Hunt with the Hounds Read online

  The door swung to. What had the newspapers said? She drank coffee; she crumbled, deceptively, what she couldn’t eat. The rain had stopped by the time she rose from the table; the dogs were probably with Caroline; the house seemed quiet and empty. What did one do when one was about to be arrested for murder?

  But that, too, was panic.

  She went to Caroline’s study and looked at Woody’s telegram, written in Chrisy’s sprawling handwriting, as generous as her heart. Woody had been delayed by bad weather. He had heard the news; he would arrive sometime that day, weather permitting. There was no telephone message from Fitz.

  For Woody the message was laconic. What would he say when he knew how matters really stood? She was beginning to lose her early morning’s sense of reassurance; she’d find Caroline.

  She went out the side door; there was a path from the side door, between laurels that were glistening with silvery beads of moisture, to the stables, long and rambling, which one time had sheltered riding horses and hunters and carriage horses, and now held only the Geneva mare (Caroline’s favorite hunter, light on her feet as a cat) and old Jeremy. Jeremy put his head out of the open half door in his loose box and looked at her thoughtfully as if wondering whether she meant to saddle him and take him for one of the long rides of the past winter. Sister Britches lay in the doorway of the tack room; she was never far from Caroline. Sue had almost reached the door when she heard voices and then it was too late to withdraw, for Jed heard her coming and came to the door.

  “Sue,” he cried, his slender, handsome face lighting. “Sue …” He ran to meet her; he took her hands eagerly. “I came right away, as soon as I could. Caroline wouldn’t let me wake you.”

  His black hair shone from the fog; he looked like himself again, natural and young and still invincibly triumphant. He was wearing riding breeches and a yellow pullover beneath his brown coat; he had not ridden over, however. She saw the end of his car standing in the driveway, projecting from behind the laurels. He drew her inside the tack room. Caroline was working with saddle stuffing, her square, sturdy hands going about their business expertly and energetically; it was like Caroline to seek solace of the things she loved best. Her blue eyes were still grave and worried; she said, “Good morning, Sue. Did you manage to sleep?”

  Jed said, “Miss Caroline, I’ve got to talk to Sue. They wouldn’t let me yesterday; Fitz and Camilla and—darling Miss Caroline, I’ve waited so long.”

  Whatever happened, she must make Jed understand the truth; Sue said quickly, “I want to talk to you.”

  Caroline pushed back the heavy, slipping wad of her gray hair and gave Jed a long considering look. “Well,” she said then, “if Sue wants it. But I don’t want you to upset her.”

  “I won’t upset her.”

  Caroline was still troubled. “I’m not sure you ought to be here, Jed, to tell you the truth. The way they talked last night.”

  “But don’t you see that’s why I’ve got to be here?” Saddles, cared and tended and satiny in their gloss, hung neatly on pegs behind him; he put his hand on one, leaning easily against it. “I want to tell you, Miss Caroline, exactly how things were between me and Sue.”

  “You don’t need to tell me anything.” Caroline picked up a cleaning cloth and put it down.

  “Yes, but see here, you’re Sue’s aunt. I couldn’t talk to you before now, not the—not the ghastly way things were.”

  “I don’t see that they’re much better now.”

  They were arguing about a shadow; something that no longer existed. Perhaps it had never existed. Sue had to stop them. She said: “Aunt Caroline—Jed—there’s no need to talk of this. We aren’t going to be married …”

  Perhaps Caroline heard; all Jed’s attention, however, was focussed on Caroline and impetuously, almost angrily, trying to win his point, he said: “Well, but now I’m free! Now things are different! I love Sue just the same and besides everybody expects it! I’ve been acquitted and Ernestine …”

  He stopped rather abruptly; Caroline said, “If you mean that now Ernestine’s dead you’re free to come courting Sue, then I don’t think this is the time to say it. No, I don’t.”

  A swinging light bulb, caged in wire, threw the tack room with its cupboards, its shelves, its rows of bridles and saddles, into bold relief; the dangling leathers of reins and martingales and stirrups made a pattern of sharp black lines against the wooden walls. Jed lounged against the saddle near him, his dark face alight and eager. “But Miss Caroline, that’s the very reason I’ve got to explain. I mean, all the things the papers said, and the way they questioned Sue and implied—and I couldn’t do anything then, I couldn’t …”

  “Listen to me, Jed Baily,” Caroline said. “If you think I wondered whether or not any of those things were true, then I didn’t. Not for a minute. Sue never did anything to be ashamed of. I didn’t even ask her. I didn’t have to. We never talked of it once.” She pushed back her hair again. “So I’m not going to now.”

  Sue felt a tightness in her throat; she went to Caroline but then could only stand there, silent, beside her. Jed said: “Well, that’s all very well, Miss Caroline. And it’s true, of course. Sue and I—weren’t—there was never …”

  “You shut up, Jed Baily,” said Caroline with sudden fierceness.

  She gathered up the saddle before her; Jed sprang forward but before he could take the saddle she had replaced it heavily on its accustomed peg. She bent to scrutinize a stirrup carefully. Jed said, “Please don’t treat me like this, Miss Caroline. I can’t help the way things are. And I can’t help being in love with Sue. I fell in love with her the first minute I saw her; I tried not to, and Sue tried not to.…”

  “You had a wife,” snapped Caroline. “You ought not to have made love to Sue. But you did, you know you did. You wouldn’t let her alone. You were after her day in and day out. Everybody knew it—how could they help it? I knew it; of course I knew it. But I knew it wouldn’t be long before Sue sent you packing. Except she—Sue—I was afraid she was going to be hurt.” Her voice faltered.

  “Sue was in love with me,” Jed said. “There was nothing wrong about it, Miss Caroline. Sue told me that night, in the cabaña, that she was going to go away. It’s just the way she told it at the trial. I asked her to stay; I asked her to be patient. I told her I was going to ask Ernestine for a divorce.”

  “I don’t want to hear,” Caroline said.

  With a sense of rushing toward a climax which was unnecessary, like a dangerous curve on the wrong road, Sue tried again to steer them onto the right road. “Jed, things are different! We were wrong then, we didn’t realize …” It was unsuccessful.

  Jed, swiftly, went on, “Sue wouldn’t hear of it, Miss Caroline.” Caroline turned piteous yet steely blue eyes to Sue. Jed said, “And that was the situation. But now it’s different. I’m free and I’ve been acquitted. Sue needs me. This whole terrible thing—Sue wouldn’t have been in it at all if it hadn’t been for me and I realize that. And if she hadn’t loved me she wouldn’t have insisted on testifying as she did; that night, the very night Ernestine—died—both of us, Dr. Luddington and I both did our best to make Sue go away, leave; we could have fixed Sam Bronson so he wouldn’t talk; but Sue wouldn’t. That shows she loves me, doesn’t it? That shows …”

  Caroline’s blue eyes went to Jed. “Who murdered Ernestine? Who murdered your wife? That’s what you’ve got to find out. If they arrest Sue …”

  Jed stood up; again triumph was alight around him. “If they arrest Sue, I’ll tell them I did it myself. I’ll do anything for her. They can’t hold Sue for Ernestine’s murder if I say I did it.”

  They had not heard approaching footsteps, but Sister Britches scrambled up then and waved her stern. Fitz stood in the doorway. “That’s an excellent idea, Jed,” he said cheerily. “Why don’t you try it? Good morning, Miss Caroline. How are you, Sue? Is there any chance of some food? I’m famished.”

  8

  HE HAD bee
n up most of the night consulting with the lawyer, going over and over every detail. Since they had already covered that ground, the lawyer directly for Jed, Fitz almost as directly during the many times when he had heard the police question Sue, there were not many details that they had failed to collect—except, however, the most important one of all, which was not, Fitz said rather wryly, exactly a detail.

  Fitz told them quietly over breakfast. They went into the house with him, all of them. “I was looking for you, Jed,” he said. “Camilla said you were here.”

  Caroline absently and troubled polished the gleaming silver coffee pot. Jed stared across at Fitz, his bright dark eyes incredulous.

  “But they simply can’t be going to arrest Sue. It’s fantastic.”

  “It’s fantastic.” Fitz gave a sort of shrug; his hair was wet still, from the shower, his face had a refreshed look from shaving, but fatigue showed in the sharper lines around his mouth and in his casual yet rather resolutely restrained manner. “It’s fantastic, but she was there, Jed, and while they may not have a case against her that would stand up in court”—he glanced at Sue reassuringly as if to soften the effect of his words—“still it’s a case. There’s undoubtedly political pressure behind them, too; there’s the recommendation of the jury, which had only one possible interpretation. There’s—the point is we’ve got to work fast.”

  “Work fast!” Jed repeated. “But what can anybody do? It’s so absurdly wrong, Fitz. I can’t believe that any reasonable person …”

  “Well, try to believe it,” Fitz said shortly.

  Chrisy brought in a plate of eggs and bacon. “But what …” Jed began and Fitz said, “Find out who killed Ernestine.”

  “But Ernestine …”

  “Listen, Jed. Get this into your head. Ernestine was murdered. She didn’t kill herself.”

  “Nobody would …”

  Fitz put down his coffee cup and looked across at Jed with level, considering gray eyes. “Nobody will ever accept a theory that she killed herself; it would be convenient and fine if they would, but it simply is not true. The police are going to have Sue charged with murder if we don’t get out some evidence, dig up some detail, some motive, anything in God’s world to prove, even to suggest that she didn’t do it. Do you realize how things stand?”

  “Certainly I do. I can’t believe it, because Sue—well, she didn’t, but …” Jed’s handsome, dark face cleared. “You heard me; I meant it. I’ll stick by Sue the way she stuck by me. If Sue’s arrested I’ll go to them and say that I did it.”

  Fitz’s gray eyes were rather fixed and cold; actually he was thinking again how easy it would be to hate this handsome boy, with his dark, sparkling and triumphant eyes, this man who had, really, never stopped being a boy. He said, however, tranquilly again, “All right. It might confuse; it certainly would confuse. I don’t see what else it would do. Try it if you like.”

  “But you sound as if you think they’re going to arrest her, this very minute, this very day.…”

  “I’m sorry,” Fitz put his hand, firm and hard, upon Sue’s hand. “I’m sorry, but I do think that. Unless we stop it.”

  “Stop it! All right; I’ll do it now then, right away. Where’s the telephone?”

  Sue cried, “But he can’t do that. He didn’t murder her. This time he’d get the death penalty.”

  “Oh, no,” Fitz said, putting sugar in his coffee, his brown face rather fixed but tranquil too. “It’s safe. He can’t be tried again for the same crime.”

  Jed, half rising, stopped short.

  “But—but …” Jed thought and said, “Why, that’s silly. Suppose some new evidence came up, suppose …”

  “I don’t think you could convince them; I think they’d put it down to what it is.”

  “If I confess they’ve got to believe it,” Jed said stubbornly.

  Fitz drank some coffee thoughtfully. “What would you say? How would you convince them exactly?”

  “Well.” Some of the triumph went out of Jed’s eager face. “Well—I don’t know. I’d make it fit. I can think up a way!”

  Fitz gave a kind of sigh, small and weary, which probably nobody but Sue heard. “Jed, this can’t be settled or solved by dramatics. We’ve got to have facts. Go ahead, do anything you like. They can’t hang you for it …”

  “I won’t let him do it,” Sue said.

  “… they may get you for perjury or something, but …”

  Sue turned to Fitz, “You said to hold to the fact that I didn’t do it. They can’t prove I did.”

  “That’s right, too. Hang on to it. Now, Jed—as I told you we talked most of the night …”

  “I don’t see why you didn’t include me,” murmured Jed rather sulkily.

  Fitz went on: “You’ve been all over the thing with Judge Shepson, many times; he knows the case thoroughly, naturally, but—as the police said, from the angle of defending you; from your angle. We found simply no loopholes; the point is that you or Camilla might know of a motive, of some small clue, of—well, anything, that might point the way to the murderer.”

  “I’d have told them; I’d have tried to save myself!”

  “Yes, naturally. But we can’t leave anything untried; we’ve got to follow any, every trail that might, just might, provide a clue.”

  “Well, all right. I see that. But I can’t think of anything …”

  “Well, first, I asked Shepson about your giving Sue the kind of alibi that she gave you.…”

  Jed started up. “Why, of course, I’ll say that I saw her when the shot was fired. I’ll say …”

  Wilkins had asked that. Sue said, “That’s what the police said. Wilkins said, had Jed seen me …”

  “Did you see her, Jed? At that very minute?”

  “That doesn’t matter! I can say so, can’t I …”

  “No, you can’t. The record is already sworn to. You said you were not watching the house, that somebody could have entered it without your knowledge. You can’t change it.”

  “I can change it and I will, I’ll …”

  Fitz was shaking his head. “And, he says, nobody would believe it anyway. He thinks it would seem so flagrantly cooked up that it would work against Sue instead of for her. I’m afraid he’s right.”

  “But—but it’s an alibi …”

  “What about the stableman?”

  “Sam Bronson! Oh, he’s all right. He didn’t kill Ernestine.”

  “Well, I don’t think he did. For one thing, there’s the time element; I don’t see how he could have got from the garden door, through the gate, across the paddock, and then back around the house to exactly where he was when Sue saw him; there might be some way nobody’s discovered, but he told what he knew with an effect of truth. He was a good witness; there was no motive that anybody knows of.” He looked at Jed. “You’re perfectly sure he had no quarrel of any kind with Ernestine?”

  Jed frowned; he said slowly, “I was sure; Shepson asked me that. But I suppose I might not have known it. Maybe after all he …” He stopped though, blankly.

  Fitz said: “Robbery is ruled out …” Again there was a kind of hope in the look he gave Jed.

  Jed shook his black head. “Not a single thing gone. Camilla knew every bit of jewelry and every trinket Ernestine had; I gave them all to her—except, oh, one or two pieces. There wasn’t much of value; I haven’t got that kind of money.”

  “Well, then—are you absolutely sure that there was nobody strange around the place? I mean, of course, you can’t be perfectly sure of that—but if we could prove even a tramp or hobo prowling around it would help.”

  Eagerness flared into Jed’s face again. “What’s wrong with inventing one? In a case like this …”

  “I told you, Jed, we’ve got to have the truth. Something solid, probable, facts. Don’t act like a child!”

  Jed’s face flushed. He got up. “I’ll do this my way and I’ll do it; I’ll fix it. I’ll …”

  “You’ll sit down,�
� said Fitz, suddenly weary. “And try to use your head. What about Ernestine, then? What about a motive? Was there anybody—anybody at all, Jed, who might have wanted to get rid of her for any possible reason?”

  Jed sat down slowly and rather sullenly; he leaned his head on his hand and stared at the white cloth. “You’re asking me to do a difficult thing; we didn’t get along, we—but she was my wife.”

  “On the face of it I don’t like it, either—none of us does—but the need outweighs everything else.… Shepson questioned you about motives.”

  “Yes. Oh, yes, over and over.”

  Fitz’s gray eyes were again rather fixed. “And you couldn’t think of anything. Any—quarrel she’d had with anybody. Any hold she had perhaps …”

  “My wife was not a blackmailer,” cried Jed, jerking up his head.

  “For our present purpose we’ve got to think she might have been. The fact is, if this wasn’t a purposeless, wanton murder—by some stranger, some stray who merely happened on the scene, merely happened to snatch up your gun …”

  “Maybe Ernestine snatched it, to defend herself.”

  “That’s right. That’s a good point and it adds to the intruder theory. It’s still a thin theory, though, if we can’t produce the intruder. And if it wasn’t an intruder then it had to be somebody Ernestine knew and who knew her well enough to want to murder her.”

  They knew that; they’d known it from the beginning, but it yet had the impact of a very peculiar horror. It limited murder to someone within a small circle.

  Caroline’s hand on the table was trembling; Sue saw it and wanted to take it and tell her it wasn’t so, that nobody they knew, none of that close circle, had crossed a terrible barrier which man has set up for his own protection. But they’d thought of it, that winter—how could they have not thought of it? At cold and desolate moments, the question would strike. Do these eyes meeting mine so frankly actually conceal the knowledge of murder? Does this hand clasping mine in friendship have dreadful recollection of death?