The Deep Lake Mystery

Not a fine lady, but beyond all doubt a fine woman, Mrs. Merivale was tall and gaunt of figure and possessed a large, bony face whose stern, set mouth was belied by a touch of humour quite evident in the shrewd gray eyes.

But what most impressed me was her expression of wisdom. Surely, this was a woman to whom all the experiences of life were as an open book. She had the look of a witch or sibyl, although her gray hair was decorously smooth beneath her small black hat.

She noted every new arrival, she swept the jury with her all-seeing glance and finally concentrated her attention on the coroner, until, with a quick nod of satisfaction, she ended that scrutiny.

Then she turned a little to contemplate the girl beside her.

Alma Remsen, to-day in a costume of soft beige-coloured silk weave, looked nervous and worried. Her golden hair, escaping at the sides from her close little hat, framed a face that was clearly worn and wan from a sleepless night. At least it seemed that way to me, and I longed to tell her her secret was safe with me. Never would I divulge to any one the fact that she visited Pleasure Dome on the night of the tragedy. So far, I hadn’t heard a hint of such a thing, and I hoped there would be none.

Though we hadn’t been formally introduced, and I had never had a word of conversation with her, I nodded a greeting and smiled.

She inclined her head in slight acknowledgment, and then, to my amazement, a look of fright crossed her face.

I tried to persuade myself that she had seen some one else or heard some word that alarmed her, but in my heart I felt sure that the shadow of fear was caused by the sight of me.

What could it mean? I saw her slip her hand into that of the nurse beside her, and I noted the reassuring pat the woman gave her.

It seemed to comfort the girl, and she gave a little smile at her companion.

Not wanting to embarrass her further I turned my glance toward Mrs. Dallas. She looked superb this morning. Garbed all in black, yet a black that hinted Paris in its every line and fold, her beautiful face and her great gray eyes showed a quiet sadness that spoke of a deeper grief than emotion could show.

Her lovely gray hair was tucked under a black hat, and her lips and cheeks, quite evidently the result of a well-equipped vanity box, were the only touch of colour about her.

She sat between Harper Ames and Charles Everett, the post of chief mourner seemingly accorded her as her right.

Yet though she was calm and composed, it seemed to me there was an undercurrent of anxiety, a hint of dread or apprehension.

Nor was this to be wondered at. The occasion was a tragic one, and as the person most deeply affected by the tragedy, it was only natural that Katherine Dallas should be nervous.

Hart first questioned the servants. Though new matter to the jury, we had heard their stories before, and no fresh fact or bit of evidence was forthcoming.

No articles had been missed from Sampson Tracy’s rooms except two of his fancy waistcoats and the gayly painted Totem Pole.

Several of the servants testified as to Mr. Tracy’s previous possession of these three articles and of their unaccountable absence at present.

None of them had heard any sounds during the night or could throw any light on the mystery of the criminal’s entrance or exit, if, indeed, he was not an inmate of the house.

All testified to the kindness and generosity of the master, and though all inherited a sum of money by his will, there seemed no real reason to suspect that any one of them had hastened the demise.

As Doctor Rogers was absent, Hart himself was the only one to give the medical report, and he told the jury succinctly and clearly the details of the death and how both doctors had thought it apoplexy at first, as the symptoms were of such an attack.

“Without doubt, the autopsy would have disclosed the truth,” Hart said, “but before that, Mr. Moore, the famous New York City detective, noticed there was a tiny metal disk visible through the hair of the dead man. Investigation proved this to be the head of a nail, about two inches long, that had been driven with great force into Mr. Tracy’s skull, presumably while he was alive and asleep.”

“Could a nail be so driven, through the bone?” asked a mild mannered juryman.

“Yes,” the coroner told him. “It would require a heavy driving instrument, and a strong hand, as well as a callous brain, for a man to accomplish that fiendish deed.”

The bizarre decorations on the bed were then told about, and reference made to the watch found in the water pitcher and the absence of the plate that had held the fruit and the crackers. But these things were merely touched on, for the jury had only to discover the cause of the death, and these details were of slight help.

Individual testimony was another matter, and I felt a deep interest as Harper Ames was called to the stand.

I could see Keeley Moore also eager to learn what the visitor of the house would have to say.

Ames was in grumpy mood, as usual. More, he seemed belligerent, and I wondered whether the Coroner would try to placate him or would ruffle him still more.

“Will you state, in your own words, Mr. Ames, the circumstances of your return to this house, after a dinner party on Wednesday night?”

The question sounded abrupt, and, perhaps for that reason, it seemed to rouse Ames’s resentment.

“That’s about all there is to tell,” he declared, frowning. “I came home from a dinner party next door, about eleven o’clock. I chatted with Mr. Tracy for a while and then we both went upstairs to bed. That’s all.”

He glared about him, as if he were being imposed on to have to testify at all. I tried to analyze the man. He had been insistent that Keeley Moore should take the case. Was this a gigantic bluff? I mean, could it be that Ames was himself the murderer, and sought to escape suspicion by frankly asking the detective to solve the mystery? Did he think he had so covered his tracks that he was safe from even the astute cleverness of Keeley Moore?

If this were the case, he was greatly mistaken. I had no idea whether Ames was the murderer or not, but if so, then he stood no chance of escaping the detection of my friend.

But Hart was proceeding, in a suave, pleasant way, calculated to soothe Ames’s antagonism.

“You were Mr. Tracy’s best friend?” he asked.

“That’s saying a great deal, but I was certainly one of them. We have known each other from boyhood, and though we bandied words now and then, we never had a real quarrel in our lives.”

“You owed him money?”

Harper Ames’s eyes flashed, and he seemed about to fly into a rage. Then, apparently thinking better of it, he calmed down and said, quietly, but sullenly still:

“Yes, though I don’t know that it’s your business. Tracy has let me owe him money for a long time, and as he had no objections to it, I can’t see your right to inquire about it.”

“Yes, I have a right,” Hart said, “and I propose to use it. How much did you owe him?”

“Some thousands,” and now Ames’s frown became a real scowl.

“And his will gives you a bequest of many thousands. It is a fortunate occurrence for you.”

I thought and still think that Harper Ames had a right to get angry at the Coroner. If Hart suspected his witness he should have said so, and not cast these innuendoes at him.

Yet Ames said nothing. He contented himself with such a venomous glance of hatred at the Coroner, that I shivered at the sight. Keeley Moore, too, looked amazed at the way things were going. Then we both realized that this was doubtless Hart’s first murder case. Such things didn’t often happen up here in the peaceful lake region, and the sudden responsibility and authority had rather gone to Hart’s head and made him a little uncertain of procedure.

Next he flung out the query, “Are you a good diver?”

At this Ames gave a sardonic smile.

“No,” he returned, “I am not. To begin with I didn’t kill Sampson Tracy, I didn’t jump out of the window of his locked room, and I didn’t bedeck his bed with flowers and ornaments. If these are the things you want to know, I am telling you.”

“Yes,” and the Coroner’s air was imperturbable, “but I have only your unsupported word for all that.”

Harper Ames stared at him as if he would like to drive a nail into his half-witted head, and then, drawing himself up with a new dignity, he said:

“That is true, Mr. Coroner. But I can’t bring forward any witnesses to prove my statements. That is why I have been trying to engage the services of the famous Mr. Moore to take on this case, and to discover the true murderer of Sampson Tracy, for only such a course will prove the innocence of other suspects.”