VI
FESSENDEN COMES
It was about nine o’clock the next morning when Rob Fessenden rang the bell of the Van Norman house. Having heard nothing of the events of the night, he had called to offer any assistance he might give before the ceremony.
The trailing garland of white flowers with fluttering streamers of white ribbon that hung beside the portal struck a chill to his heart.
“What can have happened?” he thought blankly, and confused ideas of motor accidents were thronging his mind as the door was opened for him. The demeanor of the footman at once told him that he was in a house of mourning. Shown into the drawing-room, he was met by Cicely Dupuy.
“Mr. Fessenden!” she exclaimed as she greeted him. “Then you have not heard?”
“I’ve heard nothing. What is it?”
Poor Miss Dupuy had bravely taken up the burden of telling the sad story to callers who did not know of it, and this was not the first time that morning she had enlightened inquiring friends.
In a few words she told Mr. Fessenden of the events of the night before. He was shocked and sincerely grieved. Although his acquaintance with Miss Van Norman was slight, he was Schuyler Carleton’s oldest and best friend, and so he had come from New York the day before in order to take his part at the wedding.
While they were talking Kitty French came in. As Mr. Fessenden began to converse with her Cicely excused herself and left the room.
“Isn’t it awful?” began Kitty, and her tear-filled eyes supplemented the trite sentence.
“It is indeed,” said Rob Fessenden, taking her hand in spontaneous sympathy. “Why should she do it?”
“She didn’t do it,” declared Kitty earnestly. “Mr. Fessenden, they all say she killed herself, but I know she didn’t. Won’t you help me to prove that, and to find out who did kill her?”
“What do you mean, Miss French? Miss Dupuy just told me it was a suicide.”
“They all say so, but I know better. Oh, I wish somebody would help me! Molly doesn’t think as I do, and I can’t do anything all alone.”
Miss French’s face was small and flower-like, and when she clasped her little hands and bewailed her inability to prove her belief, young Fessenden thought he had never seen such a perfect picture of beautiful helplessness. Without reserve he instantly resolved to aid and advise her to the best of his own ability.
“And Mrs. Markham doesn’t think as I do, either,” went on Kitty. “Nobody thinks as I do.”
“I will think as you do,” declared Fessenden, and so potent was the charm of the tearful violet eyes, that he was quite ready to think whatever she dictated. “Only tell me what to think, and what to do about it.”
“Why, I think Madeleine didn’t kill herself at all. I think somebody else killed her.”
“But who would do such a thing? You see, Miss French, I know nothing of the particulars. I saw Miss Van Norman for the first time yesterday.”
“Had you never met her before?”
“Oh, yes; a few years ago. But I mean, I came to Mapleton only yesterday, and saw her in the afternoon. I was to be Schuyler’s best man, you know, and as he didn’t come here to dinner last night, I thought I’d better not come either, though I had been asked. He was a little miffed with Miss Van Norman, you know.”
“Yes, I know. Maddy did flirt with Tom, and it always annoyed Mr. Carleton. Did you dine with him?”
“Yes, at his home. I am staying there. By the way, I met Miss Burt there; do you know her?”
“No, not at all. Who is she?”
“She’s a companion to Mrs. Carleton, Schuyler’s mother. I never saw her until last night at dinner.”
“No, I don’t know her,” repeated Kitty. “I don’t believe she was invited to the wedding, for I looked over the list of invitations. Still, her name may have been there. The list was so very long.”
“And now there’ll be no wedding and no guests.”
“No,” said Kitty; “only guests at a far different ceremony.” Again the deep violet eyes filled with tears, and Fessenden was conscious of a longing to comfort and help the poor little girl thrown thus suddenly into the first tragedy of her life.
“It would be dreadful enough if she had died from an illness,” he said; “but this added awfulness——”
“Yes,” interrupted Kitty; “but to me the worst part is for them to say she killed herself,—and Iknowshe didn’t. Why, Maddy was too fine and big-natured to do such a cowardly thing.”
“She seemed so to me, too, though of course I didn’t know her so well as you did.”
“No, I’m one of her nearest friends,—though Madeleine was never one to have really intimate friends. But as her friend, I want to try to do what I can to put her right in the face of the world. And you said you’d help me.”
She looked at Fessenden with such hopefully appealing eyes, that he would willingly have helped her in any way he could, but he also realized that it was a very serious proposition this young girl was making.
“I will help you, Miss French,” he said gravely. “I know little of the details of the case, but if there is the slightest chance that you may be right, rest assured that you shall be given every chance to prove it.”
Kitty French gave a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank you,” she said earnestly; “but I’m afraid we cannot do much, however well we intend. Of course I’m merely a guest here, and I have no authority of any sort. And, too, to prove that Maddy did not kill herself would mean having a detective and everything like that.”
“I may not be ‘everything like that,’” said Fessenden, with a faint smile, “but I am a sort of detective in an amateur way. I’ve had quite a good deal of experience, and though I wouldn’t take a case officially, I’m sure I could at least discover if your suspicions have any grounds.”
“But I haven’t any suspicions,” said Kitty, agitatedly clasping her little hands against her breast; “I’ve only a feeling, a deep, positive conviction, that Madeleine did not kill herself, and I’m sure I don’t know who did kill her.”
Fessenden gave that grave smile of his and only said, “That doesn’t sound like much to work upon, and yet I would often trust a woman’s intuitive knowledge against the most conspicuous clues or evidences.”
Kitty thanked him with a smile, but before she could speak, Miss Morton came into the room.
“It’s perfectly dreadful,” that lady began, in her impetuous way; “they’re going to have the coroner after all! Doctor Leonard has sent for him and he may arrive at any minute. Isn’t it awful? There’ll be an inquest, and the house will be thronged with all sorts of people!”
“Why are they going to have an inquest?” demanded Kitty, whirling around and grasping Miss Morton by her elbows.
“Because,” she said, quite as excited as Kitty herself—“because the doctors think that perhaps Madeleine didn’t kill herself; that she was—was——”
“Murdered!” exclaimed Kitty. “I knew it! I knew she was! Who killed her?”
“Mercy! I don’t know,” exclaimed Miss Morton, frightened at Kitty’s vehemence. “That’s what the coroner is coming to find out.”
“But who do you think did it? You must have some idea!”
“I haven’t! Don’t look at me like that! What do you mean?”
“It must have been a burglar,” went on Kitty, “because it couldn’t have been any one else. But why didn’t he steal things? Perhaps he did! We never thought to look!”
“How you do run on! Nobody could steal the presents, because there was a policeman in the house all the time.”
“Then, why didn’t he catch the burglar?” demanded Kitty, grasping Miss Morton’s arm, as if that lady had information that must be dragged from her by force.
Feeling interested in getting at the facts in the case, and thinking that he could learn little from these two excited women, Rob Fessenden turned into the hall just in time to meet Doctor Hills, who was coming from the library.
“May I introduce myself?” he said. “I’m Robert Fessenden, of New York, a lawyer, and I was to have been best man at the wedding. You, I know, are Doctor Hills, and I want to say to you that if the earnest endeavor of an amateur detective would be of any use to you in this matter, it is at your disposal. Mr. Carleton is my old and dear friend, and I need not tell you how he now calls forth my sympathy.”
Instinctively, Doctor Hills liked this young man. His frank manner and pleasant, straightforward ways impressed the doctor favorably, and he shook hands warmly as he said, “This is most kind of you, Mr. Fessenden, and you may prove the very man we need. At first, we were all convinced that Miss Van Norman’s death was a suicide; and though the evidence still strongly points to that, I am sure that there is a possibility, at least, that it is not true.”
“May I learn the details of the case? May I go into the library?” said Fessenden, hesitating to approach the closed door until invited.
“Yes, indeed; I’ll take you in at once. Doctor Leonard, who is in there, is the county physician, and, though a bit brusque in his manner, he is an honest old soul, and does unflinchingly what he judges to be his duty.”
Neither then nor at any time, neither to Doctor Leonard himself nor to any one else, did Doctor Hills ever mention the difference of opinion which the two men had held for so long the night before, nor did he tell how he had proved his own theory so positively that Doctor Leonard had been obliged to confess himself wrong. It was not in Doctor Hills’ nature to say “I told you so,” and, fully appreciating this, Doctor Leonard said nothing either, but threw himself into the case heart and soul in his endeavors to seek truth and justice.
Fessenden and Doctor Hills entered the library, where everything was much as it had been the night before. At one time the doctors had been about to move the body to a couch, and to remove the disfigured gown, but after Doctor Leonard had been persuaded to agree with Doctor Hills’ view of the case, they had left everything untouched until the coroner should come.
The discovery of this was a satisfaction to Robert Fessenden. His detective instinct had begun to assert itself, and he was glad of an opportunity to examine the room before the arrival of the coroner. Though not seeming unduly curious, his eyes darted about in an eager search for possible clues of any sort. Without touching them, he examined the dagger, the written paper, the appointments of the library table, and the body itself, with its sweet, sad face, its drooping posture, and its tragically stained raiment.
In true detective fashion he scrutinized the carpet, glanced at the window fastenings, and noted the appointments of the library table.
The only thing Fessenden touched, however, was a lead pencil which lay on the pen-rack. It was an ordinary pencil, but he gazed intently at the gilt lettering stamped upon it, and then returned it to its place.
Again he glanced quickly but carefully at every article on the table, and then, taking a chair, sat quietly in a corner, unobtrusive but alert.
With something of a bustling air the coroner came in. Coroner Benson was a fussy sort of man, with a somewhat exaggerated sense of his own importance.
He paused with what he probably considered a dramatic start when he saw the dead body of Miss Van Norman, and, shaking his head, said, “Alas! Alas!” in tragic tones.
Miss Morton and Kitty French had followed him in, and stood arm in arm, a little bewildered, but determined to know whatever might transpire. Cicely Dupuy and Miss Markham had also come in.
But after a glance round and a preliminary clearing of his throat, he at once requested that everybody except the two doctors should leave the room.
Fessenden and Kitty French were greatly disappointed at this, but the others went out with a feeling of relief, for the strain was beginning to tell upon the nerves of all concerned.
As usual, Miss Morton tried to exercise her powers of generalship, and directed that they should all assemble in the drawing-room until recalled to learn the coroner’s opinion.
Mrs. Markham, unheeding Miss Morton’s dictum, went away to attend to her household duties, and Cicely went to her own room, but the others waited in the drawing-room. They were joined shortly by Tom Willard and Schuyler Carleton, who arrived at about the same time.
Mr. Carleton, never a robust man, looked like a wreck of his former self. Years had been added to his apparent age; his impassive face wore a look of stony grief, and his dark eyes seemed filled with an unutterable horror.
Tom Willard, on the contrary, being of stout build and rubicund countenance, seemed an ill-fitting figure in the sad and tearful group.
But as Kitty French remarked to Fessenden in a whisper, “Poor Tom probably feels the worst of any of us, and it isn’t his fault that he can’t make that fat, jolly face of his look more funereal.”
“And he’s said to be the heir to the estate, too,” Fessenden whispered back.
“Now, that’s mean of you,” declared Kitty. “Tom hasn’t a greedy hair in his head, and I don’t believe he has even thought of his fortune. And, besides, he was desperately in love with Madeleine. A whole heap more in love than Mr. Carleton was.”
Fessenden stared at her. “Then why was Carleton marrying her?”
“For her money,” said Kitty, with a disdainful air.
“I didn’t know that,” went on Fessenden, quite seriously. “I thought Carleton was hard hit. She was a magnificent woman.”
“Oh, she was, indeed,” agreed Kitty enthusiastically. “Mr. Carleton didn’t half appreciate her, and Tom did. But then she was always very different with Tom. Somehow she always seemed constrained when with Mr. Carleton.”
“Then why was she marrying him?”
“She was terribly in love with him. She liked Tom only in a cousinly way, but she adored Mr. Carleton. I know it.”
“Well, it seems you were right about her not killing herself, so you’re probably right about this matter, too.”
“Now, that shows a nice spirit,” said Kitty, smiling, even in the midst of her sorrow. “But, truly, I’m ’most always right; aren’t you?”
“I shall be after this, for I’m always going to agree with you.”
“That’s a pretty large order, for I’m sometimes awfully disagreeable.”
“I shouldn’t believe that, but I’ve practically promised to believe everything you tell me, so I suppose I shall have to.”
“Oh, now Ihavedefeated my own ends! Well, never mind; abide by your first impression,—that I’m always right,—and then go ahead.”
“Go ahead it is,” declared Fessenden, and then Molly Gardner joined them. Molly was more overcome by the tragic turn affairs had taken than Kitty, and had only just made her appearance downstairs that day.
“You dear child,” cried Kitty, noting her pale cheeks and sad eyes, “sit right down here by us, and let Mr. Fessenden talk to you. He’s the nicest man in the world to cheer any one up.”
“And you look as if you need cheering, Miss Gardner,” said Fessenden, arranging some pillows at her back, as she languidly dropped down on the sofa.
“I can’t realize it at all,” said poor Molly; “I don’t want to be silly and keep fainting all over the place, but every time I remember how Maddy looked last night——” She glanced toward the closed library doors with a shudder.
“Don’t think about it,” said Rob Fessenden gently. “What you need most, Miss Gardner, is a bit of fresh air. Come with me for a little walk in the grounds.”
This was self-sacrifice on the part of the young man, for he greatly desired to be present when the coroner should open the closed doors to them again. But he really thought Miss Gardner would be better for a short, brisk walk, and, getting her some wraps, they went out at the front door.
VII
MR. BENSON’S QUESTIONS
It was some time after Fessenden and Molly had returned from their walk that the library doors were thrown open, and Coroner Benson invited them all to come in.
They filed in slowly, each heart heavy with an impending sense of dread. Doctor Hills ushered them to seats, which had been arranged in rows, and which gave an unpleasantly formal air to the cozy library.
The body of Madeleine Van Norman had been taken upstairs to her own room, and at the library table, where she had last sat, stood Coroner Benson.
The women were seated in front. Mrs. Markham seemed to have settled into a sort of sad apathy, but Miss Morton was briskly alert and, though evidently nervous, seemed eager to hear what the coroner had to tell.
Kitty French, too, was full of anxious interest, and, taking the seat assigned to her, clasped her little hands in breathless suspense, while a high color rose to her lovely cheeks.
Molly Gardner was pale and wan-looking. She dreaded the whole scene, and had but one desire, to get away from Mapleton. She could have gone to her room, had she chosen, but the idea of being all alone was even worse than the present conditions. So she sat, with overwrought nerves, now and then clutching at Kitty’s sleeve.
Cicely Dupuy was very calm—so calm, indeed, that one might guess it was the composure of an all-compelling determination, and by no means the quiet of indifference.
Marie was there, and showed the impassive face of the well-trained servant, though her volatile French nature was discernible in her quick-darting glances and quivering, sensitive lips.
The two doctors, Mr. Carlton, Tom Willard, and young Fessenden occupied the next row of seats, and behind them were the house servants.
Unlike the women, the men showed little or no emotion on their faces. All were grave and composed, and even Doctor Leonard seemed to have laid aside his brusque and aggressive ways.
As he stood facing this group, Coroner Benson was fully alive to the importance of his own position, and he quite consciously determined to conduct the proceedings in a way to throw great credit upon himself in his official capacity.
After an impressive pause, which he seemed to deem necessary to gain the attention of an already breathlessly listening audience, he began:
“While there is much evidence that seems to prove that Miss Van Norman took her own life, there is very grave reason to doubt this. Both of the eminent physicians here present are inclined to believe that the dagger thrust which killed Miss Van Norman was not inflicted by her own hand, though it may have been so. This conclusion they arrive at from their scientific knowledge of the nature and direction of dagger strokes, which, as may not be generally known, is a science in itself. Indeed, were it not for the conclusive evidence of the written paper, these gentlemen would believe that the stroke was impossible of self-infliction.
“But, aside from this point, we are confronted by this startling fact. Although the dagger, which you may see still lying on the table, has several blood-stains on its handle, there is absolutely no trace of blood on the right hand of the body of Miss Van Norman. It is inconceivable that she could have removed such a trace, had there been any, and it is highly improbable, if not indeed impossible, that she could have handled the dagger and left it in its present condition, without showing a corresponding stain on her hand.”
This speech of Coroner Benson’s produced a decided sensation on all his hearers, but it was manifested in various ways. Kitty French exchanged with Fessenden a satisfied nod, for this seemed in line with her own theory.
Fessenden returned the nod, and even gave Kitty a faint smile, for who could look at that lovely face without a pleasant recognition of some sort? And then he folded his arms and began to think hard. Yet there was little food for coherent thought.
Granting the logical deduction from the absence of any stain on Miss Van Norman’s hands, there was, as yet, not the slightest indication of any direction in which to look for the dastard who had done the deed.
Schuyler Carleton showed no emotion, but his white face seemed to take on one more degree of horror and misery. Tom Willard looked blankly amazed, and Mrs. Markham began on a new one of her successive crying spells. Miss Morton sat bolt upright and placidly smoothed the gray silk folds of her gown, while her face wore a decided “I told you so” expression, though she hadn’t told them anything of the sort.
But as Fessenden watched her—the rows of seats were slightly horseshoed, and he could see her side face well—he noticed that she was really trembling all over, and that her placidity of face was without doubt assumed for effect. He could not see her eyes, but he was positive that only a strong fear or terror of something could explain her admirably suppressed agitation.
The behavior of Cicely Dupuy was perhaps the most extraordinary. She flew into a fit of violent hysterics, and had to be taken from the room. Marie followed her, as it had always been part of the French maid’s duty to attend Miss Dupuy upon occasion as well as Miss Van Norman.
“In view of this state of affairs,” went on the coroner, when quiet had been restored after Cicely’s departure, “it becomes necessary to make an investigation of the case. We have absolutely no evidence, and no real reason to suspect foul play, yet since there is the merest possibility that the death was not a suicide, it becomes my duty to look further into the matter. I have been told that Miss Van Norman had expressed a sort of general fear that she might some day be impelled to turn this dagger upon herself. But that is a peculiar mental obsession that affects many people at sight of a sharp-pointed or cutting instrument, and is by no means a proof that she did do this thing. But quite aside from the temptation of the glittering steel, we have Miss Van Norman’s written confession that she at least contemplated taking her own life, and ascribing a reason therefor. In further consideration, then, of this written paper, of which you all know the contents, can any of you tell me of any fact or quote any words spoken by Miss Van Norman that would corroborate or amplify the statement of this despairing message?”
As Mr. Benson spoke, he held in his hand the written paper that had been found on the library table. It was indeed unnecessary to read it aloud, for every one present knew its contents by heart.
But nobody responded to the coroner’s question. Mr. Carleton looked mutely helpless, Tom Willard looked honestly perplexed, and yet many of those present believed that both these men knew the sad secret of Madeleine’s life, and understood definitely the written message.
Again Mr. Benson earnestly requested that any one knowing the least fact, however trivial, regarding the matter, would mention it.
Then Mrs. Markham spoke.
“I can tell you nothing but my own surmise,” she said; “I know nothing for certain, but I have reason to believe that Madeleine Van Norman had a deep sorrow,—such a one as would impel her to write that statement, and to act in accordance with it.”
“That is what I wished to know,” said Coroner Benson; “it is not necessary for you to detail the nature of her sorrow, or even to hint at it further, but the assurance that the message is in accordance with Miss Van Norman’s mental attitude goes far toward convincing me that her death is the outcome of that written declaration.”
“I know, too,” volunteered Kitty French, “that Madeleine meant every word she wrote there. Shewasmiserable, and for the very reason that she herself stated!”
Mr. Benson pinched his glasses more firmly on his nose, and turned his gaze slowly toward Miss French.
Kitty had spoken impulsively, and perhaps too directly, but, though embarrassed at the sensation she had caused, she showed no desire to retract her statements.
“I am told,” said the coroner, his voice ringing out clearly in the strange silence that had fallen on the room, “that the initial on this paper designates Mr. Schuyler Carleton. I must therefore ask Mr. Carleton if he can explain the reference to himself.”
“I cannot,” said Schuyler Carleton, and only the intense silence allowed his low whisper to be heard. “Miss Van Norman was my affianced wife. We were to have been married to-day. Those two facts, I think, prove the existence of our mutual love. The paper is to me inexplicable.”
Tom Willard looked at the speaker with an expression of frank unbelief, and, indeed, most of the auditors’ faces betrayed incredulity.
Even with no previous reason to imagine that Carleton did not love Madeleine, the tragic message proved it beyond all possible doubt,—and yet it was but natural for the man to deny it.
Doctor Hills spoke next.
“I think, Coroner Benson,” he said, as he rose to his feet, “we are missing the point. If Miss Van Norman took her life in fulfilment of her own decision, the reasons that brought about that decision are not a matter for our consideration. It is for us to decide whether she did or did not bring about her own death, and as a mode of procedure may I suggest this? Doctor Leonard and myself hold, that, in view of the absence of any stain on Miss Van Norman’s hands, she could not have handled the stained dagger that killed her. A refutation of this opinion would be to explain how she could have done the deed and left no trace on her fingers. Unless this can be shown, I think we cannotcall it a suicide.”
Although nothing would have induced him to admit it, Coroner Benson was greatly accommodated by this suggestion, and immediately adopting it as his own promulgation, he repeated it almost exactly word for word, as his official dictum.
“And so,” he concluded, “as I have now explained, unless a theory can be offered on this point, we must agree that Miss Van Norman’s unfortunate death was not by her own hand.”
Robert Fessenden arose.
“I have no theory,” he said; “I have no argument to offer. But I am sure we all wish to discover the truth by means of any light that any of us may throw on the mystery. And I want to say that in my opinion the absence of blood on the hands, though itindicates, does not positivelyprove, that the weapon was held by another than the victim. Might it not be that, taking the dagger from the table, clean as of course it was, Miss Van Norman turned it upon herself, and then, withdrawing it, let it drop to the floor, where it subsequently became blood-stained, as did the rug and her own gown?”
The two doctors listened intently. It was characteristic of both that though Doctor Hills had shown no elation when he had convinced Doctor Leonard of his mistake the night before, yet now Doctor Leonard could not repress a gleam of triumph in his eyes as he turned to Doctor Hills.
“It is possible,” said Mr. Benson, with a cautiously dubious air, though really the theory struck him as extremely probable, and he wished he had advanced it himself.
Doctor Hills looked thoughtful, and then, as nobody else spoke, he observed:
“Mr. Carleton might perhaps judge of that point. As he first discovered the dagger, and picked it up from the floor, he can perhaps say if it lay in or near the stains on the carpet.”
Everybody looked at Schuyler Carleton. But the man had reached the limit of his endurance.
“I don’t know!” he exclaimed, covering his white face with his hands, as if to shut out the awful memory. “Do you suppose I noticed such details?” he cried, looking up again. “I picked up the dagger, scarce knowing that I did it! It was almost an unconscious act. I was stunned, dazed, at what I saw before me, and I know nothing of the dagger or its blood-stains!”
Truly, the man was almost frenzied, and out of consideration for his perturbed state, the coroner asked him no more questions just then.
“It seems to me,” observed Rob Fessenden, “that the nature or shape of the stains on the dagger handle might determine this point. If they appear to be finger-marks, the weapon must have been held by some other hand. If merely stains, as from the floor, they might be considered to strengthen Doctor Hill’s theory.”
The Venetian paper-cutter was produced and passed around.
None of the women would touch it or even look at it, except Kitty French. She examined it carefully, but had no opinion to offer, and Mr. Benson waited impatiently for her to finish her scrutiny. He had no wish to hear her remarks on the subject, for he deemed her a mere frivolous girl, who had no business to take any part in the serious inquiry. All were requested not to touch the weapon, which was passed round on a brass tray taken from the library table.
Schuyler Carleton covered his eyes, and refused to glance at it.
Tom Willard and Robert Fessenden looked at it at the same time, holding the tray between them.
“I make out no finger-prints,” said Tom, at last. “Do you?”
“No,” said Fessenden; “that is, not surely. Thesemaybe marks of fingers, but they are far too indistinct to say so positively. What do you think, Doctor Leonard?”
The gruesome property was passed on to the two doctors, who examined it with the greatest care. Going to the window, they looked at it with magnifying glasses, and finally reported that the slight marks might be finger-marks, or might be the abrasion of the nap of the rug on which the dagger had fallen.
“Then,” said Coroner Benson, “we have, so far, no evidence which refutes the theory that Miss Van Norman’s written message was the expression of her deliberate intent, and that that intention was fulfilled by her.”
Once more Mr. Benson scanned intently the faces of his audience.
“Can no one, then,” he said again, “assert or suggest anything that may have any bearing on this written message?”
“I can,” said Robert Fessenden.
VIII
A SOFT LEAD PENCIL
Coroner Benson looked at the young man curiously. Knowing him to be a stranger in the household, he had not expected information from him.
“Your name?” he said quietly.
“I am Robert Fessenden, of New York City. I am a lawyer by profession, and I came to Mapleton yesterday for the purpose of acting as best man at Mr. Carleton’s wedding. I came here this morning, not knowing of what had occurred in the night, and after conversation with some members of the household I felt impelled to investigate some points which seemed to me mysterious. I trust I have shown no intrusive curiosity, but I confess to a natural detective instinct, and I noticed some peculiarities about that paper you hold in your hand to which I should like to call your attention.”
Fessenden’s words caused a decided stir among his hearers, including the coroner and the two doctors.
Mr. Benson was truly anxious to learn what the young man had to say, but at the same time his professional jealousy was aroused by the implication that there was anything to be learned from the paper itself, outside of his own information concerning it.
“I was told,” he said quickly, “that this paper is positively written in Miss Van Norman’s own hand.”
Robert Fessenden, while not exactly a handsome man, was of a type that impressed every one pleasantly. He was large and blond, and had an air that was unmistakably cultured and exceedingly well-bred. Conventionality sat well upon him, and his courteous self-assurance had in it no trace of egotism or self-importance. In a word, he was what the plain-spoken people of Mapleton called citified, and though they sometimes resented this combination of personal traits, in their hearts they admired and envied it.
This was why Coroner Benson felt a slight irritation at the young man’ssavoir faire, and at the same time a sense of satisfaction that there was promise of some worth-while help.
“I was told so, too,” said Fessenden, in response to the coroner’s remark, “and as I have never seen any of Miss Van Norman’s writing, I have, of course, no reason to doubt this. But this is the point I want to inquire about: is it assumed that Miss Van Norman wrote the words on this paper while sitting here at the table last evening, immediately or shortly before her death?”
Mr. Benson thought a moment, then he said: “Without any evidence to the contrary, and indeed without having given this question any previous thought, I think I may say that it has been tacitly assumed that this is a dying confession of Miss Van Norman’s.”
He looked inquiringly at his audience, and Doctor Hills responded.
“Yes,” he said; “we have taken for granted that Miss Van Norman wrote the message while sitting here last evening, after the rest of the household had retired. This we infer from the fact of Mr. Carleton’s finding the paper on the table when he discovered the tragedy.”
“You thought the same, Mr. Carleton?”
“Of course; I could not do otherwise than to believe Miss Van Norman had written the message and had then carried out her resolve.”
“I think, Mr. Fessenden,” resumed the coroner, “we may assume this to be the case.”
“Then,” said Fessenden, “I will undertake to show that it is improbable that this paper was written as has been supposed. The message is, as you see, written in pencil. The pencil here on the table, and which is part of a set of desk-fittings, is a very hard pencil, labeled H. A few marks made by it upon a bit of paper will convince you at once that it is not the pencil which was used to write that message. The letters, as you see, are formed of heavy black marks which were made with a very soft pencil, such as is designated by 2 B or BB. If you please, I will pause for a moment while you satisfy yourself upon this point.”
Greatly interested, Mr. Benson took the pencil from the pen-rack and wrote some words upon a pad of paper. Doctor Leonard and Doctor Hills leaned over the table to note results, but no one else stirred.
“You are quite right,” said Mr. Benson; “this message was not written with this pencil. But what does that prove?”
“It proves nothing,” said Fessenden calmly, “but it is pretty strong evidence that the message was not written at this table last night. For had there been any other pencil on the table, it would doubtless have remained. Assuming, then that Miss Van Norman wrote this message elsewhere, and with another pencil, it loses the special importance commonly attributed to the words of one about to die.”
“It does,” said Mr. Benson, impressed by the fact, but at a loss to know whither the argument was leading.
“Believing, then,” went on the lawyer, “that this paper had not been written in this room last evening, I began to conjecture where it had been written. For one would scarcely expect a message of that nature to be written in one place and carried to another. I was so firmly convinced that something could be learned on this point, that just before we were summoned to this room, I asked permission of Mrs. Markham to examine the appointments of Miss Van Norman’s writing-desk in her own room, and I found in her desk no soft pencils whatever. There were several pencils, of gold and of silver and of ordinary wood, but the lead in each was as hard as this one on the library table. Urged on by what seemed to me important developments, I persuaded Mrs. Markham to let me examine all of the writing-desks in the house. I found but one soft pencil, and that was in the desk of Miss Dupuy, Miss Van Norman’s secretary. It is quite conceivable that Miss Van Norman should write at her secretary’s desk, but I found myself suddenly confronted by another disclosure. And that is that the handwritings of Miss Van Norman and Miss Dupuy are so similar as to be almost identical. In view of the importance of this written message, should it not be more carefully proved that this writing is really Miss Van Norman’s own?”
“It should, indeed,” declared Coroner Benson, who was by this time quite ready to agree to any suggestion Mr. Fessenden might make. “Will somebody please ask Miss Dupuy to come here?”
“I will,” said Miss Morton, and, rising, she quickly rustled from the room.
Of course, every one present immediately remembered that Miss Dupuy had left the room in a fit of hysterical emotion, and wondered in what frame of mind she would return.
Nearly every one, too, resented Miss Morton’s officiousness. Whatever errand was to be done, she volunteered to do it, quite as if she were a prominent member of the household, instead of a lately arrived guest.
“This similarity of penmanship is a very important point,” observed Mr. Benson, “a very important point indeed. I am surprised that it has not been remarked sooner.”
“I’ve often noticed that they wrote alike,” said Kitty French impulsively, “but I never thought about it before in this matter. You see”—she involuntarily addressed herself to the coroner, who listened with interest—“you see, Madeleine instructed Cicely to write as nearly as possible like she did, because Cicely was her social secretary and answered all her notes, and wrote letters for her, and sometimes Cicely signed Madeleine’s name to the notes, and the people who received them thought Maddy wrote them herself. She didn’t mean to deceive, only sometimes people don’t like to have their notes answered by a secretary, and so it saved a lot of trouble. I confess,” Kitty concluded, “that I can’t always tell the difference in their writing myself, though I usually can.”
Miss Morton returned, bringing Cicely with her. Still officious of manner, Miss Morton rearranged some chairs, and then seated herself in the front row with Cicely beside her. She showed what seemed almost an air of proprietorship in the girl, patting her shoulder, and whispering to her, as if by way of encouragement.
But Miss Dupuy’s demeanor had greatly changed. No longer weeping, she had assumed an almost defiant attitude, and her thin lips were tightly closed in a way that did not look promising to those who desired information.
With a conspicuous absence of tact or diplomacy, Mr. Benson asked her abruptly, “Did you write this paper?”
“I did,” said Cicely, and as soon as the words were uttered her lips closed again with a snap.
Her reply fell like a bombshell upon the breathless group of listeners. Tom Willard was the first to speak.
“What!” he exclaimed. “Maddy didn’t write that? You wrote it?”
“Yes,” asserted Cicely, looking Tom squarely in the eyes.
“When did you write it?” asked the coroner.
“A week or more ago.”
“Why did you write it?”
“I refuse to tell.”
“Who is the S. mentioned on this paper?”
“I refuse to tell.”
“You needn’t tell. That is outside the case. It is sufficient for us to know that Miss Van Norman did not write this paper. If you wrote it, it has no bearing on the case. Your penmanship is very like hers.”
“I practised to make it so,” said Cicely. “Miss Van Norman desired me to do so, that I might answer unimportant notes and sign her name to them. They were in no sense forgeries. Ladies frequently have their own names signed by their secretaries. Miss Van Norman often received notes like that.”
“Why did you not tell before that you wrote this paper supposed to have been written by Miss Van Norman?”
“Nobody asked me.” Miss Dupuy’s tone was defiant and even pert. Robert Fessenden began to look at the girl with increasing interest. He felt quite sure that she knew more about the tragedy than he had suspected. His detective instinct became immediately alert, and he glanced significantly at Kitty French.
She was breathlessly watching Cicely, but nothing could be learned from the girl’s inscrutable face, and to an attentive listener her very voice did not ring true.
Doctor Leonard and Doctor Hills looked at each other. Both remembered that the night before, Cicely had stealthily opened the door of the library and put her head in, but seeing them, had quickly gone back again.
This information might or might not be of importance, but after a brief whispered conference, the two men concluded that it was not the time then to refer to it.
Mr. Carleton, though still pale and haggard of face, seemed to have taken on new interest, and listened attentively to the conversation, while big, good-natured Tom Willard leaned forward and took the paper, and then sat studying it, with a perplexed expression.
“But why did you not volunteer the information? You must have known it was of great importance.” The coroner spoke almost petulantly, and indeed Miss Dupuy had suppressed important information.
At his question she became greatly embarrassed. She blushed and looked down, and then, with an effort resuming her air of defiance, she snapped out her answer: “I was afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
“Afraid that they would think somebody killed Miss Van Norman, instead of that she killed herself, as she did.”
“How do you know she did?”
“I don’t know it, except that I left her here alone when I went to my room, and the house was all locked up, and soon after that she was found dead. So she must have killed herself.”
“Those conclusions,” said the coroner pompously, “are for us to arrive at, not for you to declare. The case,” he then said, turning toward the doctors and the young detective, “is entirely changed by the hearing of Miss Dupuy’s testimony. The fact that the note was not written by Miss Van Norman, will, I’m sure, remove from the minds of the doctors the possibility of suicide.”
“It certainly will,” said Doctor Leonard. “I quite agree with Doctor Hills that except for the note all evidence is against the theory of suicide.”
“Then,” went on Mr. Benson, “if it is not a suicide, Miss Van Norman must have been the victim of foul play, and it is our duty to investigate the matter, and attempt to discover whose hand it was that wielded the fatal dagger.”
Mr. Benson was fond of high-sounding words and phrases, and, finding himself in charge of what promised to be a mysterious, if not a celebrated, case, he made the most of his authoritative position.
Robert Fessenden paid little attention to the coroner’s speech. His brain was working rapidly, and he was trying to piece together such data as he had already accumulated in the way of evidence. It was but little, to be sure, and in lieu of definite clues he allowed himself to speculate a little on the probabilities.
But he realized that he was in the presence of a mysterious murder case, and he was more than willing to do anything he could toward discovering the truth of the matter.
The known facts were so appalling, and any evidence of undiscovered facts was as yet so extremely slight, that Fessenden felt there was a great deal to be done.
He was trying to collect and systematize his own small fund of information when he realized that the audience was being dismissed.
Mr. Benson announced that he would convene a jury and hold an inquest that same afternoon, and then he would expect all those now present to return as witnesses.
Without waiting to learn what the others did, Fessenden turned to Kitty French, and asked her to go with him for a stroll.
“You need fresh air,” he said, as they stepped from the veranda; “but, also, I need you to talk to. I can formulate my ideas better if I express them aloud, and you are such a clear-headed and sympathetic listener that it helps a lot.”
Kitty smiled with pleasure at the compliment, then her pretty face became grave again as she remembered what must be the subject of their conversation.
“Before I talk to the lawyers or detectives who will doubtless soon infest the house, I want to straighten out my own ideas.”
“I don’t see how you can have any,” said Kitty; “I mean, of course, any definite ideas about who committed the murder.”
“I haven’t really definite ones, but I want you to help me get some.”
“Well,” said Kitty, looking provokingly lovely in her serious endeavor to be helpful, “let’s sit down here and talk it over.”
“Here” was a sort of a rustic arbor, which was a delightful place for a tête-à-tête, but not at all conducive to deep thought or profound conversation.
“Go on,” said Kitty, pursing her red lips and puckering her white brow in her determination to supply the help that was required of her.
“But I can’t go on, if you look like that! All logic and deduction fly out of my head, and I can think only of poetry and romance. And it won’t do! At least, not now. Can’t you try to give a more successful imitation of a coroner’s jury?”
Kitty tried to look stupid and wise, both at once, and only succeeded in looking bewitching.
“It’s no use,” said Fessenden; “I can’t sit facing you, as I would the real thing in the way of juries. So I’ll sit beside you, and look at the side of that distant barn, while we talk.”
So he turned partly round, and, fixing his gaze on the stolid red barn, said abruptly:
“Who wrote that paper?”
“I don’t know,” said Kitty, feeling that she couldn’t help much here.
“Somehow, I can’t seem to believe that Dupuy girl wrote it. She sounded to me like a lady reciting a fabrication.”
“I thought that, too,” said Kitty. “I never liked Cicely, because I never trusted her. But Maddy was very fond of her, and she wouldn’t have been, unless she had found Cicely trustworthy.”
“Come to luncheon, you two,” said Tom Willard, as he approached the arbor.
“Oh, Mr. Willard,” said Kitty, “who doyouthink wrote that paper?”
“Why, Miss Dupuy,” said Tom, in surprise. “She owned up to it.”
“Yes, I know; but I’m not sure she told the truth.”
“I don’t know why she shouldn’t,” said Tom, thoughtfully. And then he added gently, “And, after looking at it closely, I felt sure, myself, it wasn’t Maddy’s writing, after all.”
“Then it must be Cicely’s,” said Kitty. “I admit I can’t tell them apart.”
And then the three went back to the house.