statement, and she seemed to be asserting her lifelong right to the
property.
“Miss Van Norman, then, knew of your friendship with her uncle, and the
reason of its cessation?”
“She learned of it about two years ago.”
“How?”
“By finding some letters of mine among Mr. Van Norman’s papers, shortly
after his death.”
“And in consequence of that discovery she willed you this house at her
death?”
“Yes; that is, I suppose she must have done so—as she did so will it.”
“But you did not know of it, and the reading of the will was to you a
surprise?”
“Yes,” declared Miss Morton, and though the coroner then dismissed her
without comment on her statements, there were several present who did
not believe the lady spoke veraciously.
Tom Willard was called next, and Fessenden wondered what could be the
testimony of a man who had not arrived on the scene until more than two
hours after the deed was done.
And indeed there was little that Tom could say. Mr. Benson asked him to
detail his own movements after he left the house the night before.
“There’s little to tell,” said Tom, “but I’ll try to be exact. I went
away from this house about ten o’clock, taking with me a suit-case full
of clothes. I went directly to the Mapleton Inn, and though I don’t know
exactly, I should say I must have reached there in something less than
ten minutes. Then I went to the office of the establishment, registered,
and asked for a room. The proprietor gave me a good enough room, a
bellboy picked up my bag, and I went to my room at once.”
“And remained there?”
“Yes; later I rang for some ice water, which the same boy brought to me.
Directly after that I turned in. I slept soundly until awakened by a
knocking at my door at about two o’clock in the morning.”
“The message from this house?”
“Yes. The landlord himself stood there when I opened the door, and told
me I was wanted on the telephone. When I went to the telephone I heard
Miss Morton’s voice, and she asked me to come over here. I came as
quickly as possible, and——”
Tom’s voice broke at this point, and, feeling that his story was
finished, Mr. Benson considerately asked him no further questions.
XI
“I DECLINE TO SAY”
Schuyler Carleton was questioned next When Mr. Benson asked him to tell
his story, he hesitated and finally said that he would prefer to have
the coroner ask direct questions, which he would answer.
“Did you go away from this house with the other guests at about ten
o’clock last evening?”
“No, I was not here at dinner. I left at about half-past five in the
afternoon.”
“Where did you go?”
“I went directly home and remained there until late in the evening.”
“Mr. Fessenden was with you?”
“He was with us at dinner. He is staying at my house, as he was invited
to be best man at the wedding.”
Though this statement came calmly from Carleton’s lips, it was evident
to all that he fully appreciated the tragic picture it suggested.
“He was with you through the evening?”
“Part of the time. He went early to his room, saying he had some
business to attend to.”
“Why were you two not here to dinner with Miss Van Norman?”
Fessenden looked up, surprised at this question. Surely Mr. Benson had
gathered odd bits of information since morning.
Schuyler Carleton looked stern.
“I did not come because I did not wish to. Mr. Fessenden remained with
me, saying he did not care to attend the dinner unless I did.”
Carleton looked casually at Fessenden as he said this, and though there
was no question in the glance, Rob nodded his head in corroboration of
the witness.
“You spent the entire evening at home, then?”
“Yes, until a late hour.”
“And then?”
“I returned here between eleven and twelve o’clock.”
“To make a call?”
“No, I came upon an errand.”
“What was the errand?”
“As it has no bearing upon the case, I think it is my privilege to
decline to answer.”
“You entered the house with a latch-key.”
“I did.”
“Is that latch-key your own property?”
“For the time, yes. Mrs. Markham gave it to me a few days ago, for my
convenience, because I have occasion to come to the house so
frequently.”
“Was it your intention when you went away in the afternoon to return
later?”
“It was.”
“Upon this secret errand?”
“Yes.”
“Did you expect to see Miss Van Norman when you entered the house with
the latch-key?”
“I did not.”
“And when you entered you discovered the tragedy in the library?”
Schuyler Carleton hesitated. His dry lips quivered and his whole frame
shook with intense emotion. “Y-yes,” he stammered.
But the mere fact of that hesitation instantly kindled a spark of
suspicion in the minds of some of his hearers. Until that moment
Carleton’s excessive agitation had been attributed entirely to his grief
at the awful fate which had come to his fiancée; but now, all at once,
the man’s demeanor gave an impression of something else.
Could it be guilt?
Fessenden looked at his friend curiously. In his mind, however, no
slightest suspicion was aroused, but he wondered what it was that
Carleton was keeping back. Surely the man must know that to make any
mystery about his call at the Van Norman mansion the night before, was
to invite immediate and justifiable suspicion.
The court had instructed the district attorney to be present at the
inquest, and though that unobtrusive gentleman had taken notes, and
otherwise shown a quiet interest in the proceedings, he now awakened to
a more alert manner, and leaned forward to get a better look at the
white, set face of the witness.
Carleton looked like a marble image. His refined, patrician features
seemed even handsomer for their haggard agony. Surely he was in no way
responsible for the awful deed that had been done, and yet just as
surely he was possessed of some awful secret fear which kept every nerve
strained and tense.
Endeavoring not to exhibit the surprise and dismay which he felt,
Coroner Benson continued his questions.
“And then, when you discovered Miss Van Norman, what did you do?”
Carleton passed his hand across his white brow. “I hardly know,” he
said. “I was stunned—dazed. I went toward her, and, seeing the dagger
on the floor, I picked it up mechanically, scarcely knowing what I did.
I felt intuitively that the girl was dead, but I did not touch her, and,
not knowing what else to do, I cried out for help.”
“And turned on the lights?”
“I pushed several electric buttons, not knowing which were lights and
which bells; my principal idea was to arouse the inmates of the house at
once.”
“Who first appeared in answer to your call?”
“Miss Dupuy came running downstairs at once, followed by Miss Van
Norman’s maid.”
“And then you pointed to the paper that lay on the table near Miss Van
Norman’s hand.”
“Yes; I could not speak, and I thought that would tell Miss Dupuy that
Miss Van Norman had taken her own life.”
“You thought, then, that Miss Van Norman wrote the message?”
“I thought so then—and I think so now.”
This, of course, produced a sensation, but it was only evidenced by a
deeper silence on the part of the startled audience.
“But Miss Dupuy asserts that she wrote it,” said the coroner.
To this Schuyler Carleton merely gave a slight bow of his handsome head,
but it said as plainly as words that his belief was not altered by Miss
Dupuy’s assertion.
“Granting for the moment, then,” went on Mr. Benson, “that Miss Van
Norman did write it, is the message intelligible to you?”
“Intelligible, yes;” said Carleton, “but, as I have said before,
inexplicable.”
This ambiguous speech meant little to most of the listeners, but it
seemed to give Robert Fessenden food for thought, and he looked at
Carleton with a new wonder in his eyes.
“Mr. Carleton,” said the coroner, with a note of gravity in his voice,
“I think it my duty to tell you that your own interests require you to
state the nature of your errand to this house last night.”
“I decline to do so.”
“Then, will you state as exactly as you can the hour at which you
entered the front door?”
“I don’t know precisely. But Miss Dupuy has testified that she came
downstairs in response to my call at half-past eleven. I came into the
house a—a few moments before.”
“That is all,” said the coroner abruptly. “Mr. Hunt, if you please.”
The man from headquarters, who had guarded the present room through the
night, came in from the doorway where he had been standing.
“Will you tell what you know concerning Mr. Carleton’s entrance last
night?” said the coroner, briefly.
“I was on guard in the present room from nine o’clock on,” said Mr.
Hunt. “Of course I was on the watch-out for anything unusual, and alert
to hear any sound. I heard the company go away at ten o’clock, I heard
most of the people in the house go to their rooms right after that. I
heard and I also saw Miss Dupuy go down to the library after that, and
return to her room about half-past ten. I noticed all these things
because that is my business, but they made no special impression on me,
as they were but the natural proceedings of the people who belonged
here. Of course I was only on the lookout for intruders. I heard the
sound of a latch-key and I heard the front door open at exactly quarter
after eleven. I stepped out into the hall, and, looking downstairs, I
saw Mr. Carleton enter. I also saw Miss Dupuy in the upper hall looking
over the banister. She, too, must have seen Mr. Carleton. But as all of
this was none of my business, and as nobody had entered who hadn’t a
right to, I simply returned to my post. At half-past eleven I heard Mr.
Carleton’s cry, and saw the lights go up all over the house. Anything
more, sir?”
“Not at present, Mr. Hunt. Miss Dupuy, did you hear Mr. Carleton come
in?”
Cicely Dupuy turned an angry face toward Mr. Hunt and fairly glared at
the mild-mannered man. She waited a moment before answering the
coroner’s question, and then as if with a sudden resolve she spoke a
sharp, quick “Yes.”
“And that was at quarter after eleven?”
“It was later,” declared Cicely. “For Mr. Carleton told you himself that
he went directly into the library as soon as he came into the house, and
as I heard his cry at half-past eleven he must have entered only a few
moments before.”
Schuyler Carleton stared at Cicely, and she returned his gaze.
His face was absolutely inscrutable, a pallid mask, that might have
concealed emotion of any sort. But there was a suggestion of fear in the
strange eyes, as they gazed at Cicely, and though it was quickly
suppressed it had been noted by those most interested.
The girl looked straight at him, with determination written in every
line of her face. It was quite evident to the onlookers that a mental
message was passing between these two.
“You are sure, Mr. Hunt, that your statement as to the time is correct?”
said the coroner, turning again to him.
“Perfectly sure, sir. It is my business to be sure of the time.”
“Mr. Carleton,” said Mr. Benson, “there is an apparent discrepancy here,
which it is advisable for you to explain. If you came into this house at
quarter after eleven, and rang the bells for help at half-past eleven,
what were you doing in the meantime?”
It was out at last. The coroner’s question, though quietly put, was
equivalent to an accusation. Every eye in the room was turned toward
Carleton, and every ear waited in suspense for his reply.
At last the answer came. The dazed, uncertain look had returned to
Carleton’s face and his voice sounded mechanical, like that of an
automaton, as he replied, “I decline to say.”
“I think, Mr. Carleton, you can scarcely realize the gravity of the
moment, or the mistake you are making in refusing to answer this
question.”
“I have nothing to say,” repeated Carleton, and his pallor changed to a
faint, angry flush of red.
“I am sorry,” said Mr. Benson gently. He seemed to have lost his pompous
manner in his genuine anxiety for his witness, and he looked sorrowfully
at Carleton’s impassive, yet stubborn face.
“As so much hinges on the question of who wrote that paper,” he resumed,
“I will make a test now that ought to convince us all. Miss Dupuy, you
say that you wrote it, I believe.”
“I did, yes, sir,” said Cicely, stammering a little now, though she had
been calm enough a few minutes before.
“Then you know the words on the paper,—by rote?”
“Yes, sir,” said Cicely, uncertain of where this was leading.
“I will ask you, then, to take this paper and pencil, your own pencil
and write the same words in the same way once more.”
“Oh, don’t ask me to do that!” implored Cicely, clasping her hands and
looking very distressed.
“I not only ask you, but I direct you to do it, and do it at once.”
An attendant handed pencil and paper to Cicely, and, after a glance at
Carleton, who did not meet it, she began to write.
Though evidently agitated, she wrote clearly and evenly, and the paper
she handed to Coroner Benson a moment later was practically an exact
duplicate of the one found on the library table.
“It does not require a handwriting expert,” said the coroner, “to
declare that these two papers were written by the same hand. The
penmanship is indeed similar to Miss Van Norman’s, of whose writing I
have here many specimens, but it is only similar. It is by no means
identical. You may all examine these at your leisure and can only agree
to what I say.”
The district attorney, who had been comparing the papers, laid them down
with an air of finality that proved his agreement with the statements
made.
“And so,” went on Mr. Benson, “granting, as we must, that Miss Dupuy
wrote the paper, we have nothing whatever to indicate that this case is
a suicide. We are, therefore, seeking a murderer, and our most earnest
efforts must be made to that end. I trust, Mr. Carleton, now that you
can no longer think Miss Van Norman wrote the message, that you will aid
us in our work by stating frankly how you were occupied during that
quarter-hour which elapsed between your entering the house and your
raising the alarm?”
But Carleton preserved his stony calm.
“There was no quarter-hour,” he said; “I may have stepped into the
drawing-room a moment before going to the library, but I gave the alarm
almost immediately on entering the house. Certainly immediately on my
discovery of—of the scene in the library.”
Cicely looked defiantly at Mr. Hunt, who, in his turn, looked perplexed.
The man had no wish to insinuate anything against Mr. Carleton, but as
he had said, it was his business to know the time, and he knew that Mr.
Carleton came into the house at quarter after eleven, and not at
half-past.
The pause that followed was broken by Coroner Benson’s voice. “There is
nothing more to be done at present. The inquest is adjourned until
to-morrow afternoon. But we have discovered that there has been a crime
committed. There is no doubt that Miss Van Norman was murdered, and that
the crime took place between half-past ten and half-past eleven last
night. It is our duty to spare no effort to discover the criminal. As an
audience you are now dismissed.”
XII
DOROTHY BURT
The people rose slowly from their chairs, and most of them looked as if
they did not quite comprehend what it all meant. Among these was
Carleton himself. He seemed oblivious to the fact that he was—at least
tacitly—an accused man, and stood quietly, as if awaiting any further
developments that might come.
“Look at Schuyler,” said Kitty French to Fessenden. The two had
withdrawn to a quiet corner to discuss the affair. But Kitty was doing
most of the talking, while Fessenden was quiet and seemed preoccupied.
“Of course I suppose he must have killed Madeleine,” went on Kitty, “but
it’s so hard to believe it, after all. I’ve tried to think of a reason
for it, and this is the only one I can think of. They quarrelled
yesterday afternoon, and he went away in a huff. I believe he came back
last night to make it up with her, and then they quarrelled again and he
stabbed her.”
Fessenden looked at her thoughtfully. “I think that Hunt man testified
accurately,” he said. “And if so, Carleton was in the house just fifteen
minutes before he gave the alarm. Now, fifteen minutes is an awfully
short time to quarrel with anybody so desperately that it leads to a
murder.”
“That’s true; but they both have very quick tempers. At least Madeleine
had. She didn’t often do it, but when she did fly into a fury it was as
quick as a flash. I’ve never seen Mr. Carleton angry, but I know he can
be, for Maddy told me so.”
“Still, a quarter of an hour is too short a time for a fatal quarrel, I
think. If Carleton killed her he came here for that purpose, and it was
done premeditatedly.”
“Why do you say ‘_if_ he killed her’? It’s been proved she didn’t kill
herself; it’s been proved that no one could enter the house without a
latch-key, and it’s been proved that the deed was done in that one hour
between half-past ten and half-past eleven. So it had to be Mr.
Carleton.”
“Miss French, you have a logical mind, and I think you’d make a clever
little detective. But you have overlooked the possibility that she was
killed by some one in the house.”
“Some of us?” Kitty’s look of amazement almost made Fessenden smile.
“Not you or Miss Gardner,” he said. “But a burglar might have been
concealed in the house.”
“I never thought of that!” exclaimed Kitty, her eyes opening wide at the
thought. “Why, he might have killed us all!”
“It isn’t a very plausible theory,” said Fessenden, unheeding the girl’s
remark, “and yet I could think of nothing else. Every instinct of my
mind denies Carleton’s guilt. Why, he isn’t that sort of a man!”
“Perhaps he isn’t as good as he looks,” said Kitty, wagging her head
wisely. “I know a lot about him. You know he wasn’t a bit in love with
Maddy.”
“You hinted that before. And was he really a mere fortune-hunter? I
can’t believe that of Carleton. I’ve known the man for years.”
“He must have been, or else why did he marry her? He’s in love with
another girl.”
“He is! Who?”
“I don’t know who. But Madeleine hinted it to me only a few days ago. It
made her miserable. And that’s why everybody thought she wrote that
paper that said, ‘I love S., but he does not love me.’”
“And you don’t know who this rival is?”
“No, but I know what she’s like. She’s the ‘clinging rosebud’ effect.”
“What _do_ you mean?”
“Just that. You know Madeleine was a big, grand, splendid
type,—majestic and haughty; and she thought Schuyler loved better some
little, timid girl, who would sort of look up to him, and need his
protection.”
Fessenden looked steadily at Miss French. “Are you imagining all this,”
he said, “or is it true?”
“Both,” responded Kitty, with a charming little smile. “Maddy just
hinted it to me, and I guessed the rest. You know, I have detective
instinct too, as well as you.”
“You have, indeed;” and Rob gave an admiring glance to the pouting red
lips, and roguish eyes. “But tell me more about it.”
“There isn’t much to _tell_,” said Kitty, looking thoughtful, “but
there’s a lot to deduce.”
“Well, tell me what there is to tell, and then we’ll both deduce.”
It pleased Kitty greatly to imagine she was really helping Fessenden,
and she went glibly on:
“Why, you see, Maddy was unhappy,—we all know that,—and it was for
some reason connected with Schuyler. Yet they were to be married, all
the same. But sometimes Maddy has asked me, with such a wistful look, if
I didn’t think men preferred little, kittenish girls to big, proud ones
like herself.”
“And you, being a little, kittenish girl, said yes?”
“Don’t be rude,” said Kitty, flashing a smile at him. “I am kittenish in
name only. And I am not little!”
“You are, compared to Miss Van Norman’s type.”
“Oh, yes; she was like a beautiful Amazon. Well, she either had reason
to think, or she imagined, that Schuyler pretended to love her, and was
really in love with some dear little clinging rosebud.”
“Clinging rosebud! What an absurd expression! And yet—by Jove!—it just
fits her! And Miss Van Norman said to me—oh, I say, Miss French, don’t
you know who the rosebud is?”
“No,” said Kitty, wondering at his sudden look of dismay.
“Well, I do! Oh, this is getting dreadful. Come outside with me and
let’s look into this idea. I _hope_ it’s only an idea!”
Throwing a soft fawn-colored cape round her, and drawing its pink-lined
hood over her curly hair, Kitty went with Fessenden out on the lawn and
down to the little arbor where they had sat before.
“Did you ever hear of Dorothy Burt?” he asked, almost in a whisper.
“No; who is she?”
“Well, she’s your ‘clinging rosebud,’ I’m sure of it! And I’ll tell you
why.”
“First tell me who she is.”
“She’s Mrs. Carleton’s companion. Schuyler’s mother, you know. She lives
in the Carleton household, and she is the sweetest, prettiest, shyest
little thing you ever saw! ‘Clinging rosebud’ just fits her.”
“Indeed!” said Kitty, who had suddenly lost interest in the
conversation. And indeed, few girls of Kitty’s disposition would have
enjoyed this enthusiastic eulogy of another.
“I don’t admire that sort, myself,” went on Rob, who was tactfully
observant; “I like a little more spirit and vivacity.” Kitty beamed once
more. “But she’s a wonder, of her own class. I was there at dinner last
night, you know, and I saw her for the first time. And, though I thought
nothing of it at the time, I can look back now and see that she adores
Schuyler. Why, she scarcely took her eyes off him at dinner, and she ate
next to nothing. Poor little girl, I believe she was awfully cut up at
his approaching marriage.”
“And what was Schuyler’s attitude toward her?” Kitty was interested
enough now.
Fessenden looked very grave and was silent for a time.
“It’s a beastly thing to say,” he observed at last, “but if Schuyler had
been in love with that girl, and wanted to conceal the fact, he couldn’t
have acted differently from the way he did act.”
“Was he kind to her?”
“Yes, kind, but with a restrained air, as if he felt it his duty to show
indifference toward her.”
“Was she with you after dinner?”
Fessenden thought.
“I went to my room early; and Mrs. Carleton had then already excused
herself. Yes,—I left Schuyler and Miss Burt in the drawing-room, and
later I saw them from my window, strolling through the rose-garden.”
“On his wedding eve!” exclaimed Kitty, with a look akin to horror in her
eyes.
“Yes; and I thought nothing of it, for I simply assumed that he was
devoted to Miss Van Norman, and was merely pleasant to his mother’s
companion. But—in view of something Miss Van Norman said to me
yesterday—can it be it was only yesterday?—the matter becomes
serious.”
“What did she say?”
“It seems like betraying a confidence, and yet it isn’t, for we _must_
discover if it means anything. But she said to me, with real agitation,
‘Do you know Dorothy Burt?’ At that time, I hadn’t met Miss Burt, and
had never heard of her, so I said: ‘No; who is she?’ ‘Nobody,’ said Miss
Van Norman, ‘less than nobody! Never mention her to me again!’ Her
voice, even more than her words, betokened grief and even anger, so of
course the subject was dropped. But doesn’t that prove her anxious about
the girl, if not really jealous?”
“Of course it does,” said Kitty. “I know that’s the one that has been
troubling Madeleine. Oh, how dreadful it all is!”
“And then, too,” Fessenden said, still reminiscently, “Miss Van Norman
said she wanted to go away from Mapleton immediately after her wedding,
and never return here again.”
“Did she say that! Then, of course, it was only so that Schuyler should
never see the Burt girl again. Poor, dear Maddy; she was so proud, and
so self-contained. But how she must have suffered! You see, she knew
Schuyler admired her, and respected her and all that, and she must have
thought that, once removed from the presence of the rosebud girl, he
would forget her.”
“But I can’t understand old Schuyler marrying Miss Van Norman if he
didn’t truly love her. You know, Miss French, that man and I have been
stanch friends for years; and though I rarely see him, I know his
honorable nature, and I can’t believe he would marry one woman while
loving another.”
“He didn’t,” said Kitty in a meaning voice that expressed far more than
the words signified.
Fessenden drew back in horror.
“Don’t!” he cried. “You _can’t_ mean that Schuyler put Miss Van Norman
out of the way to clear the path for Miss Burt!”
“I don’t mean anything,” said Kitty, rather contradictorily. “But, as I
said, Maddy was not killed by any one inside the house—I’m sure of
that—and no one from outside could get in, except Schuyler—and he had
a motive. Don’t you always, in detective work, look for the motive?”
“Yes, but this is too horrible!”