The Leavenworth Case (Penguin Classics)

by Anna Katharine Green

“I had neither opportunity nor right to do so.”

  “Was it written in your presence?”

  “It was.”

  “And you never regarded the affair as worth your attention?”

  “However I may have regarded it, I did not see how, if Miss Leavenworth chose to drop a letter into a box with her own hands, I could in any way prevent her.”

  “That is because you are a gentleman. Well, it has its disadvantages,” he muttered broodingly.

  “But you,” said I; “how came you to know of it? Ah, I see,” remembering that the carriage in which we were riding at the time had been procured for us by him. “The man on the box was in your pay and ‘informed,’ as you call it.”

  Mr. Gryce winked at his muffled toes mysteriously. “That is not to the point,” he said. “Enough that I heard that a letter which might reasonably prove to be of some interest to me was dropped at such an hour into the box on the corner of a certain street. That, coinciding in the opinion of my informant, I telegraphed to the station connected with that box, to take note of the address of a suspicious-looking letter about to pass through their hands on the way to the General Post Office, and following up the telegram in person, found that a curious epistle addressed in lead pencil and sealed with a stamp, had just arrived, the address of which I was allowed to see——”

  “And which was?——”

  “Henry R. Clavering, Hoffman House, New York.”

  I drew a deep breath. “And so that is how your attention first came to be directed to this man!”

  “Yes.”

  “Strange. But go on—what next?”

  “Why, next I followed up the clue, of course, by going to the Hoffman House and instituting inquiries. I learned that Mr. Clavering was a regular guest of the hotel. That he had come there direct from the Liverpool steamer about three months since, and registering his name as Henry R. Clavering, Esq., London, had engaged a first class room which he had kept ever since. That, although nothing definite was known concerning him, he had been seen with various highly respectable people, both of his own nation and ours, by all of whom he was treated with respect. And lastly, that while not liberal, he had given many evidences of being a man of means. So much done, I entered the office and waited for him to come in, in the hopes of having an opportunity to observe his manner when the clerk handed him that strange-looking letter from Mary Leavenworth.”

  “And did you succeed?”

  “No; an awkward gawk of a fellow stepped between us just at the critical moment, and I missed seeing what I wanted to. But I heard enough that evening from the clerk and servants of the agitation which had been observed in him ever since he received it to convince me I was upon a trail worth following. I accordingly put on my men, and for two days Mr. Clavering was subjected to the most rigid watch a man ever walked under. But nothing was gained by it; his interest in the murder, if interest at all, was a secret one, and though he walked the streets, studied the papers, and haunted the vicinity of the house in Fifth Avenue, he not only refrained from actually approaching it, but made no attempt to communicate with any of the family. Meanwhile, you crossed my path and, with your determination, incited me to renewed effort. Convinced from Mr. Clavering’s bearing and the gossip I had by this time gathered in regard to him that no one short of a gentleman and a friend could succeed in getting at the clue of his connection with this family, I handed him over to you, and——”

  “Found me rather an unmanageable colleague.”

  Mr. Gryce smiled very much as he might have done if a sour plum had been put in his mouth, but made no reply; and a momentary pause ensued.

  “Did you think to inquire,” I asked at last, “if anyone knew where Mr. Clavering had spent the evening of the murder?”

  “Yes; but with no good result. That he was out during the evening, they all agreed upon; also that he was in his bed in the morning when the servant came in to make his fire; but further than this no one seemed to know.”

  “So that, in fact, you gleaned nothing that would in any way connect this man with the murder, except his marked and agitated interest in it, and the fact that a niece of the murdered man had written a letter to him?”

  “That is all.”

  “Another question: did you hear in what manner and at what time he procured a newspaper that evening?”

  “No; I only learned that he was observed by more than one to hasten out of the dining room with the Post in his hand and go immediately to his room without touching his dinner.”

  “Humph! that does not look——”

  “If Mr. Clavering had had a guilty knowledge of the crime, he would either never have ordered dinner before opening the paper or, having ordered it, he would have eaten it.”

  “Then you do not believe from what you have learned that Mr. Clavering is the guilty party?”

  Mr. Gryce shifted uneasily, glanced at the papers protruding from my coat pocket, and exclaimed: “I am ready to be convinced from what you have learned that he is.”

  That sentence recalled me to the business in hand. Without appearing to notice the look he had given me, I recurred to my questions.

  “How came you to know that Mr. Clavering was in this city last summer? Did you learn that, too, at the Hoffman House?”

  “No; I ascertained that in quite another way. In short, I have had a communication from London in regard to the matter.”

  “From London?”

  “Yes; I’ve a friend there in my own line of business, who sometimes assists me with a bit of information, when requested.”

  “But how? You have not had time to write to London and receive an answer since the murder.”

  “It is not necessary to write. It is enough for me to telegraph him the name of a person for him to understand that I want to know everything he can gather in a reasonable length of time about that person.”

  “And you sent the name of Mr. Clavering to him?”

  “Yes, in cipher.”

  “And have received a reply?”

  “This morning.”

  I looked toward his desk.

  “It is not there,” he said. “If you will be kind enough to feel in my breast-pocket you will find a letter——”

  It was in my hand before he had finished his sentence.

  “Excuse my eagerness,” I said. “This kind of business is new to me, you know.”

  He smiled indulgently at a very old and faded picture that hung on the wall before him. “Eagerness is not a fault, only the betrayal of it. But read out what you have there. Let us hear what my friend Brown has to tell us of Mr. Henry Ritchie Clavering, of Portland Place, London.”

  I took the paper to the light and read as follows:

  “Henry Ritchie Clavering, Gentleman, aged 43. Born in——, Hertfordshire, England. His father was Chas. Clavering, for short time in the Army. Mother was Helen Ritchie, of Dumfriesshire, Scotland; she is still living. Home with H.R.C., in Portland Place, London. H.R.C. is a bachelor, 6 ft. high, squarely built, weight about 12 stone. Dark complexion, regular features. Eyes darkbrown; nose straight. Called a handsome man; walks erect and rapidly. In Society is considered a good fellow; rather a favorite, especially with ladies. Is liberal, not extravagant; reported to be worth about £5,000 per year, and appearances give color to this statement. Property consists of a small estate in Hertfordshire, and some funds, amount not known. Since writing this much, a correspondent sends the following in regard to his history. In ’46 went from uncle’s house to Eton. From Eton went to Oxford, graduating in ’56. Scholarship good. In 1855 his uncle died and his father succeeded to the estates. Father died in ’57 by a fall from his horse or a similar accident. Within a very short time H.R.C. took his mother to London, to the residence named, where they have lived to the present time.

  “Traveled considerably in 1860; part of the time was with ————of Munich; also in party of Vandervorts from New York; went as far East as Cairo. Went to America in 1875 alone, but at end of three mon
ths returned on account of mother’s illness. Nothing is known of his movements while in America.

  “From servants, learn that he was always a favorite from a boy. More recently has become somewhat taciturn. Toward last of his stay, watched the post carefully, especially foreign ones. Posted scarcely anything but newspapers. Has written to Munich. Have seen from waste-paper basket, torn envelope directed to Amy Belden, no address. American correspondents mostly in Boston; two in New York. Names not known, but supposed to be bankers. Brought home considerable luggage and fitted up part of house as for a lady. This was closed soon afterward. Left for America two months since. Has been, I understand, traveling in the south. Has telegraphed twice to Portland Place. His friends hear from him but rarely. Letters rec’d recently, posted in New York. One by last steamer posted in F——, N.Y.

  “Business here conducted by——. In the country,——of——has charge of the property.

  “BROWN.”

  The document fell from my hands.

  F——, N.Y., was a small town near R——.

  “Your friend is a trump,” I declared. “He tells me just what I wanted most to know.” And, taking out my book, I made a memorandum of the facts which had most forcibly struck me during my perusal of the communication before me.

  “With the aid of what he tells me,” I cried, “I shall ferret out the mystery of Henry Clavering in a week; see if I do not.”

  “And how soon,” inquired Mr. Gryce, “may I expect to be allowed to take a hand in the game?”

  “As soon as I am reasonably assured that I am upon the right tack.”

  “And what will it take to assure you of that?”

  “Not much; a certain point settled and——”

  “Hold on; who knows but what I can do that for you?” And looking toward the desk which stood in the corner, Mr. Gryce asked me if I would open the top drawer and bring him the bits of partly burned paper which I would find there.

  Hastily complying, I brought three or four strips of ragged paper and laid them on the table at his side.

  “Another result of Fobbs’s researches under the coal on the first day of the inquest,” shortly exclaimed Mr. Gryce. “You thought the key was all he found. Well, it wasn’t. A second turning over of the coal brought these to light, and very interesting they are, too.”

  I immediately bent over the torn and discolored scraps with great anxiety. They were four in number, and appeared at first glance to be the mere remnants of a sheet of common writing-paper, torn lengthwise into strips and twisted up into lighters; but upon closer inspection they showed traces of writing upon one side, and what was more important still, the presence of one or more drops of spattered blood. This latter discovery was horrible to me, and so overcame me for the moment that I put the scraps down, and turning toward Mr. Gryce, inquired:

  “What do you make of them?”

  “That is just what I was about to inquire of you.”

  Swallowing my disgust, I took them up again. “They appear to be the remnants of some old letter,” said I.

  “They have that appearance,” Mr. Gryce returned a little grimly.

  “A letter which, from the drop of blood observable on the written side, must have been lying face up on Mr. Leavenworth’s table at the time of the murder——”

  “Just so.”

  “And from the uniformity in width of each of these pieces as well as their tendency to curl up when left alone, been first torn into even strips, and then severally rolled up, before being tossed into the grate where they were afterward found.”

  “That is all good,” said Mr. Gryce, “go on.”

  “The writing, in so far as it is discernible, is that of a cultivated gentleman; it is not that of Mr. Leavenworth, for I have studied his chirography too much lately not to know it at a glance; but it may be——Hold!” I suddenly exclaimed. “Have you any mucilage handy? I think that if I could paste these strips down upon a piece of paper, so that they would remain flat, I should be able to tell you what I think of them much more easily.”

  “There is mucilage on the desk,” replied Mr. Gryce.

  Procuring it, I proceeded to consult the scraps once more for evidence to guide me in their arrangement. These were more marked than I expected; the longer and best preserved strip with its “Mr. Hor” at the top showing itself at first blush to be the left-hand margin of the letter, while the machine-cut edge of the next in length presented tokens fully as conclusive of its being the right-hand margin of the same. Selecting these, then, I pasted them down on a piece of paper at just the distance they would occupy, if the sheet from which they were torn was of the ordinary commercial note size. Immediately it became apparent, first, that it would take two other strips of the same width to fill up the space left between them; and secondly, that the writing did not terminate at the foot of the sheet but was carried on to another page.

  Taking up the third strip, I looked at its edge; it was machine-cut at the top and showed by the arrangement of its words that it was the margin strip of a second leaf. Pasting that down by itself, I scrutinized the fourth, and finding it also machine-cut at the top but not on the side, endeavored to fit it to the piece already pasted down, but the words would not match. Moving it along then to the position which it would hold if it were the third strip, I fastened it down.

  “Well!” exclaimed Mr. Gryce, “that’s business.” Then, as I held it up before his eyes: “But don’t show it to me. Study it yourself, and tell me what you think of it.”

  “Well,” said I, “this much is certain, that it is a letter directed to Mr. Leavenworth from some ‘House,’ and dated—let’s see; that is an h, isn’t it?” And I pointed to the one letter just discernible on the line under the word ‘House.’

  “I should think so, but don’t ask me.”

  “It must be an h. The year is 1875, and this is not the termination of either January or February. Dated then, March 1st, 1876, and signed——”

  Mr. Gryce rolled his eyes in anticipatory ecstasy toward the ceiling.

  “By Henry Clavering,” I announced without hesitation.

  Mr. Gryce’s eyes returned to his swathed finger-ends. “Humph! how do you know that?”

  “Wait a moment and I will show you!” And taking out of my pocket the card which Mr. Clavering had handed me as an introduction at our late interview, I laid it underneath the last line of writing on the second page. One glance was sufficient. Henry Ritchie Clavering on the card; H——chie—in the same handwriting on the letter.

  “Clavering it is,” said he, “without a doubt.” But I saw he was not surprised.

  “And now,” continued I, “for its general tenor and meaning.” And commencing at the beginning, I read aloud the words as they came, with pauses at the breaks something as follows: “Mr. Hor—Dear—a niece whom yo—one too who see—the love and trus—any other man ca—autiful, so char——s she in face fo——conversation. ery rose has its——rose is no exception——ely as she is, char——tender as she is, s———pable of tramplin——one who trusted——heart——————him to——he owes a——honor——ance.

  If——t believe——her to——cruel——face,——what is——ble serv——yours H——tchie

  “It reads like a complaint against one of Mr. Leavenworth’s nieces.” I said, and started at my own words.

  “What is it?” cried Mr. Gryce. “What is the matter?”

  “Why,” said I, “the fact is I have heard this very letter spoken of. It is a complaint against one of Mr. Leavenworth’s nieces, and was written by Mr. Clavering.” And I told him of Mr. Harwell’s communication in regard to the matter.

  “Ah, then, Mr. Harwell has been talking, has he? I thought he was sworn off from gossip.”

  “Mr. Harwell and I have seen each other almost daily for the last two weeks,” replied I; “it would be strange if he had nothing to tell me.”

  “And he says that he has read a letter written to Mr. Leavenworth by Mr. Claver
ing?”

  “Yes; but whose particular words he has now forgotten.”

  “These few here may assist him in recalling the rest.”

  “I would rather not admit him to a knowledge of the existence of this piece of evidence. I don’t believe in letting anyone into our confidence whom it is possible to keep out.”

  “I see you don’t,” dryly responded Mr. Gryce.

  Not appearing to notice the fling conveyed by these words, I took up the letter once more, and began pointing out such half-formed words in it as I thought we might venture to complete, as the Hor—, yo—, see—autiful——, char——, for ——, tramplin——, pable——, serv——.

  This done, I next proposed the introduction of such others as seemed necessary to the sense, as Leavenworth after Horatio; Sir after Dear; have with a possible you before a niece; thorn after its in the phrase rose has its; on after trampling; whom after to; debt after a; you after If; me ask after believe; beautiful after cruel.

  Between the columns of words thus furnished, I interposed a phrase or two here and there, the whole reading when done as follows:

  ———House. March 1st, 1876.

  Mr. Horatio Leavenworth

  DEAR SIR—

  (You) have a niece whom you one too who seems worthy the love and trust of any other man ca so beautiful, so charming is she in face form and conversation. But every rose has its thorn and (this) rose is no exception lovely as she is, charming (as she is), tender as she is, she is capable of trampling on one who trusted her heart a———him to whom she owes a debt of honor a ance

  If you don’t believe me ask her to her cruel beautiful face what is (her) humble servant

  YOURS:

  HENRY RITCHIE CLAVERING.

  “I think that will do,” said Mr. Gryce, “we have got the general tenor of it, and that is all we want at this time.”

  “The whole tone of it is anything but complimentary to the lady it inveighs against,” I returned. “He must have had, or imagined he had, some desperate grievance, to provoke him to the use of such plain language in regard to one he can still characterize as tender, charming, beautiful.”