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TESTIMONY BY SILENCE


A CRIME CLUB SELECTION
Amy sayers, a wealthy widow, was pretty in the soft, fashionable,
feminine way of the eighteen eighties. But Stephen Redding's
well-to-do, highly respected family expressed extreme disapproval
at his marriage to Amy, whose life was not exactly an open book.
Amy had a loyal supporter in her housekeeper, Nellie Osgood,
who resented any censure of her employer, but soon after the
marriage a curious situation developed. Nellie's resentment
veered and concentrated on Stephen. And when Stephen became
suddenly violently ill, the Reddings descended en masse on Amy's
household. Stephen's mother took over the nursing job, a cousin
was called as medical adviser, and pretty soon Amy found herself
merely an observer in her own home.
Stephen died. And then all the accumulated contempt, dislike,
and now fear, of the Reddings broke loose. Rumor grew into a
coroner's trial, and soon the questions being asked were: "Was
Stephen Redding poisoned by his wife or the housekeeper, or
were the two women working together?"
Scene: Connecticut.
This novel has not appeared in any form prior to book publication.





TESTIMONY BY SILENCE
by Doris Miles Disney
Aºi. for the Crime Club
by Doubleday & Co., Inc., garden city, n.y., 1948


All of the characters in this book
are fictitious and any resemblance
to actual persons, living or dead,
is purely coincidental.
Copyright, 1948, by Doris Miles Disney
All Rights Reserved
Printed in the United States
at The Country Life Press, Garden City, N.Y.
First Edition


TESTIMONY BY SILENCE


CHAPTER 1 "Amy, I must call on the Reddings. It's at least
two months ago that they came back from Europe."
"Oh yes." Amy Sayers had never met the Reddings and spoke
without interest. "Why don't you go today? I've ordered the car-
riage for three this afternoon. I'll take you to Mrs. Redding's on
my way downtown, if you like, and stop for you later on."
"Oh, will you do that? It won't be too much trouble?"
"Not at all," Amy told her.
They were in the morning room. Its windows faced south and
it was the pleasantest room in the big, turreted, imitation Gothic
house. Leasing the place furnished fifteen months ago when she
moved to Brewster from Stamford, Amy had had the morning
room and her sitting room upstairs redecorated in lighter colors,
turning them into oases of brightness surrounded by the gloom of
heavy draperies, dark wallpaper, somber oak and black walnut
in the rest of the house.
"I do look forward to seeing Grace again," Nellie Osgood re-
sumed after an interval given to rethreadlng her needle. "I
haven't seen her for four years."
Amy made no reply. Her wide blue eyes rested vaguely on her
housekeeper for a moment and returned to her embroidery at
which she was working listlessly.
Nellie was used to the younger woman's indifference to her
private affairs; to anything, in fact, that did not touch closely
on her own life. She went on, "Until I met you, Amy, Grace and
Stephen Redding were my greatest benefactors. I often look back
on the time when Gideon died; it was a nightmare time with all


our money gone overnight and Bess, only five then, to be pro-
vided for. If Stephen hadn't stepped in, if he hadn't salvaged
enough from Gideon's estate to buy our little house in Linden so
that we were at least sure of a roof over us . . ." She shook her
head. "I think I'd have lost my reason in those first dreadful
months if it hadn't been for the Reddings."
Amy had heard it all before. She patted back a yawn delicately,
smoothed the fringe of curls on her forehead, and murmured, "It
was providential that you had them to turn to."
The yawn produced a rare moment of rebellion in Nellie.
After all, she spent hour on hour listening to Amy while she
talked about herself; she was always ready to display sympathy
when Amy bemoaned the series of misfortunes that had dogged
her life since her marriage to John Sayers. Actually Amy had
wealth, youth—for thirty was young compared to Nellie's own
forty-one years—beauty, in her favor. "Everything," Nellie said
to herself. "Yes, everything."
If Amy's self-centered, aimless approach to life defeated her
prospects—well, that was her lookout. She could change. She
should have changed at once after John Sayers's death five years
ago. It was her own fault that her life was empty and without
purpose.
"If I had her chances," Nellie reflected impatiently, "if I were
younger and had her looks and money of my own—the money I
would have had if Gideon hadn't been a fool in making invest-
ments—what an interesting life I'd have made for myself. It
would certainly be nothing like Amy's."
But such reflections were pointless. She was Amy's housekeeper
and companion, a penniless middle-aged widow with a daughter
to support. She was lucky to be here in Amy's home where she
enjoyed every comfort, every luxury. She had put behind her—
forever—the dark period of stark poverty and struggle that had
begun with her husband's death and ended when she met Amy
and entered her employment.
Determinedly, she went on talking about the Reddings. Just this
once, she thought, it wouldn't hurt Amy to listen.
"Of course Stephen and Gideon were old friends," she said.


"Gideon would have tried to help Grace, I'm sure, if the situation
had been reversed."
"Really?"
"Yes, really." The older woman's tone was abstracted. She
found it pleasant to try to picture majestic Grace Redding fallen
from her lofty station in life into the kind of poverty Nellie had
experienced. But the picture wouldn't come clear; it was impos-
sible to see Grace in her situation being conciliatory, patient,
courteous with many types of women for whom she worked as a
seamstress. And Stephen Redding would never be like Gideon;
he would never make poor investments and lose his money and
his wife's too, as Gideon had done. Feckless, unworldly Gideon
. . . why had she ever married him?
"Everyone doesn't remember the claims of old friendship,
though," she continued. "Affluence and poverty have little in
common. Stephen and Grace have behaved admirably."
"Yes, of course." Amy was thoroughly weary of the Reddings.
She yawned again, this time openly, and glanced at the clock.
"It's time for our tray. . . . You had a letter from Bess this
morning, you said. How is she getting along at school?"
"Just fine." Nellie's sharp black eyes softened. "She does enjoy
it so much! We were fortunate that Stephen was able to get her
into a splendid school like Miss Parker's, and at reduced rates too.
Indeed"
She was interrupted by a knock at the door. One of the maids
came into the room carrying a tray that held a plate of wafers and
a decanter of sherry. Nellie poured the wine and sat down with
her own glass.
Amy was the first to finish. "That was refreshing," she said. A
touch of animation brightened her listlessness. She bit into a
wafer. "Very refreshing."
Nellie took her cue and reached for the decanter. "Have an-
other glass, my dear. You look a trifle pale. Did you sleep well?"
"Not too well. Just a little more, if you'll be so kind."
She asked for a third glass when the second was gone and laid
her hand on her housekeeper's arm impulsively. "Dear Nellie!"
she exclaimed. "Whatever did I do without you? Going to Linden
11


on that visit and meeting you was one of the happier circum-
stances that have befallen me. You've filled such a void in my
life. I shall never let you go."
Mrs. Osgood smiled and said she was satisfied to remain. She
enlarged upon the theme with references to Amy's kindness to
her. She was always prepared to express gratitude indefatigably.
It was one of her greatest assets.
Amy's eyes grew moist while she listened and drank her third
glass of wine.
The brilliant autumn morning led Nellie to suggest that they
go outdoors. She went to get jackets for them and they walked
around the grounds until it was time for lunch.
At three that afternoon Slater, the coachman, brought the
carriage around. The two women stepped into it and were driven
down the curving drive to the wide, tree-shaded street.
"I'll wait, of course, at Mrs. Redding's," Amy said. "Slater will
give your name and find out if she's at home."
"No one was ever as thoughtful as you," her companion de-
clared.
Some twenty minutes later the coachman turned into the drive
of a large brick house set far back from the street. He went to the
door and returned with the information that Mrs. Redding was
at home and would be delighted to see Mrs. Osgood. Before
Slater drove away Amy had a glimpse of Mrs. Redding hurrying
to the door to greet Nellie with outstretched hands and a smile of
welcome.
She was pleased by the display of warmth. Poor Nellie had had
such sad things happen to her and none of them her own fault.
It would be a shame if she were to be subjected to petty slights
from old friends who were better off than she. . . .
Her housekeeper was then dismissed from her thoughts. She
took out her shopping list to add an item to it.
There was little, really, that she needed to buy. An hour later
she was driven back to the Redding house. Slater went to the
door to say that Mrs. Sayers was stopping for Mrs. Osgood. The
maid who answered his ring came back to the carriage witfi him,
bringing a message from her mistress. "Mrs. Redding hopes you


will come in, ma'am, and give her the pleasure of meeting you."
No excuse for refusing occurred to Amy; but she sighed as she
allowed Slater to help her down the carriage step. It had been
years since she had shown readiness to meet new people; she had,
in fact, every reason to withdraw from them in spite of a natural
inclination toward friendliness.
She went up the steps slowly because she didn't want to go at
all. She was wearing a becoming plum-colored suit that set off
the fairness of her skin. Sunlight glinted on her hair and her ex-
pression was a little pensive. That was how she looked when
Simon Redding saw her for the first time. He was standing behind
his mother, who advanced from the drawing room to meet her.
Nellie introduced her to Mrs. Redding and added, "I'm so glad
to have you meet each other; you have both done so much for
me."
Mrs. Redding held out her hand. "It is with the greatest
pleasure that I make your acquaintance, Mrs. Sayers. Nellie is
fortunate to have found such a benefactor."
Amy acknowledged the introduction with smiling graciousness
and a murmur of protest at the degree of generosity attributed
to her. Grace Redding led the way to the drawing room. Amy
hadn't seen Simon until that moment, although he had been
watching her the whole time.
"May I present my son Simon, Mrs. Sayers?"
He bowed and smiled. "I'm honored to make your acquaint-
ance."
Returning the smile, she gave him a quick inspection and saw
a tall young man, perhaps a year or so older than herself, dark-
eyed, dark-haired, and with a heavy dark mustache. He was a
handsome man. She felt a stir of interest that grew while they
made conversation about the weather and he went on to ask
her how she liked Brewster.
"We're lifelong residents ourselves," he warned her lightly.
"You must be careful to say what will please us."
"Well, the truth ought to please," Amy replied. "I like Brewster
very much."
13


"Simon!" she called after him imperiously. "Come inside at
once. Your cold!" Remembering the demands of good manners,
she added with an effort at mildness, "I'm sure Mrs. Sayers and
Nellie will excuse you."
But Simon lingered on the steps as though he hadn't heard his
mother. "May I call on you, Mrs. Sayers?" he asked.
"Yes, do," Amy said. "I'm at home Wednesdays and Fridays."
Mrs. Redding moved toward them with determination. "Simon,
your cold," she repeated.
CHAPTER 2 After lunch the next day Amy told Finch that she
was at home to callers and settled herself with a book in the dark
ornate drawing room.
At four o'clock the butler showed Simon Redding into the
room. Finch's face revealed nothing like a nicker of curiosity, but
his eye was knowing. Amy rarely used the drawing room. She had
no social life. Formal calls at the house on Hastings Street were
nonexistent.
She came forward and offered her hand to Simon. "Well, this is
a nice surprise," she said. "I hadn't expected to see you so soon
again, Mr. Redding." She indicated a chair. "Do sit down."
"You said you were at home on Wednesdays and Fridays," he
reminded her with a smile. "Friday seemed far away; and anyway,
since I'm well enough to go out, I'm sure that Father will have
me back at the bank by Friday."
"Does he keep you so hard at work, then, Mr. Redding?"
"Not too hard, actually. After all, we're just back from a whole
year's stay abroad. Father felt he deserved it because he does
15


attend strictly to business; and Mother felt that it would be good
for me to travel with them."
"Did you enjoy yourself?"
With a shrug and a laugh Simon confessed that he'd been a
little bored with the many tours of historic spots. "I played truant
now and then and sneaked off by myself in search of livelier diver-
sion."
Amy nodded in understanding. "I went to France with my
father and mother the summer I was eighteen. And I did weary
of the cathedrals. But they were untiring in looking at them. I'm
afraid," she ended lightly, "that my mind wasn't improved as
much as they expected."
Simon didn't feel it necessary to exercise the restraint with the
widowed Mrs. Sayers that a young girl would have evoked. He
let her see the fullest measure of admiration in his eyes. "I think
they had a splendid success," he declared, and went on to ask,
"Are you an only child too, bearing the full weight of parental
attention?"
"No. I have a brother and two sisters."
He waited for her to volunteer further information about her
family. She looked down at her linked hands, however, and
didn't enlarge upon the statement. Her lashes were the same rich
brown color as her hair. They curled against her cheeks and lent
her demureness. When she spoke it was to change the subject
with an inquiry about his work at the bank.
It had been founded by his grandfather and other Brewster
merchants sixty years ago, he told her. His father was now
president, and Simon was to follow in his footsteps. "When I
was younger I wanted to study medicine," he said. "I've always
taken a great interest in it. My cousin, Harold Redding, is a
doctor and we have lots of talks about his work. But"—his hands
moved in resignation—"it's been the bank instead for me."
"Do you mind?"
He shook his head. "Not any longer. Banking's not the dull
prosy stuff that many people think."
Amy laughed. "It is to me. I'm not good at figures. When I'm
obliged to look at them they make my head ache."
l6


Their chairs were close together. She was leaning toward him
a little as if everything he said was important and she mustn't
miss a word of it.
Simon was enjoying himself. "She's a lovely little thing," he
reflected. "Quite sensible in her conversation too." He said aloud,
"You shouldn't have to be bothered with things like figures, Mrs.
Sayers."
"Oh, but I do have to." She added vaguely, "Investments, you
know."
He did know. Yesterday, before Amy's arrival, Mrs. Osgood
had spoken at some length about how much money Amy had.
And he had listened; he had taken in every word of it.
Daylight gradually retreated from the room as they went on
talking. Nellie came downstairs to join them. Finch brought in
the tea tray and a decanter and glasses. He drew the curtains
and lighted the gas.
"I'm staying an unconscionably long time," Simon remarked,
making no move to go.
The two women sipped sherry. He accepted a glass and savored
its content appreciatively. Mrs. Sayers was a good judge of wine.
Not many women were.
The neglected tea had grown cold when he finally rose to leave.
He said, "I have tickets for the lecture at the Addington Museum
on Friday evening. The subject is Africa, I believe, and they'll
show colored slides. Perhaps you ladies will do me the honor of
allowing me to take you?" He included both of them in the in-
vitation, but his eyes were on Amy and it was she who replied for
both. "We'd be delighted, Mr. Redding."
"Will it be convenient if I call for you at eight?"
"Perfectly." Amy had limited herself to one glass of sherry.
Her glow couldn't be connected with that.
"I'll look forward, then, to seeing you."
She stood at the door of the room, her eyes following him while
he crossed the hall. It occurred to her that her mother would
approve of Simon.
When Finch had closed the front door after him she turned
17


back to Mrs. Osgood and found her housekeeper's gaze resting
on her contemplatively.
"You like him, Amy."
"Why . . . Yes, I think so. He seems quite—agreeable." A
little of the glow left Amy. She advanced into the room. "But
that's neither here nor there, is it? Do pour me another glass of
wine, my dear."
In spite of her assertion, Amy basked in Simon Redding's
company on Friday. Saturday afternoon, the first Saturday of
October, he came to take her for a drive. Nellie wasn't included
in that invitation. From her bedroom she watched the young man
hand Amy into the landau and tuck a rug around her. He
mounted to his own seat, picked up the reins, and headed his
handsome cob down the drive. Nellie remained watching until
they disappeared from view. She was frowning uneasily when she
moved away from the window. Did Grace Redding know where
her son was bound when he left home that afternoon?
She went downstairs just before Amy returned, bringing Simon
in with her for tea. This time it was served in the cheerful
intimacy of the morning room. Mrs. Osgood kept her eyes on
them, dismayed by their interest in each other.
What was Amy thinking of? Why was she encouraging Simon?
When he left and they were alone, she tried, gently and tact-
fully, to point out to Amy that marriage couldn't be for her. The
younger woman turned petulant over successive glasses of wine.
Nellie dropped the matter and set about coaxing her back into
good humor.
Mrs. Redding left cards a few days later but didn't call on them.
It remained for her son to repair the omission with daily visits of
his own. Nellie could only look on helplessly. It began to seem
possible that Amy would marry the young man. She was in love
with him; she had no thought beyond that, whereas Simon, Mrs.
Osgood knew, had always been preoccupied with money and
wanting more of it. She remembered his attentiveness on that
unfortunate day when she had gone to see his mother and spoken
so freely of Amy's wealth. Even then, perhaps, he had been
making up his mind to become her suitor.
18


Nellie turned up the gas beside the dresser for a clearer view
of her. Amy's reflection had become troubled looking back at her
from the mirror. She said uncertainly, "I suppose you're won-
dering . . ."
"Yes. A man with Simon Redding's background . . ." Nellie
made an indeterminate gesture with the hairbrush. "After all.. ."
Amy eyed her steadily. "I told him all about myself. He was
terribly upset, of course, at first, but in the end he said we must
forget it and that there was no need ever to mention any of it
again. Isn't he"—she was fired with enthusiasm again—"the
noblest of men?"
"Yes indeed—if you told him everything."
"Well ... I did."
"Everything?" Nellie persisted, turning to look at her.
"Yes. Everything." But the younger woman's eyes fell before
her housekeeper's prolonged gaze.
CHAPTER 3 A week before Thanksgiving, Amy went to her
parents' home in Boston, where she was to be married shortly
after the holiday. She had been welcomed back by her family as
soon as she wrote to tell them about her engagement to Simon.
Mrs. Osgood remained behind for a few days longer before she
joined Amy in Boston to help with preparations for the wedding.
The evening before she left Brewster, Simon came to see her. He
leaned against the mantel dejectedly.
"I can't do a thing with Mother," he announced. "She flatly
refuses to attend the wedding. What will Amy's family and
friends think? To say nothing of Amy herself."
"I'm sure she was expecting this," Mrs. Osgood remarked
22


consolingly. "After all, your mother has refused to see her since
you became engaged. As for Amy's family, a few words to the
effect that your mother's health forbids the journey to Boston will
cover the situation. Your father is going with you. That will serve
to keep up appearances."
"But hang it all!" He made a gesture of exasperation. "I want
Mother to stop her foolishness. She behaves as if it were my
funeral, weeping over me and all that!"
Nellie started to offer further consolation and changed her
mind. What was there to say? She herself was inclined to share
Grace Redding's view of the marriage and to foresee little hap-
piness to come from it.
When she didn't speak, Simon muttered, "She's casting a blight
over the whole thing. I wish she'd stop it." His dark eyes came
to rest on Mrs. Osgood's unresponsive face and he dropped his
voice to a cajoling note. "Nellie, old dear, you've known Mother
so many years . . . Won't you see her in the morning before you
leave for Boston and try to change her mind? It's so awkward as
it is."
He saw her stiffen in resistance. "I couldn't possibly interfere
■ like that, Simon. I'd be glad to help you if I could, but pray
don't ask this of me. It would do no good anyway. I talked with
your mother a month ago in one of the stores and she seemed
to blame me for everything." Resentment edged Nellie's voice
and glinted in her eyes. "You may be sure I shan't put myself in
the way of another tirade from her!"
"You know what Mother is," he said. "She does let her tongue
get the best of her at times."
"Doesn't she, though? If I saw her tomorrow I should only be
exposing myself to another snubbing. I should deserve it. She
would certainly regard any interference from me as an. unwar-
ranted impertinence."
Simon accepted the fact that there was no aid to be gained
from Mrs. Osgood and dropped the matter. He began to talk of
Amy and things she had told him about the past.
Mrs. Osgood offered the reassurances he wanted to hear.
On the way home she lingered in his thoughts. He had glimpsed
23


a flinty base beneath the yielding surface of the paid companion
and housekeeper. He felt that there might be more to her than
met the eye. His mother had been rude to her, probably; but he
had never before, in the many years of their desultory acquaint-
ance, known her to show resentment about anything.
The next moment he was considering her salary. Amy had said
that she paid Nellie five hundred dollars a year. It was a large
sum, really, since the woman had no expenses. But then his little
Amy had a tendency to be too openhanded with money. All those
servants eating their heads off with only two women to wait
on . . .
There were due to be some changes.
When he was home his anger at his mother erupted into a
violent scene. But the most he could wring from her was the
promise of a note to be delivered to Amy. Mrs. Redding said over
and over that she couldn't bring herself to attend the wedding.
"How can you ask me to watch you fling yourself away like that?"
she sobbed.
Simon shouted, "Oh, my God!" and rushed out of the room.
A residue of anger at his mother and the memory of her tear-
ful good-by hung over him when, with his father, he boarded a
train for Boston to be married. In an inner pocket was her note to
Amy. He could only hope that it was graciously worded. She had
said, "I'll do my best."
It was with some misgivings that he gave it to his fiancee in the
tall, narrow-fronted house on Beacon Hill. "Mother wouldn't
come but she sent you this."
Amy took the envelope, broke the seal, and drew out the note.
She read it twice, her face hardening, and thrust the single sheet
of paper into Simon's hands. "Read it for yourself!" she ex-
claimed. "Your mother's kind wishes!"
He read:
My dear Mrs. Sayers:
I am unable to attend your wedding, not for the reasons of
health which Simon will offer your family but simply because I
cannot bring myself to be present on what I regard as the most
unhappy occasion of my son's life.
24


I hope you will forgive my frankness. It is dictated by the
feeling that it is for the best that we have a perfect understanding
of each other. I am sorry, of course, as any mother would be, that
I find no cause to rejoice in my son's marriage, but from the very
first it has been no secret that I felt he was making a grave mis-
take.
However, since I cannot persuade him to listen to my en-
treaties, I shall hope for the best. I shall hope that my fears are
baseless and that Simon and you will find happiness together.
And that in time I shall come to be reconciled to your marriage
and shall be able to regard you with proper affection. Indeed,
my most earnest prayers shall be directed to these ends.
Faithfully yours,
Grace A. Redd1ng
As Amy had done, Simon read the note a second time. Then he
swore under his breath, crumpled it into a ball, and would have
thrown it into the fire except for her restraining hand. She
took it from him, smoothed it out, and thrust it into a pocket of
her dress.
"I shall keep it," she declared.
"Why?" Simon demanded. "To read it again and again and
make yourself miserable?"
"No. I'll just keep it." She walked away from him to stand
looking into the fire. "Simon, why does she hate me so?" she
asked. "I've done nothing to her. I can't understand her feelings.
Usually, you know, I like people and wish them well. I couldn't
write such a note."
He crossed the room to her and drew her into his arms. "I
know you couldn't, dearest. Mother, on the contrary, is apt to ride
roughshod over everyone who gets in her way. It isn't that she
doesn't like you personally. She'd be the same no matter what
choice I made of a wife." His arms tightened around Amy. "I'm
pleased with my choice, though. And I'm the one who counts."
"Yes, Simon." She wasn't looking at him. With her mind's
eye she was still looking at the note.
Stephen Redding didn't share his wife's attitude. He found
himself favorably impressed with Amy's family: her father, a
prominent shipping merchant; her mother, a gentle, faded
woman; her sisters, both married, older than Amy and apparently
25


closed one's eyes to many things. It was, even now, closing hers
to the final folly of Amy's marriage.
She returned to Brewster the next day. Simon and his bride had
left for North Carolina, where they would spend a leisurely
honeymoon, extended over Christmas into the new year. Nellie
saw that the house had a thorough cleaning in preparation for
their return and looked forward to having Bess pay her a visit
at Christmas.
Mother and daughter had a pleasant time together. During
Bess's two weeks' stay Mrs. Osgood forced herself to forget her
worries and give all her attention to her daughter. It was the
first time they had been alone together since she had started to
work for Amy.
Bess Osgood at eighteen had moments of seeming older. The
uncertainties of her place in a household where her mother was
housekeeper, lack of financial security, bleak memories of greater
stress in the past, an unsettled outlook for the future, combined
to give her a more serious view of life than that of her school
contemporaries.
The Christmas holiday, however, was unclouded. Mrs. Osgood
would not discuss the possible effects of Amy Redding" s marriage
on their lives. She took the girl on shopping trips, they spent an
evening at the theater, they had tea at Brewster's leading restau-
rant. And Grace Redding, after hearing her husband's report on
Amy's family, unbent enough to invite Nellie and her daughter
to lunch.
The end of the holiday season was brightened for Bess by the
arrival of Larry Whitman to spend New Year's with his father.
Dr. Francis Whitman was a next-door neighbor, a retired phy-
sician in his late fifties, who had lived apart from his wife and
two children for more than twenty years. Larry, who had just
begun practicing medicine in Saratoga, had been a small boy
when his parents separated, but he was devoted to his father and
came to visit him frequently.
Amy's engagement had put an end to friendliness between the
two households. But the very evening of his arrival, Larry came
to see Bess, having learned from the Whitman housekeeper
that the girl was home.
27


He found Mrs. Osgood alone in the morning room. She liked
Larry and greeted him pleasantly. She had a detachment of
viewpoint that made it possible for her to see him as himself and
not as his father's son.
They shook hands. He told her she was looking well and asked,
"Is Bess home?"
Mrs. Osgood rang and, when Finch appeared, sent him to tell
her daughter that Dr. Lawrence Whitman was calling.
The hall door was open and they heard her light, quick step on
the stairs. It slowed at the bottom and she came to a full halt
when she was over the threshold of the room. "Why, hello, Larry,
how are you?" Self-consciousness made her a little formal. She
was only eighteen and she was in love with him.
He rose eagerly and went to her, taking the hand she offered
in both of his. "Bess, you don't know how I've been looking
forward to seeing you!"
Mrs. Osgood smiled at the warmth in his voice. He was a sim-
ple, direct young man. He had none of Bess's shyness. He was
seven years older than she. The attitude of a girl falling in love
for the first time was a complicated thing, full of doubts and
hesitations, the mother reflected.
His height was no more than average. Bess was nearly as tall
as he. Both had similar fair coloring and light brown hair. He
had dark blue eyes like his father's, and hers were hazel. They
stood smiling at each other until Larry said, "You're looking
wonderful," and drew her forward to the fire. After he had ex-
changed reports with her on what they had been doing since the
summer he went at once to the subject of the wedding.
"I've been wondering if it will make much difference in your
position here." His glance was on Mrs. Osgood, who shrugged
and answered, "Oh no, I think not."
From every aspect it was delicate ground he invaded. In spite
of this he continued, "Still, Mrs. Sayers—Mrs. Redding, I should
say—will have the companionship of her husband now. I should
thing she'd have less need of you."
"That's what I've been telling Mother," Bess put in anxiously.
"It will be all right" Mrs. Osgood spoke in a firm tone. "Amy
28


Under his guidance they were all in a gay mood as the evening
wore on. Amy might not have existed.
At midnight they drank a toast to the new year.
CHAPTER 4 When Simon and Amy were back from their
honeymoon he went alone to see his mother. The purpose of his
visit was to lay down an ultimatum. Either she would accept his
wife or see nothing of him.
He had his father's support. "They're married now, Grace.
You'll only cause a good deal of talk if you keep this up," Stephen
Redding pointed out.
"You certainly will." Simon eyed his mother hostilely. "And
I don't propose to have my wife's name bandied about because of
you."
Mrs. Redding looked acutely unhappy. "My dear boy, I've
acted in your best interests. I've felt from the day I met Amy
that she would bring down misfortune on your poor head."
"Well, she hasn't and she won't. You've got to change your
attitude."
The argument continued a while longer. When she was con-
vinced that her son meant what he said, Mrs. Redding admitted
defeat. She wrote a note to Amy, inviting her to dinner the fol-
lowing Sunday. Mrs. Osgood was included in the invitation be-
cause Grace Redding thought that she could haul down her colors
more gracefully if a non-member of the family was present.
The dinner was a failure from the start. Simon's mother found
herself unable to carry her surrender all the way to friendliness.
Her glance raked Amy with enmity even while she was greeting
her politely. She said little, and what she did say had a stiff
30


was concerned, she insisted. She began to cry, and Simon had to
ring for brandy, she was so upset. He let the question of Nellie
rest for the present, but at intervals during the next few months
he returned to the attack.
There were other sources of disagreement. Amy's many prom-
ises to stop drinking came to nothing. By the end of February the
December wedding had lost much of its luster. Amy was in tears
one Sunday afternoon when she went in search of Mrs. Osgood.
"Simon has gone to call on that mother of his!" she exclaimed.
"He's in a perfect pet about one thing and another." She wiped
her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief.
"Well, don't let it bother you," Nellie said soothingly. "He'll
have forgotten what his grievance was by the time he's home
again."
Amy shook her head and moved to a window. She leaned her
forehead against the glass and said in a muffled voice, "It's not
just one thing. It's everything. I can't please him, it seems.
He's always running to his mother and coming back to flaunt
her opinions. He nags and he's utterly hateful if I so much as
look at a glass of sherry or brandy. And he's stingy—no, don't
contradict, Nellie!" She turned and raised a hand protestingly
when Mrs. Osgood murmured dissent. "He is stingy! He's been
going over the household accounts and raising a fuss. One would
think we were paupers the way he grudges every penny that isn't
spent for absolute necessaries."
One of her feet tapped the floor impatiently. Her mutinous
expression made her seem no more than a schoolgirl. "I just
won't stand for it," she declared. "I never counted pennies in my
life and I don't mean to start it now. I tell you, Nellie, it's as
vulgar as it is vexing to have so much talk of money."
"Amy dear . . ." Mrs. Osgood went to her and laid an arm
across her shoulders. Amy had been confiding in her for more
than three years now. The older woman moved with firm step on
the uncertain ground of giving advice to a wife about her hus-
band.
"You must be definite with Simon," she said. "Tell him once
and for all that with the ample fortune at your command you
33


"Of course Simon wouldn't do that." He spoke without con-
viction, and Nellie, ignoring the contradiction, went on, "You
would have us go to my aunt, go anywhere, without regard for
our well-being. Oh, Stephen, I cannot but wonder what my
husband would say to such advice coming from his old friend!"
Simon's father walked up and down before the fireplace. "I'm
sure Gideon would say his widow and child were better off under
the protection of a blood relative than in the house of a woman
on whom they have no real claim."
Nellie shook her head and stated bitterly, "My aunt, as you
well know, is a disagreeable, niggardly woman living on a run-
down, isolated farm in the hills of Georgia. A country crossroads
store is the nearest approach to civilization within miles of her
home. She avoids society and has no interest in the amenities of
life. If Bess and I went to her the way we did right after Gideon's
death, it would only be a repetition of our other stay under her
roof. We would have no more than the bare necessities and would
be continually told that we lived on her bounty. It was bad
enough when Bess was a small child, but now it would be un-
thinkable for her!" Nellie was too disturbed to remain seated. She
got to her feet and moved away from her companion. With her
back turned she said, "No, Stephen, my aunt is not to be thought
of."
"Well, then . . ." The man paused. He wasn't unsympathetic,
but his son's wishes were his primary concern. "Why can't you
return to that little house of yours in Linden? Bess will finish
school in June. No doubt she can find employment as a teacher
and you can go back to sewing." He warmed to the plan. "I'm
sure I can help both of you, Nellie. I'll make inquiries."
"No!" She swung around to face him. "That way Bess would
feel tied down to supporting me. I want something better for
her."
"Well, what do you suggest?"
Her body was taut in defiance. "I shall stay here," she told
him coldly. "It's Amy who pays my salary. Until she asks me to
go, I shall remain with her."
That ended the discussion, but it was only a temporary respite,
35


Amy pushed back her chair and rose without making a reply
to the gently voiced question. "I want to get a letter off to my
mother," she said. "Don't worry about this, my dear. Simon
expects too much at times."
Among the more reasonable of Simon's expectations was con-
duct befitting a lady on the part of his wife. Their differences
over her drinking came to a head during Easter week. Bess was
staying with them until Easter Monday. Amy liked the girl and,
on her account, invited Larry Whitman, spending the week end
with his father, to dinner.
The food was very good, Amy was wearing a new dress, and
the dinner should have been a success with the two young people
adding life to the table. But Simon didn't want Larry in the
house, and Amy was morose after an acrid exchange with him
about the young doctor.
Finch had to keep refilling her wineglass. When dinner was
over and they moved on to the drawing room she began to drink
brandy. From her place behind the coffee service she ignored her
husband's rising anger until he brought his cup to her for more
coffee and spoke to her sharply in an undertone. Resentment
affected her hand, already unsure. She let the cup drop and the
hot liquid spilled over Simon's legs and feet.
"Oh, I'm so sorry!" she exclaimed. "Did I burn you?"
"Naturally!" His voice was thick with rage. Amy bent over to
dab at his trousers with her napkin and all but lost her balance.
He righted her with one hand and snatched the napkin from her
with the other. It was Nellie who came to his aid.
"I'll have to change," he said to her.
"Yes, you'd better."
Amy looked up at him glassily. "I'm so sorry. I can't imagine
how I could have been so clumsy."
This was too much for her husband's vanishing self-control.
His voice lashed out at her. "I can imagine it very well, Amy!
You had all that wine at dinner. And now brandy on top of it.
You're drunk!"
"Oh, Simon, how can you say that? How can you show such
want of delicacy?"
37


His dark brows met formidably. "Is it any more indelicate for
me to say you're drunk than for you to get in that state?" he
demanded harshly.
Bess and Larry, standing with their coffee cups near the fire-
place, Mrs. Osgood, moving back a few steps from the table
where the accident had occurred, were uncomfortable witnesses
to the scene. Simon caught his wife's arm and pulled her to her
feet.
"I think you'd better go to bed," he said.
She burst into tears and tried to escape his grip. He wouldn't
let her go. His glance swept over the others. "I must apologize
for my wife. I assure you it won't happen again. From now on
I'll keep the keys to the wine cellar in my own possession." He
looked down at her lowered head. "Do you hear me, Amy? I'm
going to speak to Finch at once."
Mrs. Osgood took an involuntary step forward as he began to
half carry, half lead his weeping wife to the door. "Shall I ring
for Phoebe to help her undress?" she asked.
"No, thank you. I prefer not to have Phoebe witness my wife's
drunkenness—although, God knows, the girl must have seen her
like this often enough before."
"Oh, Simon, you're beside yourself!" Again Amy tried to free
herself, but she was no match for her husband's strength.
Mrs. Osgood trailed them anxiously. "Simon, will you let me
come, then, and get her ready for bed? She's used to the assist-
ance of a maid, you know."
He stopped short. "I don't like your interference, Nellie." His
arm was around his wife, holding her against him. Over her
disheveled head he directed an icy stare at her housekeeper.
"Amy is my wife, and I'm quite capable of judging what is best
for her without any advice from you."
Nellie clasped her hands together in dismay. "I never meant to
interfere. I merely thought . . ." Her voice died away.
Simon didn't answer her. He led his wife out to the hall and
their footsteps were heard on the stairs.
"Oh, Mother, he's dreadfully angry with you too now!" Bess
ran to her mother. "That cutting tone he used!"
38


Nellie put her arm around her daughter. "Don't let it worry
you. Simon always had a quick temper. It will blow over."
She was shaking, though, Bess discovered, and took her to a
sofa and sat down beside her. "Shall I get you something? Brandy,
perhaps?"
"Nothing, thank you." Nellie looked at the girl. "Amy has done
so much for me. How could I let Simon's brutality pass without
notice?"
Bess shook her head. "You couldn't, of course. But . . ."
_ They had forgotten Larry was there. He came to them and
sat down next to Bess, reaching for her hand. "Don't be too
upset about this. Mrs. Redding did drink a lot; Redding got
his shins burned and was furious with her and everyone else
too. It's not serious. He won't have your mother turned out in
the morning."
Bess shivered. "But it was such an awful scene. I couldn't bear
it. Oh, Mother!" She turned to the older woman. "I don't want
to stay here. I don't want you to stay. I looked at them just now
and thought"
"Don't be silly, Bess." Mrs. Osgood patted her daughter's
shoulder. "Amy did drink a lot, just as Larry says. And the rest
of it . . ." She shrugged. "Husbands and wives are bound to
have their quarrels."
She couldn't reassure Bess, whose pride had been hurt by
Simon's treatment of her mother. The girl kept coming back to
her plea that Nellie should break with Amy immediately.
When Larry rose to go he asked Bess to walk to the gate with
him. "Then I'll walk back to the house with you," he said and
smiled at her. "A breath of air will do you good before bedtime."
Bess slipped on a jacket and went outside with him. The air
was soft and mild with the coming of spring. They moved slowly
down the drive and lingered at the gate, making plans to see each
other the next afternoon.
"Feel better?" Larry inquired presently.
"Yes, I guess so."
"Well, then, come out of the shadows and let me see how you
look." He took her hands and drew her forward. The starlit
39


night furnished enough light to show that she was still grave. He
shook his head and Bess gave him a troubled smile.
"It's not only what happened tonight," she told him. "It's
everything. The way she was separated from her first husband
before he died; the breach with her family; the things Mother
doesn't tell me; the way Mother's kept me away from her all she
could and been uneasy, I know, many times herself. And she
has no friends; why, even your father has given up paying neigh-
borly calls!"
Larry glanced at her, intently questioning. But there was no
more than ordinary perplexity in her expression. "It's as if she
gave off some miasma that could only bring harm"
The girl broke off with a laugh at the extravagance of what
she said and resumed ashamedly, "She's been good to me. I'm
not nearly grateful enough."
"Oh, that." Larry dismissed gratitude with a gesture and added,
"But you should laugh at yourself."
There was no energy in the rebuke. He thought of Amy, of all
that he knew about her—much more than the girl before him—
and knew that Bess spoke the truth; that Amy, kind, indefinite,
weak, brought little happiness to those around her. You had to
think about her a while, Larry realized suddenly, walking back
toward the house with Bess, before you understood how deeply
selfish she was. She obscured the taint by being gentle and by
the meaningless generosity with which she used her money. She
listened to everyone and was influenced by everyone—until her
basic wishes were at stake. Then, sweetly, wistfully, she got what
she wanted, and it didn't seem to matter if she hurt everyone
whose life touched hers.
Bess, for example. So far Amy hadn't hurt her, but—just the
possibility that she would was enough to make Larry turn to the
girl and take her in his arms quickly.
"Oh, Bess," he said and kissed her hard.
She drew back. "Now, Larry, really." She was more breathless
than severe.
"Yes, I know. But I've been wanting to kiss you the whole eve-
40


ning." He was smiling as she ran up the steps to the front door.
"Good night," he called after her. "See you tomorrow."
He went home, thinking about Bess on the way. He had to get
her out of that environment as soon as she finished school. He
had to be sure she was safe, and he could never be sure of it
while she lived in Amy's house.
CHAPTER 5 Simon's plan to cut Amy off from the wine cellar
was not carried out that night. When they reached their room
she dropped down on the bed and sobbed out that he shouldn't
treat her like this, considering how delicate her health was at
present.
"I'm unaware of any change in the state of your health," he
replied curtly.
"Oh, but . . ." Amy lifted her head to give him a long-suffer-
ing look. It was not the way she had meant to tell him, but the
sequel was what she wanted. Simon came and sat down beside her
and held her in his arms. His anger was forgotten at the prospect
of a child.
"Mother and Father will be delighted," he said at last.
"Yes." Her face pressed against his shoulder, hiding a secret
little smile of triumph. Simon's mother must surely make over-
tures now toward her daughter-in-law. Otherwise she couldn't
hope to see much of her grandchild.
Amy allowed herself to be petted into forgiving her husband
for his harshness. With peace restored, she felt drowsy. Simon
was a dear, after all, she thought, her head heavy against him.
He helped her undress and tucked her into bed.
41


Their reconciliation shed its light over Nellie too. No more
references were made to letting her go. Amy, subject to fits of
melancholy and fears of what was to come, needed her. Nellie
assured the younger woman that these were merely symptoms of
her condition. But Amy found more solace in the decanter than
in assurances. . . .
Early in June Mrs. Osgood left Brewster for a few days to
attend Bess's graduation exercises. Amy sent the girl her best
love and a small exquisite gold watch.
The two women kissed good-by affectionately, but to Mrs.
Osgood it was a relief to be going away for a few days. She had
never known Amy to be as exacting as she was lately; she tried
the patience of those around her to the utmost limits.
A school friend had invited Bess to spend two weeks in Maine,
and when graduation was over Nellie returned alone to Brewster.
Although she had sent a telegram ahead stating the time of her
arrival, the coachman wasn't there when she got off the train.
She frowned in annoyance at Amy's forgetfulness, left her suit-
case in the baggage room to be called for, and went outside to
wait for the horsecar.
Her thoughts were on the Reddings while she waited. "A baby
must make a great difference," she reflected. "It will bring Simon
and Amy closer together. Perhaps it will even stop her drinking."
The horsecar came and she stepped aboard. Dr. Whitman was
one of the passengers. She sat down next to him and they talked
together during the ride home.
Mrs. Osgood said good-by to him on the far side of the street,
crossed over, and passed through the gate. She walked at a
leisurely rate up the slope of the drive. The house was in front
of her, with its wings and gables and towers adding to its size
and its fresh coat of light brown paint glistening in the sunlight.
She looked at it and wondered what was waiting for her inside.
She was in no hurry to find out. The lovely June day held her
on the steps. It was a pity to leave it and go in to almost any kind
of situation or mood from Amy.
Her black eyes were fixed on a maple tree on.the lawn. She was
hoping that Amy would be in a pleasant frame of mind and ask
42


about Bess's graduation and perhaps offer help with summer plans
for the girl. Bess would have her teacher's certificate and must
find a position in the autumn; but some arrangement had to be
made for the summer months. Amy had always been willing to
have her with them before. It was Simon who might object to
another Osgood under his roof for that length of time.
Looking trim and neat in her gray silk poplin dress and black
bonnet with white niching, Nellie turned away from the outer
scene and pulled the bell.
It was the butler who admitted her to the dimness of the hall.
Agitation showed through his usual grave dignity, and Nellie
caught a glimpse of one of the maids running in the upper hall.
"What is it, Finch?" she asked.
"Mrs. Redding was taken ill this morning, madam."
Dr. Shipley's carriage stood outside the house all that afternoon
and evening. Mrs. Osgood was installed as nurse the moment she
had removed her bonnet, but they could not save Amy's baby.
She had a miscarriage and was beyond comfort when Simon was
allowed to see her.
He tried to persuade her to look ahead. "Don't feel so bad
about it, darling. We'll be luckier next time." He stroked her
hand. "We'll have a houseful of children if that's what you want."
Amy shook her head and wept harder. Mrs. Osgood, who had
left them alone, was called back, and Simon went to bed in an-
other room that had been made ready for him.
His wife clung to her. "Don't leave me, Nellie. Don't leave me
to face this by myself."
"Of course I shall stay with you." The older woman bent over
her. "You're taking it too seriously. You've been unlucky, that's
all. Lots of women have miscarriages and go on to have several
children afterward."
Amy made a tired little gesture of protest. "I've always been
unlucky, if that's what you want to call it. But what happened
today was more than ill luck. You know it was, Nellie! It was a
judgment against me."
"Hush, my dear." Amy was trying to sit up in bed. "You've
got to get some rest, you know," her housekeeper continued.
43


"Don't keep talking and letting yourself be vexed by unhappy
thoughts. Tomorrow you'll see things differently."
She moved away from the bed. "I'm going to prepare the sleep-
ing draught Dr. Shipley left for you. I'll have Phoebe bring me
linens to make up the couch, and we'll both settle down for the
night."
Mrs. Osgood kept up a quiet flow of talk. Amy drank the
sedative and began to look less haggard. Presently she fell asleep.
During the next few days she improved rapidly and became
more cheerful. She still relied on Nellie, however, and did not
want her out of her sight, insisting that she sleep on the couch in
her room even when it was no longer necessary.
Simon continued to use one of the extra bedrooms. He didn't
like the arrangement. At dinner, the only meal that Mrs. Osgood
ate downstairs with him, he was short-tempered and made mono-
syllabic replies to her attempts at conversation.
None of it was the housekeeper's fault. When Simon returned
from the bank and went at once to his wife, Nellie made it a point
to leave them alone together. It was Amy who would, after a few
minutes with her husband, send him in search of the older woman
and let him see how much she depended on her.
At dinner one night he said, "Amy seems much better today.
She said Dr. Shipley hadn't felt it necessary to look in on her but
that he is coming tomorrow. I shall arrange to be home, so that
I can ask him if she isn't well enough to come downstairs again
and take up her normal routine."
Nellie nodded agreement. "That's an excellent idea. Perhaps
he'll allow us to get her outdoors in a day or two. It would do her
good, I'm sure."
"Yes. It would do me good too. I am almost totally deprived
of my wife's society this past week." He set down his wineglass
with emphasis. "She seems to find you a more satisfying com-
panion at present, Nellie."
Mrs. Osgood sighed. The night was hot and humid. She was
feeling the strain of humoring Amy's whims and being with her
constantly. Simon's resentment of her presence in the house, now
44


finding a new grievance to draw upon, was almost too much to.
bear.
She waited an interval before answering, to be sure her voice
was wholly under control. Then she said, "Amy leans on me at
the moment because I'm a woman, too, and older than she. I can,
to a small extent, take the place of her mother, whose health
doesn't permit her to be with her daughter just when Amy needs
her most. Not even a husband can expect to take a mother's place
at a time like this, Simon."
"I suppose there is something in what you say." He made an
effort to be pleasant.
Finch moved back and forth, serving them deftly. It was still
daylight outside, but in the dining room, with its dark red walls
and black walnut, the light was lost and it was necessary to use
the overhead chandelier. The cook, left mainly to her own devices
since Amy's illness, had chosen a menu too heavy for a hot sum-
mer night. Mrs. Osgood ate without appetite. She had one of her
nervous headaches coming on.
"If I were able to leave here," she thought, glancing from time
to time at the dark moody face across the table, "if I could just
pack my things and go, how delighted I should be!"
The next afternoon Dr. Shipley pronounced Amy well enough
to spend a few hours a day downstairs. "A change would benefit
her too," he informed Simon in Nellie's hearing. "Perhaps a few
weeks at the seaside. Naturally enough your wife is inclined to be
out of sorts. She needs cheering up, new scenes, new people. She'll
be a different woman, you'll see."
Simon's face fell, and Nellie, guessing at his thoughts, smiled
to herself. He was calculating the cost of a stay at the seaside, of
course.
With a murmured excuse to the two men, she left the room
and hurried upstairs to tell Amy about the doctor's latest prescrip-
tion for her. Weeks ago they had talked of leaving Brewster for
the summer and Simon had raised objections. He had said that
his work at the bank would keep him in the city; that the most
he could hope for was two weeks' vacation; and that Amy should
45


be near her doctor, in any case. The real reason, Nellie knew, was
that he balked at the expense involved in the kind of summer
home Amy had spoken of taking. Now, she reflected, knocking
on Amy's door, the matter was out of his hands. They would rent
a suitable place, Simon would be with them only week ends, and
Amy would welcome the addition of Bess to the household.
It seemed to Mrs. Osgood that all her immediate problems had
been solved by the doctor's suggestion.
The next day Amy came downstairs. It was sunny and warm
and she walked in the garden with Simon. She was eager to make
plans for the summer. Her housekeeper was inclined to believe
that at least some of her animation was grounded in the fact that
she would escape for a time from her husband, with his continual
watch over her actions. A day or so later Amy confirmed the
belief while the two women sat together on the lawn and ate ices
that had been brought out to them.
"Simon's such a fuss-budget," Amy announced suddenly. "And
now that his hopes of a child are dashed, he's back at all his old
ways again. Money, you know, these cheeseparing trifles he brings
up!" Her tone was sharp with discontent. "He's carping on the
expense of spending the summer at the shore. And last night he
even forbade me to have a glass of wine. It's getting so he's
past putting up with!"
Mrs. Osgood made light of her complaints. But Amy was de-
termined to find fault with her husband and did not hesitate to
repeat comments made by Simon, relying on his wife's discretion.
"He was nagging about you too, Nellie," she burst out a moment
later. "It seems he'll never give me any peace until I cut the staff
expenses to the bone."
She was startled by the effect of her words. Mrs. Osgood put
aside her sherbet glass and rose, her face rigid.
"Excuse me, Amy," she said. "I'm going back to the house and
pack. This is too much for me. I have, after all, some pride. Yes,
some pride," she reiterated bitterly. "Not a great deal, considering
the reverses that have beset me since my husband's death, but
some."
Alarmed, Amy sprang up and hurried after her. She caught her
46


It was a pleasant summer day, and at the breakfast table Amy
suggested driving into the city with Simon.
"I feel perfectly well now," she said, "and I have so much
shopping to do for a stay at the shore that I ought to make a
start."
"All right," Simon agreed. "Just don't overexert yourself,
though, when it's your first time away from the house."
The carriage was brought around, and Amy, in striped muslin,
wearing a hat that was no more than a wisp of ribbon and lace,
settled herself beside her husband.
Simon was dropped off at the bank, the coachman drove Amy
to the shopping district and waited for her to finish her errands.
They were back home for lunch, which Amy ate alone. Simon
rarely returned from the bank in the middle of the day, and Mrs.
Osgood was not expected until nightfall.
After lunch Amy went to her room for a nap. Simon came
home at four o'clock and found her outdoors reading.
She lifted her face for his kiss. "You're early, dear."
"Yes. You don't look as if your shopping trip did you any
harm," he commented with a smile. "In fact, you make a charm-
ing picture here on the lawn reading."
"Thank you. I did have a nap." She laid aside her book and
told him she had bought him a pound of tobacco. "It's a new
mixture the tobacconist thought you might like."
Simon was pleased. "That was thoughtful of you, Amy."
"It wasn't anything. ... I suppose you're home early to put
up the lawn-tennis net." She added teasingly, "The gravest
financial problems at the bank had to give way to its arrival,
didn't they?"
He shook his head. "The truth is I'm in too lazy a mood to do
anything with it. I'll let it go until tomorrow and take one of the
horses out. I feel more like riding."
"Oh . . ." Amy checked an admonition to be careful. Simon
was a poor horseman, but he enjoyed riding and didn't like to be
reminded of his lack of skill, particularly by his wife, who rode
well herself.
She was sitting under the chestnut tree that was her favorite
48


outdoor spot. It stood to the west of the house, with lawn furni-
ture grouped about in its shade. She remained where she was
while Simon went in to change and waved to him when he came
out the side door in riding clothes. He waved back and took the
path to the stables.
It was an hour before dinner when he returned. His coat sleeve
was torn, his face scratched and streaked with dirt.
Amy met him in the hall. "Oh, what happened?" she cried.
"Just a slight accident. Nothing at all, really."
"You were thrown!"
"Yes."
While she examined his scratches he told her what had hap-
pened. The horse had shied at a bit of fluttering paper, he said,
and he had been thrown. It was nothing to make a fuss about.
But Amy saw that he was white and shaken and walked stiffly, as
if movement caused him pain.
"I'll have Finch prepare a hot bath for you," she said. "You'll
feel much better then."
"What a to-do over a trifle!" he remarked impatiently, wanting
to be done with discussion of the accident.
Nevertheless she sent the butler to prepare the bath and asked
next if she shouldn't call in Dr. Shipley.
"Good lord, no!" Simon went up to his room, with Amy, still
solicitous, trailing after him.
It was seven o'clock when they came downstairs together.
Dinner was at seven-thirty. The carriage had been sent to meet
Mrs. Osgood, and she came into the house at twenty minutes past
seven. The Reddings were in the morning room, where she looked
in on them long enough to say that she had found a suitable
cottage and would tell them about it at dinner.
"I'm anxious to hear about it," Amy said. "I'm afraid you're
not going to have time to change. Poor dear, you must have had a
trying day!"
"It was a successful one; that's what counts." Nellie went up to
her room.
It was the first time Amy had been downstairs for dinner since
her illness, but the occasion was not marked by any celebration.
49


A storm was on the way and the sultry evening sky was raked by
flashes of lightning. The air was hot and motionless. Rumbles of
thunder drew nearer while they were eating.
The two women did most of the talking. Simon was gloomy and
quiet, barely glancing at the pictures Nellie produced of the big
rambling cottage she had rented for them that day. His only con-
tribution to the conversation was to complain of some losses on
the stock market.
When Nellie had finished telling them about the arrangements
and terms she had made with the real-estate agent she seemed to
catch the contagion of Simon's mood. She, too, became silent.
Finch had decanted two bottles of sherry and a bottle of bur-
gundy before dinner. Amy and her housekeeper drank one and a
half bottles of the sherry between them, while Simon was satisfied
with three glasses of burgundy and ate little.
Coffee was refused by all of them. "It's much too hot for it,"
Amy said, and they went back to the morning room.
Her husband's silence persisted. He sat in the window seat and
picked up a magazine he had been reading. The thunder grew
into deafening crashes. Amy and Nellie returned to the subject
of the cottage and the preparations that must be made for going
to it ten days hence. From time to time the older woman glanced
at Simon. She could not decide whether he was suffering from the
effects of the riding accident about which Amy had told her, or if
he was displeased with the high rental figure for the cottage, or
if it was the amount of wine Amy had drunk at dinner that was
responsible for his mood. His dark face was unreadable as he
turned the pages of the magazine.
"Grace spoiled him dreadfully," she thought. "An only child
and all."
In the meantime Amy showed plainly that she had been drink-
ing. She wondered aloud if Finch would take advantage of the
salt water and was overcome with giggles at the picture of the
sedate butler in a bathing suit, hand in hand with the even more
sedate cook. Her comments and laughter became so loud that
Nellie tried to quiet her. Simon looked at his wife with raised
eyebrows.
50


"Amy, it's nine o'clock," he said. "You should go to bed. It's
your first evening downstairs."
Her gaiety was checked by his abrupt tone. She shrugged, made
a grimace he couldn't see from where he sat, and stood up.
"Simon dear, how you do look after me," she remarked sweetly.
"Phoebe will still be at supper," Mrs. Osgood said. "I'll go
upstairs with you and help you undress."
Simon came forward and kissed his wife good night. He hadn't
yet gone back to sharing her room; Mrs. Osgood still occupied
the couch in it.
"The storm means I shan't sleep, of course," Amy told him. A
roar of thunder drowned out her words. "Oh, it's breaking now!"
She ran to a window and drew back the curtains. Rain beat
against the glass and a bolt of lightning lanced the blackness of
the night. She jumped back and let the curtains fall and looked
at Simon. "Who could sleep in such a storm?"
"You'll at least be resting," he reminded her. "Good night.
I'll come up soon myself."
The hall door stood open. Amy closed it after her, waited until
the thunder died away, and said to Mrs. Osgood, "Nellie, I do
believe a glass of sherry would quiet my nerves. You know how
storms upset them. Will you get me one and bring it up to me,
please?"
"Yes, I'll get it." Nellie moved toward the dining room. —
Amy went upstairs. The hall was dim and empty. The servants
were at supper in the basement kitchen.
Several minutes later Mrs. Osgood pushed wide the half-open
door of Amy's sitting room and went in. She was carrying a glass
of wine on a small tray.
The younger woman took it and sat down. She made an appeal-
ing picture in pink organdy against the background of the blue
satin chair. She smiled and said, "Thank you, Nellie," and drank
the wine. She spoke slowly; her voice wasn't quite clear.
"This drinking!" her housekeeper thought impatiently. Aloud
she said, "Hadn't you better get ready for bed?"
"The storm . . ."
"It's nearly over."
51


A storm was on the way and the sultry evening sky was raked by
flashes of lightning. The air was hot and motionless. Rumbles of
thunder drew nearer while they were eating.
The two women did most of the talking. Simon was gloomy and
quiet, barely glancing at the pictures Nellie produced of the big
rambling cottage she had rented for them that day. His only con-
tribution to the conversation was to complain of some losses on
the stock market.
When Nellie had finished telling them about the arrangements
and terms she had made with the real-estate agent she seemed to
catch the contagion of Simon's mood. She, too, became silent.
Finch had decanted two bottles of sherry and a bottle of bur-
gundy before dinner. Amy and her housekeeper drank one and a
half bottles of the sherry between them, while Simon was satisfied
with three glasses of burgundy and ate little.
Coffee was refused by all of them. "It's much too hot for it,"
Amy said, and they went back to the morning room.
Her husband's silence persisted. He sat in the window seat and
picked up a magazine he had been reading. The thunder grew
into deafening crashes. Amy and Nellie returned to the subject
of the cottage and the preparations that must be made for going
to it ten days hence. From time to time the older woman glanced
at Simon. She could not decide whether he was suffering from the
effects of the riding accident about which Amy had told her, or if
he was displeased with the high rental figure for the cottage, or
if it was the amount of wine Amy had drunk at dinner that was
responsible for his mood. His dark face was unreadable as he
turned the pages of the magazine.
"Grace spoiled him dreadfully," she thought. "An only child
and all."
In the meantime Amy showed plainly that she had been drink-
ing. She wondered aloud if Finch would take advantage of the
salt water and was overcome with giggles at the picture of the
sedate butler in a bathing suit, hand in hand with the even more
sedate cook. Her comments and laughter became so loud that
Nellie tried to quiet her. Simon looked at his wife with raised
eyebrows.
50


perhaps unbending to tell them some tale—made up, no doubt,
she reminded herself—of his young days in England.
She was nearly at the bottom of the staircase when Simon
threw his door wide and appeared in the doorway. He was a
frightening spectacle, doubled over in pain, his face ghastly.
"Amy, Amy, hot water!" he shouted and staggered back into
his room.
CHAPTER 7 "Oh, dear heaven!" Phoebe ran up the stairs to
Amy's door and flung it open without stopping to knock. Mrs.
Osgood sat beside the bed. She looked up in surprise and raised
a finger to her lips to indicate the need of being quiet. The faint
light entering the room from the hall was enough to show that
Amy's eyes were closed. She must have fallen asleep as soon as
Phoebe left her.
The maid motioned the older woman out to the hall. "Some-
thing's wrong with Mr. Redding, ma'am," she explained excitedly.
"He's sick, real sick! He looked terrible—he—he "Between
haste and concern, she became inarticulate.
Simon's door stood ajar. Mrs. Osgood crossed the hall swiftly
and went into his room with Phoebe close behind her.
He was vomiting out a window. He looked at them over his
shoulder, his face racked with pain, and gasped, "Hot water . . ."
"Bring it, Phoebe!" The housekeeper ran to him. He sagged to
his knees, no longer able to stand.
When the maid came back with a pitcher of hot water Simon
lay on the floor, his nightshirt drenched with sweat. Mrs. Osgood
knelt beside him, rubbing his chest.
54


to her housekeeper and moved on to the maid. "I don't under-
stand—he was all right downstairs."
Nellie gave her Phoebe's account of what had happened, en-
larging upon it to explain what steps she had taken.
"But Dr. Shipley lives so far away!" Amy exclaimed. "There's
that new doctor—he's only a few hundred yards down the street.
We must send for him!" She sprang to her feet and ran out of
the room. She found Finch in the lower hall.
"Please, Finch, without the least delay, go and fetch the new
doctor down the street—Dr. Oh, what is his name? Tell him
I fear Mr. Redding is in a dying condition." She clasped her
hands together beseechingly. "Hurry, Finch, hurry!"
"Yes, ma'am," the butler said. "I'll have Dr. Corley here im-
mediately."
Amy thanked him and stood where she was, her hands pulling
nervously at the sash of her dressing gown. When Finch left the
house she went back to her husband.
The scene was unchanged. Phoebe and Mrs. Osgood hovered
over Simon. His head hung down and he seemed scarcely to
breathe. His wife knelt beside the chair and took one of his cold,
inert hands in hers, stroking it gendy.
"How long Finch has been gone," she said in a whisper, when
not more than five minutes had passed, and repeated the remark
at intervals until the arrival of Dr. Corley.
Mrs. Osgood leaned against the back of the chair. The lines
in her face stood out sharply.
At Amy's entrance Phoebe had retreated to a spot near the
windows. Her attitude was one of waiting for something to hap-
pen; as, indeed, all of them were.
Except for his faint breathing, Simon gave no sign of life. His
dark hair had fallen forward and his wife smoothed it back.
At last footsteps and low voices were heard on the stairs. Amy
stood up. Finch reached the door and stood aside to let the doctor
precede him.
He was a young man. He lacked the middle-aged dignity and
experienced air of Dr. Shipley, but he carried the black bag that
marked his profession and Amy looked at him hopefully, advanc-
56


ing to meet him. He bowed when she gave him her name and
went past her to Simon.
After a brief examination, during which his expression grew
intent, Dr. Corley said, "We must get him to bed." It was done
with Finch and the women assisting.
"Thank you, Finch . . . Phoebe," Amy said, drawing a sheet
up over Simon. "I don't believe there's anything more you can
do at the moment."
The two servants went out of the room, and Nellie told Dr.
Corley about Simon's attack, saying in conclusion, "I prepared
an emetic, but he has been unconscious, so I haven't been able to
give it to him."
"To what do you attribute the seizure?" the doctor asked,
dividing an inquiring glance between the two women.
Amy spoke of a coppery pan at the club where Simon lunched.
"The Merchant and Banker's Club, you know."
The storm was well over, but a strong wind was blowing and
the air was damp. She went to the window Simon had opened,
closed it, and drew the curtains. The doctor glanced at Nellie and
shook his head. Her lips shaped a question: "Is he dying?"
"I'm afraid he is."
"That accident Simon had this afternoon—could that have had
anything to do with his attack?" Nellie turned to ask Amy, who
came back to the bedside.
"I don't know. He was badly shaken up." Together they gave
Dr. Corley details of Simon's fall from the horse.
While they were talking Dr. Shipley arrived. Nellie met him at
the head of the stairs, and after she had told him about Simon
she added, "I'm sure he has taken chloroform."
Dr. Shipley pulled at his thick beard. "And why would he have
done that?"
She explained that Simon had been troubled by toothache and
neuralgia lately and that he had both chloroform and laudanum
available.
Dr. Shipley said, "I see," and went on to the sickroom.
Amy introduced Dr. Corley to h;s older colleague. The two
men consulted together while she waited beside the bed. They
57


bent over Simon and sniffed but could not detect the odor of
chloroform on him. After a hasty search of the room, however,
they found both chloroform and laudanum.
Amy seemed dazed by what had happened. She held her hus-
band's hand and her eyes followed the doctors' search uncompre-
hendingly.
Mrs. Osgood led her out of the room while a thorough ex-
amination of Simon was being made.
He was given an injection of brandy and water, and Dr. Shipley
went to Amy to suggest that additional medical aid be called.
She was in her sitting room. She was pale, and her air of vague-
ness, of bewilderment, deepened with the passing minutes. "Oh
yes, of course," she replied to the doctor's suggestion. "Whatever
you like, as long as it may help my dear husband."
"Preference?" She pressed a hand to her forehead. "Why . . .
there's Dr. Redding, Simon's cousin. Have you met him?"
Dr. Shipley nodded. Harold Redding was a well-known surgeon
in Brewster. He would himself have preferred a man whose work
was in the field of internal disorders, considering the circum-
stances of the case. But he made no comment on Amy's choice
and asked for note paper and a pen.
She indicated her desk. The doctor sat down and began to
write. He asked Dr. Redding to come at once since his cousin
was, he wrote, suffering from failure of the heart's action. He
described Simon's symptoms and, after a momentary halt, added
on his own initiative that he would be pleased to have Dr. Red-
ding bring still another doctor with him.
The note was sealed and sent downstairs. From a window of
her bedroom Amy watched the coachman start the horses at a
fast trot down the drive. An hour and a half to two hours would
go by before she could look for his return.
It was a long time to wait. The doctors remained with Simon
while she moved back and forth restlessly between the sickroom
and her own sitting room. She rang for Phoebe and ordered
sherry brought up. She couldn't sit still to drink it and walked
around with a glass in her hand.
Nellie tried to get her to lie down, reminding her that she" had
58


been ill recently herself. Amy gestured her away. "My husband
is dying and you want me to lie down! Oh no, Nellie."
Her housekeeper sat down. She stared blankly ahead of her,
dark eyes empty of expression.
Amy returned to Simon. She lay down beside him, pouring out
words of affection that could not reach him. In a few minutes she
was asleep.
Dr. Shipley woke her. "You must lie down in your own room,
Mrs. Redding." He was a curt, blunt-spoken man. "I can't have.
you interfering with your husband's breathing, you know."
Amy got up slowly, brushing sleep from her eyes. "I'm sorry,"
she said and went to her sitting room. Mrs. Osgood had con-
cealed the decanter and was finally able to persuade her to lie
down.
When Amy was again asleep the older woman crossed the hall
to Simon's room. She bent over him. "There's been no change,
Dr. Shipley?"
"None."
"Do you have any hope of his recovery?" Her eyes searched
his bearded face.
"I cannot say. But I am ready for the worst."
"How terrible!"
"Who is she exactly?" Dr. Corley inquired when she left the
room.
"Housekeeper and companion to Mrs. Redding. Makes herself
generally useful, I suppose. It's fortunate she's here." Dr. Shipley
shook his head. "Mrs. Redding's no good to us at all."
The younger doctor remarked cautiously, "She does seem rather
emotional."
"Emotional?" Dr. Shipley snorted. "These idle, pampered
women! I have little regard for them. And when they're tipplers
too ..." A shrug gave eloquence to his opinion of Amy.
His colleague looked startled and incredulous. Amy, in her
rose-colored dressing gown and with her hair loose, had appealed
to his chivalry. "Mrs. Redding drinks excessively?"
"Yes, Mrs. Redding drinks excessively all the time. I've been
doctor to the senior Reddings for years, and I wouldn't say the
59


son"—he nodded toward Simon—"exercised good judgment in
his choice of a wife."
He seemed to feel that he had said too much even for one who
prided himself on his outspokenness. He walked away. When he
spoke again it was about Simon's condition. He took his pulse.
"It's risen," he announced.
A subdued stir began in the quiet room when their patient
started to vomit again. Mrs. Osgood was back and forth, assisting
the doctors; Phoebe came with extra basins, water, and towels.
Simon was regaining consciousness when the other doctors
arrived.
CHAPTER 8 "An irritant poison . . ."
Dr. Shipley's tone was portentous, but Amy wasn't there to
hear the words that were a harbinger of disaster. She was asleep.
The combination of sherry and the events of the night was too
much for her.
It was Mrs. Osgood who went downstairs when the sound of
carriage wheels announced the arrival of Simon's cousin.
Dr. Redding was a short, stocky man. He had bright blue eyes
and was very fair, so that at a distance his light beard was not
noticeable and he appeared clean-shaven. He was only in his
mid-thirties and was already a well-known surgeon.
He came into the hall, where Mrs. Osgood was waiting for him.
They shook hands and he introduced the man who accompanied
him.
"May I present Dr. Dickerman . . . Mrs. Osgood."
60


She nodded acknowledgment of the introduction and said,
"I'm so relieved that you're here! We've been utterly distracted."
Dr. Shipley came downstairs. The three men exchanged greet-
ings. Dr. Dickerman had been no more than a background figure
to Nellie, his name barely noted. But to Dr. Shipley he was a wel-
come arrival. Simon's cousin could not have made a better choice
of consultant than the internist who stood beside him.
The housekeeper led the way upstairs. At the threshold of
Simon's room she drew Harold Redding aside.
"Yes, Mrs. Osgood?" He was not wholly successful in hiding
impatience at the delay in going to his cousin.
She eyed him uncertainly, rubbing her hands together as if she
didn't know how to begin.
"Doctor, about Simon—when he first had the seizure tonight—
well, what he said was in confidence, but since his condition is so
serious . . ."
Dr. Redding's impatience evaporated. She had something im-
portant to tell him. He nodded encouragement.
She went on quickly, "While Simon was vomiting out the win-
dow he said, 'I've taken poison, don't tell Amy.'"
He stared at her. "Simon said that? Why, I can't believe
he'd Dr. Shipley didn't mention it in his note—are you sure
you didn't misunderstand him?"
She shook her head decisively. "I didn't. That's what he said.
He was"
Nellie broke off. She was alone. Dr. Redding had vanished into
the sickroom.
Simon's eyes were open, his face twisted with pain. He raised
a hand in feeble salute when Harold Redding leaned over him.
"How are you, old man?"
"Suffering—like—hell." The spaced words were no more than
a whisper. He clutched his stomach. "Oh God!"
He was given another injection and was momentarily a little
more comfortable. His face glistened with sweat and his cousin
wiped it away.
"Mrs. Osgood tells me you have spoken to her of taking poison
—what's the meaning of that?"
61


sought Simon's wrist while his mind circled uneasily around
various aspects of the affair. Simon, the best of fellows, was desper-
ately ill of an irritant poison that he denied taking himself. . . .
Amy was asleep. . . . Her husband lay dying, yes, dying, and
Amy was asleep. . . . Aunt Grace had said—but he hadn't paid
any attention to the many bitter things Simon's mother had said
about her son's wife. . . . Simon had been wanting to get the
woman opposite him out of the house. . . . Yet Amy defied her
husband's wishes and insisted on keeping her housekeeper. . . .
An irritant poison . . . Dickerman thought the symptoms in-
dicated arsenic. . . .
Again and again Dr. Redding's worried gaze went to Mrs.
Osgood.
In the morning Amy was up early and in and out of Simon's
room. He wanted her with him. Her presence seemed to lessen or
at least to bring some forgetfulness of the intense pain he suffered.
Wearing blue lawn and with a blue ribbon tied around her hair,
Amy sat beside her husband, holding his hand and performing
small services for him with gentle solicitude.
Dr. Redding, who had announced his intention of remaining
until Simon recovered or died, found her giving his cousin a drink
of water when he returned to him after a short nap. He could
find no fault with the wife's behavior today. Grave and tender,
she waited to do whatever her husband asked.
Toward noon he found Simon's pulse steadier. Simon said he
felt a little better. He requested paper and pen and drew up a will
leaving everything he had to Amy. When it had been witnessed
and given to his cousin for safekeeping the latter sat down close to
him and looked at him consideringly.
"You seem to realize that your condition is very serious," he
commented.
"Yes, I do realize it."
They were alone in the room. Dr. Redding studied him. The
agony his cousin had endured had added years to his appearance
in a matter of hours. His face looked thinner, his skin was the
color of putty. "What did you take, old man?" he asked.
64


"Nothing," Simon said. "Not one thing—except possibly a little
laudanum."
The doctor held back a sigh of annoyance. "How are we to
have any chance of saving you if we don't know what you took?"
"I tell you, I took nothing!" Irritation gave strength to Simon's
voice. "I'm not a fool, Harold! I know I'm dying of some poison
or other that's got into my system, but I didn't take it."
"Then how did it get there?"
"I don't know. I can't imagine how it happened."
"But why did you tell Mrs. Osgood you'd taken poison?"
"I don't remember saying anything of the sort. I've tried to
remember it and I can't. I was in a perfect hell of pain. If I said
such a thing—and I don't have the faintest memory of it—I must
have meant the laudanum."
Amy and Mrs. Osgood came into the room, and the questioning
had to be dropped. Presently Simon's suffering was acute again
and he had another vomiting spell. After it he lay drained of all
vitality and beyond speech while Amy rubbed his wrists.
He said at last haltingly to his cousin, "If my mother—doesn't
come—in time—tell her—to be kind to my wife."
Amy wept and covered his hands with kisses.
The other doctors looked in at intervals during the long sum-
mer afternoon. When Dr. Shipley asked Simon what he had
taken he received a sharp reply. "Nothing! Why the devil should
I have sent for you fellows if I knew what was the matter with
me?"
Amy was waiting with Nellie in the lower hall after Dr. Dicker-
man's visit to Simon. Finch handed him his hat, moving ahead to
open the door, and was signaled to the background by Amy, who
asked Dr. Dickerman to spare her a moment.
She led him into the drawing room. "Doctor, Simon's cousin
speaks so highly of you . . . Will you tell me, please, just how
bad you think my husband's condition is?" Her blue eyes met his
anxiously, her hands were pressed against her breast. Nellie stood
a little behind her, her eyes, too, fastened on the doctor.
He looked at Amy. "I have almost no hope of your husband's
recovery, Mrs. Redding," he said. "So far we don't even know the
65


nature of the poison that Mrs. Osgood says he admitted taking to
her."
"Poison?" Amy wheeled around to face her housekeeper. "Did
he say he had taken poison?"
"Yes, he did."
She was very pale, Dr. Dickerman saw, when she turned back
to him. But she said nothing more.
He looked at her in surprise. After all, she was Simon's wife
and should have known every circumstance of his illness. "Is this
the first you have heard of it, madam?"
"Yes."
He expected further exclamation and question. There was
none. She said, "Thank you, Doctor," and gestured to Finch, who
was in the hall waiting to show the doctor out.
Before dark, Simon's parents, summoned by telegram from a
summer resort, arrived at the house. Mrs. Redding had brought
her elderly maid with her, and the three of them went straight to
Simon.
He was awake and conscious and managed a smile for his
father and mother and said, "I'm glad you were able to get here."
After a few minutes Grace Redding was so overcome with
grief that she retreated to Amy's sitting room in tears. Amy's soft
volatile nature was easily moved and she cried with her mother-
in-law. It was Nellie who thought of more practical restoratives
and rang for coffee.
Mrs. Redding became calmer and dried her eyes. "What hap-
pened to him?" she asked. "Stephen and I have been frantic
since your telegram came."
It was Nellie who gave her details of Simon's attack with no
mention of poison. Amy walked away and stood at one of the
windows, the dusk blotting out the color of her light dress. The
tranquil June night lay before her. She seemed to give it more
attention than she had for the worried mother and for what
Nellie was saying. But her voice shook when she made one con-
tribution at the end: "It must have been a coppery pan at the
club."
"That is absurd," her mother-in-law stated briefly. "Simon is
66


at death's door." She looked at the housekeeper, who sat behind
the coffee service. "What do you think it was, Nellie?"
The latter made a motion of bafflement. "I don't know."
Stephen Redding joined them. Gertrude, Mrs. Redding's maid,
was sent downstairs to have supper. Simon's father accepted
coffee and declined food. His heartiness was gone. He looked old
and crushed and had nothing to say.
Again it was Mrs. Osgood who poured coffee. Amy remained
at the window, her expression abstracted, completely withdrawn
from them.
Grace Redding rose and approached her. "Amy, I have a re-
quest to make. Gertrude and I have nursed Simon through every
illness he's had since he was a baby. I realize you are his wife—I
don't want you to think I'm thrusting you aside—but will you
allow us to have full charge of him? We are accustomed to doing
everything for him when he's ill."
Amy looked at her. This wasn't the cold, forbidding matron
who had rejected her. It was a frightened mother who spoke.
"Why, she's really quite old," the younger woman thought in
amazement. "And perhaps not so hateful, after all." It crossed her
mind that it was her right to refuse Grace Redding's request. She
was Simon's wife; she could pay his mother back by keeping her
away from him. The thought was dismissed. Such a petty revenge
was alien to her.
"I think that would be a sensible arrangement, Mrs. Redding,"
she said. "No doubt it would please Simon too."
"I'm sure it would," Nellie echoed.
Amy's eyes avoided hers. But the Reddings were too pre-
occupied with grief and anxiety to be aware of the constraint that
lay between the two women.
In the morning Dr. Dickerman paid an early visit to the house
and reported to Harold Redding that the arsenic tests were nega-
tive. After he had seen Simon he agreed with the younger doctor
that their patient was much worse.
It was Dr. Dickerman who talked with Stephen Redding and
told him that he no longer held the least hope for his son's re-
covery. It was Simon's father who told Amy what the doctor had
67


New Haven. He was a distinguished doctor and an old friend of
her father's.
She wrote: "I am Harvey Carrington's daughter and my hus-
band is desperately ill. Will you come to see him at the earliest
possible moment at 108 Hastings Street, Brewster. I shall hope
that you can get here sometime today." She signed the message
"Amy Carrington Redding" and took it downstairs. The coach-
man was sent for. Amy urged him to hurry to the telegraph office.
"Delay may cost Mr. Redding his life," she said.
The long tense day was a repetition of the previous one. Amy
found herself unable to remain in one place for any length of
time. She went outdoors after lunch and walked toward the door
in the wall that separated Dr. Whitman's property from hers but
turned away from it at the last moment. Today her dress was a
light flowered silk. She had seen Mrs. Redding's eye on it earlier
and said, "Simon isn't dead yet. I won't have him see me in
black."
She stopped to examine the roses, picked a deep red one, and
stood holding it. Her eyes were wide and strained. The six months
of marriage with Simon were passing in review through her mind.
At three o'clock Amy had an answer to her telegram. Dr.
Hungerford would arrive in Brewster at seven-thirty.
The carriage was sent to the station. Dr. Dickerman, who had
looked in again on Simon an hour before, went along to meet his
colleague. He had been indignant at first when Amy told him
about her unorthodox method of gaining additional medical ad-
vice, but she had been able to pacify him. Dr. Huhgerford stood
so high in his profession that the local doctor ended up eying Amy
with new respect after she had explained that he was an old
friend of her father's.
It was eight o'clock when the carriage returned. Amy met the
two men at the door. It was many years since she had last seen
Dr. Hungerford. She thanked him for coming and added with
outflung hands and tears in her eyes, "My poor, poor husband,
Doctor! You are my last hope."
He was a tall, white-haired man, far into his sixties, with a
piercing stare, an abrupt manner, and little liking for emotional
69


outbursts. He fixed the stare on her and said, "Well, Mrs. Red-
ding, you couldn't ask to have your husband in better hands than
Dr. Dickerman's. I don't expect to be able to improve on his
opinion."
Thus reminded of the uses of tact, Amy was obliged to express
her high regard for Dr. Dickerman, who made self-deprecating
sounds and suggested that they all go upstairs.
Simon's parents, his cousin Harold, and Gertrude were in the
room with him. He was conscious again, moaning and moving
about as much as his wasted strength would allow.
Dr. Hungerford asked to have the room cleared except for the
doctors and then made an examination of Simon. He stepped
back from the bed at its conclusion and looked at him. "This is
not a disease," he stated gruffly. "You are poisoned. Tell us how
it happened."
At the foot of the bed Dr. Dickerman checked the movement
of protest he had begun to make. On the drive from the station he
had given his redoubtable colleague a detailed resume of the case.
Either Dr. Hungerford hadn't listened or he had a closed mind
on the subject because of friendship with Amy's father.
Simon's sunken eyes showed a flash of anger. He repeated the
laudanum story wearily. "That's all I took," he finished.
"It's much more than laudanum," Dr. Hungerford said. "Only
if you name the poison can we hope to find an antidote." He
toyed with the chain of his watch and shook his head. "No, an
antidote would do you no good now. It's too late for that, I fear."
"I took nothing but a little laudanum," Simon reiterated.
Dr. Hungerford shrugged. "It's not for me. to press a dying man
for details."
Dr. Dickerman intervened. "If you don't tell us more than we
know at present, someone may be accused of being the cause of
your death."
"I cannot help that/' Simon replied. "I have taken nothing but
laudanum."
Dr. Hungerford left the room, beckoning the others to follow.
The three men walked the length of the hall and stood near the
front windows in consultation, Dr. Dickerman describing every
70


phase of the treatment they had used. Dr. Hungerford could
suggest nothing else. "The man is dying, anyway," he said. "What-
ever he took, he's past saving."
Harold Redding and Dr. Dickerman exchanged a glance that
signaled agreement not to argue about it. Dr. Hungerford's mind
was made up that Simon had poisoned himself.
He asked to have the matter Simon had thrown up at the win-
dow the night of his attack collected from the ledge below and
sealed in a jar. While Dr. Redding was giving instructions to have
this done, Gertrude came to tell Dr. Hungerford that Simon
wished to see him again.
In the sickroom Simon, in the presence of Gertrude and Dr.
Dickerman, assured Dr. Hungerford that he had spoken the whole
truth to him. His voice was as loud as he could make it, distinct
and impressive in its sincerity. He appended solemnly, "I make
this assertion with the full knowledge that I am about to appear
before my Maker."
A little silence succeeded his dying statement. It was broken
by his cousin, who came into the room with the sealed jar Dr.
Hungerford had requested. Simon looked steadily at the older
man. "There's no hope at all for me, is there?"
Dr. Hungerford reached for his pulse. "You're half dead al-
ready," he announced bluntly.
CHAPTER 9 Dr. Hungerford's visit lasted no more than forty
minutes. Soon after he left the house a cab turned into the drive.
Bess Osgood, unaware of what had happened, was arriving on
the day that she had planned to come home.
71


of seizure Tuesday night. It's been dreadful. Amy had a doctor
here from New Haven tonight. Everything possible has been
done."
"Dying?" Bess's hazel eyes widened. "How shocking! Why,
he's young to die! And poor Mrs. Redding . . . They've been
married such a short time . . ." Mechanically, the girl con-
tinued to express regret. What she actually felt was relief that it
was Simon, not her mother or Amy. She hadn't known him well
nor had any reason to like him, particularly with the scene he had
made at Easter still vivid in her mind. He hadn't been kind to
her mother . . . He had wanted her out of the house . . .
A knock at the door interrupted them. It was Finch to say that
he had left Bess's luggage in her mother's room. "She usually has
the room Mr. Redding is now occupying," he pointed out to Mrs.
Osgood. "You gave no orders about her."
"Let it go, Finch." Her mother's tone was sharp, Bess noticed,
although there was nothing in the circumstances to cause it.
"My daughter will share my room tonight."
He withdrew and Nellie said tiredly, "We'll have a room made
ready for you in the morning, Bess. With Simon's parents and Dr.
Redding staying here and the other doctors in and out, the serv-
ants have been rushed. They must be at supper now. I'll have
a tray brought up for you when they've finished."
She was moving around the room, touching pictures and orna-
ments, giving a pull to the curtains. Watching her, Bess's sense of
relief was short-lived. Something was very wrong.
She broke in on her mother's uncharacteristic flow of small talk.
"What kind of a seizure did Mr. Redding have? What caused it?"
Nellie halted across the room from her daughter. "It was
poison," she said, bringing the ominous word out clearly. "Some-
thing he took; he won't say what it was."
In the rose-and-blue luxury of Amy's sitting room they looked
at each other, Bess's face stiff with horror, her mother calm,
almost matter-of-fact in her bearing.
It was Bess who moved first, the older woman apparently ca-
pable of sustaining the tableau indefinitely. Bess walked to a chair
and sat down. She was trembling.
73


"Could it have been an accident?"
"No, it was deliberate. But don't look so frightened, dear."
Nellie went to her and put an arm around her. "It has nothing to
do with you. I wanted to keep you out of it. That's why I sent the
telegram to Mrs. Thompson. I wanted it to be all over before I
let you come here."
Bess shook her head. "You shield me too much, Mother. You
shouldn't have tried to keep me away."
"Why not? It doesn't concern you." Mrs. Osgood straightened
and drew away from her daughter. "I'll order something to eat
for you. Such an unhappy home-coming you've had!"
Amy came in just then from Simon's room. Bess rose and kissed
her and told her how sorry she was.
"Thank you, Bess." Amy returned the kiss, asked about the girl's
journey, and was as gentle as ever; but her eyes were shadowed,
her vivid color gone, her voice lifeless.
She wanted to know if the girl had eaten. Bess replied that she
had had a sandwich in the station restaurant in Worcester, where
the train was held up for two hours.
"I'm going to order coffee and sandwiches brought up here,"
Nellie volunteered. "You must have something, Amy."
"Nothing, thank you. I'm going back to Simon."
"How is he now?"
"I thought he was asleep. But Harold says he is unconscious.
His dreadful sufferings are nearly over." Amy started toward the
door. She was looking down at the floor. Bess caught some under-
current between the two women. Her mother's voice, addressing
Amy, was too quiet, too formal. They were treating each other
like strangers.
Amy made her escape—for that was what it was, the girl
thought. She had felt it necessary to come and welcome Bess, but
she didn't want to stay. She hadn't once looked at Mrs. Osgood
while she was in the room.
Bess's nameless, formless fear grew. Her mother and she had
coffee together. Mrs. Redding came and spoke to her. Mr. Red-
ding drank a cup of coffee. And across the hall Simon was dying.
Nellie went downstairs to attend to some household matter.
74


Bess undressed in her mother's room and sat down on the big
double bed to braid her hair for the night. She lost track of what
she was doing. The hairbrush lay in her lap while she looked at
the same large rose on the wallpaper for several minutes.
Her father's death was the haziest of memories, and no other
person's had touched upon her life closely. Simon Redding's was
different, however. He was dying by his own act; for reasons she
couldn't even begin to grasp, he had disdained the gift of life; he
was going voluntarily into the unknown . . .
Bess found herself trembling again and her throat dry with
fear. It was only because of the manner of Simon's death that she
felt like this, she reflected, needing to reassure herself. She stood
up, brushed and braided her hair, and tried not to think about
him.
Nellie came upstairs and went into the sickroom. She went to
the bed and looked at Simon, his lips blue, the mark of dissolu-
tion already on him. After a long interval she turned to the
watchers around him: his stricken parents, his statuelike wife, Dr.
Redding, Gertrude.
"Is there anything I can do?" she asked in a whisper and was
answered with headshakes.
She went to her room. Bess was in bed waiting for her, the light
still burning. Mrs. Osgood kissed her good night. "I'll put out the
light now," she said. "You go to sleep. I'll be in Amy^s sitting
room if you need me for anything."
She turned out the gas and left the room. Bess lay listening
tensely in the dark until at last she relaxed and fell asleep.
Simon died at four o'clock in the morning without having re-
gained consciousness. It was Mrs. Osgood who helped Gertrude
quiet Mrs. Redding's hysterical weeping and put her to bed. Amy
disappeared into her own room immediately after Dr. Redding
said solemnly, "He's gone." She rang for Phoebe and had the
maid bring brandy to her, locked herself in with the decanter and
emptied it. Then she fell into a stupor of sleep and remained in-
visible until late afternoon. After she had had a bath she put on
a black silk dress and went downstairs looking herself like a kind
of walking death.
75


Simon's parents slept the day away in a darkened room, Mrs.
Redding under the influence of a sedative given her by her
nephew, her husband without the aid of anything except com-
plete exhaustion. Gertrude slept on a couch in the library.
Mrs. Osgood directed the household routine, going about her
usual tasks and talking with Dr. Dickerman and Harold Redding.
She had neither brandy nor sleep to carry her through the day.
"There can be no question of signing a death certificate,"
Simon's cousin explained. "When Amy finally shows herself will
you tell her that?"
Mrs. Osgood nodded, black eyes fixed attentively on the two
men.
"Dr. Dickerman has notified the coroner. There'll have to be a
post-mortem examination, you see."
She made a gesture of regret. "Amy will be wretched over
Simon's body being subjected to that."
"She has no choice. The coroner will order one."
"Yes." Her gaze nickered past them to the windows that over-
looked a sunlit lawn and a corner of the garden. She sighed as
though affected by the contrast between the bright June day and
the topic they discussed. "How tragic it is," she said. "I shall
never be able to understand Simon's action."
Dr. Redding's compact, black-coated figure stiffened. "What
is there to understand, Mrs. Osgood?" he inquired coldly. "We
have Simon's dying assurance that however he was poisoned, it
was not by his own hand."
Nellie's eyes widened in surprise. "I didn't know he'd made
such a statement. Then it's more inexplicable than ever, isn't it?"
Dr. Dickerman, who was fat, struggled out of the depths of the
chair he had occupied and when he was on his feet said crisply,
"As medical men, it's our intention, Mrs. Osgood, to try to make
everything a little more explicable. We'll at least know what
poison he died of . . . And now, if you'll excuse me, I have a
good many claims on my time." He turned to his younger col-
league, who was also on his feet. "Can I drop you off anywhere
Redding?"
"Yes, if you will. At my office."
76


The two doctors bowed and left her.
Nellie stayed where she was in the morning room and closed
her eyes. But she was not asleep. They opened as soon as her
daughter came into the room. Bess, at her mother's suggestion,
had spent the morning in the garden with a book, keeping out of
the way. It had lain shut the whole time in her lap while she
watched the house and wondered what was going on in it.
Nellie smiled a welcome, taking pleasure in the sight of her
daughter. She was so young and sweet-looking in her plaid ging-
ham dress, the mother thought fondly. She was a daughter to be
proud of; she deserved and should have only what was good from
life; its evil must not touch her.
Bess advanced to her mother's chair. "It's nearly lunch time,
Mother—and afterward you ought to take a nap. There are great
smudges under your eyes, you know. It's not fair that you've had
no sleep while all the others are in bed!"
Mrs. Osgood shook her head. "I'll rest after Amy comes down-
stairs. There are things to see to and the doctors will be back."
Bess drew a hassock close to the chair and sat down. "What
did they say?"
"Well, what would you expect them to say?"
"Mother, please! Don't try to keep things from me. This is
serious, after all."
"Serious, yes. Still ... it doesn't affect us." Nellie's hand
went out to touch the heavy coil of hair on her daughter's neck.
"What did the doctors say?"
"That there'd be a post-mortem examination. Dr. Dickerman
has already notified the coroner." She heard the quick intake of
the girl's breath and added, "It's no more than a formality be-
cause Simon's death wasn't a natural one."
Bess was silent for a time before she raised troubled eyes to the
older woman's and said, "Mother, we both know it's more than
a formality. Let's not hide things from each other. We live on
Mrs. Redding's bounty. What touches her touches us. And her
husband's strange death . . ." The girl's voice was low and
shaken. "Oh, Mother!"
Mrs. Osgood got to her feet and said firmly, "We're not going
77


He was agreeing with her. "It is a beautiful day. . . . Are you
just home from school?"
"Yes. Last evening. I was in Maine for two weeks before that.
... Dr. Whitman?"
"Well?"
"We're in great trouble over there. Mr. Redding died last
night. He took poison . . ."
"So I heard this morning."
"The coroner's been notified," she continued unhappily.
"There's to be a post-mortem examination and—well, that makes
it very serious, doesn't it?"
"I should think so." He was grave and not, like her mother,
inclined to treat the post-mortem as a mere formality. He rubbed
his close-shaven chin thoughtfully. "What poison do the doctors
say Mr. Redding took?"
"They don't know."
If he foresaw any part of what lay ahead, Dr. Whitman kept it
to himself. He put another question. "How is Mrs. Redding?"
Bess shook her head. "She's locked herself in her room. She
won't see anyone."
That was like Amy, he reflected. Selfish, irresponsible . . .
"Mother tried to see her, but she seems to want her least of all."
Bess's eyebrows were drawn in a puzzled frown. "That's odd, isn't
it? They've been such close friends."
"Yes." Only God knew, he thought, what had been going on in
the house next door, considering its mistress.
His housekeeper came in with the fruit punch. When she was
gone Bess looked at the doctor over the rim of her glass and
asked, "How is Larry?" She had to repeat the question. He was
deep in thought and brought his attention back to her with a start.
"Larry? Oh. He's fine." His tone went wry. "At least I hope so.
He's not much of a letter writer, although I supposed he was
writing faithfully to you."
"At school we weren't allowed to exchange letters with young
men," Bess reminded him.
"Ah yes, of course." His smile flashed, and for a moment she
79


was caught by his charm, seeing him as a man in his own right
instead of as Larry's father. "Nothing so rude as a letter penned
by a masculine hand must intrude upon the young female, eh?"
He was not laughing at her, she realized, but at the whole social
system. She smiled at him shyly and uncertainly. He was once
more Larry's father. He was old—oh, very old.
"Well," he went on, "my son was doing well the last I heard."
Her finger traced the outline of one of the brass-headed nails in
the leather chair she occupied. She had hoped to learn that Larry
was due for a visit soon and could not hide her disappointment.
All its implications were clear to the man watching her. He found
himself unexpectedly moved by her youth and ingenuousness. She
was straightforward and innocent, he reflected. She should never
have been drawn into the devious crosscurrents of the house next
door. Above all, she should be removed from that house now, was
his next reflection and, on the heels of it, a picture of himself as
knight-errant rescuing this lovely child, taking her away from
the folly—or was it worse than that?—that surrounded her.
The picture faded immediately. The doctor was too intelligent
a man to harbor it. His own youth, straightforwardness, and
innocence were long lost.
There was Larry, however. How much of oneself was trans-
mitted? he wondered. How much self-identification with one's
son could there be?
Bess felt his eyes on her, and while she could not guess his
thoughts she was embarrassed by his scrutiny and stirred uneasily
in the chair.
Dr. Whitman dismissed his purposeless meditations. He de-
cided to write to Larry that very day and tell him what was hap-
pening. Let him make what he would of it. He was twenty-six
years old and, with his parents separated for so many years, he
had judgment beyond his age. He had taken his father's place as
counselor to his mother.
Bess finished the fruit punch, and the doctor leaned forward to
take the glass from her. "Will you have some more?" he inquired.
"No, thank you. I think I'd better be going." She stood up. She
didn't know why she had come. Yes, she did know. It was be-
So


cause Dr. Whitman was Larry's father and she had had some
vague idea of finding comfort in being with him.
He walked to the door with her. When she was outside on the
step he said, "I wouldn't be surprised if Larry showed up for a
visit soon. I must tell him you're home."
"Do give him my regards when you write." Bess's face lighted
up in a way that belied her prim words. The doctor smiled, look-
ing after her.
It wasn't until she had gone through the door in the wall and
closed it behind her that he allowed the weightier considerations
he had been holding back to enter his mind. He found nothing
to smile about as he went back into the house.
CHAPTER 10 Mr. Hichens, the coroner, had considerable re-
spect for money. He didn't go so far as to tell himself that people
with the financial standing of the Reddings couldn't be involved
in anything more irregular than suicide, but he was thinking in
those terms when he opened the inquiry into Simon's death. He
felt that the less publicity there was attendant on it, the better
for everyone concerned.
It was held at the county court building. No outsiders were
present, and very few witnesses had been summoned.
He saw Stephen Redding first, inviting him into his private
office. The only other person in the room was his young assistant
who took notes.
Mr. Hichens began with expressions of sympathy and added,
"I'm more than sorry, Mr. Redding, to have to expose you to the
ordeal of questions at a time like this."
81


Simon's father bowed and took the seat indicated by the coro-
ner beside the latter's high roll-top desk.
"Now, if you'll just tell me in your own words, sir . . ." The
coroner sat down himself and fixed his mild light blue eyes atten-
tively on the other's face.
Stephen Redding gave him a slow, grief-laden account of his
son's illness and death. When it was ended Mr. Hichens asked,
"Did your son at any time in your presence state the cause of his
seizure?"
"No."
"How do you yourself explain it?"
Stephen Redding's heavy, fleshy face, framed in white side
whiskers, flushed with sudden anger. "I don't believe for a minute
that he took his own life! It was an accident. The women there,
my daughter-in-law and her housekeeper, had medicine chests
full of all kinds of drugs. They were forever dosing themselves
with one thing or another!"
His impatient gesture underscored his disapproval. "My son
had that neuralgia, sir, and got hold of something one of the
women had."
"I see." Mr. Hichens's expression gave no clue to his private
opinion that the father's explanation was preposterous. Stephen
Redding's reluctance to face the fact that his son had taken his
own life was only to be expected.
He put a few more questions: the state of Simon's financial
affairs, his relationship with his wife, the possibility of anything
preying on his mind.
There was nothing, the father said. Simon was only six months
married, happy with his wife, enjoying good health, no financial
difficulties . . .
Again the coroner expressed his sympathy and stood up in
dismissal. "If you'll just wait outside, Mr. Redding, in case there's
anything more . . ."
"Certainly."
He held the door open for him and sent a questioning gaze
over the others in the anteroom. "Mrs. Osgood?"
She rose and came into his office. Mr. Hichens looked at her
82


without interest. She was a small, unimpressive woman dressed in
black. She sat down and began her story of the night Simon was
taken ill, speaking in a low, precise voice.
". . . and then, when the maid had left the room, Mr. Redding
turned to me and said, 'I've taken poison, don't tell Amy.'"
"Those were the exact words of the deceased?"
"Yes." She went on to the arrival of the doctors and more
details of Simon's illness and death.
He asked her what terms the Reddings were on.
"They were on the most affectionate terms."
To a question about any worries Simon might have had the
reply she gave varied from that of the dead man's father. "At
dinner the night he became ill he spoke of losing some money on
stocks; the loss seemed to be very much on his mind."
Mr. Hichens nodded. This was promising; it was the first reason
advanced in support of suicide.
Nellie could add nothing specific, however. "Mr. Redding
wouldn't, of course, talk over his investments with me," she
pointed out.
He let her go.
Gertrude Lessing, the next witness, testified that Simon had
never accounted for his illness in her presence. She tried to tell
about his dying statement to Dr. Hungerford, but she was nervous
and confused and repetitive. He missed the meaning of what she
said and was not inclined to take seriously her assertions that Mr.
Simon would never in the world have killed himself. He had
heard that claim advanced in many cases that were patently
suicide; there was always some relative or friend to make it.
Phoebe was questioned after he had finished with Gertrude.
The girl's testimony ran along lines similar to that of Mrs. Osgood.
Dr. Shipley informed the coroner that Simon had never sug-
gested to him any cause for his illness. "He denied having taken
anything himself," the doctor said.
"They often do."
"Yes." Dr. Shipley sat forward in the chair. He was a busy man
and begrudged the time spent in the coroner's office.
Mr. Hichens was in less of a hurry.. He handed the doctor a
83


report that had been submitted by Professor Quigley, the New
Haven pathologist to whom Dr. Hungerford had turned over the
vomited matter collected from the window ledge.
Professor Quigley stated that antimony had been recovered
from it; that in his opinion it could only have been taken in the
form of tartar emetic, which was easily soluble in water and
practically tasteless. A large dose must have been taken, the pro-
fessor thought. More than ten grains were recovered from the
food vomited out the window.
"What do you make of that?" the coroner inquired when the
report was handed back to him.
Dr. Shipley shrugged. "It was an extremely unfortunate choice
of poison—painful, slow, often uncertain. We looked for arsenic,
you know."
"Yes . . . But would you say antimony could be a layman's
choice?"
"I suppose so. I've never heard of a suicide by antimony my-
self."
Mr. Hichens sat back in his swivel chair and looked thought-
fully at the other man. "I understand tartar emetic can be pro-
cured easily enough; one has to sign for it, though."
"Yes."
"The Brewster police, at my request, have tried to trace the
purchase of antimony to some member of the household. They
have had no success." He made a steeple of his fingers and con-
fessed, "I'd feel happier in my own mind if I could find out where
Mr. Redding got the drug."
"It could have been bought anywhere," Dr. Shipley told him.
"Not necessarily in Brewster."
"I know. I'd thought of that." He sighed. "I'd appreciate it,
Doctor, if you'd give me the benefit of your views of the case."
"I'm kept pretty busy, Mr. Hichens. I'm afraid I haven't
thought too much about it."
"Well, so far as you've thought anything . . ."
"So far as I've thought anything, I suppose it's been Mrs.
Redding I've thought about. She's a steady drinker. Young
Redding probably married her for her money and couldn't stick
84


"Yes." The coroner didn't consider it necessary to tell Harold
Redding that a written report from Dr. Hungerford offered the
opinion that Simon's death was suicide and made no reference to
the solemn deathbed denial of having taken poison. Nor did he
say that he had not sent Dr. Dickerman a notice to appear. He
had decided that the testimony of the family doctor and Simon's
cousin would be all the medical evidence he needed for a case
of suicide. . . .
All of this went through the coroner's mind. He stroked his
faded red goatee and tapped the desk with a pencil.
Dr. Redding used the interval of silence for a re-examination
of his intention to say nothing of the doubts and suspicions that
had been in his mind from the first. It was up to Mr. Hichens.
Surely to God, Simon's cousin had thought, the coroner couldn't
fail to find cause for dissatisfaction in what had occurred.
But he felt misgivings while he studied the amiable-looking
man at the desk. This fellow was something of an old granny; a
child could pull the wool over his eyes.
Still, he waited for questions that did not come, for the open-
ing wedge that would give him, a professional man who must
think twice before he started making accusations at random, a
chance to turn the coroner away from the theory of suicide.
Mr. Hichens, however, was concluding that the discrepancy
between Mrs. Osgood's testimony of what Simon had admitted
to her and what Simon himself had said was readily squared. The
dead man had regretted what he had done; after blurting it out
to the firstcomer when the poison had begun to take effect, he had
retreated into denial of having taken anything. That was how it
must have been, of course.
But he wasn't quite easy in his mind about it. There was that
disturbing lack of any substantial motive.
In search of one, he dismissed Dr. Redding and recalled Simon's
father.
"Now, Mr. Redding: Mrs. Osgood brings up the matter of
your son losing money on stocks. She was unable to supply any
details. Do you know anything about it?"
"Good heavens, sir, they wouldn't have amounted to much!
86


Simon carried a trifling account with a local broker, J. R. Smith-
son. You can get in touch with him and he'll tell you that my son
never lost more than a hundred dollars or so at a time. And, for
your information, I settled fifty thousand on him when he was
married. His wife had plenty of money of her own, and Simon
himself drew a substantial salary at the bank. There's nothing in
that!"
Mr. Hichens conceded that there wasn't. He was back at facing
the lack* of a motive for suicide.
Simon's father could not tolerate the supposition that his son
had killed himself. He gripped the chair arms. "I tell you that boy
of mine never in the world took his own life! It was some of the
stuff the women had around the house. The poor fellow was in
pain with neuralgia and swallowed the first thing that came to
hand to relieve it. There's not another explanation that will hold
water."
"Yes, you have a good point there," the coroner said hastily.
"But you must understand, Mr. Redding, that I have to look at
every aspect of the case."
Grief broke through the other's anger. "I can see that. With me
it's different. My boy is dead, my only son and"
"Of course. You have my deepest sympathy, sir. No one regrets
the need for this inquiry more than I . . ."
His voice trailed off. He was silent until Stephen Redding had
blown his nose resoundingly and got his emotions under control.
Then his growing uncertainty that it was as clear-cut a case as he
had thought had to find an outlet.
He said, "There's another possibility besides suicide or accident,
Mr. Redding. And, as the father: Do you have any suspicion of
foul play?"'
Stephen Redding eyed him in astonishment. "No! No indeed!
Such a thought never crossed my mind. I can see no reason for
entertaining it."
"Well, then . . ." The coroner rose. "I shan't have to detain
you any longer. Thank you for your assistance."
He edged the heavy figure toward the door. Stephen Redding^
first astonishment was subsiding. "That was a strange question."
87


"Yes. But it had to come, since your son's death wasn't the re-
sult of natural causes."
He got him out of the room and sat down. At the end there had
been in Stephen Redding's expression a little flicker of—what
was it? The beginning of conjecture? Something remembered
and brought into place?
Mr. Hichens didn't know. He drummed on the desk. He had a
report to make out on Simon's death. ,
It was destined to read: "Deceased died from effects of poison,
but there is no evidence of the circumstances through which it
had Come into his body."
A copy of the report went to the state's attorney.
CHAPTER 11 With the coroner's hearing over, there was no
need for the Hastings Street household to remain in the city. The
Carringtons went home to Boston, and when they were gone the
one thought of the two women and Bess was to get away for a
time from the place where tragedy had struck.
Bess was helpful to Amy. She read aloud to her and took her
for walks. She never showed disapproval when Amy drank.
"I don't know what I'd do without you," Amy declared the
day before they were to leave for the White Point cottage.
"You're a real comfort to me. You seem so young, so removed
from "She stopped short.
Bess sent her a troubled glance. They were in Amy's sitting
room. The cheerful setting was at odds with the somber ex-
pression of its mistress and with her shaken voice and the empty
88


glass she turned around in her hands. It was at odds, too, with the
girl's own persistent fear that had been with her since she had
come home the night before Simon died.
She said, "You have Mother too."
Amy made no reply. She set down the glass and sat looking
ahead of her. Bess refused to be put off. "But Mother isn't able
to help you much these days, is she?"
Again there was no reply. Bess continued steadily, "Mother
won't say what's gone wrong between you. I wish you'd tell
me. Perhaps I could do something. . . . Oh, I know I seem very
young to you," she added when Amy made a murmur of dissent.
"Still, I'm nineteen now and older than most girls my age. I've
shared a lot of worries with Mother."
Amy had to look at her and find an answer. She said with
painfully false brightness, "Why, there's nothing wrong between
your mother and me, Bess. It's just that I've been so nervous
lately—under such a strain. We've all been under it, of course.
But you'll see an improvement once we're at the seaside and
away from every reminder of poor Simon."
She went on talking about what a difference a change of scene
would make in the three of them. "You must invite Larry to
spend a few days with us, Bess. I thought it was kind of him to
come here for Simon's funeral, but you didn't see much of him,
did you?"
"No, I didn't. He understood how it was, though," Bess said,
flushing a little as she was apt to do when mention of Larry
Whitman caught her unawares.
"Well . . ." Amy nodded archly. "We'll see that you have
more time together before the summer's done."
It was all off key, the assumed gaiety, the pleasant plans. Her
mother's attitude was different. Whatever was wrong between the
two women, she carried her part of behaving normally better than
Amy. She appeared not to accept the tension between them. She
was her quiet, dependable self, raising her eyebrows at her
daughter when the latter had asked her yesterday what was the
matter.
"Nothing," she had said, "except that Amy's wretched, nat-
89


urally, over her husband's death. What else could there be?" She
had changed the subject.
Amy continued to talk about the cottage and Larry. In other
circumstances Bess would have meant what she said: that the
summer would be nice.
The day that the Carringtons arrived at White Point to spend a
week at the cottage, worry about their daughter almost a visible
aureole around them, was also the day that Harold Redding went
to see the state's attorney.
He expressed himself in strong terms about the slow progress
being made in the investigation of Simon's death. By this time,
two weeks after the coroner's hearing, Simon's parents shared
their nephew's conviction that there was much to be uncovered
in the case. Not yet was the word murder being used among them.
Harold Redding didn't use it with Mr. Tomlinson, the state's
attorney; but it lay between them as he asked when they expected
to produce a satisfactory verdict of cause.
Mr. Tomlinson caressed a brown beard whose luxuriance did
what it could to offset the baldness of his head.
"Satisfactory verdict is open to many interpretations, Doctor,"
he answered circumspectly. "I received a copy of the coroner's
report several days ago, and since then I have instituted my own
inquiries. You may rest assured we shall do everything in our
power to bring this unhappy affair to a clear-cut conclusion."
"Good lord, though!" the doctor exclaimed. "My aunt is
prostrated with grief; my uncle is in little better case. Their only
child is dead. They feel that they are at least entitled to the very
speediest action from the authorities in finding out what lies be-
hind their loss."
"Of course." Mr. Tomlinson spread out his hands, palms down,
in a soothing gesture. He settled deeper in the chair. "Suppose,
Doctor, you tell me all you can about it. I have your evidence in
the written report from the coroner, but I'd rather hear it direct
from you."
Once again Harold Redding told what he could of Simon's
death. Mr. Tomlinson's questions were a clue to the able mind
behind his pontifical front. The doctor began to form a more
favorable opinion of him.
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At the end Mr. Tomlinson said, "Well, Doctor, you only con-
firm my impression that the many odd and unrelated incidents
connected with your cousin's death are worthy of close attention."
"I'm glad to hear you say that. The police tell me"
The state's attorney made a restrained motion that put in their
proper niche the views of the Brewster police department.
"There's an experienced man here," he said, "a private inves-
tigator, whom I am empowered to employ upon occasion. I
don't mind telling you that I have an appointment with him to-
morrow morning. You may be sure that Mr. MacMurragh will
bend all his energies to a solution of the case. You'll hear from
us soon, Doctor."
He walked to the door with his caller. "Be kind enough to ex-
press to Mr. Redding's parents my deep sympathy. I believe I
had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Stephen Redding a year or so
ago at a banquet for our retiring mayor. It's a pity our acquaint-
ance must be renewed under such tragic conditions."
Dr. Redding, several inches shorter, looked up at him and said
warmly, "I'm sure my uncle will have complete faith in whatever
steps you take, Mr. Tomlinson."
On this cordial note the interview that had begun with Harold
Redding angry and militant was concluded. But the state's at-
torney, watching the younger man's quick, confident stride along
the corridor of the county court building, tucked his hands under
his coattails and shook his head dubiously. It was a complex
problem that had been laid before him. . . .
The next morning the case made its first appearance in the
newspapers. Simon's friends and his fellow workers at the bank
were talking more and more freely about the way he had died,
but the first story in the Brewster Post was brief and cautiously
worded. Under the heading MYSTERIOUS DEATH ON
HASTINGS STREET, it ran:
It has come to our attention that there are many obscure details
connected with the untimely death of Mr. Simon Redding of 108
Hastings Street. Mr. Redding, who was a lifelong resident of the
community, the son of Mr. Stephen Redding, president of the
Brewster National Bank, is believed to have died as a result of
91


"Yes." He sat down beside her. "I've been thinking it over,
Amy. You'll have to offer a reward."
So the notice went to the Brewster newspapers and was copied
by all the others. It read:
Ten thousand dollars reward will be paid by Mrs. Amy Red-
ding to anyone who can prove a sale of antimony or tartar emetic
in such a manner as will throw a satisfactory light on the mode
by which Mr. Simon Redding met his death.
Still the letters came. A story in the Brewster Post informed
the group at White Point that the state's attorney had held a
private inquiry at his office with the police, the coroner, and the
doctors concerned present. The same mail brought a letter from
Mr. Tomlinson asking permission to search the house on Hastings
Street.
Amy took the letter to Mrs. Osgood. "There's nothing in the
house but patent medicines and the remains of old prescriptions,"
the older woman pointed out. "Let them test everything."
By return mail Amy wrote to Mr. Tomlinson, granting his
request.
Her father, who had opened the state's attorney's letter, didn't
take it as calmly as Mrs. Osgood had. He told his daughter to get
in touch with her lawyer at once. He could not stay himself until
Mr. Barney's arrival two days later. His wife's health was poor.
The heights of notoriety Amy was attaining were too much for
Mrs. Carrington. Her husband took her home to Boston.
On the train she gave voice to a dread that had been kept
wordless by both of them. "Harvey?"
"Yes?"
"Did she do it?"
"Olivia! How can you ask such a question?"
"I know ... but did she?"
"My dear Olivia, you've heard her repeatedly deny any
criminal knowledge of her husband's death."
"Yes. But what confidence can we place in her word?" Mrs.
Carrington wrung her hands. "Oh, Harvey, you know she's not
like the others. She's always been a worry to us. She hasn't the
character the others have. She hasn't any—any"
94


"Moral backbone," her husband supplied grimly.
"I suppose you could call it that. But I keep thinking of when
she was a little girl and so pretty—all those curls—and everyone
making a pet of her. Who would dream . . ."
Mrs. Carrington's handkerchief came out. She began to cry
heartbrokenly.
After Mr. Barney reached the White Point cottage there were
long consultations from which Bess was excluded. She had Larry's
latest letter to keep her company.
He had written: "Try not to be too unhappy over this wretched
business. You are quite apart from it. Will you marry me right
away? I can be at White Point within a day or so of the time I
have an answer from you saying yes. Will you say it, darling?"
Well, much as she wanted to, she wouldn't say yes right away—
if she ever did. He hadn't written: "You and your mother are
quite apart from it." And when he had come to Simon's funeral
and they had gone for a walk together he hadn't said it. She
had asked him what he thought about Simon and he had evaded
any kind of a direct answer.
Bess sat on a rocky point and reread Larry's letter. A girl
should be wildly happy, she reflected, receiving a proposal from
the man she loved. But she felt lonely. She felt resentment toward
Larry because he did not share her faith in her mother.
At the cottage, on the advice of Mr. Barney, the two women
prepared to draw up statements for the coroner. When the
elderly lawyer left them alone together Amy threw herself on
a sofa and cried.
"I cannot, cannot, lay bare my private life this way!"
Mrs. Osgood was firm. "Your private life is already at the
mercy of the public. The time for concealment is past, Amy. It's
far better to show that poor Simon did have a motive for suicide
than to have the present situation continue."
Amy's head sank deeper into her hands. "Oh, my God, I wish
I .were dead!"
Mrs. Osgood went to the desk.
It was Finch who took a train to Brewster the next morning to
deliver their statements to the coroner. According to Mr. Barney's
95


instructions, he placed them in Mr. Hichens's hands personally
and, in a colorless voice, recited the little speech he had been told
to make with them:
"In view of the great clamor aroused by Mr. Redding's death
and the loose, inaccurate reports appearing in the newspapers,
Mrs. Amy Redding and Mrs. Nellie Osgood have voluntarily
prepared these statements and asked me to give them to you,
sir. It is their hope that you will find them useful in clearing up
the manner of Mr. Redding's death and will then be able to put
a stop to the persecution to which they are being subjected."
The coroner thanked Finch in his role of special messenger and
sent a message of thanks by him to the two women. When he was
alone he opened the sealed envelope.
Mrs. Osgood had written:
Mr. Walter Hichens, Coroner
Brewster, Connecticut
My dear s1r:
At the time of your inquiry into the sad death of the late Mr.
Simon Redding, I did not, in my testimony, reveal to you the full
facts at my disposal. This action was based on the mistaken idea
of shielding the character of Mrs. Amy Redding. I told you, you
will recall, that on the night Mr. Redding became ill and I went
to him he said, "I have taken poison, don't tell Amy." What he
actually said was, "I have taken poison for Whitman, don't tell
Amy." The "Whitman" to whom he referred was Dr. Francis
Whitman, retired, of 116 Hastings Street, Brewster. Dr. Whitman
was an old and valued friend of Mrs. Redding's. She had known
him for several years before her marriage to Mr. Redding, having
been a patient of his while he was still in practice in Saratoga,
New York.
Mr. Redding knew all about her friendship with Dr. Whitman
before he married her, since she was quite fair with him and told
him every detail of it. After the wedding Mrs. Redding held no
further communication of any kind with Dr. Whitman nor did
he attempt to see her. In spite of the complete break between
them, Mr. Redding, wholly without cause, was very jealous of the
doctor's former friendship with his wife. Although imprudent,
this friendship was, I conscientiously believe, entirely of an in-
nocent character.
However, Mr. Redding was a man of violent temper and per-
96


sisted in his unreasonable jealousy. The Sunday before his death
he became annoyed because Mrs. Redding, convalescing from an
illness, wanted to rest in her room. In my presence he called her
"a selfish pig" and said he would go away and wished himself
dead. He added, "Why don't you go back to Whitman?" It was
late in the evening before he made up the quarrel with his wife.
It was by no means the first quarrel they had had. Because of
his temper there were many of them. On one occasion last winter,
after having words with Mrs. Redding over his mother, he left the
house saying he would never come back. I followed him outside
and persuaded him to return. Also, he frequently raised ob-
jections to Mrs. Redding's dispersal of her money, although it was
her own money she spent. He more than once confided to me that
he hated Dr. Whitman.
I should like to add that except when these passions overtook
him—and they soon passed—he was of a pleasant disposition,
affable to the servants and everyone else with whom he came in
contact.
It is my belief that in a fit of temper he took poison and was
afterward ashamed to confess what he had done, beyond his
initial admission of the truth to me.
Signed, Nell1e Bla1r Osgood
Amy Redding made the following statement:
When I married Mr. Simon Redding my fortune was nearly
a quarter of a million dollars. Yet he had strict notions of economy
and complained so much about the size of the establishment we
maintained and the large staff of servants that I dismissed my
personal maid to please him.
He was most of the time a kind and thoughtful husband, but
he had a quick temper and we quarreled over financial matters
and over Mr. Redding's mother, with whom I was not on good
terms although I tried to speak well of her to make him happy.
We quarreled most of all over my former friendship with Dr.
Francis Whitman of 116 Hastings Street, Brewster. My husband
carried his jealousy to the point where he struck me while in a
rage. He even went to such lengths as to read my mail. No com-
munication, however, passed between Dr. Whitman and me.
I first met Dr. Whitman in 1879 m Saratoga, at a time when I
was suffering from a nervous disorder and became his patient.
He took a great and increasing interest in me. Finally, when I
moved to Stamford and then to Brewster, he gave up his practice
and followed me.
In the autumn of last year Dr. Whitman was away from the
97


twenty-first of September until the second of November and did
some hunting in the Adirondacks. It was during his absence that
I met and became engaged to my late husband.
Before my marriage to Mr. Redding I told him about the at-
tachment between Dr. Whitman and me, although it had been
completely innocent in character and nothing improper had ever
passed between us. Because my husband showed resentment even
of an attachment so innocent, we made a compact that the
doctor's name should never be mentioned.
On Dr. Whitman's return from the Adirondacks I saw him
only once, to tell him of the change in my circumstances and
that I was shortly to be married. I neither saw him nor held any
communication with him from that day forward. In spite of this,
my husband broke our compact from the earliest days of our
marriage and was continually, morning, noon, and night, bring-
ing up Dr. Whitman's name, abusing him in such terms as "that
wretch" and upbraiding me for having been friendly with him.
I bore all of it as patiently as I could, never mentioning it to
anyone except my mother and Mrs. Nellie Osgood, my house-
keeper. I was deeply devoted to Mr. Redding, we had been mar-
ried only a short time, and it was my hope that he would get over
his jealousy of Dr. Whitman.
On the morning of the day he was taken ill I have reason to
believe my husband was in a distraught frame of mind. We drove
into the city together and he began a scene when we passed Dr.
Whitman's house. He accused me of seeing the doctor in secret,
saying that otherwise he would not have remained in Brewster
where he was not in practice and had no other interests except
me. I pointed out that Dr. Whitman had bought and furnished
his home and probably saw no reason, at his time of life, for
uprooting himself.
At first my husband would not listen to my explanation, but at
last he calmed down and asked me to kiss and make up. I was
angered by his accusations and refused. He said, "Very well, wait
till you see what I'll do when I get home." I then kissed him and
made up our quarrel because his remark and despairing attitude
caused me concern.
When he did come home that afternoon he seemed restored to
good humor and made no reference to what had happened in the
morning. He went for a ride and sustained a heavy fall from the
horse. He was quiet at dinner and was, I think, suffering from
the effects of his accident; it seems probable, too, in view of what
took place later, that our quarrel of the morning had not left his
mind.
98


"I imagine so."
"Not very competent advice, though. . . . The intention seems
to be to put an end to the hue and cry by giving a motive for
suicide. But what they say has the opposite effect on me."
"Mrs. Redding probably sent for her own lawyer," the state's
attorney pointed out. "It's not likely that he'd be anyone with
experience in criminal law."
MacMurragh tapped the statements, glancing at the coroner.
"How do you feel about these things?"
Mr. Hichens coughed. "They made a disagreeable impression
on me," he said. "Very."
"I should think so! Collusion all the way and the pair of them
self-confessed liars."
The state's attorney raised a hand remonstratingly. "We
mustn't jump to rash conclusions, gentlemen. But we can certainly
take the view that with so much important information withheld
at the previous inquiry it is your duty, Coroner, to hold another
one."
He sat back in the chair, his forehead creased in thought.
"There's been such an unfortunate wave of publicity about the
affair . . . How do you feel a second inquiry should be con-
ducted, Coroner?"
Mr. Hichens took his cue. He was in accord with the state's
attorney's attitude, anyway. He said, "It seems to me that the
best ends of justice would be served, sir, if I held a public hearing
this time and empaneled a jury. I can't help resenting some of
the insinuations in the newspapers that the case is being hushed
up and that the truth will never come out. How do you feel about
it, Mr. Tomlinson?"
"Just as you do. We must show the world that nothing is being
concealed and no one is being. protected. Now, then . . ." His
tone turned brisk. "Shall we consider where we stand in the light
of these—uh—remarkable statements the two ladies have sent
usr
?"
The new inquiry into Simon Redding's death opened on a
sweltering day early in August. Interest in the case had risen still
IOO


The state's attorney sat at the coroner's table. MacMurragh
was less conspicuously placed.
Mr. Redding's evidence was more detailed than it had been at
the previous inquiry before his thinking had been tinged by the
suspicion that his son's death was murder. He brought in Amy's
drinking; the difficulty at his own house when Amy and Simon
came to dinner soon after their honeymoon and Amy got drunk.
"Were there any other guests?"
"Mrs. Osgood. She was always with my son and daughter-in-
law." The tone was uninflected but the point was made of the
ever-present housekeeper sowing trouble between husband and
wife.
He mentioned other instances of Amy's drinking that had come
to his attention. "Naturally my son was worried about it. He kept
trying to stop her. It was no use, though. It's my understanding
that she'd had more wine than was good for her the very night
my son was taken ill . . ."
The coroner led him through the time when Simon lay dying.
Stephen Redding testified that Amy spoke only of a coppery pan
as the source of the mischief. "She didn't seem much grieved in
any way," he added, sending a cold glance to his son's widow,
who sat in the front row of witnesses. Her eyes met his and she
shook her head to reproach him for the spiteful remark.
His final piece of testimony was important. He said that Simon
had once been seriously interested in studying medicine. In his
younger days, before he had been persuaded to go into the bank,
he had often visited the hospital of which his father was a board
member. He was on intimate terms with his cousin, Dr. Harold
Redding, with whom he had many talks about medicine. There
had even been a time when forensic medicine was something of
a hobby with him.
"Then would you say your son had more knowledge than the
average person of poisons and their actions on the human body?"
"Yes. Decidedly!"
Mr. Reston, a junior partner of Mr. Barney's, younger and
more alert than the elderly lawyer, was present to watch Amy's
interests. He was allowed to question the witnesses.
102


walk the length of the aisle between rows of hostile eyes. There
was no doubt that they were hostile; a murmur had swept the
crowd when Amy and Mrs. Osgood made their entrance that
morning and it had been unfriendly, menacing, even, toward
the two women.
At the restaurant the group separated. Mr. and Mrs. Carring-
ton, who had arrived in Brewster the previous evening, Amy and
her lawyer, asked for a private dining room. Nellie said, "I think
Bess and I will take a table in the main room."
There were polite protests from the Carringtons and Mr.
Reston. Amy made none. She followed the waiter across the
lobby.
After lunch yesterday there had been a terrible litde scene,
more terrible in what was left unsaid than in what was put into
words. It had taken place in the morning room, where Amy
threw herself into a chair and looked broodingly into space. Bess
took up a book she was reading, her mother a piece of embroid-
ery. The quiet domesticity was all on the surface. Amy was flushed
and sullen, as quiet as she had been during lunch. Her fingers
pulled at the lace antimacassars on the chair arms. She stood up,
crossed to the bellpull, and rang for Finch.
"Sherry, please," she said when the butler appeared.
He brought a decanter and three glasses on a tray. But Amy
drank alone, not asking the others if they would join her.
Bess wanted to escape. Several times she was at the point of
making an excuse to leave the room; but Amy's stormy expression,
the bitterness that emanated from her, held the girl in the chair.
She wouldn't desert her mother.
"This is too nice a day to be indoors, Bess," Mrs. Osgood re-
marked. "Why don't you go out?"
"I'm all right here."
Amy set her empty glass down on a table with such violence
that the delicate stem snapped in two. She swept the pieces into
a wastebasket with a petulant exclamation, looked across the
room at the older woman, and said through her teeth, "I want
you to go. I can't stand the sight of you. I want you to get out of
this house."
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Mrs. Osgood lay down her embroidery and studied Amy's tor-
mented face, the mass of curls above it, the black of deep mourn-
ing below.
Her mother's pallor was arresting above the black of her own
dress, Bess saw, but her voice was expressionless, giving no hint
that Amy's insulting words and manner affected her in any way.
She said, "Amy, my dear, aren't you letting this affair become too
much for you? Your nerves, you know."
The younger woman's hands became tight-balled fists beating
on the chair arms. "There's nothing the matter with my nerves
that your removal from the house won't cure!"
Bess jumped to her feet shaking with anger. "Mother, come
away! Don't sit there and let her talk to you like that."
Mrs. Osgood paid no attention to her daughter. All of her
attention was fixed on Amy. She stared at her unblinkingly until
the latter dropped her eyes. "I quite agree with you," she said,
"that a separation would be best for both of us. But wouldn't it be
unwise?"
"No," Amy muttered. "No! I told you the other day I'd never
see you want for anything. I'll give you an income . . ." Her
voice rose and became a wail of misery. "But I don't want you
here! I—oh God"
To Bess she looked like an animal in a trap. The girl turned
away, pressing her hands against her ears to shut out the sound
of her weeping.
Mrs. Osgood went to her and told her daughter to get the smell-
ing salts. The outburst was over by the time Bess returned. As she
entered the room she heard her mother say, "Nothing in the
world would cause more talk or create a worse impression than
for us to separate right now. Later on "She broke off at the
sight of her daughter. Amy, looking beaten and hopeless, gave
the girl a wavering smile.
"Dear Bess," she said. "Don't be offended with me. I'm going
through a trying time."
That was the end of the scene. Last evening the Carringtons
had arrived before dinner. There had been no more difficult in-
tervals of being alone with Amy for the Osgoods.
105


seat next to Bess. It must have looked to the spectators as if they
had been a united group at lunch.
Dr. Shipley took the stand. And immediately, in his positive
manner, he was telling about the bafflement Dr. Corley and he
had felt in trying to account for Simon's attack and about Mrs.
Osgood's reference to chloroform.
"Will you give us her exact words, Doctor?"
"She said, 'I'm sure he has taken chloroform.'"
"She did not inform you that Mr. Redding had told her he had
taken poison?"
"No!" Recollection of the incident renewed the doctor's in-
dignation over it. The single word came from him explosively.
Bess, tense in the chair, felt her mother's hand close over hers
firmly and reassuringly.
Later it was Amy, on the other side of the girl, who stiffened.
Dr. Shipley was stating that Mrs. Redding had been drinking
considerably that first night. He described her behavior, the way
she had fallen asleep on the bed beside her husband and how he,
the doctor, had had to awaken her and send her to her room
where, so far as he knew, she had slept for the rest of the night.
It created an unfavorable impression in the courtroom. A
rumble of shocked protest went through the crowd and was
quieted by the coroner's frown.
Then Dr. Shipley redeemed Amy's position a little. He said that
before she went to sleep—a natural result of her heavy drinking
—he had seen nothing feigned in her attitude. She displayed great
concern, he thought, and seemed eager to have every available
opinion on her husband's illness. She had suggested his cousin,
Dr. Harold Redding, as a consultant.
"Did the suggestion for further medical assistance come first
from Mrs. Redding, Doctor, or from you?"
"From me, of course. I had more understanding of the gravity
of Mr. Redding's condition than his wife could be expected to
have." The doctor's tone, his whole attitude, were making it plain
that he considered Amy a weakling, an alcoholic—but not a
poisoner. "She was most co-operative, however," he added, and
went on to a description of the course of Simon's illness.
107


occasions when Dr. Redding had seen them together. And there
was nothing else.
"Did you ever hear him mention Dr. Francis Whitman?"
"No."
"Did you ever hear of him yourself?"
"No."
The crowd was alert again at the coroner's second reference to
the unknown doctor, A buzz of comment swept it. Who was Dr.
Whitman? What did he have to do with the case?
The coroner's next question contained a tantalizing hint of an
answer: "Did your cousin ever say anything or behave in a way
that would lead you to believe he might be jealous of his wife?"
"No."
The crowd waited, and then Mr. Hichens let them down. "Did
you ever hear of a case of suicide by antimony, Doctor?"
"No."
That was all. The hearing was adjourned for the day. But Dr.
Whitman's name was on every tongue as the courtroom emptied.
CHAPTER 13 The second day was like the first: the fiery heat
of the August sun enveloped the courthouse; the crowd was just
as large, and if it was made up of different individuals, the effect
was the same—the old gaping avidity that marks the mob at trial
or execution of its fellow man was stamped on it. The murmur
that greeted the arrival of Amy and her housekeeper was as
hostile as yesterday's had been. The drab setting was the same.
Dr. Dickerman was called to the stand. After he had outlined
his connection with the case he went into its medical aspects. The
deceased, he said, must have swallowed a large dose of antimony,
109


twenty to forty grains, hardly less, in view of the fact that ten
grains were recovered just in the food vomited out the window.
"How would you say it had been administered, Doctor?"
"Well ... I have no direct knowledge bearing on the point."
"Still, we'd like to have the benefit of your opinion. Would you
say it could have been put in the burgundy the deceased drank at
dinner?"
"No, I wouldn't say that. With such a large dose, even though
food in the stomach would have delayed its action somewhat, I
think Mr. Redding would have become ill before he left the table
—certainly long before the time when he went upstairs to bed."
Mrs. Osgood was leaning forward slightly to follow the doctor's
testimony. If there was the least possibility that the burgundy had
been poisoned, her position was strengthened. The wine had been
decanted by Finch before dinner. She herself had been absent from
the house the whole day and had not entered the dining room
until Amy, Simon, and she went to the table.
But Dr. Dickerman was final in his rejection of the wine. He
reiterated his reasons for being certain antimony, in the form of
tartar emetic, had not been placed in it.
One of the jurors signaled that he had a question. The coroner
relayed it: "Have you considered the possibility that the deceased
put it in the burgundy himself?"
Dr. Dickerman stated that taking it in wine, three glasses of it,
seemed a peculiarly senseless method of suicide. "Would the man's
stomach know it was self-administered?" he asked a little tartly.
"The quick action of a large dose would be the same. A lapse of
nearly two hours before its effects were felt would be medically
impossible."
Mr. Hichens begged leave to interrupt the doctor's testimony
and call another witness so that the question of the wine could be
cleared up to the entire satisfaction of the jury.
Dr. Dickerman stepped down, and Finch, wrapped in his ap-
parently unshakable calm, took his place.
The butler testified that he had decanted the bottle of burgundy
about half an hour before dinner. Mr. Redding had drunk three
glasses of it. He was a fine judge of wine and would, Finch
no


"Who gave you your instructions about the water bottle?"
Phoebe couldn't remember. She had received them when Mr.
Redding first came to live at the house. "The missus maybe told
me, or Mrs. Osgood, or maybe it was Mr. Redding himself."
The coroner could get no better answer. He shifted to the
now-familiar questions about Dr. Whitman. Yes, Phoebe told him,
Dr. Whitman had been a steady caller as long as she had been in
Mrs. Redding's employ—three years—up until the marriage. She
had never seen him since nor known of him being at the house.
"Did you ever hear his name mentioned between Mr. and Mrs.
Redding?"
"No."
The coroner then drew from her the information that along
with her other duties Phoebe had acted as Mrs. Redding's per-
sonal maid since the latter's second marriage and had been in
and out of her room every day. She thought the Reddings got
along "as well as most." She had heard them have words over
Mrs. Redding's drinking now and then and over money matters.
"Like anybody would have," she explained.
She was positive, however, that in her hearing Dr. Whitman
had never been the subject of a quarrel between them.
The coroner brought her up to the night Simon's illness began.
She described his manner when she met him in the hall. "He saw
the glass of sherry on the tray and he was mad. He followed me
upstairs to Mrs. Redding's room . . ."
No, she couldn't hear exactly what was said, but there were
sharp words. ... She went on to what had happened next, her-
self going downstairs, Simon's cry to his wife for help.
No, she hadn't heard him say he had taken poison. It must have
been said during her absence; she was in and out of the room.
... It was Mrs. Osgood who had told her to empty and wash
the basin Mr. Redding had used when he was sick to his stomach.
. . . Yes, there were many basins in the house. . . .
The water bottle? She had filled it that night just before she
went down to her supper. That would have been before any of
the family came upstairs for the night. . . . No, she couldn't re-
member noticing the bottle after Mr. Redding was taken ill. She
115


couldn't say if any water had been drunk from it at that time.
The next morning she had emptied it and about two thirds of the
water was gone. . . .
Amy's lawyer had a question for her. "Wouldn't it have been
true that anyone in the room that night could have taken a drink
from that bottle?"
Phoebe said, "I guess so," and was allowed to leave the stand.
Gertrude Lessing was called. She took the oath and sat down,
a thin, dry, elderly woman, hands folded in her lap.
"Will you tell us how long you knew the deceased?" the coroner
began.
"Since the day he was born. The doctor put him in my arms."
Gertrude's voice was shrill with nervousness but her first words
won the crowd to her. She was the faithful old family servant;
the dead man had once been a little boy at her knee; they had
been devoted to each other.
The true facts were that the sour-faced, aging virgin had been
a tyrant presuming on her position, nagging the young Simon and
being the butt of his practical jokes. Neither had liked the other.
It was only after he was dead that Gertrude had persuaded her-
self that she was grief-stricken by his loss.
Tears filled her eyes while she told about her long association
with the Redding family. The crowd crooned sympathy.
Mr. Hichens hurried her on to Hastings Street and the time
when Simon was dying.
"Mrs. Stephen Redding and I took over the care of him," she
explained. "We'd always nursed him, you see. We knew what he'd
want."
On the night of their arrival, Gertrude said, Mrs. Amy Redding
had talked with her and cried and spoken of a coppery pan as the
cause of her husband's illness. And the next day she had said,
"We have been very, very happy together, and Simon says he has
never been so happy in his life. We have never had a word to-
gether."
"Will you tell us what the deceased said to Dr. Hungerford the
night before he died? I understand you were the one sent to call
the doctor back to the room."
116


Gertrude nodded. "Mr. Simon said to me, 'Gertrude, I must see
Dr. Hungerford again. Will you fetch him, please?'"
"You were present when he spoke to the doctor?"
"Yes. Mr. Simon was very serious, never more so." She, too,
repeated Simon's dying statement that he had not taken poison.
"Now, as one who knew the deceased well all his life: Were
you surprised when you heard that he was supposed to have com-
mitted suicide?"
Mr. Reston fidgeted at the leading question. He had fidgeted
more than once. But this was a coroner's hearing, not a trial. He
held his peace.
"I never believed it," Gertrude replied. "Not for one minute. It
wasn't in Mr. Simon to do such a thing. It wasn't in his nature."
"And how would you describe his nature?"
She gave the question a little thought. "Well, he was cheerful,
I'd say. He had a good disposition. He wasn't the kind to shut
himself away and brood over things." Discretion withheld the
additional comment in her mind: that the dead man's unswerving
concern for his own best interests was another phase of his char-
acter that made him, temperamentally, an unlikely suicide.
Amy's lawyer was on his feet when Mr. Hichens was finished
with the witness. "Isn't it true that for all his cheerful disposition
the deceased had a quick, violent temper?"
"Well, he got as mad as the next one when he was crossed."
"Madder, didn't he?"
"Well, he was quick."
"And apt to do things in a passion that he would not have done
on cooler reflection?"
Gertrude couldn't say as to that.
"Wasn't the deceased noted for his closeness in money matters?"
"He wasn't wasteful of money."
Mr. Reston let her go with a wave of his hand.
117


stables. I got along fine and there weren't no complaints until he
took a hand." Slater's purple color darkened.
"Do you mean Mr. Simon Redding?" the coroner inquired
curtly. "Kindly try to make your evidence as clear as possible for
the benefit of the jury."
The coachman's eye swept over the six members of the jury
defiantly. "It's him I mean, all right. I had a little trouble at the
corner of North Main and Humphrey Street one day that was no
fault of mine. This other fellow, he was driving a big delivery
wagon and he come around the corner fast and"
Mr. Hichens cut him short. "You had an accident, you mean?"
"Yes." The admission was sullen. "It wasn't serious and it
wasn't my fault, but he said"
"Mr. Simon Redding?"
"Yes!" Slater's voice rose. "You know all right who I mean and
so do they!" He jerked a thumb at the jury.
"Go on."
"Where was I? Oh yes . . . Well, he said I wasn't a safe driver
and got the missus to get rid of me. It was right before their
wedding. She give me a month's notice and my fare back to
Saratoga, and off she went to her fine marriage and never a
thought of what she was doing to me!"
His aggrieved gaze sought Amy in the first row. She did not
look at him.
"But you didn't return to Saratoga," the coroner prompted
him. "You remained in Brewster."
"Yes. I got a job at a livery stable. It's a comedown after Has-
tings Street. I don't figure to stay."
"You had full charge of the horses during the period of your
employment by Mrs. Redding?"
"That's right."
"According to an entry in the poison book kept by Mr. Gidlow,
a druggist in Saratoga, you made a purchase of two ounces of
tartar emetic from him in 1881. Is that correct?"
"Yes. It was white tartar emetic; that's what I give to the
horses sometimes. Not black antimony nor liver antimony, but
white tartar emetic. I got the best results with it."
119


The crowd, after Mr. Hichens's threat to clear the room, dared
not give voice to its feelings. But it exuded disapproval. By the
quality of its silence it admonished the coroner to look closer to
the dead man's connections than George Slater if a murderer was
to be uncovered.
Mr. Hichens told the witness coldly that no one was trying to
put the blame on him for anything; that the purpose of the court
was to learn the true facts of the deceased's death.
Slater's belligerence died at the next question. "Did you ever
express the opinion that Mr. Redding wouldn't live long?"
He looked away from Mr. Hichens; at the jury, at Mac-
Murragh, at the state's attorney. His eyes dodged unhappily from
one face to another and couldn't find a secure resting place.
"I can't remember that I did," he muttered, prodded by the
coroner's sharp "Well?"
"If you'll step down, I'll call a witness who may be able to re-
fresh your memory."
The coachman stepped down and a small, middle-aged man
took his place. He said that his name was Peter Tracy and that he
was the proprietor of Tracy's Cafe on Hill Street. A few days
after Thanksgiving of the previous year, 1884, George Slater had
been having a drink in the cafe and had said, "Well, today's the
wedding day. The missus will be sure to have her brandy before
she takes the fatal step. As for him, I wouldn't like to be in his
shoes. He won't be alive in six months."
In the breathless hush that followed his testimony he was dis-
missed and George Slater was recalled. "You have heard the evi-
dence just given. Did you make such a statement?"
The coachman moistened his lips. "I said something like that.
But it didn't mean anything. It was said in aggravation, y'know,
on account of losing my job through him."
"You can't expect us to take that for an answer. Your prophecy
came true. Mr. Redding lived just a trifle over the six months you
mentioned."
"But I tell you there wasn't nothing to it! A man gets mad
and he says the first thing that comes into his head."
121


Simon's broker was the next to take the stand and gave an out-
line of his late client's financial transactions. Simon had cleared
about four hundred dollars in the stock market over a period of
three years. His recent losses were small and hadn't disturbed him
too much. He expected to retrieve them in the near future.
Mrs. Carrington, who, against the advice of Mr. Reston and
her husband, had asked to give evidence, was called. She wanted
to aid her daughter, to shed a better light on Amy's character. But
the facts themselves were all the other way.
She began with Amy's girlhood, describing her as having a
lighthearted, open, trusting nature at that time. Then had come
her marriage at nineteen. "It was most unhappy," the mother
said. "We were all, I fear, deceived about Mr. Sayers' true char-
acter."
It was at this point that things began to go astray. Mr. Hichens
got the admission that the late John Sayers had not been known
as a heavy drinker before his marriage to Amy. That and the
quarrels had come afterward. . . .
Mrs. Carrington's testimony went from the past to events im-
mediately following Simon's death. She arrived in Brewster the
evening after it occurred, she said, and had been met at the
station by Mrs. Osgood, from whom she gained the impression
that Simon had taken poison. When she saw her daughter, Amy
told her that she had thought of a coppery pan as the source of
the trouble but had learned that the doctors were talking of
poison.
"It was only after the first inquiry into my son-in-law's death
that my daughter knew of the tartar emetic. She told me that
she'd never heard of it before."
Amy's mother had gained a little confidence while she was
speaking about Simon's death. She looked at the jury hopefully.
They must see that Amy couldn't be responsible for what had
happened when she hadn't even known there was such a thing as
tartar emetic.
The coroner's next question, born of MacMurragh's report,
wilted her. "Weren't you estranged from your daughter for several
years, Mrs. Carrington?"
124


"But you yourself never heard the deceased quarrel with your
daughter about him?"
"No."
Mr. Hichens switched to questions about Amy's first marriage.
"Mr. Sayers, you said, did not drink heavily in the beginning.
When did his excessive drinking become noticeable?"
Mrs. Carrington was as restless on the stand as a well-bred
woman could allow herself to be. She pulled at the buttons of her
gloves, adjusted the fall of her skirt, and rearranged her hands in
her lap.
The drinking to excess had begun about a year after the mar-
riage. . . . Then Amy and her husband went to Europe—Mr.
Sayers was a man of means who did not occupy himself with
business pursuits—and they had spent some time on their return
in the South, where he had relatives. But her daughter wrote her
letters complaining of his drinking and once or twice of his asso-
ciation with other women.
In 1879 they had gone to Saratoga because of Amy's health.
She herself had visited them there soon afterward and was aghast
at the state of the marriage. Mr. Sayers was never sober; there
were constant quarrels; Amy's nerves were wrecked and she was
under the care of Dr. Whitman.
On her return to Boston her daughter had written that she was
separating from her husband; life with him had become intoler-
able. A few months later Mr. Sayers had died in New Orleans
and the witness had learned that he was living with another
woman at the time of his death.
"Your daughter did not come home when she separated from
Mr. Sayers?"
"Her health was poor at the time. She felt obliged to remain in
Saratoga under Dr. Whitman's care."
A snicker from the crowd was stillborn when Mr. Hichens
turned an icy eye in its direction.
"Your daughter, then, was financially independent?"
"Yes. Mr. Sayers was generous enough to make a large settle-
ment on her at the time of their separation; and he had not got
around to changing his will when he died a few months later. So
my daughter inherited his entire fortune."
126


her husband told her. "I'm sending a telegram to Edward. To-
morrow you're to have a good rest, and the day after he'll take
you home."
Olivia Carrington made no protest. Her mouth had a gray line
of fatigue around it, and her rapid, uneven heartbeat, the diffi-
culty she had in breathing, frightened her. She sighed, twisting
one of the braids of silvery hair that were spread out on either
side of her. "You were right after all, Harvey," she said. "I
should never have given evidence. I hurt Amy today when I
wanted so much to help her."
Her husband bent over the bed and patted her shoulder. "Don't
think about it, dear. Try to eat something and get some sleep.
I'm going down to dinner now. I'll look in on you later."
She nodded. But when he was gone she couldn't help thinking
about what had happened. She began to cry.
Larry Whitman made an unexpected appearance after dinner.
Finch took him to the morning room, where Amy, her father, and
Bess were gathered. Bess saw him first, stood up, and came for-
ward. "Larry! We didn't know you were coming!"
He stood looking at her, holding her hand in his, his expression
serious and intent.
After the long, hot day in the courtroom Bess had bathed and
changed into a pale green dress. She looked fresh and cool and
gave him an uncertain smile.
"It was that letter of yours that brought me," he said. "That
and my father."
"How are you, Larry?" Amy advanced toward them.
He let go of Bess's hand and took the one the older woman
offered. He caught a faint fragrance of perfume from her,
mingled with the odor of wine. She was wearing a thin black
dress, her hair was carefully arranged in curls on her forehead,
but he had never seen her look so haggard.
He was introduced to her father and examined him with in-
terest when they were all seated. He saw a dignified, well-dressed
man, the type he associated with membership on hospital and
church boards and financial enterprises, the kind of man who
would hold the respect of his community. At the moment Harvey
128


Carrington appeared tired and worn, but ordinarily his face
would have a good color and he would be crisp and assured in
everything he did.
So this was Amy's father, Larry reflected; and her mother,
whom he had met at Simon's funeral, was a kindly, cultured
woman. How had they produced a daughter like Amy? The old
questions of heredity and upbringing were in his mind when he
said yes, he would have a glass of wine, in response to Amy's
question.
"How do you happen to be here just now?" she asked after
she had rung for Finch.
"Partly, it was what's been in the newspapers." Larry gave her
a level look. "My father's name figures quite prominently in the
inquiry. I thought he might need me."
"Oh." Finch's entrance covered her embarrassment. She or-
dered wine and did not speak again until the butler returned with
a tray.
"Set it here on the table, Finch. . . . Yes, everyone will have
some. ... A glass will do you good, Bess." This last was in reply
to the girl's murmur that she didn't think she wanted any wine.
Larry watched Amy with professional as well as personal in-
terest. Her hands were not quite steady, her eyes were shadowed,
her mouth taut. He surmised that she had no inner resources.
Disaster would cut her down quickly.
He asked how Mrs. Osgood was, and Bess said that she was
lying down. The young doctor had no way of knowing that except
at mealtimes Amy and her housekeeper were seldom in the same
room together these days.
The conversation, centering on the hot weather and Larry's
trip to Brewster, was strained. When he had finished his glass of
wine and declined a second, he said, "Will you excuse us, Mrs.
Redding? I'd like to take Bess for a walk."
"Certainly." Amy showed relief. Larry's presence at this time
could only make her uncomfortable.
Walking across the lawn toward the garden, Bess was as quiet
as she had been indoors. He gave her a sidewise scrutiny and
said, "I wrote and asked you to marry me. The letter I had from
129


you was no answer at all. I don't understand why you wrote that
if things were different you'd be very happy to say yes. . . . You
mean the inquiry, of course. But what has that got to do with us?"
"Oh, Larry!" She flung out her hands. "It's got everything to
do with us. You know it has!"
"I know nothing of the sort." He put his hands on her shoulders
and swung her around to face him. "Do you have to make things
more difficult by taking this attitude?"
Bess shook her head. "It's not I you should blame. It's—what
happened."
"Oh lord!" He drew her to him roughly and kissed her, a hard,
quick kiss more irritated than tender. "Will you stop being stub-
born? I want to marry you now!"
"I can't say yes, though. I can't." Bess freed herself and walked
on. Her voice wasn't steady but there was finality in it. "Every-
thing will have to wait until this is over . . . this horror ... It
doesn't leave any room for being in love, Larry, or for being
happy or making plans. . . . Please . . ." She was close to tears.
"Let's not talk about it any more."
He fell in step beside her under low-hanging trees. "What a
shattering mess!" he exclaimed with impotent anger. "Great
Scott, that woman! If they'd drowned her at birth how much
trouble would have been saved."
"I feel sorry for her," Bess said simply. "I heard her father
telling her mother that she's her own worst enemy. I think it's
true."
"She's also the worst enemy of everyone she comes in contact
with," Larry retorted. "My father, for instance—naturally I think
of what this will do to him."
"And I think of my mother."
Reference to her mother immediately threw up a barrier be-
tween them. Bess waited for him to say, "But it has nothing to do
with your mother. She's completely out of it."
Larry didn't say anything like that. After a period of silence he
asked questions about the inquiry.
Beyond the stables a gate let them through to an open field.
They followed a footpath across it to a low stone wall and he
130


It was out in the open between them at last. She stopped and
looked at him. "And what about your own father?" she inquired
coldly. "Mrs. Redding threw him over for Mr. Redding, didn't
she? He's in the papers as prominently as my mother is. But have
I accused him of murdering Mr. Redding?"
"You're doing it now!" Resentment flared in him to match hers.
"He was well rid of Amy Redding, and he knows it. He had noth-
ing to gain by killing her husband."
Bess began to move toward the house again, walking fast. "And
my mother?" she demanded. "I suppose there'd be some profit in
it for her?"
"My God, Bess, how can I say? Your mother's a difficult person
to understand. You yourself can't tell what she's thinking, can
you? She and Mrs. Redding have been very close friends and
Redding wanted her out of the house ... I keep coming back
to that and Mrs. Redding's drinking and"
He broke off helplessly. They were at the gate that admitted
them to the grounds. Bess flung it open. "I'll never forgive you
for what you've said, Larry! Never, never, as long as I live!" She
ran from him, her light dress fluttering in and out among the
trees.
Larry started to follow her. But there was nothing to say. He
turned slowly toward the door in the wall that would bring him to
his father's.
Mrs. Osgood took the stand on the fourth day of the hearing.
In her clear, even voice she told about her long acquaintance with
the Redding family, her meeting with Amy, the years in Stamford,
the move to Brewster.
An early morning shower had cooled the air a little. Bess was
in her mother's seat, leaving a vacancy between Amy and her.
Today she felt that she couldn't bear close proximity to Amy. In
the row behind them were the Whitmans, newcomers at the hear-
ing. Not once did Bess look in their direction.
The coroner stood with his hands clasped behind his back. Mrs.
Osgood gave details of the meeting between Amy and Simon and
their marriage. After their return from their honeymoon the
132


anonymous letter had come to Simon, accusing him of having
married Amy for her money. He showed it to the witness and
asked her not to mention it to his wife. He wanted to know if she
thought Dr. Whitman had sent it. She told him no; any malicious
person, a discharged servant, a tradesman, might have written it.
Mr. Hichens, primed throughout by MacMurragh's findings,
asked her about the chance meeting with Dr. Whitman on the
car and a bottle of laurel water he had sent to her house in
Linden for Amy's use.
"I told Dr. Whitman to send it there. I knew Mr. Redding was
so jealous of him that he would have resented his having pre-
scribed for Mrs. Redding."
"Did she take the laurel water?"
"No. Her insomnia was better by the time it reached her."
"Where is it now?"
"She asked me to destroy it after her husband's death. She was
afraid someone might say it was poison. That was what Mr.
Stephen Redding called all medicines."
The jury reacted unfavorably to this explanation. But then
nothing she said could have kept them from regarding her with
suspicion.
Mr. Hichens took her through the day Simon became ill, her
trip to the shore to look at cottages, her late return at dinnertime,
the events of the early evening.
"Mrs. Redding and you didn't go upstairs together?"
"No. She asked me to get her a glass of sherry from the dining
room. She went on ahead while I was getting the wine."
"On reaching the second floor, did you go directly to her
room?"
"Yes."
"She was there when you went in?"
"Yes, in her sitting room."
"Are you sure you didn't go near Mr. Redding's room?"
"Perfectly sure." The reply was full and firm.
The coroner brought her along to the time of Simon's attack.
"I understand you have had some experience in sickrooms?" he
asked then.
133


"It doesn't strike you as strange that he made the admission
to you, the housekeeper, and solemnly denied it to the very end
when questioned by his family and medical advisers?"
"I have already given you a reason to account for it."
Mr. Hichens shook his head. "A very strange state of affairs!
This court finds it hard to accept the premise that the deceased
confided in you alone to the exclusion of his family and doctors."
"But he did."
She couldn't be moved from that point. Mr. Hichens finally
dropped it and inquired, "When he made this alleged statement,
did you ask him what poison he took?"
"No. There wasn't time. He was deathly sick. I was busy trying
to help him."
"And later?"
"No. I was never alone with him for more than a moment."
After Nellie had told about being sent to ask Dr. Whitman for
advice while Simon was ill, there was a recess for lunch. The
Hastings Street household no longer faced the stares of the
curious to go to the restaurant. In a small room set aside for them
they ate sandwiches packed by the cook.
In the afternoon Mr. Hichens gained admissions of trips taken
by Dr. Whitman and Amy, with Mrs. Osgood sometimes accom-
panying them and sometimes not. He introduced evidence of a
stay in New York made by the trio. Dr. Whitman and Amy had
registered at a hotel as man and wife.
"You were with them," the coroner asserted. "You knew what
was going on."
She was silent, seeking inspiration in looking at the floor and
then sending a glance at Amy, who returned it blankly. She
sighed, her shoulders moved in resignation, and she said, "Yes,
I knew what was going on. Mrs. Redding's association with Dr.
Whitman was not always of an innocent character."
The coroner ran through papers on his table and came up with
Mrs. Osgood's written statement. He read aloud from it and eyed
her over his glasses. "You say here that you thought the attach-
ment to Dr. Whitman imprudent but that you 'conscientiously be-
lieved' it to be of an innocent character. Madam, I fear you are
not a truthful or reliable witness."
135


"Mrs. Redding was my benefactor. I wished to protect her. I
felt all along that she was more sinned against than sinning. Dr.
Whitman was considered a fascinating man. He exerted an almost
hypnotic influence over her."
Complete quiet held in the room. Every eye was fastened on
Nellie while the coroner drew from her more details about Amy's
relationship with the doctor. He left it at last to ask how much
Simon Redding knew about it before he married Amy.
"Everything." Mrs. Osgood's voice sharpened. The iron com-
posure she had set out to maintain was fraying a little. It was
midafternoon and she had been on the stand all day.
"Do you make that statement on Mrs. Redding's say-so or do
you speak from your own knowledge?"
"From my own knowledge. The night before I left for Boston
to help Mrs. Redding prepare for her wedding I had a long talk
with Mr. Redding, who came to call on me. He expressed concern
that his mother refused to go to Boston to see him married and
then he spoke of Mrs. Redding's attachment to Dr. Whitman.
He asked me if I thought she would ever go wrong again. I said
no and he remarked that it was his feeling that a woman who had
once gone wrong would be all the more particular afterward."
The conviction Nellie occasionally carried was a subtle thing.
She had proved as unreliable as the coroner said she was; she had
altered her testimony repeatedly; yet now and then she carried
conviction. No one who heard her disbelieved what she had just
told; Simon had known about Amy's affair with Dr. Whitman.
Mr. Hichens asked, "When did you first discuss with Mrs.
Redding the fact that her husband's illness was the result of
poison?"
"Not until after his death."
"Why did you wait?"
"It was bound to worry her, so I waited as long as possible."
Mr. Hichens shifted ground. "Did you give orders to Miss
Phoebe Hartshorn about filling a water bottle for the deceased
every night?"
"No."
"Did you know he had one?"
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"A week or less before his attack."
"But I understood he hadn't shared your room since your ill-
ness."
The wistful half-smile vanished from her lips. She bit the
lower one and looked down at her hands. "Oh. Yes. Well, I must
have mixed up that quarrel with another. He was in my room,
though, when we had words over the cottage."
Her supporters in the crowd felt unhappy. She had colored
up to the hairline and showed confusion. She was lying—and if
she was innocent, why? Why should she be eager to show that
her husband was disposed toward suicide?
Mr. Hichens let it pass. He questioned her about her married
life and concentrated on Simon's jealousy of Dr. Whitman.
"How do you account for it, Mrs. Redding, that no one, none of
the servants, none of his friends, no member of his family, ever
heard him so much as mention Dr. Whitman's name? Only your
housekeeper bears you out that he was jealous of the doctor."
"It was a private matter. He spoke of it when we were alone, or
perhaps when Mrs. Osgood was present because he knew she was
familiar with all the circumstances."
"Permit me to say, madam, that for a violently jealous man
your husband showed great restraint in sparing you witnesses to
his reproaches."
Amy ignored the irony. "He was proud. He didn't want anyone
to know."
"You insist, then, that he was in a desperate state of mind
because of Dr. Whitman?"
"At times, yes."
The coroner brought out an unfinished letter and read it aloud.
It was dated June 20, 1885, and in it, Amy, writing to her
mother, had said, "Simon is walking around outside as I write
with a book under his arm. He is as happy as a king."
The letter was passed on to the jury after Amy had glanced at
it and said it was hers.
"It was found in your desk, Mrs. Redding, after you gave per-
mission for your house to be searched. How do you account for it
141


that the man you describe as being happy as a king was in such a
state of acute jealousy three days later that he took poison?"
She was silent for a space. Then she replied. "I told you he was
subject to quick changes of mood."
The coroner returned to Dr. Whitman, asking questions about
their meeting in Saratoga and "the deep friendship," as Amy put
it, that had grown between them.
She was unable to hide her dismay at the direction the ques-
tions had taken. She was back at keeping her head lowered, rais-
ing it only slightly to make her replies.
"You took many trips with Dr. Whitman?"
"Yes. Some trips."
"Including a trip to Germany between February and July
1882?"
"Yes, but I didn't go alone with him to Germany. Mrs. Osgood
was with us." Her face was scarlet. "No intimate relation with
Dr. Whitman took place during that trip."
"No? When did it take place?"
Amy hid her trembling hands in the folds of her skirt and said
that the only time an intimate relation had taken place was dur-
ing the stay in New York already mentioned by Mrs. Osgood. She
added hurriedly that for a long time she had been making up her
mind to break with the doctor because of the estrangement from
her family. She had heard a year ago that her mother's health
was failing, and that had fortified her resolve. Before she met
Simon she had reached her decision. But Dr. Whitman was leav-
ing for the Adirondacks to be gone many weeks, and she didn't
want to spoil it for him by telling him of the impending break.
That could wait until his return. Then she had met Simon. Be-
fore she became engaged to him she told him everything, and he
forgave her and said they would never speak of the doctor again.
But right from the first he broke the compact of silence. . . .
She had been on the stand all morning. Mr. Hichens called
the noon recess.
In the room set aside for them Amy could not eat. She drank
three glasses of wine, sitting apart from her father, Bess, and
Nellie, conferring in an undertone with Mr. Reston.
14a


radation. The more sensitive turned their eyes away from the
sight of a woman of her background faltering out a story of moral
weakness that left her without self-respect or reputation.
Mr. Hichens waited until she was quieter to resume the ques-
tioning. He sat at his table and looked over his notes. Amy's
father was like a figure carved out of rock as he stared at the
floor. Mrs. Osgood's gaze was fastened on her, while Bess could
not bring herself to look at Amy at all. Only the most subdued
sounds came from the crowd.
When she had taken out a fresh handkerchief and dried her
eyes Mr. Hichens rose. "Now, Mrs. Redding, let's go back once
more to the day of your husband's attack. What did you do that
day?"
The shift from her lover to Simon helped her. Her voice be-
came quite clear again while she described her activities: shop-
ping, lunch, and afternoon nap, an interlude outdoors with a
book. She told about Simon's return from the bank and his riding
accident; about how morose and quiet he had seemed at dinner.
"Was any further reference made to the quarrel which you say
took place that morning?"
"No."
"According to your maid, after you were in bed he remon-
strated with you about the amount of wine you had taken that
night. Is that correct?"
"Yes." Amy's shoulders went back and she raised her head.
Everything had been said now; a mere matter of drinking was of
no consequence compared to the rest. "He threw the wine out the
window and left me in a rage."
She described what had followed: Mrs. Osgood coming in to
sit with her; she herself going to sleep and being awakened by
Phoebe; the two days that Simon lay dying. "I didn't dream of
poison all that time. It was only after Dr. Hungerford's visit that
I learned of it. I shouldn't have sent him that telegram if I had
known. I only begged him to come to decide what was the
matter."
Her eyes went appealingly to the jury. "I kept talking of a
coppery pan. I know it must seem strange that I did. That was
144


"No. Why should I have?" Her head was very high now arid
her eyes sent a challenge over the courtroom. "I only wanted my
husband to get well."
"Did you send a telegram to his parents the morning after his
attack?"
"Yes. I asked them to come at once."
"You raised no objections. to having your mother-in-law and
her maid take full charge of him?"
"No. They had had more experience than I in sickrooms. I
wanted my husband to have every chance."
"In other words, you had nothing to hide from anyone?"
"No!"
"And on your own initiative you sent for Dr. Hungerford?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"For the reasons I have given you. I wanted to leave no stone
unturned in helping my husband; and I knew what a splendid
reputation Dr. Hungerford had." Under her lawyer's guidance,
Amy's voice had a ring of assurance that it had lacked before.
Mr. Reston bowed. "Thank you, madam."
The coroner asked if it wasn't true that Dr. Hungerford was
an old friend of her father's and if it wasn't Dr. Shipley who had
first suggested that additional medical advice be brought in; but
still her lawyer looked satisfied. His questions had underscored
the fact that his client's actions were not those of guilt while
Simon was ill, whatever fault the coroner might find with them
before the illness began or after it ended in death.
The hearing was adjourned until Monday morning.
148


The shadow of remembered irritations crossed Mr. Barney's
face. "Indeed yes. He was often at my office asking questions
about Mrs. Redding^ financial affairs. From the first he took
what I am obliged to describe as an inordinate interest in them.
"Then, in February, he insisted on the transfer of some shares
she owned to his control. He seemed to feel that they should be
yielding a larger return. I didn't approve, but Mrs. Redding gave
her consent, so it was done."
"What was your impression of their marriage?"
Mr. Barney stroked his chin. "Well, I felt that Mrs. Redding
wished to please him. She had none of his absorption in money.
I had always thought of her as a woman with some delicacy of
feeling, and at times she seemed a little ashamed of her husband's
interest in her financial affairs."
"Would you say the deceased treated his wife with affection?"
"Oh yes. But he seemed never to lose sight of the fact that she
was a woman of means."
The coroner had no more questions for him.
"Dr. Francis Whitman" was the next summons. Excitement
ran through the room when he stood up and made his way to the
stand. Everyone leaned forward to get a look at him, "the wicked
doctor," as he was being called.
They saw a man of medium height, a little stout, with a reced-
ing hairline. Muffled ejaculations of surprise burst out. So this
was the irresistible lover! Why, he was nothing much to look at!
He took the oath and sat down, unintimidated by the hostile
atmosphere. His glance swept the crowd coolly and settled on
the coroner.
"Your name, please?"
"Francis Claude Whitman."
"Your address?"
"One sixteen Hastings Street, this city."
"Your occupation?"
"I am a doctor, now retired."
His voice was deep and pleasant. A few of the women in the
room began to catch a glimpse of his appeal. One of them nudged
151


There was a general nod of approval from the crowd, com-
posed, for the most part, of Brewster residents. Why should any-
one fortunate enough to live in their city want to leave it?
"He's a real nice man," one woman remarked to another. "It
was her that led him on, no doubt."
Mr. Hichens said, "Thank you for volunteering your testi-
mony," and Dr. Whitman left the stand in an atmosphere more
friendly toward him than it had been when he took it.
All the witnesses had now been heard. A recess was called.
The coroner went into a two-hour conference with Mr. Tomlin-
son and MacMurragh on how he was to charge the jury. The
state's attorney had been assembling and enlarging his own notes
as the case developed, shaking his head over the way it was going.
MacMurragh saw eye to eye with the state's attorney; Mr.
Hichens was in opposition to their views.
In the privacy of one of the judge's chambers he came again
and again to the one point. "We've got enough for me to instruct
the jury to bring in a true bill. Are we to let them get away with
murder?"
Mr. Tomlinson looked bleak. He said patiently, "We've been
through what we've got with a fine-tooth comb. I've kept hoping
something new would come out, something conclusive. But it
hasn't. It isn't over, however. The case can be reopened if we
turn up additional evidence."
MacMurragh, sunk low in a chair, showed pessimism. "We
never will. We've got all we'll ever have right now, I'd say."
The coroner moved to a window and stood looking out at the
crowd collecting in the courthouse square. "Those people out
there," he said heatedly, "and everyone in the room upstairs
know as well as we do that Mrs. Redding and Mrs. Osgood killed
that man."
"We can't prove it, though," the state's attorney reminded him.
Mr. Hichens ignored what he said. "I can sum the case up so
that we'll get a true bill. Look at what we have: a pair of brazen
liars who have been changing their stories to meet every exigency
as it arose. Why, Mr. Tomlinson, if they were brought to trial,
you'd make mincemeat of all that rubbish about Redding killing
154


He began to walk up and down, hands under his coattails.
"Where would we be, though, if we held them? Take any of their
lies at random; take that alleged quarrel and threat of Redding's
to do something to himself on the morning he was poisoned.
Mrs. Redding says such a quarrel took place, such a threat was
made. Assume I'm prosecuting and call the coachman. He'd
testify that he heard no quarrel. Mrs. Redding would answer as
she did upstairs. She'd say they kept their voices low. We know
it's highly improbable, impossible, in fact, in the heat of a quarrel
to keep your voices as low as all that. But can we prove she's
lying? The other party to the alleged quarrel is in his grave
. . . No." He came to a standstill. "That's how it would go all
along the way. They were a clever pair and covered their tracks
well. We can't prove anything against them.
"We haven't a shred of proof that either of them ever actually
had tartar emetic in her possession. We can't prove that either of
them ever went near Redding's water botde. For that matter,
we can't prove murder at all, committed by them or anyone else.
We can't so much as positively disprove suicide.
"That's how it stands. Unless some fresh lead turns up—which
isn't likely—it looks as if the two women will go scot free."
Mr. Hichens was silent. He knew that he was helpless before
the facts. It was galling knowledge. He was a conscientious man
and respected the office he held. The defeat touched his vanity
too. He had a famous case on his hands, and all over the country,
tomorrow or the next day, people would read about the dismal
little conclusion to it. He had done his best; he would have to
take what comfort he could from that.
He said grimly, "For my own satisfaction, I'd like to know
which of them took the tartar emetic from the stables and which
one actually used it."
"That's easy," MacMurragh answered. "The old girl took the
real risk of getting it from the stables. She's the nervier one. It
was probably Mrs. Redding who dropped it in the water bottle
while Mrs. Osgood, with the excuse of getting the wine, acted
as lookout in the hall to warn Mrs. Redding if anyone started
to go upstairs."
156


ried out his frequently made threat to clear the room and the
police carried out his order.
It was over, Bess told herself. It was over and they could go.
Her mother and she could go to Hastings Street, pack their
belongings, and move out to Linden where their house now stood
vacant. They could close the doors on the malicious curiosity of
the public and be alone, away from Amy, away from all the
hateful associations of her house, and twenty miles from Brewster.
Bess kissed her mother and followed her out of the nightmare
room she hoped never to see again.
But outside the square was packed. The police had to make a
lane for them through the crowd to the carriage and then had to
walk on either side of it while the horses inched their way across
the square. Cries of, "Poisoners! Murderers!" assailed them on all
sides.
When he could, the coachman laid the whip to the horses,
carrying them farther and farther away from the scene. They
went around a corner into a quiet residential street where there
wasn't even an echo of the commotion they had left behind them.
It was over, Bess told herself again. It must be forgotten.
CHAPTER 18 "Well, Father . . ." Amy offered her cheek to
Harvey Carrington's good-by kiss. Her voice was cool and light.
Her eyes were haunted.
She looked up at his tall heavy figure, his shoulders a little
stooped, his face older than it had been before Simon Redding
died. "Oh, Father!"
She caught at his sleeve. A long time ago, in her girlhood, she
158


had had the habit of catching at his sleeve like that when she
wanted something from him. But that was a long time ago, and
when he said, "Yes, Amy?" her hand fell away. Life had once
been simple and she had turned to her father readily with any
problem. But that was a long time ago.
"I'm sorry you have to leave so soon," she said, her voice flat.
He had come back to Hastings Street from the courtroom only
long enough to have his things packed. The coachman waited
outside to take him to the railroad station.
"I'm anxious about your mother and she'll be expecting me
home. Are you sure you won't change your mind and come with
me?"
Amy shook her head. "No, thank you. I'll stay here."
Because he was glad she wasn't coming—what would he do in
Boston with his wayward daughter who had brought only sorrow
and disgrace to her family?—Harvey Carrington felt obliged to
urge her to change her mind.
"1*11 stay here," she reiterated. "I'm better off here." She did
not enlarge upon the statement, but already, if dimly, the future
was taking shape for her. She wouldn't be able to leave the
Hastings Street house. Its big gloomy rooms were closing in
around her. She was to be their prisoner.
Her father kissed her again, unexpectedly stabbed through and
through by the memory of a little girl with curls laughing and
running to meet him when he came back from a journey to
Chicago. She had kissed him and cried, "Father, did you bring
me a present? Did you?" and jumped up and down with excite-
ment when he said yes.
But that little girl was irrevocably lost. ...
Nellie and Bess came out to the hall to say good-by to him. He
was reluctant to take the hand the older woman offered but he
did, of course, being a civilized man, and thanked her when she
expressed the hope that he would have a comfortable trip home
and find his wife feeling much better.
There was more warmth in his voice when he spoke to Bess. He
was almost able to disassociate the two completely, to see the
girl as an individual most of the time, and to like what he saw,
159


pencil and pad from my desk, please," she said. "I want to send a
telegram."
A few minutes later Phoebe, in bonnet and shawl and sheltered
by an umbrella, was hurrying down the drive to catch the horse-
car to the telegraph office. The message she carried was to Larry
Whitman in Saratoga. Amy had written: "Please come immedi-
ately. I am ill and haven't long to live. I must see you."
An answer to her wire was delivered at Hastings Street the next
morning. It read: "Leaving at once. Will arrive in Brewster
eight-ten tonight. Larry."
Another telegram, one from Amy's sister, was delivered with it.
She, too, would arrive that evening.
Amy was worse that day. Dr. Shipley saw her in the morning
and came again in the afternoon. It was pneumonia, he told
Phoebe. Both lungs were filling up rapidly.
"It's a good thing the sister is coming," Phoebe said.
"Yes. ... I wonder why she sent for young Whitman? She
didn't give any reason at all?"
"No, sir . . . But it would be . . ." She paused, looking at
him from under her brows. "Finch thinks it's got something to
do with Mr. Redding's death."
"That's what anyone would think."
"To clear up something about it, like as not, Finch says."
"Ah yes. Well "The doctor broke off and reached for his
hat and coat. It was beneath his dignity to stand gossiping with a
servant. He went out into the cold, bright afternoon, displeased
with himself for exhibiting curiosity in front of Phoebe. He gave
full rein to it in his thoughts, however, once he was in his carriage.
The full facts of Redding's death were yet to be made known.
Was Amy Redding going to tell them to the son of her former
lover?
That was what she was going to do. She waited for Larry,
dozing from time to time and watching the clock when she could
keep her heavy eyes open. She felt at peace with herself at last.
It was Clara, Mrs. White, the oldest of the four Carrington
children, who came from Boston and reached her sister's bedside
at seven o'clock that evening. Amy was asleep then, and her sister,
172


who had been hard and unforgiving toward her, stood looking
down at her. Tears stung her eyes and a host of memories of the
dying woman came back to her. She had been the family baby,
willful and charming, the spoiled pet of them all. She, Clara, had
been sixteen when Amy was born, her sister Effie had been four-
teen, and Edward, the only son, eleven. No wonder they had
competed for the new baby's attention. . . . And she had been
so pretty with her big blue eyes and curls and artless smiles. . . .
An hour later Finch made a second trip to the railroad station
in a hired cab to meet Larry. Amy was awake by that time, hold-
ing her sister's hand with the old simplicity of childhood after a
welcome that scarcely questioned Clara's presence.
She grew restless waiting and listening for Larry. Dr. Shipley
came in to see her and looked solemn when Clara talked with him
in the hall. Amy drank the milk Phoebe brought her. She felt a
little lightheaded now. The asters out of the garden seemed to be
nodding their heads at her from the bowl on the table. She was
extremely tired. After she had seen Larry she would go to sleep.
In spite of her anxiety for his arrival, she was dozing when he
entered her room. She opened her eyes and he was there beside the
bed smiling down at her, a broad-shouldered, dependable-looking
young man. His mouth was like his father's. It was the first time
she had noticed that resemblance. They had the same fall lips,
cleanly drawn, with the same slight upward lift to them at the
corners. "How are you, Mrs. Redding?" he said.
She held out her hand. "Oh, Larry, I'm so glad you're here."
His fingers slid up to her wrist to take her pulse. His professional
eye found her appearance as shocking as it had been the day
before to Dr. Shipley. He drew a chair up to the bed, glanced at
Clara, who had followed him into the room, and brought another
chair forward for her.
"I'm sorry to find you ill," he said. "They tell me you've had
this cold for weeks and haven't been looking after yourself as you
should."
Amy was gaining vitality from his presence and gave him a
faintly mocking smile. "And so it's turned into pneumonia and it's
all my own fault."
173


household. The plan to kill him was conceived and executed by
her alone, without my knowledge or consent. She began to put it
into effect one night in May 1885, when I was in the garden by
myself. I saw her coming from the stables that night at a time
when the coachman was absent from his rooms above them. She
had a small box or bottle—I couldn't see clearly which it was—
in her hand and slipped it in her pocket when I approached. I
said jokingly, 'What were you doing in the stables, Nellie? Keep-
ing the horses company?' She laughed and told me she had heard
one of them making a disturbance in his stall and had gone to see
what was the matter. But I was quite near the stables and had
heard no noise of any kind.
"We went indoors together and I forgot about the incident
until Slater, my former coachman, spoke of tartar emetic being
kept in the stables at the hearing on my husband's death. I knew
then that Mrs. Osgood had secured it that night. She thought I
was in my room and that no one would see her.
"The night my husband was taken ill I went upstairs first and
waited for her in my sitting room while she was getting me a
glass of sherry. The door was ajar, and after several minutes had
passed I looked out. Mrs. Osgood was just coming out of my hus-
band's room. Later she said she'd gone in to see if the windows
were closed against the storm that was then in progress. I know
as well as if I had seen her do it that she put tartar emetic in my
husband's water bottle at that time. She knew he drank a glass
of water every night before retiring because he had mentioned
this habit to both of us on various occasions. She was lying when
she denied such knowledge on the witness stand.
"After the case had gained public notice she asked me not to
speak of having seen her come from my husband's room that
night. It had no real significance, she said, and would only make
difficulties for both of us.
"Much of my testimony at the hearing about quarrels with my
husband was untrue. He never spoke of Dr. Whitman and was
not, as far as I know, jealous of him in any way. There was no
quarrel in the carriage on the morning of the day my husband
was poisoned; Dr. Whitman's name was not brought up by either
175


can't let you talk about it any longer," he said then. "You've got
to rest."
"No." Amy pushed her damp hair back from her forehead and
wiped her eyes. "I want to finish it. I can't rest until I do."
An attack of coughing choked her. But when it was over she
asked for another drink of water and was able to resume her story.
"I wanted to keep my baby—more than anything. Your father
and Nellie said no, I'd only bring disgrace on her. And there was
a distant cousin of mine, a splendid woman with no children of
her own. Her name is Jessie Hitchcock. Your father has her
address. She and her husband live in New Hampshire. They
adopted little Alice and gave her their name. I settled one hun-
dred thousand dollars on her. Your father settled something on
her too. My cousin has been very good to her. She's four years old
now, and every so often Jessie writes and tells me about her. But
—I never see her, Larry! I know it's best not to. She'll grow up
thinking that Jessie is her own mother and never know about the
stain on her birth. But I do wish I could see her. Just once
more . . ."
Amy's hand went back to his. She continued, "Your father
would never tell you about Alice. But I thought you should know.
He's not a young man. It's you who must keep an eye on my little
girl. And if anything happened to Jessie—she's your sister, Larry.
You would look out for her?"
Larry gave her a gentle reassuring smile. "I'd like to. I'd like
to see her and get to know her. You needn't worry about her at
all."
Amy looked at him for some time. His eyes were warm with
compassion. He had character and integrity. She couldn't have
made a better choice of confidant.
She sighed deeply. She had been facing him and turned over on
her back and lay staring at the ceiling. "I'm glad you know."
"So am I."
"And Bess is kind too. She'd take an interest in Alice. What her
mother did—that won't change your feeling toward Bess, will it?"
"No, not in the least. . . . Did Mrs. Osgood threaten to tell
about Alice if you said anything after your husband died?"
178


down, and motioned him to a chair. She looked at him. "Bess isn't
here right now. She's at school and doesn't get home until after
four."
"I'd counted on that. I wanted to see you when you were alone.
Amy Redding died this morning."
"Oh ..."
Larry was watching her closely. She became a little paler, per-
haps, but then she was always pale. Her eyes were lowered. "Poor
Amy," she said. "What happened to her?"
"She died of pneumonia—ostensibly. Actually she drank herself
to death from grief and worry and remorse." His flat tone matched
hers;
"She left a statement," he went on when no comment came
from Mrs. Osgood. "I drew it up, she signed it, and her sister
witnessed it. I have it here." He took it out of his pocket. "Shall
I read it to you?"
"Why, yes, if you like." She lifted her eyes to meet his. "Do
read it. . . . Pneumonia, you said? Poor Amy must have had a
fever, then. Was she rational?"
Larry's mouth went grim. "Entirely so when she made this."
He read the statement aloud. Nellie said nothing. She looked at
him steadily.
"Mrs. Osgood, when I return to Brewster, I'm going straight
to the state's attorney's office with this statement. The investiga-
tion into Redding's death will be reopened, of course. There's
more that I can add. She told me about her baby; about the way
you used the child's existence to keep her quiet at the hearing.
You'll be arrested and tried; possibly you'll be hanged. You com-
mitted a deliberate, carefully planned murder."
Without answering she rose, walked to a window, and stood
looking out, her back turned to him. But she was trembling a
little, he saw. He had broken through her composure that much.
"You must give some thought to what this will do to Bess," he
added inexorably. "It will wreck her life."
"Then why do you do it? I thought you loved my daughter."
"I love her very much. I want to marry her. But I have a sense
of duty too. Poisoners who get away with their crimes are particu-
181


He was too late by many hours. When he pulled up the sweat-
ing horse in front of Mrs. Osgood's house the blinds were already
drawn and three small solemn-eyed boys loitered at the gate.
He tied the horse to the hitching post and went slowly up the
walk to the front door.
The woman who opened it looked in surprise at the hatless
young man, his face powdered with dust, his eyes tired and blood-
shot. "Yes?" she said.
"Is Mrs. Osgood home?" Larry knew the answer, but the ques-
tion had to be asked.
"Why—Mrs. Osgood—I'm one of the neighbors—are you a
friend of hers?"
"I'm a friend of Miss Osgood's." He moistened his parched lips
with his tongue and restrained the impulse to brush the woman's
spare figure aside and rush into the house.
"Well . . . Mrs. Osgood is dead. Her daughter found her dead
in bed this morning. It was . . ." She hesitated and for whatever
she had started to say substituted discreetly, "It was very sudden."
"I'd like to see Miss Osgood."
"Oh. I don't know. Come in."
He was shown into the neat little parlor where yesterday, in the
fullness of health, Nellie Osgood had talked with him. He said,
"Will you tell Miss Osgood, please, that Larry Whitman is here?"
The woman left him. He heard her climbing the stairs. He
heard light, quick footsteps move overhead and descend the stairs.
His eyes were fastened on the door.
Bess came in, lovely as he remembered her, but looking dazed
with grief and shock. "Larry—how did you know to come so
soon?"
She had stopped just inside the room. Without answering, he
covered the space between them and took her in his arms. He held
her close, his face against hers.
Bess drew away at last and said, "I want you to see her; and the
note."
She took him upstairs to the room where her mother was and
turned back the sheet that covered the still dark face. She handed
him the note her mother had left.
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