Detective and mystery stories; Wise, Pennington (Fictitious character) -- Fiction
“Never saw such a case! No clue anywhere; not even mysterious
circumstances. Everything just as natural and commonplace as it can be.”
“There’s the yellow pillow,——” suggested Potter.
“I know,—but that may have some simple explanation,—housemaid took it out
to clean it,—or something.”
“Then, Bill, there’s got to be a secret passage; there’s just got to.”
“Well, there ain’t. Tomorrow, I’ll sound the walls and all that sort of
thing, but I’ve measured and estimated, and I vow there ain’t no space
unaccounted for in this whole house. But there’s a lot of questionin’ yet
to be done. I’ll say there is!”
By this time some of the servants had heard of the affair and had
returned.
Potter and Bill Dunn went to the kitchen to see them, and found Kelly the
butler and Hannah the cook in a scared, nervous state.
“Do tell us, sir, all about it,” Kelly begged, his hard face drawn with
sympathy. “The master——”
“It’s true, Kelly, your master is dead. He was killed, and we are
investigating. What can you tell us? Do you know of anybody who had it in
for Mr Varian?”
“Oh, no, sir! I’m sure he hadn’t an enemy in the world.”
“Oh, no, you can’t be sure of that, my man. But tell me of the
circumstances. When you all went away, this afternoon, there was no sign
of disturbance,—of anything unusual?”
“Oh, no, sir. Everything was pleasant and proper. I had packed the
luncheon for the picnic, Hannah here made the sandwiches, and I filled
the coffee Thermos, and all such things. The baskets were all ready, and
the family expected to start on the picnic almost as soon as we went off.
I offered to stay behind and help Mrs Varian, but she was so kind as to
say I needn’t do that. So we all went.”
“All at once?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You went down the path that leads from the front door?”
“There’s no other way. It branches around to the kitchen entrance, up
here, but there’s no other way off the premises.”
“Not even for a burglar or robber?”
“No, sir. I don’t believe even a monkey could scramble up the cliff, and
I know a man couldn’t. You see it overhangs, and it’s impossible.”
“But coming from the other direction,—the village?”
“From that way, everybody has to pass through the lodge gate. The lodge,
you know,—that’s the garage, as well. There’s a gate here——”
“Yes, I know.”
“Well, through that gate is the only way to get to this house.”
“But all the picnic party were waiting, in full view of that gate, and in
full view of the house. Yet somebody——”
“You needn’t say somebody got in,—for nobody could do that.”
“I don’t say it. But I’m looking out for some such person. If not, we
must conclude——”
“What, sir?”
“That Miss Varian shot her father, and then,—in some yet undiscovered
place, killed herself, or still alive,—is in hiding.”
“Miss Betty kill her father!” exclaimed Hannah, the cook, speaking to the
sheriff for the first time. “No, she never did that!”
“Yet there was ill feeling between them,” Potter returned, quickly.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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