No Mortal Reason (25 page)

“Did you kill Elly Lyseth?” Diana asked.

Mercy’s gasp could have meant anything. When she tried to turn away, Diana caught her forearm, forcing her to continue their conversation face-to-face.

“You were not an infant and you were close to your father. You knew he was courting Elly Lyseth.”

“I knew she’d seduced him!”

Diana let that go. “You resented her. You feared she might become your stepmother. You were jealous.”

In the fading light, Diana could see Mercy’s stricken expression. Finally, she nodded. “She wasn’t good enough for him.”

“Would any woman have been?”

That surprised a short bark of laughter out of Mercy. “No, I suppose not, but Elly Lyseth was the . . . the . . . town pump!” She blushed at using such a vulgar term, but shot Diana a defiant look.

“Did you know your father had given her the locket?”

“No. Not until it was found with her bones.”

“Did you know the bones were there?”

“No! Diana, you must believe me. I had nothing to do with her death. I was heartily glad when she disappeared, but I didn’t kill her. Nor do I know who did, except that it wasn’t my father. He, poor fool, seems to have loved her.”

“Then why on earth have you been avoiding my questions?”

“I was . . . ashamed?”

“Of what?” They stood in shadow, and Diana hoped that would make it possible for Mercy to answer her at last. “Of what?” she repeated in a gentle but insistent tone of voice.

“I doctored a box of sweets with a purgative. If she ate them, they’d have made her terribly ill. But they wouldn’t have killed her.”

“When was this?” Diana had a feeling she already knew.

“The day before she disappeared.”

Hearing the hitch in Mercy’s voice, Diana patted her hand. “You’re right. They wouldn’t have killed her. And if you’re thinking she might have become ill enough to fall and hit her head, I can assure you that she’d not have landed that hard without help. Either someone struck her down, or they thrust her away from them with sufficient force to crack open her skull.”

She did not have to add that Elly’s weakened condition, had she eaten the adulterated candies, might have made it easier on her killer. That was something they’d never know.

* * * *

“What’s wrong with Sebastian?” Diana asked when she and Ben were alone in the elevator. It was after midnight, but she’d been back in the writing room, making a new list and trying to make sense of the old ones, when the weary travelers returned.

“Nothing an oatmeal bath and a good night’s sleep won’t soothe,” Ben replied. “He went off on his own with the map to the Indian lead mine.”

“Did he find it?”

“No, but he wandered into some swampy ground and a swarm of mosquitoes found him. He arrived at Howd’s place just as the two of us were about to leave, one eye almost swollen shut and red spots all over his neck.” They stepped out of the elevator and started down the corridor toward their suite. “I’m afraid I did not precisely uphold my oath as a physician.”

“You refused to treat him?”

“Oh, I applied a salve for the worst of the itching—Howd keeps adequate medical supplies—but on the ride back I made sure he knew that mosquitoes spread malaria. I was quite graphic about the symptoms of that.”

“Ben,” she admonished him. “That’s terrible. Did he believe you?”

“I think he did. He knows part of the reason people take summer vacations is to get away from summer diseases—malaria, yellow fever, and cholera in particular—and that there are fewer cases of those diseases, and fewer mosquitoes, for that matter, at higher altitudes and in temperate climates.”

“I don’t suppose you mentioned any of the opposing theories?”

“That such diseases are caused by phases of the moon, or perhaps by electricity? No, I did not. Don’t tell me you believe such nonsense?”

Diana entered the suite ahead of him. “It was only last year that an authority on malaria said so, ridiculing the mosquito idea. It made headlines in the
Independent Intelligencer
.”

“It would,” Ben muttered, and yawned. “Don’t tell Sebastian. He deserves to worry. After all, he stole that map.”

“Mercy will not be surprised.”

“Howd has it now. He’s going to have it framed, as you suggested.”

When Ben had stoked the fire, they settled down on the sofa in front of it and he gave Diana a brief summary of his adventures. The account reflected poorly on Sebastian.

By the time he’d finished, his eyes were drifting closed. “I want to tell you about our stop in Grahamsville,” he murmured in a sleepy voice. “I hope it will interest you, but it has nothing to do with Saugus’s murder.”

Diana nudged his arm. “Can you stay awake a bit longer? I have a few things to tell you.”

He yawned several more times during the recitation, but seemed to be paying attention. “Any conclusions?” he asked when she finished up with Mercy’s confession.

“I’ve made a new list.” She didn’t bother to produce it from the pocket of her skirt. She had it memorized.

“Is it any shorter than the last one?”

She made a face at him, but he didn’t see it. His eyes had closed again. She didn’t have the heart to make him listen. She got him up and into the bedroom, out of his travel-stained clothes and into his muslin nightshirt, and into the big, sinfully soft bed. He was asleep almost as soon as his head hit the down pillow.

Diana stood smiling at him. She tucked the blanket in under his chin, laid out his brocade dressing gown and embroidered slippers for the morning, and went back out into the suite’s parlor to bank the fire.

She’d tell him tomorrow about her new list. Maybe he could make some sense of it. As it stood now she had two possible motives for Saugus’s murder—either Saugus had figured out who had killed Elly and had been murdered to keep him quiet; or, he’d killed Elly himself and someone else had realized it and killed him to avenge her death.

Determining
who
had murdered Saugus was harder. Her list of suspects was crowded, even after she left off family members. At the moment, Belle Saugus was at the top, followed by Celia and Floyd Lyseth. Diana had added Jonas Riker’s name, at least until she discovered what he’d done to cause newspapers to “persecute” him. And last but not least, her list concluded with the ever-popular “person or persons unknown.” The elusive drummer, perhaps?

Chapter Twelve

Diana flipped through a recent copy of
Good Housekeeping
while she waited for Ben to wake up, idly trying to decide whether to skim an article titled “Sending for the Doctor” or read the next installment of Helena Rowe’s “Family Fashions and Fancies.” Ben deserved to sleep in, but she was impatient to . . . do something.

A pity she did not know what.

She had been frustrated in her attempt to arrange a trip to Monticello, the county seat. When she’d first inquired about transportation, Uncle Myron had said flatly: “There’s a murderer on the loose. You mustn’t go alone.”

“You could come with me,” she’d suggested.

“Haven’t got the time. Can’t spare Lyseth to drive you, either.”

And when she’d tried to hire the surrey, she’d been put off with the feeble excuse that Old Jessie needed shoeing. Luke Castine’s look of surprise at his father’s claim had convinced Diana that the blacksmith was just being contrary. And trying to protect “the little lady,” of course. The effort was no doubt well-meant, but extremely annoying.

Arranging a visit to the county seat should have been a simple matter, but apparently it was not that easy to get there, even with an escort. There was no train that ran directly from Liberty to Monticello. For some inexplicable reason, Monticello was on a different line. The quickest route was to drive the five miles to Liberty, board the train that went to Weehawken but get off at Fallsburgh, and then take one of Royce’s stages the rest of the way, an additional five miles.

Was it worth it, she wondered, just to talk to the sheriff? There was no guarantee he would agree to let her interview his prisoner, the notorious Sailor Jack. As for questions about the progress of the investigation into Norman Saugus’s death, that, too, could be a waste of time and effort. The sheriff was not personally involved in the matter, although he was the one to whom any person arrested would be sent for incarceration in the county jail. Still, Diana had hoped he’d be inclined to share what he knew, that he might let some vital piece of information slip. People did tend to confide in her.

With a sigh she set the magazine aside unread. In spite of his dislike of her assignment, she could probably persuade Ben to take her, but first he had to wake up. She didn’t begrudge him his need for sleep. It had been very late indeed when he’d returned. On the other hand, Uncle Howd had been up at the crack of dawn, anxious to talk to the coroner and provide at least a partial alibi for his brother’s whereabouts on the night Norman Saugus was killed.

Perhaps she should have gone into Liberty with Uncle Howd. Instead, here she sat, twiddling her thumbs as the day slipped rapidly away from her. It was already after two.

She’d wanted to talk to Belle Saugus, but Belle had locked herself in her suite and refused to answer the door. Diana had just decided to walk to Castine’s store and ask Mrs. Castine about the peddler with whom Elly had supposedly eloped, when the door to the writing room was flung open and a whirlwind entered.

“There she is!” a familiar voice cried. “And it’s good it is to be seeing her at last.”

“Mrs. Curran?” Diana blinked, unable at first to believe her eyes. What on earth was her landlady doing here?

Mrs. Curran was a small woman, but years on the stage had given her presence. She’d acted all the great Shakespearean heroines, losing every trace of her native Irish accent when she spoke the words of the bard. She’d toured throughout America and abroad. Diana sometimes thought Mrs. Curran knew
everyone
in the theater.

When she’d retired, the actress had purchased a small house on Tenth Street in Manhattan and opened the premises to female boarders. She’d made one stipulation—they must have a theatrical connection. At present the residents were two actresses, a dresser, and a seamstress who made theatrical costumes. That Diana was the widow of an actor had allowed her to join their ranks; that she’d included theatrical news in her column for the
Independent Intelligencer
had kept her there . . . and very nearly resulted in her eviction when Horatio Foxe had started adding scandal and innuendo to what Diana had written.

“Well, Mrs. Northcote?” Mrs. Curran demanded. “What have you to say for yourself? A fine thing it is to discover you’ve gone and married again and never so much as a word about it when last you wrote to me!”

Aware of Mercy standing in the background, ears flapping, Diana flushed. “It was . . . that is, I—”

“No! Don’t bother to apologize. What’s done is done. Though I was looking forward to attending a wedding. It’s been many a long day since I’ve toasted a bride and groom.” She came the rest of the way into the room and closed the door behind her, shutting Mercy out.

“Sit down, please,” Diana said.

Mrs. Curran settled herself in a chair and put her feet up on the small footrest in front of it. “Ah, me. I’d forgotten how many stops trains make, and I had to be at the ferry before eight o’clock this morning!” Like most theatrical people, she was accustomed to sleeping somewhat later than that.

“You must be exhausted. Shall I send for refreshments?”

But Mrs. Curran waved off the offer and proceeded to give a full account of her journey. The first stop had been at Middletown, sixty-nine miles from New York. It had taken only two hours to go that far. From then on, however, stops had been more frequent, and she estimated it had taken five full hours for the entire trip from Weehawken to Liberty.

“I feel dusty and disheveled,” she declared. “And stiff and sore, as well, though the reclining chairs were comfortable.”

“You look remarkably fresh,” Diana assured her. “Is that a new gown?”

“Do you like it?” Mrs. Curran preened. She was a skilled seamstress. With the help of her lodger, she managed to make clothes that were the latest stare in fashion. Pattern catalogs and copies of
La Mode Illustrée
were strewn all over her little sewing room on Tenth Street.

“Exquisite.”

“I brought your trunk and boxes.”

Taken by surprise, Diana gaped at her. “You brought my—”

“I did, yes. Good gracious, girl! Close your mouth. You’ll catch flies.”

“But I don’t understand. Is that why you’re here? I thought you’d come to answer my question about Belle Saugus. To be truthful, I expected you to send a telegram.”

Mrs. Curran sniffed. “And why should I miss all the fun, I ask you? Is she still here?”

“Belle Saugus? Yes.”

“Good. Then the trip’s been worthwhile.” She took a moment to survey her surroundings, looking more than ever like one of the birds in Howd’s water colors as she turned inquisitive eyes this way, then that. “Not bad. Well, as I was saying, then, I received your letter and the sketch. It’s a good likeness. I hadn’t seen that woman in twenty years, but I recognized her at once. She was on the stage, as you guessed, but that wasn’t how she made her mark. She did that by being a notorious hotel thief.”

“How do you—”

Mrs. Curran grinned at her. No one knew the little Irishwoman’s precise age, but at the moment she looked more like a mischievous three-year-old than an aged crone. “I had my suspicions, but no proof, so I took your sketch to the 15
th
Precinct and showed it to that nice young Officer Hanlon. He took me to see Captain Brogan, and Captain Brogan had a book.”

“The one Inspector Byrnes wrote?” Thomas Byrnes, Chief of Detectives, was the author of a volume called
Professional Criminals of America
. “Mr. Foxe owns a copy. He loaned it to me a few months ago. That was how I—”

Mrs. Curran cut her off. “So I discovered. And it’s that man’s copy I brought with me to show you.”

Diana didn’t know which astounded her more, that Belle Saugus was apparently included in Inspector Byrnes’s book or that Mrs. Curran had voluntarily contacted “that man”—Horatio Foxe. She held him responsible for putting Diana’s life in danger back in March and blamed him, too, unfairly, for interfering with Diana’s plans to return to Maine, and Ben, in mid-April.