Another Woman's House (7 page)

“No need,” said the Governor gruffly. “No need. Just take care of yourself, dear Mrs. Thorne. Get some roses back in those cheeks. Try to forget. And don't worry about anything. We'll do everything we can about the newspapers. We've kept them out of it so far. No tears now …”

She smiled. Her gaze fell on the fur coat. She said, “Tell your wife that her kindness in sending her own coat for me to wear was almost more than I could bear.”

“Now, now,” said the Governor warningly, smiling. “You've been very brave. No tears.”

“I won't cry,” said Alice. “I'm too happy.” Her soft brown eyes went slowly all around the room, touching every object caressingly. Her gaze reached Myra and fixed itself with a kind of start for an instant and then she said with an apologetic gasp, “Oh, Myra! I didn't realize you were there—I only saw Richard.”

The Governor said kindly, “You'd better not talk now; get her to rest, Thorne …”

Alice said, “Oh, yes. Yes, I'll rest. My own room again, no bars, no keys …” her voice choked. She turned toward the door leaning heavily upon Richard. There was another moment of silence in the room—it was so still that Myra could hear the light swish of Alice's somber yet modish black gown as they walked together to the doorway. Richard did not look back. It was as if Richard were not there at all but a perfectly strange person who moved in Richard's body. They disappeared and Myra's hand was stiff and cramped from holding so tightly to the curtains beside her and the room seemed, in spite of the lights and the fire, extraordinarily chill and empty. Then the Governor cleared his throat again, got out his handkerchief, blew his nose loudly and looked at Myra.

“That woman's an angel. Very near collapse, I'm afraid, but too much courage to admit it. However, she'll be all right now.” His eyes sharpened. “See here. Don't you collapse! You'd better sit down.” He came quickly to Myra and led her to Richard's arm chair and put her down in it, talking rapidly. “Good news can be almost as much of a shock as bad news. Lean back, Miss—er—lean back. Maybe you'd better have a drink. I could use one myself. Where's the bell? I'm sorry it had to come as such a shock to everybody, but the way things were it seemed impossible to do otherwise if I was to spare you all further notoriety. Now then, Miss—er—” He was looking around vaguely for the bell.

Myra said, “Lane. It's there beside the door.”

“Oh, yes. Yes, I see.” He started toward it, stopped suddenly midway, shot her a sharp look and said, “Lane? Is your name Lane?”

Myra's voice seemed dragged up from some deep distance, flat and still, without tone or resonance. “Myra Lane.”

“Lane,” said the Governor. “Well!” He turned, went quickly to the bell and pushed it and came back to stand before her, his back to the fire. “Are you,” he said, “any relation to Timothy Lane?”

A faraway wonder touched her. What did he know of Tim?

“He is my brother.”

“Your brother!” began the Governor on a note of astonishment and stopped and stared. “Do you live here?”

Again a voice not her own seemed to reply for Myra. “No—that is, yes, I do just now.” His shrewd sharp eyes questioned. She said, “I live with Aunt Cornelia, Lady Carmichael.”

His face cleared. “Oh, yes, she was Cornelia Thorne. I do recall now that someone said she had come back from England to keep house for Dick Thorne.”

His eyes were again bright and sharp with question. “I didn't realize that your brother and you are related to the Thornes.”

She had to speak; she had to reply; she had to explain.

“Oh, we are not. We only call her Aunt. My mother was a friend of Lady Carmichael's. She died when I was sixteen. I have lived with Lady Carmichael since then.”

“I see. In England?”

“Yes, until last fall when we came here.”

“I see.” He paused thoughtfully and then said: “What ,about your brother? He went to school here, didn't he?”

“Yes. That is, until he was eighteen. He went directly from school into the army.” Why was he talking so much of Timothy? What of Alice's release, her exoneration, her return?

The Governor waited for a moment, with a rather curious look of mingled question and reflection in his face and, in the short silence, Barton came from the hall door. His face was flabby and white with shock, his eyes excited. “You rang, Miss Myra?”

“No,” said the Governor. “I rang. I think we could do with a drink, if you please.” He looked at Myra. “I think I'd suggest a little brandy for Miss Lane. I'll take a whisky and soda if you'll be so good.”

“Yes, sir,” said Barton. “Yes, sir.” His voice was breathless. He gave Myra an excited look, wavered indecisively in the doorway, said, “Yes, sir. I'll bring it at once,” and went away. Willie, puzzled, his tail dejected, crawled out from somewhere and followed Barton soberly.

“Shock to your butler, too,” said the Governor. “I thought he'd have a stroke when he opened the door and saw Mrs. Thorne.

“So you're Timothy Lane's sister. Look here, then, you were not in America at the time”—he waved in a broad gesture around the room—“the time all this happened?”

With an effort again, Myra replied. “No. We were still in England. Aunt Cornelia wished to come as soon as she knew; she'd had an accident and couldn't.”

“I see. I was sure that neither of you was here at the time of the trial. I was then the prosecuting attorney, you know. Well.” He was silent for a moment again, staring at the rug, rubbing his hands together absently.

Alice free; Alice exonerated; Alice at home to stay. What were they saying upstairs, Richard and Alice?

The Governor said suddenly, “I didn't know that you were Tim Lane's sister. I think you'd better know the whole story of Mrs. Thorne's pardon.”

Timothy again. This time the allusion was too pointed to avoid. She said abruptly, “What has Timothy to do with it?”

“Everything,” said the Governor gravely. Richard came down the stairs and across the hall. The Governor said, “Well, Thorne. I've taken the liberty of asking your butler to bring me a drink.”

Richard was dazed, too. Richard must have the same sense that she had of moving through a dream. He was very white, too; he gave her one swift glance that still did not seem to see her.

He replied to the Governor, in the kind of voice, Myra thought again, she had heard in her own throat, flat and queer, without resonance or meaning.

“That's quite right, sir.” He looked around. “Where is it?”

“He's getting it now. I expect you want to know exactly how the thing happened. Did your wife tell you anything of it?”

“She's very tired. A maid is with her.” It was as if a stranger spoke, not Richard. He came to stand beside the Governor, his elbow on the mantel. Even his face seemed withdrawn and remote, without emotion or the capacity for emotion. The Governor said, “I'll give it to you quickly, in a nutshell. Webb Manders, as I told you, has confessed to perjury. Consequently your wife's conviction was due to fraud.”

“Webb lied!”

“Yes. Thus, in fact, she was, well, framed. She was wrongly and illegally imprisoned. He now admits that he did not see your wife shoot Jack Manders, and that he lied when he said that he did. He has signed a statement to that effect.”

“Webb admits perjury!”

“Right.”

“But she'd never have gone to prison if it hadn't been for his testimony.”

“Exactly. The case against her, except for that, was merely and barely circumstantial.
With
his testimony those circumstances appeared corroborative;
without
his testimony the prosecution had no real case. I know,” said the Governor. “I was then the prosecuting attorney, as you'll remember. Nobody knows the case better than I. She'd never have been convicted without the eye-witness testimony of Webb Manders. With it there was a case; without it …” He shrugged. “Since it was admitted perjury that sent your wife to prison it was my obvious duty on the facts of the case to pardon her, as quickly and as quietly as possible.”

“When …” began Richard, but the Governor went on quickly, “She had suffered greatly from publicity. I was determined to avoid any more of that. Telephones, telegrams—somehow, too often, there is a leak. The important thing was to get her out and home, quickly and above all things quietly. I sent for the present district attorney who agreed with me. I wrote out her pardon. My wife, who was the only other person besides myself and the district attorney who knew what I had decided to do, sent a veil and a warm coat along with me in the car. I had my chauffeur take me to Auburn. The warden's integrity and discretion are unquestionable. I told him the whole story. He went himself to bring her to his office. Together we managed to get her out of the place without another soul knowing it. I realized that this would be a shock to you, Thorne; but it would be, in any event, and it seemed to me I had no right to run the risk of photographers at the prison gate, headlines, ail that sort of thing.” He paused and eyed Richard thoughtfully. “I hope you think I took the right course.”

“Yes,” said Richard. “Yes.”

“We'll have to release a statement, of course. But now that she is safely at home you can take proper measures to protect her.”

“Yes,” said Richard again.

Barton appeared in the doorway, a tray in his hands, hesitated and came forward.

The Governor said, “It will be only the nine days' wonder of publicity that might really be troublesome to her. My own position is, of course,” he paused and his mouth tightened rather grimly, “different. There'll be a field day, especially in the opposition press. However, I followed the only right and possible course, although there'll be plenty who'll say that your money, Thorne, bought her pardon.” He paused again for a reflective instant. The grim, obstinate look in his face deepened. He shrugged. “I suppose many men in my place would have delayed, had a hearing, publicized the thing. But that's not my way. Law is law; justice is justice. It is my duty both morally and legally to undo a moral and legal wrong. And I've never been one to let the grass grow under my feet. The papers will be after me, all of them in full cry; but I think I can tackle them. And you can take every possible measure, Thorne, to protect your wife. The police may be obliged to question her but they'll make it easy on her.

“Police!” said Richard sharply.

The tray clattered as Barton put it down on a table.

The Governor said, “Why, yes. Police.”

“Do you mean that the case is re-opened?”

“Why, yes!” said the Governor again. “Jack Manders was murdered. Your wife didn't kill him. But somebody did.” The big man's shrewd bright eyes went thoughtfully around the room once and came back to fix upon the terrace doors, and then the door into the wide hall. “Somebody stood there—or there—and shot him.”

Ice tinkled sharply in the glass in Barton's hands; usually his hands were silent and steady. A log fell with a kind of sigh and sent up a shower of sparks. The Governor's shrewd bright eyes came back to Richard.

“So who was it?” he asked.

T
HE SHARP AGITATED TINKLE
of ice against glass approached Myra. She was aware of Barton standing beside her, glasses on a small silver waiter. “That one is brandy. Miss,” he said. “That one.” His voice was unsteady, too, like his hands. She took it, only half, conscious of her action. The butler moved on to the Governor. Richard said slowly, “Let me get the straight of this, sir. Is there to be a new trial?”

“Thank you.” The Governor looked up directly at Richard. “There will never be another trial for your wife. But naturally her pardon automatically re-opens the case. There will be a renewed investigation; there must be. As I say, somebody killed Jack Manders. Owing to the peculiar and very regrettable circumstances, at my request, the district attorney will take no steps until tomorrow. When he discovers the murderer, naturally there will be another trial for the real murderer, but not for Mrs. Thorne.”

“Alice …”

“Your wife, Thorne, is unconditionally free. She could never under any possible circumstances be forced to undergo another trial for the murder of Manders. That is the law; she cannot be placed in double jeopardy. A pardon in this instance acts the same as an acquittal. But if I had not been convinced of the illegality and injustice of her conviction I should not have pardoned her. And, to tell you the truth, Thorne, while Webb Manders' testimony was the keystone of my case as prosecutor and it seemed to me then right that she should be convicted, at the same time it did, shall I say, surprise me. I had no doubts of your wife's guilt, but at the same time, instinctively I felt a certain astonishment. I could not reconcile what appeared to be an established fact with my own estimate of your wife's character. It was wrong psychologically, yet God knows a lawyer is only too well accustomed to the infinite variations of the human mind and motives. Her guilt seemed to be a proven fact. I accepted it as such.” He drank and said, “You'd better let me give you the details. Miss Lane, too. It was, as a matter of fact, her brother who started the thing.”

“Tim!” cried Richard.

“Yes. Timothy Lane. If you don't mind …” The Governor glanced around and went to sit in the ruby-red arm chair. He looked extraordinarily big and bulky and powerful sitting there, leaning forward a little, holding his glass in large square fingers. He sighed. “I've got to drive back to Albany tonight. I'll make it brief. Tim Lane came to me yesterday with a—a remarkable story.”

“Tim!” cried Richard incredulously again.

Myra's hands were holding hard to the arms of her chair. “But Tim knew nothing about the murder!” she cried. “That is, he knew so little. He saw Webb drive past him toward the house. He heard the shots. But when he reached this room it was all over. He could only tell what he saw then.”