The Deep Lake Mystery

“Yes. Mrs. Merivale is my mother. We both look after Miss Alma.”

“I’m sure she’s well taken care of. Now – ”

“Dora, sir,” she said, divining his question with quick intuition.

“Well, Dora, I suppose you are devoted to Miss Remsen?”

“Oh, that I am, sir. I’d die for her!”

“Well, we don’t want you to do that, but something far easier. We just want you to answer a few questions. Is anybody in the house beside yourself?”

“Nobody, sir.”

“All gone to the funeral?”

“Yes, sir. All but Michael, down at the dock, and me.”

“Very well. Now, do you remember the night Mr. Tracy died?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where was Miss Remsen that night?”

“Here at home, sir.”

“What did she do through the evening?”

“She read in a book, sir, then she played the piano a bit and then she went to bed.”

This was reeled off glibly, a little too glibly, I thought. It sounded parrot-like, as if a lesson, learned by rote. Evidently March thought so too, for he said, looking at her closely:

“How do you know this?”

“How do I know?” she looked a little blank. “Oh, yes, I know, because I saw her now and again as I passed through the hall.”

“I see. Now, what book was she reading? Do you know?”

“No, sir, I don’t know that.”

“But you saw her reading?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, what kind of book was it? A big book?”

“No – no, sir, I think not. I think it was a smallish book – ”

“With a paper cover?”

“Yes, sir, with a paper cover.”

“Stop it, March,” I cried, involuntarily. “You sha’n’t put words into her mouth!”

“Keep still, Norris,” he said, sternly, “and remember what I told you.”

I supposed he meant that I could serve Alma best by learning everything possible about her, but I resented this sort of procedure.

The girl was frightened, too. She drew her breath quickly, as if fearing she had been indiscreet, but March restored her equanimity by his next words.

“That’s all right, Dora,” he said, “it doesn’t matter what book she had or what music she played. Then she went to bed? She didn’t go out anywhere?”

“Oh, no, sir, it was near ten, then. Miss Remsen never goes out evenings unless to a party and then somebody fetches her or Mother goes with her.”

“Well, you’ve told a straight story, and that’s all we want to know. Now, I’m going to give the house the once over.”

“What’s that, sir?”

“A glance about. You see, Dora, I’m connected with the police and – ”

“The police, sir!” she cried, and sank into a chair.

But suddenly she sprang to her feet again, and said, in a low, tense tone, “Will you please go away, sir? Go away, and come when my father or mother shall be here?”

“No, Dora, we can’t do that. You ought to know that the police cannot be told what to do. But rest assured, we mean no harm to your young mistress, and we are hoping to find some clues or evidence that will free her from suspicion.”

Dora looked thoroughly perplexed. She glanced from the window, as if of a mind to call Michael, but he was not in sight.

“And I may as well tell you,” March continued, his iron hand still in a velvet glove, “that you’d better let us have our way, without raising any objection. For you can’t stop us, and you’d only create unpleasantness for yourself.”

Dora seemed to see reason, and she nodded her head in assent.

“What do you want me to do?” she asked, in a subdued voice.

“Go with us and show us the rooms. That’s all. We shall not really disturb anything and it will save Miss Remsen trouble if we can get through before her return.”

So Dora went ahead, with an air of obedience under protest that showed itself in her dragging footsteps and her sombre eyes.

“This is the living room,” she said, indicating the room we already knew.

March stepped inside. He quickly scanned the appointments, but he had seen them before and paid real attention only to the bookcase. This produced nothing of interest, however, and we went on through a cozy little writing room to the dining room, a delightful cheery room hung with chintzes and gay with bowls of flowers.

To my amazement, the detective devoted his scrutiny to the dining table. He examined the wood of it carefully and then drawing a lens from his pocket peered through it in true Sherlock Holmes fashion.

I wondered if this was meant to impress the staring Dora, but March seemed to be interested on his own account, and he pocketed his lens with a sigh of satisfaction.

“Now the kitchen,” he said, and we went thither.

A modern, immaculate kitchen it was, with all the up-to-date contrivances for lightening labour and for achieving quick results.