XV
FESSENDEN’S DETECTIVE WORK
Next morning Rob went over to the Van Norman house with a clearly developed plan of action. He declared to himself that he would allow no circumstance to shake his faith in his friend, that he would hold Carleton innocent of all wrongdoing in the affair, and that he would put all his ingenuity and cleverness to work to discover the criminal or any clue that might lead to such a discovery.
Although some questions he had wished to ask Cicely Dupuy were yet unanswered, Fessenden had discovered several important facts, and, after being admitted to the house, he looked about him for a quiet spot to sit down and tabulate them in black and white. The florist’s men were still in the drawing-room, so he went into the library. Here he found only Mrs. Markham and Miss Morton, who were apparently discussing a question on which they held opposite opinions.
“Come in, Mr. Fessenden,” said Mrs. Markham, as he was about to withdraw. “I should be glad of your advice. Ought I to give over the reins of government at once to Miss Morton?”
“Why not?” interrupted Miss Morton, herself. “The house is mine; why should I not be mistress here?”
Fessenden repressed a smile. It seemed to him absurd that these two middle-aged women should discuss an issue of this sort with such precipitancy.
“It seems to me a matter of good taste,” he replied. “The house, Miss Morton, is legally yours, but as its mistress, I think you’d show a more gracious manner if you would wait for a time before making any changes in the domestic arrangements.”
Apparently undesirous of pursuing the gracious course he recommended, Miss Morton rose abruptly and flounced out of the room.
“Now she’s annoyed again,” observed Mrs. Markham placidly. “The least little thing sets her off.”
“If not intrusive, Mrs. Markham, won’t you tell me how it comes about that Miss Morton inherits this beautiful house? Is she a relative of the Van Normans?”
“Not a bit of it. She was Richard Van Norman’s sweetheart, years and years andyearsago. They had a falling-out, and neither of them ever married. Of course he didn’t leave her any of his fortune. But only a short time ago, long after her uncle’s death, Madeleine found out about it from some old letters. She determined then to hunt up this Miss Morton, and she did so, and they had quite a correspondence. She came here for the wedding, and Madeleine intended she should make a visit, and intended to give her a present of money when she went away. In the meantime Madeleine had made her will, though I didn’t know this until to-day, leaving the place and all her own money to Miss Morton. I’m not surprised at this, for Tom Willard has plenty, and as there was no other heir, I know Madeleine felt that part of her uncle’s fortune ought to be used to benefit the woman he had loved in his youth.”
“That explains Miss Morton, then,” said Fessenden. “But what a peculiar woman she is!”
“Yes, she is,” agreed Mrs. Markham, in her serene way. “But I’m used to queer people. Richard Van Norman used to give way to the most violent bursts of temper I ever saw. Maddy and Tom are just like him. They would both fly into furious rages, though I must say they didn’t do it often, and never unless for some deep reason.”
“And Mr. Carleton—has he a high temper?”
Mrs. Markham’s brow clouded. “I don’t understand that man,” she said slowly. “I don’t think he has a quick temper, but there’s something deep about him that I can’t make out. Oh, Mr. Fessenden, do you think he killed our Madeleine?”
“Do you?” said Fessenden suddenly, looking straight at her.
“I do,” she said, taken off her guard. “That is, I couldn’t believe it, only, what else can I think? Mr. Carleton is a good man, but I know Maddy never killed herself, and I know the way this house is locked up every night. No burglar or evil-doer could possibly get in.”
“But the murderer may have been concealed in the house for hours beforehand.”
“Nonsense! That would be impossible, with a house so full of people, and the wedding preparations going on, and everything. Besides, Mr. Hunt would have heard any intruder prowling around; and then again, how could he have gone out? Everything was bolted on the inside, except the front door, and had he gone out that way he must surely have been heard.”
“Well reasoned, Mrs. Markham! I think, with you, we may dismiss the possibility of a burglar. The time was too short for anything except a definitely premeditated act. And yet I cannot believe the act was that of Schuyler Carleton. I know that man very well, and a truer, braver soul never existed.”
“I know it,” declared Mrs. Markham, “but I think I’m justified in telling you this. Mr. Carleton didn’t love Madeleine, and he did love another girl. Madeleine worshipped him, and I think he came last night to ask her to release him, and she refused, and then—and then——”
Something about Mrs. Markham’s earnest face and sad, distressed voice affected Fessenden deeply, and he wondered if this theory she had so clearly, though hesitatingly, stated, could be the true one. Might he, after all, be mistaken in his estimate of Schuyler Carleton, and might Mrs. Markham’s suggestion have even a foundation of probability?
They were both silent for a few minutes, and then Mr. Fessenden said, “But you thought it was suicide at first.”
“Indeed I did; I looked at the paper through glasses that were dim with tears, and it looked to me like Madeleine’s writing. Of course Miss Morton also thought it was, as she was only slightly familiar with Maddy’s hand. But now that we know some one else wrote that message, of course we also know the dear girl did not bring about her own death.”
Mrs. Markham was called away on some household errands then, and Fessenden remained alone in the library, trying to think of some clue that would point to some one other than Carleton.
“I’m sure that man is not a murderer,” he declared to himself. “Carleton is peculiar, but he has a loyal, honest heart. And yet, if not, who can have done the deed? I can’t seem to believe it really was either the Dupuy woman or the Burt girl. And Iknowit wasn’t Schuyler! There must have been some motive of which I know nothing. And perhaps I also know nothing of the murderer. It need not necessarily have been one of these people we have already questioned.” His thoughts strayed to the under-servants of the house, to common burglars, or to some powerful unknown villain. But always the thought returned that no one could have entered and left the house unobserved within that fatal hour.
And then, to his intense satisfaction, Kitty French came into the room.
“Good morning, Rose of Dawn,” he said, looking at her bright face. “Are you properly glad to see me?”
“Yes, kind sir,” she said, dropping a little curtsey, and smiling in a most friendly way.
“Well, then, sit down here, and let me talk to you, for my thoughts are running riot, and I’m sure you alone can help me straighten them out.”
“Of course I can. I’m wonderful at that sort of thing. But, first I’ll tell you about Miss Dupuy. She’s awfully ill—I mean prostrated, you know; and she has a high fever and sometimes she chatters rapidly, and then again she won’t open her lips even if any one speaks to her. We’ve had the doctor, and he says it’s just overstrained nerves and a naturally nervous disposition; but, Mr. Fessenden, I think it’s more than that; I think it’s a guilty conscience.”
“And yesterday, when I implied that Miss Dupuy might know more about it all than she admitted, you wouldn’t listen to a word of it!”
“Yes, I know it, but I’ve changed my mind.”
“Oh, you have; just for a change, I suppose.”
“No,” said Kitty, more seriously; “but because I’ve heard a lot of Cicely’s ranting,—for that’s what it is,—and while it’s been only disconnected sentences and sudden exclamations, yet it all points to a guilty knowledge of some sort, which she’s trying to conceal. I don’t say I suspect her, Mr. Fessenden, but I do suspect that she knows a lot more important information than she’s told.”
“Miss Dupuy’s behavior has certainly invited criticism,” began Rob, but before he could go further, the French girl, Marie, appeared at the door, and seemed about to enter.
“What is it, Marie?” said Kitty kindly. “Are you looking for me?”
“Yes,mademoiselle,” said Marie, “and I would speak withmonsieurtoo. I have that to say which is imperative. Too long already have I kept the silence. I must speak at last. Have I permission?”
“Certainly,” said Fessenden, who saw that Marie was agitated, but very much in earnest. “Tell us what you have to say. Do not be afraid.”
“I am afraid,” said Marie, “but I am afraid of one only. It is the Miss Morton, the stranger lady.”
“Miss Morton?” said Kitty, in surprise. “She won’t hurt you; she has been very good to you.”
“Ah, yes,mademoiselle; buttoogood. Miss Morton has been too kind, too sweet, to Marie! It is that which troubles me.”
“Well, out with it, Marie,” said Rob. “Close that door, if you like, and then speak out, without any more beating around the bush.”
“No,monsieur, I will no longer beat the bush; I will now tell.”
Marie carefully closed the door, and then began her story:
“It was the night of the—of the horror. You remember, Miss French, we sat all in this very room, awaiting the coming of the great doctor—the doctor Leonard.”
“Yes,” said Kitty, looking intently at the girl; “yes, I know most of you stayed here waiting,—but I was not here; Doctor Hills sent Miss Gardner and me to our rooms.”
“Yes; it is so. Well, we sat here, and Miss Morton rose with suddenness and left the room. I followed, partly that I thought she might need my services, and partly—I confess it—because I trusted her not at all, and I wished to assure myself that all was well. I followed her,—but secretly,—and I—shall I tell you what she did?”
Kitty hesitated. She was not sure she should listen to what was, after all, servants’ gossip about a guest of the house.
But Fessenden looked at it differently. He knew Marie had been the trusted personal maid of Miss Van Norman, and he deemed it right to hear the evidence that she was now anxious to give.
“Go on, Marie,” he said gravely. “Be careful to tell it exactly as it happened, whatever it is.”
“Yes,m’sieur. Well, then, I softly followed Miss Morton, because she did not go directly to her own room, but went to Miss Van Norman’s sitting-room and stood before the desk of Miss Madeleine.”
“You are sure, Marie?” said Kitty, who couldn’t help feeling it was dishonorable to listen to this.
“Please, Miss French, let her tell the story in her own way,” said Rob. “It is perhaps of the utmost importance, and may lead to great results.”
Then Marie went uninterruptedly on.
“She stood in front of the desk,m’sieur; she searched eagerly for papers, reading and discarding several. Then she found some, which she saw with satisfaction, and hastily concealed in her pocket. Miss Morton is a lady who yet has pockets in her gowns. With the papers in her pocket, then, Miss Morton looks about carefully, and, thinking herself unobserved, creeps, but stealthily, to her own room. There—m’sieur, I was obliged to peep at the key-hole—there she lighted a fire in her grate, and burned those papers. With my eyes I saw her. Never would I have told, for it was not my affair, but that I fear for Miss Dupuy. It is in the air that she knows secrets concerning Miss Van Norman’s death. Ah, if one would know secrets, one should question Miss Morton.”
“This is a grave charge you bring against the lady, Marie,” said Fessenden.
“Yes,monsieur, but it is true.”
“I know it is true,” said Kitty; “I have not mentioned it before, but I saw Miss Morton go to Madeleine’s room that night, and afterward go to her own room. I knew nothing, of course, of the papers, and so thought little of the whole incident, but if she really took papers from Madeleine’s desk and burned them, it’s indeed important. What could the papers have been?”
“You know she inherited,” began Fessenden.
“Oh, a will!” cried Kitty.
“Marie, you may go now,” Rob interrupted; “you did right to tell us this, and rest assured you shall never be blamed for doing so. You will probably be questioned further, but for the present you may go. And thank you.”
Marie curtseyed and went away.
“She’s a good girl,” said Kitty. “I always liked her; and she must have heard, as I did, so much of Cicely’s chatter, that she feared some sort of suspicion would fall on Cicely, and she wanted to divert it toward Miss Morton instead.”
“As usual, with your quick wits, you’ve gone right to the heart of her motive,” said Rob; “but it may be more serious than you’ve yet thought of. Miss Morton inherits, you know.”
“Yes,now,” said Kitty significantly, “since she burnt that other will.”
“What other will?”
“Oh, don’t you see? The will she burnt was a later one, thatdidn’tgive her this house. She burnt it so the earlier one would stand.”
“How do you know this?”
“I don’t know it, except by common sense! What else would she take from Maddy’s desk and burn except a will? And, of course, a willnotin her favor, leaving the one thatdidbequeath the house to her to appear as the latest will.”
“Does this line of argument take us any further?” said Rob, so seriously that Kitty began to think.
“You don’t mean,” she whispered, “that Miss Morton—in order to——”
“To receive her legacy——”
“Could—no, she couldn’t! I won’t even think of it!”
“But you thought of Miss Dupuy. Miss French, as I told you yesterday, we must think of everypossibleperson, not everyprobableone. These suggestions are not suspicions—and they harm no one who is innocent.”
“I suppose that is so. Well, let us consider Miss Morton then, but of course she didn’t really kill Maddy.”
“I trust not. But I must say I could sooner believe it of a woman of her type than Miss Dupuy’s.”
“But Cicely didn’t either! Oh, howcanyou say such dreadful things!”
“We won’t say them any more. Theyaredreadful. But I thought you were going to help me in my detective work, and you balk at every turn.”
“No, I won’t,” said Kitty, looking repentant. “Idowant to help you; and if you’ll let me help, I’ll suspect everybody you want me to.”
“I want you to help me, but this story of Marie’s is too big for me to handle by myself. I must put that into Mr. Benson’s hands. It is really more important than you can understand.”
“I suppose so,” said Kitty, so humbly that Rob smiled at her, and had great difficulty to refrain from kissing her.
XVI
SEARCHING FOR CLUES
Believing that Marie’s information about Miss Morton was of deep interest, Rob started off at once to confer with Coroner Benson about it.
As he walked along he discussed the affair with himself, and was shocked to realize that for the third time he was suspecting a woman of the murder.
“But how can I help it?” he thought impatiently. “The house was full of women, and not a man in it except the servants, and no breath of suspicion has blown their way. And if a woman did do it, that unpleasant Morton woman is by far the most likely suspect. And if she was actuated by a desire to get her inheritance, why, there’s the motive, and she surely had opportunity. It’s a tangle, but we must find something soon to guide us. A murder like that can’t have been done without leaving some trace somewhere of the criminal.” And then Fessenden’s thoughts drifted away to Kitty French, and he was quite willing to turn the responsibility of his new information over to Mr. Benson. On his way to the coroner’s office he passed the Mapleton Inn. An impulse came to him to investigate Tom Willard’s statements, and he turned back and entered the small hotel.
He thought it wiser to be frank in the matter than to attempt to obtain underhand information. Asking to speak with the proprietor alone, he said plainly:
“I’m a detective from New York City, and my name is Fessenden. I’m interested in investigating the death of Miss Van Norman. I have no suspicions of any one in particular, but I’m trying to collect a few absolute facts by way of making a beginning. I wish you, therefore, to consider this conversation confidential.”
Mr. Taylor, the landlord of the inn, was flattered at being a party to a confidential conversation with a real detective, and willingly promised secrecy in the matter.
“Then,” went on Fessenden, “will you tell me all you know of the movements of Mr. Willard last evening?”
Mr. Taylor looked a bit disappointed at this request, for he foresaw that his story would be but brief. However, he elaborated the recital and spun it out as long as he possibly could. But after all his circumlocution, Fessenden found that the facts were given precisely as Willard had stated them himself.
The bellboy who had carried up the suitcase was called in, and his story also agreed.
“Yessir,” said the boy; “I took up his bag, and he gimme a quarter, just like any nice gent would. ’N’en I come downstairs, and after while the gent’s bell rang, and I went up, and he wanted ice water. He was in his shirt sleeves then, jes’ gittin’ ready for bed. So I took up the water, and he said, ‘Thank you,’ real pleasant-like, and gimme a dime. He’s a awful nice man, he is. He had his shoes off that time, ’most ready for bed. And that’s all I know about it.”
All this was nothing more nor less than Fessenden had expected. He had asked the questions merely for the satisfaction of having verbal corroboration of Tom’s own story.
With thanks to Mr. Taylor, and a more material token of appreciation to the boy, he went away.
On reaching the coroner’s office, he was told that Mr. Benson was not in. Fessenden was sorry, for he wanted to discuss the Morton episode with him. He thought of going to Lawyer Peabody’s, who would know all about Miss Van Norman’s will, but as he sauntered through one of the few streets the village possessed, he was rather pleased than otherwise to see Kitty French walking toward him.
She greeted him with apparent satisfaction, and said chummily, “Let’s walk along together and talk it over.”
Immediately coroner and lawyer faded from Rob’s mind, he willingly fell into step beside her, and they walked along the street which soon merged itself into a pleasant country road.
Fessenden told Kitty of his conversation at the inn, but she agreed that it was unimportant.
“Of course,” she said, “I suppose it was a good thing to have some one else say the same as Tom said, but as Tom wasn’t even in the house, I don’t see as he is in the mystery at all. But there’s no use of looking further for the criminal. It was Schuyler Carleton, just as sure as I stand here.”
Kitty very surely stood there. They had paused beneath an old willow tree by the side of the road, and Kitty, leaning against a rail fence, looked like a very sweet and winsome Portia, determined to mete out justice.
Though he was himself convinced that he was an unprejudiced seeker after truth, at that moment Robert Fessenden found himself very much swayed by the opinions of the pretty, impetuous girl who addressed him.
“I believe I’m going to work all wrong,” he declared. “I can’t help feeling sure that Carleton didn’t do it, and so I’m trying to discover who did.”
“Well, why is that wrong?” demanded Kitty wonderingly.
“Why, I think a better way to do would be to assume, if only for sake of argument, as they say, or rather for sake of a starting-point—to assume that you are right and that Carleton is the evil-doer, though I swear I don’t believe it.”
Kitty laughed outright. “You’re a nice detective!” she said. “Are you assuming that Schuyler is the villain, merely to be polite to me?”
“I am not, indeed! I feel very politely inclined toward you, I’ll admit, but in this matter I’m very much in earnest. And I believe, by assuming that Carleton is the man, and then looking for proof of it, we may run across clues that will lead us to the real villain.”
Kitty looked at him admiringly, and for Kitty French to look at any young man admiringly was apt to be a bit disturbing to the young man’s peace of mind.
It proved so in this case, and though Fessenden whispered to his own heart that he would attend first to the vindication of his friend Carleton, his own heart whispered back that after that, Miss French must be considered.
“And so,” said Rob, as they turned back homeward, “I’m going to work upon this line. I’m going to look for clues; real, material, tangible clues, such as criminals invariably leave behind them.”
“Do!” cried Kitty. “And I’ll help you. I know we can find something.”
“You see,” went on Fessenden, his enthusiasm kindling from hers, “the actual stage of the tragedy is so restricted. Whatever we find must be in the Van Norman house.”
“Yes, and probably in the library.”
“Or the hall,” he supplemented.
“What kind of a thing do you expect to find?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure. In the Sherlock Holmes stories it’s usually cigar ashes or something like that. Oh, pshaw! I don’t suppose we’ll find anything.”
“I think in detective stories everything is found out by footprints. I never saw anything like the obliging way in which people make footprints for detectives.”
“And how absurd it is!” commented Rob. “I don’t believe footprints are ever made clearly enough to deduce the rest of the man from.”
“Well, you see, in detective stories, there’s always that ‘light snow which had fallen late the night before.’”
“Yes,” said Fessenden, laughing at her cleverness, “and there’s always some minor character who chances to time that snow exactly, and who knows when it began and when it stopped.”
“Yes, and then the principal characters carefully plant their footprints, going and returning—over-lapping, you know—and so Mr. Smarty-Cat Detective deduces the whole story.”
“But we’ve no footprints to help us.”
“No, we couldn’t have, in the house.”
“But if it was Schuyler——”
“Well, even if,—he couldn’t make footprints without that convenient ‘light snow’ and there isn’t any.”
“And besides, Schuyler didn’t do it.”
“No, I know he didn’t. But you’re going to assume that, you know, in order to detect the real criminal.”
“Yes, I know I said so; but I don’t believe that game will work, after all.”
“I don’t believe you’re much of a detective, any way,” said Kitty, so frankly that Fessenden agreed.
“I don’t believe I am,” he said honestly. “With the time, place, and number of people so limited, it ought to be easy to solve this mystery at once.”
“I think it’s just those very conditions that make it so hard,” said Kitty, sighing.
And so completely under her spell was Fessenden by this time that he emphatically agreed with her.
When they reached the Van Norman house they found it had assumed the hollow, breathless air that invades a house where death is present.
All traces of decoration had been removed from the drawing-room, and it, like the library, had been restored to its usual immaculate order. The scent of flowers, however, was all through the atmosphere, and a feeling of oppression hovered about like a heavy cloud.
Involuntarily Kitty slipped her hand in Rob’s as they entered.
Fessenden, too, felt the gloom of the place, but he had made up his mind to do some practical work, and detaining Harris, who had opened the door for them, he said at once, “I want you to open the blinds for a time in all the rooms downstairs. Miss French and I are about to make a search, and, unless necessary, let no one interrupt us.”
“Very good, sir,” said the impassive Harris, who was becoming accustomed to sudden and unexpected orders.
They had chosen their time well for the search, and were not interrupted. Most of the members of the household were in their own rooms; and there happened to be no callers who entered the house.
Molly Gardner had gone away early that morning. She had declared that if she stayed longer she should be downright ill, and, after vainly trying to persuade Kitty to go with her, had returned alone to New York.
Tom Willard and Lawyer Peabody were in Madeleine’s sitting-room, going over the papers in her desk, in a general attempt to learn anything of her affairs that might be important to know. They had desired Miss Dupuy’s presence and assistance, but that young woman refused to go to them, saying she was still too indisposed, and remained, under care of Marie, in her own room.
Fessenden suggested that Kitty should make search in the library while he did the same in the drawing-room; and that afterward they should change places.
Kitty shivered a little as she went into the room that had been the scene of the tragedy, but she was really anxious to assist Fessenden, and also she wanted to do anything, however insignificant, that would help in the least toward avenging poor Maddy’s death.
And yet it was seemingly a hopeless task. Though she carefully and systematically scrutinized walls, rugs and furniture, not a clue could she find.
She was on her hands and knees under a table when Tom Willard came into the room.
“What are you doing?” he said, unable to repress a smile as Kitty, with her curly hair a bit dishevelled, came scrambling out.
“Hunting for clues,” she said briefly.
“There are no clues,” said Tom gravely. “It’s the most inexplicable affair all ’round.”
“Then you have no suspicion of any one?”
“My dear Miss French,” said Tom, looking at her kindly, as one might at a child, but speaking decidedly; “don’t let theamusementof amateur detective work lead you into making unnecessary trouble for people. If detective work is to be done, leave it to experienced and professional hands. A girl hunting for broken sleeve-links or shreds of clothing is foolishly theatrical.”
Willard’s grave but gentle voice made Kitty think that she and Fessenden were acting childishly, but after Tom, who had come on an errand, had left the room, Kitty confided to herself that she would rather act foolishly at Rob Fessenden’s bidding than to follow the wise advice of any other man.
This was saying a good deal, but as she said it only to herself, she felt sure her confidence would not be betrayed.
Not half an hour had elapsed when Kitty appeared at the drawing-room door with a discontented face, and said, “There’s positively nothing in the library that doesn’t belong there. It has been thoroughly swept, and though there may have been many clues, they’ve all been swept and dusted away.”
“Same here,” said Fessenden dejectedly. “However, let’s change rooms, so we can both feel sure.” Then Kitty searched the drawing-room, and Rob the library, and they both scrutinized every inch of the hall.
“I didn’t find so much as a thread,” said Kitty, as they sat down on a great carved seat in the hall to compare notes.
“I didn’t either,” said Rob, “with one insignificant exception; in the drawing-room I found this, but it doesn’t mean anything.”
As he spoke he drew from his pocket a tiny globule of a silver color.
“What is it?” asked Kitty, taking it with her finger-tips from the palm of his hand.
“It’s a cachou.”
“And what in the world is a cachou? What is it for?”
“Why, it’s a little confection filled with a sort of spice. Some men use them after smoking, to eradicate the odor of tobacco.”
“Eat them, do you mean? Are they good to eat?” and impulsive Kitty was about to pop the tiny thing into her mouth, when Rob caught her hand.
“Don’t!” he cried. “That’s my only clue, after all this search, and it may be of importance.”
He rescued the cachou from Kitty’s fingers, and then, slipping it into his pocket, he continued to hold the hand from which he had taken it.
And then, somehow, detective work seemed for a moment to lose its intense interest, and Rob and Kitty talked of other things.
Suddenly Kitty said: “Tom Willard thinks we’re foolish to hunt for clues.”
“I think he’s right,” said Fessenden, smiling, “since we didn’t find anything.”
“Oh, he didn’t exactly say you were foolish, but he said I was. He said it was silly for a girl to hunt around under tables and chairs.”
“He had no right to say so. It isn’t silly for you to do anything you want to do. But I know what Willard meant. He thinks, as lots of people do, that there’s no sense in expecting to find material evidences of crime—or, rather, of the criminal. And I suppose he’s right. Whoever murdered Miss Van Norman certainly left no tangible traces. But I’m glad we hunted for them, for now I feel certain there were none left; otherwise, I should always have thought there might have been.”
“How much more sensible you are than Mr. Willard,” said Kitty, with an admiring glance that went straight to the young man’s heart, and stayed there. “And, too, you always make use of ‘clues’ if you do find them. Look how cleverly you deduced about the soft and hard lead pencils.”
“Oh, that was nothing,” said Fessenden modestly, though her praise was ecstasy to his soul.
“Indeed itwassomething! It was great work. And I truly believe you’ll make as great a deduction from that little thing you found this morning. What do you call it?”
“A cachou.”
“Yes, a cachou. The whole discovery of the murderer may hinge on that tiny clue we found.”
“It may, but I can hardly hope so.”
“I hope so,—for I do want to prove to Tom Willard that our search for clues wasn’t silly, after all.”
And Fessenden’s foolish heart was so joyed at Kitty’s use of “we” and “our” that he cared not a rap for Willard’s opinion of his detective methods.
XVII
MISS MORTON’S STATEMENTS
That afternoon another session of the inquest was held.
Fessenden had told Coroner Benson of Marie’s disclosures concerning Miss Morton, and in consequence that lady was the first witness called.
The summons was a complete surprise to her. Turning deathly white, she endeavored to answer to her name, but only gave voice to an unintelligible stammer.
The coroner spoke gently, realizing that his feminine cloud of witnesses really gave him a great deal of trouble.
“Please tell us, Miss Morton,” he said, “what was your errand when you left the library and went upstairs, remaining there nearly half an hour, on the night of Miss Van Norman’s death?”
“I didn’t do any such thing!” snapped Miss Morton, and though her tone was defiant now, her expression still showed fear and dismay.
“You must have forgotten. Think a moment. You were seen to leave the library, and you were also seen after you reached the upper floors. So try to recollect clearly, and state your errand upstairs at that time.”
“I—I was overcome at the tragedy of the occasion, and I went to my own room to be alone for a time.”
“Did you go directly from the library to your own room?”
“Yes.”
“Without stopping in any other room on the way?”
“Yes.”
“Think again, please. Perhaps I had better tell you, a witness has already told of your stopping on the way to your own room.”
“She told falsely, then. I went straight to my bedroom.”
“In the third story?”
“Yes.”
Coroner Benson was a patient man. He had no wish to confound Miss Morton with Marie’s evidence, and too, there was a chance that Marie had not told the truth. So he spoke again persuasively:
“You went there afterward, but first you stopped for a moment or two in Miss Van Norman’s sitting-room.”
“Who says I did?”
“An eye-witness, who chanced to see you.”
“Chanced to see me, indeed! Nothing of the sort! It was that little French minx, Marie, who is everlastingly spying about! Well, she is not to be believed.”
“I am sorry to doubt your own statement, Miss Morton, but another member of the household also saw you. Denial is useless; it would be better for you to tell us simply why you went to Miss Van Norman’s room at that time.”
“It’s nobody’s business,” snapped Miss Morton. “My errand there had nothing to do in any way with Madeleine Van Norman, dead or alive.”
“Then, there is no reason you should not tell frankly what that errand was.”
“I have my own reasons, and I refuse to tell.”
Mr. Benson changed his tactics.
“Miss Morton,” he said, “when did you first know that you were to inherit this house and also a considerable sum of money at the death of Miss Van Norman?”
The effect of this sudden question was startling. Miss Morton seemed to be taken off her guard. She turned red, then paled to a sickly white. Once or twice she essayed to speak, but hesitated and did not do so.
“Come, come,” said the coroner, “that cannot be a difficult question to answer. When was your first intimation that you were a beneficiary by the terms of Miss Van Norman’s will?”
And now Miss Morton had recovered her bravado.
“When the will was read,” she said in cold, firm accents.
“No; you knew it before that. You learned it when you went to Miss Van Norman’s room and read some papers which were in her desk. You read from a small private memorandum book that she had bequeathed this place to you at her death.”
“Nothing of the sort,” returned the quick, snappy voice. “I knew it before that.”
“And you just said you learned of it first when the will was read!”
“Well, I forgot. Madeleine told me the day I came here last year that she had made a will leaving the house to me, because she thought it should have been mine any way.”
“The day you were here last year, she told you this?”
“Yes, we had a little conversation on the subject, and she told me.”
“Why did you not say this when I first asked you concerning the matter?”
“I forgot it.” Miss Morton spoke nonchalantly, as if contradicting oneself was a matter of no moment.
“Then you knew of your legacy before Miss Van Norman died?”
“Yes, now that I think of it, I believe I did.”
She was certainly a difficult witness. She seemed unable to look upon the questions as important, and her answers were given either in a flippant or savage manner.
“Then why did you go to Miss Van Norman’s room to look for her will that night?”
“Her will? I didn’t!”
“No, not the will that bequeathed you the house, but a later will that made a different disposal of it.”
“There wasn’t such a one,” said Miss Morton, in a low, scared voice.
“What, then, was the paper which you took from Miss Van Norman’s desk, carried to your own room, and burned?”
The coroner’s voice was not persuasive now; it was accusing, and his face was stern as he awaited her reply.
Again Miss Morton’s face blanched to white. Her thin lips formed a straight line, and her eyes fell, but her voice was strong and sibilant, as she fairly hissed:
“How dare you! Of what do you accuse me?”
“Of burning a paper which you took secretly from Miss Van Norman’s private desk.”
A moment’s hesitation, and then, “I did not do it,” she said clearly.
“But you were seen to do it.”
“By whom?”
“By a disinterested and credible witness.”
“By a sly, spying French servant!”
“It matters not by whom; you are asked to explain the act of burning that paper.”
“I have nothing to explain. I deny it.”
And try as he would Mr. Benson could not prevail upon Miss Morton to admit that she had burned a paper.
He confronted her with the witness, Marie, but Miss Morton coldly refused to listen to her, or to pay any attention to what she said. She insisted that Marie was not speaking the truth, and as the matter rested between the two, there was nothing more to be done.
Kitty French said that she saw Miss Morton go into Madeleine’s room, and afterward go upstairs to her own room, but she knew nothing about the papers in question.
Still adhering to her denial of Marie’s story, Miss Morton was excused from the witness stand.
Another witness called was Dorothy Burt. Fessenden was sorry that this had to be, for he dreaded to have the fact of Carleton’s infatuation for this girl brought into public notice.
Miss Burt was a model witness, as to her manner and demeanor. She answered promptly and clearly all the coroner’s questions, and at first Rob thought that perhaps she was, after all, the innocent child that Carleton thought her.
But he couldn’t help realizing, as the cross-questioning went on, that Miss Burt really gave very little information of any value. Perhaps because she had none to give, perhaps because she chose to withhold it.
“Your name?” Mr. Benson had first asked.
“Dorothy Burt,” was the answer, and the modest voice, with a touch of sadness, as befitting the occasion, seemed to have just the right ring to it.
“Your occupation?”
“I am companion and social secretary to Mrs. Carleton.”
“Do you know of anything that can throw any light on any part of the mystery surrounding the death of Miss Van Norman?”
Miss Burt drew her pretty eyebrows slightly together, and thought a moment.
“No,” she said quietly; “I am sure I do not.”
So gentle and sweet was she, that many a questioner would have dismissed her then and there; but Mr. Benson, hoping to get at least a shred of evidence bearing on Schuyler Carleton’s strange behavior, continued to question her.
“Tell us, please, Miss Burt, what you know of Mr. Carleton’s actions on the night of Miss Van Norman’s death.”
“Mr. Carleton’s actions?” The delicate eyebrows lifted as if in perplexity at the question.
“Yes; detail his actions, so far as you know them, from the time he came home to dinner that evening.”
“Why, let me see;” pretty Dorothy looked thoughtful again. “He came to dinner, as usual. Mr. Fessenden was there, but no other guest. After dinner we all sat in the music room. I played a little,—just some snatches of certain music that Mrs. Carleton is fond of. Mr. Carleton and Mr. Fessenden chatted together.”
Rob raised his own eyebrows a trifle at this. Carleton had not been at all chatty; indeed, Fessenden and Mrs. Carleton had sustained the burden of the conversation; and while Miss Burt had played, it had been bits of romantic music that Rob felt sure had been for Schuyler’s delectation more than his mother’s.
“Is that all?” said Mr. Benson.
“Yes, I think so,” said Miss Burt; “we all went to our rooms early, as the next day was the day appointed for Mr. Carleton’s wedding, and we assumed he wanted to be alone.”
Rob looked up astounded. Was she going to make no mention of the stroll in the rose-garden? He almost hoped she wouldn’t, and yet that was certainly the evidence Mr. Benson was after.
“You said good-night to Mr. Carleton at what time, then?” was the next rather peculiar question.
It might have been imagination, but Fessenden thought the girl was going to name an earlier hour, then, catching sight of Rob’s steady eyes upon her, she hesitated an instant, and then said: “About ten o’clock, I think.”
“Mrs. Carleton and Mr. Fessenden went to their rooms at the same time?”
Dorothy Burt turned very pale. She shot a quick glance at Schuyler Carleton and another at Fessenden, and then said in a low tone: “They had gone upstairs a short time before.”
“And you remained downstairs for a time with Mr. Carleton?”
“Yes.” The answer, merely a whisper, seemed forced upon her lips.
“Where were you?”
Again the hesitation. Again the swift glances at Carleton and Rob, and then the low answer:
“In the rose-garden.”
Fessenden understood. The girl had no desire to tell these things, but she knew that he knew the truth, and so she was too clever to lie uselessly.
“How long were you two in the rose-garden, Miss Burt?”
Another pause. Somehow, Fessenden seemed to see the workings of the girl’s mind. If she designated a long time it would seem important. If too short a time, Rob would know of her inaccuracy. And if she said she didn’t know, it would lend a meaning to the rose-garden interview which it were better to avoid.
“Perhaps a half-hour,” she said, at last, and, though outwardly calm, her quickly-drawn breath and shining eyes betokened a suppressed excitement of some sort.
“And you left Mr. Carleton at ten o’clock?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know what he did after that?”
“I do not!” the answer rang out clearly, as if Miss Burt were glad to be well past the danger point of the dialogue. But it came back at her with the next question.
“What was the tenor of your conversation with Mr. Carleton in the rose garden?”
At this Dorothy Burt’s calm gave way. She trembled, her red lower lip quivered, and her eye-lids fluttered, almost as if she were about to faint.
But, by a quick gesture, she straightened herself up, and, looking her interlocutor in the eyes said:
“I trust I am not obliged to answer that very personal question.”
Like a flash it came to Fessenden that her perturbation had been merely a clever piece of acting. She had trembled and seemed greatly distressed in order that Mr. Benson’s sympathy might be so aroused that he would not press the question.
And indeed it required a hardened heart to insist on an answer from the lovely, agitated girl.
But Mr. Benson was not so susceptible as some younger men, and, moreover, he was experienced in the ways of witnesses.
“I am sorry to be so personal, Miss Burt,” he said firmly; “but I fear it is necessary for us to learn the purport of your talk with Mr. Carleton at that time.”
Dorothy Burt looked straight at Schuyler Carleton.
Neither gave what might be called a gesture, and yet a message and a response flashed between the two.
Rob Fessenden, watching intently, translated it to mean a simple negative on Schuyler’s part, but the question in the girl’s eyes he could not read.
Carleton’s “No,” however, was as plain as if spoken, and, apparently comprehending, Miss Burt went evenly on.
“We talked,” she said, “on such subjects as might be expected on the eve of a man’s wedding-day. We discussed the probability of pleasant weather, mention was made of Miss Van Norman and her magnificent personality. The loneliness of Mrs. Carleton after her son’s departure was touched upon, and, while I cannot remember definitely, I think our whole talk was on those or kindred topics.”
“Why did you so hesitate a moment ago, when I asked you to tell this?”
Dorothy opened her lovely eyes in surprise.
“Hesitate! Why, I didn’t. Why should I?”
Mr. Benson was at last put to rout. Shehadhesitated—more than hesitated; she had been distinctly averse to relating what she now detailed as a most indifferent conversation, but, in the face of that expression of injured innocence, Mr. Benson could say no more on that subject.
“When you left Mr. Carleton,” he went on, “did you know he was about to come over here to Miss Van Norman’s?”
Again the telegraphic signals between Miss Burt and Carleton.
Quick as a flash—invisible to most of the onlookers, but distinctly seen by Fessenden—a question was asked and answered.
“No,” she said quickly; “I did not.”
“You left him at ten o’clock, then, and did not see him again that night?”
“That is correct.”
“And you have no idea how he was occupied from ten o’clock, on?”
“I have not.”
“That’s all at present, Miss Burt.”
The girl left the witness-stand looking greatly troubled.
But the suspicious Mr. Fessenden firmly believed she looked troubled because it made her more prettily pathetic.
He wasn’t entirely right in this, but neither was Dorothy Burt quite as ingenuous as she appeared.