THE TWELFTH ROSE
For the next day or two the Crawford house presented the appearance usual in any home during the days immediately preceding a funeral.
By tacit consent, all reference to the violence of Mr. Crawford's death was avoided, and a rigorous formality was the keynote of all the ceremonies. The servants were garbed in correct mourning, the ladies of the house refused to see anybody, and all personal callers were met by Philip Crawford or his wife, while business acquaintances were received by Gregory Hall.
As private secretary, of course Mr. Hall was in full charge of Mr. Crawford's papers and personal effects. But, in addition to this, as the prospective husband of the heiress, he was practically the head of the house.
He showed no elation or ostentation at this state of affairs, but carried himself with an air of quiet dignity, tinged with a suggestion of sadness, which, if merely conventional, seemed none the less sincere.
I soon learned that the whole social atmosphere of West Sedgwick was one of extreme formality, and everything was done in accordance with the most approved conventions. Therefore, I found I could get no chance for a personal conversation with Miss Lloyd until after the funeral.
I had, however, more or less talk with Gregory Hall, and as I became acquainted with him, I liked him less.
He was of a cold and calculating disposition, and when we were alone, he did not hesitate to gloat openly over his bright prospects.
"Terrible thing, to be put out of existence like that," he said, as we sat in Mr. Crawford's office, looking over some papers;
"but it solved a big problem for Florence and me. However, we'll be married as soon as we decently can, and then we'll go abroad, and forget the tragic part of it all."
"I suppose you haven't a glimmer of a suspicion as to who did it," I ventured.
"No, I haven't. Not the faintest notion. But I wish you could find out. Of course, nobody holds up that bag business as against Florence, but - it's uncomfortable all the same. I wish I'd been here that night. I'm 'most sure I'd have heard a shot, or something."
"Where were you?" I said, in a careless tone.
Hall drew himself up stiffly. "Excuse me," he said. "I declined to answer that question before. Since I was not in West Sedgwick, it can matter to no one where I was."
"Oh, that's all right," I returned affably, for I had no desire to get his ill will. "But of course we detectives have to ask questions. By the way, where did you buy Miss Lloyd's yellow roses?"
"See here," said Gregory Hall, with a petulant expression, "I don't want to be questioned. I'm not on the witness-stand, and, as I've told you, I'm uncomfortable already about these so-called `clues' that seem to implicate Miss Lloyd. So, if you please, I'll say nothing."
"All right," I responded, "just as you like."
I went away from the house, thinking how foolish people could be.
I could easily discover where he bought the roses, as there were only three florists' shops in West Sedgwick and I resolved to go at once to hunt up the florist who sold them.
Assuming he would naturally go to the shop nearest the railroad station, and which was also on the way from the Crawford house, I went there first, and found my assumption correct.
The florist was more than willing to talk on the subject.
"Yes, sir," he said; "I sold those roses to Mr. Hall - sold 'em to him myself. He wanted something extra nice, and I had just a dozen of those big yellow beauties. No, I don't raise my own flowers. I get 'em from the city. And so I had just that dozen, and I sent 'em right up. Well, there was some delay, for two of my boys were out to supper, and I waited for one to get back."
"And you had no other roses just like these in stock?"
"No, sir. Hadn't had for a week or more. Haven't any now. May not get any more at all. They're a scarce sort, at best, and specially so this year.
"And you sent Miss Lloyd the whole dozen?"
"Yes, sir; twelve. I like to put in an extra one or two when I can, but that time I couldn't. There wasn't another rose like them short of New York City."
I thanked the florist, and, guessing that he was not above it, I gave him a more material token of my gratitude for his information, and then walked slowly back to my room at the inn.
Since there were no other roses of that sort in West Sedgwick that evening, it seemed to me as if Florence Lloyd must have gone down to her uncle's office after having pinned the blossom on her bodice. The only other possibility was that some intruder had entered by way of the French window wearing or carrying a similar flower, and that this intruder had come from New York, or at least from some place other than West Sedgwick. It was too absurd. Murderers don't go about decked with flowers, and yet at midnight a man in evening dress was not impossible, and evening dress might easily imply a boutonniere.
Well, this well-dressed man I had conjured up in my mind must have come from out of town, or else whence the flower, after all?
And then I bethought myself of that late newspaper. An extra, printed probably as late as eleven o'clock at night, must have been brought out to West Sedgwick by a traveller on some late train. Why not Gregory Hall, himself? I let my imagination run riot for a minute. Mr. Hall refused to say where he was on the night of the murder. Why not assume that he had come out from New York, in evening dress, at or about midnight? This would account for the newspaper and the yellow rose petals, for, if he bought a boutonniere in the city, how probable he would select the same flower he had just sent his fiancee.
I rather fancied the idea of Gregory Hall as the criminal. He had the same motive as Miss Lloyd. He knew of her uncle's objection to their union, and his threat of disinheritance. How easy for him to come out late from New York, on a night when he was not expected, and remove forever the obstacle to his future happiness!
I drew myself up with a start. This was not detective work.
This was mere idle speculation. I must shake it off, and set about collecting some real evidence.
