The Deep Lake Mystery

March took in most of it at a glance, pausing only to turn round a can of cocoa on a shelf in the glass-doored cupboard.

“Yes,” he said, smiling at Dora, “I think that’s the best brand, too.”

Then we went upstairs.

It seemed sacrilege to me to go into Alma’s bedroom, but March strode forward as a general to an attack.

He made no noise or disturbance, he opened no cupboards or bureau drawers. He looked closely at the bedside table, which showed only a reading lamp, a book or two, a small flask of cologne water and an engagement pad and pencil.

“Miss Alma has her breakfast in bed,” he said, interrogatively, and I wondered if he had seen a spot on the lace table cover, or how he knew.

“Yes, sir. Both – both Sundays and weekdays, sir.”

Dora was blushing furiously now, though I could see no reason for it at mere mention of breakfast in bed.

March seemed not to see it, and went on to the next room. This was a large and delightful room, the counterpart of Alma’s bedroom.

“The guest room,” Dora said, and stood aside to let us enter.

“And a pretty one. Are there guests often?”

“Oh, yes, sir. Miss Alma frequently has young ladies to stay the night with her.”

“I see. A charming room.” He set down his stick, while he leaned out of the window for a glimpse of the lake.

He looked into the guest bathroom, but it showed only the immaculate cleanliness beloved of all good housekeepers, and then we went back into the hall.

“Where are the servants’ rooms?” he asked.

“Up in the third story, sir. Want to go up?”

Dora opened a door at the foot of a flight of stairs, but March said, “No, not necessary,” and she closed it again.

“Now, we’ll go downstairs,” he said, and we started. He let Dora precede and then pushed me along next.

Exclaiming, “Oh, I’ve left my stick!” he returned to the guest room, and came out again, carrying the stick in question.

I felt sure the stick was a blind of some sort, but I couldn’t see how he had found any clue in the guest room, and I was weary of the farce anyway.

What did he expect to find? As far as I could see, he hadn’t found anything at all.

“Well, Dora,” he said, as we regained the porch, and were about to leave. “You’ve been very kind. You can tell Miss Remsen and your parents all about it, and tell them you behaved just exactly right.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“Has Miss Remsen a beau?”

“She’s not engaged, sir, but several young men are sweet on her.”

“Who?” I cried, feeling that I’d like to knock the several heads together.

“I think Mr. Billy Dean is the nicest,” Dora said, apparently quite willing to gossip.

“Miss Remsen is never ill, is she?” March broke in.

“Oh, no, sir, never.”

“Never has to take anything to induce sleep?”

“Oh, n’ no – never.” But this time there was hesitation, and I pictured Alma as unable to sleep and resorting to a mild sedative.

“All right, Dora, good-bye, and many thanks.”

We went down to the boathouse, and the man there was still glum and unsmiling. Nor did our substantial douceur give him any apparent pleasure. He pocketed it without a word, and pushed off our boat with a jerk that had the effect of his being glad to be rid of us.

March was unperturbed by all this and of course it mattered little to me.

I was consumed with curiosity to know if March had learned anything indicative.

“I found a few trifles,” he vouchsafed to tell me, “but I can’t describe them at the moment.”

“Being a detective, you have to be mysterious,” I growled.

“Yes, just that,” he agreed, cheerfully, and we proceeded in silence. “They’re just leaving the burying ground,” he said, at last. “Shall we go and pay our final respects?”

“If you like,” I said, indifferently.

So we landed at Pleasure Dome, and then betook ourselves to the tiny graveyard, which was down beyond the orchard.

It was a lovely spot, shaded by the long branches of weeping willows and brightened by beds of carefully tended flowers. Lilies abounded, and there were patches of the lovely California poppies and screens covered with sweet peas.

I became interested in the graves, and March pointed out those of Alma’s parents and her little sister.

“The child was eight years old when she died,” I commented. “I thought it was an infant.”

“No, a girl. Alma remembers her, of course. But it was all before my day. I’ve only lived here seven years. Flowers enough on Tracy’s grave, in all conscience.”

The mound of the new grave was heaped with flowers, indeed an impressive sight. The growing flowers and the cut blossoms vied with each other in beauty, and harmonized into one glorious whole of gorgeous bloom.

All had left but two or three workmen, and they withdrew to a respectful distance while March and I stood there.

“Tell me, March, did you find anything? I can’t bear this suspense!”

“Please believe I don’t want to keep you on tenterhooks,” he said, with real regret in his tone. “But what I did discover is so contradictory, so impossible of solution, at present, that I can’t divulge it until I find some meaning to it. What did you make of the girl, Dora?”

“Nothing. She seemed to me just an ordinary servant – ”

“Don’t you believe it! She’s far from being an ordinary servant! That girl knows all there is to know.”