“How about the executive set-up?” asked the Inspector curiously. “With Thurlow out of circulation—”
“Well, we’ve tried to get Sheila’s father to change his mind about taking an active part in the business,” said Charley, “but Steve just won’t. Says he’s too old and wants only to live the rest of his life out playing checkers with that old scalawag Gotch. So that sort of leaves it up to Sheila. Of course, Louella and Horatio are out of the question, and now that Thurlow’s gone, they’ll do as Sheila says.”
“We’ve had a long talk with Louella and Horatio,” said Sheila, “and they’ve agreed to accept incomes and not stand in the way of the reorganization. They’ll live on at the old house on the Drive. But Daddy and Major Gotch are taking an apartment, and of course Charley and I will take our own place, too.” She shivered the least bit. “I can’t wait to get out of the house.”
“Amen,” said Charley in a low voice.
Ellery smiled. “Then from now on I’m going to have to address you as Madam President, Sheila?”
“Looks that way,” retorted Sheila. “Actually, I’ll be President only for the record. With Mr. Underhill handling production and Charley the business end — he insists on it — I won’t have anything to do but clip coupons.”
“What a life,” groaned the Inspector.
“And of course,” said Sheila in an altered tone, gazing at the floor, “of course, Ellery, I can’t tell you how grateful I am for everything you’ve done for us—”
“Spare me,” pleaded Ellery.
“And Sheila and I sort of thought,” said Charley, “that we’d be even more grateful if you sort of finished the job—”
“Beg pardon?”
“What’s the matter with you two?” laughed Sheila. “Charley, can’t you even extend a simple invitation? Ellery, Charley would like you to be best man tomorrow, and — well, I think you know how thrilled I’d be.”
“On one condition.”
Charley looked relieved, “Anything!”
“Don’t be so rash, Charley. I’d like to kiss the bride.” That’ll hold you, brother! thought Mr. Queen uncharitably.
“Sure,” said Charley with a weak grin. “Help yourself.”
Mr. Queen did so, liberally.
Now this was strange, that even in the peace of the church, with Dr. Crittenden smilingly holding his Book open before him, and Sheila standing before him straight and still and tense to the left, her father a little behind and to one side of her, and Charley Paxton standing just as solemnly to the right, Ellery behind him... even here, even now, the flies buzzed about Ellery’s eye.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this company...”
Inspector Queen stood behind Ellery. With his father’s quiet breathing in his ear, the son was suddenly seized with an irrelevance, so unpredictable is the human mind in its crises of desperation. He slipped his hand into his coat pocket to feel for the ring of which he was honored custodian, and also to finger absently the three documents that lay there. The Inspector had given them to Ellery that morning.
“Give them back to Charley for his files, or hold them for him,” the Inspector had said. “Lord knows I can’t get rid of ’em fast enough.”
One was the Old Woman’s will. His fingers knew that by the thickness of the wrapper. The Old Woman...
“... to join together this Man and this Woman in holy Matrimony; which is an honorable estate, instituted of God...”
The Old Woman’s confession. Her notepaper. Only one left, anyhow, so it must be. He found it outside his pocket, in his hand. Now how did that happen? Ellery thought innocently. He glanced down at it.
“... and therefore is not by any to be entered into unadvisedly or lightly...”
Forged confession. Never written by the Old Woman. That signature — traced off in the same soft pencil... Ellery found himself turning the closely typed sheet over. It was perfectly clean. Not a pencil mark, not the sign of an erasure.
“... but reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly and in the fear of God.”
Something clicked in the Queen brain. Swiftly he took the slip of flimsy from his pocket, the stock memorandum from which he had decided — how long ago it seemed! — the signature of Cornelia Potts had been traced onto the “confession.”
He turned it over. On the back of the memorandum he now noticed, for the first time, the faint but clean pencil impression in reverse of the words “Cornelia Potts.”
He shifted his position so that he might hold the memorandum up to a ruffle of sunlight skirting Charley’s arm. The pencil impression on the reverse of the memorandum lay directly over the signature on the face, with no slightest blurring.
“Into this holy estate these two persons present come now to be joined.”
Ellery turned, groped for his father’s arm.
Inspector Queen looked at him blankly. Then, scanning Ellery’s face, he leaned forward and whispered: “Ellery! Don’t you feel well? What’s the matter?”
Ellery wet his lips.
“If any man can show just cause, why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him speak now—”
“Damn it!” blurted Ellery.
Dr. Crittenden almost dropped the Book.
Ellery’s face was convulsed. He was pale and in a rage, the two documents in his hand rustling like rumors. Later, he said he did not remember having blasphemed. “Stop,” he said a little hoarsely. “Stop the wedding.”
28
The End of the Beginning
Inspector Queen whispered: “El, are you crazy? This is a wedding!”
They’ll never believe me, thought Ellery painfully. Why did I get mixed up in this fandango? “Please forgive me,” he said to Dr. Crittenden, whose expression of amazement had turned to severity. “Believe me, Doctor, I’d never have done this if I hadn’t considered it imperative.”
“I’m sure, Mr. Queen,” replied the pastor coldly, “I can’t understand how anything could be more important than a solemnization of marriage between two worthy young people.”
“What’s happened? What’s the matter, Ellery?” cried Charley. “Dr. Crittenden, please — would you be kind enough to leave us alone for five minutes with Mr. Queen?”
Sheila was looking fixedly at Ellery. “Yes, Doctor, please.”
“B-but Sheila,” began her father. Sheila took old Steve’s arm and took him aside, whispering to him.
Dr. Crittenden looked appalled. Then he left the chapel with agitated steps to retire to his vestry.
“Well?” said Sheila, when the vestry door had closed. Her tone was arctic.
“Please understand. This can’t wait. You two can always be married; but this can’t wait.”
“What can’t wait, Ellery?” demanded Charley.
“The undoing of the untruth.” Ellery cleared his throat; it seemed full of frogs and bulrushes. “The telling of the truth. I don’t see it clearly yet, but something’s wrong—”
His father was stern. “What are you talking about? This isn’t like you, son.”
“I’m not like myself — nothing is as it should be.” Ellery shook his head as he had shaken it that night on the floor of the Potts study after Thurlow had shot at him. “We’ve made a mistake, that’s all. I’ve made a mistake. One thing I do see: the case is still unsolved.’’
Sheila gave voice to a little whimper, so tired, so without hope, that Ellery almost decided to say he had slipped a gear somewhere and that this was all, all a delusion of a brain fallen ill. Almost; not quite.