The Deep Lake Mystery

“You were Mr. Tracy’s fiancée at the time of his death?” he asked.

“Yes, Mr. Moore, I was.”

“Then, as such, as the one holding the nearest relationship to him, if we except his niece, Miss Remsen, am I correct in assuming you desire the discovery of the criminal who is responsible for his death?”

“No, Mr. Moore, you are not correct in that assumption. I loved Mr. Tracy, I hoped to marry him, but now that he is dead, I should greatly prefer that the matter be considered a closed book. I am not of a vindictive nature and to me the horrors of an investigation and all the harrowing details of such a procedure would be only less distressing than the tragedy itself. So far as I am concerned, I should infinitely prefer that the name of the wretch who cruelly killed Sampson Tracy should be buried in oblivion to having it sought for and blazoned to the public gaze.”

“This is not the usual view to take of such a situation, Mrs. Dallas.” Kee’s tone conveyed distinct reproach.

“The usual view has never meant anything to me, nor does it in this instance.”

She was not exactly flippant, but there was a note in her voice that proved, to my mind at least, that she resented any discussion of her mental attitude, and indeed, resented the whole interview and our presence.

Clearly, no help could be expected from her, yet I was moved to put a few straightforward questions.

“Are you remaining here, Mrs. Dallas, for the rest of the summer?”

She favoured me with a glance that was strongly disapproving of such an intrusive remark, and answered, icily:

“That I have not yet decided.”

“You know the terms of the will?” Kee shot at her, suddenly, having decided, as he afterward told me, that she was unworthy of delicate consideration.

“Yes,” she said, with a face void of expression.

“Then, as one of the principal beneficiaries, you know that you cannot expect to escape definite questioning by the detectives.”

“I do not expect to escape it, nor do I fear it. Why are you telling me this, Mr. Moore?”

“I thought you understood that as Mr. Ames’s adviser, I must make certain inquiries in the course of pursuing my duties.”

She thawed a little, and said, half apologetically, “I suppose so. Is there anything else I can tell you?”

“Yes, Mrs. Dallas. Since Mr. Tracy is dead, have you any intention of marrying any one else?”

“I think, Mr. Moore, you are carrying your zeal for Mr. Ames’s work too far. I must beg to be excused from further conversation.”

She rose and stood, like a tragedy queen, not angry, but with a scornful look on her handsome face and an expression in her eyes eloquent of dismissal. She did not point to the door, but such a gesture was not necessary with that look in her eyes.

Courteously and with no effect of chagrin, Kee bowed his adieu and I followed suit.

“Whew!” I remarked, after we had regained the outer road, “some goddess!”

“Amazon! Boadicea! Xantippe! Medea! – yes, and Lucrezia Borgia!” he exclaimed, his voice making up in emphasis what it lacked in sound. “This case begins to look interesting, Gray. What price Everett and the Dallas in cahoots as murderers?”

“Are you serious?” I asked, thinking he was merely smarting under the lady’s stinging rebuke.

“No, I don’t think so. There are more likely suspects. But we learned a lot there. I honestly hated to bang her between the eyes as I did, but she was just about to order us out anyway, and I had to find out her state of mind regarding Everett.”

“And did you?”

“Of course I did. Her sudden flush of colour and the ghastly fear that came into her eyes for an instant told me the truth. Gray, she not only loves Charles Everett, but she is not at all certain that he is not the murderer.”

“That lets her out, then.”

“Oh, of course… She never committed murder. And, she was at home in bed when the deed was done. She was at our party that night, you know.”

“Yes, I know, but she went home early.”

“Oh, well, there’s not the slightest suspicion attached to her. When I said in cahoots, I didn’t really mean it, or, if I did, I look on her as merely a sleeping partner. But I think she is entirely innocent of crime, or even accessory work, and I think, too, that she fears for Everett. Maybe not that he did the deed, but that he may be suspected of it. I don’t like the woman, I never did, but I think she’s innocent of any real wrong. I think she was engaged to Tracy for purely mercenary reasons, then Everett came along, and she fell for him, and she is now glad that old Samp is out of the way, but she didn’t bring it about.”

“Probably you’re right, Kee, but I don’t hanker after any more calls on suspects if they’re going to be as strenuous as that.”

“Oh, that’s nothing – all in the day’s work. All right, then, if you’re off the case for to-day. I’m going over to Whistling Reeds, but you can toddle home, if you like.”

“You’re going there? To Alma’s? Indeed I will go with you. What are you going for?”

“On a quest for knowledge and information.” He spoke gravely.

“Are you going to torment her, Kee?” I asked.

“Not intentionally. But I must ask some questions and she must answer. Now, go or stay away, as you choose.”

“I’ll go,” I said, and we walked a while in silence.

Reaching our own boathouse, Kee chose his favourite round-bottomed boat and we started for the Island.

I rowed, for I felt the need of some physical exertion to calm my racing nerves, stirred by the thought of the ordeal ahead of us.

Keeley had not suspected Mrs. Dallas – he said so – but I had a feeling he did suspect Alma, and I wondered what his attitude would be.

“Don’t be harsh with her,” I said, at last, apparently apropos of nothing.

“I’m not utterly a brute,” he returned, and I bent to my oars.

It was a gray day. The clouds hid the sun entirely and they were dull heavy clouds, not fleecy white ones such as I loved. The lake was leaden, and the ripples waved slowly but did not break into whitecaps.

There were no other boats in sight and no crowds of merry people on the few docks we passed.

Reaching the Remsen boathouse, it seemed to me the Island looked more than ever like an abode of the dead. The trees were motionless in the calm air and the dark glades and copses seemed sepulchral in their sentinel-like rigidity.

We landed and went up the steps toward the house.

A man advanced to meet us.

“What’s wanted?” he said, not quite gruffly, but with an apparent intention of being answered.

“We want to see Miss Remsen,” Kee replied and his manner was suavity itself. “I am Keeley Moore, from Variable Winds, down the lake. This is my friend, Mr. Norris. Take us to the house, Mr. Merivale, and announce us to Miss Remsen.”