his mind whirling. _Could_ she? Why, no, of course not! Absurd! Yes, but
_could_ she? What? That child? That baby-girl? Those tiny, rose-leaf
hands! Yes, but _could_ she?
“No!” said Fessenden angrily, and then realized that he had spoken
aloud, and his hearers were looking at him with indulgent curiosity.
“Forgive me,” he said, smiling as he looked at Mrs. Carleton. “My fancy
took a short but distant flight, and I had to speak to it sternly by way
of reproof.”
“I didn’t know a lawyer could be fanciful,” said Mrs. Carleton. “I
thought that privilege was reserved for poets.”
“Thank you for a pretty compliment to our profession,” said Rob. “We
lawyers are too often accused of giving rein to our fancy, when we
should be strapped to the saddle of slow but sure Truth.”
“But can you arrive anywhere on such a prosaic steed?” asked Miss Burt,
smiling at his words.
“Yes,” said Rob; “we can arrive at facts.”
What prompted him to speak so curtly, he didn’t know; but his speech did
not at all please Miss Burt. Her color flew to her cheeks, though she
said nothing, and then, as Mrs. Carleton rose from the table, the two
ladies smiled and withdrew, leaving Rob alone with his host.
“It’s all right, old boy, of course,” said Carleton, “but did you have
any reason for flouting poor little Dorothy like that?”
“No, I didn’t,” said Fessenden honestly and apologetically. “I spoke
without thinking, and I’m sorry for it.”
“All right—it’s nothing. Now, Rob, old fellow, you can’t deceive me. I
saw a curious expression in your eyes as you looked at Miss Burt
to-night, and—well, there is no need of words between us, so I’ll only
tell you you’re all wrong there. You look for hidden meanings and veiled
allusions in everything that girl says, and there aren’t any. She’s as
frank and open-natured as she can be, and—forgive me—but I want you to
let her alone.”
Fessenden was astounded. First, at Carleton’s insight in discovering his
thoughts, and second, at Carleton’s mistaken judgment of Miss Burt’s
nature.
But he only said, “All right, Schuyler; what you say, goes. Would you
rather not talk at all about the Van Norman affair?” Fessenden spoke
thus casually, for he felt sure it would make it easier for Carleton
than if he betrayed a deeper interest.
“Oh, I don’t care. You know, of course, how deeply it affects me and my
whole life. I know your sympathy and good-fellowship. There’s not much
more to say, is there?”
“Why, yes, Carleton; there is. As your friend, and also in the interests
of justice, I am more than anxious to discover the villain who did the
horrid deed, and though the inquest people are doing all they can, I
want to add my efforts to theirs, in hope of helping them,—and you.”
“Don’t bother about me, Rob. I don’t care if they never discover the
culprit. Miss Van Norman is gone; it can’t restore her to life if they
do learn who killed her.”
Fessenden looked mystified.
“That’s strange talk, Schuyler,—but of course you’re fearfully upset,
and I suppose just at first it isn’t surprising that you feel that way.
But surely,—as man to man, now,—you want to find and punish the wretch
that put an end to that beautiful young life.”
“Yes,—I suppose so;” Carleton spoke hesitatingly, and drew his hand
across his brow in the same dazed way he did when in the witness box.
“You’re done up, old man, and I’m not going to bother you to-night. But
I’m on the hunt, if you aren’t, and I’m going ahead on a few little
trails, hoping they’ll lead to something of more importance. By the way,
what _were_ you doing in those few minutes last night between your
entering the house and entering the library?”
Carleton stared at his guest.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he said.
“Yes, you do. You went in at eleven-fifteen, and you called for help at
eleven-thirty.”
“No,—it didn’t take as long as that.” Carleton’s eyes had a far-away
look, and Rob grasped his arm and shook him, as he said:
“Drop it, man! Drop that half-dazed way of speaking! Tell me, clearly,
what did you do in that short interval?”
“I refuse to state,” said Carleton quietly, but with a direct glance now
that made Fessenden cease his insistence.
“Very well,” he said; “it’s of no consequence. Now tell me what you were
doing last evening before you went over to the house?”
At this Carleton showed a disposition to be both haughty and ironical.
“Am I being questioned,” he said, “and by you? Well, before I went to
Miss Van Norman’s I was walking in the rose-garden with Miss Burt. You
saw me from your window.”
“I did,” said Rob gravely. “Were you with Miss Burt until the time of
your going over to the Van Norman house?”
“No,” said Carleton, with sarcastic intonation. “I said good-night to
Miss Burt about three-quarters of an hour before I started to go over to
Miss Van Norman’s. Do you want to know what I did during _that_
interval?”
“Yes.”
“I was in my own room—my den. I did what many a man does on the eve of
his wedding. I burned up a few notes,—perhaps a photograph or two,—and
one withered rose-bud,—a ‘keepsake.’ Does this interest you?”
“Not especially, but, Schuyler, do drop that resentful air. I’m not
quizzing you, and if you don’t want to talk about the subject at all, we
won’t.”
“Very well,—I don’t.”
“Very well, then.”
The two men rose, and as Carleton held out his hand Rob grasped it and
shook it heartily, then they went to the drawing-room and rejoined the
ladies.
The Van Norman affair was not mentioned again that evening.
All felt a certain oppression in the atmosphere, and all tried to dispel
it, but it was not easy. Uninteresting topics of conversation were
tossed from one to another, but each felt relieved when at last Mrs.
Carleton rose to go upstairs and the evening was at an end.
Fessenden went to his room, his brain a whirlwind of conflicting
thoughts.
He sat down by an open window and endeavored to classify them into some
sort of order.
First, he was annoyed at Carleton’s inexplicable attitude. Granting he
was in love with Miss Burt, he had no reason to act so unconcerned about
the Van Norman tragedy. And yet Schuyler’s was a peculiar nature, and
doubtless all this strange behavior of his was merely the effort to hide
his real sorrow.
But again, if he were in love with Miss Burt, his sorrow for the loss of
Madeleine was for the loss of her fortune and not herself. This
Fessenden refused to believe, but the more he refused to believe it, the
more it came back to him. Then there was his new notion, that came to
him at dinner, about Miss Burt. Carleton said she was the ingenuous,
timid girl she looked, but Rob couldn’t believe it. Executive ability
showed in that determined little chin. Veiled cunning lurked in the
shadows of those innocent eyes. And the girl had a motive. Surely she
wanted her rival out of her way. Then she had said good-night to
Schuyler nearly an hour before he went over to Madeleine’s. Could she
have—but, nonsense! Even if she had been so inclined, how could she
have entered the house? Ah, that settled it! She couldn’t. And Fessenden
was honestly glad of it. Honestly glad that he had proved to himself
that Miss Burt—lovely, alluring little Dorothy Burt—was not the
hardened criminal for whom he was looking!
Then it came back to Schuyler. No! Never Schuyler! But if not he, then
who? And what was he doing in that incriminating interval, and why
wouldn’t he tell?
And then, idly gazing from his window Rob saw again two figures walking
in the rose-garden. And they were the same two that he had seen there
the evening before.
Schuyler Carleton and Dorothy Burt were strolling,—no, now they were
standing, standing close to each other in earnest conversation.
Rob was no eavesdropper, and of course he couldn’t hear a word they
said, but somehow he found it impossible to take his eyes from those two
figures.
Steadily they talked,—so engrossed in their conversation that they
scarcely moved; then Schuyler’s arm went slowly round the girl’s
shoulders.
Gently she drew away, and he did not then again offer a caress.
Rob sat looking at them, saying frankly to himself that he was justified
in doing so, since his motive effaced all consideration of puerile
conventions. If that girl were really the designing young woman he took
her to be,—more, if she could be the author, directly or indirectly, of
that awful crime,—then Fessenden vowed he would save Schuyler from her
fascinations at the risk of breaking their own lifelong friendship.
After further rapt and earnest conversation, Carleton took Miss Burt
gently in his arms and kissed her lightly on the forehead. Then, drawing
her arm through his own, they turned and walked slowly to the house.
A few moments later Rob heard the girl’s light footsteps as she came up
to her room, but Carleton stayed down in the library until long after
all the rest of the household were sleeping.
XV
FESSENDEN’S DETECTIVE WORK
Next morning Rob went over to the Van Norman house with a clearly
developed plan of action. He declared to himself that he would allow no
circumstance to shake his faith in his friend, that he would hold
Carleton innocent of all wrongdoing in the affair, and that he would put
all his ingenuity and cleverness to work to discover the criminal or any
clue that might lead to such a discovery.
Although some questions he had wished to ask Cicely Dupuy were yet
unanswered, Fessenden had discovered several important facts, and, after
being admitted to the house, he looked about him for a quiet spot to sit
down and tabulate them in black and white. The florist’s men were still
in the drawing-room, so he went into the library. Here he found only
Mrs. Markham and Miss Morton, who were apparently discussing a question
on which they held opposite opinions.
“Come in, Mr. Fessenden,” said Mrs. Markham, as he was about to
withdraw. “I should be glad of your advice. Ought I to give over the
reins of government at once to Miss Morton?”
“Why not?” interrupted Miss Morton, herself. “The house is mine; why
should I not be mistress here?”
Fessenden repressed a smile. It seemed to him absurd that these two
middle-aged women should discuss an issue of this sort with such
precipitancy.
“It seems to me a matter of good taste,” he replied. “The house, Miss
Morton, is legally yours, but as its mistress, I think you’d show a more
gracious manner if you would wait for a time before making any changes
in the domestic arrangements.”
Apparently undesirous of pursuing the gracious course he recommended,
Miss Morton rose abruptly and flounced out of the room.
“Now she’s annoyed again,” observed Mrs. Markham placidly. “The least
little thing sets her off.”
“If not intrusive, Mrs. Markham, won’t you tell me how it comes about
that Miss Morton inherits this beautiful house? Is she a relative of the
Van Normans?”
“Not a bit of it. She was Richard Van Norman’s sweetheart, years and
years and _years_ ago. They had a falling-out, and neither of them ever
married. Of course he didn’t leave her any of his fortune. But only a
short time ago, long after her uncle’s death, Madeleine found out about
it from some old letters. She determined then to hunt up this Miss
Morton, and she did so, and they had quite a correspondence. She came
here for the wedding, and Madeleine intended she should make a visit,
and intended to give her a present of money when she went away. In the
meantime Madeleine had made her will, though I didn’t know this until
to-day, leaving the place and all her own money to Miss Morton. I’m not
surprised at this, for Tom Willard has plenty, and as there was no other
heir, I know Madeleine felt that part of her uncle’s fortune ought to be
used to benefit the woman he had loved in his youth.”
“That explains Miss Morton, then,” said Fessenden. “But what a peculiar
woman she is!”
“Yes, she is,” agreed Mrs. Markham, in her serene way. “But I’m used to
queer people. Richard Van Norman used to give way to the most violent
bursts of temper I ever saw. Maddy and Tom are just like him. They would
both fly into furious rages, though I must say they didn’t do it often,
and never unless for some deep reason.”
“And Mr. Carleton—has he a high temper?”
Mrs. Markham’s brow clouded. “I don’t understand that man,” she said
slowly. “I don’t think he has a quick temper, but there’s something deep
about him that I can’t make out. Oh, Mr. Fessenden, do you think he
killed our Madeleine?”
“Do you?” said Fessenden suddenly, looking straight at her.
“I do,” she said, taken off her guard. “That is, I couldn’t believe it,
only, what else can I think? Mr. Carleton is a good man, but I know
Maddy never killed herself, and I know the way this house is locked up
every night. No burglar or evil-doer could possibly get in.”
“But the murderer may have been concealed in the house for hours
beforehand.”
“Nonsense! That would be impossible, with a house so full of people, and
the wedding preparations going on, and everything. Besides, Mr. Hunt
would have heard any intruder prowling around; and then again, how could
he have gone out? Everything was bolted on the inside, except the front
door, and had he gone out that way he must surely have been heard.”
“Well reasoned, Mrs. Markham! I think, with you, we may dismiss the
possibility of a burglar. The time was too short for anything except a
definitely premeditated act. And yet I cannot believe the act was that
of Schuyler Carleton. I know that man very well, and a truer, braver
soul never existed.”
“I know it,” declared Mrs. Markham, “but I think I’m justified in
telling you this. Mr. Carleton didn’t love Madeleine, and he did love
another girl. Madeleine worshipped him, and I think he came last night
to ask her to release him, and she refused, and then—and then——”
Something about Mrs. Markham’s earnest face and sad, distressed voice
affected Fessenden deeply, and he wondered if this theory she had so
clearly, though hesitatingly, stated, could be the true one. Might he,
after all, be mistaken in his estimate of Schuyler Carleton, and might
Mrs. Markham’s suggestion have even a foundation of probability?
They were both silent for a few minutes, and then Mr. Fessenden said,
“But you thought it was suicide at first.”
“Indeed I did; I looked at the paper through glasses that were dim with
tears, and it looked to me like Madeleine’s writing. Of course Miss
Morton also thought it was, as she was only slightly familiar with
Maddy’s hand. But now that we know some one else wrote that message, of
course we also know the dear girl did not bring about her own death.”
Mrs. Markham was called away on some household errands then, and
Fessenden remained alone in the library, trying to think of some clue
that would point to some one other than Carleton.
“I’m sure that man is not a murderer,” he declared to himself. “Carleton
is peculiar, but he has a loyal, honest heart. And yet, if not, who can
have done the deed? I can’t seem to believe it really was either the
Dupuy woman or the Burt girl. And I _know_ it wasn’t Schuyler! There
must have been some motive of which I know nothing. And perhaps I also
know nothing of the murderer. It need not necessarily have been one of
these people we have already questioned.” His thoughts strayed to the
under-servants of the house, to common burglars, or to some powerful
unknown villain. But always the thought returned that no one could have
entered and left the house unobserved within that fatal hour.
And then, to his intense satisfaction, Kitty French came into the room.
“Good morning, Rose of Dawn,” he said, looking at her bright face. “Are
you properly glad to see me?”
“Yes, kind sir,” she said, dropping a little curtsey, and smiling in a
most friendly way.
“Well, then, sit down here, and let me talk to you, for my thoughts are
running riot, and I’m sure you alone can help me straighten them out.”
“Of course I can. I’m wonderful at that sort of thing. But, first I’ll
tell you about Miss Dupuy. She’s awfully ill—I mean prostrated, you
know; and she has a high fever and sometimes she chatters rapidly, and
then again she won’t open her lips even if any one speaks to her. We’ve
had the doctor, and he says it’s just overstrained nerves and a
naturally nervous disposition; but, Mr. Fessenden, I think it’s more
than that; I think it’s a guilty conscience.”
“And yesterday, when I implied that Miss Dupuy might know more about it
all than she admitted, you wouldn’t listen to a word of it!”
“Yes, I know it, but I’ve changed my mind.”
“Oh, you have; just for a change, I suppose.”
“No,” said Kitty, more seriously; “but because I’ve heard a lot of
Cicely’s ranting,—for that’s what it is,—and while it’s been only
disconnected sentences and sudden exclamations, yet it all points to a
guilty knowledge of some sort, which she’s trying to conceal. I don’t
say I suspect her, Mr. Fessenden, but I do suspect that she knows a lot
more important information than she’s told.”
“Miss Dupuy’s behavior has certainly invited criticism,” began Rob, but
before he could go further, the French girl, Marie, appeared at the
door, and seemed about to enter.
“What is it, Marie?” said Kitty kindly. “Are you looking for me?”
“Yes, _mademoiselle_,” said Marie, “and I would speak with _monsieur_
too. I have that to say which is imperative. Too long already have I
kept the silence. I must speak at last. Have I permission?”
“Certainly,” said Fessenden, who saw that Marie was agitated, but very
much in earnest. “Tell us what you have to say. Do not be afraid.”
“I am afraid,” said Marie, “but I am afraid of one only. It is the Miss
Morton, the stranger lady.”
“Miss Morton?” said Kitty, in surprise. “She won’t hurt you; she has
been very good to you.”
“Ah, yes, _mademoiselle_; but _too_ good. Miss Morton has been too kind,
too sweet, to Marie! It is that which troubles me.”
“Well, out with it, Marie,” said Rob. “Close that door, if you like, and
then speak out, without any more beating around the bush.”
“No, _monsieur_, I will no longer beat the bush; I will now tell.”
Marie carefully closed the door, and then began her story:
“It was the night of the—of the horror. You remember, Miss French, we
sat all in this very room, awaiting the coming of the great doctor—the
doctor Leonard.”
“Yes,” said Kitty, looking intently at the girl; “yes, I know most of
you stayed here waiting,—but I was not here; Doctor Hills sent Miss
Gardner and me to our rooms.”
“Yes; it is so. Well, we sat here, and Miss Morton rose with suddenness
and left the room. I followed, partly that I thought she might need my
services, and partly—I confess it—because I trusted her not at all,
and I wished to assure myself that all was well. I followed her,—but
secretly,—and I—shall I tell you what she did?”
Kitty hesitated. She was not sure she should listen to what was, after
all, servants’ gossip about a guest of the house.
But Fessenden looked at it differently. He knew Marie had been the
trusted personal maid of Miss Van Norman, and he deemed it right to hear
the evidence that she was now anxious to give.
“Go on, Marie,” he said gravely. “Be careful to tell it exactly as it
happened, whatever it is.”
“Yes, _m’sieur_. Well, then, I softly followed Miss Morton, because she
did not go directly to her own room, but went to Miss Van Norman’s
sitting-room and stood before the desk of Miss Madeleine.”
“You are sure, Marie?” said Kitty, who couldn’t help feeling it was
dishonorable to listen to this.
“Please, Miss French, let her tell the story in her own way,” said Rob.
“It is perhaps of the utmost importance, and may lead to great results.”
Then Marie went uninterruptedly on.
“She stood in front of the desk, _m’sieur_; she searched eagerly for
papers, reading and discarding several. Then she found some, which she
saw with satisfaction, and hastily concealed in her pocket. Miss Morton
is a lady who yet has pockets in her gowns. With the papers in her
pocket, then, Miss Morton looks about carefully, and, thinking herself
unobserved, creeps, but stealthily, to her own room. There—_m’sieur_, I
was obliged to peep at the key-hole—there she lighted a fire in her
grate, and burned those papers. With my eyes I saw her. Never would I
have told, for it was not my affair, but that I fear for Miss Dupuy. It
is in the air that she knows secrets concerning Miss Van Norman’s death.
Ah, if one would know secrets, one should question Miss Morton.”
“This is a grave charge you bring against the lady, Marie,” said
Fessenden.
“Yes, _monsieur_, but it is true.”
“I know it is true,” said Kitty; “I have not mentioned it before, but I
saw Miss Morton go to Madeleine’s room that night, and afterward go to
her own room. I knew nothing, of course, of the papers, and so thought
little of the whole incident, but if she really took papers from
Madeleine’s desk and burned them, it’s indeed important. What could the
papers have been?”
“You know she inherited,” began Fessenden.
“Oh, a will!” cried Kitty.
“Marie, you may go now,” Rob interrupted; “you did right to tell us
this, and rest assured you shall never be blamed for doing so. You will
probably be questioned further, but for the present you may go. And
thank you.”
Marie curtseyed and went away.
“She’s a good girl,” said Kitty. “I always liked her; and she must have
heard, as I did, so much of Cicely’s chatter, that she feared some sort
of suspicion would fall on Cicely, and she wanted to divert it toward
Miss Morton instead.”
“As usual, with your quick wits, you’ve gone right to the heart of her
motive,” said Rob; “but it may be more serious than you’ve yet thought
of. Miss Morton inherits, you know.”
“Yes, _now_,” said Kitty significantly, “since she burnt that other
will.”
“What other will?”
“Oh, don’t you see? The will she burnt was a later one, that _didn’t_
give her this house. She burnt it so the earlier one would stand.”
“How do you know this?”
“I don’t know it, except by common sense! What else would she take from
Maddy’s desk and burn except a will? And, of course, a will _not_ in her
favor, leaving the one that _did_ bequeath the house to her to appear as
the latest will.”
“Does this line of argument take us any further?” said Rob, so seriously
that Kitty began to think.
“You don’t mean,” she whispered, “that Miss Morton—in order to——”
“To receive her legacy——”
“Could—no, she couldn’t! I won’t even think of it!”
“But you thought of Miss Dupuy. Miss French, as I told you yesterday, we
must think of every _possible_ person, not every _probable_ one. These
suggestions are not suspicions—and they harm no one who is innocent.”
“I suppose that is so. Well, let us consider Miss Morton then, but of
course she didn’t really kill Maddy.”
“I trust not. But I must say I could sooner believe it of a woman of her
type than Miss Dupuy’s.”
“But Cicely didn’t either! Oh, how _can_ you say such dreadful things!”
“We won’t say them any more. They _are_ dreadful. But I thought you were
going to help me in my detective work, and you balk at every turn.”
“No, I won’t,” said Kitty, looking repentant. “I _do_ want to help you;
and if you’ll let me help, I’ll suspect everybody you want me to.”
“I want you to help me, but this story of Marie’s is too big for me to
handle by myself. I must put that into Mr. Benson’s hands. It is really
more important than you can understand.”
“I suppose so,” said Kitty, so humbly that Rob smiled at her, and had
great difficulty to refrain from kissing her.
XVI
SEARCHING FOR CLUES
Believing that Marie’s information about Miss Morton was of deep
interest, Rob started off at once to confer with Coroner Benson about
it.
As he walked along he discussed the affair with himself, and was shocked
to realize that for the third time he was suspecting a woman of the
murder.