MURDER WILL OUT
"Murder, though it have no tongue, will speak
With most miraculous organ."
_Shakespeare._
Henry Carleton and his daughter sat in the library at The Birches,
Carleton writing at the long table, Rose, with easy chair drawn up in
front of the fire, busied with her embroidery. Presently Henry Carleton
laid aside his pen, and rising, walked over to the bookcase; where he
found the volume and verified the quotation which he sought; then, with
a smile of satisfaction, he walked back to the table again, and for an
instant stood there, glancing down contentedly at the orderly
arrangement of papers and documents now completed and laid aside,
awaiting the morrow.
The expression of his face was serene and benevolent. His very
attitude--even, indeed, something about the atmosphere of the room
itself--breathed of the man at peace with himself and with the world.
And such a man, at the moment, in very truth Henry Carleton was, and
with every reason therefor besides. The routine of his well-ordered day
was drawing to a close. From the dinner table he had gone direct to his
evening paper--from the paper to his desk. The little white heap of
envelopes that stood ready for the morrow's mailing bore witness to his
labors there. The big check book at their side was closed--modestly and
becomingly closed--but if the observer's eye had been able to penetrate
the cover, and for a moment to look at the stubs within, his admiration
for Henry Carleton could but have been increased by what he would there
have seen. One check, made payable to the Cripples' Home, was for five
hundred dollars; there were a half dozen more, payable to other
charities, for a hundred each; there was one for twenty-five drawn to
the order of a poor veteran in Eversley village. Surely witnesses better
than these no man could well desire. What wonder that Henry Carleton was
content.
And now, with business out of the way, with his household and his
private affairs all in order, this man of so many talents and virtues
had turned to his pet avocation--literature--and was forging busily
ahead on his scholarly essay, _Character Drawing in the Early English
Novel_. Glancing over what he had written, at once he spoke aloud, half
to his daughter, half--the most important half--to himself. This
thinking aloud over his literary work was a favorite method with him. He
liked to get Rose's ideas and criticisms--sometimes, to his surprise,
they appeared upon reflection to contain much of good sense--and apart
from this, he believed that it was in this way he could pass the fairest
and the most searching judgment upon his labors. And after all, the
question of benefit apart, the sound of his own voice was in nowise
distasteful to him. Nor could he well be blamed. It was a pleasant voice
and well-modulated, and through its medium he liked to think around his
subject, to get the swing and cadence of each varying phrase, before at
length he came to make his last "fair copy," and thus to transmit his
ideas to paper in final form.
"'Sir Charles Grandison,' Rose," he read, "'is beyond question most
skilfully drawn, with all the author's great command of those quiet
little strokes and touches, one superimposed on the other, which at last
give us the portrait of the man, standing forth from the canvas in all
the seeming reality of flesh and blood.' How does that strike you,
Rose?"
The girl wrinkled her pretty forehead "Well, father," she answered, a
little dubiously, "for one thing, I don't know that I think it's quite
true. I always thought Sir Charles was a terrible prig; horribly
self-satisfied and altogether too much taken up with marveling at his
own virtues. I don't believe, you know, that a man like Sir Charles ever
could assume for any one 'the seeming reality of flesh and blood.' 'The
seeming reality of a lay figure,' I think, would be about the nearest
phrase one could properly use."
Henry Carleton hastened to dissent. "No, no, my dear," he returned,
"you're quite wrong. Sir Charles wasn't perfect. Richardson was far too
clever to fall into that error. Sir Charles had his faults, and the
author in his concluding note takes special pains to draw attention to
them. He had his faults, but then his virtues so far outweighed them
that they sank into insignificance. Then there was Lovelace, whose
faults were so pronounced, and who had such a lack of any redeeming
virtues, that he is at once to be condemned as a character thoroughly
immoral, serviceable ethically only to point the awful example of
talents misspent and energies abused. And midway between the two is Mr.
B., who also had his failings, but who finally atoned for them by his
condescension in marrying Pamela. The trio, I think, point the way to
the author's whole philosophy of life. We have our faults, even the best
of us. We can't help them. But on the other hand, by constant endeavor,
we can do so much good that in the end we counterbalance the evil we do,
and so to speak obliterate it altogether. Very good, I think, and very
sound. An interesting title for a little essay, _The Balance_, don't you
think so, Rose?"
The girl looked doubtful. "Why, no," she answered, "to tell the truth, I
don't. I should think that was a pretty dangerous doctrine. Good and
evil--debit and credit. I should think it was a very grave question
whether any amount of good could ever really balance one conscious evil
act. Take Mr. B., whom you've just quoted, for example. I could never,
in reading that book, think of him as anything but a great, hulking,
overbearing, arrogant animal, and the shameful way in which he treated
poor Sally Goodwin is a case right in point--that was something no man
could ever atone for, even by a series of the finest deeds in the world.
No, father, I think, if I were you, I shouldn't try to justify a theory
like that. I'm afraid it isn't sound."
Henry Carleton frowned. "Nonsense," he cried, for him a little
irritably, "it's perfectly sound. I could give you a hundred examples.
'Take him for all in all,' as Shakespeare phrases it; that's what I
mean. Some evil has to be done with the good, unless we're going back to
pillories and hermitages, to keep ourselves unspotted from the world.
And in these days common sense forbids that. Your view is entirely
unreasonable, Rose."
The girl seemed somewhat surprised at his unusual heat. With a little
laugh she rolled up her embroidery, quitted the easy chair, and coming
over to him, kissed him obediently on the cheek. "Well, don't mind me,
father," she said affectionately, "if you don't want my foolish ideas,
you shouldn't ask for them. One thing's sure; if your theory is right,
you can do about anything you want to now. Rob a bank--or commit any
dreadful crime you choose. Your balance must be so large you couldn't
overdraw it if you tried."
Carleton laughed. "Well, perhaps that is rather a _reductio ad
absurdum_," he answered. "In any event, I don't think I'll experiment in
the way you mention. You're not going up-stairs already, are you, Rose?"
She nodded. "Yes, if you don't mind," she replied, "I'm a little tired
this evening. Good night. Don't work too hard over your writing now.
You never rest. I never saw such a man."
Left alone, Carleton returned to his essay, but not with the
concentration he had before displayed. A sudden restlessness seemed to
have come over him. Once or twice he ceased his work to consult his
watch, and finally stopped, rose hastily, and walked over to the window,
where he stood gazing aimlessly put into the night; then, with a sigh,
turned slowly, almost, one would have said, reluctantly, again to his
task.
For perhaps five minutes he kept manfully at work. Then once again his
attention seemed to wander; slowly and still more slowly moved the
unwilling pen, and finally, with a sudden impatient gesture, he laid it
down, flung himself back in his chair, and sat there motionless, yet not
with the air of one who has comfortably finished the task he has in
hand, but rather as if debating within himself, between two possible
courses of action, which one at last to choose.
If such, indeed, was the case, the decision was not to lie with him.
There came a knock at the door. "Come in," he said quickly, and the
butler, Helmar's friend of old, a little thinner, a little grayer, a
little more imperturbable than ever, entered softly, approaching close
to his master's elbow before he delivered himself of his message.
"Mr. Vaughan, sir," he announced with slow deliberation, "in the
reception-room. He wishes to know, sir, if without inconvenience to
yourself you could give him a few moments."
Henry Carleton looked a little surprised, perhaps also a little annoyed.
"To see _me_," he said, "you're sure, Burton, that it wasn't Miss Rose
he asked for?"
The butler's manner was one verging on gentle reproof. Within his domain
he did not allow himself the luxury of making mistakes. "Quite sure,
sir," he answered. His tone, though respectful, did not admit of further
questioning upon the point. Henry Carleton sighed, and appeared to rouse
himself. "Why, of course," he said, "tell him I'll be down at once; or
no," he added, "please, Burton, tell him to come up here instead."
The butler, inclining his head, withdrew. Then, a moment or two later,
the sound of ascending footsteps, and Vaughan entered the room. At once
something in his appearance struck Henry Carleton as far out of the
ordinary. "Why, my dear boy," he cried, "you look worried to death.
What's gone wrong? No more bad news from the book?"
Vaughan silently shook his head. He was indeed looking miserably, and
when he took a chair, he sat bolt upright on its edge, leaning forward
nervously when he spoke. "No," he said, "it's worse than that, Mr.
Carleton; a whole lot worse. It's something that's been troubling me for
a long time now, until finally I've made up my mind that the only thing
for me to do is to come straight to you with it, and tell you the whole
story. And that's why I'm here."
At once Carleton shoved books and papers aside, as if the better to
prepare himself for proper attention to Vaughan's words. He looked at
his visitor with an air of friendly concern. "Anything that I can do--"
he murmured. "You know, of course, that you may count on me. Anything in
my power--"
Vaughan nodded abruptly. "Thank you," he said hastily and a little
grimly, "it's not a favor that I've come for. I'm going to do you a bad
turn, I'm afraid. Going to do everybody a bad turn, as far as that goes.
But it can't be helped. I've got to go ahead, and that's all there is to
it."
Henry Carleton eyed him narrowly, but without speaking, and Vaughan,
looking up, as if eager to have his task over, with sudden resolve,
began. "It's about Satterlee," he said, "you remember how things
happened out here that night, of course. I guess we all do. Jack went
up-stairs to bed, you remember, and you and Cummings went off to play
billiards. I was on the piazza with Rose, and stayed there until you
came down to tell her that it was getting late. Then, after she went
up-stairs, you told me that you were going for a short walk, and I said
I believed I'd go to my room. Well, I didn't. I don't know why. I
started to go in, and then--the night was so fine; I had so much that
was pleasant to think about--somehow I couldn't stand the idea of going
into the house, and instead I took a stroll around the grounds."
He stopped for a moment. Henry Carleton, gazing intently at him, gave no
sign from his expression that he was experiencing any emotion beyond
that of the keenest interest and attention. Only his eyes, in the
shadow, had lost their customary benevolent expression, narrowing until
their look was keen, alert; the look of a man put quickly on his guard.
And as Vaughan still kept silence, it chanced that Carleton was the
first again to speak. "Well," he queried impatiently, "and what then?"
Vaughan drew a quick breath. "This," he cried hastily, almost
recklessly, "this. I walked down toward Satterlee's cottage, and I saw
what happened there. Satterlee didn't fall from any rock. He was
murdered. And I saw it all."
Henry Carleton did not start. There was no cry of surprise, no single
word, even. Only, as Vaughan had finished, on a sudden his eyes dilated
strangely; his lips parted a trifle; for a moment, without breathing,
without animation, it seemed as if the man's whole being hung poised
motionless, suspended. So great the surprise, so great the shock, that
one, not knowing, might almost have believed himself to be looking upon
the man who had done the deed. "Murdered?" he at last repeated dully,
"You saw it? Murdered?"--there was a moment's silence, and then, all at
once seeming to recover himself, he leaned forward in his chair. "By
whom?" he cried sharply, with just a note of menace in his tone, "By
whom?"
On Vaughan's part there was no further hesitation. He had gone too far
for that. Yet his face was drawn and distorted with pain as in a tone so
low that Carleton could scarcely hear, he uttered the single word,
"Jack."
And this time the added shock was too great. Henry Carleton started
visibly, the most intense emotion showing in every line of his face.
"Jack?" he gasped, "Jack?"
In silence Vaughan bowed his head, hardly able to look on the anguish
which his words had caused. "Jack," he muttered again, under his breath.
[Illustration: Henry Carleton started visibly.--Page 292]
There was a silence, tense, pregnant. Once Vaughan, slowly raising his
head, had started to speak, and Henry Carleton had instantly lifted a
hand to enjoin silence. "Wait a minute!" he commanded. Evidently he was
striving to recollect. Then presently he spoke again. "Nonsense," he
cried, "I remember perfectly now. That was the night that Jack said he
felt tired; he went to his room early to smoke a pipe, and then turn in.
Jack murder Satterlee! Why, nonsense, man! You're dreaming. You're not
in your right mind. Jack and Satterlee were always good friends, and
Mrs. Satterlee, too. No, no. Jack to murder any one is nonsensical
enough; but Jack to murder Satterlee--impossible--simply impossible!"
Stubbornly Vaughan shook his head. "I wish to God it were," he answered,
with deep feeling. "It sounds wild enough, I know, but it's true, for
all that. Every word. And one thing you've just said--" he hesitated,
and stopped, then unwillingly enough continued, "one thing, I'm afraid,
goes a long ways toward explaining, and that is that Jack was such good
friends with Mrs. Satterlee. I'm afraid that was the beginning of
everything."
Carleton's face was pale, and his voice, when he spoke, was hoarse with
emotion. "God, Vaughan," he said, "this is terrible," and then, with a
quick return to his former manner, "no, no, I can't believe it yet. Tell
me what you saw. Not what you imagined or conjectured. Just what you
saw--actually saw with your own eyes."
"There isn't very much to tell," Vaughan answered. "I just happened to
walk that way, for no reason whatsoever. Just by chance; I might have
gone any other way as well. And finally I came out on the top of a
little hill--no, not a hill exactly; more like a cliff--and from there I
could see across to Satterlee's house. And while I stood there, I saw a
man--Satterlee--come across the drive, and up the back way, and go in.
Then, in a minute, I heard a noise up-stairs, and some one cry out; and
then, a minute after that, Jack rushed out of the house, with Satterlee
after him--and suddenly Satterlee took to running queer and wide and in
a circle, with his head all held pitched to one side--ah, it was ghastly
to see him--and then he came straight for the rock where I was standing,
and all at once his legs seemed to go out from under him, and he
sprawled right out on the gravel on his face, and lay there. I turned
faint for a minute, I think, and the next thing I recall was looking
down again, and there was Jack trying to lift Satterlee up, and when he
scratched a match his hands were all over blood, and Satterlee's
face--oh, I've dreamed it all fifty times since--he was dead then, I
suppose. His head hung limp, I remember, and then--it was cowardly, of
course, and all that, but the whole thing was so unexpected--so like a
damnable kind of a nightmare, somehow--and Jack, you know--why, it was
too much for me. I just turned, and made off, and never stopped till I'd
got back safe into my room again. And that's all."
Henry Carleton sat silent, engrossed in thought. Almost he seemed to be
oblivious of Vaughan's presence. "It couldn't be," he muttered, at last,
as though incredulous still, "it couldn't be. Jack!" he paused, only to
repeat the name again. Then he shook his head. "Never," he said with
decision, "he would have told everything. You saw wrong, Arthur. You
didn't see Jack."
Something in the older man's attitude of continued disbelief seemed to
have the effect of nettling Vaughan. "How many times," he said, with a
note of irritation in his tone, "must I repeat it? I tell you I _know_.
Can't a man trust his own eyes? It _was_ Jack. There's no room for doubt
at all. Don't you suppose--" his voice rose with the strain of all that
he had been through--"don't you suppose that I'd have jumped at any
chance to clear him? Don't you suppose that if there'd been the faintest
shadow of a doubt in his favor, I'd have stretched it to the breaking
point to see him go free. No, there's no question. It was Jack. Why he
did it, or how he did it, you can conjecture, if you wish, but one thing
is plain. Murder Tom Satterlee he did."
His tone rang true. At last, in spite of himself, Carleton appeared
unwillingly to be convinced. Again he pondered. "Then he perjured
himself at the inquest?" he said quickly at last.
Vaughan nodded. "He perjured himself at the inquest," he assented.
"And you?" asked Carleton, again, "you perjured yourself too?"
"I perjured myself too," Vaughan answered. "There were plenty of other
reasons, of course; reasons that you can imagine. It wasn't just a case
of Jack alone. There was a lot else to think of besides. We talked it
over as well as we could--Jack and I. We thought of you. We thought of
Rose--and of me. We thought of the Carleton name. The disgrace of it
all. We only had a quarter of an hour, at the most--and we lied,
deliberately and consciously lied."
He looked up, instantly amazed at the look on Carleton's face, for
Carleton was gazing at him as if he could scarcely believe his ears--as
if this piece of news, for some reason, came as something more
unexpected than all the rest. "You talked it over with Jack?" he said,
"talked it over with Jack, and Jack thought of me--and the family name.
Upon my word, Arthur, I believe one of us is mad."
Vaughan stared at him, uncomprehending. "I don't see why you say that,"
he returned. "What was there more natural? Or do you mean Jack wasn't
sincere when he put that forward as a reason? I've thought of that, but
I don't believe it now. Just think how we should feel if instead of
sitting here and theorizing about it, we knew that the facts were really
public property. Do you wonder that we stopped to consider everything?
Do you wonder that we decided as we did? But we were wrong--all wrong--I
knew it, really, all the time. To tell what I saw--that was the only
honest thing to do. I lied, and now I'm going to try to make amends. I'm
going to tell the truth, no matter what comes. It's the only way."
Impatiently Henry Carleton shook his head. "I don't agree with you, in
the least," he said quickly. "I think you decided rightly. I should have
done the same. And right or wrong, you've made your choice. Why alter it
now? It would make the scandal of the day."
"I know it," Vaughan desperately assented, "I know it will. But
anything's better than having things go on as they are now. I can't look
people in the face. I've been miserable. I thought I knew what it was to
be badly off before, but poverty, and bad luck, and failure--what are
they, anyway? What do they amount to? Nothing. But a thing like this on
your conscience. Why, a man's better dead. He can't live with it, day
and night. He _can't_; that's all. I know. He's got to tell, or go
crazy; it isn't to be endured."
Without making answer, Henry Carleton rose, and walked over to the
window, standing precisely as he had stood before Vaughan's coming,
gazing out into the blackness of the night. Then he turned. "Wait here,"
he said peremptorily. "I've got to get to the bottom of this, or you
won't be the one to lose your senses. Wait here. I'll be back in half an
hour, at the very latest."
Sudden conjecture dawned in Vaughan's eyes. "You're going--" he began,
and then paused.
Henry Carleton completed the sentence for him. "I'm going to see Mrs.
Satterlee," he answered. "I refuse to credit your story, Arthur, or what
you say Jack admits, unless she corroborates your tale of what happened
that night. It all depends on her."
He turned to leave the room, then paused a moment, and again turned to
Vaughan. "Have you told Jack," he asked, "just what you propose to do?"
Vaughan shook his head. "I haven't seen Jack," he answered, "since the
morning after it happened. To tell the truth, I've taken pains not to
see him. I couldn't bear to. The whole thing got on my nerves. It seemed
to change him so. And about this part of it, I haven't seen him, either.
I couldn't. To go to a man, and read him his death-warrant. I couldn't.
I thought I'd come to you."
Carleton nodded. "I think you've done wisely," he said, "if this can all
be true, I must see Jack myself first. It becomes a family matter then.
Well, I must go. Wait here for me, please. I won't be long."
* * * * *
For perhaps twenty minutes Vaughan sat alone in the library, his mind,
after the long strain of all he had undergone, singularly torpid.
Mechanically he found himself counting the squares on a rug near the
table; three rows of six--three rows of five--eighteen, fifteen,
thirty-three. Over and over again he did this until at last he pulled
himself up short with a start. And then he heard footsteps ascending;
and Henry Carleton hastily reentered the room, his face stern and set.
For an instant, as Vaughan rose, the two men stood confronting each
other. "Well?" Vaughan asked, though reading the answer to his question
in the other's eyes.
Carleton nodded. In the lamplight his face looked ten years older. He
spoke but two words. "It's true," he said.