“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?”
Of course they answered yes, and of course it was with so much effusiveness that I was obliged to remind them that they must keep a check on their enthusiasm, and also to suggest that they should not come to my house or send me any notes, but simply a blank card, signifying: “No one knows who wound the clock.”
“How delightfully mysterious!” cried Isabella. And with this girlish exclamation our talk in regard to the clock closed.
The next object that attracted our attention was a paper-covered novel I discovered on a side-table in the same room.
“Whose is this?” I asked.
“Not mine.”
“Not mine.”
“Yet it was published this summer,” I remarked.
They stared at me astonished, and Isabella caught up the book. It was one of those summer publications intended mainly for railroad distribution, and while neither ragged nor soiled, bore evidence of having been read.
“Let me take it,” said I.
Isabella at once passed it into my hands.
“Does your brother smoke?” I asked.
“Which brother?”
“Either of them.”
“Franklin sometimes, but Howard, never. It disagrees with him, I believe.”
“There is a faint odor of tobacco about these pages. Can it have been brought here by Franklin?”
“O no, he never reads novels, not such novels as this, at all events. He loses a lot of pleasure, we think.”
I turned the pages over. The latter ones were so fresh I could almost put my finger on the spot where the reader had left off. Feeling like a bloodhound who has just run upon a trail, I returned the book to Caroline, with the injunction to put it away; adding, as I saw her air of hesitation: “If your brother Franklin misses it, it will show that he brought it here, and then I shall have no further interest in it.” Which seemed to satisfy her, for she put it away at once on a high shelf.
Perceiving nothing else in these rooms of a suggestive character, I led the way into the hall. There I had a new idea.
“Which of you was the first to go through the rooms upstairs?” I inquired.
“Both of us,” answered Isabella. “We came together. Why do you ask, Miss Butterworth?”
“I was wondering if you found everything in order there?”
“We did not notice anything wrong, did we, Caroline? Do you think that the—the person who committed that awful crime went upstairs? I couldn’t sleep a wink if I thought so.”
“Nor I,” Caroline put in. “O, don’t say that he went upstairs, Miss Butterworth!”
“I do not know it,” I rejoined.
“But you asked—”
“And I ask again. Wasn’t there some little thing out of its usual place? I was up in your front chamber after water for a minute, but I didn’t touch anything but the mug.”
“We missed the mug, but—O Caroline, the pin-cushion! Do you suppose Miss Butterworth means the pin-cushion?”
I started. Did she refer to the one I had picked up from the floor and placed on a side-table?
“What about the pin-cushion?” I asked.
“O nothing, but we did not know what to make of its being on the table. You see, we had a little pin-cushion shaped like a tomato which always hung at the side of our bureau. It was tied to one of the brackets and was never taken off; Caroline having a fancy for it because it kept her favorite black pins out of the reach of the neighbor’s children when they came here. Well, this cushion, this sacred cushion which none of us dared touch, was found by us on a little table by the door, with the ribbon hanging from it by which it had been tied to the bureau. Some one had pulled it off, and very roughly too, for the ribbon was all ragged and torn. But there is nothing in a little thing like that to interest you, is there, Miss Butterworth?”
“No,” said I, not relating my part in the affair; “not if our neighbor’s children were the marauders.”
“But none of them came in for days before we left.”
“Are there pins in the cushion?”
“When we found it, do you mean? No.”
I did not remember seeing any, but one cannot always trust to one’s memory.
“But you had left pins in it?”
“Possibly, I don’t remember. Why should I remember such a thing as that?”
I thought to myself, “I would know whether I left pins on my pin-cushion or not,” but every one is not as methodical as I am, more’s the pity.
“Have you anywhere about you a pin like those you keep on that cushion?” I inquired of Caroline.
She felt at her belt and neck and shook her head.
“I may have upstairs,” she replied.
“Then get me one.” But before she could
start, I pulled her back. “Did either of you sleep in that room last night?”
“No, we were going to,” answered Isabella, “but afterwards Caroline took a freak to sleep in one of the rooms on the third floor. She said she wanted to get away from the parlors as far as possible.”
“Then I should like a peep at the one overhead.”
The wrenching of the pin-cushion from its place had given me an idea.
They looked at me wistfully as they turned to mount the stairs, but I did not enlighten them further. What would an idea be worth shared by them!
Their father undoubtedly lay in the back room, for they moved very softly around the head of the stairs, but once in front they let their tongues run loose again. I, who cared nothing for their babble when it contained no information, walked slowly about the room and finally stopped before the bed.
It had a fresh look, and I at once asked them if it had been lately made up. They assured me that it had not, saying that they always kept their beds spread during their absence, as they did so hate to enter a room disfigured by bare mattresses.
I could have read them a lecture on the niceties of housekeeping, but I refrained; instead of that I pointed to a little dent in the smooth surface of the bed nearest the door.
“Did either of you two make that?” I asked.
They shook their heads in amazement.
“What is there in that?” began Caroline; but I motioned her to bring me the little cushion, which she no sooner did than I laid it in the little dent, which it fitted to a nicety.
“You wonderful old thing!” exclaimed Caroline. “How ever did you think—”
But I stopped her enthusiasm with a look. I may be wonderful, but I am not old, and it is time they knew it.
“Mr. Gryce is old,” said I; and lifting the cushion, I placed it on a perfectly smooth portion of the bed. “Now take it up,” said I, when, lo! a second dent similar to the first.
“You see where that cushion has lain before being placed on the table,” I remarked, and reminding Caroline of the pin I wanted, I took my leave and returned to my own house, leaving behind me two girls as much filled with astonishment as the giddiness of their pates would allow.
CHAPTER XIX
A Decided Step Forward
I felt that I had made an advance. It was a small one, no doubt, but it was an advance. It would not do to rest there, however, or to draw definite conclusions from what I had seen without further facts to guide me. Mrs. Boppert could supply these facts, or so I believed. Accordingly I decided to visit Mrs. Boppert.
Not knowing whether Mr. Gryce had thought it best to put a watch over my movements, but taking it for granted that it would be like him to do so, I made a couple of formal calls on the avenue before I started eastward. I had learned Mrs. Boppert’s address before leaving home, but I did not ride directly to the tenement where she lived. I chose, instead, to get out at a little fancy store I saw in the neighborhood.
It was a curious place. I never saw so many or such variety of things in one small spot in my life, but I did not waste any time upon this quaint interior, but stepped immediately up to the good woman I saw leaning over the counter.
“Do you know a Mrs. Boppert who lives at 803?” I asked.
The woman’s look was too quick and suspicious for denial; but she was about to attempt it, when I cut her short by saying:
“I wish to see Mrs. Boppert very much, but not in her own rooms. I will pay any one well who will assist me to five minutes’ conversation with her in such a place, say, as that I see behind the glass door at the end of this very shop.”
The woman, startled by so unexpected a proposition, drew back a step, and was about to shake her head, when I laid on the counter before her (shall I say how much? Yes, for it was not thrown away) a five-dollar bill, which she no sooner saw than she gave a gasp of delight.
“Will you give me that?” she cried.
For answer I pushed it towards her, but before her fingers could clutch it, I resolutely said:
“Mrs. Boppert must not know there is anybody waiting here to see her, or she will not come. I have no ill-will towards her, and mean her only good, but she’s a timid sort of person, and—”
“I know she’s timid,” broke in the good woman, eagerly. “And she’s had enough to make her so! What with policemen drumming her up at night, and innocent-looking girls and boys luring her into corners to tell them what she saw in that grand house where the murder took place, she’s grown that feared of her shadow you can hardly get her out after sundown. But I think I can get her here; and if you mean her no harm, why, ma’am—” Her fingers were on the bill, and charmed with the feel of it, she forgot to finish her sentence.
“Is there any one in the room back there?” I asked, anxious to recall her to herself.
“No, ma’am, no one at all. I am a poor widder, and not used to such company as you; but if you will sit down, I will make myself look more fit and have Mrs. Boppert over here in a minute.” And calling to someone of the name of Susie to look after the shop, she led the way towards the glass door I have mentioned.
Relieved to find everything working so smoothly and determined to get the worth of my money out of Mrs. Boppert when I saw her, I followed the woman into the most crowded room I ever entered. The shop was nothing to it; there you could move without hitting anything; here you could not. There were tables against every wall, and chairs where there were no tables. Opposite me was a window-ledge filled with flowering plants, and at my right a grate and mantel-piece covered, that is the latter, with innumerable small articles which had evidently passed a long and forlorn probation on the shop shelves before being brought in here. While I was looking at them and marvelling at the small quantity of dust I found, the woman herself disappeared behind a stack of boxes, for which there was undoubtedly no room in the shop. Could she have gone for Mrs. Boppert already, or had she slipped into another room to hide the money which had come so unexpectedly into her hands?
I was not long left in doubt, for in another moment she returned with a flower-bedecked cap on her smooth gray head, that transformed her into a figure at once so complacent and so ridiculous that, had my nerves not been made of iron, I should certainly have betrayed my amusement. With it she had also put on her company manner, and what with the smiles she bestowed upon me and her perfect satisfaction with her own appearance, I had all I could do to hold my own and keep her to the matter in hand. Finally she managed to take in my anxiety and her own duty, and saying that Mrs. Boppert could never refuse a cup of tea, offered to send her an invitation to supper. As this struck me favorably, I nodded, at which she cocked her head on one side and insinuatingly whispered:
“And would you pay for the tea, ma’am?”
I uttered an indignant “No!” which seemed to surprise her. Immediately becoming humble again, she replied it was no matter, that she had tea enough and that the shop would supply cakes and crackers; to all of which I responded with a look which awed her so completely that she almost dropped the dishes with which she was endeavoring to set one of the tables.
“She does so hate to talk about the murder that it will be a perfect godsend to her to drop into good company like this with no prying neighbors about. Shall I set a chair for you, ma’am?”
I declined the honor, saying that I would remain seated where I was, adding, as I saw her about to go:
“Let her walk straight in, and she will be in the middle of the room before she sees me. That will suit her and me too; for after she has once seen me, she won’t be frightened. But you are not to listen at the door.”
This I said with great severity, for I saw the woman was becoming very curious, and having said it, I waved her peremptorily away.
She didn’t like it, but a thought of the five dollars comforted her. Casting one final look at the table, which was far from uninvitingly set, sh
e slipped out and I was left to contemplate the dozen or so photographs that covered the walls. I found them so atrocious and their arrangement so distracting to my bump of order, which is of a pronounced character, that I finally shut my eyes on the whole scene, and in this attitude began to piece my thoughts together. But before I had proceeded far, steps were heard in the shop, and the next moment the door flew open and in popped Mrs. Boppert, with a face like a peony in full blossom. She stopped when she saw me and stared.
“Why, if it isn’t the lady—”
“Hush! Shut the door. I have something very particular to say to you.”
“O,” she began, looking as if she wanted to back out. But I was too quick for her. I shut the door myself and, taking her by the arm, seated her in the corner.
“You don’t show much gratitude,” I remarked.
I did not know what she had to be grateful to me for, but she had so plainly intimated at our first interview that she regarded me as having done her some favor, that I was disposed to make what use of it I could, to gain her confidence.
“I know, ma’am, but if you could see how I’ve been harried, ma’am. It’s the murder, and nothing but the murder all the time; and it was to get away from the talk about it that I came here, ma’am, and now it’s you I see, and you’ll be talking about it too, or why be in such a place as this, ma’am?”
“And what if I do talk about it? You know I’m your friend, or I never would have done you that good turn the morning we came upon the poor girl’s body.”
“I know, ma’am, and grateful I am for it, too; but I’ve never understood it, ma’am. Was it to save me from being blamed by the wicked police, or was it a dream you had, and the gentleman had, for I’ve heard what he said at the inquest, and it’s muddled my head till I don’t know where I’m standing.”
What I had said and what the gentleman had said! What did the poor thing mean? As I did not dare to show my ignorance, I merely shook my head.
“Never mind what caused us to speak as we did, as long as we helped you. And we did help you? The police never found out what you had to do with this woman’s death, did they?”
The Complete Amelia Butterworth Mystery Series Page 15
