The Anna Katharine Green Mystery Megapack

by Anna Katharine Green

  “Well,” I admitted, “it makes me feel like recalling that pish I uttered a few minutes ago. It would take a woman of uncommon characteristics to assist you in this matter.”

  “I am glad we have got that far,” said he.

  “A lady,” I went on.

  “Most assuredly a lady.”

  I paused. Sometimes discreet silence is more sarcastic than speech.

  “Well, what lady would lend herself to this scheme?” I demanded at last.

  The tap, tap of his fingers on the rim of his glasses was my only answer.

  “I do not know of any,” said I.

  His eyebrows rose perhaps a hair’s-breadth, but I noted the implied sarcasm, and for an instant forgot my dignity.

  “Now,” said I, “this will not do. You mean me, Amelia Butterworth; a woman who—but I do not think it is necessary to tell you either who or what I am. You have presumed, sir—Now do not put on that look of innocence, and above all do not attempt to deny what is so manifestly in your thoughts, for that would make me feel like showing you the door.”

  “Then,” he smiled, “I shall be sure to deny nothing. I am not anxious to leave—yet. Besides, whom could I mean but you? A lady visiting friends in this remote and beautiful region—what opportunities might she not have to probe this important mystery if, like yourself, she had tact, discretion, excellent understanding, and an experience which if not broad or deep is certainly such as to give her a certain confidence in herself, and an undoubted influence with the man fortunate enough to receive her advice.”

  “Bah!” I exclaimed. It was one of his favorite expressions. That was perhaps why I used it. “One would think I was a member of your police.”

  “You flatter us too deeply,” was his deferential answer. “Such an honor as that would be beyond our deserts.”

  To this I gave but the faintest sniff. That he should think that I, Amelia Butterworth, could be amenable to such barefaced flattery! Then I faced him with some asperity, and said bluntly: “You waste your time. I have no more intention of meddling in another affair than—”

  “You had in meddling in the first,” he politely, too politely, interpolated. “I understand, madam.”

  I was angry, but made no show of being so. I was not willing he should see that I could be affected by anything he could say.

  “The Van Burnams are my next-door neighbors,” I remarked sweetly. “I had the best of excuses for the interest I took in their affairs.”

  “So you had,” he acquiesced. “I am glad to be reminded of the fact. I wonder I was able to forget it.”

  Angry now to the point of not being able to hide it, I turned upon him with firm determination.

  “Let us talk of something else,” I said.

  But he was equal to the occasion. Drawing a folded paper from his pocket, he opened it out before my eyes, observing quite naturally: “That is a happy thought. Let us look over this sketch you were sharp enough to ask for a few moments ago. It shows the streets of the village and the places where each of the persons I have mentioned was last seen. Is not that what you wanted?”

  I know that I should have drawn back with a frown, that I never should have allowed myself the satisfaction of casting so much as a glance toward the paper, but the human nature which links me to my kind was too much for me, and with an involuntary “Exactly!” I leaned over it with an eagerness I strove hard, even at that exciting moment, to keep within the bounds I thought proper to my position as a non-professional, interested in the matter from curiosity alone.

  This is what I saw:

  “Mr. Gryce,” said I, after a few minutes’ close contemplation of this diagram, “I do not suppose you want any opinion from me.”

  “Madam,” he retorted, “it is all you have left me free to ask for.”

  Receiving this as a permission to speak, I put my finger on the road marked with a cross.

  “Then,” said I, “so far as I can gather from this drawing, all the disappearances seem to have taken place in or about this especial road.”

  “You are as correct as usual,” he returned. “What you have said is so true, that the people of the vicinity have already given to this winding way a special cognomen of its own. For two years now it has been called Lost Man’s Lane.”

  “Indeed!” I cried. “They have got the matter down as close as that, and yet have not solved its mystery? How long is this road?”

  “A half mile or so.”

  I must have looked my disgust, for his hands opened deprecatingly.

  “The ground has undergone a thorough search,” said he. “Not a square foot in those woods you see on either side of the road, but has been carefully examined.”

  “And the houses? I see there are three houses on this road.”

  “Oh, they are owned by most respectable people—most respectable people,” he repeated, with a lingering emphasis that gave me an inward shudder. “I think I had the honor of intimating as much to you a few minutes ago.”

  I looked at him earnestly, and irresistibly drew a little nearer to him over the diagram.

  “Have none of these houses been visited by you?” I asked. “Do you mean to say you have not seen the inside of them all?”

  “Oh,” he replied, “I have been in them all, of course; but a mystery such as we are investigating is not written upon the walls of parlors or halls.”

  “You freeze my blood,” was my uncharacteristic rejoinder. Somehow the sight of the homes indicated on this diagram seemed to bring me into more intimate sympathy with the affair.

  His shrug was significant.

  “I told you that this was no vulgar mystery,” he declared; “or why should I be considering it with you? It is quite worthy of your interest. Do you see that house marked A?”

  “I do,” I nodded.

  “Well, that is a decayed mansion of imposing proportions, set in a forest of overgrown shrubbery. The ladies who inhabit it—”

  “Ladies!” I put in, with a small shock of horror.

  “Young ladies,” he explained, “of a refined if not over-prosperous appearance. They are the interesting residue of a family of some repute. Their father was a judge, I believe.”

  “And do they live there alone,” I asked—”two young ladies in a house so large and in a neighborhood so full of mystery?”

  “Oh, they have a brother with them, a lout of no great attractions,” he responded carelessly—too carelessly, I thought.

  I made a note of the house A in my mind.

  “And who lives in the house marked B?” I now queried.

  “A Mr. Trohm. You will remember that it was through his exertions the services of the New York police were secured. His place there is one of the most interesting in town, and he does not wish to be forced to leave it, but he will be obliged to do so if the road is not soon relieved of its bad name; and so will Deacon Spear. The very children shun the road now. I do not know of a lonelier place.”

  “I see a little mark made here on the verge of the woods. What does that mean?”

  “That stands for a hut—it can hardly be called a cottage—where a poor old woman lives called Mother Jane. She is a harmless imbecile, against whom no one has ever directed a suspicion. You may take your finger off that mark, Miss Butterworth.”

  I did so, but I did not forget that it stood very near the footpath branching off to the station.

  “You entered this hut as well as the big houses?” I intimated.

  “And found,” was his answer, “four walls; nothing more.”

  I let my finger travel along the footpath I have just mentioned.

  “Steep,” was his comment. “Up, up, all the way, but no precipices. Nothing but pine woods on either side, thickly carpeted with needles.”

  My finger came back and stopped at the house marked M.

  “Why is a letter affixed to this spot?” I asked.

  “Because it stands at the head of the lane. Any one sitting at the window L can see whoever e
nters or leaves the lane at this end. And someone is always sitting there. The house contains two crippled children, a boy and a girl. One of them is always in that window.”

  “I see,” said I. Then abruptly: “What do you think of Deacon Spear?”

  “Oh, he’s a well-meaning man, none too fine in his feelings. He does not mind the neighborhood; likes quiet, he says. I hope you will know him for yourself some day,” the detective slyly added.

  At this return to the forbidden subject, I held myself very much aloof.

  “Your diagram is interesting,” I remarked, “but it has not in the least changed my determination. It is you who will return to X., and that, very soon.”

  “Very soon?” he repeated. “Whoever goes there on this errand must go at once; tonight, if possible; if not, tomorrow at the latest.”

  “To-night! tomorrow!” I expostulated. “And you thought—”

  “No matter what I thought,” he sighed. “It seems I had no reason for my hopes.” And folding up the map, he slowly rose. “The young man we have left there is doing more harm than good. That is why I say that someone of real ability must replace him immediately. The detective from New York must seem to have left the place.”

  I made him my most ladylike bow of dismissal.

  “I shall watch the papers,” I said. “I have no doubt that I shall soon be gratified by seeing in them some token of your success.”

  He cast a rueful look at his hands, took a painful step toward the door, and dolefully shook his head.

  I kept my silence undisturbed.

  He took another painful step, then turned.

  “By the way,” he remarked, as I stood watching him with an uncompromising air, “I have forgotten to mention the name of the town in which these disappearances have occurred. It is called X., and it is to be found on one of the spurs of the Berkshire Hills.” And, being by this time at the door, he bowed himself out with all the insinuating suavity which distinguishes him at certain critical moments. The old fox was so sure of his triumph that he did not wait to witness it. He knew—how, it is easy enough for me to understand now—that X. was a place I had often threatened to visit. The family of one of my dearest friends lived there, the children of Althea Knollys. She had been my chum at school, and when she died I had promised myself not to let many months go by without making the acquaintance of her children. Alas! I had allowed years to elapse.

  CHAPTER III

  I SUCCUMB

  That night the tempter had his own way with me. Without much difficulty he persuaded me that my neglect of Althea Burroughs’ children was without any excuse; that what had been my duty toward them when I knew them to be left motherless and alone, had become an imperative demand upon me now that the town in which they lived had become overshadowed by a mystery which could not but affect the comfort and happiness of all its inhabitants. I could not wait a day. I recalled all that I had heard of poor Althea’s short and none too happy marriage, and immediately felt such a burning desire to see if her dainty but spirited beauty—how well I remembered it—had been repeated in her daughters, that I found myself packing my trunk before I knew it.

  I had not been from home for a long time—all the more reason why I should have a change now—and when I notified Mrs. Randolph and the servants of my intention of leaving on the early morning train, it created quite a sensation in the house.

  But I had the best of explanations to offer. I had been thinking of my dead friend, and my conscience would not let me neglect her dear and possibly unhappy progeny any longer. I had purposed many times to visit X., and now I was going to do it. When I come to a decision, it is usually suddenly, and I never rest after having once made up my mind.

  My sentiment went so far that I got down an old album and began hunting up the pictures I had brought away with me from boarding-school. Hers was among them, and I really did experience more or less compunction when I saw again the delicate yet daring features which had once had a very great influence over my mind. What a teasing sprite she was, yet what a will she had, and how strange it was that, having been so intimate as girls, we never knew anything of each other as women! Had it been her fault or mine? Was her marriage to blame for it or my spinsterhood? Difficult to tell then, impossible to tell now. I would not even think of it again, save as a warning. Nothing must stand between me and her children now that my attention has been called to them again.

  I did not mean to take them by surprise—that is, not entirely. The invitation which they had sent me years ago was still in force, making it simply necessary for me to telegraph them that I had decided to make them a visit, and that they might expect me by the noon train. If in times gone by they had been properly instructed by their mother in regard to the character of her old friend, this need not put them out. I am not a woman of unbounded expectations. I do not look for the comforts abroad I am accustomed to find at home, and if, as I have reason to believe, their means are not of the greatest, they would only provoke me by any show of effort to make me feel at home in the humble cottage suited to their fortunes.

  So the telegram was sent, and my preparations completed for an early departure.

  But, resolved as I was to make this visit, my determination came near receiving a check. Just as I was leaving the house—at the very moment, in fact, when the hackman was carrying out my trunk, I perceived a man approaching me with every evidence of haste. He had a letter in his hand, which he held out to me as soon as he came within reach.

  “For Miss Butterworth,” he announced. “Private and immediate.”

  “Ah,” thought I, “a communication from Mr. Gryce,” and hesitated for a moment whether to open it on the spot or to wait and read it at my leisure on the cars. The latter course promised me less inconvenience than the first, for my hands were cumbered with the various small articles I consider indispensable to the comfortable enjoyment of the shortest journey, and the glasses without which I cannot read a word, were in the very bottom of my pocket under many other equally necessary articles.

  But something in the man’s expectant look warned me that he would never leave me till I had read the note, so with a sigh I called Lena to my aid, and after several vain attempts to reach my glasses, succeeded at last in pulling them out, and by their help reading the following hurried lines:

  “Dear Madam:

  “I send you this by a swifter messenger than myself. Do not let anything that I may have said last night influence you to leave your comfortable home. The adventure offers too many dangers for a woman. Read the inclosed. G.”

  The inclosed was a telegram from X., sent during the night, and evidently just received at Headquarters. Its contents were certainly not reassuring:

  “Another person missing. Last seen in Lost Man’s Lane. A harmless lad known as Silly Rufus. What’s to be done? Wire orders. Trohm.”

  “Mr. Gryce bade me say that he would be up here some time before noon,” said the man, seeing me look with some blankness at these words.

  Nothing more was needed to restore my self-possession. Folding up the letter, I put it in my bag.

  “Say to Mr. Gryce from me that my intended visit cannot be postponed,” I replied. “I have telegraphed to my friends to expect me, and only a great emergency would lead me to disappoint them. I will be glad to receive Mr. Gryce on my return.” And without further parley, I took my bundles back from Lena, and proceeded at once to the carriage. Why should I show any failure of courage at an event that was but a repetition of the very ones which made my visit necessary? Was I a likely person to fall victim to a mystery to which my eyes had been opened? Had I not been sufficiently warned of the dangers of Lost Man’s Lane to keep myself at a respectable distance from the place of peril? I was going to visit the children of my once devoted friend. If there were perils of no ordinary nature to be encountered in so doing, was I not all the more called upon to lend them the support of my presence?

  Yes, Mr. Gryce, and nothing now should hold me back. I even fel
t an increased desire to reach the scene of these mysteries, and chafed some at the length of the journey, which was of a more tedious character than I expected. A poor beginning for events requiring patience as well as great moral courage; but I little knew what was before me, and only considered that every moment spent on this hot and dusty train kept me thus much longer from the embraces of Althea’s children.

  I recovered my equanimity, however, as we approached X. The scenery was really beautiful, and the consciousness that I should soon alight at the mountain station which had played a more or less serious part in Mr. Gryce’s narrative, awakened in me a pleasurable excitement which should have been a sufficient warning to me that the spirit of investigation which had led me so triumphantly through that affair next door had seized me again in a way that meant equal absorption if not equal success.

  The number of small packages I carried gave me enough to think of at the moment of alighting, but as soon as I was safely again on terra firma I threw a hasty glance around to see if any of Althea’s children were on hand to meet me.

  I felt that I ought to know them at first glance. Their mother had been so characteristically pretty, she could not have failed to transmit some of her most charming traits to her offspring. But while there were two or three country maidens to be seen standing in and around the little pavilion known here as the Mountain-station, I saw no one who by any stretch of imagination could be regarded as of Althea Burroughs’ blood or breeding.

  Somewhat disappointed, for I had expected different results from my telegram, I stepped up to the station-master, and asked him whether I would have any difficulty in procuring a carriage to take me to Miss Knollys’ house. He stared, it seemed to me, unnecessarily long, before replying.

  “Waal,” said he, “Simmons is usually here, but I don’t see him around today. Perhaps some of these farmer lads will drive you in.”

  But they all drew back with a scared look, and I was beginning to tuck up my skirts preparatory to walking, when a little old man of exceedingly meek appearance drove up in a very old-fashioned coach, and with a hesitating air, springing entirely from bashfulness, managed to ask if I was Miss Butterworth. I hastened to assure him that I was that lady, whereupon he stammered out some words about Miss Knollys, and how sorry she was that she could not come for me herself. Then he pointed to his coach, and made me understand that I was to step into it and go with him.