“Yes.”
“Any children by any of these marriages?” I asked.
Slye smiled. “No.”
“The third wife-”
“Susannah Carfield Grimes,” Wishy said.
“-inherits all?”
“So it would seem,” Slye said.
As we reached this point in my history lesson, Owen slowed the vehicle and turned up a lane that had signs reading DANGER-KEEP OUT! and NO TRESPASSING! liberally posted at its entrance. A few yards in, a deputy stood guard at a simple metal gate, recognized us, and opened it to us. “You’ll see another man up ahead. He’ll guide you.”
The dark, winding road was designed not for automobiles but for oxen teams and wagons. Eventually we came to a fork in the road where another deputy stood holding a lantern. He signaled to us to stop.
“You’ll be going to the right here, on the narrower road. You’ll see a couple of pillars after a sharp curve. Tricky there, so take it slow. The drive leads to a stone house. Sheriff Anderson will be waiting for you there, but be damned careful once you step out of the car-you’re at the top of the cliffs now.”
Owen’s skillful driving took us past the imposing pillars. These anchored a pair of spiked iron gates, open at the moment. The property immediately near the home was surrounded by a fence of similar design.
“This seems an awkward road for a quarry crew to use,” Slye said.
“This road’s just for the house, sir,” Owen said. “The place where we made the turn? That other fork leads off to the entrance to the quarry, the one that used to be used by the teamsters. Goes all along the old pit’s edge to the other side of the quarry. That’s where the main works were, way back when. Had all kinds of rigging and such. There were once stables and pens for the oxen there, and an old wooden bunkhouse. Don’t know if any of that’s still there, though.”
“Be like Old Grimes to have torn it all down,” said Wishy.
Once past the gates, we reached the center of activity. A two-story stone cottage stood in a large clearing, lights shining from its windows. Near a much smaller dwelling, a Hudson limousine was parked. The front fenders on both sides were damaged.
“What on earth has Billy done to that Hudson!” Wishy exclaimed.
“I thought you said his name was Everett,” I said to Slye.
“Billy Westley is Everett Grimes’s chauffeur.”
“The car is rather small for a man of Grimes’s wealth, isn’t it?”
“Oh, he owns several larger ones,” Wishy said. He reluctantly added, “Grimes bought a certain yellow Rolls-Royce I had in mind.”
“Outbid you?”
Wishy nodded, as if the experience was too bitter for words.
Owen parked near the porch, where a group of men stood talking. One of them was the sheriff, whose Model T was also parked nearby. Sheriff Anderson was speaking to the coroner. Our local coroner, who had been reelected to this three-year position four times, was a mortician with a kind heart, excellent when it came to dealing with bereaved families and processing paperwork, but utterly lacking in medical and investigative training. He looked relieved to see us.
“I’ll transport the body to the hospital after you’ve had a look,” he said. “Dr. Clermont will perform the autopsy, but he’s in the city for a meeting and will not be able to get back until tomorrow afternoon. I do appreciate your coming by tonight, Dr. Tyndale.”
“I can’t give you any sort of official opinion.”
“Oh, I understand, but Dr. Clermont did hope you’d be able to make some initial observations, given how helpful you were to us on other cases.”
“Thank you. I’ll do what I can, of course.”
“I never cared much for Grimes,” the sheriff said, “but-well, I know how you like to work, so I’ll accompany you while you have look around. And, Mr. Hanslow, given your expertise, if you don’t mind, would you please stay here with Deputy Bell, and examine this car a little more closely? I need your assistance.”
Wishy, puffing out his chest a bit, said he would be glad to be of service.
As we climbed the steps leading to the front door, the sheriff murmured to us, “Noticed the last time you helped me that Wishy became a bit queasy.” He hesitated, then added, “You two all right?”
Slye nodded toward me. “I believe the good doctor can look upon nearly anything with fortitude. I try to emulate him. Any of your men likely to set off fireworks or discharge a weapon?”
“No,” Anderson said. “And I hope you know I have never thought less of you for seeking a bit of peace and quiet out here.”
Slye smiled. “I do know it, and thank you.”
“You probably wish I wouldn’t call on you-”
“No, indeed, the reverse is true. I may tease Wishy, but in truth, being able to help you is… therapeutic.”
“If you’d get a telephone-”
“But then Wishy would be denied what is doubtlessly therapeutic for him, as well.”
Slye continued ahead, leaving the sheriff to stare after him for a moment.
The “cottage,” far too large to be called such, was in a remote location but in no way lacking in modern amenities-electricity, telephone, and indoor plumbing. The kitchen was also modernized. Grimes was lying on the floor between the dining table and an alcove that held the only telephone. He was wearing a silk dressing gown, and had apparently chosen this casual attire because he was dining alone. Strewn about the floor near him were a silver soup tureen, dinner rolls, a fine china bowl and plate, a crystal water glass, flowers, a vase, and monogrammed silverware. The bowl and glass were in fragments. It was clear the table had been set for one. The soup-stained lace tablecloth lay half atop him, as if he had grabbed on to it as he fell and brought everything on the table crashing down with him. Carrot or pumpkin soup, judging by the color.
In life, I realized, he would have had great strength. His arms were well-muscled, his shoulders broad, his general physique was that of a fit and active man. But one meal had changed all that-no amount of muscle would have protected him from the onslaught he had faced.
Grimes had been violently ill. His face was blue. His mouth and lips were a cherry-red color, and livid red blotches mottled his skin. His lips and teeth were covered with a dried bloody foam. Leaning close, I could just make out the faint odor of bitter almonds.
“Cyanide, at a guess. Lab tests could easily make certain. No one should touch any of this food-no one should eat or drink anything in this house.” I spent a few moments studying the body closely, making notes, and then indicated to Bunny that I had done all I could do on the score of making initial observations. “It will take lab work and an autopsy to learn anything definitive.”
“Who found the body?” Bunny asked.
“Housekeeper and a maid, apparently,” the sheriff said. “They were in the lower house while he ate. They came up to gather the dishes and saw what you see now. Housekeeper was smart enough not to touch anything, once she felt for his heartbeat. Quite shaken. Called us, and we asked them not to call anyone else or speak of this to anyone until we had a chance to ask questions.”
“Excellent. Are they here?”
“No, we took them home, but I’ve got deputies there, keeping an eye on everyone, and keeping members of the household separated until I come back.”
“Let’s continue to look around, then,” Slye said.
We began going through the rooms on the lower floor. Other than the mess in the dining room, the place was clean and neat. The surfaces were clutter-free and polished, the wooden floors gleamed. No dusty shelves, no cobwebs. The kitchen was likewise immaculate. Even the kettle on the stove, which held more soup, was shiny. The pantry was nearly bare, but the few staples and preserves it held were in clean containers and stored in an orderly fashion. Slye and I looked for possible sources of the poison, but there was no rat killer on hand nor could I find anything else that contained cyanide. I kept an open mind about the possible agent used to poison Mr. Grimes, and made note of anything that might even remotely be toxic. There were some products that contained arsenic and other poisons, but such a large amount of these substances would need to be used to reach the required toxicity, I doubted that Grimes would have so much as tasted such a meal.