have expected; but the officers paid enough attention to Rosina’s cooking to balance the scant appetites of the family.

“Where’s Aunt Mary?” I whispered to the girl beside me. I wondered how the old lady would react to this rude upsetting of the routine of life at Fort House.

“In her room,” Dorothy answered. She made no pretense of eating, but sat close to Lewis, holding his hand openly and proudly, murmuring comfort to him. “She hasn’t come out at all; I don’t believe she knows anything about--this.”

While Dorothy was speaking, the portières were pushed back, and Aunt Mary McGregor appeared, bolt upright in her wheel chair, propelled, as usual, by her yawning nurse. Our unwelcome guests rose.

The old lady’s thin, arched eyebrows rose higher than ever. She blinked her eyes very fast, an unfailing sign of irritation, as I was beginning to learn.

“Good morning!” she said very coldly indeed. “And who are these--ah--gentlemen, Dorothy?”

Flushed and embarrassed, Dorothy rose also. “Why--why, aunty, these are friends of Lewis. This is Sheriff Redden; my aunt, Miss McGregor, Mr. Redden. And Doctor----”

“Indeed!” Aunt Mary’s frosty voice cut her off. The old lady’s eyebrows rose higher yet, if that were possible, and she winked fast, passing a hand across her eyes in a curious, uncertain gesture which was not like her. “A policeman, here! And why, may I ask?”

“Just--just a little matter of business, ma’am,” replied the sheriff, very red and uneasy. “With--with Doctor Parker, here.”

“Mf!” said Aunt Mary. “How amusing!” But I fancied that her manner was less glacial. “And this other gentleman?”

“Doctor Burgess, of Smyrna,” explained Dorothy miserably.

“Ah, yes; Doctor Burgess, of course. And to what do we owe this unexpected--pleasure?”

It is impossible to describe the saccharine insolence of Aunt Mary’s tone. Her smile was as saintly as ever, her courtesy impeccable, while her face wore its accustomed look of patient suffering. And yet with a look, with a drawled word, with a tiny pause before “pleasure,” she contrived to make us all feel exquisitely uncomfortable. She had a genius for that sort of thing, I was beginning to perceive.

“I was afraid we’d intrude on you-all,” began Redden, apologetically. “I reckon we better----” He stopped, not knowing what to say. Doctor Burgess looked down his nose, tugging reflectively at his heavy beard. Dorothy wiped her eyes.

“Doctor Gaskell is dead,” I declared. The old lady’s calm selfishness, her subtle discourtesy, angered me. Let her face the brutal fact, like the rest of us!

“Gaskell has been killed, right in your back yard!”

“Indeed!” Aunt Mary yawned. “Dorothy, where is my coffee? I feel very ill, after the shock of that man’s brutal language yesterday. I need my coffee. But, then, no one thinks of me. No one cares enough for my suffering even to ask how I am. I dozed off toward morning; the birds didn’t disturb me, thanks to Doctor Parker”--she nodded graciously toward Lewis--“and I got up quite rested. And then I’m expected to meet strangers at breakfast--which always upsets me--and on top of that I have to listen to such unpleasant news. Dear me! I feel the knots coming in my neck already. No one has any consideration for me!”

“Why, you----” I began and stopped. I had been about to flare out at the old lady; her callousness enraged me so. Surely this was beyond even Aunt Mary’s self-absorption! But her white-lipped, quivering face checked me. This time, at least, Miss McGregor was really suffering; I was sure of that.

Then my eyes traveled past her to the nurse, Miss Christie, who had stood silently behind the wheel chair all this time. Then I jumped up.

“Lewis, Doctor Burgess! Quick, she’s fainting!”

We all ran toward her, and just in time. With a faint sigh, Miss Christie collapsed limply, and the doctor caught her, as she fell, and laid her gently down.

Again I was struck by the unexpected beauty of her white face. Ordinarily sleepy and stolid, strong emotion seemed to vivify her face, to transfigure her bovine placidity. Now, lying with closed eyes, still and white as death, she was very beautiful.

“Upon my word!” cried Aunt Mary. “Every one seems to be in a conspiracy to upset me to-day. Dorothy, please take me to my room. I can’t eat a mouthful.”

This was scarcely true. The old lady had occupied her few minutes with us quite profitably, eating as she talked. She had consumed three waffles--I counted them--and two cups of coffee. But Dorothy wheeled her out obediently, while we men ministered to the fainting nurse.

Dorothy returned in a moment, to kneel beside me. “What do you suppose was the matter? Is she sick, Doctor Burgess? Poor girl! Let me, Uncle George.”

She took the nurse’s head upon her knee and began to bathe the broad, white forehead with cold water, very gently. Presently Miss Christie opened tragic, violet eyes that seemed black with emotion.

“What--what happened to Doctor Gaskell?” she asked in a whisper. “Who killed him?”

We stared at each other dumbly. It was Lewis who answered at last.

“I’m afraid I did it,” he told her quite simply. “It was an accident. I didn’t see a soul or hear a sound. I was coming down the path, and I thought I saw a quail.” Here he repeated his story, almost word for word, as he had told it a dozen times this morning. He was still much shaken.

“Oh!” It was the faintest of sighs, and I fancied that it expressed relief. A tinge of color crept into the girl’s white cheeks as she covered her eyes and burst into tears.

“There, there, honey,” said Dorothy. “What is it? What’s the trouble?”

Miss Christie sat up and wiped her eyes. “N-nothing,” she said sobbingly. “Only it was a shock. You see, Doctor Gaskell did so much for me; he was a wonderful friend. I was raised in the mountains, and I never had a chance until he came. But he helped me to leave home; he got me a place in the hospital. He kept me nursing for him ever since I graduated. Whatever I am, I owe to him. He was a father to me--a father!” She laughed bitterly. “A thousand times more kind than the only father I ever knew! That’s all.”

She rose quietly. Suddenly all the life and fire of her face died like a blown-out candle. She had been inspired; now she was commonplace once more, bovine, placid, almost stupid, expressionless. I wondered at the change. No one would look twice at her now.

“I must go and see to Miss McGregor,” she murmured. “I’m sorry to have made so much trouble.” Then she vanished silently.