Mrs. Parlin was a tall, striking woman who carried her head, crowned with waves of white hair, with an air that some named queenly, and others by that terrible New England word “conceited.” The death of her husband had been a terrible blow to her soaring ambitions; but this she had outlived, at least to outward seeming. Childless, as well as husbandless, the dormant maternal instinct, which is a part of every true woman, had stirred to life under the care lavished upon her by Wing, whose years were sufficiently less than her own to give a natural tone to the pseudo relation of mother and son. Nevertheless, there had been something of the maternal in her relationship to the judge—of that phase of the maternal which gives to natural weakness courage for defence. It was not in personal finance alone that the judge was a grown-up boy. The sense of fear was so little developed as to amount scarce to caution. Scrupulous in duty, he gave no thought to the enemies or enmities he created, while she saw in these not alone threats to his professional career, but as well danger of a personal nature. Even she, standing guard as she did, had not been able to save him from enemies who defeated his noble ambition and would, as she believed, as readily have destroyed him. As the intensity of her grief softened with time, the solicitude with which she had followed her husband’s career, was transferred to Wing, but with less of the factor of self than it possessed of old, with the result that she grew more lovable and companionable, and gained a friendly interest from the village which had not been hers during the judge’s lifetime.
To this recovered peace of mind the tragic death of Wing came as a crushing blow, the full weight of which few realised until the broken, haggard woman was seen of the public for the first time at the inquest. Years seemed to have left their impress upon her, and there were many who noted that the immediate physical effect was as much more marked than that following the judge’s death, as Wing’s death had been the more tragic. Her husband’s death left to her the responsibility of protecting his name, in co-operation with his partner and friend. Wing’s death snatched away the last prop and stay of her years. Husbandless and childless, to her life had no further meaning, and while the community was whispering that she was again rich—for it was known that she was the principal legatee of the dead lawyer’s will—she was looking down the years with a dread that made hope impossible.
Her testimony was of the briefest. She had said “good-night” to Wing at half-past nine. She had gone to the library for that purpose, as was her custom evenings when he did not sit with her in her own sitting room till her early bedtime.
“Was it his custom to spend the evening in your sitting room or the library?” the coroner asked.
“Two or three evenings a week he spent in my sitting room. The other evenings in the library, when he was at home.”
“Was he away much, evenings?”
“Only when he was at court in Augusta or Portland. When he had cases at Norridgewock he always drove home at night.”
“At what time did you have supper?”
“At six.”
“On the night of the murder?”