Chapter XXIV: A Confession 326 (3)

“I don’t know!” he exclaimed, covering his white face with his hands, as if to shut out the awful memory. “Do you suppose I noticed such details?” he cried, looking up again. “I picked up the dagger, scarce knowing that I did it! It was almost an unconscious act. I was stunned, dazed, at what I saw before me, and I know nothing of the dagger or its blood-stains!”

Truly, the man was almost frenzied, and out of consideration for his perturbed state, the coroner asked him no more questions just then.

“It seems to me,” observed Rob Fessenden, “that the nature or shape of the stains on the dagger handle might determine this point. If they appear to be finger-marks, the weapon must have been held by some other hand. If merely stains, as from the floor, they might be considered to strengthen Doctor Hill’s theory.”

The Venetian paper-cutter was produced and passed around.

None of the women would touch it or even look at it, except Kitty French. She examined it carefully, but had no opinion to offer, and Mr. Benson waited impatiently for her to finish her scrutiny. He had no wish to hear her remarks on the subject, for he deemed her a mere frivolous girl, who had no business to take any part in the serious inquiry. All were requested not to touch the weapon, which was passed round on a brass tray taken from the library table.

Schuyler Carleton covered his eyes, and refused to glance at it.

Tom Willard and Robert Fessenden looked at it at the same time, holding the tray between them.

“I make out no finger-prints,” said Tom, at last. “Do you?”

“No,” said Fessenden; “that is, not surely. These _may_ be marks of fingers, but they are far too indistinct to say so positively. What do you think, Doctor Leonard?”

The gruesome property was passed on to the two doctors, who examined it with the greatest care. Going to the window, they looked at it with magnifying glasses, and finally reported that the slight marks might be finger-marks, or might be the abrasion of the nap of the rug on which the dagger had fallen.

“Then,” said Coroner Benson, “we have, so far, no evidence which refutes the theory that Miss Van Norman’s written message was the expression of her deliberate intent, and that that intention was fulfilled by her.”

Once more Mr. Benson scanned intently the faces of his audience.

“Can no one, then,” he said again, “assert or suggest anything that may have any bearing on this written message?”

“I can,” said Robert Fessenden.

VIII

A SOFT LEAD PENCIL

Coroner Benson looked at the young man curiously. Knowing him to be a stranger in the household, he had not expected information from him.

“Your name?” he said quietly.

“I am Robert Fessenden, of New York City. I am a lawyer by profession, and I came to Mapleton yesterday for the purpose of acting as best man at Mr. Carleton’s wedding. I came here this morning, not knowing of what had occurred in the night, and after conversation with some members of the household I felt impelled to investigate some points which seemed to me mysterious. I trust I have shown no intrusive curiosity, but I confess to a natural detective instinct, and I noticed some peculiarities about that paper you hold in your hand to which I should like to call your attention.”

Fessenden’s words caused a decided stir among his hearers, including the coroner and the two doctors.

Mr. Benson was truly anxious to learn what the young man had to say, but at the same time his professional jealousy was aroused by the implication that there was anything to be learned from the paper itself, outside of his own information concerning it.

“I was told,” he said quickly, “that this paper is positively written in Miss Van Norman’s own hand.”

Robert Fessenden, while not exactly a handsome man, was of a type that impressed every one pleasantly. He was large and blond, and had an air that was unmistakably cultured and exceedingly well-bred. Conventionality sat well upon him, and his courteous self-assurance had in it no trace of egotism or self-importance. In a word, he was what the plain-spoken people of Mapleton called citified, and though they sometimes resented this combination of personal traits, in their hearts they admired and envied it.

This was why Coroner Benson felt a slight irritation at the young man’s _savoir faire_, and at the same time a sense of satisfaction that there was promise of some worth-while help.

“I was told so, too,” said Fessenden, in response to the coroner’s remark, “and as I have never seen any of Miss Van Norman’s writing, I have, of course, no reason to doubt this. But this is the point I want to inquire about: is it assumed that Miss Van Norman wrote the words on this paper while sitting here at the table last evening, immediately or shortly before her death?”

Mr. Benson thought a moment, then he said: “Without any evidence to the contrary, and indeed without having given this question any previous thought, I think I may say that it has been tacitly assumed that this is a dying confession of Miss Van Norman’s.”

He looked inquiringly at his audience, and Doctor Hills responded.

“Yes,” he said; “we have taken for granted that Miss Van Norman wrote the message while sitting here last evening, after the rest of the household had retired. This we infer from the fact of Mr. Carleton’s finding the paper on the table when he discovered the tragedy.”

“You thought the same, Mr. Carleton?”

“Of course; I could not do otherwise than to believe Miss Van Norman had written the message and had then carried out her resolve.”

“I think, Mr. Fessenden,” resumed the coroner, “we may assume this to be the case.”

“Then,” said Fessenden, “I will undertake to show that it is improbable that this paper was written as has been supposed. The message is, as you see, written in pencil. The pencil here on the table, and which is part of a set of desk-fittings, is a very hard pencil, labeled H. A few marks made by it upon a bit of paper will convince you at once that it is not the pencil which was used to write that message. The letters, as you see, are formed of heavy black marks which were made with a very soft pencil, such as is designated by 2 B or BB. If you please, I will pause for a moment while you satisfy yourself upon this point.”

Greatly interested, Mr. Benson took the pencil from the pen-rack and wrote some words upon a pad of paper. Doctor Leonard and Doctor Hills leaned over the table to note results, but no one else stirred.

“You are quite right,” said Mr. Benson; “this message was not written with this pencil. But what does that prove?”

“It proves nothing,” said Fessenden calmly, “but it is pretty strong evidence that the message was not written at this table last night. For had there been any other pencil on the table, it would doubtless have remained. Assuming, then that Miss Van Norman wrote this message elsewhere, and with another pencil, it loses the special importance commonly attributed to the words of one about to die.”

“It does,” said Mr. Benson, impressed by the fact, but at a loss to know whither the argument was leading.

“Believing, then,” went on the lawyer, “that this paper had not been written in this room last evening, I began to conjecture where it had been written. For one would scarcely expect a message of that nature to be written in one place and carried to another. I was so firmly convinced that something could be learned on this point, that just before we were summoned to this room, I asked permission of Mrs. Markham to examine the appointments of Miss Van Norman’s writing-desk in her own room, and I found in her desk no soft pencils whatever. There were several pencils, of gold and of silver and of ordinary wood, but the lead in each was as hard as this one on the library table. Urged on by what seemed to me important developments, I persuaded Mrs. Markham to let me examine all of the writing-desks in the house. I found but one soft pencil, and that was in the desk of Miss Dupuy, Miss Van Norman’s secretary. It is quite conceivable that Miss Van Norman should write at her secretary’s desk, but I found myself suddenly confronted by another disclosure. And that is that the handwritings of Miss Van Norman and Miss Dupuy are so similar as to be almost identical. In view of the importance of this written message, should it not be more carefully proved that this writing is really Miss Van Norman’s own?”

“It should, indeed,” declared Coroner Benson, who was by this time quite ready to agree to any suggestion Mr. Fessenden might make. “Will somebody please ask Miss Dupuy to come here?”

“I will,” said Miss Morton, and, rising, she quickly rustled from the room.

Of course, every one present immediately remembered that Miss Dupuy had left the room in a fit of hysterical emotion, and wondered in what frame of mind she would return.

Nearly every one, too, resented Miss Morton’s officiousness. Whatever errand was to be done, she volunteered to do it, quite as if she were a prominent member of the household, instead of a lately arrived guest.

“This similarity of penmanship is a very important point,” observed Mr. Benson, “a very important point indeed. I am surprised that it has not been remarked sooner.”

“I’ve often noticed that they wrote alike,” said Kitty French impulsively, “but I never thought about it before in this matter. You see”—she involuntarily addressed herself to the coroner, who listened with interest—“you see, Madeleine instructed Cicely to write as nearly as possible like she did, because Cicely was her social secretary and answered all her notes, and wrote letters for her, and sometimes Cicely signed Madeleine’s name to the notes, and the people who received them thought Maddy wrote them herself. She didn’t mean to deceive, only sometimes people don’t like to have their notes answered by a secretary, and so it saved a lot of trouble. I confess,” Kitty concluded, “that I can’t always tell the difference in their writing myself, though I usually can.”

Miss Morton returned, bringing Cicely with her. Still officious of manner, Miss Morton rearranged some chairs, and then seated herself in the front row with Cicely beside her. She showed what seemed almost an air of proprietorship in the girl, patting her shoulder, and whispering to her, as if by way of encouragement.

But Miss Dupuy’s demeanor had greatly changed. No longer weeping, she had assumed an almost defiant attitude, and her thin lips were tightly closed in a way that did not look promising to those who desired information.

With a conspicuous absence of tact or diplomacy, Mr. Benson asked her abruptly, “Did you write this paper?”

“I did,” said Cicely, and as soon as the words were uttered her lips closed again with a snap.

Her reply fell like a bombshell upon the breathless group of listeners. Tom Willard was the first to speak.

“What!” he exclaimed. “Maddy didn’t write that? You wrote it?”

“Yes,” asserted Cicely, looking Tom squarely in the eyes.

“When did you write it?” asked the coroner.

“A week or more ago.”

“Why did you write it?”

“I refuse to tell.”

“Who is the S. mentioned on this paper?”

“I refuse to tell.”

“You needn’t tell. That is outside the case. It is sufficient for us to know that Miss Van Norman did not write this paper. If you wrote it, it has no bearing on the case. Your penmanship is very like hers.”

“I practised to make it so,” said Cicely. “Miss Van Norman desired me to do so, that I might answer unimportant notes and sign her name to them. They were in no sense forgeries. Ladies frequently have their own names signed by their secretaries. Miss Van Norman often received notes like that.”

“Why did you not tell before that you wrote this paper supposed to have been written by Miss Van Norman?”

“Nobody asked me.” Miss Dupuy’s tone was defiant and even pert. Robert Fessenden began to look at the girl with increasing interest. He felt quite sure that she knew more about the tragedy than he had suspected. His detective instinct became immediately alert, and he glanced significantly at Kitty French.

She was breathlessly watching Cicely, but nothing could be learned from the girl’s inscrutable face, and to an attentive listener her very voice did not ring true.

Doctor Leonard and Doctor Hills looked at each other. Both remembered that the night before, Cicely had stealthily opened the door of the library and put her head in, but seeing them, had quickly gone back again.

This information might or might not be of importance, but after a brief whispered conference, the two men concluded that it was not the time then to refer to it.

Mr. Carleton, though still pale and haggard of face, seemed to have taken on new interest, and listened attentively to the conversation, while big, good-natured Tom Willard leaned forward and took the paper, and then sat studying it, with a perplexed expression.

“But why did you not volunteer the information? You must have known it was of great importance.” The coroner spoke almost petulantly, and indeed Miss Dupuy had suppressed important information.

At his question she became greatly embarrassed. She blushed and looked down, and then, with an effort resuming her air of defiance, she snapped out her answer: “I was afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“Afraid that they would think somebody killed Miss Van Norman, instead of that she killed herself, as she did.”

“How do you know she did?”

“I don’t know it, except that I left her here alone when I went to my room, and the house was all locked up, and soon after that she was found dead. So she must have killed herself.”

“Those conclusions,” said the coroner pompously, “are for us to arrive at, not for you to declare. The case,” he then said, turning toward the doctors and the young detective, “is entirely changed by the hearing of Miss Dupuy’s testimony. The fact that the note was not written by Miss Van Norman, will, I’m sure, remove from the minds of the doctors the possibility of suicide.”

“It certainly will,” said Doctor Leonard. “I quite agree with Doctor Hills that except for the note all evidence is against the theory of suicide.”

“Then,” went on Mr. Benson, “if it is not a suicide, Miss Van Norman must have been the victim of foul play, and it is our duty to investigate the matter, and attempt to discover whose hand it was that wielded the fatal dagger.”

Mr. Benson was fond of high-sounding words and phrases, and, finding himself in charge of what promised to be a mysterious, if not a celebrated, case, he made the most of his authoritative position.

Robert Fessenden paid little attention to the coroner’s speech. His brain was working rapidly, and he was trying to piece together such data as he had already accumulated in the way of evidence. It was but little, to be sure, and in lieu of definite clues he allowed himself to speculate a little on the probabilities.

But he realized that he was in the presence of a mysterious murder case, and he was more than willing to do anything he could toward discovering the truth of the matter.

The known facts were so appalling, and any evidence of undiscovered facts was as yet so extremely slight, that Fessenden felt there was a great deal to be done.

He was trying to collect and systematize his own small fund of information when he realized that the audience was being dismissed.

Mr. Benson announced that he would convene a jury and hold an inquest that same afternoon, and then he would expect all those now present to return as witnesses.

Without waiting to learn what the others did, Fessenden turned to Kitty French, and asked her to go with him for a stroll.

“You need fresh air,” he said, as they stepped from the veranda; “but, also, I need you to talk to. I can formulate my ideas better if I express them aloud, and you are such a clear-headed and sympathetic listener that it helps a lot.”

Kitty smiled with pleasure at the compliment, then her pretty face became grave again as she remembered what must be the subject of their conversation.

“Before I talk to the lawyers or detectives who will doubtless soon infest the house, I want to straighten out my own ideas.”

“I don’t see how you can have any,” said Kitty; “I mean, of course, any definite ideas about who committed the murder.”

“I haven’t really definite ones, but I want you to help me get some.”

“Well,” said Kitty, looking provokingly lovely in her serious endeavor to be helpful, “let’s sit down here and talk it over.”

“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.

X

SOME TESTIMONY

“There is nothing to fear,” said Mr. Benson kindly. “Simply tell us what you heard while sitting there writing, that caused you to leave your room.”

Glancing around as if in search of some one, Cicely finally managed to make an audible reply. “I heard a loud cry,” she said, “that sounded as if somebody were frightened or in danger. I naturally ran out into the hall, and, looking over the baluster, I saw Mr. Carleton in the hall below. I felt sure then that it was he who had cried out, so I came downstairs.”

“At what time was this?”

“At half-past eleven exactly.”

“How do you know so accurately?”

“Because as I came downstairs the old clock on the middle landing chimed the half-hour. It has a deep soft note, and it struck just as I passed the clock, and it startled me a little, so of course I remember it perfectly.”

“And then?”

“And then”—Cicely again hesitated, but with a visible effort resumed her speech—“why, and then I came on down, and found Mr. Carleton nearly distracted. I could not guess what was the matter. He was turning on the lights and ringing the servants’ bells and acting like a man beside himself. Then in a moment Marie appeared, and gave one of her French shrieks that completely upset what little nerve I had left.”

“And what did you do next?”

“I—I went into the library.”

“Why?”

Cicely looked up suddenly, as if startled, but after only an instant’s hesitation replied:

“Because Mr. Carleton pointed toward the doorway, and Marie and I went in together.”

“You knew at once that Miss Van Norman was not alive?”

“I was not sure, but Marie went toward her, and then turned away with another of her horrid screams, and I felt that Miss Van Norman must be dead.”

“What did Mr. Carleton say?”

“He said nothing. He—he pointed to the written paper on the table.”

“Which you had written yourself?”

“Yes, but he didn’t know that.” Cicely spoke eagerly, as if saying something of importance. “He thought she wrote it.”

“Never mind that point for the moment. But I must now ask you to explain that written message which you have declared that you yourself wrote.”

At this Cicely’s manner changed. She became again the obstinate and defiant woman who had answered the coroner’s earlier questions.

“I refuse to explain it.”

“Consider a moment,” said Mr. Benson quietly. “Sooner or later—perhaps at a trial—you will be obliged to explain this matter. How much better, then, to confide in us now, and perhaps lead to an immediate solution of the mystery.”

Cicely pondered a moment, then she said, “I have nothing to conceal, I will tell you. I did write that paper, and it was the confession of my heart. I am very miserable, and when I wrote it I quite intended to take my own life. When I was called to go to Miss Van Norman in the library, I gathered up some notes and lists from my desk to take to her. In my haste I must have included that paper without knowing it, for when I reached my room I could not find it. And then—then when I saw it—there on the table—I——” Cicely had again grown nervous and excited. Her voice trembled, her eyes filled with tears, and, fearing a nervous collapse, Mr. Benson hurried on to other questions.

“Whom does that S. in your note stand for.”

“That I shall never tell.” The determination in her voice convinced him that it was useless to insist on that point, so the coroner went on.

“Perhaps we have no right to ask. Now you must tell me some other things, and, believe me, my questions are not prompted by curiosity, but are necessary to the discovery of the truth. Why did Mr. Carleton point to that paper?”

“He—he seemed so shocked and stunned that he was almost unable to speak. I suppose he thought that would explain why she had killed herself.”

“But she hadn’t killed herself.”

“But he thought she had, and he thought that paper proved it.”

“But why had he need to prove it, and to you?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know _what_ he thought! I don’t know what I thought myself after I reached the library door and looked in and saw that dreadful sight! Oh, I shall see it all my life!” At the memory Cicely broke down again and sank into her chair, shaking with convulsive sobs.

Mr. Benson did not disturb her further, but proceeded to question the others.

The account of Marie, the maid, merely served to corroborate what Cicely had said. Marie, too, had heard Carleton’s cry for help, and, throwing on a dressing-gown, had run down-stairs to Madeleine’s room. Not finding her mistress there, she had hurried down to the first floor, reaching the lower hall but a few minutes after Cicely did. She said also that it was just about half-past eleven by the clock in her own room when she heard Mr. Carleton’s cry.

“You knew who it was that had called out so loudly?” asked Mr. Benson.

“No, _m’sieu_; I heard only the shriek as of one in great disaster. I ran to Miss Van Norman’s room, as that was my first duty.”

“Were you not in attendance upon her?”

“No; she had sent me the message by Miss Dupuy, that I need not attend her when she retired.”

“Did this often occur?”

“Not often; but sometimes when Miss Van Norman sat up late, by herself, she would excuse me at an earlier hour. She was most kind and considerate of everybody.”

“Then when at last you saw Miss Van Norman in the library, what did you do?”

“_Mon Dieu!_ I shrieked! Why not? I was amazed, shocked, but, above all, desolated! It was a cruel scene. I knew not what to do, so, naturally, I shrieked.”

Marie’s French shrug almost convinced her hearers that truly that was the only thing to do on such an occasion.

“And now,” said Coroner Benson, “can you tell us of anything, any incident or any knowledge of your own, that will throw any light on this whole matter?”

Marie’s pretty face took on a strange expression. It was not fear or terror, but a sort of perplexity. She gave a furtive glance at Mr. Carleton and then at Miss Morton, and hesitated.

At last she spoke, slowly:

“If _monsieur_ could perhaps word his question a little differently—with more of a definiteness——”

“Very well; do you know anything of Miss Van Norman’s private affairs that would assist us in discovering who killed her.”

“No, _monsieur_,” said Marie promptly, and with a look of relief.

“Did Miss Van Norman ever, in the slightest way, express any intention or desire to end her life?”

“Never, _monsieur_.”

“Do you think she was glad and happy in the knowledge of her fast-approaching wedding-day?”

“I am sure of it;” and Marie’s tone was that of one who well knew whereof she spoke.

“That is all, then, for the present;” and Marie, with another sidelong, curious glance at Miss Morton, resumed her seat.

Kitty French and Molly Gardner were questioned, but they told nothing that would throw any light on the matter. They had heard the cry, and while hastily dressing had heard the general commotion in the house. They had thought it must be a fire, and not until they reached the library did they know what had really happened.

“And then,” said Kitty indignantly, in conclusion of her own recital, “we were not allowed to stay with the others, but were sent to our rooms. So how can we give any evidence?”

It was plain to be seen, Miss French felt herself defrauded of an opportunity that should have been hers, but Miss Gardner was of quite a different mind. She answered in whispered monosyllables the questions put by the coroner, and as she knew no more than Kitty of the whole matter, she was not questioned much.

Robert Fessenden smiled a little at the different attitudes of the two girls. He knew Kitty was eager to hear all the exciting details, while Molly shrank from the whole subject. However, as they were such minor witnesses, the coroner paid little serious attention to them or to their statements.

Miss Morton’s testimony came next. Fessenden regarded her with interest, as, composed and calm, she waited the coroner’s interrogations.

She was deliberate and careful in making her replies, and it seemed to the young detective as if she knew nothing whatever about the whole affair, but was trying to imply that she knew a great deal.

“You went to your room when the others did, at about ten o’clock?” asked Mr. Benson.

“Yes, but I did not retire at once.”

“Did you hear any sounds that caused you alarm?”

“No, not alarm. Curiosity, perhaps, but that is surely pardonable to a naturally timid woman in a strange house.”

“Then you did hear sounds. Can you describe them?”

“I do not think they were other than those made by the servants attending to their duties. But the putting on of coal or the fastening of windows are noticeable sounds when one is not accustomed to them.”

“You could discern, then, that it was the shovelling of coal or the fastening of windows that you heard?”

“No, I could not. My hearing is extremely acute, but as my room is on the third floor, all the sounds I heard were faint and muffled.”

“Did you hear Mr. Carleton’s cry for help?”

“I did, but at that distance it did not sound loud. However, I was sufficiently alarmed to open my door and step out into the hall. I had not taken off my evening gown, and, seeing bright lights downstairs, of course I immediately went down. The household was nearly all assembled when I reached the library. I saw at once what had happened, and I saw, too, that Mrs. Markham and the younger women were quite frantic with fright and excitement. I thought it my duty therefore to take up the reins of government, and I took the liberty of telephoning for the doctor. I think there is nothing more of importance that I can tell you.”

At this Fessenden barely repressed a smile, for he could not see that Miss Morton had told anything of importance at all.

“I would like,” said Mr. Benson, “for you to inform us as to your relations with the Van Norman household. Have you been long acquainted with Miss Van Norman?”

“About two years,” replied Miss Morton, with a snapping together of her teeth, which was one of her many peculiarities of manner.

“And how did the acquaintance come about?”

“Her uncle and I were friends many years ago,” said Miss Morton. “I knew Richard Van Norman before Madeleine was born. We quarrelled, and I never saw him again. After his death Madeleine wrote to me, and several letters passed between us. At her invitation I made a short visit here about a year ago. Again, at her invitation, I came here yesterday to be present at her wedding.”

Miss Morton’s manner, though quiet, betokened repressed excitement rather than suppressed emotion. In no way did her hard, bright eyes show grief or sorrow, but they flashed in a way that indicated high nervous pressure.

“Did you know that you were to inherit this house and a large sum of money at Miss Van Norman’s death?” The question was thrown at her so suddenly that Miss Morton almost gasped.

She hesitated for an appreciable instant, then with a sudden snap of her strong, angular jaw, she said, “No!”

“You had no intimation of it whatever?”

“No.” Again that excessive decision of manner, which to Fessenden’s mind, at least, stultified rather than corroborated the verity of her statement.

But Coroner Benson expressed no doubt of his witness, but merely said casually:

“Yet, on the occasion of the tragedy last night, you at once assumed the attitude of the head of the house. You gave orders to the servants, you took up the reins of management, and seemed to anticipate the fact that the house was eventually to be your own.”

Miss Morton looked aghast. If one chose to think so, she looked as if detected in a false statement. Glancing round the room, she saw the eyes of Kitty French and of Marie, the maid, intently fixed on her. This seemed to unnerve her, and in a broken, trembling voice, almost a whine, she said:

“If I did so, it was only with a helpful motive. Mrs. Markham was so collapsed with the shock she had just sustained, that she was really incapable of giving orders. If I did so, it was only from a desire to be of service.”

This seemed indeed plausible, and the most casual observer would know that Miss Morton’s “helpfulness” could only be accomplished in a peremptory and dictatorial manner.

“Will you tell us why Miss Van Norman chose to leave you so large a bequest, when she had known you so slightly?” asked Mr. Benson.

Fessenden thought Miss Morton would resent this question, but instead she answered, willingly enough:

“Because she knew that except for my unfortunate quarrel with Richard Van Norman, many years ago, the place would have been mine any way.”

“You mean you were to have married Mr. Van Norman.”

“I mean just that.”

Miss Morton looked a little defiant, but also an air of pride tinged her statement, and she seemed to be asserting her lifelong right to the property.

“Miss Van Norman, then, knew of your friendship with her uncle, and the reason of its cessation?”

“She learned of it about two years ago.”

“How?”

“By finding some letters of mine among Mr. Van Norman’s papers, shortly after his death.”

“And in consequence of that discovery she willed you this house at her death?”

“Yes; that is, I suppose she must have done so—as she did so will it.”

“But you did not know of it, and the reading of the will was to you a surprise?”

“Yes,” declared Miss Morton, and though the coroner then dismissed her without comment on her statements, there were several present who did not believe the lady spoke veraciously.

Tom Willard was called next, and Fessenden wondered what could be the testimony of a man who had not arrived on the scene until more than two hours after the deed was done.

And indeed there was little that Tom could say. Mr. Benson asked him to detail his own movements after he left the house the night before.

“There’s little to tell,” said Tom, “but I’ll try to be exact. I went away from this house about ten o’clock, taking with me a suit-case full of clothes. I went directly to the Mapleton Inn, and though I don’t know exactly, I should say I must have reached there in something less than ten minutes. Then I went to the office of the establishment, registered, and asked for a room. The proprietor gave me a good enough room, a bellboy picked up my bag, and I went to my room at once.”

“And remained there?”

“Yes; later I rang for some ice water, which the same boy brought to me. Directly after that I turned in. I slept soundly until awakened by a knocking at my door at about two o’clock in the morning.”

“The message from this house?”

“Yes. The landlord himself stood there when I opened the door, and told me I was wanted on the telephone. When I went to the telephone I heard Miss Morton’s voice, and she asked me to come over here. I came as quickly as possible, and——”

Tom’s voice broke at this point, and, feeling that his story was finished, Mr. Benson considerately asked him no further questions.

XI

“I DECLINE TO SAY”

Schuyler Carleton was questioned next When Mr. Benson asked him to tell his story, he hesitated and finally said that he would prefer to have the coroner ask direct questions, which he would answer.

“Did you go away from this house with the other guests at about ten o’clock last evening?”

“No, I was not here at dinner. I left at about half-past five in the afternoon.”

“Where did you go?”

“I went directly home and remained there until late in the evening.”

“Mr. Fessenden was with you?”

“He was with us at dinner. He is staying at my house, as he was invited to be best man at the wedding.”

Though this statement came calmly from Carleton’s lips, it was evident to all that he fully appreciated the tragic picture it suggested.

“He was with you through the evening?”

“Part of the time. He went early to his room, saying he had some business to attend to.”

“Why were you two not here to dinner with Miss Van Norman?”

Fessenden looked up, surprised at this question. Surely Mr. Benson had gathered odd bits of information since morning.

Schuyler Carleton looked stern.

“I did not come because I did not wish to. Mr. Fessenden remained with me, saying he did not care to attend the dinner unless I did.”

Carleton looked casually at Fessenden as he said this, and though there was no question in the glance, Rob nodded his head in corroboration of the witness.

“You spent the entire evening at home, then?”

“Yes, until a late hour.”

“And then?”

“I returned here between eleven and twelve o’clock.”

“To make a call?”

“No, I came upon an errand.”

“What was the errand?”

“As it has no bearing upon the case, I think it is my privilege to decline to answer.”

“You entered the house with a latch-key.”

“I did.”

“Is that latch-key your own property?”

“For the time, yes. Mrs. Markham gave it to me a few days ago, for my convenience, because I have occasion to come to the house so frequently.”

“Was it your intention when you went away in the afternoon to return later?”

“It was.”

“Upon this secret errand?”

“Yes.”

“Did you expect to see Miss Van Norman when you entered the house with the latch-key?”

“I did not.”

“And when you entered you discovered the tragedy in the library?”

Schuyler Carleton hesitated. His dry lips quivered and his whole frame shook with intense emotion. “Y-yes,” he stammered.

But the mere fact of that hesitation instantly kindled a spark of suspicion in the minds of some of his hearers. Until that moment Carleton’s excessive agitation had been attributed entirely to his grief at the awful fate which had come to his fiancée; but now, all at once, the man’s demeanor gave an impression of something else.

Could it be guilt?

Fessenden looked at his friend curiously. In his mind, however, no slightest suspicion was aroused, but he wondered what it was that Carleton was keeping back. Surely the man must know that to make any mystery about his call at the Van Norman mansion the night before, was to invite immediate and justifiable suspicion.

The court had instructed the district attorney to be present at the inquest, and though that unobtrusive gentleman had taken notes, and otherwise shown a quiet interest in the proceedings, he now awakened to a more alert manner, and leaned forward to get a better look at the white, set face of the witness.

Carleton looked like a marble image. His refined, patrician features seemed even handsomer for their haggard agony. Surely he was in no way responsible for the awful deed that had been done, and yet just as surely he was possessed of some awful secret fear which kept every nerve strained and tense.

Endeavoring not to exhibit the surprise and dismay which he felt, Coroner Benson continued his questions.

“And then, when you discovered Miss Van Norman, what did you do?”