Raspberry Jam

“I came,” he stated, without hesitation, “to ask you about the circumstances of the party which Mrs. Embury attended here night before last, the night her husband—died.”

“Oh, yes; let me see—there isn’t much to tell. Eunice Embury spent the evening here—we had a game of cards—and, before supper was served, Mr. Embury called for her and took her home—in their car. That’s all I know about it.”

“What was the card game?”

“Bridge.”

“For high stakes?”

“Oh, mercy, no! We never really gamble!” The fluttering little hands deprecated the very idea. “We have just a tiny stake—to—why, only to make us play a better game. It does, you know.”

“Yes’m. And what do you call a tiny stake? Opinions differ, you know.”

“And so do stakes!” The blue eyes flashed a warning. “Of course, we don’t always play for the same. Indeed, the sum may differ at the various tables. Are you prying into my private affairs?”

“Only so far as I’m obliged to, ma’am. Never mind the bridge for the moment. Was Mr. Embury annoyed with his wife—for any reason—when he called to take her home?”

“Now, how should I know that?” a pretty look of perplexity came into the blue eyes. “I’m not a mind reader!”

“You’re a woman! Was Mr. Embury put out?”

Fifi laughed a ringing peal. “Was he?” she cried, as if suddenly deciding to tell the truth. “I should say he was! Why, he was so mad I was positively afraid of him!”

“What did he say?”

“That’s just it! He didn’t say anything! Oh, he spoke to me pleasantly—he was polite, and all that, but I could see that he was simply boiling underneath!”

“You are a mind reader, then!”

“I didn’t have to be, to see that!” The little figure rocked back and forth on the sofa, as, with arms clasped round one knee, Fifi gave way to a dramatic reconstruction of the scene.

“‘Come, Eunice,’ he said, just like that! And you bet Eunice went!”

“Was she angry, too?”

“Rather! Oh, you know her temper is something fierce! When she’s roused, she’s like a roaring lion and a raging bear—as it says in the Bible—or Shakespeare, or somewhere.”‘

“Speaking of Shakespeare, you and Mrs. Embury went to see ‘Hamlet’ recently, I believe.”

“Oh, yes; when the Avon Players put it on. Everybody went. Didn’t you? You missed it, if you didn’t! Most marvelous performance. ‘Macbeth,’ too. That was perfectly darling! I went to that with—”

“Excuse me. As to ‘Hamlet,’ now. Did you notice particularly the speech about the poisoning of—”

“Of Hamlet’s father! I should say I did! Why, that speech by Mr. Postlewaite—he was ‘The Ghost,’ you know—was stunning, as much applauded as the ‘Soliloquy’ itself! He fairly made you see that poisoning scene!”

“Was Mrs. Embury interested?”

“Oh, we both were! We were at school together, and we both loved Shakespeare—we took it ‘Special.’ And we were terribly interested in the Avon Players’ ‘Hamlet’—it was unlike any representation we had ever seen.”

“Ah—yes; and did you—you and Mrs. Embury—discuss the poison used by the wicked uncle?”

“Not lately. But in class we discussed that—years ago—oh, that’s one of the regulation Shakespearean puzzles. You can’t trip us up on our Shakespeare—either of us! I doubt if you can find two frivolous society women who know it better than we do!”

“Did you know that Mr. Embury was killed in a manner identical with the Hamlet murder?”

“No! What do you mean? I’ve really not heard the details. As soon as I heard of his death, I called up Eunice, but, as I said, she wasn’t cordial at all. Then I was busy with my own guests after that—last night and this morning—well, I’m really hardly awake yet!”

Fifi rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand—a childish gesture, and daintily smothered a slight yawn.

“But I’m awfully interested,” she went on, “only—only I can’t bear to hear about—a—murder! The details, I mean. I should think Eunice would go crazy! I should think she’d be glad to come here—I was going to ask her, when she called me down! But, what do you mean—killed like Hamlet’s father?”

“Yes; there was poison introduced into his ear as Mr. Embury slept—”

“Really! How tragic; How terrible! Who did it?”

“That’s what we’re trying to discover. Could—do you think Mrs. Embury could have had sufficient motive—”

“Eunice!” Fifi screamed. “What an idea! Eunice Embury to kill her own husband! Oh, no!”

“But only she and that aunt of hers had opportunity. You know how their bedrooms are?”

“Oh, yes, I know. Miss Ames is using Eunice’s dressing-room—and a nuisance it is, too.”

“Then you know that at night those three bedrooms are shut off from the rest of the house by strong bolts on the inside of the doors.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Then, don’t you see, as Mr. Embury was killed—the doctors say about daybreak, or earlier—nobody could have done it except somebody who was behind those locked doors.”

“The windows?”

“Tenth story, and no balconies. And, too, they all have flower-boxes, except one, and the flowers were undisturbed. The one that hasn’t a flower-box is on the side street, in Miss Ames’ room. And that—I looked out myself—has no balcony, nor even a broad ledge. It couldn’t be reached from the next apartment—if that’s what you’re thinking of.”

“I’m not thinking of anything,” returned Fifi. “I’m too dazed to think! Eunice Embury! Do you mean she is really suspected?”

“I mean that, very decidedly, ma’am. And I am here to ask you if you can give any additional evidence, any—”

“Any evidence! Evidence against my dear friend! Why, man, if I knew anything, I wouldn’t tell it, if it would go against Eunice!”

“Oh, yes, you would; the law would force you to. But do you know anything definite?”

“No, of course, I don’t! I know that Mr. and Mrs. Embury were not always cooing like turtle-doves! She had the devil’s own temper—and he wasn’t much better! I know he drove her frantic because he wouldn’t give her some privileges she wanted—wouldn’t allow her certain latitudes, and was generally pretty dictatorial. I know Eunice resented this, and I know that lots of times she was pretty nearly at the end of her rope, and she said all sorts of things—that, of course, she didn’t mean—but she wouldn’t kill him! Oh, I don’t think she would do that!”

“H’m! So they lived like cats and dogs, did they?”

“What an awful way to put it! But, well, Sanford didn’t make Eunice’s life a bed of roses—nor did she go out of her way to please him!”

“Mr. Embury was often a guest here?”