was dated a few months before her death, and which Mr. Peabody now read.
After appropriate and substantial bequests to several intimate friends,
to her housekeeper and secretary, and to all the servants, Madeleine
devised that her residuary fortune and the Van Norman house and grounds
should become the property of Miss Elizabeth Morton.
This was a complete surprise to all, with the possible exception of Miss
Morton herself. It was not easy to judge from her haughty and
self-satisfied countenance whether she had known of this before or not.
Fessenden, who was watching her closely, was inclined to think she had
known of it, and again his busy imagination ran riot. The first point,
he thought to himself, in discovering a potential murderer, is to
inquire who will be benefited by the victim’s death. Apparently the only
ones to profit by the passing of Madeleine Van Norman were Tom Willard
and Miss Morton. But even the ingenious imagination of the young
detective balked at the idea of connecting either of these two with the
tragedy. He knew Willard had not been in the house at the time of the
murder, and Miss Morton, as he had chanced to discover, had occupied a
room on the third floor. Moreover, it was absurd on the face of things
to fancy a well-bred, middle-aged lady stealing downstairs at dead of
night to kill her charming young hostess!
It was with a sense of satisfaction therefore that Fessenden assured
himself that he had formed no suspicions whatever, and could listen with
a mind entirely unprejudiced to such evidence as the coroner’s inquiry
might bring forth.
He was even glad that he had not discussed the matter further with Kitty
French. He still thought she had clear vision and good judgment, but he
had begun to realize that in her presence his own clearness of vision
was dazzled by her dancing eyes and a certain distracting charm which he
had never before observed in any woman.
But he told himself somewhat sternly that feminine charm must not be
allowed to interfere with the present business in hand, and he seated
himself at a considerable distance from Kitty French, when it was time
for the inquest.
A slight delay was occasioned by waiting for Coroner Benson’s own
stenographer, but when he arrived the inquiry was at once begun.
At the request of Miss Morton, or, it might rather be said, at her
command, the whole assembly had moved to the drawing-room, it being a
much larger and more airy apartment, and withal less haunted by the
picture of the tragedy itself.
And yet to hold a coroner’s inquiry in a room gay with wedding
decorations was almost, if not quite, as ghastly.
But Coroner Benson paid no heed to emotional considerations and
conducted himself with the same air of justice and legality as if he had
been in a court-room or the town-hall.
As for the jury he had gathered, the half-dozen men, though filled with
righteous indignation at the crime committed in their village, wasted no
thought on the incongruity of their surroundings.
Coroner Benson put his first question to Mrs. Markham, as he considered
her, in a way at least, the present head of the household. To be sure,
the house now legally belonged to Miss Morton, and that lady was quickly
assuming an added air of importance which was doubtless the result of
her recent inheritance; but Mrs. Markham was still housekeeper, and by
virtue of her long association with the place, Mr. Benson chose to treat
her with exceeding courtesy and deference.
But Mrs. Markham, though now quite composed and willing to answer
questions, could give no evidence of any importance. She testified that
she had seen Madeleine last at about ten o’clock the night before. This
was after the guests who had been at dinner had gone away, and the house
guests had gone to their rooms. Miss Van Norman was alone in the
library, and as Mrs. Markham left her she asked her to send Cicely Dupuy
to the library. Mrs. Markham had then gone directly to her own room,
which was on the second floor, above the drawing-room. It was at the
front of the house, and the room behind it, also over the long
drawing-room, was the one now devoted to the exhibition of Madeleine’s
wedding gifts. Mrs. Markham had retired almost immediately and had heard
no unusual sounds. She explained, however, that she was somewhat deaf,
and had there been any disturbance downstairs it was by no means
probable that she would have heard it.
“What was the first intimation you had that anything had happened?”
asked Mr. Benson.
“Kitty French came to my door and called to me. Her excited voice made
me think something was wrong, and, dressing hastily, I came downstairs,
to find many of the household already assembled.”
“And then you went into the library?”
“Yes; I had no idea Madeleine was dead. I thought she had fainted, and I
went toward her at once.”
“Did you touch her?”
“Yes; and I saw at once she was not living, but Miss Morton said perhaps
she might be, and then she telephoned for Doctor Hills.”
“Can you tell me if the house is carefully locked at night?”
“It is, I am sure; but it is not in my province to attend to it.”
“Whose duty is it?”
“That of Harris, the butler.”
“Will you please call Harris at once?” Mr. Benson’s tone of finality
seemed to dismiss Mrs. Markham as a witness, and she rang the bell for
the butler.
Harris came in, a perfect specimen of that type of butler that is so
similar to a certain type of bishop.
Aside from the gravity of the occasion, he seemed to show a separate
gravity of position, of importance, and of all-embracing knowledge.
“Your name is Harris?” said Mr. Benson.
“Yes, sir; James Harris, sir.”
“You have been employed in this house for some years?”
“Seventeen years and more, sir.”
“Is it your duty to lock up the house at night?”
“It is, sir. Mr. Van Norman was most particular about it, sir, being as
how the house is alone like in the grounds, and there being so much
trees and shrubberies about.”
“There are strong bolts to doors and windows?”
“Most especial strong, sir. It was Mr. Van Norman’s wish to make it
impossible for burglars to get in.”
“And did he succeed in this?”
“He did, sir, for sure. There are patent locks on every door and window,
more than one on most of them; and whenever Mr. Van Norman heard of a
new kind of lock, he’d order it at once.”
“Is the house fitted with burglar alarms?”
“No, sir; Mr. Van Norman depended on his safety locks and strong bolts.
He said he didn’t want no alarm, because it was forever getting out o’
kilter, and bolts were surer, after all.”
“And every night you make sure that these bolts and fastenings are all
secured in place?”
“I do, sir, and I have done it for many years.”
“You looked after them last night, as usual?”
“Sure, sir; every one of them I attended to myself.”
“You can testify, then, that the house could not have been entered by a
burglar last night?” asked Mr. Benson.
“Not by a burglar, nor by nobody else, sir, unless they broke down a
door or cut out a pane of glass.”
“Yet Mr. Carleton came in.”
Harris looked annoyed. “Of course, sir, anybody could come in the front
door with a latch-key. I didn’t mean that they couldn’t. But all the
other doors and windows were fastened all right, and I found them all
right this morning.”
“You made a careful examination of them?”
“Yes, sir. Of course we was all up through the night, and as soon as I
learned that Miss Madeleine was—was gone, sir, I felt I ought to look
about a bit. And everything was as right as could be, sir. No burglar
was into this house last night, sir.”
“How about the cellar?”
“We never bother much about the cellar, sir, as there’s nothing down
there to steal, unless they take the furnace or the gas-meter. But the
door at the top of the cellar stairs, as opens into the hall, sir, is
locked every night with a double lock and a bolt besides.”
“Then no burglar could come up through the cellar way?”
“That he couldn’t, sir. Nor yet down through the skylight, for the
skylight is bolted every night same as the windows.”
“And the windows on the second floor—are they fastened at night?”
“They are in the halls, sir. But of course in the bedrooms I don’t know
how they may be. That is, the occupied bedrooms. When the guest rooms
are vacant I always fasten those windows.”
“Then you can testify, Harris, that there was no way for any one to
enter this house last night except at the front door with a latch-key or
through the window of some occupied bedroom?”
“I can swear to that, sir.”
“You are sure you’ve overlooked no way? No back window, or seldom-used
door?”
Harris was a little hurt at this insistent questioning, but the coroner
recognized that this was a most important bit of evidence, and so
pressed his questions.
“I’m sure of it, sir. Mr. Van Norman taught me to be most thorough about
this matter, and I’ve never done different since Miss Madeleine has been
mistress here.”
“That is all, thank you, Harris. You may go.”
Harris went away, his honest countenance showing a look of relief that
his ordeal was over, and yet betokening a perplexed anxiety also.
Cicely Dupuy was next called upon to give her evidence, or rather to
continue the testimony which she had begun in the library. The girl had
a pleasanter expression than she had shown at the previous questioning,
but a red spot burned in either cheek, and she was clearly trying to be
calm, though really under stress of a great excitement.
“You were with Miss Van Norman in the library last evening?” began Mr.
Benson, speaking more gently than he had been doing, for he feared an
emotional outburst might again render this witness unavailable.
“Yes,” said Miss Dupuy, in a low tone; “when Mrs. Markham came upstairs
she stopped at my door and said Miss Van Norman wanted me, and I went
down immediately.”
“You have been Miss Van Norman’s secretary for some time?”
“For nearly five years.”
“What were your duties?”
“I attended to her social correspondence; helped her with her accounts,
both household and personal; read to her, and often did errands and made
calls for her.”
“She was kind to you?”
“She was more than kind. She treated me always as her social equal, and
as her friend.”
Cicely’s blue eyes filled with tears, and her voice quivered as she
spoke this tribute to her employer.
Again Mr. Benson feared she would break down, and changed his course of
questioning.
“At what time did you go to the library last evening?”
“It could not have been more than a few minutes past ten.”
“What did you do there?”
“Miss Van Norman dictated some lists of matters to be attended to, and
she discussed with me a few final arrangements for her wedding.”
“Did she seem about as usual in her manner?”
“Yes,—except that she was very tired, and seemed a little preoccupied.”
“And then she dismissed you?”
“Yes. She told me to go to bed, and said that she should sit up for an
hour or so, and would write some notes herself.”
“Apparently she did not do so, as no notes have been found in the
library.”
“That must be so, sir.”
But as she said this, a change came over Miss Dupuy’s face. She seemed
to think that the absence of those notes was of startling importance,
and though she tried not to show her agitation, it was clearly evident
from the way she bit her lower lip, and clenched her fingers.
“At what time did Miss Van Norman dismiss you?” asked Mr. Benson,
seeming to ignore her embarrassment.
“At half-past ten.”
“Did you retire at once?”
“No; I had some notes to write for Miss Van Norman, and also some of my
own, and I sat at my desk for some time. I don’t know just how long.”
“And then what happened?”
At this question Cicely Dupuy became more nervous and embarrassed than
ever. She hesitated and then made two or three attempts to speak, each
one of which resulted in no intelligible sound.
X
SOME TESTIMONY
“There is nothing to fear,” said Mr. Benson kindly. “Simply tell us what
you heard while sitting there writing, that caused you to leave your
room.”
Glancing around as if in search of some one, Cicely finally managed to
make an audible reply. “I heard a loud cry,” she said, “that sounded as
if somebody were frightened or in danger. I naturally ran out into the
hall, and, looking over the baluster, I saw Mr. Carleton in the hall
below. I felt sure then that it was he who had cried out, so I came
downstairs.”
“At what time was this?”
“At half-past eleven exactly.”
“How do you know so accurately?”
“Because as I came downstairs the old clock on the middle landing chimed
the half-hour. It has a deep soft note, and it struck just as I passed
the clock, and it startled me a little, so of course I remember it
perfectly.”
“And then?”
“And then”—Cicely again hesitated, but with a visible effort resumed
her speech—“why, and then I came on down, and found Mr. Carleton nearly
distracted. I could not guess what was the matter. He was turning on the
lights and ringing the servants’ bells and acting like a man beside
himself. Then in a moment Marie appeared, and gave one of her French
shrieks that completely upset what little nerve I had left.”
“And what did you do next?”
“I—I went into the library.”
“Why?”
Cicely looked up suddenly, as if startled, but after only an instant’s
hesitation replied:
“Because Mr. Carleton pointed toward the doorway, and Marie and I went
in together.”
“You knew at once that Miss Van Norman was not alive?”
“I was not sure, but Marie went toward her, and then turned away with
another of her horrid screams, and I felt that Miss Van Norman must be
dead.”
“What did Mr. Carleton say?”
“He said nothing. He—he pointed to the written paper on the table.”
“Which you had written yourself?”
“Yes, but he didn’t know that.” Cicely spoke eagerly, as if saying
something of importance. “He thought she wrote it.”
“Never mind that point for the moment. But I must now ask you to explain
that written message which you have declared that you yourself wrote.”
At this Cicely’s manner changed. She became again the obstinate and
defiant woman who had answered the coroner’s earlier questions.
“I refuse to explain it.”
“Consider a moment,” said Mr. Benson quietly. “Sooner or later—perhaps
at a trial—you will be obliged to explain this matter. How much better,
then, to confide in us now, and perhaps lead to an immediate solution of
the mystery.”
Cicely pondered a moment, then she said, “I have nothing to conceal, I
will tell you. I did write that paper, and it was the confession of my
heart. I am very miserable, and when I wrote it I quite intended to take
my own life. When I was called to go to Miss Van Norman in the library,
I gathered up some notes and lists from my desk to take to her. In my
haste I must have included that paper without knowing it, for when I
reached my room I could not find it. And then—then when I saw it—there
on the table—I——” Cicely had again grown nervous and excited. Her
voice trembled, her eyes filled with tears, and, fearing a nervous
collapse, Mr. Benson hurried on to other questions.
“Whom does that S. in your note stand for.”
“That I shall never tell.” The determination in her voice convinced him
that it was useless to insist on that point, so the coroner went on.
“Perhaps we have no right to ask. Now you must tell me some other
things, and, believe me, my questions are not prompted by curiosity, but
are necessary to the discovery of the truth. Why did Mr. Carleton point
to that paper?”
“He—he seemed so shocked and stunned that he was almost unable to
speak. I suppose he thought that would explain why she had killed
herself.”
“But she hadn’t killed herself.”
“But he thought she had, and he thought that paper proved it.”
“But why had he need to prove it, and to you?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know _what_ he thought! I don’t know what I
thought myself after I reached the library door and looked in and saw
that dreadful sight! Oh, I shall see it all my life!” At the memory
Cicely broke down again and sank into her chair, shaking with convulsive
sobs.
Mr. Benson did not disturb her further, but proceeded to question the
others.
The account of Marie, the maid, merely served to corroborate what Cicely
had said. Marie, too, had heard Carleton’s cry for help, and, throwing
on a dressing-gown, had run down-stairs to Madeleine’s room. Not finding
her mistress there, she had hurried down to the first floor, reaching
the lower hall but a few minutes after Cicely did. She said also that it
was just about half-past eleven by the clock in her own room when she
heard Mr. Carleton’s cry.
“You knew who it was that had called out so loudly?” asked Mr. Benson.
“No, _m’sieu_; I heard only the shriek as of one in great disaster. I
ran to Miss Van Norman’s room, as that was my first duty.”
“Were you not in attendance upon her?”
“No; she had sent me the message by Miss Dupuy, that I need not attend
her when she retired.”
“Did this often occur?”
“Not often; but sometimes when Miss Van Norman sat up late, by herself,
she would excuse me at an earlier hour. She was most kind and
considerate of everybody.”
“Then when at last you saw Miss Van Norman in the library, what did you
do?”
“_Mon Dieu!_ I shrieked! Why not? I was amazed, shocked, but, above all,
desolated! It was a cruel scene. I knew not what to do, so, naturally, I
shrieked.”
Marie’s French shrug almost convinced her hearers that truly that was
the only thing to do on such an occasion.
“And now,” said Coroner Benson, “can you tell us of anything, any
incident or any knowledge of your own, that will throw any light on this
whole matter?”
Marie’s pretty face took on a strange expression. It was not fear or
terror, but a sort of perplexity. She gave a furtive glance at Mr.
Carleton and then at Miss Morton, and hesitated.
At last she spoke, slowly:
“If _monsieur_ could perhaps word his question a little
differently—with more of a definiteness——”
“Very well; do you know anything of Miss Van Norman’s private affairs
that would assist us in discovering who killed her.”
“No, _monsieur_,” said Marie promptly, and with a look of relief.
“Did Miss Van Norman ever, in the slightest way, express any intention
or desire to end her life?”
“Never, _monsieur_.”
“Do you think she was glad and happy in the knowledge of her
fast-approaching wedding-day?”
“I am sure of it;” and Marie’s tone was that of one who well knew
whereof she spoke.
“That is all, then, for the present;” and Marie, with another sidelong,
curious glance at Miss Morton, resumed her seat.
Kitty French and Molly Gardner were questioned, but they told nothing
that would throw any light on the matter. They had heard the cry, and
while hastily dressing had heard the general commotion in the house.
They had thought it must be a fire, and not until they reached the
library did they know what had really happened.
“And then,” said Kitty indignantly, in conclusion of her own recital,
“we were not allowed to stay with the others, but were sent to our
rooms. So how can we give any evidence?”
It was plain to be seen, Miss French felt herself defrauded of an
opportunity that should have been hers, but Miss Gardner was of quite a
different mind. She answered in whispered monosyllables the questions
put by the coroner, and as she knew no more than Kitty of the whole
matter, she was not questioned much.
Robert Fessenden smiled a little at the different attitudes of the two
girls. He knew Kitty was eager to hear all the exciting details, while
Molly shrank from the whole subject. However, as they were such minor
witnesses, the coroner paid little serious attention to them or to their
statements.
Miss Morton’s testimony came next. Fessenden regarded her with interest,
as, composed and calm, she waited the coroner’s interrogations.
She was deliberate and careful in making her replies, and it seemed to
the young detective as if she knew nothing whatever about the whole
affair, but was trying to imply that she knew a great deal.
“You went to your room when the others did, at about ten o’clock?” asked
Mr. Benson.
“Yes, but I did not retire at once.”
“Did you hear any sounds that caused you alarm?”
“No, not alarm. Curiosity, perhaps, but that is surely pardonable to a
naturally timid woman in a strange house.”
“Then you did hear sounds. Can you describe them?”
“I do not think they were other than those made by the servants
attending to their duties. But the putting on of coal or the fastening
of windows are noticeable sounds when one is not accustomed to them.”
“You could discern, then, that it was the shovelling of coal or the
fastening of windows that you heard?”
“No, I could not. My hearing is extremely acute, but as my room is on
the third floor, all the sounds I heard were faint and muffled.”
“Did you hear Mr. Carleton’s cry for help?”
“I did, but at that distance it did not sound loud. However, I was
sufficiently alarmed to open my door and step out into the hall. I had
not taken off my evening gown, and, seeing bright lights downstairs, of
course I immediately went down. The household was nearly all assembled
when I reached the library. I saw at once what had happened, and I saw,
too, that Mrs. Markham and the younger women were quite frantic with
fright and excitement. I thought it my duty therefore to take up the
reins of government, and I took the liberty of telephoning for the
doctor. I think there is nothing more of importance that I can tell
you.”
At this Fessenden barely repressed a smile, for he could not see that
Miss Morton had told anything of importance at all.
“I would like,” said Mr. Benson, “for you to inform us as to your
relations with the Van Norman household. Have you been long acquainted
with Miss Van Norman?”
“About two years,” replied Miss Morton, with a snapping together of her
teeth, which was one of her many peculiarities of manner.
“And how did the acquaintance come about?”
“Her uncle and I were friends many years ago,” said Miss Morton. “I knew
Richard Van Norman before Madeleine was born. We quarrelled, and I never
saw him again. After his death Madeleine wrote to me, and several
letters passed between us. At her invitation I made a short visit here
about a year ago. Again, at her invitation, I came here yesterday to be
present at her wedding.”
Miss Morton’s manner, though quiet, betokened repressed excitement
rather than suppressed emotion. In no way did her hard, bright eyes show
grief or sorrow, but they flashed in a way that indicated high nervous
pressure.
“Did you know that you were to inherit this house and a large sum of
money at Miss Van Norman’s death?” The question was thrown at her so
suddenly that Miss Morton almost gasped.
She hesitated for an appreciable instant, then with a sudden snap of her
strong, angular jaw, she said, “No!”
“You had no intimation of it whatever?”
“No.” Again that excessive decision of manner, which to Fessenden’s
mind, at least, stultified rather than corroborated the verity of her
statement.
But Coroner Benson expressed no doubt of his witness, but merely said
casually:
“Yet, on the occasion of the tragedy last night, you at once assumed the
attitude of the head of the house. You gave orders to the servants, you
took up the reins of management, and seemed to anticipate the fact that
the house was eventually to be your own.”
Miss Morton looked aghast. If one chose to think so, she looked as if
detected in a false statement. Glancing round the room, she saw the eyes
of Kitty French and of Marie, the maid, intently fixed on her. This
seemed to unnerve her, and in a broken, trembling voice, almost a whine,
she said:
“If I did so, it was only with a helpful motive. Mrs. Markham was so
collapsed with the shock she had just sustained, that she was really
incapable of giving orders. If I did so, it was only from a desire to be
of service.”
This seemed indeed plausible, and the most casual observer would know
that Miss Morton’s “helpfulness” could only be accomplished in a
peremptory and dictatorial manner.
“Will you tell us why Miss Van Norman chose to leave you so large a
bequest, when she had known you so slightly?” asked Mr. Benson.
Fessenden thought Miss Morton would resent this question, but instead
she answered, willingly enough:
“Because she knew that except for my unfortunate quarrel with Richard
Van Norman, many years ago, the place would have been mine any way.”
“You mean you were to have married Mr. Van Norman.”
“I mean just that.”