The Circular Staircase 27 – Rinehart · Verses Across
Literature · Detective Fiction
The Circular Staircase 27Who Is Nina Carrington?
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Literature · Detective Fiction
The Circular Staircase 27
Who Is Nina Carrington?
RinehartEnglish
The four days, from Saturday to the following Tuesday, we lived, or existed, in a state of the most dreadful suspense. We ate only when Liddy brought in a tray, and then very little. The papers, of course, had got hold of the story, and we were besieged by newspaper men. From all over the country false clues came pouring in and raised hopes that crumbled again to nothing. Every morgue within a hundred miles, every hospital, had been visited, without result.
Mr. Jamieson, personally, took charge of the organized search, and every evening, no matter where he happened to be, he called us by long distance telephone. It was the same formula. “Nothing to-day. A new clue to work on. Better luck to-morrow.”
And heartsick we would put up the receiver and sit down again to our vigil.
The inaction was deadly. Liddy cried all day, and, because she knew I objected to tears, sniffled audibly around the corner.
“For Heaven’s sake, smile!” I snapped at her. And her ghastly attempt at a grin, with her swollen nose and red eyes, made me hysterical. I laughed and cried together, and pretty soon, like the two old fools we were, we were sitting together weeping into the same handkerchief.
Things were happening, of course, all the time, but they made little or no impression. The Charity Hospital called up Doctor Stewart and reported that Mrs. Watson was in a critical condition. I understood also that legal steps were being taken to terminate my lease at Sunnyside. Louise was out of danger, but very ill, and a trained nurse guarded her like a gorgon. There was a rumor in the village, brought up by Liddy from the butcher’s, that a wedding had already taken place between Louise and Doctor Walker and this roused me for the first time to action.
On Tuesday, then, I sent for the car, and prepared to go out. As I waited at the porte-cochere I saw the under-gardener, an inoffensive, grayish-haired man, trimming borders near the house.
The day detective was watching him, sitting on the carriage block. When he saw me, he got up.
“Miss Innes,” he said, taking off his hat, “do you know where Alex, the gardener, is?”
“Why, no. Isn’t he here?” I asked.
“He has been gone since yesterday afternoon. Have you employed him long?”
“Only a couple of weeks.”
“Is he efficient? A capable man?”
“I hardly know,” I said vaguely. “The place looks all right, and I know very little about such things. I know much more about boxes of roses than bushes of them.”
“This man,” pointing to the assistant, “says Alex isn’t a gardener. That he doesn’t know anything about plants.”
“That’s very strange,” I said, thinking hard. “Why, he came to me from the Brays, who are in Europe.”
“Exactly.” The detective smiled. “Every man who cuts grass isn’t a gardener, Miss Innes, and just now it is our policy to believe every person around here a rascal until he proves to be the other thing.”
Warner came up with the car then, and the conversation stopped. As he helped me in, however, the detective said something further.
“Not a word or sign to Alex, if he comes back,” he said cautiously.
I went first to Doctor Walker’s. I was tired of beating about the bush, and I felt that the key to Halsey’s disappearance was here at Casanova, in spite of Mr. Jamieson’s theories.
The doctor was in. He came at once to the door of his consulting-room, and there was no mask of cordiality in his manner.
“Please come in,” he said curtly.
“I shall stay here, I think, doctor.” I did not like his face or his manner; there was a subtle change in both. He had thrown off the air of friendliness, and I thought, too, that he looked anxious and haggard.
“Doctor Walker,” I said, “I have come to you to ask some questions. I hope you will answer them. As you know, my nephew has not yet been found.”
“So I understand,” stiffly.
“I believe, if you would, you could help us, and that leads to one of my questions. Will you tell me what was the nature of the conversation you held with him the night he was attacked and carried off?”
“Attacked! Carried off!” he said, with pretended surprise. “Really, Miss Innes, don’t you think you exaggerate? I understand it is not the first time Mr. Innes has—disappeared.”
“You are quibbling, doctor. This is a matter of life and death. Will you answer my question?”
“Certainly. He said his nerves were bad, and I gave him a prescription for them. I am violating professional ethics when I tell you even as much as that.”
I could not tell him he lied. I think I looked it. But I hazarded a random shot.
“I thought perhaps,” I said, watching him narrowly, “that it might be about—Nina Carrington.”
For a moment I thought he was going to strike me. He grew livid, and a small crooked blood-vessel in his temple swelled and throbbed curiously. Then he forced a short laugh.
“Who is Nina Carrington?” he asked.
“I am about to discover that,” I replied, and he was quiet at once. It was not difficult to divine that he feared Nina Carrington a good deal more than he did the devil. Our leave-taking was brief; in fact, we merely stared at each other over the waiting-room table, with its litter of year-old magazines. Then I turned and went out.
“To Richfield,” I told Warner, and on the way I thought, and thought hard.
“Nina Carrington, Nina Carrington,” the roar and rush of the wheels seemed to sing the words. “Nina Carrington, N. C.” And I then knew, knew as surely as if I had seen the whole thing. There had been an N. C. on the suit-case belonging to the woman with the pitted face. How simple it all seemed. Mattie Bliss had been Nina Carrington. It was she Warner had heard in the library. It was something she had told Halsey that had taken him frantically to Doctor Walker’s office, and from there perhaps to his death. If we could find the woman, we might find what had become of Halsey.
We were almost at Richfield now, so I kept on. My mind was not on my errand there now. It was back with Halsey on that memorable night. What was it he had said to Louise, that had sent her up to Sunnyside, half wild with fear for him? I made up my mind, as the car drew up before the Tate cottage, that I would see Louise if I had to break into the house at night.
Almost exactly the same scene as before greeted my eyes at the cottage. Mrs. Tate, the baby-carriage in the path, the children at the swing—all were the same.
She came forward to meet me, and I noticed that some of the anxious lines had gone out of her face. She looked young, almost pretty.
“I am glad you have come back,” she said. “I think I will have to be honest and give you back your money.”
“Why?” I asked. “Has the mother come?”
“No, but some one came and paid the boy’s board for a month. She talked to him for a long time, but when I asked him afterward he didn’t know her name.”
“A young woman?”
“Not very young. About forty, I suppose. She was small and fair-haired, just a little bit gray, and very sad. She was in deep mourning, and, I think, when she came, she expected to go at once. But the child, Lucien, interested her. She talked to him for a long time, and, indeed, she looked much happier when she left.”
“You are sure this was not the real mother?”
“O mercy, no! Why, she didn’t know which of the three was Lucien. I thought perhaps she was a friend of yours, but, of course, I didn’t ask.”
“She was not—pock-marked?” I asked at a venture.
“No, indeed. A skin like a baby’s. But perhaps you will know the initials. She gave Lucien a handkerchief and forgot it. It was very fine, black-bordered, and it had three hand-worked letters in the corner—F. B. A.”
“No,” I said with truth enough, “she is not a friend of mine.” F. B. A. was Fanny Armstrong, without a chance of doubt!
With another warning to Mrs. Tate as to silence, we started back to Sunnyside. So Fanny Armstrong knew of Lucien Wallace, and was sufficiently interested to visit him and pay for his support. Who was the child’s mother and where was she? Who was Nina Carrington? Did either of them know where Halsey was or what had happened to him?
On the way home we passed the little cemetery where Thomas had been laid to rest. I wondered if Thomas could have helped us to find Halsey, had he lived. Farther along was the more imposing burial-ground, where Arnold Armstrong and his father lay in the shadow of a tall granite shaft. Of the three, I think Thomas was the only one sincerely mourned.
