The Lady Sleuths MEGAPACK ™: 20 Modern and Classic Tales of Female Detectives

by Catherine Louisa Pirkis

  CHAPTER 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.”

&n
bsp; “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.

  CHAPTER 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.

  This was encouraging, and ignoring their momentary distrust, I proceeded to say:

  “But for me to be successful in this matter, no one must know my interest in it. You must pay me no visits, give me no confidences, nor, if you can help it, mention my name before any one, not even before your father and brother. So much for precautionary measures, my dears; and now for the active ones. I have no curiosity, as I think you must see, but I shall have to ask you a few questions which under other circumstances would savor more or less of impertinence. Had your sister-in-law any special admirers among the other sex?”

  “Oh,” protested Caroline, shrinking back, while Isabella’s eyes grew round as a frightened child’s. “None that we ever heard of. She wasn’t that kind of a woman, was she, Belle? It wasn’t for any such reason papa didn’t like her.”

  “No, no, that would have been too dreadful. It was her family we objected to, that’s all.”

  “Well, well,” I apologized, tapping their hands reassuringly, “I only asked—let me now say—from curiosity, though I have not a particle of that quality, I assure you.”

  “Did you think—did you have any idea—” faltered Caroline, “that—”

  “Never mind,” I interrupted. “You must let my words go in one ear and out of the other after you have answered them. I wish”—here I assumed a brisk air—“that I could go through your parlors again before every trace of the crime perpetrated there has been removed.”

  “Why, you can,” replied Isabella.

  “There is no one in them now,” added Caroline, “Franklin went out just before we left.”

  At which I blandly rose, and following their leadership, soon found myself once again in the Van Burnam mansion.

  My first glance upon re-entering the parlors was naturally directed towards the spot where the tragedy had taken place. The cabinet had been replaced and the shelves set back upon it; but the latter were empty, and neither on them nor on the adjacent mantel-piece did I see the clock. This set me thinking, and I made up my mind to have another look at that clock. By dint of judicious questions I found that it had been carried into the third room, where we soon found it
lying on a shelf of the same closet where the hat had been discovered by Mr. Gryce. Franklin had put it there, fearing that the sight of it might affect Howard, and from the fact that the hands stood as I had left them, I gathered that neither he nor any of the family had discovered that it was in running condition.

  Assured of this, I astonished them by requesting to have it taken down and set up on the table, which they had no sooner done than it started to tick just as it had done under my hand a few nights before.

  The girls, greatly startled, surveyed each other wonderingly.

  “Why, it’s going!” cried Caroline.

  “Who could have wound it!” marvelled Isabella.

  “Hark!” I cried. The clock had begun to strike.

  It gave forth five clear notes.

  “Well, it’s a mystery!” Isabella exclaimed. Then seeing no astonishment in my face, she added: “Did you know about this, Miss Butterworth?”

  “My dear girls,” I hastened to say, with all the impressiveness characteristic of me in my more serious moments. “I do not expect you to ask me for any information I do not volunteer. This is hard, I know; but some day I will be perfectly frank with you. Are you willing to accept my aid on these terms?”

  “O yes,” they gasped, but they looked not a little disappointed.

  “And now,” said I, “leave the clock where it is, and when your brother comes home, show it to him, and say that having the curiosity to examine it you were surprised to find it going, and that you had left it there for him to see. He will be surprised also, and as a consequence will question first you and then the police to find out who wound it. If they acknowledge having done it, you must notify me at once, for that’s what I want to know. Do you understand, Caroline? And, Isabella, do you feel that you can go through all this without dropping a word concerning me and my interest in this matter?”