  With a vague idea of taking advantage of a psychological moment, Coroner Lamson began to question Joyce. “Why do you make that statement, Mrs. Stannard?” he said; “do you realise that it is a grave implication?” But Joyce, though not hysterical, was at high tension, and she said, talking rapidly, “My husband’s words were in direct answer to the footman’s question. Blake said, ‘Who did this?’ and Mr. Stannard, even pointing to Miss Vernon, said, ‘Natalie, not Joyce.’ Could anything be plainer?” “It might seem so, yet we must take into consideration the fast clouding intellect of the dying man, and endeavour thus to get at the truth. Will you tell the circumstances of your entering the room, Mrs. Stannard?” “Of course I will. I had been in the Billiard Room for some time, ever since dinner, in fact——” “Alone?” “Not at first. Several were there with me. Then, later, all had gone—and—I was there alone.” The speaker paused. She seemed to forget her audience and became lost in recollection or in thought. She looked very beautiful, as she sat, robed in her black gown of soft, thin material, with a bit of white turned in at the throat. Her brown hair waved carelessly back to a loose, low knot and her deep-set brown eyes, full of sorrow, grew suddenly luminous. “Perhaps it wasn’t Natalie,” she said, speaking breathlessly. “Perhaps it wasn’t Miss Vernon—after all.” “We are not asking your opinion, Mrs. Stannard,” said the Coroner, stiffly; “kindly confine your recital to the facts as they happened.” But now, the witness’ poise was shaken. Of a temperamental nature, Joyce Stannard had thought of something or realised something that affected the trend of her testimony. Bobsy Roberts watched her with intense interest. “Well, Milady,” he said to her, mentally, “you’ve struck a snag in your well-planned defence. Careful now, don’t leap before you look!” “Yes,” said Joyce, but her quivering lip precluded further speech. The Coroner was made decidedly uncomfortable by the sight of her beauty and her distress, always a disquieting combination, and to hide his sympathy, he repeated, brusquely, “The facts, please, as they occurred.” “I was in the Billiard Room,” Joyce began again, “and I heard, in the studio, a slight sound of some sort, and then the light in here went out.” “Which was first, the sound or the sudden darkness?” “The sound—no, the darkness. I don’t really know. Perhaps they were simultaneous.” “One moment; was the Billiard Room lighted?” “Yes.” “And the door between open?” “The sliding doors were open—the curtains pulled together.” Glancing at the heavy tapestry curtains in question, Mr. Lamson said quickly: “If they were pulled together, and the room where you were was light, how could you notice when this room went dark?” Joyce looked bewildered. “I don’t know,” she said, blankly, “how could I?” The question was so naive, and the brown eyes so puzzled and troubled, that Bobsy Roberts whistled to himself. But not for want of thought. His thoughts flocked so fast he could scarcely marshal them into line. “Of course,” his principal thought was, “one of these women is guilty. If the crime had been committed by a burglar they wouldn’t have any of this back and forth kiyi with their eyes. Now, the question is, which one?” Joyce and Natalie had exchanged many glances. But to a stranger they were unreadable, and Roberts contented himself with storing them up in his memory for future consideration. And now, as Joyce looked confused and nonplussed, Natalie seemed a bit triumphant, but she as quickly drooped her eyes and veiled whatever emotion they showed. “But you are sure you did know when the studio lights went out?” pursued Lamson. “Why, yes—I think so. You see—it was all so confused——” “What was?” “Why,—the lights,—and that queer sound—and——” “Go on, Mrs. Stannard. Never mind the lights and the sound. You entered the studio from the Billiard Room, and saw——?” “I didn’t see anything!” declared Joyce, with a sudden toss of her head. “I c-couldn’t. It was dark, you know. Then somebody, Blake, you know, turned the switch, and I saw Miss Vernon standing by my dying husband’s——” “How did you know he was dying? Did you see Miss Vernon strike the blow?” “No. But she was in the room when I entered—and, too, Eric said it was Natalie and not—me.” “You are prepared to swear that Miss Vernon was in the room before you were?” “She was there when I went in.” “But it was dark, how could you see her?” “I didn’t. I heard her breathing in a quick, frightened way.” “And when you first saw her?” “She was cowering back against the little paint stand.” “Looking terrified?” “Yes, and——” “And what?” “And guilty.” Joyce said the words solemnly, as one unwillingly pronouncing a doom. “Mrs. Stannard, I must be unpleasantly personal. Can you think of any reason why Miss Vernon would desire your husband’s death?” Joyce trembled visibly. “I cannot answer a question like that,” she said, in a low tone. “I’m sorry,—but you must.” “No, then,” and Joyce looked squarely at Natalie. “I cannot imagine why she should desire his death. I certainly cannot.” “But any reason why she should dislike him, or wish him ill?” “N-no.” “Think again.” “My husband was a great artist,” Joyce began, as if thinking it out for herself. “He was accustomed to having his models do as he requested. Miss Vernon was not always amenable to his wishes and—and they were not very good friends.” “But you and Miss Vernon are good friends? You like her?” Joyce favoured Natalie with a calm stare. “Certainly,” she said, in an even voice, “I like her.” “Whew!” breathed our friend Roberts, silently. “At last I see what one Mr. Pope meant when he wrote: “Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer, And, without sneering, cause the rest to sneer.” For, surely, Joyce’s attestation of friendship between herself and the artist’s model convinced nobody. She sat, gracefully erect, her serious face blank of any emotion, yet impressing all with the sense of profound feeling beneath. “In what ways did Miss Vernon incur Mr. Stannard’s displeasure?” asked Lamson. “Merely on some technical matters connected with her posing for his pictures,” was the nonchalant reply. “That, then, could scarcely be construed into a motive for murder?” “Scarcely.” Joyce seemed to give a mere parrot-like repetition of the Coroner’s word. “Yet, you are willing to believe that Miss Vernon is the criminal we are seeking?” “I do not say that,” and Joyce spoke softly. “I can only say I saw her here when I came into this room and found my husband dying.” “Might she not have come in just as you did, attracted by that strange sound, as of a man in pain?” “In that case, who could have stabbed my husband? There was no one else near. That has been testified by those who entered at the other end of the room.” “Could not a burglar have entered by a window, attempted robbery, and, being discovered, stabbed Mr. Stannard in self-preservation?” “How could he have entered?” said Joyce, dully. “I can see no way. That is, he might have been in here, but in no way could he have gotten out. That great North window, I am told, opens only in a few high sectional panes. It is shaded by rollers from the bottom, and is inaccessible. The other large window, the West one, is so blocked up with easels, canvases and casts, that it is certain nobody could get in or out of that. The door to the main hall was, of course, in full sight of Blake the footman, and that leaves only the South end of the room to be considered. Now no intruder could have gone out by the door to the Billiard Room or the door to the Terrace without having been seen by you or Miss Vernon, who claims she was on the Terrace all evening.” Every one present looked around at the Studio. They saw a spacious room, about forty feet long by thirty wide, its lofty ceiling fully twenty feet high. An enormous fireplace was on the side toward the house, and above it ran an ornamental balcony, reached by a light staircase at either end. The fine, big windows were of stained glass, save where ground glass had been put in to meet the artist’s needs. Originally a ballroom, the decorations were ornate but in restrained and harmonious taste. There were priceless rugs on the floor, priceless works of art all about, and furnishings of regal state and luxury. Yet, also, was there the litter and mess of working materials and mediums—seemingly inseparable from any studio, however watched and tended. Here would be a stunning Elizabethan chair, all carved wood and red velvet, heaped high with paintboxes and palettes; there, an antique chest of marvellous workmanship, from whose half-open lid peeped bits of rare drapery stuffs or quaintly-fashioned garments. Tables everywhere, of inlay or marquetry, were piled with sketches, boxes of pastels, or small casts. Jugs and vases, fit only for museum pieces, held sheafs of paint-brushes, while scores of canvases, both blank and painted, stood all round the wall. The armchair, in which Eric Stannard had sat when he died, was undisturbed, also the tables near it. A new idea seemed to strike Lamson. He said, “When you came in in the darkness, Mrs. Stannard, how did you avoid stumbling over the chairs and stands in your way? I count four of them, practically in the course you must have pursued.” Joyce looked at the part of the room in question. True, there were four or more small pieces of furniture that would have bothered one coming in without a light. “That’s so!” she said, as if the idea were illuminating. “I must have come in just after or at the very moment that Blake lighted the electrics!” “And found Miss Vernon already here?” “Yes,” said Joyce. “Miss Vernon, will you tell your story?” said Lamson, abruptly, turning from Joyce to the girl. “Why—I——” Natalie fluttered like a frightened bird, and gazed piteously at the inquisitor. “I don’t know how.” “Good work!” commented Bobsy Roberts, mentally. “Smart little girl to know how the baby act fetches ’em!” But if Natalie Vernon’s air of helplessness was assumed, it was sufficiently well done to convince all who saw it. “Poor little thing!” was in everybody’s mind as the rosebud face looked pleadingly at the Coroner. At that moment, if she had declared herself the guilty wretch, nobody would have believed her. Lamson’s abruptness vanished, and he said, gently, “Just a simple description, Miss Vernon, of your presence in this room last night.” “It was this way,” she began, and her face drew itself into delicious wrinkles, as she chose her words. “I had been, ever since dinner, almost, on the terrace.” “Alone?” “Oh, no. Different people were there. Coming and going, you know. Well, at last, I chanced to be there alone——” “Who had been with you latest?” “Let me see,” and the palpable effort to remember was too pronounced to be real, “I guess—yes, I’m sure it was Barry,—Mr. Barry Stannard. And he went away——” “Where?” “I don’t know. For a stroll with the dogs, probably. I was about to go upstairs to my room, when I heard a sound in the studio that seemed queer.” “How, queer?” “As if somebody were calling me—I mean, calling for somebody.” “Did you hear your name?” and Lamson caught at the straw. “Oh, no, just a general exclamation, it was. And I went toward the door to listen, if it might be repeated.” “Was the door open?” “No, but it has glass in it, with sash curtains, and these were a little way open, and I could see through them that the light went out suddenly——” “Well?” “And then I went right in, without making a sound——” “Didn’t it make a sound as you opened the door?” “The door was open.” “You said it was not.” “Oh, I don’t know whether it was or not! I was so scared to see Eric,—Mr. Stannard, dead or dying, and his wife standing there as if she had just——” “Just what? Killed him?” “Yes,” and Natalie’s big blue eyes were violet with horror. “She had! And she stood there, just as Blake said, one hand on the table, and one clutched to her breast. She did do it, Mr. Coroner. She must have been out of her mind, you know, but she did it, for I saw her.” “Saw her kill him?” “No, not that. But I saw her just after the deed was done, and she was the picture of guilty fear!” If Natalie could have been transferred to canvas as she looked then, the picture would have made any painter’s fortune. The girl was in white, soft, crÊpy wool stuff, that clung and fell in lovely lines, for the gown had been designed by no less a genius than Stannard himself. It was his whim to have Natalie about the house in the gowns in which he posed her, that he might catch an occasional unexpected effect. But the simple affair was not out of place as a morning house-gown, and more than one woman in the audience took careful note of its cut and pattern. Her golden hair was carelessly tossed up in a mass of curls, held with one hair-pin, a huge amber thing, that threatened every minute to slip out, and one couldn’t help wishing it would. Her wonderful eyes had long dark lashes, and her pink cheeks were rosy now, because of her nervous excitement. So thin was her delicate skin that her hands and throat were flushed a soft pink and her curved lips were scarlet. Yet notwithstanding the marvellous colouring, there was not one iota of doubt that it was Nature’s own. The play of rose and white in her cheeks, the sudden occasional paling of the red lips and the perfection of the tiny shreds of curl that clustered at her throbbing temples all spoke of the real humanity of this girl’s beauty. Small wonder the artist wanted her for his own pictures exclusively! Joyce was a beautiful woman, but this child, this fairy princess, was a dream, a very Titania of charm and wonder. Not by her testimony, not by words of assertion, but by her ethereal, her incredible beauty, this wonder-girl took captive every heart and, without effort, secured the sympathy and belief of everybody present. And yet, the Coroner had to do his duty. Had to say, in curt, accusing tones, “Then how do you explain Mr. Stannard’s dying words, ‘Natalie, not Joyce!’?” The red lips quivered, the roseleaf cheeks grew pinker and great tears formed in the appealing blue eyes. “Don’t ask me that!” she cried; “oh, pray, don’t ask me that!” “But I do, I must ask you. And I must ask you why you stabbed him? Had he asked you to pose in any way to which you were unwilling to consent? Had he insisted, after you refused? Was he tyrannical? Brutal? Cruel? Did you have to defend yourself? Was it on an impulse of sudden anger or indignation?” “Stop! Stop!” cried Natalie, putting her pink finger tips into her tiny, rosy ears. “Stop! He was none of those things! He was good to me, he—he——” “Good to you, yet you killed him! Kind to you, yet you took his life——” “I didn’t! I tell you I didn’t! It was Joyce! She——” “Miss Vernon, if you came into the room in the dark, how could you effect an entrance without upsetting something? There are even more small racks and stands on that side of the room than the other.” “No, I didn’t upset anything——” and Natalie stared at him. “Then you came in before the room was darkened,—long before,—and you darkened it yourself, after you had driven the blow that ended the life of your friend and patron.” Coroner Lamson paused, as the dawn-pink of Natalie’s face turned to a creamy pallor, and the girl sank, unconscious, into a chair. “Brutal!” cried Barry Stannard, springing to her side. “Inexcusable, Mr. Lamson. This is no place for a Third Degree procedure!” and asking no one’s permission, he carried the slight form from the studio. |
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