Justice Done (2 page)

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.”