Justice Done

The Quarry

We were playing billiards late one June evening when Digby, that most excellent butler, let my host know that he had a caller. I glanced at the mantel clock and raised my brows. It was just past eleven.

“Wishy?” Bunny asked, calmly completing his shot.

“Yes, sir,” Digby replied.

“Slye,” I protested, “how could you possibly know-”

“Few other people would come to visit me at this hour, Max, and fewer still would manage to persuade Digby to let them in. And only one or two of those would ruffle Digby’s feathers.”

“Not at all, sir,” said Digby, eyeing him as only a servant who has known one from one’s diaper days may do.

A voice halloed from the hallway outside the door. “Bunny! You in there, Bunny?”

Digby’s nostrils flared.

“It’s all right, Digby,” said Slye. “Aloysius is untrainable.”

“Yes, sir,” the butler replied with deep feeling.

Anyone who had not previously met Aloysius Hanslow might be forgiven for imagining that the man who burst into the billiards room at that moment had come directly from a stage play about Sherlock Holmes, one in which he had the starring role. He was dressed in a deerstalker and caped coat, his clothing more suited to London three decades ago than to the country estate of a wealthy New York family.

I resided at that estate with Bunny, the damaged scion of that family. This is not said to insult him-I was damaged, too. My scarred face drove others away, but I would not trade my superficial wounds for his deeper, invisible ones. Boniface Slye had returned from the Great War seemingly whole. That he survived even a short time in the metropolis without a complete breakdown is a testament to his will and courage. Shell shock, some would call his condition. The less informed used other names. He managed several nerve-racking months in Manhattan before he suffered the episode that so embarrassed his family, they sent him away posthaste, allowing him-after some argument-to take his hideous physician friend with him. So in the city, the 1920s continued to roar, while we sought peace and quiet in the country.

Digby, aware that any attempt to divest Wishy Hanslow of his hat and coat would be futile, turned toward me and said, “Dr. Tyndale, I rely, as ever, on your good sense.”

He withdrew.

Bunny smiled at me. “That’s put me in my place, hasn’t it, Max?”

“I doubt it.”

Wishy, who had gradually overcome his inability to look at my face, said, “Oh, hello, Max. Glad you’re here. You’ll be needed. Old Grimes is dead.”

Bunny frowned. Then seeing my look of puzzlement, he said, “Mr. Everett Grimes owns-owned-several large tracts of land in the neighborhood. Grimes is of my father’s generation, so not as old as Wishy’s appellation would have one believe. Perhaps fifty-five years of age and a bit sporting mad, so I’d venture to say he’s in better condition than the pater. Or was until now.”

“A friend of the family?”

“No. Not a very pleasant fellow.”

“If the man is dead, he can’t possibly need me.”

“Sheriff Anderson specifically asked me to bring you there,” Wishy insisted. “Bunny, too.”

“Where might that be, Wishy?” Bunny asked.

“Marsdale Quarry. I’m to drive you. Explain on the way. Bring your bag, Max, if you would, please. Oh, and you may want a light coat. You know how chilly it is up here in the evenings.”

Wishy often did his own driving, but that night he left it to his capable chauffeur, Owen. While Owen took the Pierce-Arrow Series 51 limousine up country roads toward our destination, Wishy told us of receiving a call from Sheriff Anderson. “He said again that he wished you would get a telephone, Bunny.”

“Sometimes I wish you didn’t have one either, Wishy.”

“Nonsense! For one thing, how would I be able to let you know others were trying to reach you?”

“Indeed.”

This arrow went wide of the mark. Wishy nodded in satisfaction and continued. “Sheriff said you might be able to see something he’s missing. I’d be happy to tell you the particulars-”

Bunny held up a hand, smiled, and said, “Do you know, Wishy, I think I’ll ask you not to say more, if you don’t mind. I would like to view this scene without any preconceived notions.”

“Quite right,” Wishy said. “Quite right.”

This agreement did not mean that he fell silent. It was Slye who did so, slipping into a reverie while I was left to uphold conversation with Wishy. This required little effort on my part.

In a friendly spirit, Wishy proceeded to give me a hopelessly tangled history of the Grimes family, whose residency in the local area dated from just after the War of 1812. This tenancy of slightly over one hundred years made them new arrivals by Wishy’s standards. Grimes, described by Wishy as a ruthless businessman, until recent months had spent most of his time in the city, only coming to the country in the summer. At the end of March, though, he had sold his Manhattan home and retired to his estate here. He had greatly increased his fortune during the Great War, mostly as a result of investments in a Massachusetts shipbuilding yard.

Even before moving here permanently he had enlarged upon the family’s original holdings, and bought up properties of several neighbors who had been unable to weather the Panic of 1893.

“One such had been Mr. Marsdale, whose railroad failed after the stock market crash.”

“Marsdale couldn’t make money from the quarry?” I asked.

“Oh, heavens no. The quarry closed down in his grandfather’s time. Been abandoned for years. Full of brush and water now. Old Grimes uses Marsdale’s house as a hunting lodge, I’m told. One would think the main house here in the country-but if a man can afford it, why not?”

“Perhaps his wife does not wish him to fire guns on the property,” Bunny said, and I could see him falling back into a brown study.

I could also see that Wishy was about to remark on this and quickly said, “Not the season, is it? Are there fish in the quarry?”

“Yes, he stocks it,” Wishy said. “Or so I’ve heard. Don’t know if all three wives objected to such pursuits.”

“Three wives!”

“Old Grimes has been lucky in business, unlucky in love.”

It was enough to distract Bunny. “Wishy, perhaps you should clarify that Grimes did not maintain a harem.”

“Not what I meant at all! Which isn’t to say-what I mean is, married younger women, every time. Beautiful women. Didn’t help him. First wife went mad. Eleanor Grimes-Eleanor Delfontaine that was-her parents were dead by then, but the rest of her family disowned her. Aunts and uncles and such. Grimes had her locked up. Divorced. She escaped from the asylum, but do you know what I think?”

“No, what do you think?” Slye asked.

“Dead.”

“Really?”

“Stands to reason. Hasn’t been seen in years. Mad. No family to run to. Doubt she could survive in the woods, or go unseen in the countryside.”

“You make perfect sense.”

Wishy beamed, and continued. “Second wife, Anastasia Morgan Grimes, died. Some say of a broken heart, but that’s nonsense. Had a heart attack, but the Morgans are known for their bad tickers. I knew Anastasia, and you ask me, she didn’t care a rap for Grimes. Long as she could live out here and socialize with her old friends, she was happy. Didn’t like Manhattan. Didn’t bother her that he was having an affair with a woman in the city-”

“This was widely known?” I asked.

“There are few secrets out here in the countryside,” Bunny said.

“Few?” Wishy said. “None. Anyway, that woman is now the third Mrs. Grimes.”

“The Manhattan mistress?”

“Yes.”

“Any children by any of these marriages?” I asked.

Slye smiled. “No.”

“The third wife-”

“Susannah Carfield Grimes,” Wishy said.

“-inherits all?”

“So it would seem,” Slye said.

As we reached this point in my history lesson, Owen slowed the vehicle and turned up a lane that had signs reading DANGER-KEEP OUT! and NO TRESPASSING! liberally posted at its entrance. A few yards in, a deputy stood guard at a simple metal gate, recognized us, and opened it to us. “You’ll see another man up ahead. He’ll guide you.”

The dark, winding road was designed not for automobiles but for oxen teams and wagons. Eventually we came to a fork in the road where another deputy stood holding a lantern. He signaled to us to stop.

“You’ll be going to the right here, on the narrower road. You’ll see a couple of pillars after a sharp curve. Tricky there, so take it slow. The drive leads to a stone house. Sheriff Anderson will be waiting for you there, but be damned careful once you step out of the car-you’re at the top of the cliffs now.”

Owen’s skillful driving took us past the imposing pillars. These anchored a pair of spiked iron gates, open at the moment. The property immediately near the home was surrounded by a fence of similar design.

“This seems an awkward road for a quarry crew to use,” Slye said.

“This road’s just for the house, sir,” Owen said. “The place where we made the turn? That other fork leads off to the entrance to the quarry, the one that used to be used by the teamsters. Goes all along the old pit’s edge to the other side of the quarry. That’s where the main works were, way back when. Had all kinds of rigging and such. There were once stables and pens for the oxen there, and an old wooden bunkhouse. Don’t know if any of that’s still there, though.”

“Be like Old Grimes to have torn it all down,” said Wishy.

Once past the gates, we reached the center of activity. A two-story stone cottage stood in a large clearing, lights shining from its windows. Near a much smaller dwelling, a Hudson limousine was parked. The front fenders on both sides were damaged.

“What on earth has Billy done to that Hudson!” Wishy exclaimed.

“I thought you said his name was Everett,” I said to Slye.

“Billy Westley is Everett Grimes’s chauffeur.”

“The car is rather small for a man of Grimes’s wealth, isn’t it?”

“Oh, he owns several larger ones,” Wishy said. He reluctantly added, “Grimes bought a certain yellow Rolls-Royce I had in mind.”

“Outbid you?”

Wishy nodded, as if the experience was too bitter for words.

Owen parked near the porch, where a group of men stood talking. One of them was the sheriff, whose Model T was also parked nearby. Sheriff Anderson was speaking to the coroner. Our local coroner, who had been reelected to this three-year position four times, was a mortician with a kind heart, excellent when it came to dealing with bereaved families and processing paperwork, but utterly lacking in medical and investigative training. He looked relieved to see us.

“I’ll transport the body to the hospital after you’ve had a look,” he said. “Dr. Clermont will perform the autopsy, but he’s in the city for a meeting and will not be able to get back until tomorrow afternoon. I do appreciate your coming by tonight, Dr. Tyndale.”

“I can’t give you any sort of official opinion.”

“Oh, I understand, but Dr. Clermont did hope you’d be able to make some initial observations, given how helpful you were to us on other cases.”

“Thank you. I’ll do what I can, of course.”

“I never cared much for Grimes,” the sheriff said, “but-well, I know how you like to work, so I’ll accompany you while you have look around. And, Mr. Hanslow, given your expertise, if you don’t mind, would you please stay here with Deputy Bell, and examine this car a little more closely? I need your assistance.”

Wishy, puffing out his chest a bit, said he would be glad to be of service.

As we climbed the steps leading to the front door, the sheriff murmured to us, “Noticed the last time you helped me that Wishy became a bit queasy.” He hesitated, then added, “You two all right?”

Slye nodded toward me. “I believe the good doctor can look upon nearly anything with fortitude. I try to emulate him. Any of your men likely to set off fireworks or discharge a weapon?”

“No,” Anderson said. “And I hope you know I have never thought less of you for seeking a bit of peace and quiet out here.”

Slye smiled. “I do know it, and thank you.”

“You probably wish I wouldn’t call on you-”

“No, indeed, the reverse is true. I may tease Wishy, but in truth, being able to help you is… therapeutic.”

“If you’d get a telephone-”

“But then Wishy would be denied what is doubtlessly therapeutic for him, as well.”

Slye continued ahead, leaving the sheriff to stare after him for a moment.

The “cottage,” far too large to be called such, was in a remote location but in no way lacking in modern amenities-electricity, telephone, and indoor plumbing. The kitchen was also modernized. Grimes was lying on the floor between the dining table and an alcove that held the only telephone. He was wearing a silk dressing gown, and had apparently chosen this casual attire because he was dining alone. Strewn about the floor near him were a silver soup tureen, dinner rolls, a fine china bowl and plate, a crystal water glass, flowers, a vase, and monogrammed silverware. The bowl and glass were in fragments. It was clear the table had been set for one. The soup-stained lace tablecloth lay half atop him, as if he had grabbed on to it as he fell and brought everything on the table crashing down with him. Carrot or pumpkin soup, judging by the color.

In life, I realized, he would have had great strength. His arms were well-muscled, his shoulders broad, his general physique was that of a fit and active man. But one meal had changed all that-no amount of muscle would have protected him from the onslaught he had faced.

Grimes had been violently ill. His face was blue. His mouth and lips were a cherry-red color, and livid red blotches mottled his skin. His lips and teeth were covered with a dried bloody foam. Leaning close, I could just make out the faint odor of bitter almonds.

“Cyanide, at a guess. Lab tests could easily make certain. No one should touch any of this food-no one should eat or drink anything in this house.” I spent a few moments studying the body closely, making notes, and then indicated to Bunny that I had done all I could do on the score of making initial observations. “It will take lab work and an autopsy to learn anything definitive.”

“Who found the body?” Bunny asked.

“Housekeeper and a maid, apparently,” the sheriff said. “They were in the lower house while he ate. They came up to gather the dishes and saw what you see now. Housekeeper was smart enough not to touch anything, once she felt for his heartbeat. Quite shaken. Called us, and we asked them not to call anyone else or speak of this to anyone until we had a chance to ask questions.”

“Excellent. Are they here?”

“No, we took them home, but I’ve got deputies there, keeping an eye on everyone, and keeping members of the household separated until I come back.”

“Let’s continue to look around, then,” Slye said.

We began going through the rooms on the lower floor. Other than the mess in the dining room, the place was clean and neat. The surfaces were clutter-free and polished, the wooden floors gleamed. No dusty shelves, no cobwebs. The kitchen was likewise immaculate. Even the kettle on the stove, which held more soup, was shiny. The pantry was nearly bare, but the few staples and preserves it held were in clean containers and stored in an orderly fashion. Slye and I looked for possible sources of the poison, but there was no rat killer on hand nor could I find anything else that contained cyanide. I kept an open mind about the possible agent used to poison Mr. Grimes, and made note of anything that might even remotely be toxic. There were some products that contained arsenic and other poisons, but such a large amount of these substances would need to be used to reach the required toxicity, I doubted that Grimes would have so much as tasted such a meal.

Recent articles in the newspapers about the fatal side of Prohibition, particularly concerning those who died from the ingestion of wood alcohol, made me search for something of that nature, even though I did not believe it was consistent with what signs I had seen on Grimes. No illegal stash of alcohol, neither the “good stuff” nor bathtub gin, was hidden in the kitchen or pantry.

A search of the other downstairs rooms, which included a billiards room and a gun room, yielded nothing of special interest. Slye did note that several of the guns seemed to be missing, but since Grimes had not been shot, I didn’t think this meant much.

We climbed the stairs.

Upstairs, we found three large bedrooms. There was also a bathroom, which the sheriff informed us had been converted from a former bedroom. “Not too long ago, and at great expense,” he added.

Two of the bedrooms, those facing the clearing, appeared to be unoccupied. One contained no bed, although a handsome carpet had marks that showed there had been one in the room until recently. Each of these bedrooms had a fireplace, and while wood and kindling stood ready, neither fireplace bore the appearance of recent use, and both were swept clean. Each room had a large wardrobe, and a quick look showed these to be empty, as were the dressers.

On the opposite side of the hallway, the third and largest bedroom was luxurious. It included a spacious area before the fireplace with two large chairs and side tables. With the exception of the bed itself, which was rather plain, all the furniture was heavy and ornate. A maple drop-leaf secretary with complex inlay work stood out not only because of its beauty, but because it was the one surface in the house that seemed not to have been dusted or straightened. A hodgepodge of papers and envelopes, an expensive fountain pen, a silver letter opener, and a pair of scissors were among the items that covered its surface. Unlike the other bedrooms, this room held personal effects-clothing, a razor, a watch, jewelry, and so on.

Like everything else in the room, the fireplace was on a grander scale than those in the rooms across the hall. But like them, all was swept clean, and logs and kindling stood ready on the grate.

On the opposite side of the room, a row of south-facing windows looked out at the quarry. The moon was up now, bright and full, laying a silver strand of light across the water. Some of the windows were open, making the room chilly.

“This was Grimes’s room,” the sheriff said. “Only room on this side of the house with a view. Lovely view, yet no one working in the kitchens or sitting in any of the downstairs rooms can get a glimpse of it. Stupid design, if you ask me.”

Bunny said nothing in response, caught up in studying not the contents of the secretary, as I thought he ought to, but the headboard. He moved closer to it, ran his fingers over it, then used a flashlight to peer down the narrow space between the headboard and the wall behind it. He then got down on all fours and examined the floor beneath the bed.

The sheriff, watching him, asked, “Do you think he was poisoned in here?”

“Hmm? Oh no, no. That was most likely the soup. Max, how long would you say it takes cyanide, ingested, to have a fatal effect?”

“Depending on the dose and how much an individual had eaten of other foods, which might act as a buffer-fifteen to forty-five minutes, although the sensation of feeling suffocated might set in sooner.”

Bunny stepped to the windows and studied them as well. He unlatched one of the screens and leaned out, farther than I thought safe. He played his flashlight on something below.

“Careful!” the sheriff said. “Nothing but a straight drop down the cliff from here.”

“Thank you. But I see there must be some less daring way to get down to the water-there is a boat dock just to the east.” He pulled his head back in, to my relief, and refastened the screen.

“Yes, a set of stone steps leads down to it, but it’s a bit of a walk from the house.”

“No boat, though?”

“Grimes owned a rowboat that he used for fishing. We noticed it’s not at the dock. Could be adrift, but I won’t let my men look for it until the sun’s up-”

“No, it is certainly not a matter over which any of your men should risk their lives. It will keep a few more hours.”

“May I know why you are interested in that headboard?” the sheriff asked.

“Oh, it’s probably the key to everything, since the room has been swept and the wall repaired.”

“Repaired?”

Bunny had moved on to peer into the wardrobe, in which men’s clothes were neatly hung or folded. “The house is distinctly masculine. Does Mrs. Grimes never come here?”

“I’m about to head over to the Grimes estate to ask. Want to come along?”

“She has not yet been informed?”

“Oh yes-only that he is dead and that we are investigating-and one reason we’re stretched thin here is that I’ve had to leave several deputies there to keep an eye on things. Don’t want them all cooking up stories.”

“An excellent precaution. May I ask, what was her reaction to the news?”

He scratched his head. “I’ve been doing this a long time, Mr. Slye, and I’d swear she was surprised. But she had a career on the stage before she married Grimes, so who knows. And while she was surprised, I’d never say she was grief-stricken.”

“Did she pretend to be?”

“Not in the least.”

“Is your photographer still here?”

“Yes.”

“You might want to ask him to photograph the bed and the wall behind it.”

“Why?”

“Nothing I’m sure of yet, but-do you notice that only two pieces of furniture in this room do not match the others? The secretary and the bed. The secretary is as finely crafted as the rest. There are signs that it has been in use for some time. The bed, however, is unadorned maple, and while it fits in size, it does not match the carved mahogany of the wardrobe, the dresser, the side tables, the chair-which are not only of the same wood, but all carved with the same pattern. It appears to me that someone hastily replaced the bed-mattress, bedstead, and all. Perhaps with the one that previously stood on the carpet in the room across the hall.”

The sheriff frowned. “I confess I’m still at a loss.”

“And so we must both be, until we spend some time talking to Mrs. Grimes and those in her household.”

Once we were outdoors again, Bunny paused, staring at the small building on the other side of the clearing.

“Servants’ quarters?”

“So it seems,” the sheriff said.

“A moment, then,” he said, and crossed over to it.

Wishy, who was directing some activity near the gateposts, waved to us, then returned to an intense conversation with Owen.

With the sheriff, I followed Slye to the door of the small stone structure.

It was more akin to a true cottage: one open room with a fireplace, a sleeping loft, a rough table, two chairs, and an oil lamp. A book sat on the corner of the table, with a bookmark placed at about the halfway point. There were two small windows, one of which faced the road, the other the woods. The latter gave a fine view of an outhouse. Obviously the craze for modern plumbing had not extended to the servants’ quarters.

“You’ve already looked through this house?” Slye asked the sheriff.

“Yes. It’s empty, other than the furnishings and a few books.”

“How odd.”

“The main house is not far away. Perhaps they did not make use of this place, but returned home and slept in their own beds.”

“Leaving Mr. Grimes here without transportation, a cook, or other assistance.”

“I see your point.”

Slye picked up the book on the table. He opened it to the marked page and smiled. “ ‘Toxicology.’ ”

“It’s a book on poisons?” the sheriff exclaimed. “And my men missed that!”

“Oh no, absolve them. The book is Alexandre Dumas père’s The Count of Monte Cristo. The title of the chapter is ‘Toxicology.’ ”

“You think the owner of that book is our poisoner?”

“Our poisoner could be nearly anyone. We are still gathering facts. But no, if I recall correctly, that chapter of the book discusses arsenic, not cyanide.” Slye spoke absently while looking toward the loft. “Are the cook-housekeeper and the chauffeur a married couple?”

“Married?” The sheriff followed his gaze. “I see what you mean. Not suitable accommodations for a mix of unmarried male and female employees, is it? We’ll need to ask Mrs. Grimes about the situation here.”

Wishy rejoined us, and the sheriff accepted a ride to the Grimes estate. As Owen smoothly negotiated the difficult turn, the sheriff commended him. “Tell you the truth, I thought I was going to have a smashup on my way in here.”

“Billy did,” Wishy said. “Twice.”

Owen, overhearing him, said, “Not Billy Westley, sir.”

Wishy looked irritated by the contradiction.

“Perhaps he was drunk,” the sheriff suggested.

“No, sir. If you’ll forgive my intruding into the conversation.”

“Your knowledge of him could be very helpful to us, Owen,” Slye said, and Wishy subsided. “Why are you so certain he could not have been drunk?”

“Took the pledge a long time ago-before Prohibition passed, sir. And kept to it. Billy’s a cheeky bastard who knows how well he drives and how good he looks, but he’s a sober one, for all that. His father was a drunkard who died in a carter’s accident. It’s why his mother ended up working for Old-for Mr. Grimes.”

“In what capacity?”

“Isidora Westley is the housekeeper now, sir. Billy grew up in that house, learned to be a chauffeur there. And if he ever so much as caused a scratch on any of Mr. Grimes’s cars, I’d like to know who saw it happen.”

“I will grant you his reputation on all counts,” Wishy said, “but someone who didn’t drive as well smashed two fenders on that car. One coming and one going, I’d say. Probably getting past the pillars while negotiating the turn near the gates. Examined the gates myself. Paint on them. Hard to tell in the dark, but looked to be the same color as the Hudson.”

“Why are you sure it was two separate times, and not both sides at once?” Slye asked.

“Way the gates are marked. Coming in, struck the gate that would have been on his left, scraping the left fender on the side of the gate nearest the pillar. Leaving, hit that same gate, which was now on his right, damaging the right fender. That damage is on the other end of the gate, the part that is farthest from the pillar.”

“Excellent work, Wishy.”

Even in the darkness I could see Hanslow blush. “Something else you should know. Driver’s seat is wet.”

“With, er, what?” the sheriff asked.

“Water, far as I can tell. Not blood-found it by pressing my hand onto the seat as I leaned across to look at the floor. Startled me, but when I looked at my hand, no blood on it. Floor on that side was wet, too. Think it might be water from the quarry. Billy may have gone for a swim. Not sopping wet, just damp.”

“Anything else unusual on the inside of the Hudson?”

“A few small bird feathers in the passenger compartment. Goose or duck, I think. Probably from a pillow or some such. Wouldn’t be riding around with poultry in the vehicle, not an automobile like that. Wouldn’t make sense. Besides, you’d find other things you wouldn’t want inside with you. Birds don’t hold back. Anyway, not much else. Kept it clean.”

“Again, Wishy, I applaud your ability to observe. This is indeed helpful.”

Wishy was spared a response by our arrival.

The Grimes home was an imposing mansion built in the Italian Renaissance style, bordered by Ionic columns that were topped by terraces.

“Much bigger than the original home,” Wishy said, not in approval.

I can say without hesitation that Susannah Carfield Grimes was one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. That evening-now in the early morning hours-she wore an emerald-green silk dress. Her straight dark hair was cut in a bob. Her butler admitted us and took our hats, but she came down the winding marble staircase almost as soon as we arrived, welcoming us. Nothing in her appearance or her manner indicated that she was affected by grief, by the lateness of the hour, or by the wreckage that is my visage. Her lack of response to my deformities was quite unusual. My looks are typically especially frightening to the beautiful.

The grand foyer included a fountain and, high overhead, a dome of stained glass. She led us to an elegant little parlor and offered us coffee. “Or whatever you prefer to drink,” she added with a smile. The sheriff looked so bedazzled by her smile that if she next indicated she’d like to turn the house into a speakeasy, I felt sure he might volunteer to serve as a bartender.

Slye said, “A hot cup of coffee would be most welcome,” and broke the spell.

She took a seat on a sofa. We took the four remaining chairs. When we were seated and provided with coffee, she said, “You have not told me how Everett died.”

The sheriff glanced at me.

“A medical condition?” she asked. “But he is not very old.”

“We cannot be sure at this time,” I said cautiously, “but he appears to have ingested poison.”

“Poison? How awful!” For the first time, she seemed shaken. “Accidentally?”

“I think not,” Slye said.

The sheriff, perhaps seeing that he had lost control of the situation, began to ask questions. She answered them calmly.

She had last seen Everett Grimes two days earlier.

“You were apart for two days? Isn’t that unusual?”

“No. It is more unusual for us to speak as frequently as we did by telephone over the last two days. Often, I do not see him for weeks at a time, especially if he is at the quarry.” She paused. “Did you not know? I thought rumor kept all my neighbors apprised of our situation.”

“I may have heard some such,” the sheriff said, “but I can’t base an investigation on rumor.”

“Let me confirm what is true, then. My husband and I are not much together, an arrangement which has been mutually acceptable.” She paused. “Dear me. How difficult to think of him in the past tense.” She was silent for some moments, but what she was thinking or feeling in those moments, I cannot say. She then went on as if there had been no pause. “When he wishes to be here, I find reasons to be in the city, or visiting friends, or traveling.”

“May I ask why?”

“I’ll try to explain. He found me at a time when, to all appearances, I was a success. The truth is, I was ready to leave the stage but had no real future outside of the theater. I could see that my career was unlikely to last.

“Enter Everett. He enjoyed having a younger woman at his side, and I could see that he especially enjoyed being envied. A competitive streak that I suppose has served him well in business. He likes to win. I was surprised when he proposed. I never expected an offer of marriage from Everett, but he was set on it. If any of his family had been living, I’m sure there would have been outrage. Even here in the country, the match did not find acceptance. But all I saw was security and comfort, more than I’d ever previously enjoyed. If that sounds mercenary, let me say that I’ve paid since.”

She took a sip of coffee, then continued. “Before we were wed, I had already become aware that he was the sort of gentleman who enjoyed pursuit more than whatever might follow his conquest. This proved to be the case in our marriage, just as it had been in his previous marriages. He was a man of strong passions. I have often thought that he saved all his cool-headedness for business. Outside that sphere, though, he could be moody, angry-quite difficult to live with.”

“I have witnessed the same of him,” Slye said. “If you have lacked invitations, Mrs. Grimes, I believe his temperament and, er, roving eye had more to do with your exclusion from local society than any thoughts about your former career.”

I wasn’t sure Slye was being truthful, given the stuffiness of some of his neighbors, but I said nothing. His opinion, however, was supported by Wishy.

“Indeed!” Wishy said. “Hate to speak ill of the dead, but-well, if I don’t, I suppose there’s not much to say about him.”

“Did he allow you the same freedoms he insisted upon for himself?” Slye asked.

“Oh, no. Everett was a man who would suffer no insult to his pride.”

“Had he experienced such an insult recently?” Slye asked.

“Yes. Perhaps that’s why he took poison? I would not have thought it of him.”

“Tell us what happened,” Slye asked, not answering her question or correcting her assumption that Grimes was a suicide.

“He had been doing his best to annoy one of the kitchen maids, Jeannie Lindstrom. We have had trouble keeping young female help for this very reason. I was about to offer her enough severance to be able to support herself while she looked for another position, but as it turned out, she ran off with the chauffeur. Billy’s also young, and as handsome as Jeannie is pretty. I could see he was smitten with her, but it has caused a tremendous amount of upset here. Billy’s mother is my housekeeper, and she is beside herself. And now we are not only short-staffed, but…” She gave us a rueful look.

“What is it?” the sheriff asked.

“I was going to say that Everett can’t drive worth a-worth a darn, but I suppose I no longer need to worry about that.”

“What day did the lovers take flight?” Slye asked.

“Two days ago. Everett phoned me in quite a state. It took me a while to understand that he thought Billy had arranged to run away with Jeannie, and furthermore, that Billy had vandalized the Hudson. That was late in the afternoon. He was upset, but made a point of asking me to swear the staff to secrecy. I could tell even then that it was a terrible blow to his pride. He sounded shaken.”

Slye said, “May I ask, Mrs. Grimes, what the arrangements were for staff at the quarry house?”

“He had decided that Jeannie should work as the cook while he was there to do some fishing. Mrs. Huddleson, one of our other maids, was to be there as well, doing cleaning.”

“Did they stay at the property?”

“Oh, no. Mrs. Westley-Billy’s mother-does her best to protect the female staff. Billy would come here early in the morning and drive whoever would be helping up to the cottage, then depending on where he or they were needed most, brought them back in the early evening. It’s just a few minutes’ drive, as you know. Billy stayed there overnight-you’ve seen the little house?”

“Yes,” the sheriff said.

“That’s where Billy stayed when Everett was at the quarry. So if Everett needed assistance or wished to leave, his driver was right there. Billy was a favorite of Everett’s-like his mother, he had a way of dealing with Everett that prevented many an upset. And his mother relied on Billy to protect the women.”

“So, if this Mrs. Huddleson was there, how did the young couple manage to elope?” the sheriff asked.

“Everett went fishing. Mrs. Huddleson asked to be brought back here-she had much to do, and Everett’s habit was to take a basket of sandwiches and a thermos with him early in the morning and stay out all day. Jeannie was completing some work in the kitchen, and Billy said he’d make a second trip. Mrs. Huddleson thought nothing of it. They were careful not to raise any alarms here-took none of their possessions from this house, although Everett said Billy cleared out all his own things from his quarters at the quarry.”

She hesitated, then added, “Perhaps Mrs. Huddleson knew what was going on and aided them-if true, that wouldn’t surprise me. Billy grew up here and is much doted upon by the older staff, who have all adopted him to one degree or another.”

Wishy’s brows drew together. “But if the Hudson was still at the quarry, how’d the lovers run off? I mean, not a second automobile missing, is there?”

“Billy wouldn’t have stolen an automobile from us,” she said. “Everett was convinced that a friend must have aided them-drove up to the cottage while Everett was out on the water, fishing.”

“Two days ago,” Slye said, musing. “Since Mr. Grimes was then left without help, did he drive himself back here?”

“No. He was in a foul mood and said he didn’t want anyone to disturb him, that he had plenty to eat and would just drive the Hudson down to the village if he needed anything more.” She shook her head. “He was emphatic about being left alone, but I swear to you, I had no idea that he meant to do himself harm.”

“Please don’t let that trouble you,” Slye said. “You had no way to predict what would happen at the quarry.”

“Yesterday,” the sheriff asked, “who from this household went there?”

“Mrs. Westley. He asked for her specifically, but it would probably have been her anyway-I’m the only other person in the house who drives. She drives as well as Billy, so she took the Ford-we have a Model T that she uses for errands.

“Everett was so upset when I spoke to him, and behaving so oddly, I told her to take Mrs. Huddleson with her, even though that left us very shorthanded here. I asked them to work together and to try not to be out of each other’s sight. Everett wanted to have someone clean the place thoroughly, and the small house, too. They spent most of the day there. It was rather cruel of him, I think, to take his frustrations out on Mrs. Westley. She’ll eventually come to accept Billy’s decision, but right now she’s unhappy about it.”

“What time did the women come back?”

“About four, I think. Then they drove back later, to take his dinner to him.”

The sheriff looked to Slye, who said, “Mrs. Grimes, may we please speak to Mrs. Westley?”

“She is so upset-”

“Please. It is important.”

She watched him warily for a moment, then rang for the butler and asked that the housekeeper be brought to the parlor.

Mrs. Westley’s face bore the marks of grief in more than her swollen eyes, reddened nose, and trembling lips. A sturdily built woman of a certain age, she nevertheless seemed to me a fragile being, lost in some fog of remembrance, nearly unresponsive to her environment. I offered her my chair. She suddenly seemed to see me for the first time and cringed away from me, but when I moved aside from the chair, she collapsed into it.

“Mrs. Westley,” Mrs. Grimes said, “you must answer the questions these gentlemen put to you. And thank you, Dr. Tyndale. I apologize for my housekeeper’s lapse in manners. Forgive her-she is not herself. Please, have a seat here by me on the sofa.”

This speech had a fortifying effect on Mrs. Westley, who offered her own apology.

“Mrs. Westley,” the sheriff asked, “did anything seem unusual when you were at the cottage yesterday?”

“Mr. Grimes was in a strange mood, and behaving as if he was angry with me, telling me I had done a poor job of raising my son to have him run off with Jeannie. I expected as much of Mr. Grimes.”

“Anything else?”

She twisted her hands together in her lap, then said, “I saw that he had been moving the furniture about, which was unusual. He seldom does things for himself, but if he gets a whim, there’s no telling what he’ll be up to. He had got rid of one of the headboards-in his room, that is. And the room smelled of patch and paint, but we didn’t dare ask him about it. Mrs. Huddleson and I just did our work and tried to stay out of his way. He upset me, I admit it. I am sorry that things have-have come to this. Truly sorry.”

“Did you prepare Mr. Grimes’s dinner?”

“No, sir, our cook did.”

“Did Mr. Grimes eat the same food as was served here?”

“Yes, sir. No one wanted to eat much, with everything and everyone so upset. The cook had made a lovely carrot soup and soft dinner rolls. Mr. Grimes said that would be plenty for him.”

“Who prepared the soup for transport to the quarry house?”

She frowned in concentration. “Cook ladled it out of the pot and into a jar. I drove and Mrs. Huddleson carried the jar into the house and heated it up. Mrs. Huddleson was in the kitchen with me. We had brought a tureen with us. I poured the soup into it and helped her serve the meal.”

“And you were not in the house while he ate?”

“No, sir. We asked if he needed anything else, and he said he wanted us to hurry up and finish cleaning the servants’ quarters, and let him be. It had been a long day already, so we didn’t mind getting back to work in the other house.”

“Has anyone here who ate the soup become ill?”

“No, sir.”

“You had some of this soup yourself?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Was there anything strange in the taste of it?”

“No, sir. It was very good, spicy and sweet.”

Mrs. Grimes said, “I had some as well. It’s as she said.”

The sheriff hesitated, then glanced at Slye.

Slye smiled, then said to Mrs. Grimes, “May we look through the kitchen area?”

“Of course.”

“And perhaps you could ask Mrs. Huddleson to join us there?”

“Unless she’s gone to bed, I’m sure she’ll be there now.”

It was as she had guessed. Mrs. Huddleson, who proved to be of an age with Mrs. Westley, had a kindly face and easy manner. She was sitting with the cook, who was feeding a substantial breakfast to one of the sheriff’s deputies. The man was startled by the advent of his boss, and stood to attention. The sheriff waved him back to his seat and told him to finish his meal.

The kitchen was clean, if not as orderly as the one at the quarry house. It was not in disarray, it merely had the look, feel, and heavenly aroma of a kitchen in use, rather than the sterile environment of the one at the quarry. The cook bristled at the sheriff’s suggestion that the small remaining quantity of the previous night’s soup should be sealed and taken for testing, or that anything could be amiss with her soup.

“Do you think me a poisoner?” she thundered.

While the rest of us made efforts to soothe her-a task made more difficult when the deputy seemed to lose his appetite-Slye roved toward the area where the pots and pans were stored. Our discussion came to a halt when he said, “I believe I’ve found the poison.”

“What!” the cook shouted. Mrs. Westley turned pale.

“Oh, nothing you prepared.” He held up a jar. “This is your silver polish?”

“Yes, sir,” the cook said.

“Who polished the tureen today?”

“I did,” Mrs. Westley said weakly, sitting down in a kitchen chair.

Slye brought the jar to the sheriff. “Many brands of silver polish contain cyanide, as does this one. The tureen was quite large. If this polish was not rinsed well from its inner surface, enough cyanide may have remained to mix with the soup and cause Grimes’s poisoning. There was recently just such a case in the city.”

Mrs. Westley was shaking now, her face buried in her hands.

“An accident, then,” Mrs. Grimes said firmly.

“Yes, of course,” the sheriff said, and a gust of relieved sighs went through the room.

Then the sheriff noticed that Slye was staring out the kitchen window, and had said nothing in response to his pronouncement. “Mr. Slye, do you agree?”

“I don’t think you’ll ever prove it to be anything else,” Slye said absently. He refocused on the sheriff. “It wants only a few minutes before dawn. I know your men are tired, Sheriff Anderson, and no doubt most of them should be allowed to seek their beds. Allow us to return you to the quarry house. I don’t like to delay you, but there are one or two matters upon which I’d like to reassure myself.”

Mrs. Westley looked up at that, frightened. Slye took her hands and said gently, “You have suffered a terrible ordeal, and you have my deepest sympathies.”

She began to weep in earnest. Mrs. Huddleson took her to her quarters.

Mrs. Grimes thanked us and said that she would remain at home, but to call if she was needed at the quarry house. She begged us to let her know if she could be of help in any way.

“It occurs to me to ask a question I should have posed earlier,” Slye said, turning to Mrs. Grimes. “Was your husband allergic to feathers?”

“Feathers? Why, no. In fact, nothing but a feather bed and pillows would do for him.”

“Ah. Thank you. And if I may have a word with Mrs. Huddleson before we go?”

“Certainly.”

Mrs. Grimes asked the cook to go sit with Mrs. Westley and to request that Mrs. Huddleson rejoin us in the kitchen.

“Just one question, Mrs. Huddleson. When you were cleaning Mr. Grimes’s bedroom, did you find any loose feathers on the floor?”

“Oh! Yes, a few. But he had changed the beds around, so I expect that’s when it happened.”

“Changed the beds?”

“Yes.” She glanced nervously at Mrs. Grimes, then said, “Pardon me, missus, but he was out of his head, you ask me.”

“I don’t doubt it, Mrs. Huddleson. You must speak very plainly to these gentlemen, without worry about my feelings. What happened with the bed?”

“I can’t really say. He didn’t want us asking about it, but when we went to work in there-well! We were surprised. And he got irritated and said it no longer suited him, and he could do as he damned well pleased, and not to ask impertinent questions-but we hadn’t. We both worked for him long enough to know better than to say ‘boo’ to him when he was in such foul mood.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Huddleson,” Slye said. “We’ll be going now.”

Once we were back in his limo, Wishy asked the question that was on all our minds.

“What the deuce was that about feathers, Bunny?”

“Do you remember the pillow fight we got into when we were seven?”

Wishy gave a delighted laugh. “Do I ever. Earned us each a tanning, and worth every blow. Feathers everywhere.”

“Exactly. Feathers, once no longer attached to their original owner, tend to scatter. Loosed violently from a pillow or mattress, they are nearly impossible to gather up again, as we learned when we were seven and were made to pick up the mess we’d made.”

“I agree, but I still don’t see what this has to do with Old Grimes losing his mind.”

“Oh, everything, Wishy. Everything.”

Slye did not reenter the quarry house, but invited us to accompany him on a walk to the dock. So we followed him across the property to the edge of the sheer drop down to the water. We could see our way now, but I was glad we had not made the attempt in the darkness.

In the growing light, I could see what an oasis it was, a deep, blue, walled-in lake, too perfectly rectangular along its shores, held in place by dramatic, hewn cliffs. Piles of cut and abandoned blocks of stone could be seen rising from the water here and there. The natural world had reasserted itself to some degree, with grasses and trees growing all along the sides, and a few trees rising out of the water closest to the cliffs. The quarry was an alluring place, if you could ignore the occasional rusted-out belt systems, rigging, and other derelict machinery that dotted its shores.

“From what you tell me, Sheriff,” Slye said, when we had paused on a stone landing about halfway down the steps, “loading a boat is more easily done from the other end of the quarry.”

“Yes.”

The sheriff was plainly losing his enthusiasm for Bunny’s methods.

This was not lost on Slye. “You are understandably tired and wishing for your bed. You are thinking that the matter of Grimes’s death has been resolved. And yes, in all likelihood, we do know how he was killed. But there remains the important matter of the other two murders.”

“What other two murders?” the sheriff was suddenly alert again.

“Of Billy Westley and Jeannie Lindstrom.”

“But they ran off-”

Slye interrupted him, saying in a fierce, quiet voice, “I cannot express to you how much I wish I could bring myself to hope that they are indeed on a honeymoon; how much I would love to learn that the two of them are cavorting about the countryside even without benefit of marriage. We could argue the moral implications of two healthy, good-looking, young people acting on their desires at that point, but first I would celebrate the fact that they must needs be alive in order to sin, if sin it is.” He gestured toward the water. “But this quarry lake, I am sad to say, is most probably their grave.”

Struck silent, we followed him as he made his way down to the dock. Birds were singing, a breeze rattled branches and whispered through the pines, bringing the scents of the forest to us. Our steps echoed on the stone stairs. No one spoke a word. The early light enhanced the colors around us, revealing a stunningly beautiful scene.

I could cheerfully hate it.

When we reached the dock, Slye said, “We observed several things, early in the day, that pointed the way. We learned other things from people who knew the three individuals well. We learned that Billy and Jeannie were smitten with one another. We learned that when fishing here, Grimes usually went out all day, that Mrs. Huddleson had been returned to the Grimes mansion by a young man who was no doubt looking forward to an encounter in a place where, for a few brief hours, no one would be telling him where to go and what to do, no mother or unofficial aunts and uncles coddling him or watching his every move. We know that Grimes, who had his own lustful plans for Jeannie, was hotheaded, competitive, thin-skinned, and had weapons at hand-some of which are missing from his gun room.”

He paused.

“I think more than one gun was taken in an attempt to confuse matters. Or he may have planned to construct a self-defense plea.”

“You mean,” Wishy said, frowning, “that Grimes fired off several weapons, and he planned to claim he’d been shot at, then fired back.”

“Precisely.”

“So what do you think happened?” the sheriff asked.

“No one living was here to witness what happened, but our observations give us the basics. Mr. Grimes repaired plaster on a bedroom wall, directly behind a point where two lovers’ heads may have been nestled together. Two shots at least. Others may have lodged in the mattress or the lovers’ bodies. As you know, Sheriff, there is unlikely to be self-restraint in such cases.”

The sheriff nodded. “Spurned lovers tend to overdo it.”

“Whatever he did required him to replace a headboard, a mattress, bedding. He opened windows on a chilly evening. He needed to telephone for help for further cleaning, and was very specific about who would answer that summons.”

“In that, he was cruel,” I said.

“Very much so,” Slye agreed. “Understanding that much of this is conjecture, but based on physical signs and what we know of the individuals concerned, here is what I believed happened. Grimes left the house at about this time of day two days ago. He took the rowboat out, but came back unexpectedly early.”

“Why?” I asked.

Bunny shrugged. “We can’t be sure, Max. Perhaps he forgot some part of his fishing tackle, remembered a new lure or something of that nature. Perhaps his unruly desire for Miss Lindstrom left him thinking he could send Billy and Mrs. Huddleson back to the mansion long enough to force his attentions on her. Perhaps, out on the lake, he happened to look into the window of his bedroom and saw them standing in an embrace. We will never know.”

“And they,” the sheriff said, “perhaps planning to leave his employ, thought to thumb their noses at him and make love in his own bed.” He shook his head. “What did Owen call him? ‘A cheeky bastard.’ ”

“Grimes and Billy perhaps had a few things in common,” Slye said.

“He grew up fatherless in Everett Grimes’s household,” I said. “His beliefs about manhood may have been molded by Grimes.”

“Likely, although until he could drive, he probably spent more time with the servants. As for using Grimes’s bed, since that is the only place in the house with a view of the lake, their choice may have been practical in intent-they could watch for his return, which they thought would come much later.

“In any case, finding these two in his bed must have enraged Grimes. I believe he reacted violently. He shot them both.

“Then what to do? He wrapped his victims up in the damaged and bloodstained bedding, and carried them down to the limousine. While not as large as Wishy’s Pierce-Arrow, the Hudson is a roomy vehicle. He included in his cargo the damaged headboard-perhaps he sawed it into smaller pieces first. He had the foresight to check in the small cottage and gather anything that might indicate Billy planned to stay. He overlooked or ignored The Count of Monte Cristo, which may have belonged to him, after all.”

He paused, frowning in concentration; then he went on.

“He probably hid the car nearby, in the highly unlikely case someone should come upon its gruesome cargo. He came back down theses step and rowed the boat to the other side of the quarry. He tied it up and walked back to the house. This all required a great deal of physical effort, but he was in excellent condition. He got into the Hudson and, with his limited driving skills, scraped the right front fender on his way out, as Wishy noted.

“He unloaded his burdens into the boat, which must have been crowded, with not only himself but two bodies, bedding, and perhaps even pieces of headboard, although he may have burned the wood.

“He planned to have the boat sink, and had to ensure it didn’t return to the surface. He would be especially concerned that the bodies not rise, as they would in the natural course of decomposition. Using materials readily available-this is a quarry, after all, with no shortage of rock-he undoubtedly weighted the rowboat’s contents. He rowed out a certain distance from the shore-not too close, but not too far, because the day had already been one of extreme exertion. He then intentionally damaged the boat, perhaps by drilling a hole in the hull beneath his feet, and let it sink. He swam back to shore.

“Between his fears and his efforts, he must have been quite exhausted at this point, but there was still more to do.”

“He got into the driver’s seat,” Wishy said, “sopping wet, and left water everywhere. Which is why the car was still damp the next day.”

“Exactly.”

“And coming back, he smashed the other fender!”

“So it seems. We cannot know the exact sequence of events after he returned to the quarry house. Perhaps he went upstairs and slept a little. Perhaps he set to work patching the wall and cleaning up the worst of it. Perhaps it was then that he called his wife, invented a tale of runaway lovers to hide his crime, and insisted he be left alone to ensure that no one from the mansion would come to the quarry. He still had one major problem to resolve. The bed itself.”

“Did the bed leave the feathers in the car?” Wishy asked.

“No, for even though the Hudson is large, it would have been quite loaded down at that point-bodies, headboard, Billy’s personal effects from the small house. I believe those feathers came from the bedding, possibly a damaged pillow, or perhaps a few feathers had clung to the bodies and were dislodged in transport.

“In all likelihood, not only the bedding but the mattress itself was stained. A feather mattress is bulky, too unwieldy to be included in the rowboat’s cargo. He had to discover a way to otherwise dispose of it. And he found one.

“Now, keep in mind that, to him, this is wholly his domain. This is how he must have quieted his fears of being apprehended for murder, and acted so boldly. This is his quarry, his personal lake, his home. He controls the only the roads that lead to it. He stocks the lake with the fish he likes to eat, then goes out alone to catch them. He has altered this home so that he has the best view, one he will not share with others except by invitation to his bedroom. He alone decides who will visit it and when.

“No, he didn’t worry much about discovery, given that he ruled this kingdom. He probably felt certain that once the bedroom was returned to order, he had little to fear. If questions were asked about the bed or the boat, he would quash them as impertinence. He was a rich man known to have his whims. Those dependent upon him were unlikely to challenge him. So-back to the disposal of the mattress.”

He paused. “Turn around, if you please, gentlemen, and look back toward the house.”

He had held our attention utterly, so until that moment we had not looked behind us.

Here and there along the cliff face below the house, in the trees growing up from the quarry water, and in clumps on the water at our level, were downy white feathers. A large, white, bloodstained, sheetlike object was draped in the branches of one of the trees. The mattress cover.

“Last night,” Slye said, “when I alarmed Max by leaning out the windows of Grimes’s bedroom, I saw many more of these feathers. But what Grimes did with the mattress is plain. He opened the window, but the feather mattress would not fit through it. He was tired at that point, and still had more to do before he could allow anyone else into the house. He used a knife or scissors from the nearby secretary to create an opening in the mattress cover, and spilled the feathers out the window, until he could fit what remained through the opening. The cover caught on a tree, but he believed he would have time to retrieve it later.

“What next? He disassembled a bed in one of the seldom-used guest rooms and reassembled it in his own room. He may have washed or destroyed whatever clothing he had on that day-we may find that at the foot of the cliff beneath his windows, as well.

“At some point after he had rested, he realized he should call in someone more experienced to do the real cleaning. He gives, as Max has noted, an especially cruel order, and requires the young man’s mother to do just that. The rest you know.”

He began to climb the cliff steps again.

“Slye!” the sheriff called after him.

Bunny stopped and turned toward him. “Yes?”

“Did she know?”

“Mrs. Westley? I’m not a mind reader, Sheriff Anderson.” Seeing the sheriff’s look of frustration, he relented a bit. “You saw everything she saw, and you believed the couple had run away. I stand by what I said to you earlier. You will have a hard time proving that Mr. Grimes’s death was other than an accident. If you believe there is some injustice here, by all means, arrest her.”

The sheriff swore quite colorfully, then said, “You know damn well I won’t.”

“Your compassionate approach to law enforcement is, indeed, why I am always happy to help you.”

All the way up the steps, I heard soft muttering behind us, with the phrase “compassionate approach to law enforcement” often being repeated.

The sheriff brought more men to the quarry and dragged the lake in an area Slye suggested as the place where the boat most likely lay. It took several hours, but they found it and were able to recover the bodies.

Some weeks later, Digby announced a visitor: “Mrs. Senechett.”

Bunny said, “What a pleasant surprise! By all means, show her in.”

There was something in Digby’s manner that made me ask Bunny if I should give him privacy. He smiled and told me to stay, that I would find this visitor interesting.

He was right. An elegant woman stepped into the room, who, if only nearly as divine as Mrs. Grimes in appearance, had a je ne sais quoi that made me think that if she had a favor to ask, I would do all in my power to make her happy. She was perhaps ten years my senior. A decade never seemed of less consequence.

She saw Bunny, hurried to him, and embraced him, saying, “Boniface! How good of you to admit me when I’ve not given you a word of warning!”

“Eleanor, could I ever deny you? Come, you must meet my good friend Dr. Max Tyndale, who does his best to keep me sane.”

For the second time that summer, I met a gorgeous woman who did not seem to notice my own appearance. She smiled at me, took my hand in hers, and said, “Oh, Bunny has written to tell me all about you. How fortunate he is to have such a friend.”

We were seated. Digby brought in refreshments, then made himself scarce.

Eleanor Senechett shook her head. “Bunny, you devil, you didn’t tell Dr. Tyndale who I am.” She laughed and turned to me. “You should be warned, sir, that you are having tea with a dangerous lunatic.”

“Bunny is not dangerous. Mostly not,” I amended.

“She means I should warn you that she is an escapee from an asylum-although I think that the order concerning Eleanor Delfontaine Grimes, now Eleanor Senechett, has been lifted, am I right?”

“Yes, you wonderful man. Senechett sends his love and wants to know if there is a quiet place you’d like to have dinner together to celebrate. I’ve been in Beaumont too long to know what’s what around here.”

“Beaumont, Texas?” I asked.

“Yes. My husband is in the oil business. Has Bunny not told you the story?”

“It’s your story to tell, Eleanor,” Bunny said.

“All right, short version for my part of the story. When I was far too young to know any better, I allowed my father to persuade me to marry a man he had chosen for me, a businessman named Everett Grimes. I believe you know enough about him-and at last the world knows enough about him-for me not to need to explain how that worked out. You know he had me committed?”

“Yes.”

“For noticing that he was unfaithful and daring to object to it. My parents were no longer living by then, he controlled my inheritance, and he had a local judge in his pocket.”

“That, too, is being looked into,” Slye said.

“Good. I promised the short version. Here it is. There was a sixteen-year-old boy I won’t name, who quite unexpectedly helped me to escape, and to live for a brief time in a little caretaker’s cottage at the far reaches of the family estate. Said boy was utterly charming, and I believe-if I may be so shameless as to admit it-he had a crush on me.”

“A mad crush,” Bunny said with a grin. “But… well, sixteen.”

“This noble sixteen-year-old who could have been in so much trouble-arrested, but worse, targeted by Everett Grimes as an enemy-in the true madness of his mad crush arranged for me to travel to the home of a female cousin in Texas, a young woman starting a business of her own, and who probably received the money for my wages from her wealthy cousin in New York.”

“You’re wrong, Eleanor. She would accept nothing from me.”

“That’s a relief. And she did make a success of it.”

“With your astute help.”

She waved this away. “Short version! While on the job, I met one Mr. Senechett, oilman. The stuff practically comes up out of the ground looking for him, although at that time he was just hoping his first well would come in. I told him he was falling for a lunatic, he told me I was, too, since you had to be crazy to wildcat. We married. The rest-the rest is that we adore Boniface Slye and all who are good to him.”

Bunny, to my amazement, blushed. “It is you who are too good to me. Now, as for a quiet place, no one in the village cooks as well as Armand. You will dine here, of course.”

A little later, as we talked of Grimes, Bunny said, “Eleanor, it is most regrettable to find myself speculating about such things, but-is there any chance that Everett was Billy’s father?”

She glanced at me. “Since you’re here, Dr. Tyndale, I know you are discreet. Yes, Bunny, of course there is. There never was any drunken carter named Westley. I invented him, and bought her a ring to wear. I hired her so the child would have a home and a roof. Everett had long lost interest in her. I could not prove to you that he was Everett’s, but I don’t think she’s the type who would have spread her favors around, if I can say that without shocking Dr. Tyndale.”

“Max,” I said.

“He is remarkably hard to shock,” Bunny said.

She smiled. “One needs that sort of constitution to be friends with you, Bunny.”

“How did you learn of her?” I asked.

“Mrs. Westley? Oh, Mrs. Huddleson, who is a real widow, knew about her situation. It took quite a bit for me to get the story out of Huddie, but she told me, and agreed to help spread the tale of the carter.”

“Did Everett Grimes never recognize a likeness in the boy?” I asked.

“No. As I believe the world knows now, Everett could be quite self-absorbed. But, Max, please say nothing of this to others. Poor Mrs. Westley has had enough to bear.”

“The boy was reading your old copy of The Count of Monte Cristo,” Bunny said. “I have wondered if he knew. If he imagined himself to be Edmond Dantès.”

“Waiting to avenge himself on those who do not recognize him as the one they have wronged?”

He nodded. “If so, it went terribly awry.”

“Forgive me,” I said. “But perhaps he was just a young man in love, trying to impress a beautiful girl.”

“I agree,” Eleanor said, looking at Bunny. “It worked out sadly this time, but I have known young men to behave foolishly on behalf of the women they love, and have it work out quite differently.”

From below we heard a man with a drawl shout, “Digby, you old son of a bitch! How you keepin’? Tell that boss of yours to get a telephone!”

“Up here, Senne!” Eleanor called, her face lighting up in pleasure. I could no longer count Susannah Grimes as the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.

“Yes, quite differently,” Bunny said, but I suspect that due to Senechett’s arrival, I was the only one who heard him.