Inspector Queen’s Own Case

He was, too. He had chubby arms and legs, a formidable little chest, and fat cheeks. He was sleeping with his arms defending his head in a curious attitude of defiance and helplessness; his silky brows were bunched in a troubled way. Richard Queen thought, They look so... so... He could not think of the word. Some feelings there were no words for. He was surprised to find that he still had them.

“It’s just that Mrs. Humffrey is so nervous,” Jessie Sherwood was saying. “She won’t trust an ordinary nursemaid. And I’ve been a pediatric and maternity nurse practically my entire career. Ordinarily I wouldn’t take a case like this — a perfectly healthy baby — I could be taking care of someone who really needs me. But I’ve rather overdone it the past few years, and Mr. Humffrey’s offer was so generous—”

She stopped abruptly. Why was she telling all this to a perfect stranger? She was appalled.

“Never married?” the old man asked casually.

“Beg pardon? Oh, you mean me.” Her face changed. “I was engaged once. During the war.”

It was her eyes that were crinkled now, but not with laughter.

“He was a doctor,” she explained. “He was killed in Normandy.”

The old man nodded. They stood over the carriage side by side, looking through the netting at the tiny sleeping face.

What am I thinking of? he thought. A vigorous, attractive woman... and what am I but a withering old fool?

He fumbled with the button of his jacket. “I can’t tell you how nice it’s been talking to you, Miss Sherwood.”

She looked up quickly. “You’re going?”

“Well, I’d better lift some of Mr. Humffrey’s gas and start back. Becky — Mrs. Pearl — will be having fits if I don’t show up for lunch. She’s been trying to put some meat on my bones.”

“I don’t see why,” Jessie Sherwood said warmly. “I think you’re built beautifully for—”

“For a man my age?” He smiled. “I hope we meet again some time.”

“Yes,” she said in a low voice. “I don’t know a soul here. On Thursdays I go crazy. That’s my day off—”

But he merely said, “I know what you mean. Well.” His smile was fixed. “Good-by, Miss Sherwood. And thanks. I’ll mail Mr. Humffrey a check tonight.”

“Good-by,” Jessie Sherwood said.

He did not even wave to her as he pulled away from the dock.

Independence Day was a Monday, and it developed into the noisiest Fourth Nurse Sherwood could remember. In spite of the ban on their sale, fireworks crackled, hissed, swooshed, and screeched into the skies over Nair Island all day.

The continuous barrage had made little Michael fret and wail, and his displeasure infected the household. Mrs. Humffrey wrung her hands and hovered all day; Mrs. Charbedeau, the cook, overdid the roast and exchanged bickering sarcasms with Mrs. Lenihan, the housekeeper; Mrs. Lenihan snapped the head off Rose Healy, the upstairs maid, and reduced Marie Tompkins, the downstairs maid, to the sullen verge of Notice. Even old Stallings, the gardener, ordinarily the most unaffected of men, threatened wrathfully to bust Henry Cullum in the snoot if the chauffeur ever again backed a car five feet onto his lawn in the poorly planned apron behind the Humffrey garage.

Alton Humffrey was annoyed. The Island’s one road was as crowded all day as Front Street in Taugus; the surrounding waters splashed and spluttered well into the evening with hundreds of holiday craft from the mainland; and Cullum had to be delegated to stand guard on the Humffrey beach to chase trespassing picnickers away.

Worst of all, Ronald Frost made a scene. Frost was Humffrey’s nephew, the only child of the millionaire’s dead sister. He lived on a small income from his mother’s estate, spending most of his time as a house guest of his numerous socialite friends, making a partner for an odd girl or teaching someone’s cousin to play tennis.

The young man had come up to spend the weekend, along with some relatives of Sarah Humffrey’s from Andover, Maiden and Cambridge; and whereas the Stiles clan, all elderly people, had sensibly left on Sunday night to get the jump on the northbound traffic, Ronald Frost lingered well into Independence Day. What the attraction was Jessie Sherwood failed at first to see, unless it was his uncle’s liquor cabinet; certainly he made no secret of his boredom, and his visits to the cabinet were frequent.

Ron was a younger edition of his mother’s brother — tall, thin, shoulderless, with lifeless brown hair and slightly popping eyes. But he had an unpleasant smile, half unction, half contempt; and he treated servants vilely.

Jessie Sherwood heard the row from the nursery that afternoon while she was changing the baby; Alton Humffrey’s upstairs study was across the hall. Apparently Ron Frost was mired in a financial slough and expected his uncle to pull him out.

“I’m afraid, Ronald, you’ll have to look for relief elsewhere this time,” Jessie heard the older man say in his chill, nasal voice.

“What?” Young Frost was astounded.

“This avenue is closed to you.”

“You don’t mean it!”

“Never more serious in my life.”

“But Uncle Alton, I’m in a rotten jam.”