‘In my boarding mistress’s piece-bag.’
I stared at him.
‘What does it mean?’ I gasped out.
‘What do you think?’
‘It is impossible!’
* * * * * *
Wednesday, continued. – When Mr Dix thus suggested to me the absurd possibility that Phoebe Dole had committed the murder, he and I were sitting in the kitchen. He was near the table; he laid a sheet of paper upon it, and began to write. The paper is before me.
‘First,’ said Mr Dix, and he wrote rapidly as he talked, ‘Whose arm is of such length that it might unlock a certain door of this house from the outside? – Phoebe Dole’s.
‘Second, who had in her piece-bag bits of the same threads and ravellings found upon your parlour floor, where she had not by your knowledge entered? – Phoebe Dole.
‘Third, who interested herself most strangely in your bloodstained green silk dress, even to dyeing it? – Phoebe Dole.
‘Fourth, who was caught in a lie, while trying to force the guilt of the murder upon an innocent man? – Phoebe Dole.’
Mr Dix looked at me. I had gathered myself together. ‘That proves nothing,’ I said. ‘There is no motive in her case.’
‘There is a motive.’
‘What is it?’
‘Maria Woods shall tell you this afternoon.’
He then wrote:
‘Fifth, who was seen to throw a bundle down the old well, in the rear of Martin Fairbanks’s house, at one o’clock in the morning? – Phoebe Dole.’
‘Was she – seen?’ I gasped.
Mr Dix nodded. Then he wrote.
‘Sixth, who had a strong motive, which had been in existence many years ago? – Phoebe Dole.’
Mr Dix laid down his pen, and looked at me again.
‘Well, what have you to say?’ he asked.
‘It is impossible!’
‘Why?’
‘She is a woman.’
‘A man could have fired that pistol, as she tried to do.’
‘It would have taken a man’s strength to kill with the kind of weapon that was used,’ I said.
‘No, it would not. No great strength is required for such a blow.’
‘But she is a woman!’
‘Crime has no sex.’
‘But she is a good woman – a church member. I heard her pray yesterday afternoon. It is not in character.’
‘It is not for you, nor for me, nor for any mortal intelligence, to know what is or is not in character,’ said Mr Dix.
He arose and went away. I could only stare at him in a half-dazed manner.
Maria Woods came this afternoon, taking advantage of Phoebe’s absence on a dressmaking errand. Maria has aged ten years in the last few weeks. Her hair is white, her cheeks are fallen in, her pretty colour is gone.
‘May I have the ring he gave me forty years ago?’ she faltered.
I gave it to her; she kissed it and sobbed like a child. ‘Phoebe took it away from me before,’ she said, ‘but she shan’t this time.’
Maria related with piteous sobs the story of her long subordination to Phoebe Dole. This sweet child-like woman had always been completely under the sway of the other’s stronger nature. The subordination went back beyond my father’s original proposal to her; she had, before he made love to her as a girl, promised Phoebe she would not marry; and it was Phoebe who, by representing to her that she was bound by this solemn promise, had led her to write a letter to my father declining his offer, and sending back the ring.
‘And after all, we were going to get married, if he had not died,’ she said. ‘He was going to give me this ring again, and he had had the other date put in. I should have been so happy!’
She stopped and stared at me with horror-stricken enquiry.
‘What was Phoebe Dole doing in your backyard at one o’clock that night?’ she cried.
‘What do you mean?’ I returned.
‘I saw Phoebe come out of your back shed door at one o’clock that very night. She had a bundle in her arms. She went along the path about as far as the old well, then she stooped down, and seemed to be working at something. When she got up she didn’t have the bundle. I was watching at our back door. I thought I heard her go out a little while before, and went downstairs, and found that door unlocked. I went in quick, and up to my chamber, and into my bed, when she started home across the fields. Pretty soon I heard her come in, then I heard the pump going. She slept downstairs; she went on to her bedroom. What was she doing in your backyard that night?’
‘You must ask her,’ said I. I felt my blood running cold.
‘I’ve been afraid to,’ moaned Maria Woods. ‘She’s been dreadful strange lately. I wish that book agent was going to stay at our house.’
Maria Woods went home in about an hour. I got a ribbon for her, and she has my poor father’s ring concealed in her withered bosom. Again, I cannot believe this.
Thursday. – It is all over, Phoebe Dole has confessed! I do not know now in exactly what way Mr Dix brought it about – how he accused her of her crime. After breakfast I saw them coming across the fields; Phoebe came first, advancing with rapid strides like a man, Mr Dix followed, and my father’s poor old sweetheart tottered behind, with her handkerchief at her eyes. Just as I noticed them the front doorbell rang; I found several people there, headed by the high sheriff. They crowded into the sitting-room just as Phoebe Dole came rushing in, with Mr Dix and Maria Woods.
‘I did it!’ Phoebe cried out to me. ‘I am found out, and I have made up my mind to confess. She was going to marry your father – I found it out. I stopped it once before. This time I knew I couldn’t unless I killed him. She’s lived with me in that house for over forty years. There are other ties as strong as the marriage one, that are just as sacred. What right had
