And just as I knocked someone inside the room spoke. It was a murmur, further muffled by my knock, but it sounded masculine. And it stopped abruptly at the sound of my knuckles on the door.
But it was Anna’s room; for, after a longish pause, I knocked again and then Anna said quaveringly, “Is that you, Gertrude? I-I’m asleep.”
“It’s Miss Keate. I want to see you.”
There was another sudden silence on the other side of the door. This time however there was a quality of consternation about it. Anna was not the type for tender dalliance; I didn’t even think of that. But I didn’t imagine the consternation either for it was plain in Anna’s voice when she said suddenly, almost at the keyhole, breathlessly, “I-I’m all right now. I’m not upset any more.”
And when I insisted, she just kept repeating it, “I’m all right. Thank you, Nurse. There’s nothing wrong-nothing wrong…” with her voice growing thinner and more frightened at every word. It was exactly as if whoever was there with her, and had stopped talking when I knocked, was standing beside her holding a club over her head.
But it wasn’t really till sometime the next morning that they found the other yellow glove, bloodstained and stiff, hidden under the mattress in Anna’s room. And by that time it was impossible to question her.
16
WELL, LUCKILY IN A way, I didn’t yet know about that. And I couldn’t break down the door to Anna’s room and I couldn’t see through hard pine.
I said, “Open the door, Anna. Beevens said you were ill. I’d like to get some medicine for you.”
“Thank you, Miss Keate. No, I’m all right now.” There was another slight pause, and she added, “I don’t need medicine, thank you. I don’t need anything.”
So in the end I was obliged to retire to the end of the hall, loudly, and return on tiptoe to the open door of a room opposite Anna’s. But after five minutes no one had emerged and there was no further sound of a (possibly) masculine voice from behind the closed door on which my eyes were glued. I was eyeing the keyhole thoughtfully and, indeed, had tiptoed nearer and was bending over (merely to see if a key was in it; as there was) when I heard footsteps behind me and straightened and whirled around and it was Beevens.
Who said “Ah” and coughed, giving me a chance to pull myself together. Not that I needed it; I said “Yes, Beevens?” as calmly as if keyhole investigation were my everyday and normal activity.
“Dear, dear, dear,” observed Beevens, and again coughed and choked and choked and coughed so wildly that I saw that he was agitatedly concerned with something else and possibly had scarcely noted my posture and pursuit. His eyes were bulging and his throat palpitated like a fish’s gills, quite noticeably, above the little white wings of his collar.
Craig wanted me-at once, quickly, he said.
Not even by a look did he question my presence just where I was and where I had no business to be. There was silence in Anna’s room. So I followed Beevens back to Craig’s room and Craig was waiting impatiently, watching the door, harassing the folds of blanket and coverlet across him with nervous fingers.
“There you are,” he said. “Come in. That’s all, Beevens. Shut the door.”
Beevens hesitated. “If you please, Mr. Craig…” He looked uneasy but determined-so determined that it checked Craig’s impatience.
“What is it, Beevens?”
The butler cleared his throat and came nearer the bed. “Two things, really, Mr. Craig. I’ve been in some doubt, but I-if you feel quite able…” He glanced anxiously at me as if for my permission and Craig said quickly, “Yes, of course. What is it?” Beevens swallowed. “A large blue vase has disappeared from the hall.”
Craig frowned, his eyes perplexed. Beevens said, “No one knows anything about its disappearance.”
After a moment Craig said: “What else?”
The other item Beevens had to relay was more serious. “It’s a question of alibis, sir,” he said. “Mr. Nicky told the police he spent two hours this afternoon in the morning room; he said he didn’t leave the room at all-during the time Dr. Chivery was killed. And Gertrude-the housemaid-saw him there twice.”
“Well, go on.”
“But he did leave, sir. I saw him.”
Craig sat up abruptly. “You saw him! When? Where?”
Beevens looked quickly over his shoulder and lowered his voice still further. “He went out the side door, sir. Walking toward the garage. I thought nothing of it, naturally. Until the police…”
“What time?”
Beevens swallowed hard. “Not more than half an hour before the nurse found Dr. Chivery and reached us with the news. Scarcely half an hour, as a matter of fact.”
There was another silence. Beevens’ intelligent blue eyes watched Craig and reserved conclusions. And I thought, was it Nicky then in the meadow? But Claud Chivery had been dead for some time when I found him. Then why, if it was Nicky, had he lingered? Or had he returned for something? The glove? The knife?
Craig said, “Are you sure it was Nicky?”
Beevens permitted himself a slight shrug. “I saw him walking toward the garage and thus toward the meadow. Besides, I couldn’t mistake his checked coat; I was looking out the pantry window. But I didn’t see him return. I was busy then in the dining room; he could have returned by the door just opposite the back stairs, gone upstairs and then down again by the front stairs. There’s no doubt he had returned by the time the nurse reached the house.” He paused. “Shall I tell the police, sir? I heard them question him and he definitely did not admit his absence from the house.”
“Yes…” said Craig, and changed his mind. “No! No-I’ll tell them. Is that all, Beevens?”
It was apparently all. But after Beevens had gone, closing the door carefully behind him, Craig lay for a moment in thoughtful silence; he looked perplexed-but there was something else in his eyes, as if Beevens’ story had given him the barest glimpse of some new idea. Well, Nicky had been one of my choice suspects all along. And there’s no doubt there was something queerly feral and inhuman in his very grace and lightness, as if behind his pointed face a graceful jungle beast might well inhabit.
Craig finally shook his head in an impatient and perplexed way and looked at me. “See here, Miss Keate, I’ve been thinking. You’re fond of Drue, aren’t you? Never mind answering, I’ve got eyes. Well, then…” He paused, his gaze plunging deeply into my own as if to test some quality within me. “Look here,” he said. “I’ve got to trust you. You’re pretty discreet-aren’t you?”
I lifted my eyebrows and nose and he said, “Oh, yes, I know, but this is murder…”
“My dear young man,” I said. “I have been a nurse since you were in rompers. The exigencies of my career have not failed to include a brush or two with the law.”
“Oh,” he said and looked at me speculatively for a moment. I did not see fit to explain, however, for one reason, the memories induced were a little unnerving, particularly just then and in that murder-ridden house. And for another reason, what is past is past and usually a good thing. So I merely waited in silence and presently he frowned and said, “I know. But it’s not me or you that’s in danger. It’s Drue.”
And at that, though it was not a new thought, I sat down on my patient’s bed for the first time in my professional career. “What do you mean? What new…?”
“Oh, it isn’t new! I guess I’ll have to tell you. You’re her friend. It-well, what I want you to undertake, Miss Keate, is a little second-story job.”