Read Online The Hangman's Whip by Mignon G. Eberhart - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mignon G. Eberhart
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examine the instinct that led her to put on a light summer evening gown—a white one, as near like the sodden thing that lay on the floor as she possessed.
She tried to dry her hair with towels and a brush. She even powdered her face and used lipstick on a mouth that looked taut and strange.
Then she blew out the candle and went into the hall. At the top of the stairs she paused. She wanted desperately to turn back.
There was a distant sound of voices. She went slowly down to the landing and turned. She could see then that there were lighted candles on the table below. She had reached the newel post when the library door opened; she was confusedly aware of people and voices, and Diana appeared in the doorway. She was very white and looked sick. She stopped and stared at her and said: “Search, where in the world have you been? Search, Eve’s dead! She committed suicide—an hour ago in the cottage …”
The hall, Diana’s white face, everything about Search seemed abnormally clear and sharp. She held tight to the newel post. And Diana cried: “It’s horrible. Richard found her. He’s in here now—telephoning the doctor. I’m going to get him something to drink.” She hurried back toward the butler’s pantry.
Richard was there; then he’d come by way of the short cut through the woods. There were voices in the library—Calvin’s, high and exited, talking over the telephone saying: “Yes, she’s dead. She was found just now. …What’s that? … Do you mean we have to call the sheriff? …Well, what’s the sheriff’s number, do you know?”
Then Richard came to the library door and saw her. His shirt and coat were soaked, his dark hair shining and wet. He came toward her and took her hands.
“Search,” he whispered, eyes intent and dark in his ashy face. “Listen. She’s dead; I couldn’t—do anything for her. She was dead when I found her. But”—he glanced over his shoulder toward the open library door—“but it wasn’t suicide. Search, you’ve got to lie; you’ve got to say you didn’t go to the cottage. Tell me quick, did you touch anything? They’ll look for fingerprints.”
But she had known really, from the beginning, that Eve wouldn’t have killed herself. She must have known it when she changed her dress.
“Search—think,” whispered Richard urgently, and she shook her head. Had she touched anything? Had she left fingerprints? But suppose she had; that didn’t mean that—that she had murdered Eve.
She whispered: “Who killed her? Why—”
“I don’t know. I found her like that. After you’d gone I— I took her down and tried to revive her, but it wasn’t any use. Search, you’ve got to tell them you were here—all the time. Do you understand—” He broke off abruptly as Calvin came hurrying to the door. He was in pajamas and a light dressing gown, and his hair was wet as if he’d been in the rain too.
“They are coming right out. They said not to touch anything; the coroner has to make a report and wants to find things just as you found them.” He caught Richard by the arm, shaking it; his sharp face was flushed with excitement. “Now, Dick, go and take a shower and get on some dry clothes.”
The door to the pantry opened and Diana came out with a tray on which were brandy and glasses. She went to the table, her long mauve dress trailing along the floor. There was a flash of lightning so vivid it blazed against the windows at the front, and thunder rolled and shook the old house.
“The storm is coming back,” she said. “Here, Richard.” She poured brandy with a steady hand and gave him the glass. “We’d all better have some. Whatever possessed Eve—I thought she was in her room, writing letters. That’s where she said she was going. She must have gone down the back stairs. And so to the cottage.”
“Drink it, Dick,” said Calvin. “It’ll do you good. There’s nothing we can do but wait. Was there a—a note or anything like
She tried to dry her hair with towels and a brush. She even powdered her face and used lipstick on a mouth that looked taut and strange.
Then she blew out the candle and went into the hall. At the top of the stairs she paused. She wanted desperately to turn back.
There was a distant sound of voices. She went slowly down to the landing and turned. She could see then that there were lighted candles on the table below. She had reached the newel post when the library door opened; she was confusedly aware of people and voices, and Diana appeared in the doorway. She was very white and looked sick. She stopped and stared at her and said: “Search, where in the world have you been? Search, Eve’s dead! She committed suicide—an hour ago in the cottage …”
The hall, Diana’s white face, everything about Search seemed abnormally clear and sharp. She held tight to the newel post. And Diana cried: “It’s horrible. Richard found her. He’s in here now—telephoning the doctor. I’m going to get him something to drink.” She hurried back toward the butler’s pantry.
Richard was there; then he’d come by way of the short cut through the woods. There were voices in the library—Calvin’s, high and exited, talking over the telephone saying: “Yes, she’s dead. She was found just now. …What’s that? … Do you mean we have to call the sheriff? …Well, what’s the sheriff’s number, do you know?”
Then Richard came to the library door and saw her. His shirt and coat were soaked, his dark hair shining and wet. He came toward her and took her hands.
“Search,” he whispered, eyes intent and dark in his ashy face. “Listen. She’s dead; I couldn’t—do anything for her. She was dead when I found her. But”—he glanced over his shoulder toward the open library door—“but it wasn’t suicide. Search, you’ve got to lie; you’ve got to say you didn’t go to the cottage. Tell me quick, did you touch anything? They’ll look for fingerprints.”
But she had known really, from the beginning, that Eve wouldn’t have killed herself. She must have known it when she changed her dress.
“Search—think,” whispered Richard urgently, and she shook her head. Had she touched anything? Had she left fingerprints? But suppose she had; that didn’t mean that—that she had murdered Eve.
She whispered: “Who killed her? Why—”
“I don’t know. I found her like that. After you’d gone I— I took her down and tried to revive her, but it wasn’t any use. Search, you’ve got to tell them you were here—all the time. Do you understand—” He broke off abruptly as Calvin came hurrying to the door. He was in pajamas and a light dressing gown, and his hair was wet as if he’d been in the rain too.
“They are coming right out. They said not to touch anything; the coroner has to make a report and wants to find things just as you found them.” He caught Richard by the arm, shaking it; his sharp face was flushed with excitement. “Now, Dick, go and take a shower and get on some dry clothes.”
The door to the pantry opened and Diana came out with a tray on which were brandy and glasses. She went to the table, her long mauve dress trailing along the floor. There was a flash of lightning so vivid it blazed against the windows at the front, and thunder rolled and shook the old house.
“The storm is coming back,” she said. “Here, Richard.” She poured brandy with a steady hand and gave him the glass. “We’d all better have some. Whatever possessed Eve—I thought she was in her room, writing letters. That’s where she said she was going. She must have gone down the back stairs. And so to the cottage.”
“Drink it, Dick,” said Calvin. “It’ll do you good. There’s nothing we can do but wait. Was there a—a note or anything like
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