“Not instantaneous—no. Death would follow very rapidly, however.”
“A minute or so?”
“A few minutes—the loss of blood would be tremendous.”
“Would the victim be likely to make much outcry—screaming, moaning, or the like?”
“Well, it’s a little difficult to generalize about that. In this particular case, there is reason to doubt whether there was any outcry after the blow was struck.”
“What reason have you to suppose that?”
“I think that Mr. Conroy has already testified that Mrs. Bellamy’s head was resting on the corner of a steel fire guard—a pierced railing about six inches high. It is my belief that, when she received the blow, she staggered, clutched at the table, and fell, striking the back of her head against the railing with sufficient force to render her totally unconscious. There was a serious abrasion at the back of the head that leads me to draw that conclusion.”
“I see. Was Mrs. Bellamy wearing any jewellery when you saw her, Doctor—a necklace, rings, brooches?”
“I saw no jewellery of any kind on the body.”
“What type of knife should you say was used to commit this murder, Doctor?”
“Well, that’s a little difficult to say. There were no marked peculiarities about the wound. It might have been caused by almost any knife with a sharp blade about three quarters of an inch wide and from three to four inches long—a sheath knife, a small kitchen knife, a large jackknife or clasp knife—various types, as I say.”
“Could it have been made with this?”
The prosecutor dropped a small dark object into the doctor’s outstretched hand and stood aside so that the jury, galvanized to goggle-eyed attention, could see it better. It was a knife—a large jackknife, with a rough, corrugated bone handle.
Mr. Lambert bore down on the scene at a subdued gallop. “Are you offering this knife in evidence?”
“I am not.”
Judge Carver leaned forward, his black silk robes rustling ominously. “What is this knife, Mr. Farr?”
“This is a knife, Your Honour, that I propose to connect up with the case at a somewhat later stage. At present I ask to have it marked for identification merely for purposes of the record.”
“You say that you will be able to connect it?”
“Absolutely.”
“Very well, you may answer the question, Dr. Stanley.”
The doctor was inspecting it gravely, his eyes bright with interest.
“I may open it?”
“Please do.”
In the breathless stillness the little click as the large blade sprang back was clearly audible. Dr. Stanley bent over it attentively, passed a forefinger reflectively along its shining surface, raised his head. “Yes, it could quite easily have been done with this.”
The prosecutor snapped the blade to with an enigmatic smile. “Thank you. That will be all.”
“Miss Kathleen Page!”
Before the ring of that high imperious summons had died in the air, she was there—a demure and dainty wraith, all in gray from the close feathered hat to the little buckled shoes. A pale oval face that might have belonged to the youngest and smallest of Botticelli’s Madonnas; cloudy eyes to match her frock, extravagantly fringed with heavy lashes; a forlorn, coaxing little mouth; sleek coils of dark hair. A murmur of interest rose, swelled, and died under Judge Carver’s eagle eye.
“Miss Page, what is your present occupation?”
“I am a librarian at a branch public library in New York.”
“Is that your regular occupation?”
“It has been for the past six months.”
“Was it previous to that time?”
“Do you mean immediately previous?”
“At any time previous.”
“I was assistant librarian in White Plains from to .”
“And after that?”
“During I had a serious attack of flu. It left me in rather bad shape, and the doctor recommended that I try to get some work in the country that would keep me outdoors a good deal and give me plenty of sleep.”
“And did you decide on any occupation that would fit those requirements?”
“Yes. Dr. Leonard suggested that I might try for a position as governess. One of his patients was looking for a temporary governess for her children, and he suggested that I might try that.”
“And did you?”
“Yes.”
“You were successful?”
“Yes.”
“Who was the patient suggested by Dr. Leonard?”
“Mrs. Ives.”
As though the name were a magnet, the faces in the courtroom swung in a brief half circle toward its owner. There she sat in her brief tweed skirt and loose jacket, the bright little felt hat pulled severely down over the shining wings of her hair, her hidden eyes riveted on her clasped hands in their fawn-coloured gauntlets. At the sound of her name she lifted her head, glanced briefly and levelly at the greedy, curious faces pressing toward her, less briefly and more levelly at the seraphic countenance under the drooping feather on the witness stand, and returned to the gloves. Only the curve of her lips remained for the benefit of those prying eyes—a lovely curve, ironic and inscrutable. The half circle swung back to the demure occupant of the witness box.
“And how long were you in Mrs. Ives’s employment?”
“Until .”
“What day of the month?”
“The .”
“Then on the night of the you were still in the employment of Mrs. Ives?”
“Yes.”
“Will you be good enough to tell us just what you were doing at eight o’clock that evening?”
“I had finished supper at a little before eight and was just settling down to read in the day nursery when I remembered that I had left my book down by the sandpile at the end of the garden, where I had been playing with the children before supper. So I went down to get it.”
“Had you any way of fixing the time?”
“Yes. I heard the dining room clock strike eight as I went by. I noticed it especially, as I thought, ‘That’s eight o’clock and it’s still broad daylight.’ ”
“Did you see anyone on your way out of the house?”
“I met Mr. Ives just outside the nursery door. He had come in late to dinner and hadn’t come up to say good night to the children before. He
