Deadly Nightshade (14 page)

“How do, Mrs. Ormiston,” said Mitchell. “This is Mr. Gamadge; I telephoned about him.”

Mrs. Ormiston had the placidity that Gamadge had been prepared for, but he had not expected to find her so handsome. She was large and olive-skinned, with a coiled mass of thick, dark hair, and brown, bovine eyes. And she dressed for comfort; her costume being a blue knitted dress faded almost to gray, brown woollen stockings, and brown canvas tennis shoes.

“How do you do?” she asked, with a pleasant smile at the two men. “My husband is expecting you. Run away and find Dave, children; and remember, you're not to go off the place without him.”

The children, a stout girl of twelve and a delicate-looking boy of ten, demurred.

“We always went everywhere by ourselves till Tommy got lost,” protested the girl; and the boy, flung pleadingly against his mother's knees, complained: “Do we have to be with grown people all the rest of our lives, just because he picked some poison berries? It isn't fair.”

“I know it isn't, darling; but you be a good boy, and do as I say.”

They disappeared around the house, and Mrs. Ormiston said: “I suppose I'm silly, but I'm nervous after what happened.”

“I can't blame you, ma'am. Where's the little feller?” Mitchell glanced about him, as if he expected to see Tommy emerge from under the table.

“He's up the road with Millie Strangways. She's painting on the rocks.”

“How is he?”

“Perfectly all right, thank goodness. I do blame myself so for what happened.”

“Did I understand that you were in the cellar that morning, Mrs. Ormiston?” asked Gamadge.

“Yes; or in the back yard. I had so much to do. I thought Millie or David Breck had Tommy. You know how things are on moving day; or perhaps you don't,” and she smiled at them.

A tall, redheaded, homely young man in shirt and slacks, with a hatchet in his hand, came around the east corner of the house and stood on the turf below, looking up at them.

“The kids want to bathe again,” he said. “Do I take them down, or do I go on chopping firewood?”

“Oh dear. I really do think Millie might—”

“She's got young Tom to look after.”

“I'll take the children. It's so cold at night, we just must keep the fire up. This is Davidson Breck—Mr. Mitchell, and Mr. Gamadge. Oh, I forgot; you know Mr. Mitchell, don't you, Dave? I'll just speak to Mr. Ormiston, and then I'll take the children—Oh dear. I ought to drive in and get some things for supper. I think I'll take them with me; only they fuss so.”

She went along the veranda, and turned the southeast corner of it. Mr. Breck watched her go, a gloomy expression on his freckled and intelligent face. Gamadge said, poising himself on the porch rail and lighting a cigarette: “I'm supposed to be making a few inquiries.”

“I know you are.” Breck eyed him without much favor.

“You were engaged indoors on Tuesday morning, I believe?”

“I believe so, too. Some people seem to think I'm to blame for what happened to the poor kid, but let me tell you that if it hadn't been for Millie Strangways and myself he'd have been lost or killed half a dozen times this summer.”

“I understood that it was your job to look after him.”

“It was my job to look after 'em all, with special reference to Sidney, the other boy. He's delicate; needs an operation on his neck, or something. He's the only one that never did get mislaid.”

“But the girl is better able to take care of herself than a six-year-old is.”

“She could take care of the whole family, I think, if she had to. She probably will have to,” said Breck, with a slight scowl.

“You must all have had a bad time on Tuesday morning. How did you manage with the search?”

“Oh. Yes, it was pretty awful. Millie turned up from the beach, heard Tom was missing, and left in her car, with Ormiston swearing his head off. She spent hours driving up and down and through the woods by herself—must have covered miles. She'd get out every now and then and search on foot. She never came back until after he was found—completely exhausted, she was. But she sat up all night with him.”

“You weren't with her?”

“No. I chased around in the other car, and got mixed up with the Beasley search party. That took me out Bailtown way. I kept coming back here to report to Mrs. Ormiston. She stayed and hung on to the other two children, and Ormiston simply packed his sketching kit and got out of it all; along the beaches. Brought back quite a good picture, too.”

“Quite detached from mundane affairs, isn't he?”

“Not so you'd notice it. Well, he's an artist—a real one; I suppose they have just so much energy to use outside their work, and when that's gone, they can't bother.”

“Well, thanks, Mr. Breck. I won't keep you from the wood pile.”

“Very kind of you.” He hurried off, and a short, clumsily built but muscular-looking man came around the corner of the porch. Tow-colored hair stood up in an untidy crest above a wide forehead; light, greenish eyes were set flatly in a flat, pasty face, on which the slightly flattened nose was barely a disfigurement. He wore an undershirt, a pair of corduroy trousers, and white tennis shoes; and he held in the fingers of his right hand a piece of red artist's chalk.

He stopped, looked the arrivals over, remarked with great coolness: “I'll see Gamadge,” and turned away. He was lumbering off down the porch when Gamadge's amiable voice halted him:

“Can't be done, Mr. Ormiston. This is official.”

“Official? What does that mean?” Ormiston glanced back over his shoulder.

“I'm here to assist Mr. Mitchell; police investigation. I can't interview witnesses privately.”

Ormiston stared. “What am I witness of?” he inquired, belligerently. “I've talked to the state police and the sheriff till I'm sick of the sight of them. Oh well—come along, then, both of you.”

He lurched off around the corner. Gamadge, looking after him with considerable amusement, asked: “Will he punch my nose? If he does, you'll have to carry me out; he looks hefty.”

“It's all talk. He's a show-off.”

“Forward, then—into the lion's jaws. He looks rather like a lion—man-eater.”

They turned the corner of the porch, and a strong wind blew in their faces, making them clutch their hats. The house was practically flush with the high cliff, at the foot of which big waves were rolling and flinging up plumes of spray. Ormiston stood within an open door.

“Come in,” he said. “Everything's packed; nothing to paint with, and nothing to see.”

They entered a large, high studio, walled and ceiled with native pine, a great window almost filling the north end of it. A stone fireplace faced the door, jugs and tins stood on a long trestle table, and an easel in the middle of the room held a big square of rough gray cardboard.

“Sit down,” said Ormiston, “and smoke, if you can find anything to smoke with. I don't indulge, myself; fearful habit.”

Mitchell lowered himself upon a camp chair, and equably lighted his pipe. Gamadge sat on a corner of the table. Ormiston stood with his back to his easel, chalk in hand.

“I rather wanted to meet you, Gamadge,” he said. “You're an able man; but your work's not creative—none of it.”

“Precious little work looks creative in comparison with such as yours,” replied Gamadge, swinging a leg. “‘Ormiston's mighty line', you know. You can afford to make allowances for the less gifted.”

“Where art is concerned, I never make allowances. And this side line of yours, or hobby, or whatever you call it; this police work—criminology. Futile.”

“But constructive.”

“Destructive, you mean.”

“Not at all. To hear of a particularly mean and ugly crime, to fear that a conceited scoundrel is going to get away with it, and to build up a case against him—that's construction.”

“Build up a case! Browbeat witnesses, you mean. Nine tenths of all cases are solved, as they call it, by that; and by paying for information.”

“I can construct a simple little case for you, here and now; without having browbeaten any witnesses, or tried to extract any information.”

“What case?” demanded Ormiston, looking fiercely at him.

“Why, the case against your being Tommy's father, and Mrs. Ormiston his mother; and the case in favor of Miss Millie Strangways being his maternal parent—though I don't absolutely insist on that. I'd bet on it, though.”

Ormiston stood for some moments with his legs planted wide, staring at Gamadge. Presently he said: “I was afraid my wife would give the show away; the poor girl has a heart of gold, but she can't play a part. Not that she isn't fond of the boy; she is. Young Sidney's on her mind just now—that's the trouble.”

“Well, however I did manage to catch on,” said Gamadge, “I caught on. That's not the important point; the thing is, it gives us a new line on the nightshade case.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Why, up to now, we have had to confine ourselves to wondering who can have had a grudge against you, or the Bartrams, or the Beasleys. At present we are able to extend our researches to Miss Strangways. Plenty of people must know that Tommy is hers.”

Ormiston looked very much discomposed. “There isn't a nicer girl living,” he said, “and I don't want her bothered. Grudges! What rot.” He turned to face his easel, made a free, circular motion in the air with his piece of red chalk, and then seemed to transfer the gesture to the gray surface before him, as lightly and surely as if some delicate mechanism had controlled his hand. But there was nothing mechanical about the flowing line that resulted, or about the other lines that followed without pause or forethought. He stepped aside, indicated the sketch of a girl's head that stood out against the rough background with uncompromising reality, and said: “There! Know who that is?”

“Yes, I do,” replied Gamadge. “It's Martha, the gypsy.”

“Excuse the representational quality—I wanted it to be a photograph. Look at that face; look at that expression—or lack of expression. That's gypsy, for you. Vacant, mindless, unteachable. I've done two oils of her this summer—if there were anything in her head I should have had it out, I can tell you. There isn't. Those people merely exist, like the stupider animals. There's no stupidity they're incapable of; and the only thing they know how to do is to evade the results, by flat denial. A few years ago I used to draw her sister Georgina—or her aunt, or whatever she is; they never seem sure about their family relationships. I cannot make out what they think they gain by these small deceptions, unless lying is the breath of life to them. Georgina looked just like Martha, then. The boy William—he's quite capable of poisoning whole communities, merely from pure inability to reflect.”

“You credit them with these poisonings, then.”

“Well, yes; I do. They're always about, all summer; trying to sell their rubbish, tell fortunes, beg old clothes. You'll never prove anything. What I want to say is, let that poor girl Millie Strangways alone. Her name isn't Strangways—it's Walworth; Mrs. Lawrence F. Walworth. Does that tell you anything?”

Mitchell said: “My soul and body.” Gamadge slowly drew forth a package of cigarettes, lighted one, placed the match carefully on the edge of a Mexican tile that lay beside him, and spoke as if under the spell of memory:

“He would have been electrocuted five years ago, if he hadn't died in prison.”

“Yes! For poisoning a whole family with arsenic. For their money. His aunt and uncle died; his cousin—their only child—got over it, physically. But they had to put her in a sanatorium, and she only came out, cured, a few months ago. That's Tommy Walworth's inheritance. Do you wonder his mother gave him up?”

Mitchell said: “They could have gone some place else, under another name.”

“She hadn't a penny; not by the time that trial was over. Besides, the girl has one obsession—I wonder she hasn't more. She wants the boy completely separated from Walworth, not only in name but in everything else. I believe it would kill her if she thought he would ever know anything about it. We were fond of her—she was a pupil of mine, and a friend of my wife's. She's a promising water colorist, but of course she doesn't make any money at it, yet. We took the boy when he was a mere infant, five years ago. In the summers she comes up here to be with him. Least we can do.”

“Cooks, doesn't she?” suggested Mitchell.

“If she didn't, we couldn't afford to have her. You may have heard that times are hard for the arts,” replied Ormiston. “I think it may turn out to be a very interesting experiment—bringing the boy up, watching him develop. I'm keen about it. Whatever happens ought to prove something or other.”

“Heredity is such a complicated affair, though,” murmured Gamadge. “You may be in for a disappointment, Mr. Ormiston.”

“Disappointment? Not at all. I'm prepared to have him grow up a social menace.”

“But he may grow up a respectable citizen, and probably will. No fun in that.”

Ormiston glanced at him suspiciously. “Are you indulging in sarcasm?” he inquired. “Hanged if I see why. I say it's interesting.”

“You must have been brought up on Wilkie Collins. I never met anything like it since I read
The Legacy Of Cain
. And the mother being on the premises gives it a touch of
East Lynne
. I'm afraid I suspect you of getting a little innocent entertainment out of this harrowing situation, Mr. Ormiston.”

Ormiston received this with surprising mildness. He worked for a time on the head of Martha Stanley, and then said abruptly: “At least we're keeping Mildred's secret, or trying to. The reason I told you all this was because I didn't want you to go stumbling around, setting the newspapers on her, upsetting her plans for the boy. If you do, I won't answer for the consequences. She's had enough.”