“I see your point.”
Slye picked up the book on the table. He opened it to the marked page and smiled. “ ‘Toxicology.’ ”
“It’s a book on poisons?” the sheriff exclaimed. “And my men missed that!”
“Oh no, absolve them. The book is Alexandre Dumas père’s The Count of Monte Cristo. The title of the chapter is ‘Toxicology.’ ”
“You think the owner of that book is our poisoner?”
“Our poisoner could be nearly anyone. We are still gathering facts. But no, if I recall correctly, that chapter of the book discusses arsenic, not cyanide.” Slye spoke absently while looking toward the loft. “Are the cook-housekeeper and the chauffeur a married couple?”
“Married?” The sheriff followed his gaze. “I see what you mean. Not suitable accommodations for a mix of unmarried male and female employees, is it? We’ll need to ask Mrs. Grimes about the situation here.”
Wishy rejoined us, and the sheriff accepted a ride to the Grimes estate. As Owen smoothly negotiated the difficult turn, the sheriff commended him. “Tell you the truth, I thought I was going to have a smashup on my way in here.”
“Billy did,” Wishy said. “Twice.”
Owen, overhearing him, said, “Not Billy Westley, sir.”
Wishy looked irritated by the contradiction.
“Perhaps he was drunk,” the sheriff suggested.
“No, sir. If you’ll forgive my intruding into the conversation.”
“Your knowledge of him could be very helpful to us, Owen,” Slye said, and Wishy subsided. “Why are you so certain he could not have been drunk?”
“Took the pledge a long time ago-before Prohibition passed, sir. And kept to it. Billy’s a cheeky bastard who knows how well he drives and how good he looks, but he’s a sober one, for all that. His father was a drunkard who died in a carter’s accident. It’s why his mother ended up working for Old-for Mr. Grimes.”
“In what capacity?”
“Isidora Westley is the housekeeper now, sir. Billy grew up in that house, learned to be a chauffeur there. And if he ever so much as caused a scratch on any of Mr. Grimes’s cars, I’d like to know who saw it happen.”
“I will grant you his reputation on all counts,” Wishy said, “but someone who didn’t drive as well smashed two fenders on that car. One coming and one going, I’d say. Probably getting past the pillars while negotiating the turn near the gates. Examined the gates myself. Paint on them. Hard to tell in the dark, but looked to be the same color as the Hudson.”
“Why are you sure it was two separate times, and not both sides at once?” Slye asked.
“Way the gates are marked. Coming in, struck the gate that would have been on his left, scraping the left fender on the side of the gate nearest the pillar. Leaving, hit that same gate, which was now on his right, damaging the right fender. That damage is on the other end of the gate, the part that is farthest from the pillar.”
“Excellent work, Wishy.”
Even in the darkness I could see Hanslow blush. “Something else you should know. Driver’s seat is wet.”
“With, er, what?” the sheriff asked.
“Water, far as I can tell. Not blood-found it by pressing my hand onto the seat as I leaned across to look at the floor. Startled me, but when I looked at my hand, no blood on it. Floor on that side was wet, too. Think it might be water from the quarry. Billy may have gone for a swim. Not sopping wet, just damp.”
“Anything else unusual on the inside of the Hudson?”
“A few small bird feathers in the passenger compartment. Goose or duck, I think. Probably from a pillow or some such. Wouldn’t be riding around with poultry in the vehicle, not an automobile like that. Wouldn’t make sense. Besides, you’d find other things you wouldn’t want inside with you. Birds don’t hold back. Anyway, not much else. Kept it clean.”
“Again, Wishy, I applaud your ability to observe. This is indeed helpful.”
Wishy was spared a response by our arrival.
The Grimes home was an imposing mansion built in the Italian Renaissance style, bordered by Ionic columns that were topped by terraces.
“Much bigger than the original home,” Wishy said, not in approval.
I can say without hesitation that Susannah Carfield Grimes was one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. That evening-now in the early morning hours-she wore an emerald-green silk dress. Her straight dark hair was cut in a bob. Her butler admitted us and took our hats, but she came down the winding marble staircase almost as soon as we arrived, welcoming us. Nothing in her appearance or her manner indicated that she was affected by grief, by the lateness of the hour, or by the wreckage that is my visage. Her lack of response to my deformities was quite unusual. My looks are typically especially frightening to the beautiful.
The grand foyer included a fountain and, high overhead, a dome of stained glass. She led us to an elegant little parlor and offered us coffee. “Or whatever you prefer to drink,” she added with a smile. The sheriff looked so bedazzled by her smile that if she next indicated she’d like to turn the house into a speakeasy, I felt sure he might volunteer to serve as a bartender.
Slye said, “A hot cup of coffee would be most welcome,” and broke the spell.
She took a seat on a sofa. We took the four remaining chairs. When we were seated and provided with coffee, she said, “You have not told me how Everett died.”
The sheriff glanced at me.
“A medical condition?” she asked. “But he is not very old.”
“We cannot be sure at this time,” I said cautiously, “but he appears to have ingested poison.”
“Poison? How awful!” For the first time, she seemed shaken. “Accidentally?”
“I think not,” Slye said.
The sheriff, perhaps seeing that he had lost control of the situation, began to ask questions. She answered them calmly.
She had last seen Everett Grimes two days earlier.
“You were apart for two days? Isn’t that unusual?”
“No. It is more unusual for us to speak as frequently as we did by telephone over the last two days. Often, I do not see him for weeks at a time, especially if he is at the quarry.” She paused. “Did you not know? I thought rumor kept all my neighbors apprised of our situation.”
“I may have heard some such,” the sheriff said, “but I can’t base an investigation on rumor.”
“Let me confirm what is true, then. My husband and I are not much together, an arrangement which has been mutually acceptable.” She paused. “Dear me. How difficult to think of him in the past tense.” She was silent for some moments, but what she was thinking or feeling in those moments, I cannot say. She then went on as if there had been no pause. “When he wishes to be here, I find reasons to be in the city, or visiting friends, or traveling.”
“May I ask why?”
“I’ll try to explain. He found me at a time when, to all appearances, I was a success. The truth is, I was ready to leave the stage but had no real future outside of the theater. I could see that my career was unlikely to last.
“Enter Everett. He enjoyed having a younger woman at his side, and I could see that he especially enjoyed being envied. A competitive streak that I suppose has served him well in business. He likes to win. I was surprised when he proposed. I never expected an offer of marriage from Everett, but he was set on it. If any of his family had been living, I’m sure there would have been outrage. Even here in the country, the match did not find acceptance. But all I saw was security and comfort, more than I’d ever previously enjoyed. If that sounds mercenary, let me say that I’ve paid since.”
She took a sip of coffee, then continued. “Before we were wed, I had already become aware that he was the sort of gentleman who enjoyed pursuit more than whatever might follow his conquest. This proved to be the case in our marriage, just as it had been in his previous marriages. He was a man of strong passions. I have often thought that he saved all his cool-headedness for business. Outside that sphere, though, he could be moody, angry-quite difficult to live with.”