A STARTLING DISCOVERY IN THE VAN BURNAM MANSION IN GRAMERCY PARK.A Young Girl Found there, Lying Dead under an Overturned Cabinet.Evidences that she was Murdered before it was Pulled down upon her.Thought by Some to be Mrs. Howard Van Burnam.A Fearful Crime Involved in an Impenetrable Mystery.What Mr. Van Burnam Says about it: He does not Recognize the Woman as his Wife.
A STARTLING DISCOVERY IN THE VAN BURNAM MANSION IN GRAMERCY PARK.
A Young Girl Found there, Lying Dead under an Overturned Cabinet.
Evidences that she was Murdered before it was Pulled down upon her.
Thought by Some to be Mrs. Howard Van Burnam.
A Fearful Crime Involved in an Impenetrable Mystery.
What Mr. Van Burnam Says about it: He does not Recognize the Woman as his Wife.
So, so, it was his wife they were talking about. I had not expected that. Well! well! no wonder the girls looked startled and concerned. And I paused to recall what I had heard about Howard Van Burnam's marriage.
It had not been a fortunate one. His chosen bride was pretty enough, but she had not been bred in the ways of fashionable society, and the other members of the family had never recognized her. The father, especially, had cut his son dead since his marriage, and had even gone so far as to threaten to dissolve the partnership in which they were all involved. Worse than this, there had been rumors of a disagreement between Howard and his wife. They were not always on good terms, and opinions differed as to which was most in fault. So much for what I knew of these two mentioned parties.
Reading the article at length, I learned that Mrs. Van Burnam was missing; that she had left Haddam for New York the day before her husband, and had not since been heard from. Howard was confident, however, that the publicity given to her disappearance by the papers would bring immediate news of her.
The effect of the whole article was to raise grave doubts as to the candor of Mr. Van Burnam's assertions, and I am told that in some of the less scrupulous papers these doubts were not only expressed, but actual surmises ventured upon as to the identity between the person whom I had seen enter the house with the young girl. As for my own name, it was blazoned forth in anything but a gratifying manner. I was spoken of in one paper—a kind friend told me this—asthe prying Miss Amelia. As if my prying had not given the police their only clue to the identification of the criminal.
The New YorkWorldwas the only paper that treated me with any consideration. That young man with the small head and beady eyes was not awed by me for nothing. He mentioned me as the clever Miss Butterworth whose testimony is likely to be of so much value in this very interesting case.
It was theWorldI handed the Misses Van Burnam when they came down-stairs to breakfast. It did justice to me and not too much injustice to him. They read it together, their two heads plunged deeply into the paper so that I could not watch their faces. But I could see the sheet shake, and I noticed that their social veneer was not as yet laid on so thickly that they could hide their real terror and heart-ache when they finally confronted me again.
"Did you read—have you seen this horrible account?" quavered Caroline, as she met my eye.
"Yes, and I now understand why you felt such anxiety yesterday. Did you know your sister-in-law, and do you think she could have been beguiled into your father's house in that way?"
It was Isabella who answered.
"We never have seen her and know little of her, but there is no telling what such an uncultivated person as she might do. But that our good brother Howard ever went in there with her is a lie, isn't it, Caroline?—a base and malicious lie?"
"Of course it is, of course, of course. You don't think the man you saw was Howard, do you, dear Miss Butterworth?"
Dear?O dear!
"I am not acquainted with your brother," I returned. "I have never seen him but a few times in my life. You know he has not been a very frequent visitor at your father's house lately."
They looked at me wistfully,sowistfully.
"Say it was not Howard," whispered Caroline, stealing up a little nearer to my side.
"And we will never forget it," murmured Isabella, in what I am obliged to say was not her society manner.
"I hope to be able to say it," was my short rejoinder, made difficult by the prejudices I had formed. "When I see your brother, I may be able to decide at a glance that the person I saw entering your house was not he."
"Yes, oh, yes. Do you hear that, Isabella? Miss Butterworth will save Howard yet. O you dear old soul. I could almost love you!"
This was not agreeable to me. I a dear old soul! A term to be applied to a butter-woman not to a Butterworth. I drew back and their sentimentalities came to an end. I hope their brother Howard is not the guilty man the papers make him out to be, but if he is, the Misses Van Burnam's fine phrase,We could almost love you, will not deter me from being honest in the matter.
Mr. Gryce called early, and I was glad to be able to tell him that the gentleman who visited him the night before did not recall the impression made upon me by the other. He received the communication quietly, and from his manner I judged that it was more or less expected. But who can be a correct judge of a detective's manner, especially one so foxy and imperturbableas this one? I longed to ask who his visitor was, but I did not dare, or rather—to be candid in little things that you may believe me in great—I was confident he would not tell me, so I would not compromise my dignity by a useless question.
He went after a five minutes' stay, and I was about to turn my attention to household affairs, when Franklin came in.
His sisters jumped like puppets to meet him.
"O," they cried, for once thinking and speaking alike, "have you found her?"
His silence was so eloquent that he did not need to shake his head.
"But you will before the day is out?" protested Caroline.
"It is too early yet," added Isabella.
"I never thought I would be glad to see that woman under any circumstances," continued the former, "but I believe now that if I saw her coming up the street on Howard's arm, I should be happy enough to rush out and—and——"
"Give her a hug," finished the more impetuous Isabella.
It was not what Caroline meant to say, but she accepted the emendation, with just the slightest air of deprecation. They were both evidently much attached to Howard, and ready in his trouble to forget and forgive everything. I began to like them again.
"Have you read the horrid papers?" and "How is papa this morning?" and "What shall we do to save Howard?" now flew in rapid questions from their lips; and feeling that it was but natural they should have their little say, I sat down in my most uncomfortablechair and waited for these first ebullitions to exhaust themselves.
Instantly Mr. Van Burnam took them by the arm, and led them away to a distant sofa.
"Are you happy here?" he asked, in what he meant for a very confidential tone. But I can hear as readily as a deaf person anything which is not meant for my ears.
"O she's kind enough," whispered Caroline, "but so stingy. Do take us where we can get something to eat."
"She puts all her money into china! Such plates!—and so little on them!"
At these expressions, uttered with all the emphasis a whisper will allow, I just hugged myself in my quiet corner. The dear, giddy things! But they should see, they should see.
"I fear"—it was Mr. Van Burnam who now spoke—"I shall have to take my sisters from under your kind care to-day. Their father needs them, and has, I believe, already engaged rooms for them at the Plaza."
"I am sorry," I replied, "but surely they will not leave till they have had another meal with me. Postpone your departure, young ladies, till after luncheon, and you will greatly oblige me. We may never meet so agreeably again."
They fidgeted (which I had expected), and cast secret looks of almost comic appeal at their brother, but he pretended not to see them, being disposed for some reason to grant my request. Taking advantage of the momentary hesitation that ensued, I made them all three my most conciliatory bow, and said as I retreated behind the portière:
"I shall give my orders for luncheon now. Meanwhile, I hope the young ladies will feel perfectly free in my house. All that I have is at their command." And was gone before they could protest.
When I next saw them, they were upstairs in my front room. They were seated together in the window and looked miserable enough to have a little diversion. Going to my closet, I brought out a band-box. It contained my best bonnet.
"Young ladies, what do you think of this?" I inquired, taking the bonnet out and carefully placing it on my head.
I myself consider it a very becoming article of headgear, but their eyebrows went up in a scarcely complimentary fashion.
"You don't like it?" I remarked. "Well, I think a great deal of young girls' taste; I shall send it back to Madame More's to-morrow."
"I don't think much of Madame More," observed Isabella, "and after Paris——"
"Do you like La Mole better?" I inquired, bobbing my head to and fro before the mirror, the better to conceal my interest in the venture I was making.
"I don't like any of them but D'Aubigny," returned Isabella. "She charges twice what La Mole does——"
Twice! What are these girls' purses made of, or rather their father's!
"But she has thechicwe are accustomed to see in French millinery. I shallnevergo anywhere else."
"We were recommended to her in Paris," put in Caroline, more languidly. Her interest was only half engaged by this frivolous topic.
"But did you never have one of La Mole's hats?" Ipursued, taking down a hand-mirror, ostensibly to get the effect of my bonnet in the back, but really to hide my interest in their unconscious faces.
"Never!" retorted Isabella. "I would not patronize the thing."
"Nor you?" I urged, carelessly, turning towards Caroline.
"No; I have never been inside her shop."
"Then whose is——" I began and stopped. A detective doing the work I was, would not give away the object of his questions so recklessly.
"Then who is," I corrected, "the best person after D'Aubigny? I never can payherprices. I should think it wicked."
"O don't ask us," protested Isabella. "We have never made a study of the best bonnet-maker. At present we wear hats."
And having thus thrown their youth in my face, they turned away to the window again, not realizing that the middle-aged lady they regarded with such disdain had just succeeded in making them dance to her music most successfully.
The luncheon I ordered was elaborate, for I was determined that the Misses Van Burnam should see that I knew how to serve a fine meal, and that my plates were not always better than my viands.
I had invited in a couple of other guests so that I should not seem to have put myself out for two young girls, and as they were quiet people like myself, the meal passed most decorously. When it was finished, the Misses Caroline and Isabella had lost some of their consequential airs, and I really think the deference they have since showed me is due more to the surprisethey felt at the perfection of this dainty luncheon, than to any considerate appreciation of my character and abilities.
They left at three o'clock, still without news of Mrs. Van Burnam; and being positive by this time that the shadows were thickening about this family, I saw them depart with some regret and a positive feeling of commiseration. Had they been reared to a proper reverence for their elders, how much more easy it would have been to see earnestness in Caroline and affectionate impulses in Isabella.
The evening papers added but little to my knowledge. Great disclosures were promised, but no hint given of their nature. The body at the Morgue had not been identified by any of the hundreds who had viewed it, and Howard still refused to acknowledge it as that of his wife. The morrow was awaited with anxiety.
So much for the public press!
At twelve o'clock at night, I was again seated in my window. The house next door had been lighted since ten, and I was in momentary expectation of its nocturnal visitor. He came promptly at the hour set, alighted from the carriage with a bound, shut the carriage-door with a slam, and crossed the pavement with cheerful celerity. His figure was not so positively like, nor yet so positively unlike, that of the supposed murderer that I could definitely say, "This is he," or, "This is not he," and I went to bed puzzled, and not a little burdened by a sense of the responsibility imposed upon me in this matter.
And so passed the day between the murder and the inquest.
Mr. Gryce called about nine o'clock next morning.
"Well," said he, "what about the visitor who came to see me last night?"
"Like and unlike," I answered. "Nothing could induce me to say he is the man we want, and yet I would not dare to swear he was not."
"You are in doubt, then, concerning him?"
"I am."
Mr. Gryce bowed, reminded me of the inquest, and left. Nothing was said about the hat.
At ten o'clock I prepared to go to the place designated by him. I had never attended an inquest in my life, and felt a little flurried in consequence, but by the time I had tied the strings of my bonnet (the despised bonnet, which, by the way, I did not return to More's), I had conquered this weakness, and acquired a demeanor more in keeping with my very important position as chief witness in a serious police investigation.
I had sent for a carriage to take me, and I rode away from my house amid the shouts of some half dozen boys collected on the curb-stone. But I did not allow myself to feel dashed by this publicity. On the contrary, I held my head as erect as nature intended, and myback kept the line my good health warrants. The path of duty has its thorny passages, but it is for strong minds like mine to ignore them.
Promptly at ten o'clock I entered the room reserved for the inquest, and was ushered to the seat appointed me. Though never a self-conscious woman, I could not but be aware of the many eyes that followed me, and endeavored so to demean myself that there should be no question as to my respectable standing in the community. This I considered due to the memory of my father, who was very much in my thoughts that day.
The Coroner was already in his seat when I entered, and though I did not perceive the good face of Mr. Gryce anywhere in his vicinity, I had no doubt he was within ear-shot. Of the other people I took small note, save of the honest scrub-woman, of whose red face and anxious eyes under a preposterous bonnet (which didnot comefrom La Mole's), I caught vague glimpses as the crowd between us surged to and fro.
None of the Van Burnams were visible, but this did not necessarily mean that they were absent. Indeed, I was very sure, from certain indications, that more than one member of the family could be seen in the small room connecting with the large one in which we witnesses sat with the jury.
The policeman, Carroll, was the first man to talk. He told of my stopping him on his beat and of his entrance into Mr. Van Burnam's house with the scrub-woman. He gave the details of his discovery of the dead woman's body on the parlor floor, and insisted that no one—here he looked very hard at me—had been allowed to touch the body till relief had come to him from Headquarters.
Mrs. Boppert, the scrub-woman, followed him; and if she was watched by no one else in that room, she was watched by me. Her manner before the Coroner was no more satisfactory, according to my notion, than it had been in Mr. Van Burnam's parlor. She gave a very perceptible start when they spoke her name, and looked quite scared when the Bible was held out towards her. But she took the oath notwithstanding, and with her testimony the inquiry began in earnest.
"What is your name?" asked the Coroner.
As this was something she could not help knowing, she uttered the necessary words glibly, though in a way that showed she resented his impertinence in asking her what he already knew.
"Where do you live? And what do you do for a living?" rapidly followed.
She replied that she was a scrub-woman and cleaned people's houses, and having said this, she assumed a very dogged air, which I thought strange enough to raise a question in the minds of those who watched her. But no one else seemed to regard it as anything but the embarrassment of ignorance.
"How long have you known the Van Burnam family?" the Coroner went on.
"Two years, sir, come next Christmas."
"Have you often done work for them?"
"I clean the house twice a year, fall and spring."
"Why were you at this house two days ago?"
"To scrub the kitchen floors, sir, and put the pantries in order."
"Had you received notice to do so?"
"Yes, sir, through Mr. Franklin Van Burnam."
"And was that the first day of your work there?"
"No, sir; I had been there all the day before."
"You don't speak loud enough," objected the Coroner; "remember that every one in this room wants to hear you."
She looked up, and with a frightened air surveyed the crowd about her. Publicity evidently made her most uncomfortable, and her voice sank rather than rose.
"Where did you get the key of the house, and by what door did you enter?"
"I went in at the basement, sir, and I got the key at Mr. Van Burnam's agent in Dey Street. I had to go for it; sometimes they send it to me; but not this time."
"And now relate your meeting with the policeman on Wednesday morning, in front of Mr. Van Burnam's house."
She tried to tell her story, but she made awkward work of it, and they had to ply her with questions to get at the smallest fact. But finally she managed to repeat what we already knew, how she went with the policeman into the house, and how they stumbled upon the dead woman in the parlor.
Further than this they did not question her, and I, Amelia Butterworth, had to sit in silence and see her go back to her seat, redder than before, but with a strangely satisfied air that told me she had escaped more easily than she had expected. And yet Mr. Gryce had been warned that she knew more than appeared, and by one in whom he seemed to have placed some confidence!
The doctor was called next. His testimony was most important, and contained a surprise for me andmore than one surprise for the others. After a short preliminary examination, he was requested to state how long the woman had been dead when he was called in to examine her.
"More than twelve and less than eighteen hours," was his quiet reply.
"Had the rigor mortis set in?"
"No; but it began very soon after."
"Did you examine the wounds made by the falling shelves and the vases that tumbled with them?"
"I did."
"Will you describe them?"
He did so.
"And now"—there was a pause in the Coroner's question which roused us all to its importance, "which of these many serious wounds was in your opinion the cause of her death?"
The witness was accustomed to such scenes, and was perfectly at home in them. Surveying the Coroner with a respectful air, he turned slowly towards the jury and answered in a slow and impressive manner:
"I feel ready to declare, sirs, that none of them did. She was not killed by the falling of the cabinet upon her."
"Not killed by the falling shelves! Why not? Were they not sufficiently heavy, or did they not strike her in a vital place?"
"They were heavy enough, and they struck her in a way to kill her if she had not been already dead when they fell upon her. As it was, they simply bruised a body from which life had already departed."
As this was putting it very plainly, many of the crowd who had not been acquainted with these factspreviously, showed their interest in a very unmistakable manner; but the Coroner, ignoring these symptoms of growing excitement, hastened to say:
"This is a very serious statement you are making, doctor. If she did not die from the wounds inflicted by the objects which fell upon her, from what cause did she die? Can you say that her death was a natural one, and that the falling of the shelves was merely an unhappy accident following it?"
"No, sir; her death was not natural. She was killed, but not by the falling cabinet."
"Killed, and not by the cabinet? How then? Was there any other wound upon her which you regard as mortal?"
"Yes, sir. Suspecting that she had perished from other means than appeared, I made a most rigid examination of her body, when I discovered under the hair in the nape of the neck, a minute spot, which, upon probing, I found to be the end of a small, thin point of steel. It had been thrust by a careful hand into the most vulnerable part of the body, and death must have ensued at once."
This was too much for certain excitable persons present, and a momentary disturbance arose, which, however, was nothing to that in my own breast.
So! so! it was her neck that had been pierced, and not her heart. Mr. Gryce had allowed us to think it was the latter, but it was not this fact which stupefied me, but the skill and diabolical coolness of the man who had inflicted this death-thrust.
After order had been restored, which I will say was very soon, the Coroner, with an added gravity of tone, went on with his questions:
"Did you recognize this bit of steel as belonging to any instrument in the medical profession?"
"No; it was of too untempered steel to have been manufactured for any thrusting or cutting purposes. It was of the commonest kind, and had broken short off in the wound. It was the end only that I found."
"Have you this end with you,—the point, I mean, which you found imbedded at the base of the dead woman's brain?"
"I have, sir"; and he handed it over to the jury. As they passed it along, the Coroner remarked:
"Later we will show you the remaining portion of this instrument of death," which did not tend to allay the general excitement. Seeing this, the Coroner humored the growing interest by pushing on his inquiries.
"Doctor," he asked, "are you prepared to say how long a time elapsed between the infliction of this fatal wound and those which disfigured her?"
"No, sir, not exactly; but some little time."
Some little time, when the murderer was in the house only ten minutes! All looked their surprise, and, as if the Coroner had divined this feeling of general curiosity, he leaned forward and emphatically repeated:
"More than ten minutes?"
The doctor, who had every appearance of realizing the importance of his reply, did not hesitate. Evidently his mind was quite made up.
"Yes; more than ten minutes."
This was the shockIreceived from his testimony.
I remembered what the clock had revealed to me, but I did not move a muscle of my face. I was learning self-control under these repeated surprises.
"This is an unexpected statement," remarked the Coroner. "What reasons have you to urge in explanation of it?"
"Very simple and very well known ones; at least, among the profession. There was too little blood seen, for the wounds to have been inflicted before death or within a few minutes after it. Had the woman been living when they were made, or even had she been but a short time dead, the floor would have been deluged with the blood gushing from so many and such serious injuries. But the effusion was slight, so slight that I noticed it at once, and came to the conclusions mentioned before I found the mark of the stab that occasioned death."
"I see, I see! And was that the reason you called in two neighboring physicians to view the body before it was removed from the house?"
"Yes, sir; in so important a matter, I wished to have my judgment confirmed."
"And these physicians were——"
"Dr. Campbell, of 110 East —— Street, and Dr. Jacobs, of —— Lexington Avenue."
"Are these gentlemen here?" inquired the Coroner of an officer who stood near.
"They are, sir."
"Very good; we will now proceed to ask one or two more questions of this witness. You told us that even had the woman been but a few minutes dead when she received these contusions, the floor would have been more or less deluged by her blood. What reason have you for this statement?"
"This; that in a few minutes, let us say ten, since that number has been used, the body has not had timeto cool, nor have the blood-vessels had sufficient opportunity to stiffen so as to prevent the free effusion of blood."
"Is a body still warm at ten minutes after death?"
"It is."
"So that your conclusions are logical deductions from well-known facts?"
"Certainly, sir."
A pause of some duration followed.
When the Coroner again proceeded, it was to remark:
"The case is complicated by these discoveries; but we must not allow ourselves to be daunted by them. Let me ask you, if you found any marks upon this body which might aid in its identification?"
"One; a slight scar on the left ankle."
"What kind of a scar? Describe it."
"It was such as a burn might leave. In shape it was long and narrow, and it ran up the limb from the ankle-bone."
"Was it on the right foot?"
"No; on the left."
"Did you call the attention of any one to this mark during or after your examination?"
"Yes; I showed it to Mr. Gryce the detective, and to my two coadjutors; and I spoke of it to Mr. Howard Van Burnam, son of the gentleman in whose house the body was found."
It was the first time this young gentleman's name had been mentioned, and it made my blood run cold to see how many side-long looks and expressive shrugs it caused in the motley assemblage. But I had no time for sentiment; the inquiry was growing too interesting.
"And why," asked the Coroner, "did you mention it to this young man in preference to others?"
"Because Mr. Gryce requested me to. Because the family as well as the young man himself had evinced some apprehension lest the deceased might prove to be his missing wife, and this seemed a likely way to settle the question."
"And did it? Did he acknowledge it to be a mark he remembered to have seen on his wife?"
"He said she had such a scar, but he would not acknowledge the deceased to be his wife."
"Did he see the scar?"
"No; he would not look at it."
"Did you invite him to?"
"I did; but he showed no curiosity."
Doubtless thinking that silence would best emphasize this fact, which certainly was an astonishing one, the Coroner waited a minute. But there was no silence. An indescribable murmur from a great many lips filled up the gap. I felt a movement of pity for the proud family whose good name was thus threatened in the person of this young gentleman.
"Doctor," continued the Coroner, as soon as the murmur had subsided, "did you notice the color of the woman's hair?"
"It was a light brown."
"Did you sever a lock? Have you a sample of this hair here to show us?"
"I have, sir. At Mr. Gryce's suggestion I cut off two small locks. One I gave him and the other I brought here."
"Let me see it."
The doctor passed it up, and in sight of every onepresent the Coroner tied a string around it and attached a ticket to it.
"That is to prevent all mistake," explained this very methodical functionary, laying the lock aside on the table in front of him. Then he turned again to the witness.
"Doctor, we are indebted to you for your valuable testimony, and as you are a busy man, we will now excuse you. Let Dr. Jacobs be called."
As this gentleman, as well as the witness who followed him, merely corroborated the statements of the other, and made it an accepted fact that the shelves had fallen upon the body of the girl some time after the first wound had been inflicted, I will not attempt to repeat their testimony. The question now agitating me was whether they would endeavor to fix the time at which the shelves fell by the evidence furnished by the clock.
Evidently not; for the next words I heard were: "Miss Amelia Butterworth!"
I had not expected to be called so soon, and was somewhat flustered by the suddenness of the summons, for I am only human. But I rose with suitable composure, and passed to the place indicated by the Coroner, in my usual straightforward manner, heightened only by a sense of the importance of my position, both as a witness and a woman whom the once famous Mr. Gryce had taken more or less into his confidence.
My appearance seemed to awaken an interest for which I was not prepared. I was just thinking how well my name had sounded uttered in the sonorous tones of the Coroner, and how grateful I ought to be for the courage I had displayed in substituting the genteel name of Amelia for the weak and sentimental one of Araminta, when I became conscious that the eyes directed towards me were filled with an expression not easy to understand. I should not like to call it admiration and will not call it amusement, and yet it seemed to be made up of both. While I was puzzling myself over it, the first question came.
As my examination before the Coroner only brought out the facts already related, I will not burden youwith a detailed account of it. One portion alone may be of interest. I was being questioned in regard to the appearance of the couple I had seen entering the Van Burnam mansion, when the Coroner asked if the young woman's step was light, or if it betrayed hesitation.
I replied: "No hesitation; she moved quickly, almost gaily."
"And he?"
"Was more moderate; but there is no signification in that; he may have been older."
"No theories, Miss Butterworth; it is facts we are after. Now, do you know that he was older?"
"No, sir."
"Did you get any idea as to his age?"
"The impression he made was that of being a young man."
"And his height?"
"Was medium, and his figure slight and elegant. He moved as a gentleman moves; of this I can speak with great positiveness."
"Do you think you could identify him, Miss Butterworth, if you should see him?"
I hesitated, as I perceived that the whole swaying mass eagerly awaited my reply. I even turned my head because I saw others doing so; but I regretted this when I found that I, as well as others, was glancing towards the door beyond which the Van Burnams were supposed to sit. To cover up the false move I had made—for I had no wish as yet to centre suspicion upon anybody—I turned my face quickly back to the crowd and declared in as emphatic a tone as I could command:
"I have thought I could do so if I saw him underthe same circumstances as those in which my first impression was made. But lately I have begun to doubt even that. I should never dare trust to my memory in this regard."
The Coroner looked disappointed, and so did the people around me.
"It is a pity," remarked the Coroner, "that you did not see more plainly. And, now, how did these persons gain an entrance into the house?"
I answered in the most succinct way possible.
I told them how he had used a door-key in entering, of the length of time the man stayed inside, and of his appearance on going away. I also related how I came to call a policeman to investigate the matter next day, and corroborated the statements of this official as to the appearance of the deceased at time of discovery.
And there my examination stopped. I was not asked any questions tending to bring out the cause of the suspicion I entertained against the scrub-woman, nor were the discoveries I had made in conjunction with Mr. Gryce inquired into. It was just as well, perhaps, but I would never approve of a piece of work done for me in this slipshod fashion.
A recess now followed. Why it was thought necessary, I cannot imagine, unless the gentlemen wished to smoke. Had they felt as much interest in this murder as I did, they would not have wanted bite or sup till the dreadful question was settled. There being a recess, I improved the opportunity by going into a restaurant near by where one can get very good buns and coffee at a reasonable price. But I could have done without them.
The next witness, to my astonishment, was Mr.Gryce. As he stepped forward, heads were craned and many women rose in their seats to get a glimpse of the noted detective. I showed no curiosity myself, for by this time I knew his features well, but I did feel a great satisfaction in seeing him before the Coroner, for now, thought I, we shall hear something worth our attention.
But his examination, though interesting, was not complete. The Coroner, remembering his promise to show us the other end of the steel point which had been broken off in the dead girl's brain, limited himself to such inquiries as brought out the discovery of the broken hat-pin in Mr. Van Burnam's parlor register. No mention was made by the witness of any assistance which he may have received in making this discovery; a fact which caused me to smile: men are so jealous of any interference in their affairs.
The end found in the register and the end which the Coroner's physician had drawn from the poor woman's head were both handed to the jury, and it was interesting to note how each man made his little effort to fit the two ends together, and the looks they interchanged as they found themselves successful. Without doubt, and in the eyes of all, the instrument of death had been found. But what an instrument!
The felt hat which had been discovered under the body was now produced and the one hole made by a similar pin examined. Then Mr. Gryce was asked if any other pin had been picked up from the floor of the room, and he replied, no; and the fact was established in the minds of all present that the young woman had been killed by a pin taken from her own hat.
"A subtle and cruel crime; the work of a calculating intellect," was the Coroner's comment as he allowedthe detective to sit down. Which expression of opinion I thought reprehensible, as tending to prejudice the jury against the only person at present suspected.
The inquiry now took a turn. The name of Miss Ferguson was called. Who was Miss Ferguson? It was a new name to most of us, and her face when she rose only added to the general curiosity. It was the plainest face imaginable, yet it was neither a bad nor unintelligent one. As I studied it and noted the nervous contraction that disfigured her lip, I could not but be sensible of my blessings. I am not handsome myself, though there have been persons who have called me so, but neither am I ugly, and in contrast to this woman—well, I will say nothing. I only know that, after seeing her, I felt profoundly grateful to a kind Providence.
As for the poor woman herself, she knew she was no beauty, but she had become so accustomed to seeing the eyes of other people turn away from her face, that beyond the nervous twitching of which I have spoken, she showed no feeling.
"What is your full name, and where do you live?" asked the Coroner.
"My name is Susan Ferguson, and I live in Haddam, Connecticut," was her reply, uttered in such soft and beautiful tones that every one was astonished. It was like a stream of limpid water flowing from a most unsightly-looking rock. Excuse the metaphor; I do not often indulge.
"Do you keep boarders?"
"I do; a few, sir; such as my house will accommodate."
"Whom have you had with you this summer?"
I knew what her answer would be before she uttered it; so did a hundred others, but they showed their knowledge in different ways. I did not show mine at all.
"I have had with me," said she, "a Mr. and Mrs. Van Burnam from New York. Mr. Howard Van Burnam is his full name, if you wish me to be explicit."
"Any one else?"
"A Mr. Hull, also from New York, and a young couple from Hartford. My house accommodates no more."
"How long have the first mentioned couple been with you?"
"Three months. They came in June."
"Are they with you still?"
"Virtually, sir. They have not moved their trunks; but neither of them is in Haddam at present. Mrs. Van Burnam came to New York last Monday morning, and in the afternoon her husband also left, presumably for New York. I have seen nothing of either of them since."
(It was on Tuesday night the murder occurred.)
"Did either of them take a trunk?"
"No, sir."
"A hand-bag?"
"Yes; Mrs. Van Burnam carried a bag, but it was a very small one."
"Large enough to hold a dress?"
"O no, sir."
"And Mr. Van Burnam?"
"He carried an umbrella; I saw nothing else."
"Why did they not leave together? Did you hear any one say?"
"Yes; I heard them say Mrs. Van Burnam came against her husband's wishes. He did not want her to leave Haddam, but she would, and he was none too pleased at it. Indeed they had words about it, and as both our rooms overlook the same veranda, I could not help hearing some of their talk."
"Will you tell us what you heard?"
"It does not seem right" (thus this honest woman spoke), "but if it's the law, I must not go against it. I heard him say these words: 'I have changed my mind, Louise. The more I think of it, the more disinclined I am to have you meddle in the matter. Besides, it will do no good. You will only add to the prejudice against you, and our life will become more unbearable than it is now.'"
"Of what were they speaking?"
"I do not know."
"And what did she reply?"
"O, she uttered a torrent of words that had less sense in them than feeling. She wanted to go, she would go,shehad not changedhermind, and considered that her impulses were as well worth following as his cool judgment. She was not happy, had never been happy, and meant there should be a change, even if it were for the worse. But she did not believe it would be for the worse. Was she not pretty? Was she not very pretty when in distress and looking up thus? And I heard her fall on her knees, a movement which called out a grunt from her husband, but whether this was an expression of approval or disapproval I cannot say. A silence followed, during which I caught the sound of his steady tramping up and down the room. Then she spoke again in a petulant way.'It may seem foolish toyou' she cried, 'knowing me as you do, and being used to seeing me in all my moods. But to him it will be a surprise, and I will so manage it that it will effect all we want, and more, too, perhaps. I—I have a genius for some things, Howard; and my better angel tells me I shall succeed.'"
"And what did he reply to that?"
"That the name of her better angel was Vanity; that his father would see through her blandishments; that he forbade her to prosecute her schemes; and much more to the same effect. To all of which she answered by a vigorous stamp of her foot, and the declaration that she was going to do what she thought best in spite of all opposition; that it was a lover, and not a tyrant that she had married, and that if he did not know what was good for himself, she did, and that when he received an intimation from his father that the breach in the family was closed, then he would acknowledge that if she had no fortune and no connections, she had at least a plentiful supply of wit. Upon which he remarked: 'A poor qualification when it verges upon folly!' which seemed to close the conversation, for I heard no more till the sound of her skirts rustling past my door assured me she had carried her point and was leaving the house. But this was not done without great discomfiture to her husband, if one may judge from the few brief but emphatic words that escaped him before he closed his own door and followed her down the hall."
"Do you remember those words?"
"They were swear words, sir; I am sorry to say it, but he certainly cursed her and his own folly. Yet I always thought he loved her."
"Did you see her after she passed your door?"
"Yes, sir, on the walk outside."
"Was she then on the way to the train?"
"Yes, sir."
"Carrying the bag of which you have spoken?"
"Yes, sir; another proof of the state of feeling between them, for he was very considerate in his treatment of ladies, and I never saw him do anything ungallant before."
"You say you watched her as she went down the walk?"
"Yes, sir; it is human nature, sir; I have no other excuse to offer."
It was an apology I myself might have made. I conceived a liking for this homely matter-of-fact woman.
"Did you note her dress?"
"Yes, sir; that is human nature also, or, rather, woman's nature."
"Particularly, madam; so that you can describe it to the jury before you?"
"I think so."
"Will you, then, be good enough to tell us what sort of a dress Mrs. Van Burnam wore when she left your house for the city?"
"It was a black and white plaid silk, very rich——"
Why, what did this mean? We had all expected a very different description.
"It was made fashionably, and the sleeves—well, it is impossible to describe the sleeves. She wore no wrap, which seemed foolish to me, for we have very sudden changes sometimes in September."
"A plaid dress! And did you notice her hat?"
"O, I have seen the hat often. It was of every conceivablecolor. It would have been called bad taste at one time, but now-a-days——"
The pause was significant. More than one man in the room chuckled, but the women kept a discreet silence.
"Would you know that hat if you saw it?"
"I should think I would!"
The emphasis was that of a countrywoman, and amused some people notwithstanding the melodious tone in which it was uttered. But it did not amuse me; my thoughts had flown to the hat which Mr. Gryce had found in the third room of Mr. Van Burnam's house, and which was of every color of the rainbow.
The Coroner asked two other questions, one in regard to the gloves worn by Mrs. Van Burnam, and the other in regard to her shoes. To the first, Miss Ferguson replied that she did not notice her gloves, and to the other, that Mrs. Van Burnam was very fashionable, and as pointed shoes were the fashion, in cities at least, she probably wore pointed shoes.
The discovery that Mrs. Van Burnam had been differently dressed on that day from the young woman found dead in the Van Burnam parlors, had acted as a shock upon most of the spectators. They were just beginning to recover from it when Miss Ferguson sat down. The Coroner was the only one who had not seemed at a loss. Why, we were soon destined to know.
A lady well known in New York society was the next person summoned. She was a friend of the Van Burnam family, and had known Howard from childhood. She had not liked his marriage; indeed, she rather participated in the family feeling against it, but when young Mrs. Van Burnam came to her house on the preceding Monday, and begged the privilege of remaining with her for one night, she had not had the heart to refuse her. Mrs. Van Burnam had therefore slept in her house on Monday night.
Questioned in regard to that lady's appearance and manner, she answered that her guest was unnaturally cheerful, laughing much and showing a great vivacity; that she gave no reason for her good spirits, nor did she mention her own affairs in any way,—rather took pains not to do so.
"How long did she stay?"
"Till the next morning."
"And how was she dressed?"
"Just as Miss Ferguson has described."
"Did she bring her hand-bag to your house?"
"Yes, and left it there. We found it in her room after she was gone."
"Indeed! And how do you account for that?"
"She was preoccupied. I saw it in her cheerfulness, which was forced and not always well timed."
"And where is that bag now?"
"Mr. Van Burnam has it. We kept it for a day and as she did not call for it, sent it down to the office on Wednesday morning."
"Before you had heard of the murder?"
"O yes, before I had heard anything about the murder."
"As she was your guest, you probably accompanied her to the door?"
"I did, sir."
"Did you notice her hands? Can you say what was the color of her gloves?"
"I do not think she wore any gloves on leaving; it was very warm, and she held them in her hand. I remembered this, for I noticed the sparkle of her rings as she turned to say good-bye."
"Ah, you saw her rings!"
"Distinctly."
"So that when she left you she was dressed in a black and white plaid silk, had a large hat covered with flowers on her head, and wore rings?"
"Yes, sir."
And with these words ringing in the ears of the jury, the witness sat down.
What was coming? Something important, or the Coroner would not look so satisfied, or the faces of the officials about him so expectant. I waited with great but subdued eagerness for the testimony of the next witness, who was a young man by the name of Callahan.
I don't like young men in general. They are either over-suave and polite, as if they condescended to remember that you are elderly and that it is their duty to make you forget it, or else they are pert and shallow and disgust you with their egotism. But this young man looked sensible and business-like, and I took to him at once, though what connection he could have with this affair I could not imagine.
His first words, however, settled all questions as to his personality: He was the order clerk at Altman's.
As he acknowledged this, I seemed to have some faint premonition of what was coming. Perhaps I had not been without some vague idea of the truth ever since I had put my mind to work on this matter; perhaps my wits only received their real spur then; but certainly I knew what he was going to say as soon as he opened his lips, which gave me quite a good opinion of myself, whether rightfully or not, I leave you to judge.
His evidence was short, but very much to the point. On the seventeenth of September, as could be verified by the books, the firm had received an order for a woman's complete outfit, to be sent, C.O.D., to Mrs. James Pope at the Hotel D——, on Broadway. Sizes and measures and some particulars were stated, and as the order bore the wordsIn hasteunderlined upon it, several clerks had assisted him in filling this order, which when filled had been sent by special messenger to the place designated.
Had he this order with him?
He had.
And could he identify the articles sent to fill it?
He could.
At which the Coroner motioned to an officer anda pile of clothing was brought forward from some mysterious corner and laid before the witness.
Immediately expectation rose to a high pitch, for every one recognized, or thought he did, the apparel which had been taken from the victim.
The young man, who was of the alert, nervous type, took up the articles one by one and examined them closely.
As he did so, the whole assembled crowd surged forward and lightning-like glances from a hundred eyes followed his every movement and expression.
"Are they the same?" inquired the Coroner.
The witness did not hesitate. With one quick glance at the blue serge dress, black cape, and battered hat, he answered in a firm tone:
"They are."
And a clue was given at last to the dreadful mystery absorbing us.
The deep-drawn sigh which swept through the room testified to the universal satisfaction; then our attention became fixed again, for the Coroner, pointing to the undergarments accompanying the articles already mentioned, demanded if they had been included in the order.
There was as little hesitation in the reply given to this question as to the former. He recognized each piece as having come from his establishment. "You will note," said he, "that they have never been washed, and that the pencil marks are still on them."
"Very good," observed the Coroner, "and you will note that one article there is torn down the back. Was it in that condition when sent?"
"It was not, sir."
"All were in perfect order?"
"Most assuredly, sir."
"Very good, again. The jury will take cognizance of this fact, which may be useful to them in their future conclusions. And now, Mr. Callahan, do you notice anything lacking here from the list of articles forwarded by you?"
"No, sir."
"Yet there is one very necessary adjunct to a woman's outfit which is not to be found here."
"Yes, sir, the shoes; but I am not surprised at that. We sent shoes, but they were not satisfactory, and they were returned."
"Ah, I see. Officer, show the witness the shoes that were taken from the deceased."
This was done, and when Mr. Callahan had examined them, the Coroner inquired if they came from his store. He replied no.
Whereupon they were held up to the jury, and attention called to the fact that, while rather new than old, they gave signs of having been worn more than once; which was not true of anything else taken from the victim.
This matter settled, the Coroner proceeded with his questions.
"Who carried the articles ordered, to the address given?"
"A man in our employ, named Clapp."
"Did he bring back the amount of the bill?"
"Yes, sir; less the five dollars charged for the shoes."
"What was the amount, may I ask?"
"Here is our cash-book, sir. The amount receivedfrom Mrs. James Pope, Hotel D——, on the seventeenth of September, is, as you see, seventy-five dollars and fifty-eight cents."
"Let the jury see the book; also the order."
They were both handed to the jury, and if ever I wished myself in any one's shoes, save my own very substantial ones, it was at that moment. I did so want a peep at that order.
It seemed to interest the jury also, for their heads drew together very eagerly over it, and some whispers and a few knowing looks passed between them. Finally one of them spoke:
"It is written in a very odd hand. Do you call this a woman's writing or a man's?"
"I have no opinion to give on the subject," rejoined the witness. "It is intelligible writing, and that is all that comes within my province."
The twelve men shifted on their seats and surveyed the Coroner eagerly. Why did he not proceed? Evidently he was not quick enough to suit them.
"Have you any further questions for this witness?" asked that gentleman after a short delay.
Their nervousness increased, but no one ventured to follow the Coroner's suggestion. A poor lot, I call them, a very poor lot! I would have found plenty of questions to put to him.
I expected to see the man Clapp called next, but I was disappointed in this. The name uttered was Henshaw, and the person who rose in answer to it was a tall, burly man with a shock of curly black hair. He was the clerk of the Hotel D——, and we all forgot Clapp in our eagerness to hear what this man had to say.
His testimony amounted to this:
That a person by the name of Pope was registered on his books. That she came to his house on the seventeenth of September, some time near noon. That she was not alone; that a person she called her husband accompanied her, and that they had been given a room, at her request, on the second floor overlooking Broadway.
"Did you see the husband? Was it his handwriting we see in your register?"
"No, sir. He came into the office, but he did not approach the desk. It was she who registered for them both, and who did all the business in fact. I thought it queer, but took it for granted he was ill, for he held his head very much down, and acted as if he felt disturbed or anxious."
"Did you notice him closely? Would you be able to identify him on sight?"
"No, sir, I should not. He looked like a hundred other men I see every day: medium in height and build, with brown hair and brown moustache. Not noticeable in any way, sir, except for his hang-dog air and evident desire not to be noticed."
"But you saw him later?"
"No, sir. After he went to his room he stayed there, and no one saw him. I did not even see him when he left the house. His wife paid the bill and he did not come into the office."
"But you saw her well; you would know her again?"
"Perhaps, sir; but I doubt it. She wore a thick veil when she came in, and though I might remember her voice, I have no recollection of her features for I did not see them."
"You can give a description of her dress, though; surely you must have looked long enough at a woman who wrote her own and her husband's name in your register, for you to remember her clothes."
"Yes, for they were very simple. She had on what is called a gossamer, which covered her from neck to toe, and on her head a hat wrapped all about with a blue veil."
"So that she might have worn any dress under that gossamer?"
"Yes, sir."
"And any hat under that veil?"
"Any one that was large enough, sir."
"Verygood. Now, did you see her hands?"
"Not to remember them."
"Did she have gloves on?"
"I cannot say. I did not stand and watch her, sir."
"That is a pity. But you say you heard her voice."
"Yes, sir."
"Was it a lady's voice? Was her tone refined and her language good?"
"They were, sir."
"When did they leave? How long did they remain in your house?"
"They left in the evening; after tea, I should say."
"How? On foot or in a carriage?"
"In a carriage; one of the hacks that stand in front of the door."
"Did they bring any baggage with them?"
"No, sir."
"Did they take any away?"
"The lady carried a parcel."
"What kind of a parcel?"
"A brown-paper parcel, like clothing done up."
"And the gentleman?"
"I did not see him."
"Was she dressed the same in going as in coming?"
"To all appearance, except her hat. That was smaller."
"She had the gossamer on still, then?"
"Yes, sir."
"And a veil?"
"Yes, sir."
"Only that the hat it covered was smaller?"
"Yes, sir."
"And now, how did you account to yourself for the parcel and the change of hat?"
"I didn't account for them. I didn't think anything about them at the time; but, since I have had the subject brought to my mind, I find it easy enough. She had a package delivered to her while she was in our house, or rather packages; they were quite numerous, I believe."
"Can you recall the circumstances of their delivery?"
"Yes, sir; the man who brought the packages said that they had not been paid for, so I allowed him to carry them to Mrs. James Pope's room. When he went away, he had but one small parcel with him; the rest he had left."
"And this is all you can tell us about this singular couple? Had they no meals in your house?"
"No, sir; the gentleman—or I suppose I should say the lady, sir, for the order was given in her voice—sent for two dozen oysters and a bottle of ale, whichwere furnished to them in their rooms; but they didn't come to the dining-room."
"Is the boy here who carried up those articles?"
"He is, sir."
"And the chambermaid who attended to their rooms?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then you may answer this question, and we will excuse you. How was the gentleman dressed when you saw him?"
"In a linen duster and a felt hat."
"Let the jury remember that. And now let us hear from Richard Clapp. Is Richard Clapp in the room?"
"I am, sir," answered a cheery voice; and a lively young man with a shrewd eye and a wide-awake manner popped up from behind a portly woman on a side seat and rapidly came forward.
He was asked several questions before the leading one which we all expected; but I will not record them here. The question which brought the reply most eagerly anticipated was this:
"Do you remember being sent to the Hotel D——with several packages for a Mrs. James Pope?"
"I do, sir."
"Did you deliver them in person? Did you see the lady?"
A peculiar look crossed his face and we all leaned forward. But his answer brought a shock of disappointment with it.
"No, I didn't, sir. She wouldn't let me in. She bade me lay the things down by the door and wait in the rear hall till she called me."
"And you did this?"
"Yes, sir."
"But you kept your eye on the door, of course?"
"Naturally, sir."
"And saw——"
"A hand steal out and take in the things."
"A woman's hand?"
"No; a man's. I saw the white cuff."
"And how long was it before they called you?"
"Fifteen minutes, I should say. I heard a voice cry 'Here!' and seeing their door open, I went toward it. But by the time I reached it, it was shut again, and I only heard the lady say that all the articles but the shoes were satisfactory, and would I thrust the bill in under the door. I did so, and they were some minutes counting out the change, but presently the door opened slightly, and I saw a man's hand holding out the money, which was correct to the cent. 'You need not receipt the bill,' cried the lady from somewhere in the room. 'Give him the shoes and let him go.' So I received the shoes in the same mysterious way I had the money, and seeing no reason for waiting longer, pocketed the bills and returned to the store."
"Has the jury any further questions to ask the witness?"
Of course not. They were ninnies, all of them, and——But, contrary to my expectation, one of them did perk up courage, and, wriggling very much on his seat, ventured to ask if the cuff he had seen on the man's hand when it was thrust through the doorway had a button in it.
The answer was disappointing. The witness had not noticed any.
The juror, somewhat abashed, sank into silence, atwhich another of the precious twelve, inspired no doubt by the other's example, blurted out:
"Then what was the color of the coat sleeve? You surely can remember that."
But another disappointment awaited us.
"He did not wear any coat. It was a shirt sleeve I saw."
A shirt sleeve! There was no clue in that. A visible look of dejection spread through the room, which was not dissipated till another witness stood up.
This time it was the bell-boy of the hotel who had been on duty that day. His testimony was brief, and added but little to the general knowledge. He had been summoned more than once by these mysterious parties, but only to receive his orders through a closed door. He had not entered the room at all.
He was followed by the chambermaid, who testified that she was in the room once while they were there; that she saw them both then, but did not catch a glimpse of their faces; Mr. Pope was standing in the window almost entirely shielded by the curtains, and Mrs. Pope was busy hanging up something in the wardrobe. The gentleman had on his duster and the lady her gossamer; it was but a few minutes after their arrival.
Questioned in regard to the state of the room after they left it, she said that there was a lot of brown paper lying about, marked B. Altman, but nothing else that did not belong there.
"Not a tag, nor a hat-pin, nor a bit of memorandum, lying on bureau or table?"
"Nothing, sir, so far as I mind. I wasn't on the look-out for anything, sir. They were a queer couple,but we have lots of queer couples at our house, and the most I notices, sir, is those what remember the chambermaid and those what don't. This couple was of the kind what don't."