: Mary Roberts Rinehart
: The Circular Staircase
: Seltzer Books
: 9781455332090
: 1
: CHF 0.70
:
: Erzählende Literatur
: English
: 604
: DRM
: PC/MAC/eReader/Tablet
: ePUB
According to Wikipedia: 'Mary Roberts Rinehart (August 12, 1876-September 22, 1958) was a prolific author often called the American Agatha Christie.[1] She is considered the source of the phrase 'The butler did it', although she did not actually use the phrase herself, and also considered to have invented the 'Had-I-But-Known' school of mystery writing.... Rinehart wrote hundreds of short stories, poems, travelogues and special articles. Many of her books and plays, such as The Bat (1920) were adapted for movies, such as The Bat (1926), The Bat Whispers (1930), and The Bat (1959). While many of her books were best-sellers, critics were most appreciative of her murder mysteries. Rinehart, in The Circular Staircase (1908), is credited with inventing the 'Had-I-But-Known' school of mystery writing. The Circular Staircase is a novel in which 'a middle-aged spinster is persuaded by her niece and nephew to rent a country house for the summer. The house they choose belonged to a bank defaulter who had hidden stolen securities in the walls. The gentle, peace-loving trio is plunged into a series of crimes solved with the help of the aunt. This novel is credited with being the first in the 'Had-I-But-Known' school.'[3] The Had-I-But-Known mystery novel is one where the principal character (frequently female) does less than sensible things in connection with a crime which have the effect of prolonging the action of the novel. Ogden Nash parodied the school in his poem Don't Guess Let Me Tell You: 'Sometimes the Had I But Known then what I know now I could have saved at least three lives by revealing to the Inspector the conversation I heard through that fortuitous hole in the floor.' The phrase 'The butler did it', which has become a cliché, came from Rinehart's novel The Door, in which the butler actually did do it, although that exact phrase does not actually appear in the work.'

CHAPTER XVII  A HINT OF SCANDAL


 

In giving the gist of what happened at the inquest, I have only one excuse--to recall to the reader the events of the night of Arnold Armstrong's murder.  Many things had occurred which were not brought out at the inquest and some things were told there that were new to me.  Altogether, it was a gloomy affair, and the six men in the corner, who constituted the coroner's jury, were evidently the merest puppets in the hands of that all-powerful gentleman, the coroner.

 

Gertrude and I sat well back, with our veils down.  There were a number of people I knew: Barbara Fitzhugh, in extravagant mourning--she always went into black on the slightest provocation, because it was becoming--and Mr. Jarvis, the man who had come over from the Greenwood Club the night of the murder.  Mr. Harton was there, too, looking impatient as the inquest dragged, but alive to every particle of evidence.  From a corner Mr. Jamieson was watching the proceedings intently.

 

Doctor Stewart was called first.  His evidence was told briefly, and amounted to this: on the Sunday morning previous, at a quarter before five, he had been called to the telephone.  The message was from a Mr. Jarvis, who asked him to come at once to Sunnyside, as there had been an accident there, and Mr. Arnold Armstrong had been shot.  He had dressed hastily, gathered up some instruments, and driven to Sunnyside.

 

He was met by Mr. Jarvis, who took him at once to the east wing.  There, just as he had fallen, was the body of Arnold Armstrong.  There was no need of the instruments: the man was dead.  In answer to the coroner's question--no, the body had not been moved, save to turn it over.  It lay at the foot of the circular staircase.  Yes, he believed death had been instantaneous.  The body was still somewhat warm and rigor mortis had not set in.  It occurred late in cases of sudden death.  No, he believed the probability of suicide might be eliminated; the wounds could have been self-inflicted, but with difficulty, and there had been no weapon found.

 

The doctor's examination was over, but he hesitated and cleared his throat.

 

"Mr. Coroner," he said,"at the risk of taking up valuable time, I would like to speak of an incident that may or may not throw some light on this matter."

 

The audience was alert at once.

 

"Kindly proceed, Doctor," the coroner said.

 

"My home is in Englewood, two miles from Casanova," the doctor began. "In the absence of Doctor Walker, a number of Casanova people have been consulting me.  A month ago--five weeks, to be exact--a woman whom I had never seen came