“Nonsense, man, I’m not your father confessor. If you’ve any facts, hand them over, but don’t feel that you must justify yourself to me.”
“But I do want to tell you this, for it will help you to understand my sensitiveness in the whole matter. As you know, Rob, I do love Dorothy Burt, and it is only since Madeleine’s death that I have allowed myself to realize how much I love her. I shall never ask her to marry me, for the stigma of this dreadful affair will always remain attached to my name, and suspicion would more than ever turn to me, if I showed my regard for Dorothy. As I told you, I never spoke a word of love to her while Madeleine was alive. But she knew,—she couldn’t help knowing. Brave little girl that she is, she never evinced that knowledge, and it was only when I surprised a sudden look in her eyes that I suspected she too cared for me. And yet, though we never admitted it to each other, Madeleine suspected the truth, and even taxed me with it. Of course I denied it; of course I vowed to Madeleine that she, and she only, was the woman I loved; because I thought it the right and honorable thing to do. If she hadn’t cared so much for me herself, I might have asked her to release me; but I never did, and never even thought of doing so—until—that last evening. Then—well, you know how she had favored Willard in preference to me in the afternoon, and, though I well knew it was only to tease me, yet it did tease me, and I came home really angry at her. It was an ill-advised occasion for her to favor her cousin.”
“I agree with you; but from the little I know of Miss Van Norman’s nature, I judge she was easily piqued and quick to retaliate.”
“Yes, she was; we were both too quick to take offense, but, of course, the real reason for that was the lack of true faith between us. Well, then I came home, angered, as I said, and Dorothy was so—so different from Madeleine, so altogether sweet and dear, so free from petty bickering or sarcasm, that for the first time I felt as if I ought not to marry the woman I did not love. I brooded over this thought all through the dinner hour and the early evening. Then you and mother left us, and I asked Dorothy to go for a little stroll in the garden. She refused at first—I think the child was a little fearful of what I might say—but I said nothing of the tumult in my heart. I realized, though, that she knew I loved her, and that—she cared for me. I had thought she did, but never before had I felt so sure of it,—and the knowledge completely unmanned me. I bade her good night abruptly, and rather coldly, and then I went into the library and fought it out with myself. And I concluded that my duty was to Madeleine. I confess to a frantic desire to go to her and ask her, even at that last minute, to free me from my troth, and then I thought what a scandal it would create, and I knew that even if Dorothy and I both suffered, it was Madeleine’s right to leave matters as they were. Having decided, I proceeded to carry out my earlier intention of going over to the Van Norman house with the reliquary. It was so late then that I had no thought of seeing Madeleine, but—and this, Rob, is my confession—on the way there, I still had a lingering thought that if I should see Madeleine I would tell her the truth, and leave it to her generosity to set me free. And it was this guilty knowledge—this shameful weakness on my part—that added to my dismay and horror at finding her—as she was, in the library. I read that awful paper,—I thought of course, then, she had taken her own life, and I feared it was because she knew of my falseness and treachery. This made me feel as if I were really her murderer, quite as much as if I had struck the actual blow.”
“Don’t take it like that, Schuyler; that’s morbid imagination. You acted loyally to Miss Van Norman to the last, and though the whole situation was most unfortunate, you were not really to blame. No man can rule his own heart, and, any way, it is not for me to comment on that side of the matter. But since you have spoken thus frankly of Miss Burt, I must ask you how, with your slight acquaintance, you are so sure she is worthy of your regard.”
“Our acquaintance isn’t so slight, Rob. She has been some time with mother,—more than six months,—and we have been good friends from the first. And I know her, perhaps by Love’s intuition,—but I know her very soul,—and she is the truest, sweetest nature God ever made.”
“But—forgive me—she has impressed me as being not quite so frank and ingenuous as she appears.”
“That’s only because you don’t know her, and you judge by your own uncertain and mistaken impressions.”
“But—when she gave her evidence at the inquest—she seemed to hesitate, and to waver as to what she should say. It did not have the ring of truth, though her manner was charming and even naive.”
“You misjudge her, Rob. I say this because I know it. And I can’t blame you, for, knowing of my engagement to Madeleine, you are quite right to disapprove of my interest in another woman.”
“It isn’t disapproval exactly.”
“Well, it isn’t suspicion, is it? You don’t think that Dorothy had any hand in the tragedy, do you?”
Carleton spoke savagely, with an abrupt change
from his former manner, and as he heard his friend’s words, Rob knew that he himself had no more suspicion of Dorthy Burt than he had of Carleton. She had testified in a constrained, uncertain manner, but that was not enough to rouse suspicion of her in any way.
“Of course not!” Fessenden declared heartily. “Don’t be absurd. But have I your permission to put a few questions to Miss Burt, not in your presence?”
“Of course you have. I trust you to be kind and gentle with her, for she is a sensitive little thing; but I know whatever you may say to her, or she to you, will only make you see more clearly what a dear girl she is.”
Fessenden was far from sure of this, but, having gained Carleton’s permission to interview Miss Burt, he said no more about her just then.
For a long time the two men discussed the situation. But the more they talked the less they seemed able to form any plausible theory of the crime. At last Fessenden said, “There is one thing certain: if we are to believe Harris’s statement about the locks and bolts, no one could have entered from the outside.”
“No,” said Carleton; “and so we’re forced to turn our attention to some one inside the house. But each one in turn seems so utterly impossible. We cannot even suggest Mrs. Markham or Miss Morton.”
“I don’t altogether like that Miss Morton. She acted queerly from the beginning.”
“Not exactly queerly; she is not a woman of good breeding or good taste, but she only arrived that afternoon, and it’s too absurd to picture her stabbing her hostess that night.”
“I don’t care how absurd it is; she profited by Miss Van Norman’s death, and she was certainly avid to come into her inheritance at once.”
“Yes, I know,” said Schuyler almost impatiently. “But I saw Miss Morton when she first came downstairs, and though she was shocked, she really did nobly in controlling herself, and even in directing others what to do. You see, I was there, and I saw them all, and I’m sure that Miss Morton had no more to do with that dreadful deed than I had.”
“Then what about her burning that will as soon as Miss Van Norman was dead?”
“I don’t believe it was a will; and, in fact, I’m not sure she burned anything.”
“Oh, yes, she did; I heard that French maid’s story, when she first told it, and it was impossible to believe she was making it up. Besides, Miss French saw Miss Morton rummaging in the desk.”
“She is erratic, I think, and perhaps, not over-refined; but I’m sure she never could have been the one to do that thing. Why, that woman is frightened at everything. She wouldn’t dare commit a crime. She is fearfully timid.”
“Dismissing Miss Morton, then, let us take the others, one by one. I think we may pass over Miss French and Miss Gardner. We have no reason to think of Mr. Hunt in this connection, and this brings us down to the servants.”
“Not quite to the servants,” said Carleton, with a peculiar look in his eyes that caught Rob
’s attention.
“Not quite to the servants? What do you mean?”
Carleton said nothing, but with a troubled gaze he looked intently at Fessenden.
“Cicely!” exclaimed Rob. “You think that?”
“I think nothing,” said Carleton slowly, “and as an innocent man who was suspected, I hate to hint a suspicion of one who may be equally innocent. But does it not seem to you there are some questions to be answered concerning Miss Dupuy?”
Fessenden sat thinking for a long time. Surely these two men were just and even generous, and unwilling to suspect without cause.
“There are points to be explained,” said Rob slowly; “and, Schuyler, since we are talking frankly, I must ask you this: do you know that Miss Dupuy is very much in love with you?”
“How absurd! That cannot be. Why, I’ve scarcely ever spoken to the girl.”
“That doesn’t matter—the fact remains. Now, you know she wrote that paper which stated that she loved S., but he did not love her. That initial designated yourself, and, because of this unfortunate attachment, Cicely was of course jealous, or rather envious, of Madeleine. I have had an interview with Miss Dupuy, in which she gave me much more information about herself than she thought she did, and one of the facts I discovered—from what she didn’t say, rather than what she did—was her hopeless infatuation for you.”
“It’s difficult to believe this, but now that you tell me it is true, I can look back to some episodes which seem to indicate it. But I cannot think it would lead to such desperate results.”
“There’s one thing certain: when we do find the criminal it will have to be somebody we never would have dreamed of; for if there were any probable person we would suspect him already. Now, merely for the sake of argument, let us see if Cicely did not have ‘exclusive opportunity’ as well as yourself. Remember she was the last one who saw Miss Van Norman alive. I mean, so far as we have had any witness or evidence. This fact in itself is always a matter for investigation. And granting the fact of two women, both in love with you, one about to marry you, and the other perhaps insanely jealous; a weapon at hand, no one else astir in the house—is there not at least occasion for inquiry?”
Carleton looked aghast. He took up the story, and in a low voice said, “I can add to that. When I came in, as Hunt has testified, Cicely was leaning over the banister, still fully dressed. When I cried out for help fifteen minutes later, Cicely was the first to run downstairs. She asked no questions, she did not look toward the library, she glared straight at me with an indescribable expression of fear and horror. I cannot explain her attitude at that moment, but if this dreadful thing we have dared to think of could be true, it would perhaps be a reason.”
“And then, you know, she tried to get possession secretly of that slip of paper, after it had served its purpose.”
“Yes, and also after you, by clever observation, had discovered that she wrote it, and not Madeleine.”
“Their writing is strangely alike.”
“Yes; even I was deceived, and I have seen much of Madeleine’s writing. Fessenden—this is an awful thing to hint—but do you suppose some of the notes I have had purporting to be from Miss Van Norman could have been written by Miss Dupuy?”
“Why not? Several people have said the secretary often wrote notes purporting to be from the mistress.”
“Oh, yes; formal society notes. But I don’t mean that. I mean, do you suppose Cicely could have written of her own accord—even unknown to Madeleine—as if—as if, you know, it were Madeleine herself writing?”
“Oh, on purpose to deceive you!”
“Yes, on purpose to deceive me. It could easily be done. I’ve seen so much of both their penmanship, and I never noticed it especially. I’ve always taken it for granted that a purely personal note was written by Madeleine herself. But now—I wonder.”
“Do you mean notes of importance?”
“I mean notes that annoyed me. Notes that voluntarily referred to her going driving or walking with Willard, when there was no real reason for her referring to it. Could it be that Cicely—bah! I cannot say it of any woman!”
“I see your point; and it is more than possible that Miss Dupuy, knowing of the strained relations between you and Miss Van Norman, might have done anything she could to widen the breach. It would be easy, as she wrote so much of the correspondence, to do this unnoticed.”
“Yes, that’s what I mean. Often Madeleine’s notes would contain a gratuitous bit of information about her and Willard, and though she frequently teased me when we were together, I was surprised at her writing these things. I feel sure now that sometimes, at least, they were the work of Miss Dupuy. I can’t describe it exactly, but that would explain lots of things otherwise mysterious.”
“This is getting beyond us,” said Rob, with a quick sigh. “I think it my duty to report this to the coroner and to Detective Fairbanks, who is officially on the case. I thought I liked detective work, but I don’t. It leads one toward too dreadful conclusions. Will you go with me, Carleton? I shall go at once to Mr. Benson.”
“No, I think it would be better for you to go alone. Remember I am practically an accused man, and my word would be of little weight. Moreover, you are a lawyer, and it is your right and duty to make these things known. But unless forced to do so, I do not wish to testify against Miss Dupuy.”
Remembering the girl’s attitude toward Carleton, Rob could not wonder at this, and he went off alone to the coroner’s.
XX
CICELY’S FLIGHT
MR. BENSON WAS ASTOUNDED at the turn affairs had taken; but though it had seemed to him that all the evidence had pointed toward Carleton’s guilt, he was really relieved to find another outlet for his suspicions. He listened attentively to what Fessenden said, and Rob was careful to express no opinion, but merely to state such facts as he knew in support of this new theory:
Detective Fairbanks was sent for, and he, too, listened eagerly to the latest developments.
It seemed to Rob that Mr. Fairbanks was rather pleased than otherwise to turn the trend of suspicion in another direction. And this was true, for though the detective felt a natural reluctance to suspect a woman, he had dreaded all along lest Carleton should be looked upon as a criminal merely because there was no one else to be considered. And Mr. Fairbanks’s quick mind realized that if there were two suspects, there yet might be three, or more, and Schuyler Carleton would at least have a fair chance.
All things concerned seemed to have taken on a new interest, and Mr. Fairbanks proposed to begin investigations at once.
“But I don’t see,” he complained, “why Mr. Carleton so foolishly concealed that reliquary business. Why didn’t he explain that at once?”
“Carleton is a peculiar nature,” said Rob. “He is shrinkingly sensitive about his private affairs, and, being innocent, he had no fear at first that even suspicion would rest upon him, so he saw no reason to tell about what would have been looked upon as a silly superstition. Had he been brought to trial, he would doubtless have made a clean breast of the matter. He is a strange man, any way; very self-contained, abnormally sensitive, and not naturally frank. But if freed from suspicion he will be more approachable, and may yet be of help to us in our search.”
“Of course, though,” said Mr. Fairbanks thoughtfully, “you must realize that to a disinterested observer this affair of Mr. Carleton and Miss Burt does not help to turn suspicion away from from him.”
“I do realize that,” said Rob; “but to an interested observer it looks different. Why, if Mr. Carleton were the guilty man, he surely would not tell me so frankly the story of his interest in Miss Burt.”
This was certainly true, and Mr. Fairbanks agreed to it.
Rob had been obliged to tell the detective the facts of the case, though dilating as little as possible on Carleton’s private affairs.
; “At any rate,” said Mr. Fairbanks, “we will not consider Mr. Carleton for the present, but turn toward the new trail, and it may lead us, at least, in the right direction. If Miss Dupuy is innocent, our investigations can do her no harm, and if she knows more than she has told, we may be able to learn something of importance. But she is of such a hysterical nature, it is difficult to hold a satisfactory conversation with her.”
“Perhaps it would be advisable for me to talk to her first,” said Rob. “I might put her more at her ease than a formidable detective could, and then I could report to you what I learn.”
“Yes,” agreed the other; “you could choose an expedient time, and, being in the same house, Miss French might help you.”
“She could secure an interview for me quite casually, I am sure. And then, if I don’t succeed, you can insist upon an official session, and question her definitely.”
“There are indications,” mused Mr. Fairbanks, “that accidental leaving of such a paper on the table is a little unlikely. If it were done purposely, it would be far easier to understand.”
“Yes, and, granting there is any ground for suspicion, all Miss Dupuy’s hysterics and disinclination to answer questions would be explained.”
“Well, I hate to suspect a woman,—but we won’t call it suspicion; we’ll call it simply inquiry. You do what you can to get a friendly interview, and, if necessary, I’ll insist on an official one later.”
Rob Fessenden went straight over to the Van Norman house, eager to tell Kitty French the developments of the afternoon.
She was more than willing to revise her opinions, and was honestly glad that Mr. Carleton was practically exonerated.
“Of course there’s nothing official,” said Rob, after he had told his whole story, “but the burden of suspicion has been lifted from Carleton, wherever it may next be placed.”
At first Kitty was disinclined to think Cicely could be implicated.
“She’s such a slip of a girl!” she said. “I don’t believe that little blue-eyed, yellow-haired thing could stab anybody.”
The Clue Page 16
