women, and not a man in it except the servants, and no breath of
suspicion has blown their way. And if a woman did do it, that unpleasant
Morton woman is by far the most likely suspect. And if she was actuated
by a desire to get her inheritance, why, there’s the motive, and she
surely had opportunity. It’s a tangle, but we must find something soon
to guide us. A murder like that can’t have been done without leaving
some trace somewhere of the criminal.” And then Fessenden’s thoughts
drifted away to Kitty French, and he was quite willing to turn the
responsibility of his new information over to Mr. Benson. On his way to
the coroner’s office he passed the Mapleton Inn. An impulse came to him
to investigate Tom Willard’s statements, and he turned back and entered
the small hotel.
He thought it wiser to be frank in the matter than to attempt to obtain
underhand information. Asking to speak with the proprietor alone, he
said plainly:
“I’m a detective from New York City, and my name is Fessenden. I’m
interested in investigating the death of Miss Van Norman. I have no
suspicions of any one in particular, but I’m trying to collect a few
absolute facts by way of making a beginning. I wish you, therefore, to
consider this conversation confidential.”
Mr. Taylor, the landlord of the inn, was flattered at being a party to a
confidential conversation with a real detective, and willingly promised
secrecy in the matter.
“Then,” went on Fessenden, “will you tell me all you know of the
movements of Mr. Willard last evening?”
Mr. Taylor looked a bit disappointed at this request, for he foresaw
that his story would be but brief. However, he elaborated the recital
and spun it out as long as he possibly could. But after all his
circumlocution, Fessenden found that the facts were given precisely as
Willard had stated them himself.
The bellboy who had carried up the suitcase was called in, and his story
also agreed.
“Yessir,” said the boy; “I took up his bag, and he gimme a quarter, just
like any nice gent would. ’N’en I come downstairs, and after while the
gent’s bell rang, and I went up, and he wanted ice water. He was in his
shirt sleeves then, jes’ gittin’ ready for bed. So I took up the water,
and he said, ‘Thank you,’ real pleasant-like, and gimme a dime. He’s a
awful nice man, he is. He had his shoes off that time, ’most ready for
bed. And that’s all I know about it.”
All this was nothing more nor less than Fessenden had expected. He had
asked the questions merely for the satisfaction of having verbal
corroboration of Tom’s own story.
With thanks to Mr. Taylor, and a more material token of appreciation to
the boy, he went away.
On reaching the coroner’s office, he was told that Mr. Benson was not
in. Fessenden was sorry, for he wanted to discuss the Morton episode
with him. He thought of going to Lawyer Peabody’s, who would know all
about Miss Van Norman’s will, but as he sauntered through one of the few
streets the village possessed, he was rather pleased than otherwise to
see Kitty French walking toward him.
She greeted him with apparent satisfaction, and said chummily, “Let’s
walk along together and talk it over.”
Immediately coroner and lawyer faded from Rob’s mind, he willingly fell
into step beside her, and they walked along the street which soon merged
itself into a pleasant country road.
Fessenden told Kitty of his conversation at the inn, but she agreed that
it was unimportant.
“Of course,” she said, “I suppose it was a good thing to have some one
else say the same as Tom said, but as Tom wasn’t even in the house, I
don’t see as he is in the mystery at all. But there’s no use of looking
further for the criminal. It was Schuyler Carleton, just as sure as I
stand here.”
Kitty very surely stood there. They had paused beneath an old willow
tree by the side of the road, and Kitty, leaning against a rail fence,
looked like a very sweet and winsome Portia, determined to mete out
justice.
Though he was himself convinced that he was an unprejudiced seeker after
truth, at that moment Robert Fessenden found himself very much swayed by
the opinions of the pretty, impetuous girl who addressed him.
“I believe I’m going to work all wrong,” he declared. “I can’t help
feeling sure that Carleton didn’t do it, and so I’m trying to discover
who did.”
“Well, why is that wrong?” demanded Kitty wonderingly.
“Why, I think a better way to do would be to assume, if only for sake of
argument, as they say, or rather for sake of a starting-point—to assume
that you are right and that Carleton is the evil-doer, though I swear I
don’t believe it.”
Kitty laughed outright. “You’re a nice detective!” she said. “Are you
assuming that Schuyler is the villain, merely to be polite to me?”
“I am not, indeed! I feel very politely inclined toward you, I’ll admit,
but in this matter I’m very much in earnest. And I believe, by assuming
that Carleton is the man, and then looking for proof of it, we may run
across clues that will lead us to the real villain.”
Kitty looked at him admiringly, and for Kitty French to look at any
young man admiringly was apt to be a bit disturbing to the young man’s
peace of mind.
It proved so in this case, and though Fessenden whispered to his own
heart that he would attend first to the vindication of his friend
Carleton, his own heart whispered back that after that, Miss French must
be considered.
“And so,” said Rob, as they turned back homeward, “I’m going to work
upon this line. I’m going to look for clues; real, material, tangible
clues, such as criminals invariably leave behind them.”
“Do!” cried Kitty. “And I’ll help you. I know we can find something.”
“You see,” went on Fessenden, his enthusiasm kindling from hers, “the
actual stage of the tragedy is so restricted. Whatever we find must be
in the Van Norman house.”
“Yes, and probably in the library.”
“Or the hall,” he supplemented.
“What kind of a thing do you expect to find?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure. In the Sherlock Holmes stories it’s usually
cigar ashes or something like that. Oh, pshaw! I don’t suppose we’ll
find anything.”
“I think in detective stories everything is found out by footprints. I
never saw anything like the obliging way in which people make footprints
for detectives.”
“And how absurd it is!” commented Rob. “I don’t believe footprints are
ever made clearly enough to deduce the rest of the man from.”
“Well, you see, in detective stories, there’s always that ‘light snow
which had fallen late the night before.’”
“Yes,” said Fessenden, laughing at her cleverness, “and there’s always
some minor character who chances to time that snow exactly, and who
knows when it began and when it stopped.”
“Yes, and then the principal characters carefully plant their
footprints, going and returning—over-lapping, you know—and so Mr.
Smarty-Cat Detective deduces the whole story.”
“But we’ve no footprints to help us.”
“No, we couldn’t have, in the house.”
“But if it was Schuyler——”
“Well, even if,—he couldn’t make footprints without that convenient
‘light snow’ and there isn’t any.”
“And besides, Schuyler didn’t do it.”
“No, I know he didn’t. But you’re going to assume that, you know, in
order to detect the real criminal.”
“Yes, I know I said so; but I don’t believe that game will work, after
all.”
“I don’t believe you’re much of a detective, any way,” said Kitty, so
frankly that Fessenden agreed.
“I don’t believe I am,” he said honestly. “With the time, place, and
number of people so limited, it ought to be easy to solve this mystery
at once.”
“I think it’s just those very conditions that make it so hard,” said
Kitty, sighing.
And so completely under her spell was Fessenden by this time that he
emphatically agreed with her.
When they reached the Van Norman house they found it had assumed the
hollow, breathless air that invades a house where death is present.
All traces of decoration had been removed from the drawing-room, and it,
like the library, had been restored to its usual immaculate order. The
scent of flowers, however, was all through the atmosphere, and a feeling
of oppression hovered about like a heavy cloud.
Involuntarily Kitty slipped her hand in Rob’s as they entered.
Fessenden, too, felt the gloom of the place, but he had made up his mind
to do some practical work, and detaining Harris, who had opened the door
for them, he said at once, “I want you to open the blinds for a time in
all the rooms downstairs. Miss French and I are about to make a search,
and, unless necessary, let no one interrupt us.”
“Very good, sir,” said the impassive Harris, who was becoming accustomed
to sudden and unexpected orders.
They had chosen their time well for the search, and were not
interrupted. Most of the members of the household were in their own
rooms; and there happened to be no callers who entered the house.
Molly Gardner had gone away early that morning. She had declared that if
she stayed longer she should be downright ill, and, after vainly trying
to persuade Kitty to go with her, had returned alone to New York.
Tom Willard and Lawyer Peabody were in Madeleine’s sitting-room, going
over the papers in her desk, in a general attempt to learn anything of
her affairs that might be important to know. They had desired Miss
Dupuy’s presence and assistance, but that young woman refused to go to
them, saying she was still too indisposed, and remained, under care of
Marie, in her own room.
Fessenden suggested that Kitty should make search in the library while
he did the same in the drawing-room; and that afterward they should
change places.
Kitty shivered a little as she went into the room that had been the
scene of the tragedy, but she was really anxious to assist Fessenden,
and also she wanted to do anything, however insignificant, that would
help in the least toward avenging poor Maddy’s death.
And yet it was seemingly a hopeless task. Though she carefully and
systematically scrutinized walls, rugs and furniture, not a clue could
she find.
She was on her hands and knees under a table when Tom Willard came into
the room.
“What are you doing?” he said, unable to repress a smile as Kitty, with
her curly hair a bit dishevelled, came scrambling out.
“Hunting for clues,” she said briefly.
“There are no clues,” said Tom gravely. “It’s the most inexplicable
affair all ’round.”
“Then you have no suspicion of any one?”
“My dear Miss French,” said Tom, looking at her kindly, as one might at
a child, but speaking decidedly; “don’t let the _amusement_ of amateur
detective work lead you into making unnecessary trouble for people. If
detective work is to be done, leave it to experienced and professional
hands. A girl hunting for broken sleeve-links or shreds of clothing is
foolishly theatrical.”
Willard’s grave but gentle voice made Kitty think that she and Fessenden
were acting childishly, but after Tom, who had come on an errand, had
left the room, Kitty confided to herself that she would rather act
foolishly at Rob Fessenden’s bidding than to follow the wise advice of
any other man.
This was saying a good deal, but as she said it only to herself, she
felt sure her confidence would not be betrayed.
Not half an hour had elapsed when Kitty appeared at the drawing-room
door with a discontented face, and said, “There’s positively nothing in
the library that doesn’t belong there. It has been thoroughly swept, and
though there may have been many clues, they’ve all been swept and dusted
away.”
“Same here,” said Fessenden dejectedly. “However, let’s change rooms, so
we can both feel sure.” Then Kitty searched the drawing-room, and Rob
the library, and they both scrutinized every inch of the hall.
“I didn’t find so much as a thread,” said Kitty, as they sat down on a
great carved seat in the hall to compare notes.
“I didn’t either,” said Rob, “with one insignificant exception; in the
drawing-room I found this, but it doesn’t mean anything.”
As he spoke he drew from his pocket a tiny globule of a silver color.
“What is it?” asked Kitty, taking it with her finger-tips from the palm
of his hand.
“It’s a cachou.”
“And what in the world is a cachou? What is it for?”
“Why, it’s a little confection filled with a sort of spice. Some men use
them after smoking, to eradicate the odor of tobacco.”
“Eat them, do you mean? Are they good to eat?” and impulsive Kitty was
about to pop the tiny thing into her mouth, when Rob caught her hand.
“Don’t!” he cried. “That’s my only clue, after all this search, and it
may be of importance.”
He rescued the cachou from Kitty’s fingers, and then, slipping it into
his pocket, he continued to hold the hand from which he had taken it.
And then, somehow, detective work seemed for a moment to lose its
intense interest, and Rob and Kitty talked of other things.
Suddenly Kitty said: “Tom Willard thinks we’re foolish to hunt for
clues.”
“I think he’s right,” said Fessenden, smiling, “since we didn’t find
anything.”
“Oh, he didn’t exactly say you were foolish, but he said I was. He said
it was silly for a girl to hunt around under tables and chairs.”
“He had no right to say so. It isn’t silly for you to do anything you
want to do. But I know what Willard meant. He thinks, as lots of people
do, that there’s no sense in expecting to find material evidences of
crime—or, rather, of the criminal. And I suppose he’s right. Whoever
murdered Miss Van Norman certainly left no tangible traces. But I’m glad
we hunted for them, for now I feel certain there were none left;
otherwise, I should always have thought there might have been.”
“How much more sensible you are than Mr. Willard,” said Kitty, with an
admiring glance that went straight to the young man’s heart, and stayed
there. “And, too, you always make use of ‘clues’ if you do find them.
Look how cleverly you deduced about the soft and hard lead pencils.”
“Oh, that was nothing,” said Fessenden modestly, though her praise was
ecstasy to his soul.
“Indeed it _was_ something! It was great work. And I truly believe
you’ll make as great a deduction from that little thing you found this
morning. What do you call it?”
“A cachou.”
“Yes, a cachou. The whole discovery of the murderer may hinge on that
tiny clue we found.”
“It may, but I can hardly hope so.”
“I hope so,—for I do want to prove to Tom Willard that our search for
clues wasn’t silly, after all.”
And Fessenden’s foolish heart was so joyed at Kitty’s use of “we” and
“our” that he cared not a rap for Willard’s opinion of his detective
methods.
XVII
MISS MORTON’S STATEMENTS
That afternoon another session of the inquest was held.
Fessenden had told Coroner Benson of Marie’s disclosures concerning Miss
Morton, and in consequence that lady was the first witness called.
The summons was a complete surprise to her. Turning deathly white, she
endeavored to answer to her name, but only gave voice to an
unintelligible stammer.
The coroner spoke gently, realizing that his feminine cloud of witnesses
really gave him a great deal of trouble.
“Please tell us, Miss Morton,” he said, “what was your errand when you
left the library and went upstairs, remaining there nearly half an hour,
on the night of Miss Van Norman’s death?”
“I didn’t do any such thing!” snapped Miss Morton, and though her tone
was defiant now, her expression still showed fear and dismay.
“You must have forgotten. Think a moment. You were seen to leave the
library, and you were also seen after you reached the upper floors. So
try to recollect clearly, and state your errand upstairs at that time.”
“I—I was overcome at the tragedy of the occasion, and I went to my own
room to be alone for a time.”
“Did you go directly from the library to your own room?”
“Yes.”
“Without stopping in any other room on the way?”
“Yes.”
“Think again, please. Perhaps I had better tell you, a witness has
already told of your stopping on the way to your own room.”
“She told falsely, then. I went straight to my bedroom.”
“In the third story?”
“Yes.”
Coroner Benson was a patient man. He had no wish to confound Miss Morton
with Marie’s evidence, and too, there was a chance that Marie had not
told the truth. So he spoke again persuasively:
“You went there afterward, but first you stopped for a moment or two in
Miss Van Norman’s sitting-room.”
“Who says I did?”
“An eye-witness, who chanced to see you.”
“Chanced to see me, indeed! Nothing of the sort! It was that little
French minx, Marie, who is everlastingly spying about! Well, she is not
to be believed.”
“I am sorry to doubt your own statement, Miss Morton, but another member
of the household also saw you. Denial is useless; it would be better for
you to tell us simply why you went to Miss Van Norman’s room at that
time.”
“It’s nobody’s business,” snapped Miss Morton. “My errand there had
nothing to do in any way with Madeleine Van Norman, dead or alive.”
“Then, there is no reason you should not tell frankly what that errand
was.”
“I have my own reasons, and I refuse to tell.”
Mr. Benson changed his tactics.
“Miss Morton,” he said, “when did you first know that you were to
inherit this house and also a considerable sum of money at the death of
Miss Van Norman?”
The effect of this sudden question was startling. Miss Morton seemed to
be taken off her guard. She turned red, then paled to a sickly white.
Once or twice she essayed to speak, but hesitated and did not do so.
“Come, come,” said the coroner, “that cannot be a difficult question to
answer. When was your first intimation that you were a beneficiary by
the terms of Miss Van Norman’s will?”
And now Miss Morton had recovered her bravado.
“When the will was read,” she said in cold, firm accents.
“No; you knew it before that. You learned it when you went to Miss Van
Norman’s room and read some papers which were in her desk. You read from
a small private memorandum book that she had bequeathed this place to
you at her death.”
“Nothing of the sort,” returned the quick, snappy voice. “I knew it
before that.”
“And you just said you learned of it first when the will was read!”
“Well, I forgot. Madeleine told me the day I came here last year that
she had made a will leaving the house to me, because she thought it
should have been mine any way.”
“The day you were here last year, she told you this?”
“Yes, we had a little conversation on the subject, and she told me.”
“Why did you not say this when I first asked you concerning the matter?”
“I forgot it.” Miss Morton spoke nonchalantly, as if contradicting
oneself was a matter of no moment.
“Then you knew of your legacy before Miss Van Norman died?”
“Yes, now that I think of it, I believe I did.”
She was certainly a difficult witness. She seemed unable to look upon
the questions as important, and her answers were given either in a
flippant or savage manner.
“Then why did you go to Miss Van Norman’s room to look for her will that
night?”
“Her will? I didn’t!”
“No, not the will that bequeathed you the house, but a later will that
made a different disposal of it.”
“There wasn’t such a one,” said Miss Morton, in a low, scared voice.
“What, then, was the paper which you took from Miss Van Norman’s desk,
carried to your own room, and burned?”
The coroner’s voice was not persuasive now; it was accusing, and his
face was stern as he awaited her reply.
Again Miss Morton’s face blanched to white. Her thin lips formed a
straight line, and her eyes fell, but her voice was strong and sibilant,
as she fairly hissed:
“How dare you! Of what do you accuse me?”
“Of burning a paper which you took secretly from Miss Van Norman’s
private desk.”
A moment’s hesitation, and then, “I did not do it,” she said clearly.
“But you were seen to do it.”
“By whom?”
“By a disinterested and credible witness.”
“By a sly, spying French servant!”
“It matters not by whom; you are asked to explain the act of burning
that paper.”
“I have nothing to explain. I deny it.”
And try as he would Mr. Benson could not prevail upon Miss Morton to
admit that she had burned a paper.
He confronted her with the witness, Marie, but Miss Morton coldly
refused to listen to her, or to pay any attention to what she said. She
insisted that Marie was not speaking the truth, and as the matter rested
between the two, there was nothing more to be done.
Kitty French said that she saw Miss Morton go into Madeleine’s room, and
afterward go upstairs to her own room, but she knew nothing about the
papers in question.
Still adhering to her denial of Marie’s story, Miss Morton was excused
from the witness stand.
Another witness called was Dorothy Burt. Fessenden was sorry that this
had to be, for he dreaded to have the fact of Carleton’s infatuation for
this girl brought into public notice.
Miss Burt was a model witness, as to her manner and demeanor. She
answered promptly and clearly all the coroner’s questions, and at first
Rob thought that perhaps she was, after all, the innocent child that
Carleton thought her.
But he couldn’t help realizing, as the cross-questioning went on, that
Miss Burt really gave very little information of any value. Perhaps
because she had none to give, perhaps because she chose to withhold it.
“Your name?” Mr. Benson had first asked.
“Dorothy Burt,” was the answer, and the modest voice, with a touch of
sadness, as befitting the occasion, seemed to have just the right ring
to it.
“Your occupation?”
“I am companion and social secretary to Mrs. Carleton.”
“Do you know of anything that can throw any light on any part of the
mystery surrounding the death of Miss Van Norman?”
Miss Burt drew her pretty eyebrows slightly together, and thought a
moment.
“No,” she said quietly; “I am sure I do not.”
So gentle and sweet was she, that many a questioner would have dismissed
her then and there; but Mr. Benson, hoping to get at least a shred of
evidence bearing on Schuyler Carleton’s strange behavior, continued to
question her.
“Tell us, please, Miss Burt, what you know of Mr. Carleton’s actions on
the night of Miss Van Norman’s death.”
“Mr. Carleton’s actions?” The delicate eyebrows lifted as if in
perplexity at the question.
“Yes; detail his actions, so far as you know them, from the time he came
home to dinner that evening.”
“Why, let me see;” pretty Dorothy looked thoughtful again. “He came to
dinner, as usual. Mr. Fessenden was there, but no other guest. After
dinner we all sat in the music room. I played a little,—just some
snatches of certain music that Mrs. Carleton is fond of. Mr. Carleton
and Mr. Fessenden chatted together.”
Rob raised his own eyebrows a trifle at this. Carleton had not been at
all chatty; indeed, Fessenden and Mrs. Carleton had sustained the burden
of the conversation; and while Miss Burt had played, it had been bits of
romantic music that Rob felt sure had been for Schuyler’s delectation
more than his mother’s.
“Is that all?” said Mr. Benson.
“Yes, I think so,” said Miss Burt; “we all went to our rooms early, as
the next day was the day appointed for Mr. Carleton’s wedding, and we
assumed he wanted to be alone.”
Rob looked up astounded. Was she going to make no mention of the stroll
in the rose-garden? He almost hoped she wouldn’t, and yet that was
certainly the evidence Mr. Benson was after.
“You said good-night to Mr. Carleton at what time, then?” was the next
rather peculiar question.
It might have been imagination, but Fessenden thought the girl was going
to name an earlier hour, then, catching sight of Rob’s steady eyes upon
her, she hesitated an instant, and then said: “About ten o’clock, I
think.”
“Mrs. Carleton and Mr. Fessenden went to their rooms at the same time?”
Dorothy Burt turned very pale. She shot a quick glance at Schuyler
Carleton and another at Fessenden, and then said in a low tone: “They
had gone upstairs a short time before.”
“And you remained downstairs for a time with Mr. Carleton?”
“Yes.” The answer, merely a whisper, seemed forced upon her lips.
“Where were you?”
Again the hesitation. Again the swift glances at Carleton and Rob, and
then the low answer:
“In the rose-garden.”
Fessenden understood. The girl had no desire to tell these things, but
she knew that he knew the truth, and so she was too clever to lie
uselessly.
“How long were you two in the rose-garden, Miss Burt?”
Another pause. Somehow, Fessenden seemed to see the workings of the
girl’s mind. If she designated a long time it would seem important. If
too short a time, Rob would know of her inaccuracy. And if she said she
didn’t know, it would lend a meaning to the rose-garden interview which
it were better to avoid.
“Perhaps a half-hour,” she said, at last, and, though outwardly calm,
her quickly-drawn breath and shining eyes betokened a suppressed
excitement of some sort.
“And you left Mr. Carleton at ten o’clock?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know what he did after that?”
“I do not!” the answer rang out clearly, as if Miss Burt were glad to be
well past the danger point of the dialogue. But it came back at her with
the next question.
“What was the tenor of your conversation with Mr. Carleton in the rose
garden?”