Schuyler—it couldn’t have been Miss Burt!”
“Don’t be absurd! That little girl couldn’t kill a fly, I’m sure. I wish
you could see her, Miss French. Then you’d understand how her very
contrast to Miss Van Norman’s splendid beauty would fascinate Schuyler.
And I know he was fascinated. I saw it in his repressed manner last
evening, though I didn’t realize it then as I do now.”
“I have a theory,” said Kitty slowly. “You know Mr. Carleton went away
yesterday afternoon rather angry at Maddy. She had carried her
flirtation with Tom a little too far, and Mr. Carleton resented it. I
don’t blame him,—the very day before the wedding,—but it was partly
his fault, too. Well, suppose he went home, rather upset over the
quarrel, and then seeing Miss Burt, and her probably mild, angelic ways
(I’m sure she has them!)—suppose he wished he could be off with Maddy,
and marry Miss Burt instead.”
“But he wouldn’t kill his fiancée, if he _did_ think that!”
“Wait a minute. Then suppose, after the evening in the rose-garden with
the gentle, clinging little girl, he concluded he never could be happy
with Maddy, and suppose he came at eleven o’clock, or whatever time it
was, to tell her so, and to ask her to set him free.”
“On the eve of the wedding day? With the house already in gala dress for
the ceremony?”
“Yes, suppose the very nearness of the ceremony made it seem to him
impossible to go through with it.”
“Well?”
“Well, and then suppose he did ask Madeleine to free him, and suppose
she refused. And she _would_ refuse! I know her nature well enough to
know she _never_ would give him up to the other girl if she could help
it. And then suppose, when she refused to free him,—you know he has a
fearfully quick temper, and that awful paper-cutter lay right there,
handy,—suppose he stabbed her in a moment of desperate anger.”
“I can’t think it,” said Rob, after a pause; “I’ve tried, and I can’t.
But, suppose all you say is true as far as this; suppose he asked her to
free him, because he loved another, and suppose she was so grieved and
mortified at this, that in her own sudden fit of angry jealousy,—you
know she had a quick temper, also,—suppose she picked up the dagger and
turned it upon herself, as she had sometimes said she would do.”
Kitty listened attentively. “It might be so,” she said slowly; “you may
be nearer the truth than I. But I do believe that one of us must be
right. Of course, this leaves the written paper out of the question
entirely.”
“That written paper hasn’t been thoroughly explained yet,” exclaimed the
young man. “Now, look here, Miss French, I’m not going to wait to be
officially employed on this case, though I am going to offer Carleton my
legal services, but I mean to do a little investigating on my own
account. The sooner inquiries are made, the more information is usually
obtained. Can you arrange that I shall have an interview with Miss
Dupuy?”
“I think I can,” said Kitty; “but if you let it appear that you’re
inquisitive she won’t tell you a thing. Suppose we just talk to her
casually, you and I. I won’t bother you.”
“Indeed you won’t. You’ll be of first-class help. When can we see her?”
While they had been talking, other things had been happening in the
drawing-room. The people who had been gathered there had all
disappeared, and, under the active superintendence of Miss Morton, the
florist’s men who had put up the decorations were now taking them away.
The whole room was in confusion, and Kitty and Mr. Fessenden were glad
to escape to some more habitable place.
“Wait here,” said Kitty, as they passed through the hall, “and I’ll be
back in a moment.”
Kitty flew upstairs, and soon returned, saying that Miss Dupuy would be
glad to talk with them both in Madeleine’s sitting-room.
XIII
AN INTERVIEW WITH CICELY
This sitting-room was on the second floor, directly back of Madeleine’s
bedroom, the bedroom being above the library. Miss Dupuy’s own room was
back of this and communicated with it.
The sitting-room was a pleasant place, with large light windows and easy
chairs and couches. A large and well-filled desk seemed to prove the
necessity of a social secretary, if Miss Van Norman cared to have any
leisure hours.
Surrounded by letters and papers, Cicely sat at the desk as they
entered, but immediately rose to meet them.
Kitty’s tact in requesting the interview had apparently been successful,
for Miss Dupuy was gracious and affable.
But after some desultory conversation which amounted to nothing,
Fessenden concluded a direct course would be better.
“Miss Dupuy,” he said, “I’m a detective, at least in an amateur way.”
Cicely gave a start and a look of fear came into her eyes.
“I have the interests of Schuyler Carleton at heart,” the young man
continued, “and my efforts shall be primarily directed toward clearing
him from any breath of suspicion that may seem to have fallen upon him.”
“O, thank you!” cried Cicely, clasping her hands and showing such
genuine gratitude that Fessenden was startled by a new idea.
“I’m sure,” he said, “that you’ll give me any help in your power. As
Miss Van Norman’s private secretary, of course you know most of the
details of her daily life.”
“Yes; but I don’t see why I should tell everything to that Benson man!”
“You should tell him only such things as may have a bearing on this
mystery that we are trying to clear up.”
“Then I know nothing to tell. I know nothing about the mystery.”
“No, Cicely,” said Kitty, in a soothing voice, “of course you know
nothing definite; but if you could tell us some few things that may seem
to you unimportant, we—that is, Mr. Fessenden—might find them of great
help.”
“Well,” returned Cicely slowly, “you may ask questions, if you choose,
Mr. Fessenden, and I will answer or not, as I prefer.”
“Thank you, Miss Dupuy. You may feel sure I will ask only the ones I
consider necessary to the work I have undertaken. And first of all, was
Miss Van Norman in love with Carleton?”
“She was indeed, desperately so.”
“Yet she seemed greatly attached to her cousin, Mr. Willard.”
“That was partly a cousinly affection, and partly a sort of coquetry to
pique Mr. Carleton.”
“And was Carleton devoted to her?”
“Must I answer that?” Cicely’s eyes looked troubled.
“Yes, you must.” Fessenden’s voice was very gentle.
“Then he was not devoted to her; in fact, he loved another.”
“Who is this other?”
“Dorothy Burt, his mother’s companion, who lives at the Carleton home.”
“Did Miss Van Norman know this?”
“Yes, she learned of it lately, and it broke her heart. That is why she
was so uncertain and erratic in her moods; that is why she coquetted
with Mr. Willard, to arouse Schuyler Carleton’s jealousy.”
“This throws a new light on it all,” said Fessenden gravely. “And this
Miss Burt—did she return Carleton’s regard?”
“I don’t know,” said Cicely, and her agitation seemed to increase,
though she tried hard to conceal it. “Of course Miss Van Norman didn’t
speak openly of this matter, but I knew her so well that I easily
divined from her moods and her actions that she knew she had a rival in
Mr. Carleton’s affections.”
“Then he cared more for her in time past?”
“Yes, until that girl came to live with his mother. She’s a designing
little thing, and she just twisted Mr. Carleton round her finger.”
“Do you know her personally, Miss Dupuy?”
A look of intense hatred came over Cicely’s expressive face.
“No! I wouldn’t meet her for anything. But I have seen her, and I know
perfectly well that Mr. Carleton cares for her more than he did for Miss
Van Norman.”
“Yet he was about to marry Miss Van Norman.”
“Yes; because they were engaged before he saw the Burt girl. Then, you
see, he didn’t think it honorable to refuse to marry her, and she——”
“He had asked her, then, to give him back his freedom?”
“Yes, he had. And Miss Van Norman very rightly refused to do so.”
“Oh, Cicely,” cried Kitty, “do you _know_ this, or are you only
surmising it?”
“I know it, Miss French. In her sorrow over the matter, Miss Van Norman
often confided in me as in a friend.”
“And you were a good friend to her, I’m sure,” said Fessenden heartily.
“Now, Miss Dupuy, do you think it could have been possible that Mr.
Carleton came here late last night to ask Miss Van Norman once again to
release him from the marriage?”
“He might have done so,” said Cicely in a noncommittal tone. “He was
very much annoyed at her behavior with Mr. Willard in the afternoon.”
“But that was on purpose to annoy him?”
“Yes, and it succeeded.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Miss Van Norman intimated as much just before dinner, when we were here
alone. She feared Mr. Carleton was so angry he wouldn’t come to dinner
at all.”
“And he didn’t.”
“No, he didn’t.”
“But, Miss Dupuy, it would scarcely be possible to think that if he did
return later to ask his release—it would _not_ be possible to think
that on Miss Van Norman’s refusal to release him he—was so incensed
against her that——”
“Oh, no, _no_!” cried Cicely. “Of course he didn’t kill her! Of _course_
he didn’t! She killed herself! I don’t care what any one says—I _know_
she killed herself!”
“If so,” said Fessenden, “we must prove it by keeping on with our
investigations. And now, Miss Dupuy, will you tell me what was your
errand when you returned to the library late last night, when the two
doctors were alone there in charge of the room?”
“I didn’t!” declared Cicely, her cheeks flaming and her blue eyes fairly
glaring at her interrogator.
“Please stick to the truth, Miss Dupuy,” said Fessenden coldly. “If you
don’t, we can’t credit any of your statements. You opened the door very
softly, and were about to enter, when you spied the doctors and
withdrew.”
“I went to get that paper,” said Cicely, somewhat sulkily.
“Why did you want that?”
“Because it was mine. I had a right to it.”
“Then why didn’t you go on in and get it? The doctors’ presence need
have made no difference.”
“I don’t know _why_ I didn’t! I wish you’d stop asking questions!”
“I will, in a moment. You are sure you wrote that paper yourself?”
“Of course I am!” The answer was snapped out pertly.
“And you wrote it meaning yourself? You didn’t write it with the intent
that it should be taken for Miss Van Norman’s message?”
Cicely eyes dropped involuntarily. Then she raised them, and stared
straight at Fessenden. “What do you mean?” she asked haughtily.
“Just what I say. Was that written paper an expression of your own
heart’s secret?”
It must have been because of Fessenden’s magnetism, or compelling
sympathy, but for some reason Cicely took no offense at this, and
answered simply, “Yes.”
“Strange,” mused Rob, “how that man won so many women’s hearts.”
“No, it isn’t strange,” said Cicely, also in slow, thoughtful tones. And
then, suddenly realizing the admission she had made, and seeing how she
had revealed her own secret she flew into a rage.
“What do you _mean_?” she cried. “I didn’t refer to Mr. Carleton.”
“Yes, you did,” said Fessenden, so quietly that again Cicely was silent,
and Kitty sat surprised almost to breathlessness.
“There is to be only truth between us,” went on Rob. “You did mean Mr.
Carleton, by the letter ‘S’; but have no fear, your secret shall be
respected. Now we will have only the truth—remember that. So please
tell me frankly at what time you saw Mr. Carleton come into the house
last night?”
“Just a few moments before half-past eleven.” Cicely said this glibly,
as if reciting a carefully-conned lesson.
“Wait a moment—you forget that Mr. Hunt fixed the time at quarter after
eleven, and that he saw you looking over the baluster at the same time.”
With an agonized cry of dismay, Miss Dupuy fainted into utter
unconsciousness.
Perplexed and baffled in his inquiries, Fessenden saw that for the
moment Miss Dupuy’s physical condition was of paramount importance, and
at Kitty’s request he rang for Marie. Even before she came the others
had placed Cicely gently on a couch, and when the maid arrived Fessenden
left the room, knowing that the girl was properly cared for.
Going downstairs again, he was about to make his adieux to Mrs. Markham
and leave the house, when Kitty French, coming down soon after him,
asked him to stay a few minutes longer.
The sight of her pretty face drove more serious thoughts from his mind,
and he turned, more than willing to follow where she led. “Oh, whistle,
and I’ll come to you,” he whispered. But Kitty had weighty information
to impart, and was in no mood for trifling. They found a quiet corner,
and then Kitty told him that Cicely had regained consciousness almost
immediately, but that just before she did so, she cried out sharply,
“They must not think Schuyler did it! They must not!”
“And so,” said Kitty, astutely, “you see, it’s as I told you. Mr.
Carleton _did_ kill Maddy, and Cicely knows it, but she doesn’t want
other people to find it out, because she’s in love with him herself!”
Rob Fessenden gave his companion an admiring glance.
“That’s good reasoning and sound logic,” he said; “and I’d subscribe to
it if it were anybody but old Schuyler. But I can’t and won’t believe
that man guilty without further evidence than that of a fainting,
hysterical woman.”
“Everybody seems to be in love with Mr. Carleton,” said Kitty, demurely.
“You’re not, are you?” said Rob, so quickly that Kitty blushed.
“No, I’m not,” she declared. “He’s a stunning-looking man, and that
superior, impassive way of his catches some women, but I don’t care for
it. I prefer a more enthusiastic temperament.”
“Like mine,” said Rob casually.
“Have you a temperament?” said Kitty saucily. “It isn’t at all
noticeable.”
“It will be, after you know me better. But Miss French, since you’ve
raised this question of Miss Dupuy’s evidence, let me tell you what it
means to me. Or, rather, what it seems to point to, for it’s all too
vague for us to draw any real conclusions. But, as a first impression,
my suspicion turns toward Miss Dupuy herself rather than Carleton.”
“Cicely! You don’t mean _she_ killed Maddy! Oh, how _can_ you?”
“Now, don’t fly into hysterics yourself. Wait a minute. I haven’t
accused her at all. But look at it. Miss Van Norman was certainly killed
by Carleton, _or_ by some one already in the house. It has been proved
that nobody outside could get in. Now if the criminal _is_ some one in
the house, we must consider each one in turn. And if by chance we
consider Miss Dupuy first, we must admit a motive.”
“What motive?”
“Why, that of a jealous woman. Miss Van Norman was just about to marry
the man Miss Dupuy is in love with. Perhaps—do have patience, I’m
merely supposing—perhaps she has vainly urged Miss Van Norman to give
him up, and, finding she wouldn’t do so, at the last minute she
prevented the marriage herself,—putting that paper on the table to make
it appear a suicide. This would explain her stealthy attempt to regain
possession of the paper later.”
“Why should she want it?”
“So that it couldn’t be _proved_ not to be in Miss Van Norman’s
writing.”
“It’s ingenious on your part,” said Kitty slowly, “but it can’t be true.
Cicely may be in love with Schuyler, but she wouldn’t kill Maddy because
of that.”
“Who can tell what a hysterical, jealous woman will do?” said Rob, with
the air of an oracle. “And moreover, to my mind, that explains her
half-conscious exclamation of which you just told me. When she said,
‘They must not think Schuyler did it,’ it meant that she knew he didn’t
do it, but she didn’t want suspicion to rest on him. That’s why she
insists it was a suicide.”
So in earnest was Fessenden that Kitty felt almost convinced there was
something in his theory.
“But it can’t be,” she said, at last, with an air of finality. “It
wouldn’t be _possible_ for Cicely to do such a thing! I know _her_ too
well!”
“Then, Miss French, if that, to you, is a logical argument, you must
admit mine. It wouldn’t be _possible_ for Carleton to do such a thing! I
know _him_ too well!”
Kitty had to smile at the imitation of the strong inflections she had
used, and, too, she had to admit that one opinion was as permissible as
the other.
“You see,” went on Rob quietly, “we’re not really assuming Miss Dupuy’s
guilt, we’re only seeing where these deductions lead us. Suppose, for
the moment, that Miss Dupuy did, during that half-hour in the library,
have an altercation with Miss Van Norman, and just suppose,—or imagine,
if you prefer the word,—that she turned the dagger upon her friend and
employer, wouldn’t her subsequent acts have been just as they were? At
Mr. Carleton’s alarm, she came downstairs, fully dressed; later she
tried to remove secretly that written paper; always at serious
questioning she faints or flies into hysterics; and, naturally, when
suspicion comes near the man she cares for, she tries to turn it off.
And then, too, Miss French, a very strong point against her is that she
was the last one, so far as we know, to see Miss Van Norman alive. Of
course, the murderer was the last one; but I mean, of the witnesses,
Miss Dupuy was the latest known to be with Miss Van Norman. Thus, her
evidence cannot be corroborated, and it may or may not be true. If she
is the guilty one, we cannot expect the truth from her, and so we must
at least admit that there is room for investigation, if not suspicion.”
“I suppose you are right,” said Kitty slowly; “a man’s mind is said to
be more logical. A woman depends more on her intuition. Now, my
intuition tells me that Cicely Dupuy can _not_ be the guilty one.”
“At risk of tiresome repetition,” returned Fessenden, “I must say again
that that is no more convincing than _my_ ‘intuition’ that Carleton can
_not_ be the guilty one.”
Kitty’s smile showed her quick appreciation of this point, and Rob went
on:
“Though suspicion, so far, is cast in no other direction, it is only
fair to consider all the others in the house. This will, of course, be
done in due time. I approve of Mr. Benson, and I think, though his
manners are pompous and at times egotistical, he has a good mind and a
quick intelligence. He will do his part, I am sure, and then, if
necessary, others will be brought into the case. But, as Carleton’s
friend, I shall devote all my energies to clearing him from what I know
is an unjust suspicion.”
And then Rob Fessenden went away. Mrs. Markham asked him to remain to
dinner, but he declined, preferring to go home with Carleton. He said he
would return next morning, and said too that he meant to stay in
Mapleton as long as he could be of any service to any of his friends.
This decision was, of course, the result of his great friendship for
Carleton, and his general interest in the Van Norman case, but it was
also partly brought about by the bewitching personality of Kitty French
and the impression she had made on his not usually susceptible heart.
And being master of his own time, Fessenden resolved to stay for a few
days and observe developments along several lines.
XIV
THE CARLETON HOUSEHOLD
Mrs. Carleton’s dinner table that evening presented a very different
atmosphere from the night before.
The hostess herself was present only by a strong effort of will power.
Mrs. Carleton had been greatly overcome by the shock of the dreadful
news, and, aside from the sadness and horror of the tragedy, she was
exceedingly disappointed at what seemed to her the ruin of her son’s
future.
The Carletons were an old and aristocratic family, though by no means
possessed of great fortune.
The alliance, therefore, with the wealth of the Van Norman estate, and
the power of the Van Norman name, seemed to Mrs. Carleton the crowning
glory of her son’s career, and she had been devoutly thankful when the
wedding-day was set.
Though stubbornly unwilling to believe it, she had of late been forced
to notice the growing attachment between Schuyler and her own companion,
Miss Burt, and had it not been for the surety of the approaching
wedding, she would have dismissed the girl. But so certain was she that
her son’s ambitions, like her own, were centred on the Van Norman name,
she could not believe that Schuyler would let himself become greatly
interested in Dorothy Burt.
But she did not allow for that mischievous Imp of Romance who plays
havoc with hearts without saying “by your leave.”
And partly because of her own dainty charm, partly because of her
contrast to Madeleine’s magnificence, Dorothy Burt crept into Schuyler
Carleton’s affections before either of them realized it, and when they
did discover the surprising fact, it did not seem to dismay them as it
should have done.
But it troubled them; for Schuyler well knew that honor, expediency, and
good judgment all held him bound to Miss Van Norman, and Dorothy Burt
knew it equally well.
And, whether or not with an ulterior motive, she had made no claim on
him from the first. She had admitted her love for him, but in the same
breath had avowed her appreciation of its hopelessness. Even if he
hinted at a possible transfer of his allegiance, she had hushed him at
once, saying it was impossible for him to do otherwise than to be true
to his troth, and that he must forget her, as she should—try to—forget
him.
This nobility on her part only made Carleton love her more, and though
continuing to admire his beautiful fiancée, his real affection was all
for little Dorothy.
She came to dinner that night, soft and lovely in a simple white frock,
her pathetic eyes wide open in grief and sorrow, her rosebud mouth
drooping and tremulous at the corners.
Fessenden watched her. Without appearing to do so, he noted every
expression that flitted across her baby face.
And he was greatly disturbed.
The night before he had paid slight attention to her. To be sure, Miss
Van Norman had spoken her name in the afternoon, but it had meant little
to him, and, thinking of her merely as Mrs. Carleton’s companion, or
secretary, he wasn’t sure which, he had been conventionally polite and
no more. But to-night she was a factor in the case, and must be reckoned
with.
As Fessenden watched her, he saw, with a growing conviction, as sure as
it was awful, that she was relieved at Miss Van Norman’s death.
Gentle, tender little girl as she seemed, it was nevertheless true that
the removal of the obstacle between Carleton and herself gave her only
joy. She tried to hide this. She cleverly simulated grief, horror,
surprise, interest,—all the emotions called forth by the conversation,
which unavoidably pursued only one course. In fact, Miss Burt took her
cue every time from Mrs. Carleton, and expressed opinions that
invariably coincided with hers.
It began to dawn upon Fessenden that the girl was unusually clever, the
more so, he thought, that she was consciously concealing her cleverness
by a cloak of demure innocence, and careful unostentation. Never did she
put herself forward; never did she show undue interest in Schuyler,
personally.
Fessenden reasoned that the game being now in her own hands, she could
afford to stand back and await developments.
Then came the next thought: how came the game so fortuitously into her
own hands? Was it, even indirectly, due to her own instigation?
“Pshaw!” he thought to himself. “I’m growing absurdly suspicious. I
won’t believe wrong of that girl until I have some scrap of a hint to
base it on.”
And yet he knew in his own heart if Dorothy Burt had wanted to connive
in the slightest degree in the removal of her rival, she was quite
capable of doing so, notwithstanding her very evident effect of pretty
helplessness.
“When an excessively clever young woman assumes an utterly inefficient
air,” he thought, “it must be for some undeclared purpose;” and he felt
an absurd thrill of satisfaction that though Kitty French was undeniably
clever, she put on no _ingénue_ arts to hide it.
Then Kitty’s phrase of “a clinging rosebud” came to his mind, and he
realized its exceeding aptness to describe Dorothy Burt. Her appealing
eyes and wistful, curved mouth were enough to lure a man who loved her
to almost any deed of daring.
“Even murder?” flashed into his brain, and he recoiled at the thought.
Old Schuyler might have been made to forget his fealty; he might have
been unable to steel his heart against those subtle charms; he might
have thrown to the winds his honor and his faith; but surely, never,
_never_, could he have committed that dreadful deed, even for love of
this angel-faced siren.
“Could she?”