The Clue

by Carolyn Wells

  Cicely gave the required address, and though they continued the conversation for a short time, Rob concluded that the girl knew nothing that actually bore on the case. Her own false evidence and nervous apprehension had all been because of her anxiety about Mr. Carleton, and her fear that he had really been the murderer. Her written paper, and all the evidences of her jealousy of Miss Van Norman, were the result of her secret and unrequited love for the man, and her attempted flight was only because she feared that her uncontrollable emotion and impulsive utterances might help to incriminate him.

  Fessenden was truly sorry for her, and glad that she could go away from the trying scenes for a time. He felt sure that she would come, if summoned, for now, relieved of her doubt of Carleton, she had no reason for refusing any testimony she could give.

  It was in a kindly spirit that he bade her good-by, and promised to use every effort not only to establish Carleton’s innocence, but to discover the guilty one.

  When Fessenden returned to the Van Norman house, several people were awaiting him in the library. Miss Morton and Kitty French were there, also Coroner Benson and Detective Fairbanks.

  “Were you too late?” asked Kitty, as Rob entered the room.

  “No, not too late. I found Miss Dupuy in the Grand Central station, and I had a talk with her.”

  “Well?” said Kitty impatiently.

  “She is as innocent as you or I.”

  “How did you find it out so quickly?” inquired Mr. Fairbanks, who had a real liking for the enthusiastic young fellow.

  “Why, I found out that she was hanging over the baluster, as Hunt said; and she did see Carleton come in at quarter after eleven. She then went back to her room, and heard Carleton cry out at half-past eleven, and when she discovered what had happened she suspected Carleton of the deed; and, endeavoring to shield him, she refused to give evidence that might incriminate him.”

  “But,” cried Kitty, “of course Mr. Carleton didn’t do it if Cicely did.”

  “But don’t you see, Miss French,” said the older detective, as Fessenden sat staring in blank surprise at what he deemed Kitty’s stupidity—“don’t you see that if Miss Dupuy suspected Mr. Carleton she couldn’t by any possibility be guilty herself.”

  “Why, of course she couldn’t!” exclaimed Kitty. “And I’m truly glad, for I can’t help liking that girl, if she is queer. But, then, who did do it?”

  Suspicion was again at a standstill. There was no evidence to point anywhere; there were no clues to follow, and no one had any suggestion to offer.

  It was at this juncture that Tom Willard and Schuyler Carleton came in together.

  They were told of Fessenden’s interview with Miss Dupuy at the station, and Carleton expressed himself as thoroughly glad that the girl was exonerated. He said little, however, for it was a delicate subject, since it all hinged on Miss Dupuy’s affection for himself.

  Tom Willard listened to Fessenden’s recital, but he only said that nothing would ever have induced him to suspect Miss Dupuy, any way, for it could not have been the deed of a fragile young girl.

  “The blow that killed Maddy was powerfully dealt,” said Tom; “and I can’t help thinking it was some tramp or professional burglar who was clever enough to elude Harris’s fastenings. Or some window may have been overlooked that night. At any rate, we have no more plausible theory.”

  “We have not,” said Mr. Fairbanks; “but I for one am not content to let the matter rest here. I should like to suggest that we call in some celebrated detective, whose experience and skill would discover what is beyond the powers of Mr. Fessenden and myself.”

  Rob felt flattered that Mr. Fairbanks classed him with himself, and felt anxious too that the suggestion of employing a more skillful detective should be carried out.

  “But,” objected Coroner Benson, “to engage a detective of high standing would entail considerable expense, and I’m not sure that I’m authorized to sanction this.”

  There was a silence, but nearly every one in the room was thinking that surely this was the time for Tom Willard to make use of his lately inherited Van Norman money.

  Nor was Willard delinquent. Though showing no over willingness in the matter, he said plainly that he would be glad if Coroner Benson or Mr. Fairbanks would engage the services of the best detective they could find, and allow him to defray all expenses attendant thereon.

  At this a murmur of approval went round the room. All his hearers were at their wits’ end what to do next, and the opportunity of putting a really great detective on the case was welcome indeed.

  “But I don’t believe,” said Willard, “that he will find out anything more than our own men have discovered.” The appreciative glance Tom gave Mr. Fairbanks and Rob quite soothed whatever touch of jealousy they may have felt of the new detective.

  It was Carleton who suggested Fleming Stone. He did not know the man personally, but he had read and heard of the wonderful work he had done in celebrated cases all over the country.

  Of course they had all heard of Fleming Stone, and each felt a thrill of gratitude to Willard, whose wealth made it possible to employ the great detective.

  Mr. Fairbanks wasted no time, but wrote at once to Fleming Stone, and received a reply stating that he would arrive in Mapleton in a few days.

  But in the meantime Rob Fessenden could not be idle.

  In truth, he had a secret ambition to solve the mystery himself, before the great detective came, and to this end he stayed on in Mapleton, and racked his brain for ideas on the subject.

  Mr. Fairbanks was more easily discouraged, and frankly confessed the case was beyond his powers.

  Privately, he still suspected Mr. Carleton, but in the face of Rob’s faith in his friend, and also because of the demeanor of Carleton himself, he couldn’t avow his suspicions.

  For since Fessenden’s assertions of confidence, Carleton had changed in his attitude toward the world at large.

  Still broken and saddened by the tragedy, he did not show that abject and self-condemnatory air which had hung round him during the inquest week.

  Kitty French had almost recovered faith in him, and had there been any one else at all to suspect, she would have asserted her belief in his innocence.

  Carleton himself seemed baffled. His suspicions had been directed toward Cicely, because he could see no other possibility; but the proof of her suspicions of himself, of course, showed he was wrong in the matter.

  He could suggest nothing; he could think of nobody who might have done the deed, and he was thoroughly content to place the whole affair unreservedly in the hands of Fleming Stone.

  Indeed, every one seemed to be glad of the expected help, if we except Fessenden. He was restlessly eager to do something himself, and saw no reason why he shouldn’t keep on trying until Stone came.

  XXII

  A TALK WITH MISS MORTON

  OF COURSE FESSENDEN CONFIDED his wishes to Kitty French. Equally of course, that obliging young woman was desirous of helping him attain them. But neither of them could think of new lines of investigation to pursue.

  “We’ve no clue but that little cachou,” said Miss French, by way of summing up; “and as that’s no good at all, we have really nothing that can be called a clue.”

  “No,” agreed Rob, “and we have no suspect. Now that Carleton and Miss Dupuy are both out of it, I don’t see who could have done it.”

  “I never felt fully satisfied about Miss Morton and her burned paper,” said Kitty thoughtfully.

  They were walking along a village road while carrying on this conversation, so there was no danger of Miss Morton’s overhearing them.

  “I’ve never felt satisfied about that woman, any way,” said Rob. “The oftener I see her the less I like her. She’s too smug and complacent. And yet when she was questioned, she went all to pieces.”

 
“Well, as she flatly contradicted what Marie had said, of course they couldn’t keep on questioning her. You can’t take a servant’s word against a lady’s.”

  “You ought to, in a serious case like this. I say, Kitty, let’s go there now and have a heart-to-heart talk with her.”

  Kitty laughed at the idea of a heart-to-heart talk between those two people, but said she was willing to go.

  “It mayn’t amount to anything,” went on Rob, “and yet, it may. I’ve asked Mr. Fairbanks to chase up that burned paper matter, but he said there was nothing in it. He didn’t hear Marie’s story, you see,—he only heard it retold, and he doesn’t know how sincere that girl seemed to be when she told about it.”

  “Yes, and I saw Miss Morton in Maddy’s room, too. I think she ought to tell what she was up to.”

  So to the Van Norman house went the two inquisitors, and had Miss Morton known of their fell designs she might not have greeted them as cordially as she did.

  Miss Morton had grown fond of Kitty French during the girl’s stay with her, and she looked with approval on the fast-growing friendship between her and young Fessenden.

  As the hostess at the Van Norman house, too, Miss Morton showed a kindly hospitality, and though she was without doubt eccentric, and sometimes curt of speech, she conducted the household and directed the servants with very little friction or awkwardness.

  She was most friendly toward Tom Willard and Schuyler Carleton, and the latter often dropped in at the tea hour. Fessenden dropped in at any hour of the day, and of course Mr. Fairbanks came and went as he chose.

  Fessenden and Kitty found Miss Morton in the library, and, as they had decided beforehand, went straight to the root of the matter.

  “Miss Morton,” Fessenden began, “I want to do a little more questioning on my own account, before Mr. Fleming Stone arrives. I’m sure you won’t object to helping me out a bit by answering a few queries.”

  “Go ahead,” said Miss Morton grimly, but not unkindly.

  “They are a bit personal,” went on Rob, who was at a loss how to begin, now that he was really told to do so.

  “Well?”

  This time, Miss Morton’s tone was more crisp, and Kitty began to see that Rob was on the wrong tack. So she took the helm herself, and said, with a winning smile:

  “We want you to tell us frankly what was the paper you burned.”

  Something in Miss Morton’s expression went to the girl’s heart, and she added impulsively:

  “I know it wasn’t anything that affects the case at all, and if you want to refuse us, you may.”

  “I’d rather not tell you,” said Miss Morton, and a far-away look came into her strange eyes; “but since you have shown confidence in me, I prefer to return it.”

  She took Kitty’s hand in hers, and from the gentle touch the girl was sure that whatever was the nature of the coming confidence, it was not that of a guilty conscience.

  “As you know, Kitty,” she began, addressing the girl, though she glanced at Rob occasionally, “many years ago I was betrothed to Richard Van Norman. We foolishly allowed a trifling quarrel to separate us for life. I will not tell you the story of that now,—though I will, some time, if you care to hear it. But we were both quick-tempered, and the letters that passed between us at that time were full of hot, angry, unconsidered words. They were letters such as no human beings ought to have written to each other. Perhaps it was because of their exceeding bitterness, which we read and reread, that we never made up that quarrel, though neither of us ever loved any one else, or ceased to love the other. At the death of Richard Van Norman, two years or more ago, I burned his letters which I had kept so long, and I wrote to Madeleine, asking her to return mine to me if they should be found among her uncle’s papers.”

  “Dear Miss Morton,” said Kitty, “don’t tell any more if it pains you. We withdraw our request, don’t we, Rob?”

  “Yes, indeed,” said Fessenden heartily; “forgive us, Miss Morton, for what is really an intrusion, and an unwarrantable one.”

  “I want to tell you a little more,” Miss Morton resumed, “and afterward I’ll tell you why I’ve told it. Madeleine replied with a most kind letter, saying she had not found the letters, but should she ever do so, she would send them to me. About a year ago, she wrote and asked me to come here to see her. I came, thinking she had found those letters. She had not, but she had found her uncle’s diary, which disclosed his feelings toward me, both before and after our quarrel, and she told me then she intended to leave this place to me in her will, because she thought it ought to be mine. Truth to tell, I didn’t take much interest in this bequest, for I supposed the girl would long outlive me. But I had really no desire for the house without its master, and though I didn’t tell her so, I would rather have had the letters which I hoped she had found, than the news of her bequest.”

  “Why did you want the letters so much, Miss Morton?” asked Kitty.

  “Because, my dear, they were a disgrace to me. They would be a disgrace to any woman alive. You, my child, with your gentle disposition, can’t understand what dreadful cruelty an angry woman can be guilty of on paper. Well, again Madeleine told me she would give me the letters if they ever appeared, and I went home. I didn’t hear from her again till shortly before her wedding, when she wrote me that the letters had been found in a secret drawer of Richard’s old desk. She invited me to come to her wedding, and said that she would then give me the letters. Of course I came, and that afternoon that I arrived she told me they were in her desk, and she would give them to me next morning. I was more than impatient for them,—I had waited forty years for them,—but I couldn’t trouble her on her wedding eve. And then—when—when she went away from us, without having given them into my possession, I was so afraid they would fall into other hands, that I went in search of them. I found them in her desk, I took them to my room and burned them without reading them. And that is the true story of the burned papers. I did look over a memorandum book, thinking it might tell where they were. But right after that I found the letters themselves in the next compartment, and I took them. They were mine.”

  The dignified complacency with which Miss Morton uttered that last short sentence commanded the respect of her hearers.

  “Indeed, they were yours, Miss Morton,” said Fessenden, “and I’m glad you secured them, before other eyes saw them.”

  Kitty said nothing, but held Miss Morton’s hand in a firm, gentle pressure that seemed to seal their friendship.

  “But,” said Fessenden, a little diffidently, “why didn’t you tell all this at the inquest as frankly as you have told us?”

  Miss Morton paled, and then grew red.

  “I am an idiot about such things,” she said. “When questioned publicly, like that, I am so embarrassed and also so fearful that I scarcely know what I say. I try to hide this by a curt manner and a bravado of speech, with the result that I get desperate and say anything that comes into my head, whether it’s the truth or not. I not only told untruths, but I contradicted myself, when witnessing, but I couldn’t seem to help it. I lost control of my reasoning powers, and finally I felt my only safety was in denying it all. For—and this was my greatest fear—I thought they might suspect that I killed Madeleine, if they knew I did burn the papers. Afterward, I would have confessed that I had testified wrongly, but I couldn’t see how it would do any good.”

  “No,” said Rob slowly, “except to exonerate Marie of falsehood.”

  Miss Morton set her lips together tightly, and seemed unwilling to pursue that subject.

  “And now,” she said, “the reason I’ve told you two young people this, is because I want to warn you not to let a quarrel or a foolish misunderstanding of any sort come between you to spoil the happiness that I see is in store for you.”

  “Good for you! Miss Morton!” cried Rob. “You’re a brick! You’ve precipitated ma
tters a little; Kitty and I haven’t put it into words as yet, but—we accept these preliminary congratulations,—don’t we, dear?”

  And foolish little Kitty only smiled, and buried her face on Miss Morton’s shoulder instead of the young man’s!

  And so, Miss Morton’s name was erased from Rob’s list of people to be inquired of, and, as he acknowledged to himself, he was quite ready now to turn over his share in the case to Fleming Stone.

  And, too, since Miss Morton had given a gentle push to the rolling stone of his affair with Kitty, it rolled faster, and the two young people had their heart-to-heart talks with each other, instead of adding a third to the interview.

  But there was just one more unfinished duty that Fessenden determined to attend to. Carleton had assured him that he was at liberty to talk to Dorothy Burt, if he chose, and Rob couldn’t help thinking that he ought to get all possible light on the case before Mr. Stone came; for he proposed to assist that gentleman greatly by his carefully tabulated statements, and his cross-referenced columns of evidence.

  So, unaccompanied by Kitty, who was apt to prove a disturbing influence on his concentration of mind, he interviewed Miss Burt.

  It was not difficult to get an opportunity, as she rarely left the house, and Mrs. Carleton was not exigent in her demands on her companion’s time.

  So the two strolled in the rose-garden late one afternoon, and Rob asked Miss Burt to tell him why she hesitated so when on the witness stand, and why she looked at Carleton with such unmistakable glances of inquiry, which he as certainly answered. Dorothy Burt replied to the questions as frankly as they were put.

  “To explain it to you, Mr. Fessenden,” she said, “I must first tell you that I loved Mr. Carleton even while Miss Van Norman was his affianced bride. I tell you this simply, both because it is the simple truth and because Mr. Carleton advised me to tell you, if you should ask me. And, knowing this, you may be surprised to learn that when I heard of Miss Van Norman’s death, I—” she raised her wonderful eyes and looked straight at Rob—“I thought she died by Schuyler’s hand. Yes, you may well look at me in surprise,—I know it was dreadful of me to think he could have done it, but—I did think so. You see, I loved him,—and I knew he loved me. He had never told me so, had never breathed a word that was disloyal to Miss Van Norman,—and yet I knew. And that last evening in this very rose-garden, on the night before his wedding, we walked here together, and I knew from what he didn’t say, not from what he did say, that it was I whom he loved, and not she. He left me with a few cold, curt words that I knew only too well masked his real feelings, and I saw him no more that night. He had told me he was going over to Miss Van Norman’s, and so, when I heard of the—the tragedy—I couldn’t help thinking he had yielded to a sudden terrible impulse. Oh, I’m not defending myself for my wrong thought of him; I’m only confessing that I did think that.”