The Clue (9 page)

“Here” was a sort of a rustic arbor, which was a delightful place for a tête-à-tête, but not at all conducive to deep thought or profound conversation.

“Go on,” said Kitty, pursing her red lips and puckering her white brow in her determination to supply the help that was required of her.

“But I can't go on, if you look like that! All logic and deduction fly out of my head, and I can think only of poetry and romance. And it won't do! At least, not now. Can't you try to give a more successful imitation of a coroner's jury?”

Kitty tried to look stupid and wise, both at once, and only succeeded in looking bewitching.

“It's no use,” said Fessenden; “I can't sit facing you, as I would the real thing in the way of juries. So I'll sit beside you, and look at the side of that distant barn, while we talk.”

So he turned partly round, and, fixing his gaze on the stolid red barn, said abruptly:

“Who wrote that paper?”

“I don't know,” said Kitty, feeling that she couldn't help much here.

“Somehow, I can't seem to believe that Dupuy girl wrote it. She sounded to me like a lady reciting a fabrication.”

“I thought that, too,” said Kitty. “I never liked Cicely, because I never trusted her. But Maddy was very fond of her, and she wouldn't have been, unless she had found Cicely trustworthy.”

“Come to luncheon, you two,” said Tom Willard, as he approached the arbor.

“Oh, Mr. Willard,” said Kitty, “who do
you
think wrote that paper?”

“Why, Miss Dupuy,” said Tom, in surprise. “She owned up to it.”

“Yes, I know; but I'm not sure she told the truth.”

“I don't know why she shouldn't,” said Tom, thoughtfully. And then he added gently, “And, after looking at it closely, I felt sure, myself, it wasn't Maddy's writing, after all.”

“Then it must be Cicely's,” said Kitty. “I admit I can't tell them apart.”

And then the three went back to the house.

IX

THE WILL

IMMEDIATELY AFTER LUNCHEON LAWYER Peabody came. This gentleman had had charge of the Van Norman legal matters for many years, and it was known by most of those present that he was bringing with him such wills or other documents as might have a bearing on the present crisis.

Mr. Peabody was an old man; moreover, he had for many years been intimately associated with the Van Norman household, and had been a close friend of both Richard Van Norman and Madeleine. Shattered and broken by the sad tragedy in the household, he could scarcely repress his emotion when he undertook to address the little audience.

But the main purport of his business there at that time was to announce the contents of the two wills in his possession.

The first one, the will of Richard Van Norman, was no surprise to any one present, except perhaps those few who did not live in Mapleton. One of these, Robert Fessenden, was extremely interested to learn that because of Madeleine's death before her marriage, and also before she was twenty-three years of age, the large fortune of Richard Van Norman, which would have been hers on her wedding day, passed at once and unrestrictedly to Tom Willard.

But also by the terms of Richard Van Norman's will the fine old mansion and grounds and a sum of money, modest in comparison with the whole fortune, but ample to maintain the estate, were Madeleine's own, and had been from the day of her uncle's death.

Possessed of this property, therefore, Madeleine had made a will which was dated a few months before her death, and which Mr. Peabody now read.

After appropriate and substantial bequests to several intimate friends, to her housekeeper and secretary, and to all the servants, Madeleine devised that her residuary fortune and the Van Norman house and grounds should become the property of Miss Elizabeth Morton.

This was a complete surprise to all, with the possible exception of Miss Morton herself. It was not easy to judge from her haughty and self-satisfied countenance whether she had known of this before or not.

Fessenden, who was watching her closely, was inclined to think she had known of it, and again his busy imagination ran riot. The first point, he thought to himself, in discovering a potential murderer, is to inquire who will be benefited by the victim's death. Apparently the only ones to profit by the passing of Madeleine Van Norman were Tom Willard and Miss Morton. But even the ingenious imagination of the young detective balked at the idea of connecting either of these two with the tragedy. He knew Willard had not been in the house at the time of the murder, and Miss Morton, as he had chanced to discover, had occupied a room on the third floor. Moreover, it was absurd on the face of things to fancy a well-bred, middle-aged lady stealing downstairs at dead of night to kill her charming young hostess!

It was with a sense of satisfaction therefore that Fessenden assured himself that he had formed no suspicions whatever, and could listen with a mind entirely unprejudiced to such evidence as the coroner's inquiry might bring forth.

He was even glad that he had not discussed the matter further with Kitty French. He still thought she had clear vision and good judgment, but he had begun to realize that in her presence his own clearness of vision was dazzled by her dancing eyes and a certain distracting charm which he had never before observed in any woman.

But he told himself somewhat sternly that feminine charm must not be allowed to interfere with the present business in hand, and he seated himself at a considerable distance from Kitty French, when it was time for the inquest.

A slight delay was occasioned by waiting for Coroner Benson's own stenographer, but when he arrived the inquiry was at once begun.

At the request of Miss Morton, or, it might rather be said, at her command, the whole assembly had moved to the drawing-room, it being a much larger and more airy apartment, and withal less haunted by the picture of the tragedy itself.

And yet to hold a coroner's inquiry in a room gay with wedding decorations was almost, if not quite, as ghastly.

But Coroner Benson paid no heed to emotional considerations and conducted himself with the same air of justice and legality as if he had been in a court-room or the town-hall.

As for the jury he had gathered, the half-dozen men, though filled with righteous indignation at the crime committed in their village, wasted no thought on the incongruity of their surroundings.

Coroner Benson put his first question to Mrs. Markham, as he considered her, in a way at least, the present head of the household. To be sure, the house now legally belonged to Miss Morton, and that lady was quickly assuming an added air of importance which was doubtless the result of her recent inheritance; but Mrs. Markham was still housekeeper, and by virtue of her long association with the place, Mr. Benson chose to treat her with exceeding courtesy and deference.

But Mrs. Markham, though now quite composed and willing to answer questions, could give no evidence of any importance. She testified that she had seen Madeleine last at about ten o'clock the night before. This was after the guests who had been at dinner had gone away, and the house guests had gone to their rooms. Miss Van Norman was alone in the library, and as Mrs. Markham left her she asked her to send Cicely Dupuy to the library. Mrs. Markham had then gone directly to her own room, which was on the second floor, above the drawing-room. It was at the front of the house, and the room behind it, also over the long drawing-room, was the one now devoted to the exhibition of Madeleine's wedding gifts. Mrs. Markham had retired almost immediately and had heard no unusual sounds. She explained, however, that she was somewhat deaf, and had there been any disturbance downstairs it was by no means probable that she would have heard it.

“What was the first intimation you had that anything had happened?” asked Mr. Benson.

“Kitty French came to my door and called to me. Her excited voice made me think something was wrong, and, dressing hastily, I came downstairs, to find many of the household already assembled.”

“And then you went into the library?”

“Yes; I had no idea Madeleine was dead. I thought she had fainted, and I went toward her at once.”

“Did you touch her?”

“Yes; and I saw at once she was not living, but Miss Morton said perhaps she might be, and then she telephoned for Doctor Hills.”

“Can you tell me if the house is carefully locked at night?”

“It is, I am sure; but it is not in my province to attend to it.”

“Whose duty is it?”

“That of Harris, the butler.”

“Will you please call Harris at once?” Mr. Benson's tone of finality seemed to dismiss Mrs. Markham as a witness, and she rang the bell for the butler.

Harris came in, a perfect specimen of that type of butler that is so similar to a certain type of bishop.

Aside from the gravity of the occasion, he seemed to show a separate gravity of position, of importance, and of all-embracing knowledge.

“Your name is Harris?” said Mr. Benson.

“Yes, sir; James Harris, sir.”

“You have been employed in this house for some years?”

“Seventeen years and more, sir.”

“Is it your duty to lock up the house at night?”

“It is, sir. Mr. Van Norman was most particular about it, sir, being as how the house is alone like in the grounds, and there being so much trees and shrubberies about.”

“There are strong bolts to doors and windows?”

“Most especial strong, sir. It was Mr. Van Norman's wish to make it impossible for burglars to get in.”

“And did he succeed in this?”

“He did, sir, for sure. There are patent locks on every door and window, more than one on most of them; and whenever Mr. Van Norman heard of a new kind of lock, he'd order it at once.”

“Is the house fitted with burglar alarms?”

“No, sir; Mr. Van Norman depended on his safety locks and strong bolts. He said he didn't want no alarm, because it was forever getting out o' kilter, and bolts were surer, after all.”

“And every night you make sure that these bolts and fastenings are all secured in place?”

“I do, sir, and I have done it for many years.”

“You looked after them last night, as usual?”

“Sure, sir; every one of them I attended to myself.”

“You can testify, then, that the house could not have been entered by a burglar last night?” asked Mr. Benson.

“Not by a burglar, nor by nobody else, sir, unless they broke down a door or cut out a pane of glass.”

“Yet Mr. Carleton came in.” Harris looked annoyed. “Of course, sir, anybody could come in the front door with a latch-key. I didn't mean that they couldn't. But all the other doors and windows were fastened all right, and I found them all right this morning.”

“You made a careful examination of them?”

“Yes, sir. Of course we was all up through the night, and as soon as I learned that Miss Madeleine was—was gone, sir, I felt I ought to look about a bit. And everything was as right as could be, sir. No burglar was into this house last night, sir.”

“How about the cellar?”

“We never bother much about the cellar, sir, as there's nothing down there to steal, unless they take the furnace or the gas-meter. But the door at the top of the cellar stairs, as opens into the hall, sir, is locked every night with a double lock and a bolt besides.”

“Then no burglar could come up through the cellar way?”

“That he couldn't, sir. Nor yet down through the skylight, for the skylight is bolted every night same as the windows.”

“And the windows on the second floor—are they fastened at night?”

“They are in the halls, sir. But of course in the bedrooms I don't know how they may be. That is, the occupied bedrooms. When the guest rooms are vacant I always fasten those windows.”

“Then you can testify, Harris, that there was no way for any one to enter this house last night except at the front door with a latch-key or through the window of some occupied bedroom?”

“I can swear to that, sir.”

“You are sure you've overlooked no way? No back window, or seldom-used door?”

Harris was a little hurt at this insistent questioning, but the coroner recognized that this was a most important bit of evidence, and so pressed his questions.

“I'm sure of it, sir. Mr. Van Norman taught me to be most thorough about this matter, and I've never done different since Miss Madeleine has been mistress here.”

“That is all, thank you, Harris. You may go.”

Harris went away, his honest countenance showing a look of relief that his ordeal was over, and yet betokening a perplexed anxiety also.

Cicely Dupuy was next called upon to give her evidence, or rather to continue the testimony which she had begun in the library. The girl had a pleasanter expression than she had shown at the previous questioning, but a red spot burned in either cheek, and she was clearly trying to be calm, though really under stress of a great excitement.

“You were with Miss Van Norman in the library last evening?” began Mr. Benson, speaking more gently than he had been doing, for he feared an emotional outburst might again render this witness unavailable.

“Yes,” said Miss Dupuy, in a low tone; “when Mrs. Markham came upstairs she stopped at my door and said Miss Van Norman wanted me, and I went down immediately.”

“You have been Miss Van Norman's secretary for some time?”

“For nearly five years.”

“What were your duties?”

“I attended to her social correspondence; helped her with her accounts, both household and personal; read to her, and often did errands and made calls for her.”

“She was kind to you?”

“She was more than kind. She treated me always as her social equal, and as her friend.”

Cicely's blue eyes filled with tears, and her voice quivered as she spoke this tribute to her employer.

Again Mr. Benson feared she would break down, and changed his course of questioning.

“At what time did you go to the library last evening?”

“It could not have been more than a few minutes past ten.”

“What did you do there?”

“Miss Van Norman dictated some lists of matters to be attended to, and she discussed with me a few final arrangements for her wedding.”

“Did she seem about as usual in her manner?”

“Yes,—except that she was very tired, and seemed a little preoccupied.”

“And then she dismissed you?”

“Yes. She told me to go to bed, and said that she should sit up for an hour or so, and would write some notes herself.”

“Apparently she did not do so, as no notes have been found in the library.”

“That must be so, sir.”

But as she said this, a change came over Miss Dupuy's face. She seemed to think that the absence of those notes was of startling importance, and though she tried not to show her agitation, it was clearly evident from the way she bit her lower lip, and clenched her fingers.

“At what time did Miss Van Norman dismiss you?” asked Mr. Benson, seeming to ignore her embarrassment.

“At half-past ten.”

“Did you retire at once?”

“No; I had some notes to write for Miss Van Norman, and also some of my own, and I sat at my desk for some time. I don't know just how long.”

“And then what happened?”

At this question Cicely Dupuy became more nervous and embarrassed than ever. She hesitated and then made two or three attempts to speak, each one of which resulted in no intelligible sound.