not finding them."
"Did you notice Mr. Stone going by on Twenty-first Street?"
"No."
"Was it as light as Mr. Stone has said?"
"Yes, it was light."
"And you did not notice him?"
"No."
"Yet you must have followed very closely behind him?"
"Not necessarily. I went by the way of Twentieth Street, sir. Why, I do
not know, for my rooms are uptown. I do not know why I did half the
things I did that night."
"I can readily believe it," remarked the Coroner.
Mr. Van Burnam's indignation rose.
"You are trying," said he, "to connect me with the fearful death of my
wife in my father's lonely house. You cannot do it, for I am as innocent
of that death as you are, or any other person in this assemblage. Nor
did I pull those shelves down upon her as you would have this jury
think, in my last thoughtless visit to my father's door. She died
according to God's will by her own hand or by means of some strange and
unaccountable accident known only to Him. And so you will find, if
justice has any place in these investigations and a manly intelligence
be allowed to take the place of prejudice in the breasts of the twelve
men now sitting before me."
And bowing to the Coroner, he waited for his dismissal, and receiving
it, walked back not to his lonely corner, but to his former place
between his father and brother, who received him with a wistful air and
strange looks of mingled hope and disbelief.
"The jury will render their verdict on Monday morning," announced the
Coroner, and adjourned the inquiry.
_BOOK II._
THE WINDINGS OF A LABYRINTH.
XVI.
COGITATIONS.
My cook had prepared for me a most excellent dinner, thinking that I
needed all the comfort possible after a day of such trying experiences.
But I ate little of it; my thoughts were too busy, my mind too much
exercised. What would be the verdict of the jury, and could this
especial jury be relied upon to give a just verdict?
At seven I had left the table and was shut up in my own room. I could
not rest till I had fathomed my own mind in regard to the events of the
day.
The question--the great question, of course, now--was how much of
Howard's testimony was to be believed, and whether he was,
notwithstanding his asseverations to the contrary, the murderer of his
wife. To most persons the answer seemed easy. From the expression of
such people as I had jostled in leaving the court-room, I judged that
his sentence had already been passed in the minds of most there present.
But these hasty judgments did not influence me. I hope I look deeper
than the surface, and my mind would not subscribe to his guilt,
notwithstanding the bad impression made upon me by his falsehoods and
contradictions.
Now why would not my mind subscribe to it? Had sentiment got the better
of me, Amelia Butterworth, and was I no longer capable of looking a
thing squarely in the face? Had the Van Burnams, of all people in the
world, awakened my sympathies at the cost of my good sense, and was I
disposed to see virtue in a man in whom every circumstance as it came to
light revealed little but folly and weakness? The lies he had told--for
there is no other word to describe his contradictions--would have been
sufficient under most circumstances to condemn a man in my estimation.
Why, then, did I secretly look for excuses to his conduct?
Probing the matter to the bottom, I reasoned in this way: The latter
half of his evidence was a complete contradiction of the first,
purposely so. In the first, he made himself out a cold-hearted egotist
with not enough interest in his wife to make an effort to determine
whether she and the murdered woman were identical; in the latter, he
showed himself in the light of a man influenced to the point of folly by
a woman to whom he had been utterly unyielding a few hours before.
Now, knowing human nature to be full of contradictions, I could not
satisfy myself that I should be justified in accepting either half of
his testimony as absolutely true. The man who is all firmness one minute
may be all weakness the next, and in face of the calm assertions made by
this one when driven to bay by the unexpected discoveries of the police,
I dared not decide that his final assurances were altogether false, and
that he was not the man I had seen enter the adjoining house with his
wife.
Why, then, not carry the conclusion farther and admit, as reason and
probability suggested, that he was also her murderer; that he had killed
her during his first visit and drawn the shelves down upon her in the
second? Would not this account for all the phenomena to be observed in
connection with this otherwise unexplainable affair? Certainly, all but
one--one that was perhaps known to nobody but myself, and that was the
testimony given by the clock. _It_ said that the shelves fell at five,
whereas, according to Mr. Stone's evidence, it was four, or thereabouts,
when Mr. Van Burnam left his father's house. But the clock might not
have been a reliable witness. It might have been set wrong, or it might
not have been running at all at the time of the accident. No, it would
not do for me to rely too much upon anything so doubtful, nor did I; yet
I could not rid myself of the conviction that Howard spoke the truth
when he declared in face of Coroner and jury that they could not connect
him with this crime; and whether this conclusion sprang from
sentimentality or intuition, I was resolved to stick to it for the
present night at least. The morrow might show its futility, but the
morrow had not come.
Meanwhile, with this theory accepted, what explanation could be given of
the very peculiar facts surrounding this woman's death? Could the
supposition of suicide advanced by Howard before the Coroner be
entertained for a moment, or that equally improbable suggestion of
accident?
Going to my bureau drawer, I drew out the old grocer-bill which has
already figured in these pages, and re-read the notes I had scribbled
on its back early in the history of this affair. They related, if you
will remember, to this very question, and seemed even now to answer it
in a more or less convincing way. Will you pardon me if I transcribe
these notes again, as I cannot imagine my first deliberations on this
subject to have made a deep enough impression for you to recall them
without help from me.
The question raised in these notes was threefold, and the answers, as
you will recollect, were transcribed before the cause of death had been
determined by the discovery of the broken pin in the dead woman's brain.
These are the queries:
First: was her death due to accident?
Second: was it effected by her own hand?
Third: was it a murder?
The replies given are in the form of reasons, as witness:
_My reasons for not thinking it an accident._
1. If it had been an accident, and she had pulled the cabinet over upon
herself,[B] she would have been found with her feet pointing towards the
wall where the cabinet had stood. But her feet were towards the door and
her head under the cabinet.
2. The precise arrangement of the clothing about her feet, which
precluded any theory involving accident.
_My reason for not thinking it a suicide._
She could not have been found in the position observed without having
lain down on the floor while living, and then pulled the shelves down
upon herself. (A theory obviously too improbable to be considered.)
_My reason for not thinking it murder._
She would need to have been held down on the floor while the cabinet was
being pulled over on her, a thing which the quiet aspect of the hands
and feet make appear impossible. (Very good, but we know now that she
was dead when the shelves fell over, so that my one excuse for not
thinking it a murder is rendered null.)
_My reasons for thinking it a murder._
----But I will not repeat these. My reasons for not thinking it an
accident or a suicide remained as good as when they were written, and if
her death had not been due to either of these causes, then it must have
been due to some murderous hand. Was that hand the hand of her husband?
I have already given it as my opinion that it was not.
Now, how to make that opinion good, and reconcile me again to myself;
for I am not accustomed to have my instincts at war with my judgment. Is
there any reason for my thinking as I do? Yes, the manliness of man. He
only looked well when he was repelling the suspicion he saw in the
surrounding faces. But that might have been assumed, just as his
careless manner was assumed during the early part of the inquiry. I must
have some stronger reason than this for my belief. The two hats? Well,
he had explained how there came to be two hats on the scene of crime,
but his explanation had not been very satisfactory. _I_ had seen no hat
in her hand when she crossed the pavement to her father's house. But
then she might have carried it under her cape without my seeing
it--perhaps. The discovery of two hats and of two pairs of gloves in Mr.
Van Burnam's parlors was a fact worth further investigation, and
mentally I made a note of it, though at the moment I saw no prospect of
engaging in this matter further than my duties as a witness required.
And now what other clue was offered me, save the one I have already
mentioned as being given by the clock? None that I could seize upon; and
feeling the weakness of the cause I had so obstinately embraced, I rose
from my seat at the tea-table and began making such alterations in my
toilet as would prepare me for the evening and my inevitable callers.
"Amelia," said I to myself, as I encountered my anything but satisfied
reflection in the glass, "can it be that you ought, after all, to have
been called Araminta? Is a momentary display of spirit on the part of a
young man of doubtful principles, enough to make you forget the dictates
of good sense which have always governed you up to this time?"
The stern image which confronted me from the mirror made me no reply,
and smitten with sudden disgust, I left the glass and went below to
greet some friends who had just ridden up in their carriage.
They remained one hour, and they discussed one subject: Howard Van
Burnam and his probable connection with the crime which had taken place
next door. But though I talked some and listened more, as is proper for
a woman in her own house, I said nothing and heard nothing which had not
been already said and heard in numberless homes that night. Whatever
thoughts I had which in any way differed from those generally expressed,
I kept to myself,--whether guided by discretion or pride, I cannot say;
probably by both, for I am not deficient in either quality.
Arrangements had already been made for the burial of Mrs. Van Burnam
that night, and as the funeral ceremony was to take place next door,
many of my guests came just to sit in my windows and watch the coming
and going of the few people invited to the ceremony.
But I discouraged this. I have no patience with idle curiosity.
Consequently by nine I was left alone to give the affair such real
attention as it demanded; something which, of course, I could not have
done with a half dozen gossiping friends leaning over my shoulder.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote B: _As was asserted by her husband in his sworn examination._]
XVII.
BUTTERWORTH VERSUS GRYCE.
The result of this attention can be best learned from the conversation I
held with Mr. Gryce the next morning.
He came earlier than usual, but he found me up and stirring.
"Well," he cried, accosting me with a smile as I entered the parlor
where he was seated, "it is all right this time, is it not? No trouble
in identifying the gentleman who entered your neighbor's house last
night at a quarter to twelve?"
Resolved to probe this man's mind to the bottom, I put on my sternest
air.
"I had not expected any one to enter there so late last night," said I.
"Mr. Van Burnam declared so positively at the inquest that he was the
person we have been endeavoring to identify, that I did not suppose you
would consider it necessary to bring him to the house for me to see."
"And so you were not in the window?"
"I did not say that; I am always where I have promised to be, Mr.
Gryce."
"Well, then?" he inquired sharply.
I was purposely slow in answering him--I had all the longer time to
search his face. But its calmness was impenetrable, and finally I
declared:
"The man you brought with you last night--you were the person who
accompanied him, were you not--was _not_ the man I saw alight there four
nights ago."
He may have expected it; it may have been the very assertion he desired
from me, but his manner showed displeasure, and the quick "How?" he
uttered was sharp and peremptory.
"I do not ask who it was," I went on, with a quiet wave of my hand that
immediately restored him to himself, "for I know you will not tell me.
But what I do hope to know is the name of the man who entered that same
house at just ten minutes after nine. He was one of the funeral guests,
and he arrived in a carriage that was immediately preceded by a coach
from which four persons alighted, two ladies and two gentlemen."
"I do not know the gentleman, ma'am," was the detective's half-surprised
and half-amused retort. "I did not keep track of every guest that
attended the funeral."
"Then you didn't do your work as well as I did mine," was my rather dry
reply. "For I noted every one who went in; and that gentleman, whoever
he was, was more like the person I have been trying to identify than any
one I have seen enter there during my four midnight vigils."
Mr. Gryce smiled, uttered a short "_Indeed!_" and looked more than ever
like a sphinx. I began quietly to hate him, under my calm exterior.
"Was Howard at his wife's funeral?" I asked.
"He was, ma'am."
"And did he come in a carriage?"
"He did, ma'am."
"Alone?"
"He thought he was alone; yes, ma'am."
"Then may it not have been he?"
"I can't say, ma'am."
Mr. Gryce was so obviously out of his element under this
cross-examination that I could not suppress a smile even while I
experienced a very lively indignation at his reticence. He may have seen
me smile and he may not, for his eyes, as I have intimated, were always
busy with some object entirely removed from the person he addressed; but
at all events he rose, leaving me no alternative but to do the same.
"And so you didn't recognize the gentleman I brought to the neighboring
house just before twelve o'clock," he quietly remarked, with a calm
ignoring of my last question which was a trifle exasperating.
"No."
"Then, ma'am," he declared, with a quick change of manner, meant, I
should judge, to put me in my proper place, "I do not think we can
depend upon the accuracy of your memory;" and he made a motion as if to
leave.
As I did not know whether his apparent disappointment was real or not, I
let him move to the door without a reply. But once there I stopped him.
"Mr. Gryce," said I, "I don't know what you think about this matter, nor
whether you even wish my opinion upon it. But I am going to express it,
for all that. _I_ do not believe that Howard killed his wife with a
hat-pin."
"No?" retorted the old gentleman, peering into his hat, with an ironical
smile which that inoffensive article of attire had certainly not
merited. "And why, Miss Butterworth, why? You must have substantial
reasons for any opinion you would form."
"I have an intuition," I responded, "backed by certain reasons. The
intuition won't impress you very deeply, but the reasons may not be
without some weight, and I am going to confide them to you."
"Do," he entreated in a jocose manner which struck me as inappropriate,
but which I was willing to overlook on account of his age and very
fatherly manner.
"Well, then," said I, "this is one. If the crime was a premeditated one,
if he hated his wife and felt it for his interest to have her out of the
way, a man of Mr. Van Burnam's good sense would have chosen any other
spot than his father's house to kill her in, knowing that her identity
could not be hidden if once she was associated with the Van Burnam name.
If, on the contrary, he took her there in good faith, and her death was
the unexpected result of a quarrel between them, then the means employed
would have been simpler. An angry man does not stop to perform a
delicate surgical operation when moved to the point of murder, but uses
his hands or his fists, just as Mr. Van Burnam himself suggested."
"Humph!" grunted the detective, staring very hard indeed into his hat.
"You must not think me this young man's friend," I went on, with a well
meant desire to impress him with the impartiality of my attitude. "I
never have spoken to him nor he to me, but I am the friend of justice,
and I must declare that there was a note of surprise in the emotion he
showed at sight of his wife's hat, that was far too natural to be
assumed."
The detective failed to be impressed. I might have expected this,
knowing his sex and the reliance such a man is apt to place upon his own
powers.
"Acting, ma'am, acting!" was his laconic comment. "A very uncommon
character, that of Mr. Howard Van Burnam. I do not think you do it full
justice."
"Perhaps not, but see that you don't slight mine. I do not expect you to
heed these suggestions any more than you did those I offered you in
connection with Mrs. Boppert, the scrub-woman; but my conscience is
eased by my communication, and that is much to a solitary woman like
myself who is obliged to spend many a long hour alone with no other
companion."
"Something has been accomplished, then, by this delay," he observed.
Then, as if ashamed of this momentary display of irritation, he added in
the genial tones more natural to him: "I don't blame you for your good
opinion of this interesting, but by no means reliable, young man, Miss
Butterworth. A woman's kind heart stands in the way of her proper
judgment of criminals."
"You will not find its instincts fail even if you do its judgment."
His bow was as full of politeness as it was lacking in conviction.
"I hope you won't let your instincts lead you into any unnecessary
detective work," he quietly suggested.
"That I cannot promise. If you arrest Howard Van Burnam for murder, I
may be tempted to meddle with matters which don't concern me."
An amused smile broke through his simulated seriousness.
"Pray accept my congratulations, then, in advance, ma'am. My health has
been such that I have long anticipated giving up my profession; but if I
am to have such assistants as you in my work, I shall be inclined to
remain in it some time longer."
"When a man as busy as you stops to indulge in sarcasm, he is in more or
less good spirits. Such a condition, I am told, only prevails with
detectives when they have come to a positive conclusion concerning the
case they are engaged upon."
"I see you already understand the members of your future profession."
"As much as is necessary at this juncture," I retorted. Then seeing him
about to repeat his bow, I added sharply: "You need not trouble yourself
to show me too much politeness. If I meddle in this matter at all it
will not be as your coadjutor, but as your rival."
"My rival?"
"Yes, your rival; and rivals are never good friends until one of them is
hopelessly defeated."
"Miss Butterworth, I see myself already at your feet."
And with this sally and a short chuckle which did more than anything he
had said towards settling me in my half-formed determination to do as I
had threatened, he opened the door and quietly disappeared.
XVIII.
THE LITTLE PINCUSHION.
The verdict rendered by the Coroner's jury showed it to be a more
discriminating set of men than I had calculated upon. It was murder
inflicted by a hand unknown.
I was so gratified by this that I left the court-room in quite an
agitated frame of mind, so agitated, indeed, that I walked through one
door instead of another, and thus came unexpectedly upon a group formed
almost exclusively of the Van Burnam family.
Starting back, for I dislike anything that looks like intrusion,
especially when no great end is to be gained by it, I was about to
retrace my steps when I felt two soft arms about my neck.
"Oh, Miss Butterworth, isn't it a mercy that this dreadful thing is
over! I don't know when I have ever felt anything so keenly."
It was Isabella Van Burnam.
Startled, for the embraces bestowed on me are few, I gave a subdued sort
of grunt, which nevertheless did not displease this young lady, for her
arms tightened, and she murmured in my ear: "You dear old soul! I like
you _so_ much."
"We are going to be very good neighbors," cooed a still sweeter voice in
my other ear. "Papa says we must call on you soon." And Caroline's
demure face looked around into mine in a manner some would have thought
exceedingly bewitching.
"Thank you, pretty poppets!" I returned, freeing myself as speedily as
possible from embraces the sincerity of which I felt open to question.
"My house is always open to you." And with little ceremony, I walked
steadily out and betook myself to the carriage awaiting me.
I looked upon this display of feeling as the mere gush of two
over-excited young women, and was therefore somewhat astonished when I
was interrupted in my afternoon nap by an announcement that the two
Misses Van Burnam awaited me in the parlor.
Going down, I saw them standing there hand in hand and both as white as
a sheet.
"O Miss Butterworth!" they cried, springing towards me, "Howard has been
arrested, and we have no one to say a word of comfort to us."
"Arrested!" I repeated, greatly surprised, for I had not expected it to
happen so soon, if it happened at all.
"Yes, and father is just about prostrated. Franklin, too, but he keeps
up, while father has shut himself into his room and won't see anybody,
not even us. O, I don't know how we are to bear it! Such a disgrace, and
such a wicked, wicked shame! For Howard never had anything to do with
his wife's death, had he, Miss Butterworth?"
"No," I returned, taking my ground at once, and vigorously, for I really
believed what I said. "He is innocent of her death, and I would like the
chance of proving it."
They evidently had not expected such an unqualified assertion from me,
for they almost smothered me with kisses, and called me _their only
friend_! and indeed showed so much real feeling this time that I neither
pushed them away nor tried to withdraw myself from their embraces.
When their emotions were a little exhausted I led them to a sofa and sat
down before them. They were motherless girls, and my heart, if hard, is
not made of adamant or entirely unsusceptible to the calls of pity and
friendship.
"Girls," said I, "if you will be calm, I should like to ask you a few
questions."
"Ask us anything," returned Isabella; "nobody has more right to our
confidence than you."
This was another of their exaggerated expressions, but I was so anxious
to hear what they had to tell, I let it pass. So instead of rebuking
them, I asked where their brother had been arrested, and found it had
been at his rooms and in presence of themselves and Franklin. So I
inquired further and learned that, so far as they knew, nothing had been
discovered beyond what had come out at the inquest except that Howard's
trunks had been found packed, as if he had been making preparations for
a journey when interrupted by the dreadful event which had put him into
the hands of the police. As there was a certain significance in this,
the girls seemed almost as much impressed by it as I was, but we did not
discuss it long, for I suddenly changed my manner, and taking them both
by the hand, asked if they could keep a secret.
"Secret?" they gasped.
"Yes, a secret. You are not the girls I should confide in ordinarily;
but this trouble has sobered you."
"O, we can do anything," began Isabella; and "Only try us," murmured
Caroline.
But knowing the volubility of the one and the weakness of the other, I
shook my head at their promises, and merely tried to impress them with
the fact that their brother's safety depended upon their discretion. At
which they looked very determined for poppets, and squeezed my hands so
tightly that I wished I had left off some of my rings before engaging in
this interview.
When they were quiet again and ready to listen I told them my plans.
They were surprised, of course, and wondered how I could do anything
towards finding out the real murderer of their sister-in-law; but seeing
how resolved I looked, changed their tone and avowed with much feeling
their perfect confidence in me and in the success of anything I might
undertake.