And now, a tale well calculated to keep you in suspense.
I shall think of her often, with tenderness and gratitude, because, mark you, Lucinda, Phoebe and I were happy together.
Phoebe is dead, but Lucinda is not.
In just a moment, Epitaph, starring Paul McGrath and Barbara Becker, and written especially for suspense by Walter Black.
The lively crowd today agrees, those who think young say Pepsi's clean.
They pick the right one, the modern light one, now it's Pepsi.
For those who think young, so go ahead and pick the drink that lets you drink young as you think.
Yes, get the right one, the modern light one, now it's Pepsi.
For those who think young.
Oh, how bitter the wind is.
I almost didn't come today, dear Phoebe, but I couldn't disappoint you.
And see a new wreath for you, here, at the corner of your headstone.
Here lies Phoebe Howell Etheridge, beloved wife of Martin Pierce Etheridge, born September 19, 1843.
Passed away February 26, 1892.
Grieve not, for we shall meet where angels sing.
Oh, Phoebe, Phoebe, how I miss you.
I warned you no good would come of marrying him, yet you were so sure he loved you.
I knew it was only your money he wanted, but he shan't profit by your death.
I promise you that, my sister.
And for the aforesaid purposes pursuant to the laws of Vermont, I herewith name Aaron Jenkins, attorney at law, my executor, and so forth and so on, sir.
Well, the will itself is simple and direct.
To your housekeeper, Agatha, Miss Phoebe has left a most generous bequest of $1,000, and to your maid, Mary, the sum of $500.
I assume, Miss Lucinda and Mr. Etheridge, you will retain their services?
Well, that is entirely up to Miss Howell.
With Phoebe gone, they're all I have left. Naturally, they'll remain.
Naturally, naturally.
Well, let me see here now. Oh, yes, to you, Miss Lucinda, your sister left her gold brooch, which I understand was your mother.
Yes.
Now, she felt that with your half of your father's estate, you had no need for it.
Get on with it, Mr. Jenkins.
Yes, yes, yes, of course, my dear, I'm sorry.
Let me see. To my beloved husband, Martin Pierce Etheridge, I bequeath the remainder of my estate, including my half of the house known as the Howell Mansion,
in the fond hope that he and my dear sister will continue to live there.
I can't bear any more of this. Half of our home to this murderer.
Miss Lucinda, I beg of you.
He killed my sister. She did not fall down those steps.
Miss Lucinda, now please, Miss Lucinda, please. This is most distressing.
Believe me, you have my deepest sympathy, but you must not make such wild accusations.
You yourself were against their marriage.
True, true, but you will forgive me, Mr. Etheridge.
Oh, quite, Mr. Jenkins. I approve of this being brought into the open, sir.
I was against your union, but only because of the difference in your ages. After all, Miss Phoebe was 13 years your senior.
Yes.
And I'm sure that when Miss Lucinda has time to reflect, she will feel different.
It is my most fervent hope, sir.
Well, your attitude does you credit, sir.
Miss Lucinda, if I may be permitted to make a suggestion, get all the rest you can.
You have been under a great strain. I bid you a good day, Miss Lucinda.
Goodbye, Mr. Jenkins.
Well, Lucinda, I'm glad that this is in the open.
Look, I have long wanted to dispel your suspicions, but I can't blame you for them. Were I in your shoes, I would feel no differently.
How kind of you to reassure me on that.
Well, after all, I came here only three months ago, a complete stranger. Phoebe and I had a whirlwind courtship.
And two months later she was dead.
Yes, and whether you believe it or not, it was as great a shock to me as to you.
I choose not to believe it.
Lucinda, Phoebe's death was an accident.
And how convenient that she made a new will in your favor just two days before her death.
You're tilting at windmills, Lucinda.
Look, as her husband, I was Phoebe's heir, willed or without her will.
Ask Mr. Jenkins. I had nothing to do with her fall.
Unless you can explain how from here in the drawing room I could have reached all the way into the kitchen in the presence of Agatha and Mary, mind you, and pushed her down the cellar stairs.
Oh, by heavens, Lucinda, you're making it very difficult for me.
Then get out. Get out and leave me in peace.
No, no, out of the question.
You see, oh, I admit my faults. One of them is a love of luxury.
I like my creature comforts. I couldn't afford them elsewhere, on what Phoebe has left me.
But with both of us contributing to the upkeep of our home, we can live quite well.
You really have it all planned, haven't you?
Well, I'm not afraid to look facts in the face.
The world is full of men better dressed, better looking, far more talented than I.
Lucinda, you've always lived in this quiet backwater.
Where I came from, a man is judged by his money and his position. I had neither.
And then you met Phoebe. Quite the storybook romance.
No, no, I don't claim that. But we complemented each other well.
And now you'll spend her money without a thought for her.
Oh, on the contrary. I shall think of her often with tenderness and gratitude because
when Mark you have said that Phoebe and I were happy together.
I'm no match for your goodness, Mr. Etheridge. Let us end this painful scene.
If you wish. I shan't force myself on you.
I can afford to wait. One day you will admit that you were wrong.
You see, I can be very persuasive.
Hagee, couldn't I need the dishes tonight? I'll do them first thing in the morning.
What's your hurry?
Well, I've got an appointment with my new gentleman friend.
That one at the pharmacy? Well, he'll keep, but the dishes won't.
Matter of fact, you shouldn't be going out tonight at all.
Where's my night off, angels?
Miss Phoebe and her grave less than a month. And already you thinking of your own pleasures.
Oh, how long is the body supposed to stay in morning?
That soup spoon's tarnished. Get another one.
Don't seem like the same house with her gone.
Hagee, do you think Mr. Martin still misses her?
What a question. Of course he does.
Well, he took off his morning band.
But that doesn't mean he stopped missing her. Not everyone wears their heart in their sleeves.
Oh, I think he's awful handsome.
And I think you'd better serve up the soup. And mind you, don't spill any of it.
Oh, good evening, sir.
Good evening, Agatha. Mary.
Good evening, Mr. Martin.
Well, the table looks charming tonight.
Thank you, sir. Oh, good evening, ma'am.
Good evening, Lucinda. Oh, here. Permit me.
You may begin serving, Agatha.
Yes, ma'am. Mary. Good evening, ma'am.
Good evening.
Who put those flowers in the centerpiece?
I did, ma'am.
I mean, who sent them?
I did, Lucinda. Is that so strange?
Are those your flowers on Phoebe's grave, too?
Yes, I thought she'd like them.
Monstrous idea, isn't it, a husband leaving flowers on his wife's grave.
Your soup is getting cold, Lucinda.
Why do you keep staring at me?
Oh, was I? I beg your pardon.
I was noting how well you looked, Lucinda.
How becoming that gown is.
At the risk of arousing your suspicions,
may I add that you are a very attractive woman?
I am a 41-year-old spinster, and I am unimpressed by flattery.
Of course.
Oh, by the way, I've been mulling over an idea for a memorial to Phoebe.
What?
Well, isn't that so astonishing?
I shall never forget how she loved the little summer house in back.
It's in a shocking state of disrepair.
I think it should be cleaned and repainted, and the latticework rebuilt.
And then, you know what's next on the agenda?
What?
Four willow trees planted, one at each corner of the summer house.
Phoebe always wanted that, doesn't she?
Exactly.
All that would make a far lovelier memorial to her than a cold piece of marble.
Oh, Lucinda, why are you crying?
No, I'm sorry.
Did I say anything to offend you?
No, no. It's just...
Oh, of course. I understand.
And, Lucinda, that's only the beginning.
The grounds in the garden must be attacked with vigor and determination.
We'll make our home a showplace for the whole countryside.
You wait and see.
Ogre I may be, Lucinda,
but I have the normal share of pride in my surroundings.
And now, shall we have coffee in the drawing room?
Yes, Martin.
Why, Lucinda, for a moment I could have sworn you almost smiled at me.
Oh, well, good afternoon, Agatha. Is Miss Howlin'?
Oh, good afternoon, Mr. Jenkins. Yes, Mr. Cinder's in the library.
Thank you, Agatha.
You answering the door these days?
Mary's off on an errand, sir.
Oh, well, I thought she might have taken her inheritance
and gone for a trip around the world.
Don't bother to announce me, Agatha.
Very well, sir.
Good afternoon, Mr. Jenkins.
Oh, well, good afternoon, Miss Lucinda.
Mr. Etheridge came to see me yesterday.
Oh?
Yes, yes. He feels that you resented sharing ownership of the mansion with him.
Did he say that?
No, no, no, no, no. He said only that he felt you would be happier
if the place were entirely yours.
But I have never...
So, acting upon his instructions, I have drawn up this bill of failure,
which he has already signed,
selling you full title to the house and grounds for the sum of one dollar.
If you will allow me to say so, my dear Miss Lucinda,
I consider this gesture unbelievably noble,
especially in view of your... your... well, your attitude toward Mr. Etheridge.
No.
I beg your pardon?
I could not allow it.
Well, he says he wants to do it.
I could not possibly accept.
Well, Miss Lucinda, have you changed in your feelings toward him?
I... I was overwrought.
Oh, well, of course, of course.
Well, I'm delighted to hear you say so.
Am I to take it then that you refuse his offer?
Give me that paper.
There. That is my answer.
Oh, well, Miss Lucinda, I am very glad.
Take an old man's advice.
Tell Mr. Etheridge what you've done.
It will clear the air.
Martin?
Yes?
Mr. Jenkins was here earlier.
He brought me this deed.
Oh. It looks torn.
It is. I tore it.
Well, I'm somewhat surprised.
Did you truly think I still resented your presence here?
Lucinda, I told you once that I could be very persuasive.
But as the months have gone by, I came to realize what a wrong man was doing to you.
No one should force himself on another.
But you haven't, Martin. I mean, I was in the wrong, not you.
Can you accept my apology?
Can I? Oh, not one more word, my dear.
We started, as of this moment, with a fresh slate. Is it agreed?
Oh, yes, Martin.
Oh, you've made me humbly grateful, dear sister.
May I hope that you'll join me for a stroll in the rock garden?
Phoebe would have loved what you've accomplished, Martin.
I... It's a miracle.
Well, I did it as much for you, Lucinda, as for Phoebe.
Oh.
Won't you sit down, my dear?
Thank you.
I have something I wish to say.
You look so serious, Martin.
The truth is I'm terrified.
Of good heavens, of what?
You.
Me?
Yes, Lucinda. I must say this fast or not at all.
I had, despite all my firm resolve, fallen in love with you.
Martin.
No, no, no, no, no. Please, please allow me to finish.
I don't dare to hope.
I have no right to expect that you'll share my emotions.
But...
But I think you have come to like me.
Oh, yes, Martin.
And I have the presumption to feel that in time you can learn to care for me, as I do for you, my dear.
For my part, I have no greater ambition than to spend the rest of my life making you happy.
Oh.
Oh, Lucinda, dare I be completely honest? It has always been you.
Martin.
Oh, I had the tenderest of feelings for dear Phoebe. But it was you I was drawn to.
Oh.
You would have nothing to do with me, so I... I turned to Phoebe.
Lucinda.
Yes.
I'm asking you to marry me, my dear. May I have your answer?
Oh.
Oh, my... If I've said anything, you'll have said...
Oh, no, no, Martin. One can cry for joy, too.
Then your answer...
I will marry you whenever you wish.
Oh, my dear Lucinda.
May I sit my... my knees for a bit weak?
Oh, how I love the sound of your laughter.
In the days to come, my dear, we must make sure that you laugh often.
Oh, I will, Martin, I will.
Oh, often, Lucinda.
Yes.
One favor, my dear.
What?
That deed you tore up. I would like to have Jenkins make up another.
The house should be yours, free and clear.
Oh, Martin.
Yes, no, no, no. Suppose, my darling.
Suppose. Just suppose something should happen to me before I'll marry you.
What do you mean?
Well, I have some distant relatives, and under the law,
they might attempt to claim half the property.
We couldn't have that.
That's morbid talk, Martin.
I'm thinking of you.
Martin.
Martin, what if something were to happen to me?
I'd want to know that you inherit in my house.
Why don't we make out duplicate deeds?
Well, actually, of course, we should make wills.
Duplicate statements, leaving whatever we might decide to leave to each other,
and then having them witnessed by two disinterested persons.
Agatha and Mary.
What about them?
Our witnesses.
Are you serious, my dear?
Aren't you?
Well, of course, but it doesn't have to be done today.
You'll wish to discuss it with Jenkins.
You are to be my husband, Martin.
What would I discuss with Jenkins?
Whether it is proper to make out a will in my husband's favor?
Oh, of course not.
Well, we could do it now, and I'll take them to Jenkins tomorrow, the next day,
and tonight we'll have a little betrothal party, just the two of us.
Well, what have we here?
Our celebration. I brought the sherry.
Oh, were you poor, Martin, dear?
Certainly.
Why did you give Agatha and Mary the evening off, dear?
Oh, it's all right. I was just curious.
I didn't want to share you with anyone tonight, my darling.
This is our party.
How very like you, Martin.
Oh, blast.
What? The decanter's empty.
Yes, I'm sorry, darling. I should have checked.
No matter. I'll run down cellar and get another bottle.
Oh, would you, my dear?
Oh, you might as well bring up two bottles while you're at it.
That's a good idea. I'll be but a moment.
I'll be back.
Lucinda?
Where's the candle hole, dear?
Oh.
Lucinda?
Let's see. A wire.
It should be just about here. Ah, yes.
I haven't.
Well, we mustn't leave that here for nosy Jenkins.
No, those females to discover, must we?
There we are.
Lucinda?
Is your deck broken, Lucinda?
At least it was over quickly, wasn't it?
I do dislike cruelty.
I'm pleased that you didn't suffer.
Oh, Lucinda.
You know, really, I have been most forbearing.
Poor Lucinda.
You never had any conception of how infuriatingly dull you were.
If tedium could kill, I would be lying where you are now.
Well, I mustn't tarry.
I shall dash all the way to lawyer Jenkins and arrive horrified and breathless.
I shall be crushed.
Why, I shouldn't wonder if I became a recluse.
For at least the time it takes me to sell this mausoleum and return to civilization.
Farewell, dear dull Lucinda.
Oh, I have just the epitaph for your tombstone.
It will look so well alongside Phoebe's.
Here lies Lucinda Alice Howell, age forty-one.
Her gullibility was her undoing.
Apt, don't you think?
Very apt, Martin.
Well, Sheriff Perry, did you hear enough?
Worn enough, Miss Lucinda. Durn near turned my stomach.
Come along now, you and no tricks, I've got you covered.
But you don't understand, Lucinda.
It was all a joke. I knew you were only testing me, so I played along.
Get on with it, Ethel.
No, no, no, it was only a joke, Lucinda.
A grim one, and I played my part to perfection, don't you agree?
Oh, I do apologize for having bored you these past months, Martin, but you're free of me now.
Foolish Martin, you couldn't be content with Phoebe's murder.
You had to have everything, and so you end with nothing.
No, no, no, Lucinda.
You know, for a long time I seriously considered savoring the exquisite pleasure of killing you myself.
But then I decided to allow the law to do it for me.
So much neater, don't you agree?
No, no, Lucinda, Lucinda, please.
Take him away then.
Yes, let's go, you.
Oh, one more thing.
I must return your compliment, Martin.
I have an epitaph for you.
Here lies Martin Pierce Etheridge, age thirty-six.
He went to the well once too often.
His greediness was his undoing.
Suspense. You have been listening to Epitaph, starring Paul McGrath and Barbara Becker,
and written especially for suspense by Walter Black.
In a moment, the names of our players and a word about next week's story of suspense.
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Suspense is produced and directed by Bruno Zarratto Jr., musical supervision by Ethel Huber.
Heard in tonight's story were Frank Barron as Aaron Jenkins, Mary Michael as Agatha, Joan Loring as Mary.
Listen again next week when we return with The Man Who Knew How to Hate, written by Walter Black.
Another tale well calculated to keep you in suspense.
To a helping of Bing Crosby and Rosemary Clooney every weekday on the CBS Radio Network.