the wide-open blue eyes of Cicely Dupuy. Seeing the two men, she came no
further into the room, but gave a sort of gasp, and pulled the door
quickly shut again. In the still house, the two listeners could hear her
footsteps crossing the hall, and ascending the stairs.
“Curious, that,” murmured Doctor Hills. “If she wanted to look once more
on Miss Van Norman’s face, why so stealthy about it? And if she didn’t
want that, what _did_ she want?”
“I don’t know,” rejoined Doctor Leonard; “but I see nothing suspicious
about it. Doubtless, she did come for a last glance alone at Miss Van
Norman, but, seeing us here, didn’t care to enter.”
“But she gave a strange little shuddering gasp, as if frightened.”
“Natural excitement at the strange and awful conditions now present.”
“Yes, no doubt.” Doctor Hills spoke a bit impatiently. The phlegmatic
attitude of his colleague jarred on his own overwrought nerves, and he
rose and walked about the room, now and then stopping to scrutinize anew
the victim of the cruel dagger.
At last he stood still, across the table from her, but looking at Doctor
Leonard.
“I have no suggestion to make,” he said slowly. “I have no theory to
offer, but I am firmly convinced that Madeleine Van Norman did not
strike the blow that took away her life. Perhaps this is more a feeling
or an intuition than a logical conviction, but——” He hesitated and
looked intently at the dead girl, as if trying to force the secret from
her.
With a sudden start he took a step forward, and as he spoke his voice
rang with excitement.
“Doctor Leonard,” he said, in a quick, concise voice, “will you look
carefully at that dagger?”
“Yes,” said the older man, impressed by the other’s sudden intensity;
and, stepping forward, he scrutinized the dagger as it lay on the table,
without, however, touching it.
“There is blood on the handle,” went on Doctor Hills.
“Yes, several stains, now dried.”
“And do you see any blood on the right hand of Miss Van Norman?”
Startled at the implication, Doctor Leonard bent to examine the cold
white hand. Not a trace of blood was on it. Instinctively he looked at
the girl’s left hand, only to find that also immaculately white.
Doctor Leonard stood upright and pulled himself together.
“I was wrong, Doctor Hills,” he said, with a nod which in him betokened
an unspoken apology. “It is a case for the coroner.”
VI
FESSENDEN COMES
It was about nine o’clock the next morning when Rob Fessenden rang the
bell of the Van Norman house. Having heard nothing of the events of the
night, he had called to offer any assistance he might give before the
ceremony.
The trailing garland of white flowers with fluttering streamers of white
ribbon that hung beside the portal struck a chill to his heart.
“What can have happened?” he thought blankly, and confused ideas of
motor accidents were thronging his mind as the door was opened for him.
The demeanor of the footman at once told him that he was in a house of
mourning. Shown into the drawing-room, he was met by Cicely Dupuy.
“Mr. Fessenden!” she exclaimed as she greeted him. “Then you have not
heard?”
“I’ve heard nothing. What is it?”
Poor Miss Dupuy had bravely taken up the burden of telling the sad story
to callers who did not know of it, and this was not the first time that
morning she had enlightened inquiring friends.
In a few words she told Mr. Fessenden of the events of the night before.
He was shocked and sincerely grieved. Although his acquaintance with
Miss Van Norman was slight, he was Schuyler Carleton’s oldest and best
friend, and so he had come from New York the day before in order to take
his part at the wedding.
While they were talking Kitty French came in. As Mr. Fessenden began to
converse with her Cicely excused herself and left the room.
“Isn’t it awful?” began Kitty, and her tear-filled eyes supplemented the
trite sentence.
“It is indeed,” said Rob Fessenden, taking her hand in spontaneous
sympathy. “Why should she do it?”
“She didn’t do it,” declared Kitty earnestly. “Mr. Fessenden, they all
say she killed herself, but I know she didn’t. Won’t you help me to
prove that, and to find out who did kill her?”
“What do you mean, Miss French? Miss Dupuy just told me it was a
suicide.”
“They all say so, but I know better. Oh, I wish somebody would help me!
Molly doesn’t think as I do, and I can’t do anything all alone.”
Miss French’s face was small and flower-like, and when she clasped her
little hands and bewailed her inability to prove her belief, young
Fessenden thought he had never seen such a perfect picture of beautiful
helplessness. Without reserve he instantly resolved to aid and advise
her to the best of his own ability.
“And Mrs. Markham doesn’t think as I do, either,” went on Kitty. “Nobody
thinks as I do.”
“I will think as you do,” declared Fessenden, and so potent was the
charm of the tearful violet eyes, that he was quite ready to think
whatever she dictated. “Only tell me what to think, and what to do about
it.”
“Why, I think Madeleine didn’t kill herself at all. I think somebody
else killed her.”
“But who would do such a thing? You see, Miss French, I know nothing of
the particulars. I saw Miss Van Norman for the first time yesterday.”
“Had you never met her before?”
“Oh, yes; a few years ago. But I mean, I came to Mapleton only
yesterday, and saw her in the afternoon. I was to be Schuyler’s best
man, you know, and as he didn’t come here to dinner last night, I
thought I’d better not come either, though I had been asked. He was a
little miffed with Miss Van Norman, you know.”
“Yes, I know. Maddy did flirt with Tom, and it always annoyed Mr.
Carleton. Did you dine with him?”
“Yes, at his home. I am staying there. By the way, I met Miss Burt
there; do you know her?”
“No, not at all. Who is she?”
“She’s a companion to Mrs. Carleton, Schuyler’s mother. I never saw her
until last night at dinner.”
“No, I don’t know her,” repeated Kitty. “I don’t believe she was invited
to the wedding, for I looked over the list of invitations. Still, her
name may have been there. The list was so very long.”
“And now there’ll be no wedding and no guests.”
“No,” said Kitty; “only guests at a far different ceremony.” Again the
deep violet eyes filled with tears, and Fessenden was conscious of a
longing to comfort and help the poor little girl thrown thus suddenly
into the first tragedy of her life.
“It would be dreadful enough if she had died from an illness,” he said;
“but this added awfulness——”
“Yes,” interrupted Kitty; “but to me the worst part is for them to say
she killed herself,—and I _know_ she didn’t. Why, Maddy was too fine
and big-natured to do such a cowardly thing.”
“She seemed so to me, too, though of course I didn’t know her so well as
you did.”
“No, I’m one of her nearest friends,—though Madeleine was never one to
have really intimate friends. But as her friend, I want to try to do
what I can to put her right in the face of the world. And you said you’d
help me.”
She looked at Fessenden with such hopefully appealing eyes, that he
would willingly have helped her in any way he could, but he also
realized that it was a very serious proposition this young girl was
making.
“I will help you, Miss French,” he said gravely. “I know little of the
details of the case, but if there is the slightest chance that you may
be right, rest assured that you shall be given every chance to prove
it.”
Kitty French gave a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank you,” she said earnestly;
“but I’m afraid we cannot do much, however well we intend. Of course I’m
merely a guest here, and I have no authority of any sort. And, too, to
prove that Maddy did not kill herself would mean having a detective and
everything like that.”
“I may not be ‘everything like that,’” said Fessenden, with a faint
smile, “but I am a sort of detective in an amateur way. I’ve had quite a
good deal of experience, and though I wouldn’t take a case officially,
I’m sure I could at least discover if your suspicions have any grounds.”
“But I haven’t any suspicions,” said Kitty, agitatedly clasping her
little hands against her breast; “I’ve only a feeling, a deep, positive
conviction, that Madeleine did not kill herself, and I’m sure I don’t
know who did kill her.”
Fessenden gave that grave smile of his and only said, “That doesn’t
sound like much to work upon, and yet I would often trust a woman’s
intuitive knowledge against the most conspicuous clues or evidences.”
Kitty thanked him with a smile, but before she could speak, Miss Morton
came into the room.
“It’s perfectly dreadful,” that lady began, in her impetuous way;
“they’re going to have the coroner after all! Doctor Leonard has sent
for him and he may arrive at any minute. Isn’t it awful? There’ll be an
inquest, and the house will be thronged with all sorts of people!”
“Why are they going to have an inquest?” demanded Kitty, whirling around
and grasping Miss Morton by her elbows.
“Because,” she said, quite as excited as Kitty herself—“because the
doctors think that perhaps Madeleine didn’t kill herself; that she
was—was——”
“Murdered!” exclaimed Kitty. “I knew it! I knew she was! Who killed
her?”
“Mercy! I don’t know,” exclaimed Miss Morton, frightened at Kitty’s
vehemence. “That’s what the coroner is coming to find out.”
“But who do you think did it? You must have some idea!”
“I haven’t! Don’t look at me like that! What do you mean?”
“It must have been a burglar,” went on Kitty, “because it couldn’t have
been any one else. But why didn’t he steal things? Perhaps he did! We
never thought to look!”
“How you do run on! Nobody could steal the presents, because there was a
policeman in the house all the time.”
“Then, why didn’t he catch the burglar?” demanded Kitty, grasping Miss
Morton’s arm, as if that lady had information that must be dragged from
her by force.
Feeling interested in getting at the facts in the case, and thinking
that he could learn little from these two excited women, Rob Fessenden
turned into the hall just in time to meet Doctor Hills, who was coming
from the library.
“May I introduce myself?” he said. “I’m Robert Fessenden, of New York, a
lawyer, and I was to have been best man at the wedding. You, I know, are
Doctor Hills, and I want to say to you that if the earnest endeavor of
an amateur detective would be of any use to you in this matter, it is at
your disposal. Mr. Carleton is my old and dear friend, and I need not
tell you how he now calls forth my sympathy.”
Instinctively, Doctor Hills liked this young man. His frank manner and
pleasant, straightforward ways impressed the doctor favorably, and he
shook hands warmly as he said, “This is most kind of you, Mr. Fessenden,
and you may prove the very man we need. At first, we were all convinced
that Miss Van Norman’s death was a suicide; and though the evidence
still strongly points to that, I am sure that there is a possibility, at
least, that it is not true.”
“May I learn the details of the case? May I go into the library?” said
Fessenden, hesitating to approach the closed door until invited.
“Yes, indeed; I’ll take you in at once. Doctor Leonard, who is in there,
is the county physician, and, though a bit brusque in his manner, he is
an honest old soul, and does unflinchingly what he judges to be his
duty.”
Neither then nor at any time, neither to Doctor Leonard himself nor to
any one else, did Doctor Hills ever mention the difference of opinion
which the two men had held for so long the night before, nor did he tell
how he had proved his own theory so positively that Doctor Leonard had
been obliged to confess himself wrong. It was not in Doctor Hills’
nature to say “I told you so,” and, fully appreciating this, Doctor
Leonard said nothing either, but threw himself into the case heart and
soul in his endeavors to seek truth and justice.
Fessenden and Doctor Hills entered the library, where everything was
much as it had been the night before. At one time the doctors had been
about to move the body to a couch, and to remove the disfigured gown,
but after Doctor Leonard had been persuaded to agree with Doctor Hills’
view of the case, they had left everything untouched until the coroner
should come.
The discovery of this was a satisfaction to Robert Fessenden. His
detective instinct had begun to assert itself, and he was glad of an
opportunity to examine the room before the arrival of the coroner.
Though not seeming unduly curious, his eyes darted about in an eager
search for possible clues of any sort. Without touching them, he
examined the dagger, the written paper, the appointments of the library
table, and the body itself, with its sweet, sad face, its drooping
posture, and its tragically stained raiment.
In true detective fashion he scrutinized the carpet, glanced at the
window fastenings, and noted the appointments of the library table.
The only thing Fessenden touched, however, was a lead pencil which lay
on the pen-rack. It was an ordinary pencil, but he gazed intently at the
gilt lettering stamped upon it, and then returned it to its place.
Again he glanced quickly but carefully at every article on the table,
and then, taking a chair, sat quietly in a corner, unobtrusive but
alert.
With something of a bustling air the coroner came in. Coroner Benson was
a fussy sort of man, with a somewhat exaggerated sense of his own
importance.
He paused with what he probably considered a dramatic start when he saw
the dead body of Miss Van Norman, and, shaking his head, said, “Alas!
Alas!” in tragic tones.
Miss Morton and Kitty French had followed him in, and stood arm in arm,
a little bewildered, but determined to know whatever might transpire.
Cicely Dupuy and Miss Markham had also come in.
But after a glance round and a preliminary clearing of his throat, he at
once requested that everybody except the two doctors should leave the
room.
Fessenden and Kitty French were greatly disappointed at this, but the
others went out with a feeling of relief, for the strain was beginning
to tell upon the nerves of all concerned.
As usual, Miss Morton tried to exercise her powers of generalship, and
directed that they should all assemble in the drawing-room until
recalled to learn the coroner’s opinion.
Mrs. Markham, unheeding Miss Morton’s dictum, went away to attend to her
household duties, and Cicely went to her own room, but the others waited
in the drawing-room. They were joined shortly by Tom Willard and
Schuyler Carleton, who arrived at about the same time.
Mr. Carleton, never a robust man, looked like a wreck of his former
self. Years had been added to his apparent age; his impassive face wore
a look of stony grief, and his dark eyes seemed filled with an
unutterable horror.
Tom Willard, on the contrary, being of stout build and rubicund
countenance, seemed an ill-fitting figure in the sad and tearful group.
But as Kitty French remarked to Fessenden in a whisper, “Poor Tom
probably feels the worst of any of us, and it isn’t his fault that he
can’t make that fat, jolly face of his look more funereal.”
“And he’s said to be the heir to the estate, too,” Fessenden whispered
back.
“Now, that’s mean of you,” declared Kitty. “Tom hasn’t a greedy hair in
his head, and I don’t believe he has even thought of his fortune. And,
besides, he was desperately in love with Madeleine. A whole heap more in
love than Mr. Carleton was.”
Fessenden stared at her. “Then why was Carleton marrying her?”
“For her money,” said Kitty, with a disdainful air.
“I didn’t know that,” went on Fessenden, quite seriously. “I thought
Carleton was hard hit. She was a magnificent woman.”
“Oh, she was, indeed,” agreed Kitty enthusiastically. “Mr. Carleton
didn’t half appreciate her, and Tom did. But then she was always very
different with Tom. Somehow she always seemed constrained when with Mr.
Carleton.”
“Then why was she marrying him?”
“She was terribly in love with him. She liked Tom only in a cousinly
way, but she adored Mr. Carleton. I know it.”
“Well, it seems you were right about her not killing herself, so you’re
probably right about this matter, too.”
“Now, that shows a nice spirit,” said Kitty, smiling, even in the midst
of her sorrow. “But, truly, I’m ’most always right; aren’t you?”
“I shall be after this, for I’m always going to agree with you.”
“That’s a pretty large order, for I’m sometimes awfully disagreeable.”
“I shouldn’t believe that, but I’ve practically promised to believe
everything you tell me, so I suppose I shall have to.”
“Oh, now I _have_ defeated my own ends! Well, never mind; abide by your
first impression,—that I’m always right,—and then go ahead.”
“Go ahead it is,” declared Fessenden, and then Molly Gardner joined
them. Molly was more overcome by the tragic turn affairs had taken than
Kitty, and had only just made her appearance downstairs that day.
“You dear child,” cried Kitty, noting her pale cheeks and sad eyes, “sit
right down here by us, and let Mr. Fessenden talk to you. He’s the
nicest man in the world to cheer any one up.”
“And you look as if you need cheering, Miss Gardner,” said Fessenden,
arranging some pillows at her back, as she languidly dropped down on the
sofa.
“I can’t realize it at all,” said poor Molly; “I don’t want to be silly
and keep fainting all over the place, but every time I remember how
Maddy looked last night——” She glanced toward the closed library doors
with a shudder.
“Don’t think about it,” said Rob Fessenden gently. “What you need most,
Miss Gardner, is a bit of fresh air. Come with me for a little walk in
the grounds.”
This was self-sacrifice on the part of the young man, for he greatly
desired to be present when the coroner should open the closed doors to
them again. But he really thought Miss Gardner would be better for a
short, brisk walk, and, getting her some wraps, they went out at the
front door.
VII
MR. BENSON’S QUESTIONS
It was some time after Fessenden and Molly had returned from their walk
that the library doors were thrown open, and Coroner Benson invited them
all to come in.
They filed in slowly, each heart heavy with an impending sense of dread.
Doctor Hills ushered them to seats, which had been arranged in rows, and
which gave an unpleasantly formal air to the cozy library.
The body of Madeleine Van Norman had been taken upstairs to her own
room, and at the library table, where she had last sat, stood Coroner
Benson.
The women were seated in front. Mrs. Markham seemed to have settled into
a sort of sad apathy, but Miss Morton was briskly alert and, though
evidently nervous, seemed eager to hear what the coroner had to tell.
Kitty French, too, was full of anxious interest, and, taking the seat
assigned to her, clasped her little hands in breathless suspense, while
a high color rose to her lovely cheeks.
Molly Gardner was pale and wan-looking. She dreaded the whole scene, and
had but one desire, to get away from Mapleton. She could have gone to
her room, had she chosen, but the idea of being all alone was even worse
than the present conditions. So she sat, with overwrought nerves, now
and then clutching at Kitty’s sleeve.
Cicely Dupuy was very calm—so calm, indeed, that one might guess it was
the composure of an all-compelling determination, and by no means the
quiet of indifference.
Marie was there, and showed the impassive face of the well-trained
servant, though her volatile French nature was discernible in her
quick-darting glances and quivering, sensitive lips.
The two doctors, Mr. Carlton, Tom Willard, and young Fessenden occupied
the next row of seats, and behind them were the house servants.
Unlike the women, the men showed little or no emotion on their faces.
All were grave and composed, and even Doctor Leonard seemed to have laid
aside his brusque and aggressive ways.
As he stood facing this group, Coroner Benson was fully alive to the
importance of his own position, and he quite consciously determined to
conduct the proceedings in a way to throw great credit upon himself in
his official capacity.
After an impressive pause, which he seemed to deem necessary to gain the
attention of an already breathlessly listening audience, he began:
“While there is much evidence that seems to prove that Miss Van Norman
took her own life, there is very grave reason to doubt this. Both of the
eminent physicians here present are inclined to believe that the dagger
thrust which killed Miss Van Norman was not inflicted by her own hand,
though it may have been so. This conclusion they arrive at from their
scientific knowledge of the nature and direction of dagger strokes,
which, as may not be generally known, is a science in itself. Indeed,
were it not for the conclusive evidence of the written paper, these
gentlemen would believe that the stroke was impossible of
self-infliction.
“But, aside from this point, we are confronted by this startling fact.
Although the dagger, which you may see still lying on the table, has
several blood-stains on its handle, there is absolutely no trace of
blood on the right hand of the body of Miss Van Norman. It is
inconceivable that she could have removed such a trace, had there been
any, and it is highly improbable, if not indeed impossible, that she
could have handled the dagger and left it in its present condition,
without showing a corresponding stain on her hand.”
This speech of Coroner Benson’s produced a decided sensation on all his
hearers, but it was manifested in various ways. Kitty French exchanged
with Fessenden a satisfied nod, for this seemed in line with her own
theory.
Fessenden returned the nod, and even gave Kitty a faint smile, for who
could look at that lovely face without a pleasant recognition of some
sort? And then he folded his arms and began to think hard. Yet there was
little food for coherent thought.
Granting the logical deduction from the absence of any stain on Miss Van
Norman’s hands, there was, as yet, not the slightest indication of any
direction in which to look for the dastard who had done the deed.
Schuyler Carleton showed no emotion, but his white face seemed to take
on one more degree of horror and misery. Tom Willard looked blankly
amazed, and Mrs. Markham began on a new one of her successive crying
spells. Miss Morton sat bolt upright and placidly smoothed the gray silk
folds of her gown, while her face wore a decided “I told you so”
expression, though she hadn’t told them anything of the sort.
But as Fessenden watched her—the rows of seats were slightly
horseshoed, and he could see her side face well—he noticed that she was
really trembling all over, and that her placidity of face was without
doubt assumed for effect. He could not see her eyes, but he was positive
that only a strong fear or terror of something could explain her
admirably suppressed agitation.
The behavior of Cicely Dupuy was perhaps the most extraordinary. She
flew into a fit of violent hysterics, and had to be taken from the room.
Marie followed her, as it had always been part of the French maid’s duty
to attend Miss Dupuy upon occasion as well as Miss Van Norman.
“In view of this state of affairs,” went on the coroner, when quiet had
been restored after Cicely’s departure, “it becomes necessary to make an
investigation of the case. We have absolutely no evidence, and no real
reason to suspect foul play, yet since there is the merest possibility
that the death was not a suicide, it becomes my duty to look further
into the matter. I have been told that Miss Van Norman had expressed a
sort of general fear that she might some day be impelled to turn this
dagger upon herself. But that is a peculiar mental obsession that
affects many people at sight of a sharp-pointed or cutting instrument,
and is by no means a proof that she did do this thing. But quite aside
from the temptation of the glittering steel, we have Miss Van Norman’s
written confession that she at least contemplated taking her own life,
and ascribing a reason therefor. In further consideration, then, of this
written paper, of which you all know the contents, can any of you tell
me of any fact or quote any words spoken by Miss Van Norman that would
corroborate or amplify the statement of this despairing message?”
As Mr. Benson spoke, he held in his hand the written paper that had been
found on the library table. It was indeed unnecessary to read it aloud,
for every one present knew its contents by heart.