Mitchell regarded him sourly for a second. “Cato can talk,” he said meaningly, then turned to Vera. “Did you observe Murray’s flashlight in Brainard’s bedroom on Monday night, Miss Deane?”
“No.” Vera moved a little forward and addressed them all. “I went some time after midnight to see how Mr. Brainard was getting on, and after my return to Craig’s bedroom I sat almost with my back to the mirror and sideways to the bed in a big wing chair. I did not glance upward toward the transom but recall staring steadily at Craig, whom I could see but dimly, and all the while I thought of nothing but Bruce Brainard’s treatment of my sister.” Vera paused a second to steady her voice, then continued: “It seemed bitter irony that I should be nursing him. The news that he and Millicent might be engaged shocked me, and I was only waiting until the morning to tell Mrs. Porter all that I knew about Bruce.” She stopped to clear her voice which had grown husky.
“At about three o’clock or a little after I went into Bruce’s room and was astounded to find the night light out. I felt my way to the bed and over to the table, found a box of matches and relit the candle.” Her eyes grew large with horror as the gruesome scene came vividly before her. “The sight of Bruce lying there dead deprived me of my voice, almost of my reason. Some minutes passed before I could pull myself together, then glancing down I saw that in searching for the matches I had brushed against the side of the bed and that my skirt was blood-stained.” Vera stumbled in her speech. “The last time I saw Bruce I told him that I hoped he would meet with a violent death—that was five years ago—and my spoken wish had been fulfilled.”
“Vera,” Dorothy approached her sister and clasped her tenderly, “don’t talk any more.”
“I must,” feverishly. “My first coherent idea after discovering that Bruce was really dead and beyond human assistance was to remove the bloodstains from my skirt; later I went to summon Dr. Noyes and found him gone. Mr. Mitchell,” turning to him, “when I realized that you and Dr. Thorne suspected that I had discovered Bruce’s murder some time before I went in search of assistance, I dared not tell you about the bloodstains, fearing you would think that I had killed him. God knows I had sufficient motive, knowing all that my sister had endured at his hands. Frankly, I believed that Hugh, knowing all this, had killed Bruce, and I tried to shield him—forgive the suspicion, Hugh—”
Without speaking, Wyndham wrung her hands warmly. “Don’t ask my pardon; I thought you guilty,” he confessed shamefacedly, “and from the same motive.”
Mitchell was about to speak when Millicent rose and approached Murray. She shrank slightly on meeting the counterfeiter’s eyes, but asked gently:
“Murray, I have always been kind to you. Will you not do me the justice to state that I was not in the room—that Craig was mistaken when he saw me just before you killed Bruce?”
“But you were there,” objected Murray.
“I was not,” and she stamped her foot. “I would have been aware of it, Murray.”