No Mortal Reason (7 page)

“It looks that way,” he said.

* * * *

Ben was concerned about Diana. She seemed more shaken by the afternoon’s events than he would have expected. He could not imagine that she’d already formed an attachment to members of her family. She’d barely met them. In fact, she’d yet to be introduced to her uncle Myron.

A woman intercepted them as they entered the lobby. “Dr. Northcote? I’m Mrs. Ellington, the housekeeper. I’m sorry, but the main dining room is not yet ready to serve meals in. We haven’t the staff for one thing. I can provide you with a set meal—nothing fancy, mind you—at a set time, in one of the private dining rooms, but you’ll need to tell me when you want to eat.”

He was pleased to be offered food at all, given the circumstances. “An hour?” he suggested. Diana must be starving. It had been a long time since what had passed for luncheon on the train. Perhaps that was why she’d reacted so strongly to their disconcerting discovery.

In the privacy of the elevator, which he was able to operate after a brief study of the controls—pulling the cable down started the car moving up—Diana finally spoke.

“If we’ve walked straight into an old murder, then my family is right in the middle of it.”

“They’re going to have a difficult time,” he agreed. The unease he felt concerning the afternoon’s events increased.

“I’d like to help them somehow,” Diana said, “but I’m an outsider. I have no inkling what connections exist among these people. It’s a small community. For all we know, Elly Lyseth’s death is part of some feud that goes back for generations, and I don’t even want to think about what the good pastor may do to stir things up.”

“The situation is confusing right now,” Ben agreed as he brought the elevator to a smooth stop. He took her arm to walk to their suite. Diana seemed to have forgiven him for registering them as husband and wife but he was not such a fool as to broach that subject. “It is impossible to think clearly on an empty stomach,” he said instead. “After we have that set meal, we’ll talk.”

In the suite, he saw at a glance that his forgiveness was still in doubt. Diana had not unpacked for him. His Gladstone bag sat beside the sofa. A pillow and blanket had been stacked next to it.

When she went into the other room and closed the door, Ben hurriedly changed his shirt, collar, and cravat, and brushed his hair. His coat and trousers could have used a good brushing too, but he did not have a great many clothes with him and it did not seem necessary to put on the Prince Albert he wore as formal evening dress. He assumed the vest and coat he’d been wearing, then sat down in one of the parlor’s comfortable armchairs to wait for Diana to reappear.

Contrary to what he’d told her, he already had a very clear notion of what they should do. This was not a propitious time for a family reunion. Moreover, he had sensed dangerous undercurrents in Lenape Springs. As Diana’s future husband, it was his responsibility to keep her from getting caught in a riptide. As soon as possible, he intended that they leave this place. 

* * * *

Ben and Diana had only just stepped out of the elevator into the lobby when Miss Grant intercepted them. “The coroner’s here,” she announced.

“He made good time.”

“Pastor Riker sent for him even before he came here to view what the workmen found. He delights in making trouble for us. And Mr. Buckley has a good horse. He wants to talk to you, Dr. Northcote, in the family parlor. I’ll show you the way.”

“I’ll come with you,” Diana offered.

“He just wants Dr. Northcote.” Miss Grant’s earlier anger at her father seemed to have faded to a simmering irritation directed at the world in general. The look she sent Diana was unfriendly in the extreme.

“I’ll wait for you in the dining room,” Diana said, accepting the inevitable. They both knew it would be a waste of energy to protest such an edict, but she did not yield without a grimace. She hated to be left out of anything, even a situation likely to distress her.

Ben lifted her hand to his lips. “Eat something. As one who knows you well, I predict it is only a matter of minutes before your stomach begins to growl. Loudly.”

This indelicate remark had Miss Grant goggling at them, but Diana only smiled and sent him on his way. What he’d said was nothing less than the truth. It also called up pleasant memories between them.

Miss Grant left him at the parlor door after calling out, “Doctor’s here.”

Ben pushed it open and went in. It appeared that the coroner, a thin, bespectacled man of about Ben’s own years, was just finishing up his interview with the Grant brothers. Howd Grant, ill-at-ease and fidgeting, stood by a window. Myron Grant, once again scowling fiercely, sat facing Mr. Buckley, both of them in balloon-back chairs.

There was only time for a brief survey of the room itself. Under other circumstances, Ben would have remarked upon the quality of the many water colors of birds that decorated the parlor, but this did not seem an appropriate time for compliments.

“So,” Mr. Buckley said, his sharp voice demanding Ben’s full attention. “I’m told you are a doctor.” He waved Ben into a matching chair.

Ben acknowledged that he was, indeed, a physician. He turned the chair around and sat with his arms folded on the curve of the wood. Face to face with his inquisitor, he waited for the coroner’s next question. He did not intend to volunteer anything. He was familiar with the procedure followed by Maine’s coroners but uncertain what subtle variations existed here in New York. Until he knew more, caution seemed wise. 

“Your training?”

The question surprised Ben. He hadn’t expected his credentials to be challenged. “I received my medical degree from Bowdoin College and have practiced in Bangor, Maine since then.” He hesitated, then added, “I’ve been one of that city’s coroners for the last two years.”

Buckley looked unimpressed but nodded as he made a note to himself. “Having you on the spot will save me calling in another physician,” he announced.

That answered one question, Ben thought. New York coroners did not necessarily have medical training. They didn’t in Maine either, though many of those holding the position were doctors. It made the job simpler all around.

“What did you observe when you first examined the bones?” Buckley asked.

“The remains had been there for some time. They were the bones of a woman. The skull was fractured.”

Buckley looked up from his notes. “You are succinct.”

“I prefer not to speculate.”

“You have no opinion about the cause of death?”

“A blow to the head.”

“Was Miss Lyseth murdered?”

“The injury to her skull could have been the result of a fall—an accident.”

“But you don’t think so?”

“I don’t know,” Ben repeated, although he had to admit he had some doubts. Why cover up an accident? She’d clearly been stuffed into that space to hide her. If the fire that had destroyed that wing of the hotel had occurred shortly thereafter . . . 

Ben’s ruminations were interrupted by the arrival of Mrs. Ellington. Everyone stood when she entered the parlor.

“Six potential jurors have shown up,” she announced. “I’ve put them in the casino.”

Only the smallest twitch at the corner of Buckley’s mouth betrayed him, but Ben was relieved to see this evidence that the man had a sense of humor. He disliked dealing with people who saw only the grimness and despair. Men of sour disposition, in Ben’s experience, were less likely to be open minded in considering evidence.

“Do you mean to have the inquest here?” Myron Grant demanded when his housekeeper had left. He sounded affronted.

“Would you prefer we adjourn to the Lenape Springs Villa after viewing the remains? Yes, we’ll hold it here, if I can find enough qualified jurors.”

“Everyone will turn out,” Howd predicted. “It’s a small town.”

“Exactly the problem,” Mr. Buckley grumbled, glancing at the cuckoo clock to check the time.

Ben was surprised to discover only fifteen minutes had passed since he’d left Diana.

“I cannot summon any person related to the deceased,” Buckley continued, “nor any person related to anyone suspected of causing her death.”  He gave Howd Grant a pointed look. “Nor anyone who is known to be prejudiced for or against a suspect. The process could take days.” 

Ben cleared his throat. “I don’t believe you
have
a suspect, Mr. Buckley. That means only Miss Lyseth’s relations need be eliminated from consideration.”

“Did you see this locket Mr. Howard Grant has identified as belonging to Miss Lyseth?” He held it up so that the gaslight caught the delicately etched design on the little heart.

Ben acknowledged that he had, but felt compelled to add, “I also saw Mr. Howard Grant’s face when he recognized it. He was surprised by the discovery of the bones but, more than that, he was shocked to discover that the bones were Elly Lyseth’s.”

“All that time,” Howd whispered in a broken voice, “she was right here and we never knew.”

Buckley ignored him, addressing Ben. “You’re prepared to say that before the inquest?”

“I am.”

“How is it you come to be here off-season, Dr. Northcote?”

Although the abrupt question caught him off guard, Ben thought before he answered. “Mrs. . . . Northcote wished to come here. She became curious about the place after it was mentioned to her by an acquaintance.”

“Who?”

He hesitated, then decided he might as well test the waters. “A Mrs. Torrence. She—”

But before he could get any further, Myron Grant’s roar silenced him. “Elmira! Is it
Elmira
Torrence you mean?” At Ben’s nod, Grant’s skin mottled. “How dare Elmira even
mention
this hotel after what she did?”

Not only was his face livid, but his hands had curled into fists at his sides. Fury made him almost incoherent as he continued to rage against the sister he hadn’t seen in over thirty years.

Ben caught only bits and pieces of the muttered invective, but that was enough to tell him that Diana’s mother had never been forgiven for running out on her brothers after their father’s death.

“Tell them, Howd,” Grant sputtered. “She had no business taking off with that no-account Liberty boy.”

Ben’s eyes narrowed. William Torrence had come from Liberty? He was certain Diana did not know that her father’s family was also from this area. Her mother had only told them about the Grants.

“She was the youngest sister,” Howd Grant said, “the one who stayed to take care of Father after the other girls married. It was understood that she’d go on taking care of Myron and me after Father died.” He still sounded distracted by thoughts of Elly Lyseth’s death, but was considerably calmer than his brother when talking about their sister.

“She had no business—”

“—wanting a life of her own?” Ben interrupted.

Myron’s reply was cut off by the coroner clearing his throat. “If you’ll come with me, Dr. Northcote, I’ll see if we have enough jurors for the inquest. I won’t need you two,” he added, giving the Grant brothers a pointed stare.

* * * *

The flashily-dressed man Diana had seen leaving the scene of the crime was named Norman T. Saugus. The woman was his wife, Belle. She had changed into a low-cut evening dress and carried a patchouli-scented shawl.

In the small, private dining room, Diana could not avoid coming to their attention. Once they introduced themselves, it would have been churlish to refuse when they insisted she join them at their table. Five minutes in their company, however, was long enough to make Diana grateful they’d been almost through with their meal before she arrived.

Hurry, Ben
, she thought as she forced yet another smile. Until Ben finished talking to the coroner and came to her rescue, she was trapped. Norman Saugus fancied himself a raconteur. In truth, he was nothing but a braggart, and a boring one, at that.

“I don’t anticipate any problems running telegraph line to Lenape Springs,” Saugus informed her, leaning close enough so she could smell the musky hair oil he used. “We could do it in just a day or two. Get a couple of farm boys to tie a rag on the hind wheel of a wagon and count the revolutions to measure the distance from one pole location to another. Then a bit of digging.” He chuckled. “I’ve done it before. Had a little trouble then with the right of way, but I took care of it.”

“Oh, this is a delightful story,” Mrs. Saugus said with what struck Diana as an excess of enthusiasm. She beamed encouragingly at her husband, but something seemed false about her smile. As for Saugus, Diana couldn’t help but feel that his patter was the build-up to a sales pitch, though she couldn’t imagine what he might hope to convince her to buy.

“One of the farmers decided he wasn’t going to let us put any poles on his property.”

Saugus shifted his chair a little closer to Diana. She inched away, put off by hair oil too liberally applied and by the man himself. He didn’t seem to notice her retreat.

“The farmer owned both sides of the road, so there wasn’t anywhere else for us to go, so we went ahead and dug two holes in his roadside. Well, what did he do but send his wife and daughter out to squat down over those holes so we couldn’t put the poles in!”

Saugus chuckled and finished the last dregs of coffee in his cup. Mrs. Saugus laughed merrily. Diana managed not to cringe. The woman’s behavior made her increasingly uncomfortable. It was as if she had undertaken the role of supportive wife but couldn’t manage it without overacting.

“We were at a standoff for quite some time, but then the old farmer made a mistake. He shoved one of my workmen and I had him arrested for assault. While he was in jail, my men dug two extra holes—those women were still covering up the first two—and set two poles and strung a wire from one new pole to the other. When he got free, the farmer threatened to chop them both down, but by that time I had a lawyer to sic on him. In the end, he decided not to get his fingers burned.”

“You seem to be involved in all kinds of projects, Mr. Saugus,” Diana said politely.

“That’s how I make my money. Invest in a good thing and rake in the profits when it succeeds.”

“And you think the Hotel Grant will succeed?”