mutely helpless, Tom Willard looked honestly perplexed, and yet many of
those present believed that both these men knew the sad secret of
Madeleine’s life, and understood definitely the written message.
Again Mr. Benson earnestly requested that any one knowing the least
fact, however trivial, regarding the matter, would mention it.
Then Mrs. Markham spoke.
“I can tell you nothing but my own surmise,” she said; “I know nothing
for certain, but I have reason to believe that Madeleine Van Norman had
a deep sorrow,—such a one as would impel her to write that statement,
and to act in accordance with it.”
“That is what I wished to know,” said Coroner Benson; “it is not
necessary for you to detail the nature of her sorrow, or even to hint at
it further, but the assurance that the message is in accordance with
Miss Van Norman’s mental attitude goes far toward convincing me that her
death is the outcome of that written declaration.”
“I know, too,” volunteered Kitty French, “that Madeleine meant every
word she wrote there. She _was_ miserable, and for the very reason that
she herself stated!”
Mr. Benson pinched his glasses more firmly on his nose, and turned his
gaze slowly toward Miss French.
Kitty had spoken impulsively, and perhaps too directly, but, though
embarrassed at the sensation she had caused, she showed no desire to
retract her statements.
“I am told,” said the coroner, his voice ringing out clearly in the
strange silence that had fallen on the room, “that the initial on this
paper designates Mr. Schuyler Carleton. I must therefore ask Mr.
Carleton if he can explain the reference to himself.”
“I cannot,” said Schuyler Carleton, and only the intense silence allowed
his low whisper to be heard. “Miss Van Norman was my affianced wife. We
were to have been married to-day. Those two facts, I think, prove the
existence of our mutual love. The paper is to me inexplicable.”
Tom Willard looked at the speaker with an expression of frank unbelief,
and, indeed, most of the auditors’ faces betrayed incredulity.
Even with no previous reason to imagine that Carleton did not love
Madeleine, the tragic message proved it beyond all possible doubt,—and
yet it was but natural for the man to deny it.
Doctor Hills spoke next.
“I think, Coroner Benson,” he said, as he rose to his feet, “we are
missing the point. If Miss Van Norman took her life in fulfilment of her
own decision, the reasons that brought about that decision are not a
matter for our consideration. It is for us to decide whether she did or
did not bring about her own death, and as a mode of procedure may I
suggest this? Doctor Leonard and myself hold, that, in view of the
absence of any stain on Miss Van Norman’s hands, she could not have
handled the stained dagger that killed her. A refutation of this opinion
would be to explain how she could have done the deed and left no trace
on her fingers. Unless this can be shown, I think we can _not_ call it a
suicide.”
Although nothing would have induced him to admit it, Coroner Benson was
greatly accommodated by this suggestion, and immediately adopting it as
his own promulgation, he repeated it almost exactly word for word, as
his official dictum.
“And so,” he concluded, “as I have now explained, unless a theory can be
offered on this point, we must agree that Miss Van Norman’s unfortunate
death was not by her own hand.”
Robert Fessenden arose.
“I have no theory,” he said; “I have no argument to offer. But I am sure
we all wish to discover the truth by means of any light that any of us
may throw on the mystery. And I want to say that in my opinion the
absence of blood on the hands, though it _indicates_, does not
positively _prove_, that the weapon was held by another than the victim.
Might it not be that, taking the dagger from the table, clean as of
course it was, Miss Van Norman turned it upon herself, and then,
withdrawing it, let it drop to the floor, where it subsequently became
blood-stained, as did the rug and her own gown?”
The two doctors listened intently. It was characteristic of both that
though Doctor Hills had shown no elation when he had convinced Doctor
Leonard of his mistake the night before, yet now Doctor Leonard could
not repress a gleam of triumph in his eyes as he turned to Doctor Hills.
“It is possible,” said Mr. Benson, with a cautiously dubious air, though
really the theory struck him as extremely probable, and he wished he had
advanced it himself.
Doctor Hills looked thoughtful, and then, as nobody else spoke, he
observed:
“Mr. Carleton might perhaps judge of that point. As he first discovered
the dagger, and picked it up from the floor, he can perhaps say if it
lay in or near the stains on the carpet.”
Everybody looked at Schuyler Carleton. But the man had reached the limit
of his endurance.
“I don’t know!” he exclaimed, covering his white face with his hands, as
if to shut out the awful memory. “Do you suppose I noticed such
details?” he cried, looking up again. “I picked up the dagger, scarce
knowing that I did it! It was almost an unconscious act. I was stunned,
dazed, at what I saw before me, and I know nothing of the dagger or its
blood-stains!”
Truly, the man was almost frenzied, and out of consideration for his
perturbed state, the coroner asked him no more questions just then.
“It seems to me,” observed Rob Fessenden, “that the nature or shape of
the stains on the dagger handle might determine this point. If they
appear to be finger-marks, the weapon must have been held by some other
hand. If merely stains, as from the floor, they might be considered to
strengthen Doctor Hill’s theory.”
The Venetian paper-cutter was produced and passed around.
None of the women would touch it or even look at it, except Kitty
French. She examined it carefully, but had no opinion to offer, and Mr.
Benson waited impatiently for her to finish her scrutiny. He had no wish
to hear her remarks on the subject, for he deemed her a mere frivolous
girl, who had no business to take any part in the serious inquiry. All
were requested not to touch the weapon, which was passed round on a
brass tray taken from the library table.
Schuyler Carleton covered his eyes, and refused to glance at it.
Tom Willard and Robert Fessenden looked at it at the same time, holding
the tray between them.
“I make out no finger-prints,” said Tom, at last. “Do you?”
“No,” said Fessenden; “that is, not surely. These _may_ be marks of
fingers, but they are far too indistinct to say so positively. What do
you think, Doctor Leonard?”
The gruesome property was passed on to the two doctors, who examined it
with the greatest care. Going to the window, they looked at it with
magnifying glasses, and finally reported that the slight marks might be
finger-marks, or might be the abrasion of the nap of the rug on which
the dagger had fallen.
“Then,” said Coroner Benson, “we have, so far, no evidence which refutes
the theory that Miss Van Norman’s written message was the expression of
her deliberate intent, and that that intention was fulfilled by her.”
Once more Mr. Benson scanned intently the faces of his audience.
“Can no one, then,” he said again, “assert or suggest anything that may
have any bearing on this written message?”
“I can,” said Robert Fessenden.
VIII
A SOFT LEAD PENCIL
Coroner Benson looked at the young man curiously. Knowing him to be a
stranger in the household, he had not expected information from him.
“Your name?” he said quietly.
“I am Robert Fessenden, of New York City. I am a lawyer by profession,
and I came to Mapleton yesterday for the purpose of acting as best man
at Mr. Carleton’s wedding. I came here this morning, not knowing of what
had occurred in the night, and after conversation with some members of
the household I felt impelled to investigate some points which seemed to
me mysterious. I trust I have shown no intrusive curiosity, but I
confess to a natural detective instinct, and I noticed some
peculiarities about that paper you hold in your hand to which I should
like to call your attention.”
Fessenden’s words caused a decided stir among his hearers, including the
coroner and the two doctors.
Mr. Benson was truly anxious to learn what the young man had to say, but
at the same time his professional jealousy was aroused by the
implication that there was anything to be learned from the paper itself,
outside of his own information concerning it.
“I was told,” he said quickly, “that this paper is positively written in
Miss Van Norman’s own hand.”
Robert Fessenden, while not exactly a handsome man, was of a type that
impressed every one pleasantly. He was large and blond, and had an air
that was unmistakably cultured and exceedingly well-bred.
Conventionality sat well upon him, and his courteous self-assurance had
in it no trace of egotism or self-importance. In a word, he was what the
plain-spoken people of Mapleton called citified, and though they
sometimes resented this combination of personal traits, in their hearts
they admired and envied it.
This was why Coroner Benson felt a slight irritation at the young man’s
_savoir faire_, and at the same time a sense of satisfaction that there
was promise of some worth-while help.
“I was told so, too,” said Fessenden, in response to the coroner’s
remark, “and as I have never seen any of Miss Van Norman’s writing, I
have, of course, no reason to doubt this. But this is the point I want
to inquire about: is it assumed that Miss Van Norman wrote the words on
this paper while sitting here at the table last evening, immediately or
shortly before her death?”
Mr. Benson thought a moment, then he said: “Without any evidence to the
contrary, and indeed without having given this question any previous
thought, I think I may say that it has been tacitly assumed that this is
a dying confession of Miss Van Norman’s.”
He looked inquiringly at his audience, and Doctor Hills responded.
“Yes,” he said; “we have taken for granted that Miss Van Norman wrote
the message while sitting here last evening, after the rest of the
household had retired. This we infer from the fact of Mr. Carleton’s
finding the paper on the table when he discovered the tragedy.”
“You thought the same, Mr. Carleton?”
“Of course; I could not do otherwise than to believe Miss Van Norman had
written the message and had then carried out her resolve.”
“I think, Mr. Fessenden,” resumed the coroner, “we may assume this to be
the case.”
“Then,” said Fessenden, “I will undertake to show that it is improbable
that this paper was written as has been supposed. The message is, as you
see, written in pencil. The pencil here on the table, and which is part
of a set of desk-fittings, is a very hard pencil, labeled H. A few marks
made by it upon a bit of paper will convince you at once that it is not
the pencil which was used to write that message. The letters, as you
see, are formed of heavy black marks which were made with a very soft
pencil, such as is designated by 2 B or BB. If you please, I will pause
for a moment while you satisfy yourself upon this point.”
Greatly interested, Mr. Benson took the pencil from the pen-rack and
wrote some words upon a pad of paper. Doctor Leonard and Doctor Hills
leaned over the table to note results, but no one else stirred.
“You are quite right,” said Mr. Benson; “this message was not written
with this pencil. But what does that prove?”
“It proves nothing,” said Fessenden calmly, “but it is pretty strong
evidence that the message was not written at this table last night. For
had there been any other pencil on the table, it would doubtless have
remained. Assuming, then that Miss Van Norman wrote this message
elsewhere, and with another pencil, it loses the special importance
commonly attributed to the words of one about to die.”
“It does,” said Mr. Benson, impressed by the fact, but at a loss to know
whither the argument was leading.
“Believing, then,” went on the lawyer, “that this paper had not been
written in this room last evening, I began to conjecture where it had
been written. For one would scarcely expect a message of that nature to
be written in one place and carried to another. I was so firmly
convinced that something could be learned on this point, that just
before we were summoned to this room, I asked permission of Mrs. Markham
to examine the appointments of Miss Van Norman’s writing-desk in her own
room, and I found in her desk no soft pencils whatever. There were
several pencils, of gold and of silver and of ordinary wood, but the
lead in each was as hard as this one on the library table. Urged on by
what seemed to me important developments, I persuaded Mrs. Markham to
let me examine all of the writing-desks in the house. I found but one
soft pencil, and that was in the desk of Miss Dupuy, Miss Van Norman’s
secretary. It is quite conceivable that Miss Van Norman should write at
her secretary’s desk, but I found myself suddenly confronted by another
disclosure. And that is that the handwritings of Miss Van Norman and
Miss Dupuy are so similar as to be almost identical. In view of the
importance of this written message, should it not be more carefully
proved that this writing is really Miss Van Norman’s own?”
“It should, indeed,” declared Coroner Benson, who was by this time quite
ready to agree to any suggestion Mr. Fessenden might make. “Will
somebody please ask Miss Dupuy to come here?”
“I will,” said Miss Morton, and, rising, she quickly rustled from the
room.
Of course, every one present immediately remembered that Miss Dupuy had
left the room in a fit of hysterical emotion, and wondered in what frame
of mind she would return.
Nearly every one, too, resented Miss Morton’s officiousness. Whatever
errand was to be done, she volunteered to do it, quite as if she were a
prominent member of the household, instead of a lately arrived guest.
“This similarity of penmanship is a very important point,” observed Mr.
Benson, “a very important point indeed. I am surprised that it has not
been remarked sooner.”
“I’ve often noticed that they wrote alike,” said Kitty French
impulsively, “but I never thought about it before in this matter. You
see”—she involuntarily addressed herself to the coroner, who listened
with interest—“you see, Madeleine instructed Cicely to write as nearly
as possible like she did, because Cicely was her social secretary and
answered all her notes, and wrote letters for her, and sometimes Cicely
signed Madeleine’s name to the notes, and the people who received them
thought Maddy wrote them herself. She didn’t mean to deceive, only
sometimes people don’t like to have their notes answered by a secretary,
and so it saved a lot of trouble. I confess,” Kitty concluded, “that I
can’t always tell the difference in their writing myself, though I
usually can.”
Miss Morton returned, bringing Cicely with her. Still officious of
manner, Miss Morton rearranged some chairs, and then seated herself in
the front row with Cicely beside her. She showed what seemed almost an
air of proprietorship in the girl, patting her shoulder, and whispering
to her, as if by way of encouragement.
But Miss Dupuy’s demeanor had greatly changed. No longer weeping, she
had assumed an almost defiant attitude, and her thin lips were tightly
closed in a way that did not look promising to those who desired
information.
With a conspicuous absence of tact or diplomacy, Mr. Benson asked her
abruptly, “Did you write this paper?”
“I did,” said Cicely, and as soon as the words were uttered her lips
closed again with a snap.
Her reply fell like a bombshell upon the breathless group of listeners.
Tom Willard was the first to speak.
“What!” he exclaimed. “Maddy didn’t write that? You wrote it?”
“Yes,” asserted Cicely, looking Tom squarely in the eyes.
“When did you write it?” asked the coroner.
“A week or more ago.”
“Why did you write it?”
“I refuse to tell.”
“Who is the S. mentioned on this paper?”
“I refuse to tell.”
“You needn’t tell. That is outside the case. It is sufficient for us to
know that Miss Van Norman did not write this paper. If you wrote it, it
has no bearing on the case. Your penmanship is very like hers.”
“I practised to make it so,” said Cicely. “Miss Van Norman desired me to
do so, that I might answer unimportant notes and sign her name to them.
They were in no sense forgeries. Ladies frequently have their own names
signed by their secretaries. Miss Van Norman often received notes like
that.”
“Why did you not tell before that you wrote this paper supposed to have
been written by Miss Van Norman?”
“Nobody asked me.” Miss Dupuy’s tone was defiant and even pert. Robert
Fessenden began to look at the girl with increasing interest. He felt
quite sure that she knew more about the tragedy than he had suspected.
His detective instinct became immediately alert, and he glanced
significantly at Kitty French.
She was breathlessly watching Cicely, but nothing could be learned from
the girl’s inscrutable face, and to an attentive listener her very voice
did not ring true.
Doctor Leonard and Doctor Hills looked at each other. Both remembered
that the night before, Cicely had stealthily opened the door of the
library and put her head in, but seeing them, had quickly gone back
again.
This information might or might not be of importance, but after a brief
whispered conference, the two men concluded that it was not the time
then to refer to it.
Mr. Carleton, though still pale and haggard of face, seemed to have
taken on new interest, and listened attentively to the conversation,
while big, good-natured Tom Willard leaned forward and took the paper,
and then sat studying it, with a perplexed expression.
“But why did you not volunteer the information? You must have known it
was of great importance.” The coroner spoke almost petulantly, and
indeed Miss Dupuy had suppressed important information.
At his question she became greatly embarrassed. She blushed and looked
down, and then, with an effort resuming her air of defiance, she snapped
out her answer: “I was afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
“Afraid that they would think somebody killed Miss Van Norman, instead
of that she killed herself, as she did.”
“How do you know she did?”
“I don’t know it, except that I left her here alone when I went to my
room, and the house was all locked up, and soon after that she was found
dead. So she must have killed herself.”
“Those conclusions,” said the coroner pompously, “are for us to arrive
at, not for you to declare. The case,” he then said, turning toward the
doctors and the young detective, “is entirely changed by the hearing of
Miss Dupuy’s testimony. The fact that the note was not written by Miss
Van Norman, will, I’m sure, remove from the minds of the doctors the
possibility of suicide.”
“It certainly will,” said Doctor Leonard. “I quite agree with Doctor
Hills that except for the note all evidence is against the theory of
suicide.”
“Then,” went on Mr. Benson, “if it is not a suicide, Miss Van Norman
must have been the victim of foul play, and it is our duty to
investigate the matter, and attempt to discover whose hand it was that
wielded the fatal dagger.”
Mr. Benson was fond of high-sounding words and phrases, and, finding
himself in charge of what promised to be a mysterious, if not a
celebrated, case, he made the most of his authoritative position.
Robert Fessenden paid little attention to the coroner’s speech. His
brain was working rapidly, and he was trying to piece together such data
as he had already accumulated in the way of evidence. It was but little,
to be sure, and in lieu of definite clues he allowed himself to
speculate a little on the probabilities.
But he realized that he was in the presence of a mysterious murder case,
and he was more than willing to do anything he could toward discovering
the truth of the matter.
The known facts were so appalling, and any evidence of undiscovered
facts was as yet so extremely slight, that Fessenden felt there was a
great deal to be done.
He was trying to collect and systematize his own small fund of
information when he realized that the audience was being dismissed.
Mr. Benson announced that he would convene a jury and hold an inquest
that same afternoon, and then he would expect all those now present to
return as witnesses.
Without waiting to learn what the others did, Fessenden turned to Kitty
French, and asked her to go with him for a stroll.
“You need fresh air,” he said, as they stepped from the veranda; “but,
also, I need you to talk to. I can formulate my ideas better if I
express them aloud, and you are such a clear-headed and sympathetic
listener that it helps a lot.”
Kitty smiled with pleasure at the compliment, then her pretty face
became grave again as she remembered what must be the subject of their
conversation.
“Before I talk to the lawyers or detectives who will doubtless soon
infest the house, I want to straighten out my own ideas.”
“I don’t see how you can have any,” said Kitty; “I mean, of course, any
definite ideas about who committed the murder.”
“I haven’t really definite ones, but I want you to help me get some.”
“Well,” said Kitty, looking provokingly lovely in her serious endeavor
to be helpful, “let’s sit down here and talk it over.”
“Here” was a sort of a rustic arbor, which was a delightful place for a
tête-à-tête, but not at all conducive to deep thought or profound
conversation.
“Go on,” said Kitty, pursing her red lips and puckering her white brow
in her determination to supply the help that was required of her.
“But I can’t go on, if you look like that! All logic and deduction fly
out of my head, and I can think only of poetry and romance. And it won’t
do! At least, not now. Can’t you try to give a more successful imitation
of a coroner’s jury?”
Kitty tried to look stupid and wise, both at once, and only succeeded in
looking bewitching.
“It’s no use,” said Fessenden; “I can’t sit facing you, as I would the
real thing in the way of juries. So I’ll sit beside you, and look at the
side of that distant barn, while we talk.”
So he turned partly round, and, fixing his gaze on the stolid red barn,
said abruptly:
“Who wrote that paper?”
“I don’t know,” said Kitty, feeling that she couldn’t help much here.
“Somehow, I can’t seem to believe that Dupuy girl wrote it. She sounded
to me like a lady reciting a fabrication.”
“I thought that, too,” said Kitty. “I never liked Cicely, because I
never trusted her. But Maddy was very fond of her, and she wouldn’t have
been, unless she had found Cicely trustworthy.”
“Come to luncheon, you two,” said Tom Willard, as he approached the
arbor.
“Oh, Mr. Willard,” said Kitty, “who do _you_ think wrote that paper?”
“Why, Miss Dupuy,” said Tom, in surprise. “She owned up to it.”
“Yes, I know; but I’m not sure she told the truth.”
“I don’t know why she shouldn’t,” said Tom, thoughtfully. And then he
added gently, “And, after looking at it closely, I felt sure, myself, it
wasn’t Maddy’s writing, after all.”
“Then it must be Cicely’s,” said Kitty. “I admit I can’t tell them
apart.”
And then the three went back to the house.
IX
THE WILL
Immediately after luncheon Lawyer Peabody came. This gentleman had had
charge of the Van Norman legal matters for many years, and it was known
by most of those present that he was bringing with him such wills or
other documents as might have a bearing on the present crisis.
Mr. Peabody was an old man; moreover, he had for many years been
intimately associated with the Van Norman household, and had been a
close friend of both Richard Van Norman and Madeleine. Shattered and
broken by the sad tragedy in the household, he could scarcely repress
his emotion when he undertook to address the little audience.
But the main purport of his business there at that time was to announce
the contents of the two wills in his possession.
The first one, the will of Richard Van Norman, was no surprise to any
one present, except perhaps those few who did not live in Mapleton. One
of these, Robert Fessenden, was extremely interested to learn that
because of Madeleine’s death before her marriage, and also before she
was twenty-three years of age, the large fortune of Richard Van Norman,
which would have been hers on her wedding day, passed at once and
unrestrictedly to Tom Willard.
But also by the terms of Richard Van Norman’s will the fine old mansion
and grounds and a sum of money, modest in comparison with the whole
fortune, but ample to maintain the estate, were Madeleine’s own, and had
been from the day of her uncle’s death.