THE CLUE
SECOND EDITION
[Illustration: The Man pointed toward the Table. Page 41.]
THE CLUE
By CAROLYN WELLS
Author of
“A Chain of Evidence,” “The Maxwell Mystery,”
“The Gold Bag,” Etc.
[Illustration]
With Frontispiece
By FRANCES ROGERS
A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers New York
Published by Arrangements with J. B. Lippincott Company
Copyright, 1909
By J. B. Lippincott Company
Published September, 1909
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. The Van Normans 9
II. Miss Morton Arrives 23
III. A Cry in the Night 38
IV. Suicide or ——? 51
V. A Case for the Coroner 65
VI. Fessenden Comes 79
VII. Mr. Benson’s Questions 94
VIII. A Soft Lead Pencil 107
IX. The Will 122
X. Some Testimony 135
XI. “I Decline to Say” 149
XII. Dorothy Burt 162
XIII. An Interview With Cicely 175
XIV. The Carleton Household 190
XV. Fessenden’s Detective Work 204
XVI. Searching for Clues 218
XVII. Miss Morton’s Statements 232
XVIII. Carleton is Frank 246
XIX. The Truth About Miss Burt 261
XX. Cicely’s Flight 274
XXI. A Successful Pursuit 288
XXII. A Talk With Miss Morton 301
XXIII. Fleming Stone 313
XXIV. A Confession 326
Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook.
THE CLUE
I
THE VAN NORMANS
The old Van Norman mansion was the finest house in Mapleton. Well back
from the road, it sat proudly among its finely kept lawns and gardens,
as if with a dignified sense of its own importance, and its white,
Colonial columns gleamed through the trees, like sentinels guarding the
entrance to the stately hall.
All Mapleton was proud of the picturesque old place, and it was shown to
visiting strangers with the same pride that the native villagers pointed
out the Memorial Library and the new church.
More than a half-century old, the patrician white house seemed to glance
coldly on the upstart cottages, whose inadequate pillars supported
beetling second stories, and whose spacious, filigreed verandas left
wofully small area for rooms inside the house.
The Van Norman mansion was not like that. It was a long rectangle, and
each of its four stories was a series of commodious, well-shaped
apartments.
And its owner, the beautiful Madeleine Van Norman, was the most envied
as well as the most admired young woman in the town.
Magnificent Madeleine, as she was sometimes called, was of the haughty,
imperious type which inspires admiration and respect rather than love.
An orphan and an heiress, she had lived all of her twenty-two years of
life in the old house, and since the death of her uncle, two years
before, had continued as mistress of the place, ably assisted by a
pleasant, motherly chaperon, a clever social secretary, and a corps of
capable servants.
The mansion itself and an income amply sufficient to maintain it were
already legally her own, but by the terms of her uncle’s will she was
soon to come into possession of the bulk of the great fortune he had
left.
Madeleine was the only living descendant of old Richard Van Norman, save
for one distant cousin, a young man of a scapegrace and ne’er-do-weel
sort, who of late years had lived abroad.
This young man’s early life had been spent in Mapleton, but, his fiery
temper having brought about a serious quarrel with his uncle, he had
wisely concluded to take himself out of the way.
And yet Tom Willard was not of a quarrelsome disposition. His bad temper
was of the impulsive sort, roused suddenly, and as quickly suppressed.
Nor was it often in evidence. Good-natured, easy-going Tom would put up
with his uncle’s criticism and fault-finding for weeks at a time, and
then, perhaps goaded beyond endurance, he would fly into a rage and
express himself in fluent if rather vigorous English.
For Richard Van Norman had been by no means an easy man to live with.
And it was Tom’s general amiability that had made him the usual
scapegoat for his uncle’s ill temper. Miss Madeleine would have none of
it. Quite as dictatorial as the old man himself she allowed no
interference with her own plans and no criticism of her own actions.
This had proved the right way to manage Mr. Van Norman, and he had
always acceded to Madeleine’s requests or submitted to her decrees
without objection, though there had never been any demonstration of
affection between the two.
But demonstration was quite foreign to the nature of both uncle and
niece, and in truth they were really fond of each other in their quiet,
reserved way. Tom Willard was different. His affection was of the honest
and outspoken sort, and he made friends easily, though he often lost
them with equal rapidity.
On account, then, of his devotion to Madeleine, and his enmity toward
young Tom Willard, Richard Van Norman had willed the old place to his
niece, and had further directed that the whole of his large fortune
should be unrestrictedly bestowed upon her on her wedding-day, or on her
twenty-third birthday, should she reach that age unmarried. In event of
her death before her marriage, and also before her twenty-third
birthday, the whole estate would go to Tom Willard.
It was with the greatest reluctance that Richard Van Norman decreed
this, but a provision had to be made in case of Madeleine’s early death,
and Willard was the only other natural heir. And now, at twenty-two,
Madeleine was on the eve of marriage to Schuyler Carleton, a member of
one of the oldest and best families of Mapleton.
The village gossips were pleased to commend this union, as Mr. Carleton
was a man of irreproachable habits, and handsome enough to appear well
beside the magnificent Madeleine.
He was not a rich man, but, as her marriage would bring her inheritance,
they could rank among the millionaires of the day. Yet there were those
who feared for the future happiness of this apparently ideal couple.
Mrs. Markham, who was both housekeeper and chaperon to her young charge,
mourned in secret over the attitude of the betrothed pair.
“He adores her, I’m sure,” she said to herself, “but he is too courtly
and polished in his manner. I’d rather he would impulsively caress her,
or involuntarily call her by some endearing name than to be always so
exquisitely deferential and polite. And Madeleine must love him, or why
should she marry him? Yet she is so haughty and formal, she might be a
very duchess instead of a young American girl. But that’s Madeleine all
over. I’ve never seen her exhibit any real emotion over anything. Ah,
well, I’m an old-fashioned fool. Doubtless, they’re cooing doves when
alone together, but their high-bred notions won’t allow any sentiment
shown before other people. But I almost wish she were going to marry
Tom. He has sentiment and enthusiasm enough for two, and the
relationship is so distant it’s not worth thinking about. Dear old Tom!
He’s the only one who ever stirs Madeleine out of that dignified calm of
hers.”
And that was true enough. Madeleine had inherited the Van Norman traits
of dignity and reserve to such an extent that it was difficult for any
one to be a really close friend.
She had, too, a strange little air of preoccupation, and even when
interested in a conversation would appear to look through or beyond her
companion in a way that was discouraging to the average caller.
So Miss Van Norman was by no means a favorite with the Mapleton young
people in a personal sense, but socially she was their leader, and to be
on her invitation list was the highest aspiration of the village
“climbers.”
And now that she was about to marry Schuyler Carleton, the event of the
wedding was the only thing talked of, thought of, or dreamed of by
Mapleton society.
Madeleine, who always kept in touch with Tom Willard by correspondence,
had written him of her approaching marriage, and he had responded by
coming at once to America to attend the ceremony.
Relieved from the embarrassment of his uncle’s presence, Tom was his
jovial self, and showed forth all the reprehensible attractiveness which
so often belongs to the scapegrace nature. He sometimes quarreled with
Madeleine over trifles, then, making up the next minute, he would caress
and pet her with the privileged air of a relative.
He was glad to be back among the familiar scenes of Mapleton, and he
went about the town renewing old acquaintances and making new ones, and
charming all by his winning personality.
In less than a week he had more friends in the village than Schuyler
Carleton had ever made.
Carleton, though handsome and distinguished-looking, was absolutely
without personal magnetism or charm, which traits were found in
abundance in Tom Willard.
The friends of Schuyler Carleton attributed his reserved, almost
repellent demeanor to shyness, and this was partly true. His
acquaintances said it was indifference, and this again, was partly true.
Then his enemies, of whom he had some, vowed that his cold, curt manner
of speech was merely snobbishness, and this was not true at all.
His manner toward his fiancée was all that the most exacting could
require in the matter of courtesy and punctilious politeness. He was
markedly undemonstrative in public, and if this were true of his
behavior when the two were alone, it was probably because Madeleine
herself neither inspired nor desired terms or acts of endearment.
Tom’s attitude toward Madeleine angered Carleton extremely, but when he
spoke to her on the subject he was gaily informed that the matter of
cousinly affection was outside the jurisdiction of a fiancée.
Tom, on his part, was desperately in love with Madeleine, and had been
for years. Repeatedly he had begged her to marry him, and she knew in
her heart that his plea was prompted by his love for herself and not by
any consideration of her fortune.
And yet, should she marry another, all hope of his uncle’s money would
be forever lost to Tom Willard.
But prodigal and spendthrift that he was, if Tom felt any regret at his
vanishing fortunes, he showed no sign of it. Save for sudden and often
easily provoked bursts of temper, he was infectiously gay and merry, and
was the life of the house party already gathered under Madeleine’s roof.
The fact that Tom was staying at the Van Norman house, which of course
Carleton could not do, gave Willard an advantage over the prospective
bridegroom, of which he was by no means unconscious. Partly to tease the
imperturbable but jealous Carleton, and partly because of his own
affection for his cousin, Tom devoted himself assiduously to Madeleine,
especially when Carleton was present.
“You see, Maddy,” Tom would say, “there are only a few days left of our
boy and girl chumminess. I fancy that after you are married, Schuyler
won’t let me speak to you, save in most formal terms, so I must see all
I can of you now.”
Then he would tuck her arm through his own, and take her for a stroll in
the grounds, and Carleton, coming to search for her, would find them
cosily chatting in a secluded arbor, or drifting lazily in a canoe on
the tiny, lily-padded lake.
These things greatly annoyed Schuyler Carleton, but remonstrance was
never an easy task for him, nor did it ever affect Madeleine pleasantly.
“I wish, Madeleine,” he had said one day, when he had waited two hours
for her to return from a drive with Tom, “that you would have a little
regard for appearances, if you have none for my wishes. It is not seemly
for my betrothed wife to be driving all over the country with another
man.”
Magnificent Madeleine looked straight at him, tilting her head back
slightly to look beneath her half-closed lids.
“It is not seemly,” she said, “for my betrothed husband to imply that I
could be at fault in a matter of propriety or punctilio. That is not
possible.”
“You are right,” he said, and his eyes gleamed with admiration of her
glorious beauty and imperious manner. “Forgive me,—you are indeed
right.”
Though Schuyler Carleton may not have been lavish of affection, he
begrudged no admiration to the splendid woman he had won.
And yet, had he but known it, the apparently scornful and haughty girl
was craving a more tender and gentle love, and would gladly have
foregone his admiration to have received more affection.
“But it will come,” Madeleine thought to herself. “I am not of the
‘clinging vine’ type, I know; but after we are married, surely Schuyler
will be less formally polite, and more,—well,—chummy.”
Yet Madeleine herself was chummy with nobody save Tom.
They two were always chatting and laughing together, and though they
differed sometimes, and even quarrelled, it was quickly made up, and
forgotten in a new subject of merry discussion.
But, after all, they rarely quarrelled except regarding Madeleine’s
approaching marriage.
“Don’t throw yourself away on that iceberg, Maddy,” Tom would plead.
“He’s a truly fine man, I know, but he can’t make you happy.”
“How absurd you are, Tom! Give me credit, please, for knowing my own
mind, at least. I love Schuyler Carleton, and I am proud that he is to
be my husband. He is the finest man I have ever known in every way, and
I am a fortunate girl to be chosen by such a man.”
“Oho, Maddy! Don’t do the humble; it doesn’t suit you at all. You are
the type who ought to have ‘kings and crown princes at your feet.’ And
Carleton is princely enough in his effects, but he’s by no means at your
feet.”
“What do you mean?” exclaimed Madeleine angrily.
“Just what I say. Schuyler Carleton admires you greatly, but he doesn’t
love you—at least, not as I do!”
“Don’t be foolish, Tom. Naturally you know nothing about Mr. Carleton’s
affection for me—he does not proclaim it from the housetops. And I
desire you not to speak of it again.”
“Why should I speak of what doesn’t exist? Forgive me, Maddy, but I love
you so myself, it drives me frantic to see that man treating you so
coolly.”
“He doesn’t treat me coolly. Or, if he does, it’s because I don’t wish
for tender demonstrations before other people. I’m fond of you, Tom, as
you know, but I won’t allow even you to criticise the man I am about to
marry.”
“Oh, very well, marry him, then, and a precious unhappy life you’ll lead
with him,—and I know why.”
Madeleine turned on him, her eyes blazing with anger.
“What do you mean? Explain that last remark of yours.”
“Small need! You know why as well as I do;” and Tom pushed his hands
into his pockets and strode away, whistling, well knowing that he had
roused his cousin’s even temper at last.
In addition to some of her Mapleton friends, Madeleine had invited two
girls from New York to be her bridesmaids. Kitty French and Molly
Gardner had already come and were staying at the Van Norman house the
few days that would intervene before the wedding.
Knowing Madeleine well, as they did, they had not expected confidence
from her, nor did they look forward to cosy, romantic boudoir chats,
such as many girls would enjoy.
But neither had they expected the peculiar constraint that seemed to
hang over all the members of the household.
Mrs. Markham had been so long housekeeper, and even companion, for
Madeleine that she was not looked upon as a servant, and to her Kitty
French put a few discreet questions regarding the exceeding reserve of
Mr. Carleton.
“I don’t know, Miss French,” said the good woman, looking sadly
disturbed. “I love Madeleine as I would my own child. I know she adores
Mr. Carleton,—and—yes, I know he greatly admires her,—and yet there
_is_ something wrong. I can’t express it—it’s merely a feeling,—an
intuition, but there _is_ something wrong.”
“You know Mr. Willard is in love with Maddy,” suggested Miss French.
“Oh, it isn’t that. They’ve always had a cousinly affection for each
other, and,—yes, Tom is in love with her,—but what I mean is aside
from all that. The real reason that Madeleine flirts with Tom—for she
_does_ flirt with him—is to pique Mr. Carleton. There! I’ve said more
than I meant to, but you’re too good a friend to let it make any
trouble, and, any way, in a few days they will be married, and then I’m
sure it will be all right,—I’m _sure_ of it.”
Like many people, Mrs. Markham emphasized by repetition a statement of
whose truth she was far from sure.
II
MISS MORTON ARRIVES
The day before the wedding the old house was a pleasant scene of bustle
and confusion.
Professional decorators were in charge of the great drawing-room,
building a canopy of green vines and flowers, beneath which the bridal
pair should stand the next day at high noon.
This work was greatly hindered by a bevy of young people who thought
they were helping.
At last, noting a look of dumb exasperation on the face of one of the
florist’s men, Molly Gardner exclaimed, “I don’t believe our help is
needed here; come on, Kitty, let’s go in the library and wait for
tea-time.”
It was nearly five o’clock, and the girls found most of the house guests
already assembled in the library, awaiting the arrival of the tea-tray.
Several other young people were there also, most of them being those who
were to be of the wedding cortège next day.
Robert Fessenden, who was to be best man, had just come from New York,
and had dropped in to see Miss Van Norman.
Although he was an old friend of Carleton’s, Madeleine did not know him
very well, and though she made him welcome, it was with that coldly
formal air that did not greatly attract the young man, but he could not
fail to be impressed by her great beauty.
“Lucky fellow, Carleton,” he said to Tom Willard. “Why, that woman would
create a sensation in any great city in the world.”
“Yes, she is too handsome to live all her life in a small village,”
agreed Tom. “I think they intend to travel a great deal.”
“An heiress, too, I believe.”
“Yes, she has all the desirable traits a woman can possess.”
“All?” Fessenden’s tone was quizzical.
“What do you mean?” asked Tom sharply.
“Nothing; only, if I were to marry, I should prefer a little more
softness of nature.”
“Oh, that’s only her manner. My cousin is most sweet and womanly, I
assure you.”
“I’m sure she is,” returned Fessenden, who was a bit ashamed of his
outspokenness; “and she’s getting a sterling good fellow for a husband.”
“She is so,” said Tom, heartily, which was kind of him, considering his
own opinion of Carleton.
And then both men strolled over to where Madeleine sat at the tea-table.
She was reading a telegram that had just been brought to her, and she
laughingly explained to Tom that it meant a bother for him.
“Miss Morton has concluded to come to the wedding, after all,” she said.
“She wrote me that she wouldn’t come, but she has changed her mind, it
seems. Now, it does sound ridiculous, I know, but in this big house
there isn’t a room left for her but the one you have, Tom. You see, one
bedroom is used for a ‘present room,’ one is reserved for Schuyler
to-morrow, the bridesmaids have another, and except for our own rooms,
and those already occupied by guests, there are no more. I hate to ask
you, Tom, but could you go to the Inn?”
“Sure, Maddy dear; anything to oblige. But it does seem too bad to turn
me out of your house the very last day that your hospitality is all your
own to offer. To-morrow the grand Seigneur will be master here, and my
timid little Madeleine can no longer call her soul her own.”
This reference to the tall and stately mistress of the house raised a
general laugh, but Madeleine did not join in it.
“I’m so sorry, Tom,” she said earnestly, as she looked again at the
telegram she was holding, “but Miss Morton was an old friend of Uncle
Richard’s, and as she wants to come here I can’t turn her away. And
unless you give her your room, there is no other——”
“Nonsense, Madeleine! I’m only joking. Of course I’ll go to the hotel.
Only too glad to accommodate Miss Morton. Forget it, girl; I assure you
I don’t mind a bit. I’ll pack up a few traps after dinner and skip down
to the picturesque, if rather ostentatious, Mapleton Inn.”
As Tom spoke he put his arm carelessly round Madeleine’s shoulders, and
though scarcely more than a cousinly caress, it was unfortunate that
Schuyler Carleton should enter the room at that moment. A lightning
glance flashed between the two men, and as Tom moved away from Madeleine
with a slightly embarrassed shrug of his shoulders, Carleton’s face grew
so stern that an uncomfortable silence fell upon the guests.
However, the arrival of the tea-tray saved the situation, and Madeleine
at once busied herself in the pretty occupation of serving tea to her
guests.
With an air of jealous proprietorship, Carleton moved toward her and,
looking handsome, though sulky, stood by Willard with folded arms, as if
on guard.
Urged on by a daredevil spirit of mischief, and perhaps remembering that
Madeleine would soon be beyond his reach as Carleton’s wife, Tom also
moved toward her from the other side. Endeavoring to treat the situation
lightly, Madeleine held up a newly-filled teacup.
“Who will have this?” she asked gaily.
“I will!” declared Carleton and Tom at the same time, and each held out
a hand.
Madeleine looked at them both smilingly.
Carleton’s face was white and set; he was evidently making a serious
matter of the trifling episode.
Tom, on the contrary, was smiling broadly, and was quite evidently
enjoying his rival’s discomfiture.
“I shall give it to you, because you look so pleasant,” declared
Madeleine, handing the cup to Tom. “Now, Schuyler, smile prettily and
you may have one, too.”
But Carleton would not fall in with her light mood.
Bending a little, he said in a tense voice, “I will leave you to your
cousin now. To-morrow I shall assert my claim.”
Though not rude in themselves, the words were accompanied by a harsh and
disdainful glance that made several of the onlookers wonder what sort of
a life the haughty Madeleine would lead with such a coldly tyrannical
husband.
“The brute!” said Tom, under his breath, as Carleton left the room.
“Never mind, Maddy, the old Turk has left you to me for this evening,
and we’ll take him at his word.”
Suddenly Madeleine’s mood changed to one of utter gaiety. She smiled
impartially on all, she jested with the girls, she bewitched the young
men with her merry banter, and she almost seemed to be flirting with Tom
Willard. But he was her cousin, after all, and much is forgiven a
bride-to-be on her wedding eve.
Robert Fessenden looked at Miss Van Norman with a puzzled air. He
couldn’t seem to understand her, and was glad when by chance the two
were left comparatively alone for a few moments’ conversation.
“A great responsibility devolves on the best man, Miss Van Norman,” he
said, in response to a chaffing remark of hers. “I suppose that
to-morrow I shall be general director-in-chief, and if anything _should_
go wrong, I shall be blamed.”
“But nothing _will_ go wrong,” said Madeleine, gaily, “and then, think
how you’ll be praised!”
“Ah, but you won’t be here to hear the praise heaped upon me, so what’s
the use?”
“No, I shall be gone forever,” said Madeleine, putting on one of her
faraway looks. “I never want to come back to Mapleton. I hate it!”
“Why, Miss Van Norman! You want to desert this beautiful old house?
Schuyler can never find you a home so comfortable and attractive in
every way.”
“I don’t care. I want to go far away from Mapleton to live. We’re going
to travel for a year, any way, but when we do settle down, it will be
abroad, I hope.”
“You surprise me. Schuyler didn’t tell me this. We’ve been chums so
long, that I usually know of his plans. But, of course, getting married
changes all that.”
“You’re a very intimate friend of Mr. Carleton’s, aren’t you?” said
Madeleine, with a strange note of wistfulness in her voice.
“Yes, I am. Why?”
“Oh, nothing; I only thought—I mean, do you think——”
Rob Fessenden was thrilled by the plaintive expression on the beautiful
face, and suddenly felt a great desire to help this girl, who was
seemingly so far above and beyond all need of help, and yet was surely
about to ask his aid, or at least his sympathy.
“Don’t hesitate,” he said gently; “what is it, Miss Van Norman? I want
to be as firm a friend of yours as I am of Schuyler’s, so please say
what you wish to.”
“I can’t—I can’t,” Madeleine whispered, and her voice was almost a
moan.
“Please,” again urged Fessenden.
“Do you know Dorothy Burt?” Madeleine then broke out, as if the words
were fairly forced from her.
“No,” said Fessenden, amazed; “I never heard the name before. Who is
she?”
“Hush! She’s nobody—less than nobody. Don’t mention her to me ever
again—nor to any one else. Ah, here comes Miss Morton.”
As Fessenden watched Madeleine, she changed swiftly from a perturbed,
troubled girl to a courteous, polished hostess.
“My dear Miss Morton,” she said, advancing to meet her newest guest,
“how kind of you to come to me at this time.”
“I didn’t come exactly out of kindness,” said Miss Morton, “but because
I desired to come. I hope you are quite well. Will you give me some
tea?”
Miss Morton was a tall, angular lady, with gray hair and sharp, black
eyes. She seemed to bite off her words at the ends of her short
sentences, and had a brisk, alert manner that was, in a way, aggressive.
“An eccentric,” Rob Fessenden thought, as he looked at her, and wondered
why she was there at all.
“An old sweetheart of Mr. Richard Van Norman, I believe,” said Kitty
French, when he questioned her. “They were once engaged and then
quarrelled and broke it off, and neither of them lived happily ever
after.”
“As the Carletons _will_,” said Fessenden, smiling.
“Yes,” said Kitty slowly, “as the Carletons will—I hope. You know Mr.
Carleton awfully well, don’t you? Are you sure he will make our Maddy
happy, Mr. Fessenden?”
“I think so;” and Fessenden tried to speak casually. “He is not an
emotional man, or one greatly given to sentiment, but I judge she is not
that sort either.”
“Oh, yes, she is! Maddy is apparently cold and cynical, but she isn’t
really so a bit. But she perfectly adores him, and if they’re not happy,
it won’t be her fault.”
“Nor will it be his,” said Fessenden, warmly defending his absent
friend. “Carleton’s an old trump. There’s no finer man in the world, and
any woman ought to be happy with him.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that,” said Kitty, with a little sigh of
relief. “Do look at that funny Miss Morton! She seems to be scolding
Madeleine. I’m sorry she came. She doesn’t seem very attractive. But
perhaps it’s because she was crossed in love and it made her queer.”
“Or she was queered in love and it made her cross,” laughed Fessenden.
“Well, I must go, now, and look up Carleton. Poor old boy, he was a
little miffed when he went away.”
After tea all the callers departed, and those who were house guests went
to their rooms to dress for dinner.
Tom Willard, with great show of burlesque regret and tearful farewells,
went to the hotel, that Miss Morton might have the room he had been
occupying.
He promised to return for dinner, and gaily blew kisses to Madeleine as
with his traps he was driven down the avenue.
At dinner, Schuyler Carleton’s place was vacant. It had been arranged
next to Madeleine’s, and when fifteen minutes after the dinner hour he
had not arrived, she haughtily accepted Tom Willard’s arm and led the
way to the dining-room.
But having reached the table, she directed Tom to take his rightful
seat, at some distance from her own, and Carleton’s chair remained empty
at Madeleine’s side.
At first this was uncomfortably evident, but Madeleine was in gay
spirits, and soon the whole party followed her lead, and the
conversation was general and in a merry key.
The young hostess had never looked more regally beautiful. Her dark
hair, piled high on her head, was adorned with a dainty ornament which,
though only a twisted ribbon, was shaped like a crown, and gave her the
effect of an imperious queen. Her low-cut gown of pale yellow satin was
severe of line and accented her stately bearing, while her exquisitely
modelled neck and shoulders were as white and pure as those of a marble
statue. Save for a double row of pearls around her throat, she wore no
ornaments, but on the morrow Carleton’s gift of magnificent diamonds
would grace her bridal costume. The combination of haughty imperial
beauty and a dazzling witchery of mood was irresistible, and the men and
girls alike realized that never before had Madeleine seemed so
wonderful.
After the dessert was placed on the table, Willard could stand it no
longer, and, leaving his own place, he calmly appropriated Carleton’s
vacant chair.
Madeleine did not reprove him, and Kitty French took occasion to whisper
to her neighbor:
“‘’Twere better by far to have matched our fair cousin to brave
Lochinvar.’”
Mrs. Markham overheard the quotation, and a look of pain came into her
eyes. But it was all too late now, and to-morrow Madeleine would be
irrevocably Schuyler Carleton’s wife.
After dinner coffee was served in the cozy library. Madeleine preferred
this room to the more elaborately furnished drawing-room, and to-night
her word was law.
But suddenly her mood changed. For no apparent reason her gay spirits
vanished, her smile faded away, and a pathetic droop curved the corners
of her beautiful mouth.
At about ten o’clock she said abruptly, though gently, “I wish you’d all
go to bed. Unless you girls get some beauty sleep, you won’t look pretty
at my wedding to-morrow.”
“I’m quite ready to go,” declared Kitty French with some tact, for she
saw that Madeleine was nervous and strung up to a high tension.
“I, too,” exclaimed Molly Gardner, and the two girls said good-night and
went upstairs.
Two or three young men who had been dinner guests also made their
adieux, and Tom Willard said, “Well, I may as well toddle to my comforts
of home, as understood by a country innkeeper.”
Madeleine said good-night to him kindly enough, but without jest or
gaiety. Tom looked at her curiously for a moment, and then, gently
kissing her hand, he went away.
Mrs. Markham, having seen Miss Morton comfortably installed in what had
been Tom’s room, returned to the library to offer her services to
Madeleine.
But the girl only thanked her, saying, “There is nothing you can do
to-night. I want to be alone for an hour or two. I will stay here in the
library for a time, and I’d like to have you send Cicely to me.”
A few moments later Cicely Dupuy came in, bringing some letters and
papers. She was Miss Van Norman’s private secretary, and admirably did
she fill the post. Quick-witted, clever, deft of hand and brain, she
answered notes, kept accounts, and in many ways made herself invaluable
to her employer.
Moreover, Madeleine liked her. Cicely was of a charming personality.
Small, fair, with big, childish blue eyes and a rose-leaf skin, she was
a pretty picture to look at.
“Sit down,” said Madeleine, “and make a little list of some final
matters I want you to attend to to-morrow.”
Cicely sat down, and, taking pencil and tablet from the library table,
made the lists as Madeleine directed. This occupied but a short time,
and then Miss Van Norman said wearily:
“You may go now, Cicely. Go to bed at once, dear. You will have much to
do to-morrow. And please tell Marie I shall not need her services
to-night. She may go to her room. I shall sit here for an hour or more,
and I will answer these notes. I wish to be alone.”
“Very well, Miss Van Norman,” said Cicely, and, taking the lists she had
made, she went softly from the room.
III
A CRY IN THE NIGHT
“Help!”
The loud cry of a single word was not repeated, but repetition was
unnecessary, for the sound rang through the old Van Norman house, and
carried its message of fear and horror to all, awake or sleeping, within
its walls.
It was about half-past eleven that same night, and Cicely Dupuy, still
fully dressed, flew from her bedroom out into the hall.
Seeing a light downstairs, and hearing the servants’ bells, one after
another, as if rung by a frantic hand, she hesitated a moment only, and
then ran downstairs.
In the lower hall Schuyler Carleton, with a dazed expression on his
white, drawn face, was uncertainly pushing various electric buttons
which, in turn, flashed lights on or off, or rang bells in distant parts
of the house.
For a moment Cicely stared straight at the man. Their eyes met, their
gaze seemed to concentrate, and they stood motionless, as if spellbound.
This crisis was broken in upon by Marie, Madeleine’s French maid, who
came running downstairs in a hastily donned negligée.
“_Mon Dieu!_” she cried. “_Ou est Mademoiselle?_”
With a start, Carleton turned from Cicely, and still with that dazed
look on his face, he motioned Marie toward the wide doorway of the
library. The girl took a step toward the threshold, and then, with a
shriek, paused, and ventured no further.
Cicely, as if impelled by an unseen force, slowly turned and followed
Marie’s movements, and as the girl screamed, Cicely grasped her tightly
by the arm, and the two stood staring in at the library door.
What they saw was Madeleine Van Norman, seated in a chair at the library
table. Her right arm was on the table, and her head, which had fallen to
one side, was supported by her right shoulder. Her eyes were partly
closed, and her lips were parted, and the position of the rigid figure
left no need for further evidence that this was not a natural sleep.
But further evidence there was. Miss Van Norman still wore her yellow
satin gown, but the beautiful embroidered bodice was stained a dull red,
and a crimson stream was even then spreading its way down the shimmering
breadths of the trailing skirt.
On the table, near the outstretched white hand, lay a Venetian dagger.
This dagger was well known to the onlookers. It had lain on the library
table for many years, and though ostensibly for the purpose of a
paper-cutter, it was rarely used as such. Its edges were too sharp to
cut paper satisfactorily, and, moreover, it was a wicked-looking affair,
and many people had shuddered as they touched it. It had a history, too,
and Richard Van Norman used to tell his guests of dark deeds in which
the dagger had taken part while it was still in Italy.
Madeleine herself had had a horror of the weapon, though she had often
admitted the fascination of its marvellous workmanship, and had said
upon several occasions that the thing fairly hypnotized her, and some
day she should kill herself or somebody else with it.
From an instinctive sense of duty, Marie started forward, as if to help
her mistress, then with a convulsive shudder she screamed again and
clasped her hands before her eyes to shut out the awful sight.
Cicely, too, moved slowly toward the silent figure, then turned and
again gazed steadfastly at Schuyler Carleton.
There must have been interrogation in her eyes, for the man pointed
toward the table, and Cicely looked again, to notice there a bit of
paper with writing on it.
She made no motion toward it, but the expression on her face changed to
one of bewildered surprise. Before she had time to speak, however, the
other people of the house all at once began to gather in the hall.
Mrs. Markham came first, and though when she saw Madeleine she turned
very white and seemed about to faint, she bravely went at once toward
the girl, and gently tried to raise the fallen head.
She felt a firm grasp on her shoulder, and turned to see Miss Morton,
with a stern, set face, at her side.
“Don’t touch her,” said Miss Morton, in a whisper. “Telephone for a
doctor quickly.”
“But she’s dead,” declared Mrs. Markham, at the same time bursting into
violent sobs.
“We do not know; we hope not,” went on Miss Morton, and without another
word she led Mrs. Markham to a sofa, and sat her down rather suddenly,
and then went herself straight to the telephone.
As she reached it she paused only to inquire the name of the family
physician.
Harris, the butler, with difficulty articulated the name of Doctor Hills
and his telephone number, and without further inquiry Miss Morton called
for him.
“Is this Doctor Hills?” she said when her call was answered. “Yes; this
is the Van Norman house. Come here at once. . . . No matter; you must
come at once—it is very important—a matter of life and death. . . . I
am Miss Morton. I am in charge here. Yes, come immediately! Good-by.”
Miss Morton hung up the receiver and turned to the frightened group of
servants.
“You can do nothing,” she said, “and you may as well return to your
rooms. Harris may stay, and one of the parlor maids.”
Miss Morton had an imperious air, and instinctively the servants obeyed
her.
But Cicely Dupuy was not so ready to accept the dictum of a stranger.
She stepped forward and, facing Miss Morton, said quietly, “Mrs. Markham
is housekeeper, as well as Miss Van Norman’s chaperon. The servants are
accustomed to take their orders from her.”
Miss Morton returned Cicely’s direct gaze. “You see Mrs. Markham,” she
said, pointing to the sofa, where that lady had entirely collapsed, and,
with her head in a pillow, was shaking with convulsive sobs. “She is for
the moment quite incapable of giving orders. As the oldest person
present, and as a life-long friend of Mr. Richard Van Norman, I shall
take the liberty of directing affairs in the present crisis.” Then, in a
softer tone and with a glance toward Madeleine, Miss Morton continued,
“I trust in view of the awfulness of the occasion you will give me your
sympathy and co-operation, that we may work in harmony.”
Cicely gave Miss Morton a curious glance that might have meant almost
anything, but with a slight inclination of her head she said only, “Yes,
madam.”
Then Kitty French and Molly Gardner came downstairs and stood trembling
on the threshold.
“What is it?” whispered Kitty. “What’s the matter with Madeleine?”
“Something dreadful has happened,” said Miss Morton, meeting them at the
door. “I have telephoned for Doctor Hills and he will be here soon.
Until then we can do nothing.”
“But we can try to help Maddy,” exclaimed Kitty, starting toward the
still figure by the table. “Oh, is she hurt? I thought she had fainted!”
As the two girls saw the dread sight, Miss Gardner fainted herself, and
Miss Morton bade Marie, who stood shivering in the hall, take care of
her.
Relieved at having something to do, Marie shook the girl and dashed
water in her face until she regained consciousness, the others,
meanwhile, paying little attention.
Schuyler Carleton stood leaning against the doorpost, his eyes fixed on
Madeleine’s tragic figure, while Kitty French, who had dropped into a
chair, sat with her hands tightly clasped, also gazing at the sad
picture.
Although it seemed hours to those who awaited him, it was but a few
moments before the doctor came.
Doctor Hills was a clean-cut, alert-looking young man, and his quick
eyes seemed to take in every detail of the scene at a glance.
He went straight to the girl at the table and bent over her. Only the
briefest examination was necessary before he said gently, “She is quite
dead. She has been stabbed with this dagger. It entered a large blood
vessel just over her heart, and she bled to death. Who killed her?”
Even as he spoke his eye fell on the written paper which lay on the
table. With one of his habitually quick gestures he snatched it up and
read it to himself, while a look of great surprise dawned on his face.
Immediately he read it aloud:
I am wholly miserable, and unless the clouds lift I must end my
life. I love S., but he does not love me.
After he finished reading, Doctor Hills stood staring at the paper, and
looked utterly perplexed.
“I should have said it was not a suicide,” he declared, “but this
message seems to indicate that it is. Is this written in Miss Van
Norman’s hand?”
Miss Morton, who stood at the doctor’s side, took the paper and
scrutinized it.
“It is,” she said. “Yes, certainly that is Miss Van Norman’s writing. I
had a letter from her only a few days ago, and I recognize it
perfectly.”
“Let me see it,” said Mrs. Markham, in a determined, though rather timid
way. “I am more familiar with Madeleine’s writing than a stranger can
possibly be.”
Miss Morton handed the paper to the housekeeper without a word, while
the doctor, waiting, wondered why these two women seemed so out of
sympathy with each other.
“Yes, it is surely Madeleine’s writing,” agreed Mrs. Markham, her
glasses dropping off as her eyes filled with tears.
“Then I suppose she killed herself, poor girl,” said the doctor. “She
must have been desperate, indeed, for it was a strong blow that drove
the steel in so deeply. Who first discovered her here?”
“I did,” said Schuyler Carleton, stepping forward. His face was almost
as white as the dead girl’s, and he was scarcely able to make his voice
heard. “I came in with a latch-key, and found her here, just as you see
her now.”
As Carleton spoke Cicely Dupuy stared at him with that curious
expression that seemed to show something more than grief and horror. Her
emotional bewilderment was not surprising in view of the awful
situation, but her look was a strange one, and for some reason it
greatly disconcerted the man.
None of this escaped the notice of Doctor Hills. Looking straight at
Carleton, but with a kindly expression replacing the stern look on his
face, he went on:
“And when you came in, was Miss Van Norman just as we see her now?”
“Practically,” said Carleton. “I couldn’t believe her dead. And I tried
to rouse her. Then I saw the dagger on the floor at her feet——”
“On the floor?” interrupted Doctor Hills.
“Yes,” replied Carleton, whose agitation was increasing, and who had
sunk into a chair because of sheer inability to stand. “It was on the
floor at her feet—right at her feet. I picked it up, and there was
blood on it—there is blood on it—and I laid it on the table. And then
I saw the paper—the paper that says she killed herself. And then—and
then I turned on the lights and rang the servants’ bells, and
Cicely—Miss Dupuy—came, and the others, and—that’s all.”
Schuyler Carleton had with difficulty concluded his narration, and he
sat clenching his hands and biting his lips as if at the very limit of
his powers of endurance.
Doctor Hills again glanced round the assembly in that quick way of his,
and said:
“Did any of you have reason to think Miss Van Norman had any thought of
taking her own life?”
For a moment no one spoke, and then Kitty French, who, in a despairing,
miserable way, was huddled in the depths of a great arm-chair, said:
“I have heard Madeleine say that some time she would kill herself with
that horrid old dagger. I wish I had stolen it and buried it long ago!”
Doctor Hills turned to Mrs. Markham. “Did you have any reason to fear
this?” he inquired.
“No,” she replied; “and I do not think Madeleine meant she would
voluntarily use that dagger. She only meant she had a superstitious
dread of the thing.”
“Do you understand her reference to her own unhappiness in this bit of
writing?” went on the doctor.
“Yes, I think I do,” said Mrs. Markham in a low voice.
“That is enough for the present,” said the doctor, as if to interrupt
further confidences. “Although it is difficult to believe a stab of that
nature could be self-inflicted, it is possible, and this communication
seems to leave no room for doubt. Now, the law of New Jersey requires
that in case of a death not by natural means the county physician shall
be summoned, and further proceedings are entirely at his discretion. I
shall therefore be obliged to send for Doctor Leonard before disturbing
the body in any way. He will probably not arrive in less than an hour or
so, and I would advise that you ladies retire. You can of course do
nothing to help, and as I shall remain in charge, you may as well get
what rest you can during the night.”
“I thank you for your consideration, Doctor Hills,” said Mrs. Markham,
who seemed to have recovered her calmness, “but I prefer to stay here. I
could not rest after this awful shock, and I cannot stay away from
Madeleine.”
Kitty French and Molly Gardner, who, clasped in each other’s arms, were
shivering with excitement and grief, begged to be allowed to stay, too,
but Doctor Hills peremptorily ordered them to go to their rooms. Cicely
Dupuy was allowed to stay, as in her position of social secretary she
might know much of Madeleine’s private affairs. For the same reason
Marie was detained, while Doctor Hills asked her a few questions.
Schuyler Carleton sat rigidly in his chair, as immovable as a statue.
This man puzzled Doctor Hills. And yet it was surely shock enough almost
to unhinge a man’s brain thus to find his intended bride the night
before his wedding.
But Carleton seemed absorbed in emotions other than those of grief.
Though his face was impassive, his eyes darted about the room looking at
one after another of the shocked and terrified group, returning always
to the still figure at the table, and as quickly turning his gaze away,
as if the sight were unbearable, as indeed it was.
He seemed like a man stunned with the awfulness of the tragedy, and yet
conscious of a care, a responsibility, which he could not shake off.
If, inadvertently, his eyes met those of Miss Dupuy, he shifted his gaze
immediately. If by chance he encountered Mrs. Markham’s sad glance, he
turned away, unable to bear it. In a word, he was like a man at the
limit of his endurance, and seemed veritably on the verge of collapse.
IV
SUICIDE OR ——?
Miss Morton, also, seemed to have distracting thoughts. She sat down on
the sofa beside Mrs. Markham, then she jumped up suddenly and started
for the door, only to turn about and resume her seat on the sofa. Here
she sat for a few moments apparently in deep thought. Then she rose, and
slowly stalked from the room and went upstairs.
After a few moments, Marie, the French maid, also rose and silently left
the room.
Having concluded it was a case for the county physician, Doctor Hills
apparently considered that his personal responsibility was at an end,
and he sat quietly awaiting the coming of his colleague.
After a time, Miss Morton returned, and again took her seat on the sofa.
She looked excited and a little flurried, but strove to appear calm.
It was a dreadful hour. Only rarely any one spoke, and though glances
sometimes shot from the eyes of one to the eyes of another, each felt
his gaze oftenest impelled toward that dread, beautiful figure by the
table.
At last Schuyler Carleton, with an evident effort, said suddenly,
“Oughtn’t we to send for Tom Willard?”
Mrs. Markham gave a start. “Of course we must,” she said. “Poor Tom! He
must be told. Who will tell him?”
“I will,” volunteered Miss Morton, and Doctor Hills looked up, amazed at
her calm tone. This woman puzzled him, and he could not understand her
continued attempts at authority in a household where she was a
comparative stranger. And yet might it not be merely a kind
consideration for those who were nearer and dearer to the principals of
this awful tragedy?
But even as he thought this over, Miss Morton had gone to the telephone,
her heavy silk gown rustling as she crossed the room, and her every
movement assertive of her own importance.
Calling up the Mapleton Inn, she succeeded, after several attempts, in
rousing some of its occupants, and finally was in communication with
young Willard himself. She did not tell him of the tragedy, but only
asked him to come over to the house at once, as something serious had
happened, and returned to her seat with a murmured observation that Tom
would arrive as soon as possible.
Again the little group lapsed into silence. Cicely Dupuy was very
nervous, and kept picking at her handkerchief, quite unconscious that
she was ruining its delicate lace edge.
Doctor Hills glanced furtively from one to another. Many things puzzled
him, but most of all he was at a loss to understand the suicide of this
beautiful girl on the very eve of her wedding.
At last Tom Willard came.
Miss Morton met him at the door, and took him into the drawing-room
before he could turn toward the library.
Schuyler Carleton’s frantic touches on various electric buttons had
turned on all the lights in the drawing-room. As no one had noticed
this, the great apartment had remained illuminated as if for a
festivity, and the soft, bright lights fell on the floral bower and the
elaborate decorations that had been arranged for the wedding day.
“What is it?” asked Tom, his own face white with an impending sense of
dread as he looked into Miss Morton’s eyes.
As gently as possible, but in her own straightforward and inevitably
somewhat abrupt way, Miss Morton told him.
“I want to warn you,” she said, “to prepare for a shock, and I think it
kinder to tell you the truth at once. Your cousin Madeleine—Miss Van
Norman—has taken her own life.”
“What?” Tom almost shouted the word, and his face showed an absolutely
uncomprehending amazement.