The Leavenworth Case
by Anna Katharine Green · English · Gutenberg #4047 · 636,815 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Leavenworth Case
Author: Anna Katharine Green
Release date: May 1, 2003 [eBook #4047]
Most recently updated: July 31, 2022
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/4047
Credits: David Moynihan, and David Widger
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LEAVENWORTH CASE ***
THE LEAVENWORTH CASE
A LAWYER’S STORY
By Anna Katharine Green
[Illustration: “I did not go, but stood watching the firelight
flicker on her black dress”]
CONTENTS
BOOK I.
THE PROBLEM
PAGE
I. “A GREAT CASE” 1
II. THE CORONER’S INQUEST 11
III. FACTS AND DEDUCTIONS 17
IV. A CLUE 36
V. EXPERT TESTIMONY 43
VI. SIDE-LIGHTS 51
VII. MARY LEAVENWORTH 57
VIII. CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE 65
IX. A DISCOVERY 80
X. MR. GRYCE RECEIVES NEW IMPETUS 90
XI. THE SUMMONS 101
XII. ELEANORE 108
XIII. THE PROBLEM 115
BOOK II.
HENRY CLAVERING
XIV. MR. GRYCE AT HOME 123
XV. WAYS OPENING 136
XVI. THE WILL OF A MILLIONAIRE 146
XVII. THE BEGINNING OF GREAT SURPRISES 151
XVIII. ON THE STAIRS 162
XIX. IN MY OFFICE 170
XX. “TRUEMAN! TRUEMAN! TRUEMAN!” 177
XXI. A PREJUDICE 183
XXII. PATCH-WORK 191
XXIII. THE STORY OF A CHARMING WOMAN 210
XXIV. A REPORT FOLLOWED BY SMOKE 220
XXV. TIMOTHY COOK 230
XXVI. MR. GRYCE EXPLAINS HIMSELF 239
BOOK III.
HANNAH
XXVII. AMY BELDEN 251
XXVIII. A WEIRD EXPERIENCE 258
XXIX. THE MISSING WITNESS 272
XXX. BURNED PAPER 278
XXXI. Q 285
XXXII. MRS. BELDEN’S NARRATIVE 296
XXXIII. UNEXPECTED TESTIMONY 325
BOOK IV.
THE PROBLEM SOLVED
XXXIV. MR. GRYCE RESUMES CONTROL 332
XXXV. FINE WORK 351
XXXVI. GATHERED THREADS 364
XXXVII. CULMINATION 373
XXXVIII. A FULL CONFESSION 384
XXXIX. THE OUTCOME OF A GREAT CRIME 405
Illustrations
PAGE
“I did not go, but stood watching the firelight flicker
on her black dress” Frontispiece
“What was my astonishment to come upon Miss Eleanore Leavenworth
standing at the side of her uncle’s bed, with his pistol in her
hand” 48
“Pausing only long enough on the threshold to compose myself
for the interview, I lifted my hand to knock” 50
“Her whole appearance was so startling, so extraordinary, that
I held my breath in surprise” 52
“She . . . was fumbling with the waist of her dress in a way
to convince me she had something concealed there which she was
anxious to dispose of” 88
“He pushed me upwards. ‘Go back!’ he whispered, . . . ‘Go
back!’” 164
“I could not prevent a feeling of sickly apprehension from
seizing me as I turned towards the silent figure stretched
so near” 276
“I crawled up on to the ledge of the slanting roof last night
. . . and . . . saw her moving round the room” 280
“At the sight of his face, the man in our arms quivered,
shrieked, and gave one bound that would have overturned Mr.
Clavering, . . . had not Mr. Gryce interposed” 374
BOOK I. THE PROBLEM
I. “A GREAT CASE”
“A deed of dreadful note.”
Macbeth.
I had been a junior partner in the firm of Veeley, Carr & Raymond,
attorneys and counsellors at law, for about a year, when one
morning, in the temporary absence of both Mr. Veeley and Mr. Carr,
there came into our office a young man whose whole appearance was
so indicative of haste and agitation that I involuntarily rose at
his approach and impetuously inquired:
“What is the matter? You have no bad news to tell, I hope.”
“I have come to see Mr. Veeley; is he in?”
“No,” I replied; “he was unexpectedly called away this morning to
Washington; cannot be home before to-morrow; but if you will make
your business known to me----”
“To you, sir?” he repeated, turning a very cold but steady eye on
mine; then, seeming to be satisfied with his scrutiny, continued,
“There is no reason why I shouldn’t; my business is no secret. I
came to inform him that Mr. Leavenworth is dead.”
“Mr. Leavenworth!” I exclaimed, falling back a step. Mr.
Leavenworth was an old client of our firm, to say nothing of his
being the particular friend of Mr. Veeley.
“Yes, murdered; shot through the head by some unknown person while
sitting at his library table.”
“Shot! murdered!” I could scarcely believe my ears.
“How? when?” I gasped.
“Last night. At least, so we suppose. He was not found till this
morning. I am Mr. Leavenworth’s private secretary,” he explained,
“and live in the family. It was a dreadful shock,” he went on,
“especially to the ladies.”
“Dreadful!” I repeated. “Mr. Veeley will be overwhelmed by it.”
“They are all alone,” he continued in a low business-like way
I afterwards found to be inseparable from the man; “the Misses
Leavenworth, I mean--Mr. Leavenworth’s nieces; and as an inquest
is to be held there to-day it is deemed proper for them to have
some one present capable of advising them. As Mr. Veeley was their
uncle’s best friend, they naturally sent me for him; but he being
absent I am at a loss what to do or where to go.”
“I am a stranger to the ladies,” was my hesitating reply, “but if
I can be of any assistance to them, my respect for their uncle is
such----”
The expression of the secretary’s eye stopped me. Without seeming
to wander from my face, its pupil had suddenly dilated till it
appeared to embrace my whole person with its scope.
“I don’t know,” he finally remarked, a slight frown, testifying to
the fact that he was not altogether pleased with the turn affairs
were taking. “Perhaps it would be best. The ladies must not be left
alone----”
“Say no more; I will go.” And, sitting down, I despatched a hurried
message to Mr. Veeley, after which, and the few other preparations
necessary, I accompanied the secretary to the street.
“Now,” said I, “tell me all you know of this frightful affair.”
“All I know? A few words will do that. I left him last night
sitting as usual at his library table, and found him this morning,
seated in the same place, almost in the same position, but with a
bullet-hole in his head as large as the end of my little finger.”
“Dead?”
“Stone-dead.”
“Horrible!” I exclaimed. Then, after a moment, “Could it have been
a suicide?”
“No. The pistol with which the deed was committed is not to be
found.”
“But if it was a murder, there must have been some motive. Mr.
Leavenworth was too benevolent a man to have enemies, and if
robbery was intended----”
“There was no robbery. There is nothing missing,” he again
interrupted. “The whole affair is a mystery.”
“A mystery?”
“An utter mystery.”
Turning, I looked at my informant curiously. The inmate of a house
in which a mysterious murder had occurred was rather an interesting
object. But the good-featured and yet totally unimpressive
countenance of the man beside me offered but little basis for
even the wildest imagination to work upon, and, glancing almost
immediately away, I asked:
“Are the ladies very much overcome?”
He took at least a half-dozen steps before replying.
“It would be unnatural if they were not.” And whether it was
the expression of his face at the time, or the nature of the
reply itself, I felt that in speaking of these ladies to
this uninteresting, self-possessed secretary of the late Mr.
Leavenworth, I was somehow treading upon dangerous ground. As I
had heard they were very accomplished women, I was not altogether
pleased at this discovery. It was, therefore, with a certain
consciousness of relief I saw a Fifth Avenue stage approach.
“We will defer our conversation,” said I. “Here’s the stage.”
But, once seated within it, we soon discovered that all intercourse
upon such a subject was impossible. Employing the time, therefore,
in running over in my mind what I knew of Mr. Leavenworth, I found
that my knowledge was limited to the bare fact of his being a
retired merchant of great wealth and fine social position who, in
default of possessing children of his own, had taken into his home
two nieces, one of whom had already been declared his heiress. To
be sure, I had heard Mr. Veeley speak of his eccentricities, giving
as an instance this very fact of his making a will in favor of
one niece to the utter exclusion of the other; but of his habits
of life and connection with the world at large, I knew little or
nothing.
There was a great crowd in front of the house when we arrived
there, and I had barely time to observe that it was a corner
dwelling of unusual depth when I was seized by the throng and
carried quite to the foot of the broad stone steps. Extricating
myself, though with some difficulty, owing to the importunities of
a bootblack and butcher-boy, who seemed to think that by clinging
to my arms they might succeed in smuggling themselves into the
house, I mounted the steps and, finding the secretary, by some
unaccountable good fortune, close to my side, hurriedly rang the
bell. Immediately the door opened, and a face I recognized as that
of one of our city detectives appeared in the gap.
“Mr. Gryce!” I exclaimed.
“The same,” he replied. “Come in, Mr. Raymond.” And drawing us
quietly into the house, he shut the door with a grim smile on the
disappointed crowd without. “I trust you are not surprised to see
me here,” said he, holding out his hand, with a side glance at my
companion.
“No,” I returned. Then, with a vague idea that I ought to
introduce the young man at my side, continued: “This is Mr.
----, Mr. ----,--excuse me, but I do not know your name,” I said
inquiringly to my companion. “The private secretary of the late Mr.
Leavenworth,” I hastened to add.
“Oh,” he returned, “the secretary! The coroner has been asking for
you, sir.”
“The coroner is here, then?”
“Yes; the jury have just gone up-stairs to view the body; would you
like to follow them?”
“No, it is not necessary. I have merely come in the hope of being
of some assistance to the young ladies. Mr. Veeley is away.”
“And you thought the opportunity too good to be lost,” he went on;
“just so. Still, now that you are here, and as the case promises to
be a marked one, I should think that, as a rising young lawyer, you
would wish to make yourself acquainted with it in all its details.
But follow your own judgment.”
I made an effort and overcame my repugnance. “I will go,” said I.
“Very well, then, follow me.”
But just as I set foot on the stairs I heard the jury descending,
so, drawing back with Mr. Gryce into a recess between the reception
room and the parlor, I had time to remark:
“The young man says it could not have been the work of a burglar.”
“Indeed!” fixing his eye on a door-knob near by.
“That nothing has been found missing--”
“And that the fastenings to the house were all found secure this
morning; just so.”
“He did not tell me that. In that case”--and I shuddered--“the
murderer must have been in the house all night.”
Mr. Gryce smiled darkly at the door-knob.
“It has a dreadful look!” I exclaimed.
Mr. Gryce immediately frowned at the door-knob.
And here let me say that Mr. Gryce, the detective, was not the
thin, wiry individual with the piercing eye you are doubtless
expecting to see. On the contrary, Mr. Gryce was a portly,
comfortable personage with an eye that never pierced, that did not
even rest on _you_. If it rested anywhere, it was always on some
insignificant object in the vicinity, some vase, inkstand, book,
or button. These things he would seem to take into his confidence,
make the repositories of his conclusions; but as for you--you might
as well be the steeple on Trinity Church, for all connection you
ever appeared to have with him or his thoughts. At present, then,
Mr. Gryce was, as I have already suggested, on intimate terms with
the door-knob.
“A dreadful look,” I repeated.
His eye shifted to the button on my sleeve.
“Come,” he said, “the coast is clear at last.”
Leading the way, he mounted the stairs, but stopped on the upper
landing. “Mr. Raymond,” said he, “I am not in the habit of
talking much about the secrets of my profession, but in this case
everything depends upon getting the right clue at the start. We
have no common villainy to deal with here; genius has been at work.
Now sometimes an absolutely uninitiated mind will intuitively catch
at something which the most highly trained intellect will miss.
If such a thing should occur, remember that I am your man. Don’t
go round talking, but come to me. For this is going to be a great
case, mind you, a great case. Now, come on.”
“But the ladies?”
“They are in the rooms above; in grief, of course, but tolerably
composed for all that, I hear.” And advancing to a door, he pushed
it open and beckoned me in.
All was dark for a moment, but presently, my eyes becoming
accustomed to the place, I saw that we were in the library.
“It was here he was found,” said he; “in this room and upon this
very spot.” And advancing, he laid his hand on the end of a large
baize-covered table that, together with its attendant chairs,
occupied the centre of the room. “You see for yourself that it is
directly opposite this door,” and, crossing the floor, he paused
in front of the threshold of a narrow passageway, opening into a
room beyond.[A] “As the murdered man was discovered sitting in
this chair, and consequently with his back towards the passageway,
the assassin must have advanced through the doorway to deliver his
shot, pausing, let us say, about here.” And Mr. Gryce planted his
feet firmly upon a certain spot in the carpet, about a foot from
the threshold before mentioned.
“But--” I hastened to interpose.
“There is no room for ‘but,’” he cried. “We have studied the
situation.” And without deigning to dilate upon the subject, he
turned immediately about and, stepping swiftly before me, led the
way into the passage named. “Wine closet, clothes closet, washing
apparatus, towel-rack,” he explained, waving his hand from side
to side as we hurried through, finishing with “Mr. Leavenworth’s
private apartment,” as that room of comfortable aspect opened upon
us.
Mr. Leavenworth’s private apartment! It was here then that _it_
ought to be, the horrible, blood-curdling _it_ that yesterday was
a living, breathing man. Advancing to the bed that was hung with
heavy curtains, I raised my hand to put them back, when Mr. Gryce,
drawing them from my clasp, disclosed lying upon the pillow a cold,
calm face looking so natural I involuntarily started.
“His death was too sudden to distort the features,” he remarked,
turning the head to one side in a way to make visible a ghastly
wound in the back of the cranium. “Such a hole as that sends a man
out of the world without much notice. The surgeon will convince
you it could never have been inflicted by himself. It is a case of
deliberate murder.”
Horrified, I drew hastily back, when my glance fell upon a door
situated directly opposite me in the side of the wall towards the
hall. It appeared to be the only outlet from the room, with the
exception of the passage through which we had entered, and I could
not help wondering if it was through this door the assassin had
entered on his roundabout course to the library. But Mr. Gryce,
seemingly observant of my glance, though his own was fixed upon the
chandelier, made haste to remark, as if in reply to the inquiry in
my face:
“Found locked on the inside; may have come that way and may not; we
don’t pretend to say.”
Observing now that the bed was undisturbed in its arrangement, I
remarked, “He had not retired, then?”
“No; the tragedy must be ten hours old. Time for the murderer to
have studied the situation and provided for all contingencies.”
“The murderer? Whom do you suspect?” I whispered.
He looked impassively at the ring on my finger.
“Every one and nobody. It is not for me to suspect, but to detect.”
And dropping the curtain into its former position he led me from
the room.
The coroner’s inquest being now in session, I felt a strong desire
to be present, so, requesting Mr. Gryce to inform the ladies
that Mr. Veeley was absent from town, and that I had come as his
substitute, to render them any assistance they might require on so
melancholy an occasion, I proceeded to the large parlor below, and
took my seat among the various persons there assembled.
FOOTNOTE:
[A] For those who are interested in the details of this affair, the
following diagram is given:
[Illustration: 1. Library table. 2. Chair. 3. Passageway. 4. Bed.
5. Shaving stand.]
II. THE CORONER’S INQUEST
“The baby figure of the giant mass
Of things to come.”
Troilus and Cressida.
For a few minutes I sat dazed by the sudden flood of light greeting
me from the many open windows; then, as the strongly contrasting
features of the scene before me began to impress themselves upon my
consciousness, I found myself experiencing something of the same
sensation of double personality which years before had followed an
enforced use of ether. As at that time, I appeared to be living
two lives at once: in two distinct places, with two separate sets
of incidents going on; so now I seemed to be divided between two
irreconcilable trains of thought; the gorgeous house, its elaborate
furnishing, the little glimpses of yesterday’s life, as seen in the
open piano, with its sheet of music held in place by a lady’s fan,
occupying my attention fully as much as the aspect of the throng of
incongruous and impatient people huddled about me.
Perhaps one reason of this lay in the extraordinary splendor of
the room I was in; the glow of satin, glitter of bronze, and
glimmer of marble meeting the eye at every turn. But I am rather
inclined to think it was mainly due to the force and eloquence of a
certain picture which confronted me from the opposite wall. A sweet
picture--sweet enough and poetic enough to have been conceived
by the most idealistic of artists: simple, too--the vision of a
young flaxen-haired, blue-eyed coquette, dressed in the costume of
the First Empire, standing in a wood-path, looking back over her
shoulder at some one following--yet with such a dash of something
not altogether saint-like in the corners of her meek eyes and
baby-like lips, that it impressed me with the individuality of
life. Had it not been for the open dress, with its waist almost
beneath the armpits, the hair cut short on the forehead, and the
perfection of the neck and shoulders, I should have taken it
for a literal portrait of one of the ladies of the house. As it
was, I could not rid myself of the idea that one, if not both,
of Mr. Leavenworth’s nieces looked down upon me from the eyes of
this entrancing blonde with the beckoning glance and forbidding
hand. So vividly did this fancy impress me that I half shuddered
as I looked, wondering if this sweet creature did not know what
had occurred in this house since the happy yesterday; and if so,
how she could stand there smiling so invitingly,--when suddenly
I became aware that I had been watching the little crowd of men
about me with as complete an absorption as if nothing else in the
room had attracted my attention; that the face of the coroner,
sternly intelligent and attentive, was as distinctly imprinted
upon my mind as that of this lovely picture, or the clearer-cut
and more noble features of the sculptured Psyche, shining in
mellow beauty from the crimson-hung window at his right; yes, even
that the various countenances of the jurymen clustered before me,
commonplace and insignificant as most of them were; the trembling
forms of the excited servants crowded into a far corner; and the
still more disagreeable aspect of the pale-faced, seedy reporter,
seated at a small table and writing with a ghoul-like avidity that
made my flesh creep, were each and all as fixed an element in the
remarkable scene before me as the splendor of the surroundings
which made their presence such a nightmare of discord and unreality.
I have spoken of the coroner. As fortune would have it, he was
no stranger to me. I had not only seen him before, but had held
frequent conversation with him; in fact, knew him. His name was
Hammond, and he was universally regarded as a man of more than
ordinary acuteness, fully capable of conducting an important
examination, with the necessary skill and address. Interested as
I was, or rather was likely to be, in this particular inquiry, I
could not but congratulate myself upon our good fortune in having
so intelligent a coroner.
As for his jurymen, they were, as I have intimated, very much like
all other bodies of a similar character. Picked up at random from
the streets, but from such streets as the Fifth and Sixth Avenues,
they presented much the same appearance of average intelligence and
refinement as might be seen in the chance occupants of one of our
city stages. Indeed, I marked but one amongst them all who seemed
to take any interest in the inquiry as an inquiry; all the rest
appearing to be actuated in the fulfilment of their duty by the
commoner instincts of pity and indignation.
Dr. Maynard, the well-known surgeon of Thirty-sixth Street, was
the first witness called. His testimony concerned the nature of
the wound found in the murdered man’s head. As some of the facts
presented by him are likely to prove of importance to us in our
narrative, I will proceed to give a synopsis of what he said.
Prefacing his remarks with some account of himself, and the
manner in which he had been summoned to the house by one of the
servants, he went on to state that, upon his arrival, he found
the deceased lying on a bed in the second-story front room, with
the blood clotted about a pistol-wound in the back of the head;
having evidently been carried there from the adjoining apartment
some hours after death. It was the only wound discovered on the
body, and having probed it, he had found and extracted the bullet
which he now handed to the jury. It was lying in the brain, having
entered at the base of the skull, passed obliquely upward, and
at once struck the _medulla oblongata_, causing instant death.
The fact of the ball having entered the brain in this peculiar
manner he deemed worthy of note, since it would produce not only
instantaneous death, but an utterly motionless one. Further, from
the position of the bullet-hole and the direction taken by the
bullet, it was manifestly impossible that the shot should have been
fired by the man himself, even if the condition of the hair about
the wound did not completely demonstrate the fact that the shot was
fired from a point some three or four feet distant. Still further,
considering the angle at which the bullet had entered the skull,
it was evident that the deceased must not only have been seated
at the time, a fact about which there could be no dispute, but he
must also have been engaged in some occupation which drew his head
forward. For, in order that a ball should enter the head of a man
sitting erect at the angle seen here, of 45 degrees, it would be
necessary, not only for the pistol to be held very low down, but in
a peculiar position; while if the head had been bent forward, as in
the act of writing, a man holding a pistol naturally with the elbow
bent, might very easily fire a ball into the brain at the angle
observed.
Upon being questioned in regard to the bodily health of Mr.
Leavenworth, he replied that the deceased appeared to have been
in good condition at the time of his death, but that, not being
his attendant physician, he could not speak conclusively upon
the subject without further examination; and, to the remark of
a juryman, observed that he had not seen pistol or weapon lying
upon the floor, or, indeed, anywhere else in either of the
above-mentioned rooms.
I might as well add here what he afterwards stated, that from the
position of the table, the chair, and the door behind it, the
murderer, in order to satisfy all the conditions imposed by the
situation, must have stood upon, or just within, the threshold of
the passageway leading into the room beyond. Also, that as the ball
was small, and from a rifled barrel, and thus especially liable
to deflections while passing through bones and integuments, it
seemed to him evident that the victim had made no effort to raise
or turn his head when advanced upon by his destroyer; the fearful
conclusion being that the footstep was an accustomed one, and the
presence of its possessor in the room either known or expected.
The physician’s testimony being ended, the coroner picked up the
bullet which had been laid on the table before him, and for a
moment rolled it contemplatively between his fingers; then, drawing
a pencil from his pocket, hastily scrawled a line or two on a
piece of paper and, calling an officer to his side, delivered some
command in a low tone. The officer, taking up the slip, looked at
it for an instant knowingly, then catching up his hat left the
room. Another moment, and the front door closed on him, and a wild
halloo from the crowd of urchins without told of his appearance in
the street. Sitting where I did, I had a full view of the corner.
Looking out, I saw the officer stop there, hail a cab, hastily
enter it, and disappear in the direction of Broadway.
III. FACTS AND DEDUCTIONS
“Confusion now hath made his master-piece;
Most sacrilegious murder hath broke ope
The Lord’s anointed temple, and stolen thence
The life of the building.”
Macbeth.
Turning my attention back into the room where I was, I found the
coroner consulting a memorandum through a very impressive pair of
gold eye-glasses.
“Is the butler here?” he asked.
Immediately there was a stir among the group of servants in the
corner, and an intelligent-looking, though somewhat pompous,
Irishman stepped out from their midst and confronted the jury.
“Ah,” thought I to myself, as my glance encountered his precise
whiskers, steady eye, and respectfully attentive, though by no
means humble, expression, “here is a model servant, who is likely
to prove a model witness.” And I was not mistaken; Thomas, the
butler, was in all respects one in a thousand--and he knew it.
The coroner, upon whom, as upon all others in the room, he seemed
to have made the like favorable impression, proceeded without
hesitation to interrogate him.
“Your name, I am told, is Thomas Dougherty?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, Thomas, how long have you been employed in your present
situation?”
“It must be a matter of two years now, sir.”
“You are the person who first discovered the body of Mr.
Leavenworth?”
“Yes, sir; I and Mr. Harwell.”
“And who is Mr. Harwell?”
“Mr. Harwell is Mr. Leavenworth’s private secretary, sir; the one
who did his writing.”
“Very good. Now at what time of the day or night did you make this
discovery?”
“It was early, sir; early this morning, about eight.”
“And where?”
“In the library, sir, off Mr. Leavenworth’s bedroom. We had forced
our way in, feeling anxious about his not coming to breakfast.”
“You forced your way in; the door was locked, then?”
“Yes, sir.”
“On the inside?”
“That I cannot tell; there was no key in the door.”
“Where was Mr. Leavenworth lying when you first found him?”
“He was not lying, sir. He was seated at the large table in the
centre of his room, his back to the bedroom door, leaning forward,
his head on his hands.”
“How was he dressed?”
“In his dinner suit, sir, just as he came from the table last
night.”
“Were there any evidences in the room that a struggle had taken
place?”
“No, sir.”
“Any pistol on the floor or table?”
“No, sir?”
“Any reason to suppose that robbery had been attempted?”
“No, sir. Mr. Leavenworth’s watch and purse were both in his
pockets.”
Being asked to mention who were in the house at the time of the
discovery, he replied, “The young ladies, Miss Mary Leavenworth
and Miss Eleanore, Mr. Harwell, Kate the cook, Molly the up-stairs
girl, and myself.”
“The usual members of the household?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now tell me whose duty it is to close up the house at night.”
“Mine, sir.”
“Did you secure it as usual, last night?”
“I did, sir.”
“Who unfastened it this morning?”
“I, sir.”
“How did you find it?”
“Just as I left it.”
“What, not a window open nor a door unlocked?”
“No, sir.”
By this time you could have heard a pin drop. The certainty that
the murderer, whoever he was, had not left the house, at least
till after it was opened in the morning, seemed to weigh upon all
minds. Forewarned as I had been of the fact, I could not but feel
a certain degree of emotion at having it thus brought before me;
and, moving so as to bring the butler’s face within view, searched
it for some secret token that he had spoken thus emphatically in
order to cover up some failure of duty on his own part. But it was
unmoved in its candor, and sustained the concentrated gaze of all
in the room like a rock.
Being now asked when he had last seen Mr. Leavenworth alive, he
replied, “At dinner last night.”
“He was, however, seen later by some of you?”
“Yes, sir; Mr. Harwell says he saw him as late as half-past ten in
the evening.”
“What room do you occupy in this house?”
“A little one on the basement floor.”
“And where do the other members of the household sleep?”
“Mostly on the third floor, sir; the ladies in the large back
rooms, and Mr. Harwell in the little one in front. The girls sleep
above.”
“There was no one on the same floor with Mr. Leavenworth?”
“No, sir.”
“At what hour did you go to bed?”
“Well, I should say about eleven.”
“Did you hear any noise in the house either before or after that
time, that you remember?”
“No, sir.”
“So that the discovery you made this morning was a surprise to you?”
“Yes, sir.”
Requested now to give a more detailed account of that discovery,
he went on to say it was not till Mr. Leavenworth failed to come
to his breakfast at the call of the bell that any suspicion arose
in the house that all was not right. Even then they waited some
little time before doing anything, but as minute after minute went
by and he did not come, Miss Eleanore grew anxious, and finally
left the room saying she would go and see what was the matter, but
soon returned looking very much frightened, saying she had knocked
at her uncle’s door, and had even called to him, but could get no
answer. At which Mr. Harwell and himself had gone up and together
tried both doors, and, finding them locked, burst open that of the
library, when they came upon Mr. Leavenworth, as he had already
said, sitting at the table, dead.
“And the ladies?”
“Oh, they followed us up and came into the room and Miss Eleanore
fainted away.”
“And the other one,--Miss Mary, I believe they call her?”
“I don’t remember anything about her; I was so busy fetching water
to restore Miss Eleanore, I didn’t notice.”
“Well, how long was it before Mr. Leavenworth was carried into the
next room?”
“Almost immediate, as soon as Miss Eleanore recovered, and that was
as soon as ever the water touched her lips.”
“Who proposed that the body should be carried from the spot?”
“She, sir. As soon as ever she stood up she went over to it and
looked at it and shuddered, and then calling Mr. Harwell and me,
bade us carry him in and lay him on the bed and go for the doctor,
which we did.”
“Wait a moment; did she go with you when you went into the other
room?”
“No, sir.”
“What did she do?”
“She stayed by the library table.”
“What doing?”
“I couldn’t see; her back was to me.”
“How long did she stay there?”
“She was gone when we came back.”
“Gone from the table?”
“Gone from the room.”
“Humph! when did you see her again?”
“In a minute. She came in at the library door as we went out.”
“Anything in her hand?”
“Not as I see.”
“Did you miss anything from the table?”
“I never thought to look, sir. The table was nothing to me. I was
only thinking of going for the doctor, though I knew it was of no
use.”
“Whom did you leave in the room when you went out?”
“The cook, sir, and Molly, sir, and Miss Eleanore.”
“Not Miss Mary?”
“No, sir.”
“Very well. Have the jury any questions to put to this man?”
A movement at once took place in that profound body.
“I should like to ask a few,” exclaimed a weazen-faced, excitable
little man whom I had before noticed shifting in his seat in a
restless manner strongly suggestive of an intense but hitherto
repressed desire to interrupt the proceedings.
“Very well, sir,” returned Thomas.
But the juryman stopping to draw a deep breath, a large and
decidedly pompous man who sat at his right hand seized the
opportunity to inquire in a round, listen-to-me sort of voice:
“You say you have been in the family for two years. Was it what you
might call a united family?”
“United?”
“Affectionate, you know,--on good terms with each other.” And the
juryman lifted the very long and heavy watch-chain that hung across
his vest as if that as well as himself had a right to a suitable
and well-considered reply.
The butler, impressed perhaps by his manner, glanced uneasily
around. “Yes, sir, so far as I know.”
“The young ladies were attached to their uncle?”
“O yes, sir.”
“And to each other?”
“Well, yes, I suppose so; it’s not for me to say.”
“You suppose so. Have you any reason to think otherwise?” And he
doubled the watch-chain about his fingers as if he would double its
attention as well as his own.
Thomas hesitated a moment. But just as his interlocutor was about
to repeat his question, he drew himself up into a rather stiff and
formal attitude and replied:
“Well, sir, no.”
The juryman, for all his self-assertion, seemed to respect the
reticence of a servant who declined to give his opinion in regard
to such a matter, and drawing complacently back, signified with a
wave of his hand that he had no more to say.
Immediately the excitable little man, before mentioned, slipped
forward to the edge of his chair and asked, this time without
hesitation: “At what time did you unfasten the house this morning?”
“About six, sir.”
“Now, could any one leave the house after that time without your
knowledge?”
Thomas glanced a trifle uneasily at his fellow-servants, but
answered up promptly and as if without reserve:
“I don’t think it would be possible for anybody to leave this
house after six in the morning without either myself or the cook’s
knowing of it. Folks don’t jump from second-story windows in broad
daylight, and as to leaving by the doors, the front door closes
with such a slam all the house can hear it from top to bottom, and
as for the back-door, no one that goes out of that can get clear of
the yard without going by the kitchen window, and no one can go by
our kitchen window without the cook’s a-seeing of them, that I can
just swear to.” And he cast a half-quizzing, half-malicious look at
the round, red-faced individual in question, strongly suggestive
of late and unforgotten bickerings over the kitchen coffee-urn and
castor.
This reply, which was of a nature calculated to deepen the
forebodings which had already settled upon the minds of those
present, produced a visible effect. The house found locked, and no
one seen to leave it! Evidently, then, we had not far to look for
the assassin.
Shifting on his chair with increased fervor, if I may so speak,
the juryman glanced sharply around. But perceiving the renewed
interest in the faces about him, declined to weaken the effect of
the last admission, by any further questions. Settling, therefore,
comfortably back, he left the field open for any other juror who
might choose to press the inquiry. But no one seeming to be ready
to do this, Thomas in his turn evinced impatience, and at last,
looking respectfully around, inquired:
“Would any other gentleman like to ask me anything?”
No one replying, he threw a hurried glance of relief towards the
servants at his side, then, while each one marvelled at the sudden
change that had taken place in his countenance, withdrew with an
eager alacrity and evident satisfaction for which I could not at
the moment account.
But the next witness proving to be none other than my acquaintance
of the morning, Mr. Harwell, I soon forgot both Thomas and the
doubts his last movement had awakened, in the interest which
the examination of so important a person as the secretary and
right-hand man of Mr. Leavenworth was likely to create.
Advancing with the calm and determined air of one who realized
that life and death itself might hang upon his words, Mr. Harwell
took his stand before the jury with a degree of dignity not only
highly prepossessing in itself, but to me, who had not been over
and above pleased with him in our first interview, admirable and
surprising. Lacking, as I have said, any distinctive quality of
face or form agreeable or otherwise--being what you might call in
appearance a negative sort of person, his pale, regular features,
dark, well-smoothed hair and simple whiskers, all belonging to a
recognized type and very commonplace--there was still visible, on
this occasion at least, a certain self-possession in his carriage,
which went far towards making up for the want of impressiveness in
his countenance and expression. Not that even this was in any way
remarkable. Indeed, there was nothing remarkable about the man, any
more than there is about a thousand others you meet every day on
Broadway, unless you except the look of concentration and solemnity
which pervaded his whole person; a solemnity which at this time
would not have been noticeable, perhaps, if it had not appeared to
be the habitual expression of one who in his short life had seen
more of sorrow than joy, less of pleasure than care and anxiety.
The coroner, to whom his appearance one way or the other seemed to
be a matter of no moment, addressed him immediately and without
reserve:
“Your name?”
“James Trueman Harwell.”
“Your business?”
“I have occupied the position of private secretary and amanuensis
to Mr. Leavenworth for the past eight months.”
“You are the person who last saw Mr. Leavenworth alive, are you
not?”
The young man raised his head with a haughty gesture which
well-nigh transfigured it.
“Certainly not, as I am not the man who killed him.”
This answer, which seemed to introduce something akin to levity or
badinage into an examination the seriousness of which we were all
beginning to realize, produced an immediate revulsion of feeling
toward the man who, in face of facts revealed and to be revealed,
could so lightly make use of it. A hum of disapproval swept through
the room, and in that one remark, James Harwell lost all that he
had previously won by the self-possession of his bearing and the
unflinching regard of his eye. He seemed himself to realize this,
for he lifted his head still higher, though his general aspect
remained unchanged.
“I mean,” the coroner exclaimed, evidently nettled that the young
man had been able to draw such a conclusion from his words, “that
you were the last one to see him previous to his assassination by
some unknown individual?”
The secretary folded his arms, whether to hide a certain tremble
which had seized him, or by that simple action to gain time for a
moment’s further thought, I could not then determine. “Sir,” he
replied at length, “I cannot answer yes or no to that question.
In all probability I was the last to see him in good health and
spirits, but in a house as large as this I cannot be sure of even
so simple a fact as that.” Then, observing the unsatisfied look on
the faces around, added slowly, “It is my business to see him late.”
“Your business? Oh, as his secretary, I suppose?”
He gravely nodded.
“Mr. Harwell,” the coroner went on, “the office of private
secretary in this country is not a common one. Will you explain to
us what your duties were in that capacity; in short, what use Mr.
Leavenworth had for such an assistant and how he employed you?”
“Certainly. Mr. Leavenworth was, as you perhaps know, a man
of great wealth. Connected with various societies, clubs,
institutions, etc., besides being known far and near as a giving
man, he was accustomed every day of his life to receive numerous
letters, begging and otherwise, which it was my business to open
and answer, his private correspondence always bearing a mark upon
it which distinguished it from the rest. But this was not all I
was expected to do. Having in his early life been engaged in the
tea-trade, he had made more than one voyage to China, and was
consequently much interested in the question of international
communication between that country and our own. Thinking that in
his various visits there, he had learned much which, if known to
the American people, would conduce to our better understanding
of the nation, its peculiarities, and the best manner of dealing
with it, he has been engaged for some time in writing a book on
the subject, which same it has been my business for the last eight
months to assist him in preparing, by writing at his dictation
three hours out of the twenty-four, the last hour being commonly
taken from the evening, say from half-past nine to half-past
ten, Mr. Leavenworth being a very methodical man and accustomed
to regulate his own life and that of those about him with almost
mathematical precision.”
“You say you were accustomed to write at his dictation evenings?
Did you do this as usual last evening?”
“I did, sir.”
“What can you tell us of his manner and appearance at the time?
Were they in any way unusual?”
A frown crossed the secretary’s brow.
“As he probably had no premonition of his doom, why should there
have been any change in his manner?”
This giving the coroner an opportunity to revenge himself for his
discomfiture of a moment before, he said somewhat severely:
“It is the business of a witness to answer questions, not to put
them.”
The secretary flushed and the account stood even.
“Very well, then, sir; if Mr. Leavenworth felt any forebodings of
his end, he did not reveal them to me. On the contrary, he seemed
to be more absorbed in his work than usual. One of the last words
he said to me was, ‘In a month we will have this book in press,
eh, Trueman?’ I remember this particularly, as he was filling his
wineglass at the time. He always drank one glass of wine before
retiring, it being my duty to bring the decanter of sherry from
the closet the last thing before leaving him. I was standing with
my hand on the knob of the hall-door, but advanced as he said this
and replied, ‘I hope so, indeed, Mr. Leavenworth.’ ‘Then join me
in drinking a glass of sherry,’ said he, motioning me to procure
another glass from the closet. I did so, and he poured me out the
wine with his own hand. I am not especially fond of sherry, but
the occasion was a pleasant one and I drained my glass. I remember
being slightly ashamed of doing so, for Mr. Leavenworth set his
down half full. It was half full when we found him this morning.”
Do what he would, and being a reserved man he appeared anxious
to control his emotion, the horror of his first shock seemed to
overwhelm him here. Pulling his handkerchief from his pocket, he
wiped his forehead. “Gentlemen, that is the last action of Mr.
Leavenworth I ever saw. As he set the glass down on the table, I
said good-night to him and left the room.”
The coroner, with a characteristic imperviousness to all
expressions of emotion, leaned back and surveyed the young man with
a scrutinizing glance. “And where did you go then?” he asked.
“To my own room.”
“Did you meet anybody on the way?”
“No, sir.”
“Hear any thing or see anything unusual?”
The secretary’s voice fell a trifle. “No, sir.”
“Mr. Harwell, think again. Are you ready to swear that you neither
met anybody, heard anybody, nor saw anything which lingers yet in
your memory as unusual?”
His face grew quite distressed. Twice he opened his lips to speak,
and as often closed them without doing so. At last, with an effort,
he replied:
“I saw one thing, a little thing, too slight to mention, but it was
unusual, and I could not help thinking of it when you spoke.”
“What was it?”
“Only a door half open.”
“Whose door?”
“Miss Eleanore Leavenworth’s.” His voice was almost a whisper now.
“Where were you when you observed this fact?”
“I cannot say exactly. Probably at my own door, as I did not stop
on the way. If this frightful occurrence had not taken place I
should never have thought of it again.”
“When you went into your room did you close your door?”
“I did, sir.”
“How soon did you retire?”
“Immediately.”
“Did you hear nothing before you fell asleep?”
Again that indefinable hesitation.
“Barely nothing.”
“Not a footstep in the hall?”
“I might have heard a footstep.”
“Did you?”
“I cannot swear I did.”
“Do you think you did?”
“Yes, I think I did. To tell the whole: I remember hearing, just as
I was falling into a doze, a rustle and a footstep in the hall; but
it made no impression upon me, and I dropped asleep.”
“Well?”
“Some time later I woke, woke suddenly, as if something had
startled me, but what, a noise or move, I cannot say. I remember
rising up in my bed and looking around, but hearing nothing
further, soon yielded to the drowsiness which possessed me and fell
into a deep sleep. I did not wake again till morning.”
Here requested to relate how and when he became acquainted with
the fact of the murder, he substantiated, in all particulars, the
account of the matter already given by the butler; which subject
being exhausted, the coroner went on to ask if he had noted the
condition of the library table after the body had been removed.
“Somewhat; yes, sir.”
“What was on it?”
“The usual properties, sir, books, paper, a pen with the ink dried
on it, besides the decanter and the wineglass from which he drank
the night before.”
“Nothing more?”
“I remember nothing more.”
“In regard to that decanter and glass,” broke in the juryman of
the watch and chain, “did you not say that the latter was found in
the same condition in which you saw it at the time you left Mr.
Leavenworth sitting in his library?”
“Yes, sir, very much.”
“Yet he was in the habit of drinking a full glass?”
“Yes, sir.”
“An interruption must then have ensued very close upon your
departure, Mr. Harwell.”
A cold bluish pallor suddenly broke out upon the young man’s face.
He started, and for a moment looked as if struck by some horrible
thought. “That does not follow, sir,” he articulated with some
difficulty. “Mr. Leavenworth might--” but suddenly stopped, as if
too much distressed to proceed.
“Go on, Mr. Harwell, let us hear what you have to say.”
“There is nothing,” he returned faintly, as if battling with some
strong emotion.
As he had not been answering a question, only volunteering an
explanation, the coroner let it pass; but I saw more than one pair
of eyes roll suspiciously from side to side, as if many there felt
that some sort of clue had been offered them in this man’s emotion.
The coroner, ignoring in his easy way both the emotion and the
universal excitement it had produced, now proceeded to ask: “Do you
know whether the key to the library was in its place when you left
the room last night?”
“No, sir; I did not notice.”
“The presumption is, it was?”
“I suppose so.”
“At all events, the door was locked in the morning, and the key
gone?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then whoever committed this murder locked the door on passing out,
and took away the key?”
“It would seem so.”
The coroner turning, faced the jury with an earnest look.
“Gentlemen,” said he, “there seems to be a mystery in regard to
this key which must be looked into.”
Immediately a universal murmur swept through the room, testifying
to the acquiescence of all present. The little juryman hastily
rising proposed that an instant search should be made for it; but
the coroner, turning upon him with what I should denominate as a
quelling look, decided that the inquest should proceed in the usual
manner, till the verbal testimony was all in.
“Then allow me to ask a question,” again volunteered the
irrepressible. “Mr. Harwell, we are told that upon the breaking
in of the library door this morning, Mr. Leavenworth’s two nieces
followed you into the room.”
“One of them, sir, Miss Eleanore.”
“Is Miss Eleanore the one who is said to be Mr. Leavenworth’s sole
heiress?” the coroner here interposed.
“No, sir, that is Miss Mary.”
“That she gave orders,” pursued the juryman, “for the removal of
the body into the further room?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And that you obeyed her by helping to carry it in?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now, in thus passing through the rooms, did you observe anything
to lead you to form a suspicion of the murderer?”
The secretary shook his head. “I have no suspicion,” he
emphatically said.
Somehow, I did not believe him. Whether it was the tone of his
voice, the clutch of his hand on his sleeve--and the hand will
often reveal more than the countenance--I felt that this man was
not to be relied upon in making this assertion.
“I should like to ask Mr. Harwell a question,” said a juryman
who had not yet spoken. “We have had a detailed account of what
looks like the discovery of a murdered man. Now, murder is never
committed without some motive. Does the secretary know whether Mr.
Leavenworth had any secret enemy?”
“I do not.”
“Every one in the house seemed to be on good terms with him?”
“Yes, sir,” with a little quaver of dissent in the assertion,
however.
“Not a shadow lay between him and any other member of his
household, so far as you know?”
“I am not ready to say that,” he returned, quite distressed. “A
shadow is a very slight thing. There might have been a shadow----”
“Between him and whom?”
A long hesitation. “One of his nieces, sir.”
“Which one?”
Again that defiant lift of the head. “Miss Eleanore.”
“How long has this shadow been observable?”
“I cannot say.”
“You do not know the cause?”
“I do not.”
“Nor the extent of the feeling?”
“No, sir.”
“You open Mr. Leavenworth’s letters?”
“I do.”
“Has there been anything in his correspondence of late calculated
to throw any light upon this deed?”
It actually seemed as if he never would answer. Was he simply
pondering over his reply, or was the man turned to stone?
“Mr. Harwell, did you hear the juryman?” inquired the coroner.
“Yes, sir; I was thinking.”
“Very well, now answer.”
“Sir,” he replied, turning and looking the juryman full in the
face, and in that way revealing his unguarded left hand to my gaze,
“I have opened Mr. Leavenworth’s letters as usual for the last two
weeks, and I can think of nothing in them bearing in the least upon
this tragedy.”
The man lied; I knew it instantly. The clenched hand pausing
irresolute, then making up its mind to go through with the lie
firmly, was enough for me.
“Mr. Harwell, this is undoubtedly true according to your judgment,”
said the coroner; “but Mr. Leavenworth’s correspondence will have
to be searched for all that.”
“Of course,” he replied carelessly; “that is only right.”
This remark ended Mr. Harwell’s examination for the time. As he sat
down I made note of four things.
That Mr. Harwell himself, for some reason not given, was conscious
of a suspicion which he was anxious to suppress even from his own
mind.
That a woman was in some way connected with it, a rustle as well as
a footstep having been heard by him on the stairs.
That a letter had arrived at the house, which if found would be
likely to throw some light upon this subject.
That Eleanore Leavenworth’s name came with difficulty from his
lips; this evidently unimpressible man, manifesting more or less
emotion whenever he was called upon to utter it.
IV. A CLUE.
“Something is rotten in the State of Denmark.”
Hamlet.
The cook of the establishment being now called, that portly,
ruddy-faced individual stepped forward with alacrity, displaying
upon her good-humored countenance such an expression of mingled
eagerness and anxiety that more than one person present found it
difficult to restrain a smile at her appearance. Observing this and
taking it as a compliment, being a woman as well as a cook, she
immediately dropped a curtsey, and opening her lips was about to
speak, when the coroner, rising impatiently in his seat, took the
word from her mouth by saying sternly:
“Your name?”
“Katherine Malone, sir.”
“Well, Katherine, how long have you been in Mr. Leavenworth’s
service?”
“Shure, it is a good twelvemonth now, sir, since I came, on Mrs.
Wilson’s ricommindation, to that very front door, and----”
“Never mind the front door, but tell us why you left this Mrs.
Wilson?”
“Shure, and it was she as left me, being as she went sailing to the
ould country the same day when on her recommendation I came to this
very front door--”
“Well, well; no matter about that. You have been in Mr.
Leavenworth’s family a year?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And liked it? found him a good master?”
“Och, sir, niver have I found a better, worse luck to the villain
as killed him. He was that free and ginerous, sir, that many’s
the time I killed him. He was that free and ginerous, sir, that
many’s the time I have said to Hannah--” She stopped, with a sudden
comical gasp of terror, looking at her fellow-servants like one who
had incautiously made a slip. The coroner, observing this, inquired
hastily:
“Hannah? Who is Hannah?”
The cook, drawing her roly-poly figure up into some sort of shape
in her efforts to appear unconcerned, exclaimed boldly: “She? Oh,
only the ladies’ maid, sir.”
“But I don’t see any one here answering to that description. You
didn’t speak of any one by the name of Hannah, as belonging to the
house,” said he, turning to Thomas.
“No, sir,” the latter replied, with a bow and a sidelong look at
the red-cheeked girl at his side. “You asked me who were in the
house at the time the murder was discovered, and I told you.”
“Oh,” cried the coroner, satirically; “used to police courts, I
see.” Then, turning back to the cook, who had all this while been
rolling her eyes in a vague fright about the room, inquired, “And
where is this Hannah?”
“Shure, sir, she’s gone.”
“How long since?”
The cook caught her breath hysterically. “Since last night.”
“What time last night?”
“Troth, sir, and I don’t know. I don’t know anything about it.”
“Was she dismissed?”
“Not as I knows on; her clothes is here.”
“Oh, her clothes are here. At what hour did you miss her?”
“I didn’t miss her. She was here last night, and she isn’t here
this morning, and so I says she’s gone.”
“Humph!” cried the coroner, casting a slow glance down the room,
while every one present looked as if a door had suddenly opened in
a closed wall.
“Where did this girl sleep?”
The cook, who had been fumbling uneasily with her apron, looked up.
“Shure, we all sleeps at the top of the house, sir.”
“In one room?”
Slowly. “Yes, sir.”
“Did she come up to the room last night?”
“Yes, sir.”
“At what hour?”
“Shure, it was ten when we all came up. I heard the clock
a-striking.”
“Did you observe anything unusual in her appearance?”
“She had a toothache, sir.”
“Oh, a toothache; what, then? Tell me all she did.”
But at this the cook broke into tears and wails.
“Shure, she didn’t do nothing, sir. It wasn’t her, sir, as did
anything; don’t you believe it. Hannah is a good girl, and honest,
sir, as ever you see. I am ready to swear on the Book as how she
never put her hand to the lock of his door. What should she for?
She only went down to Miss Eleanore for some toothache-drops, her
face was paining her that awful; and oh, sir----”
“There, there,” interrupted the coroner, “I am not accusing Hannah
of anything. I only asked you what she did after she reached your
room. She went down-stairs, you say. How long after you went up?”
“Troth, sir, I couldn’t tell; but Molly says----”
“Never mind what Molly says. _You_ didn’t see her go down?”
“No, sir.”
“Nor see her come back?”
“No, sir.”
“Nor see her this morning?”
“No, sir; how could I when she’s gone?”
“But you did see, last night, that she seemed to be suffering with
toothache?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well; now tell me how and when you first became acquainted
with the fact of Mr. Leavenworth’s death.”
But her replies to this question, while over-garrulous, contained
but little information; and seeing this, the coroner was on the
point of dismissing her, when the little juror, remembering an
admission she had made, of having seen Miss Eleanore Leavenworth
coming out of the library door a few minutes after Mr.
Leavenworth’s body had been carried into the next room, asked if
her mistress had anything in her hand at the time.
“I don’t know, sir. Faith!” she suddenly exclaimed, “I believe she
did have a piece of paper. I recollect, now, seeing her put it in
her pocket.”
The next witness was Molly, the up-stairs girl.
Molly O’Flanagan, as she called herself, was a rosy-cheeked,
black-haired, pert girl of about eighteen, who under ordinary
circumstances would have found herself able to answer, with a due
degree of smartness, any question which might have been addressed
to her. But fright will sometimes cower the stoutest heart, and
Molly, standing before the coroner at this juncture, presented
anything but a reckless appearance, her naturally rosy cheeks
blanching at the first word addressed to her, and her head falling
forward on her breast in a confusion too genuine to be dissembled
and too transparent to be misunderstood.
As her testimony related mostly to Hannah, and what she knew of
her, and her remarkable disappearance, I shall confine myself to a
mere synopsis of it.
As far as she, Molly, knew, Hannah was what she had given herself
out to be, an uneducated girl of Irish extraction, who had come
from the country to act as lady’s-maid and seamstress to the two
Misses Leavenworth. She had been in the family for some time;
before Molly herself, in fact; and though by nature remarkably
reticent, refusing to tell anything about herself or her past life,
she had managed to become a great favorite with all in the house.
But she was of a melancholy nature and fond of brooding, often
getting up nights to sit and think in the dark: “as if she was a
lady!” exclaimed Molly.
This habit being a singular one for a girl in her station, an
attempt was made to win from the witness further particulars in
regard to it. But Molly, with a toss of her head, confined herself
to the one statement. She used to get up nights and sit in the
window, and that was all she knew about it.
Drawn away from this topic, during the consideration of which, a
little of the sharpness of Molly’s disposition had asserted itself,
she went on to state, in connection with the events of the past
night, that Hannah had been ill for two days or more with a swelled
face; that it grew so bad after they had gone up-stairs, the night
before, that she got out of bed, and dressing herself--Molly was
closely questioned here, but insisted upon the fact that Hannah
had fully dressed herself, even to arranging her collar and
ribbon--lighted a candle, and made known her intention of going
down to Miss Eleanore for aid.
“Why Miss Eleanore?” a juryman here asked.
“Oh, she is the one who always gives out medicines and such like to
the servants.”
Urged to proceed, she went on to state that she had already told
all she knew about it. Hannah did not come back, nor was she to be
found in the house at breakfast time.
“You say she took a candle with her,” said the coroner. “Was it in
a candlestick?”
“No, sir; loose like.”
“Why did she take a candle? Does not Mr. Leavenworth burn gas in
his halls?”
“Yes, sir; but we put the gas out as we go up, and Hannah is afraid
of the dark.”
“If she took a candle, it must be lying somewhere about the house.
Now, has anybody seen a stray candle?”
“Not as I knows on, sir.”
“Is _this_ it?” exclaimed a voice over my shoulder.
It was Mr. Gryce, and he was holding up into view a half-burned
paraffine candle.
“Yes, sir; lor’, where did you find it?”
“In the grass of the carriage yard, half-way from the kitchen door
to the street,” he quietly returned.
Sensation. A clue, then, at last! Something had been found which
seemed to connect this mysterious murder with the outside world.
Instantly the back-door assumed the chief position of interest.
The candle found lying in the yard seemed to prove, not only that
Hannah had left the house shortly after descending from her room,
but had left it by the back-door, which we now remembered was only
a few steps from the iron gate opening into the side street. But
Thomas, being recalled, repeated his assertion that not only the
back-door, but all the lower windows of the house, had been found
by him securely locked and bolted at six o’clock that morning.
Inevitable conclusion--some one had locked and bolted them after
the girl. Who? Alas, that had now become the very serious and
momentous question.
V. EXPERT TESTIMONY
“And often-times, to win us to our harm,
The instruments of darkness tell us truths;
Win us with honest trifles, to betray us
In deepest consequence.”
Macbeth.
In the midst of the universal gloom thus awakened there came a
sharp ring at the bell. Instantly all eyes turned toward the parlor
door, just as it slowly opened, and the officer who had been
sent off so mysteriously by the coroner an hour before entered,
in company with a young man, whose sleek appearance, intelligent
eye, and general air of trustworthiness, seemed to proclaim him to
be, what in fact he was, the confidential clerk of a responsible
mercantile house.
Advancing without apparent embarrassment, though each and every eye
in the room was fixed upon him with lively curiosity, he made a
slight bow to the coroner.
“You have sent for a man from Bohn & Co.,” he said.
Strong and immediate excitement. Bohn & Co. was the well-known
pistol and ammunition store of ---- Broadway.
“Yes, sir,” returned the coroner. “We have here a bullet, which we
must ask you to examine, You are fully acquainted with all matters
connected with your business?”
The young man, merely elevating an expressive eyebrow, took the
bullet carelessly in his hand.
“Can you tell us from what make of pistol that was delivered?”
The young man rolled it slowly round between his thumb and
forefinger, and then laid it down. “It is a No. 32 ball, usually
sold with the small pistol made by Smith & Wesson.”
“A small pistol!” exclaimed the butler, jumping up from his seat.
“Master used to keep a little pistol in his stand drawer. I have
often seen it. We all knew about it.”
Great and irrepressible excitement, especially among the servants.
“That’s so!” I heard a heavy voice exclaim. “I saw it once
myself--master was cleaning it.” It was the cook who spoke.
“In his stand drawer?” the coroner inquired.
“Yes, sir; at the head of his bed.”
An officer was sent to examine the stand drawer. In a few moments
he returned, bringing a small pistol which he laid down on the
coroner’s table, saying, “Here it is.”
Immediately, every one sprang to his feet, but the coroner, handing
it over to the clerk from Bonn’s, inquired if that was the make
before mentioned. Without hesitation he replied, “Yes, Smith &
Wesson; you can see for yourself,” and he proceeded to examine it.
“Where did you find this pistol?” asked the coroner of the officer.
“In the top drawer of a shaving table standing near the head of Mr.
Leavenworth’s bed. It was lying in a velvet case together with a
box of cartridges, one of which I bring as a sample,” and he laid
it down beside the bullet.
“Was the drawer locked?”
“Yes, sir; but the key was not taken out.”
Interest had now reached its climax. A universal cry swept through
the room, “Is it loaded?”
The coroner, frowning on the assembly, with a look of great
dignity, remarked:
“I was about to ask that question myself, but first I must request
order.”
An immediate calm followed. Every one was too much interested to
interpose any obstacle in the way of gratifying his curiosity.
“Now, sir!” exclaimed the coroner.
The clerk from Bonn’s, taking out the cylinder, held it up. “There
are seven chambers here, and they are all loaded.”
A murmur of disappointment followed this assertion.
“But,” he quietly added after a momentary examination of the face
of the cylinder, “they have not all been loaded long. A bullet has
been recently shot from one of these chambers.”
“How do you know?” cried one of the jury.
“How do I know? Sir,” said he, turning to the coroner, “will you be
kind enough to examine the condition of this pistol?” and he handed
it over to that gentleman. “Look first at the barrel; it is clean
and bright, and shows no evidence of a bullet having passed out
of it very lately; that is because it has been cleaned. But now,
observe the face of the cylinder: what do you see there?”
“I see a faint line of smut near one of the chambers.”
“Just so; show it to the gentlemen.”
It was immediately handed down.
“That faint line of smut, on the edge of one of the chambers, is
the telltale, sirs. A bullet passing out always leaves smut behind.
The man who fired this, remembering the fact, cleaned the barrel,
but forgot the cylinder.” And stepping aside he folded his arms.
“Jerusalem!” spoke out a rough, hearty voice, “isn’t that
wonderful!” This exclamation came from a countryman who had stepped
in from the street, and now stood agape in the doorway.
It was a rude but not altogether unwelcome interruption. A smile
passed round the room, and both men and women breathed more easily.
Order being at last restored, the officer was requested to describe
the position of the stand, and its distance from the library table.
“The library table is in one room, and the stand in another. To
reach the former from the latter, one would be obliged to cross Mr.
Leavenworth’s bedroom in a diagonal direction, pass through the
passageway separating that one apartment from the other, and----”
“Wait a moment; how does this table stand in regard to the door
which leads from the bedroom into the hall?”
“One might enter that door, pass directly round the foot of the bed
to the stand, procure the pistol, and cross half-way over to the
passageway, without being seen by any one sitting or standing in
the library beyond.”
“Holy Virgin!” exclaimed the horrified cook, throwing her apron
over her head as if to shut out some dreadful vision. “Hannah niver
would have the pluck for that; niver, niver!” But Mr. Gryce, laying
a heavy hand on the woman, forced her back into her seat, reproving
and calming her at the same time, with a dexterity marvellous to
behold. “I beg your pardons,” she cried deprecatingly to those
around; “but it niver was Hannah, niver!”
The clerk from Bohn’s here being dismissed, those assembled took
the opportunity of making some change in their position, after
which, the name of Mr. Harwell was again called. That person rose
with manifest reluctance. Evidently the preceding testimony had
either upset some theory of his, or indubitably strengthened some
unwelcome suspicion.
“Mr. Harwell,” the coroner began, “we are told of the existence
of a pistol belonging to Mr. Leavenworth, and upon searching, we
discover it in his room. Did you know of his possessing such an
instrument?”
“I did.”
“Was it a fact generally known in the house?”
“So it would seem.”
“How was that? Was he in the habit of leaving it around where any
one could see it?”
“I cannot say; I can only acquaint you with the manner in which I
myself became aware of its existence.”
“Very well, do so.”
“We were once talking about firearms. I have some taste that way,
and have always been anxious to possess a pocket-pistol. Saying
something of the kind to him one day, he rose from his seat and,
fetching me this, showed it to me.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Some few months since.”
“He has owned this pistol, then, for some time?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is that the only occasion upon which you have ever seen it?”
“No, sir,”--the secretary blushed--“I have seen it once since.”
“When?”
“About three weeks ago.”
“Under what circumstances?”
The secretary dropped his head, a certain drawn look making itself
suddenly visible on his countenance.
“Will you not excuse me, gentlemen?” he asked, after a moment’s
hesitation.
“It is impossible,” returned the coroner.
His face grew even more pallid and deprecatory. “I am obliged to
introduce the name of a lady,” he hesitatingly declared.
“We are very sorry,” remarked the coroner.
The young man turned fiercely upon him, and I could not help
wondering that I had ever thought him commonplace. “Of Miss
Eleanore Leavenworth!” he cried.
At that name, so uttered, every one started but Mr. Gryce; he
was engaged in holding a close and confidential confab with his
finger-tips, and did not appear to notice.
“Surely it is contrary to the rules of decorum and the respect
we all feel for the lady herself to introduce her name into this
discussion,” continued Mr. Harwell. But the coroner still insisting
upon an answer, he refolded his arms (a movement indicative of
resolution with him), and began in a low, forced tone to say:
[Illustration: “What was my astonishment to come upon Miss Eleanore
Leavenworth standing at the side of her uncle’s bed, with his
pistol in her hand”]
“It is only this, gentlemen. One afternoon, about three weeks
since, I had occasion to go to the library at an unusual hour.
Crossing over to the mantel-piece for the purpose of procuring a
penknife which I had carelessly left there in the morning, I heard
a noise in the adjoining room. Knowing that Mr. Leavenworth was
out, and supposing the ladies to be out also, I took the liberty of
ascertaining who the intruder was; when what was my astonishment
to come upon Miss Eleanore Leavenworth, standing at the side of
her uncle’s bed, with his pistol in her hand. Confused at my
indiscretion, I attempted to escape without being observed; but in
vain, for just as I was crossing the threshold, she turned and,
calling me by name, requested me to explain the pistol to her.
Gentlemen, in order to do so, I was obliged to take it in my hand;
and that, sirs, is the only other occasion upon which I ever saw
or handled the pistol of Mr. Leavenworth.” Drooping his head, he
waited in indescribable agitation for the next question.
“She asked you to explain the pistol to her; what do you mean by
that?”
“I mean,” he faintly continued, catching his breath in a vain
effort to appear calm, “how to load, aim, and fire it.”
A flash of awakened feeling shot across the faces of all present.
Even the coroner showed sudden signs of emotion, and sat staring
at the bowed form and pale countenance of the man before him, with
a peculiar look of surprised compassion, which could not fail of
producing its effect, not only upon the young man himself, but upon
all who saw him.
“Mr. Harwell,” he at length inquired, “have you anything to add to
the statement you have just made?”
The secretary sadly shook his head.
“Mr. Gryce,” I here whispered, clutching that person by the arm and
dragging him down to my side; “assure me, I entreat you--” but he
would not let me finish.
“The coroner is about to ask for the young ladies,” he quickly
interposed. “If you desire to fulfil your duty towards them, be
ready, that’s all.”
Fulfil my duty! The simple words recalled me to myself. What had
I been thinking of; was I mad? With nothing more terrible in mind
than a tender picture of the lovely cousins bowed in anguish over
the remains of one who had been as dear as a father to them, I
slowly rose, and upon demand being made for Miss Mary and Miss
Eleanore Leavenworth, advanced and said that, as a friend of the
family--a petty lie, which I hope will not be laid up against me--I
begged the privilege of going for the ladies and escorting them
down.
Instantly a dozen eyes flashed upon me, and I experienced the
embarrassment of one who, by some unexpected word or action, has
drawn upon himself the concentrated attention of a whole room.
But the permission sought being almost immediately accorded, I
was speedily enabled to withdraw from my rather trying position,
finding myself, almost before I knew it, in the hall, my face
aflame, my heart beating with excitement, and these words of Mr.
Gryce ringing in my ears: “Third floor, rear room, first door at
the head of the stairs. You will find the young ladies expecting
you.”
VI. SIDE-LIGHTS
“Oh! she has beauty might ensnare
A conqueror’s soul, and make him leave his crown
At random, to be scuffled for by slaves.”
OTWAY.
Third floor, rear room, first door at the head of the stairs! What
was I about to encounter there?
Mounting the lower flight, and shuddering by the library wall,
which to my troubled fancy seemed written all over with horrible
suggestions, I took my way slowly up-stairs, revolving in my mind
many things, among which an admonition uttered long ago by my
mother occupied a prominent place.
“My son, remember that a woman with a secret may be a fascinating
study, but she can never be a safe, nor even satisfactory,
companion.”
A wise saw, no doubt, but totally inapplicable to the present
situation; yet it continued to haunt me till the sight of the door
to which I had been directed put every other thought to flight save
that I was about to meet the stricken nieces of a brutally murdered
man.
[Illustration: “Pausing only long enough on the threshold to
compose myself for the interview, I lifted my hand to knock”]
Pausing only long enough on the threshold to compose myself for the
interview, I lifted my hand to knock, when a rich, clear voice rose
from within, and I heard distinctly uttered these astounding words:
“I do not accuse your hand, though I know of none other which would
or could have done this deed; but your heart, your head, your will,
these I do and must accuse, in my secret mind at least; and it is
well that you should know it!”
Struck with horror, I staggered back, my hands to my ears, when a
touch fell on my arm, and turning, I saw Mr. Gryce standing close
beside me, with his finger on his lip, and the last flickering
shadow of a flying emotion fading from his steady, almost
compassionate countenance.
“Come, come,” he exclaimed; “I see you don’t begin to know what
kind of a world you are living in. Rouse yourself; remember they
are waiting down below.”
“But who is it? Who was it that spoke?”
“That we shall soon see.” And without waiting to meet, much less
answer, my appealing look, he struck his hand against the door, and
flung it wide open.
Instantly a flush of lovely color burst upon us. Blue curtains,
blue carpets, blue walls. It was like a glimpse of heavenly azure
in a spot where only darkness and gloom were to be expected.
Fascinated by the sight, I stepped impetuously forward, but
instantly paused again, overcome and impressed by the exquisite
picture I saw before me.
[Illustration: “Her whole appearance was so startling, so
extraordinary, that I held my breath in surprise”]
Seated in an easy chair of embroidered satin, but rousing from her
half-recumbent position, like one who was in the act of launching a
powerful invective, I beheld a glorious woman. Fair, frail, proud,
delicate; looking like a lily in the thick creamy-tinted wrapper
that alternately clung to and swayed from her finely moulded
figure; with her forehead, crowned with the palest of pale tresses,
lifted and flashing with power; one quivering hand clasping the
arm of her chair, the other outstretched and pointing toward some
distant object in the room,--her whole appearance was so startling,
so extraordinary, that I held my breath in surprise, actually for
the moment doubting if it were a living woman I beheld, or some
famous pythoness conjured up from ancient story, to express in one
tremendous gesture the supreme indignation of outraged womanhood.
“Miss Mary Leavenworth,” whispered that ever present voice over my
shoulder.
Ah! Mary Leavenworth! What a relief came with this name. This
beautiful creature, then, was not the Eleanore who could load,
aim, and fire a pistol. Turning my head, I followed the guiding of
that uplifted hand, now frozen into its place by a new emotion:
the emotion of being interrupted in the midst of a direful and
pregnant revelation, and saw--but, no, here description fails me!
Eleanore Leavenworth must be painted by other hands than mine. I
could sit half the day and dilate upon the subtle grace, the pale
magnificence, the perfection of form and feature which make Mary
Leavenworth the wonder of all who behold her; but Eleanore--I could
as soon paint the beatings of my own heart. Beguiling, terrible,
grand, pathetic, that face of faces flashed upon my gaze, and
instantly the moonlight loveliness of her cousin faded from my
memory, and I saw only Eleanore--only Eleanore from that moment on
forever.
When my glance first fell upon her, she was standing by the side
of a small table, with her face turned toward her cousin, and her
two hands resting, the one upon her breast, the other on the table,
in an attitude of antagonism. But before the sudden pang which
shot through me at the sight of her beauty had subsided, her head
had turned, her gaze had encountered mine; all the horror of the
situation had burst upon her, and, instead of a haughty woman,
drawn up to receive and trample upon the insinuations of another, I
beheld, alas! a trembling, panting human creature, conscious that a
sword hung above her head, and without a word to say why it should
not fall and slay her.
It was a pitiable change; a heart-rending revelation! I turned
from it as from a confession. But just then, her cousin, who had
apparently regained her self-possession at the first betrayal of
emotion on the part of the other, stepped forward and, holding out
her hand, inquired:
“Is not this Mr. Raymond? How kind of you, sir. And you?” turning
to Mr. Gryce; “you have come to tell us we are wanted below, is it
not so?”
It was the voice I had heard through the door, but modulated to a
sweet, winning, almost caressing tone.
Glancing hastily at Mr. Gryce, I looked to see how he was affected
by it. Evidently much, for the bow with which he greeted her words
was lower than ordinary, and the smile with which he met her
earnest look both deprecatory and reassuring. His glance did not
embrace her cousin, though her eyes were fixed upon his face with
an inquiry in their depths more agonizing than the utterance of
any cry would have been. Knowing Mr. Gryce as I did, I felt that
nothing could promise worse, or be more significant, than this
transparent disregard of one who seemed to fill the room with her
terror. And, struck with pity, I forgot that Mary Leavenworth had
spoken, forgot her very presence in fact, and, turning hastily
away, took one step toward her cousin, when Mr. Gryce’s hand
falling on my arm stopped me.
“Miss Leavenworth speaks,” said he.
Recalled to myself, I turned my back upon what had so interested
me even while it repelled, and forcing myself to make some sort of
reply to the fair creature before me, offered my arm and led her
toward the door.
Immediately the pale, proud countenance of Mary Leavenworth
softened almost to the point of smiling;--and here let me say,
there never was a woman who could smile and not smile like Mary
Leavenworth. Looking in my face, with a frank and sweet appeal in
her eyes, she murmured:
“You are very good. I do feel the need of support; the occasion is
so horrible, and my cousin there,”--here a little gleam of alarm
nickered into her eyes--“is so very strange to-day.”
“Humph!” thought I to myself; “where is the grand indignant
pythoness, with the unspeakable wrath and menace in her
countenance, whom I saw when I first entered the room?” Could it
be that she was trying to beguile us from our conjectures, by
making light of her former expressions? Or was it possible she
deceived herself so far as to believe us unimpressed by the weighty
accusation overheard by us at a moment so critical?
But Eleanore Leavenworth, leaning on the arm of the detective,
soon absorbed all my attention. She had regained by this time her
self-possession, also, but not so entirely as her cousin. Her step
faltered as she endeavored to walk, and the hand which rested on
his arm trembled like a leaf. “Would to God I had never entered
this house,” said I to myself. And yet, before the exclamation was
half uttered, I became conscious of a secret rebellion against
the thought; an emotion, shall I say, of thankfulness that it had
been myself rather than another who had been allowed to break in
upon their privacy, overhear that significant remark, and, shall
I acknowledge it, follow Mr. Gryce and the trembling, swaying
figure of Eleanore Leavenworth down-stairs. Not that I felt the
least relenting in my soul towards guilt. Crime had never looked
so black; revenge, selfishness, hatred, cupidity, never seemed
more loathsome; and yet--but why enter into the consideration of
my feelings at that time. They cannot be of interest; besides, who
can fathom the depths of his own soul, or untangle for others the
secret cords of revulsion and attraction which are, and ever have
been, a mystery and wonder to himself? Enough that, supporting upon
my arm the half-fainting form of one woman, but with my attention,
and interest devoted to another, I descended the stairs of the
Leavenworth mansion, and re-entered the dreaded presence of those
inquisitors of the law who had been so impatiently awaiting us.
As I once more crossed that threshold, and faced the eager
countenances of those I had left so short a time before, I felt as
if ages had elapsed in the interval; so much can be experienced by
the human soul in the short space of a few over-weighted moments.
VII. MARY LEAVENWORTH
“For this relief much thanks.”
Hamlet.
Have you ever observed the effect of the sunlight bursting suddenly
upon the earth from behind a mass of heavily surcharged clouds?
If so, you can have some idea of the sensation produced in that
room by the entrance of these two beautiful ladies. Possessed of
a loveliness which would have been conspicuous in all places and
under all circumstances, Mary, at least, if not her less striking,
though by no means less interesting cousin, could never have
entered any assemblage without drawing to herself the wondering
attention of all present. But, heralded as here, by the most
fearful of tragedies, what could you expect from a collection of
men such as I have already described, but overmastering wonder and
incredulous admiration? Nothing, perhaps, and yet at the first
murmuring sound of amazement and satisfaction, I felt my soul
recoil in disgust.
Making haste to seat my now trembling companion in the most
retired spot I could find, I looked around for her cousin. But
Eleanore Leavenworth, weak as she had appeared in the interview
above, showed at this moment neither hesitation nor embarrassment.
Advancing upon the arm of the detective, whose suddenly assumed
air of persuasion in the presence of the jury was anything but
reassuring, she stood for an instant gazing calmly upon the
scene before her. Then bowing to the coroner with a grace and
condescension which seemed at once to place him on the footing of
a politely endured intruder in this home of elegance, she took
the seat which her own servants hastened to procure for her,
with an ease and dignity that rather recalled the triumphs of
the drawing-room than the self-consciousness of a scene such as
that in which we found ourselves. Palpable acting, though this
was, it was not without its effect. Instantly the murmurs ceased,
the obtrusive glances fell, and something like a forced respect
made itself visible upon the countenances of all present. Even
I, impressed as I had been by her very different demeanor in the
room above, experienced a sensation of relief; and was more than
startled when, upon turning to the lady at my side, I beheld her
eyes riveted upon her cousin with an inquiry in their depths that
was anything but encouraging. Fearful of the effect this look
might have upon those about us, I hastily seized her hand which,
clenched and unconscious, hung over the edge of her chair, and was
about to beseech her to have care, when her name, called in a slow,
impressive way by the coroner, roused her from her abstraction.
Hurriedly withdrawing her gaze from her cousin, she lifted her face
to the jury, and I saw a gleam pass over it which brought back my
early fancy of the pythoness. But it passed, and it was with an
expression of great modesty she settled herself to respond to the
demand of the coroner and answer the first few opening inquiries.
But what can express the anxiety of that moment to me? Gentle as
she now appeared, she was capable of great wrath, as I knew. Was
she going to reiterate her suspicions here? Did she hate as well as
mistrust her cousin? Would she dare assert in this presence, and
before the world, what she found it so easy to utter in the privacy
of her own room and the hearing of the one person concerned? Did
she wish to? Her own countenance gave me no clue to her intentions,
and, in my anxiety, I turned once more to look at Eleanore. But
she, in a dread and apprehension I could easily understand, had
recoiled at the first intimation that her cousin was to speak, and
now sat with her face covered from sight, by hands blanched to an
almost deathly whiteness.
The testimony of Mary Leavenworth was short. After some few
questions, mostly referring to her position in the house and her
connection with its deceased master, she was asked to relate what
she knew of the murder itself, and of its discovery by her cousin
and the servants.
Lifting up a brow that seemed never to have known till now the
shadow of care or trouble, and a voice that, whilst low and
womanly, rang like a bell through the room, she replied:
“You ask me, gentlemen, a question which I cannot answer of my
own personal knowledge. I know nothing of this murder, nor of its
discovery, save what has come to me through the lips of others.”
My heart gave a bound of relief, and I saw Eleanore Leavenworth’s
hands drop from her brow like stone, while a flickering gleam as of
hope fled over her face, and then died away like sunlight leaving
marble.
“For, strange as it may seem to you,” Mary earnestly continued,
the shadow of a past horror revisiting her countenance, “I did
not enter the room where my uncle lay. I did not even think of
doing so; my only impulse was to fly from what was so horrible and
heartrending. But Eleanore went in, and she can tell you----”
“We will question Miss Eleanore Leavenworth later,” interrupted the
coroner, but very gently for him. Evidently the grace and elegance
of this beautiful woman were making their impression. “What we want
to know is what _you_ saw. You say you cannot tell us of anything
that passed in the room at the time of the discovery?”
“No, sir.”
“Only what occurred in the hall?”
“Nothing occurred in the hall,” she innocently remarked.
“Did not the servants pass in from the hall, and your cousin come
out there after her revival from her fainting fit?”
Mary Leavenworth’s violet eyes opened wonderingly.
“Yes, sir; but that was nothing.”
“You remember, however, her coming into the hall?”
“Yes, sir.”
“With a paper in her hand?”
“Paper?” and she wheeled suddenly and looked at her cousin. “Did
you have a paper, Eleanore?”
The moment was intense. Eleanore Leavenworth, who at the first
mention of the word paper had started perceptibly, rose to her feet
at this naive appeal, and opening her lips, seemed about to speak,
when the coroner, with a strict sense of what was regular, lifted
his hand with decision, and said:
“You need not ask your cousin, Miss; but let us hear what you have
to say yourself.”
Immediately, Eleanore Leavenworth sank back, a pink spot breaking
out on either cheek; while a slight murmur testified to the
disappointment of those in the room, who were more anxious to have
their curiosity gratified than the forms of law adhered to.
Satisfied with having done his duty, and disposed to be easy with
so charming a witness, the coroner repeated his question. “Tell us,
if you please, if you saw any such thing in her hand?”
“I? Oh, no, no; I saw nothing.”
Being now questioned in relation to the events of the previous
night, she had no new light to throw upon the subject. She
acknowledged her uncle to have been a little reserved at dinner,
but no more so than at previous times when annoyed by some business
anxiety.
Asked if she had seen her uncle again that evening, she said no,
that she had been detained in her room. That the sight of him,
sitting in his seat at the head of the table, was the very last
remembrance she had of him.
There was something so touching, so forlorn, and yet so
unobtrusive, in this simple recollection of hers, that a look of
sympathy passed slowly around the room.
I even detected Mr. Gryce softening towards the inkstand. But
Eleanore Leavenworth sat unmoved.
“Was your uncle on ill terms with any one?” was now asked. “Had he
valuable papers or secret sums of money in his possession?”
To all these inquiries she returned an equal negative.
“Has your uncle met any stranger lately, or received any important
letter during the last few weeks, which might seem in any way to
throw light upon this mystery?”
There was the slightest perceptible hesitation in her voice, as
she replied: “No, not to my knowledge; I don’t know of any such.”
But here, stealing a side glance at Eleanore, she evidently saw
something that reassured her, for she hastened to add:
“I believe I may go further than that, and meet your question with
a positive no. My uncle was in the habit of confiding in me, and I
should have known if anything of importance to him had occurred.”
Questioned in regard to Hannah, she gave that person the best of
characters; knew of nothing which could have led either to her
strange disappearance, or to her connection with crime. Could not
say whether she kept any company, or had any visitors; only knew
that no one with any such pretensions came to the house. Finally,
when asked when she had last seen the pistol which Mr. Leavenworth
always kept in his stand drawer, she returned, not since the day
he bought it; Eleanore, and not herself, having the charge of her
uncle’s apartments.
It was the only thing she had said which, even to a mind freighted
like mine, would seem to point to any private doubt or secret
suspicion; and this, uttered in the careless manner in which it
was, would have passed without comment if Eleanore herself had not
directed at that moment a very much aroused and inquiring look upon
the speaker.
But it was time for the inquisitive juror to make himself heard
again. Edging to the brink of the chair, he drew in his breath,
with a vague awe of Mary’s beauty, almost ludicrous to see, and
asked if she had properly considered what she had just said.
“I hope, sir, I consider all I am called upon to say at such a time
as this,” was her earnest reply.
The little juror drew back, and I looked to see her examination
terminate, when suddenly his ponderous colleague of the
watch-chain, catching the young lady’s eye, inquired:
“Miss Leavenworth, did your uncle ever make a will?”
Instantly every man in the room was in arms, and even she could
not prevent the slow blush of injured pride from springing to her
cheek. But her answer was given firmly, and without any show of
resentment.
“Yes, sir,” she returned simply.
“More than one?”
“I never heard of but one.”
“Are you acquainted with the contents of that will?”
“I am. He made no secret of his intentions to any one.”
The juryman lifted his eye-glass and looked at her. Her grace was
little to him, or her beauty or her elegance. “Perhaps, then, you
can tell me who is the one most likely to be benefited by his
death?”
The brutality of this question was too marked to pass unchallenged.
Not a man in that room, myself included, but frowned with sudden
disapprobation. But Mary Leavenworth, drawing herself up, looked
her interlocutor calmly in the face, and restrained herself to say:
“I know who would be the greatest losers by it. The children he
took to his bosom in their helplessness and sorrow; the young
girls he enshrined with the halo of his love and protection, when
love and protection were what their immaturity most demanded; the
women who looked to him for guidance when childhood and youth were
passed--these, sir, these are the ones to whom his death is a loss,
in comparison to which all others which may hereafter befall them
must ever seem trivial and unimportant.”
It was a noble reply to the basest of insinuations, and the juryman
drew back rebuked; but here another of them, one who had not spoken
before, but whose appearance was not only superior to the rest, but
also almost imposing in its gravity, leaned from his seat and in a
solemn voice said:
“Miss Leavenworth, the human mind cannot help forming impressions.
Now have you, with or without reason, felt at any time conscious of
a suspicion pointing towards any one person as the murderer of your
uncle?”
It was a frightful moment. To me and to one other, I am sure it was
not only frightful, but agonizing. Would her courage fail? would
her determination to shield her cousin remain firm in the face of
duty and at the call of probity? I dared not hope it.
But Mary Leavenworth, rising to her feet, looked judge and jury
calmly in the face, and, without raising her voice, giving it an
indescribably clear and sharp intonation, replied:
“No; I have neither suspicion nor reason for any. The assassin
of my uncle is not only entirely unknown to, but completely
unsuspected by, me.”
It was like the removal of a stifling pressure. Amid a universal
outgoing of the breath, Mary Leavenworth stood aside and Eleanore
was called in her place.
VIII. CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE
“O dark, dark, dark!”
And now that the interest was at its height, that the veil which
shrouded this horrible tragedy seemed about to be lifted, if not
entirely withdrawn, I felt a desire to fly the scene, to leave the
spot, to know no more. Not that I was conscious of any particular
fear of this woman betraying herself. The cold steadiness of her
now fixed and impassive countenance was sufficient warranty in
itself against the possibility of any such catastrophe. But if,
indeed, the suspicions of her cousin were the offspring, not only
of hatred, but of knowledge; if that face of beauty was in truth
only a mask, and Eleanore Leavenworth was what the words of her
cousin, and her own after behavior would seem to imply, how could I
bear to sit there and see the frightful serpent of deceit and sin
evolve itself from the bosom of this white rose! And yet, such is
the fascination of uncertainty that, although I saw something of my
own feelings reflected in the countenances of many about me, not
a man in all that assemblage showed any disposition to depart, I
least of all.
The coroner, upon whom the blonde loveliness of Mary had impressed
itself to Eleanor’s apparent detriment, was the only one in the
room who showed himself unaffected at this moment. Turning toward
the witness with a look which, while respectful, had a touch of
austerity in it, he began:
“You have been an intimate of Mr. Leavenworth’s family from
childhood, they tell me, Miss Leavenworth?”
“From my tenth year,” was her quiet reply.
It was the first time I had heard her voice, and it surprised me;
it was so like, and yet so unlike, that of her cousin. Similar in
tone, it lacked its expressiveness, if I may so speak; sounding
without vibration on the ear, and ceasing without an echo.
“Since that time you have been treated like a daughter, they tell
me?”
“Yes, sir, like a daughter, indeed; he was more than a father to
both of us.”
“You and Miss Mary Leavenworth are cousins, I believe. When did she
enter the family?”
“At the same time I did. Our respective parents were victims of the
same disaster. If it had not been for our uncle, we should have
been thrown, children as we were, upon the world. But he”--here she
paused, her firm lips breaking into a half tremble--“but he, in the
goodness of his heart, adopted us into his family, and gave us what
we had both lost, a father and a home.”
“You say he was a father to you as well as to your cousin--that
he adopted you. Do you mean by that, that he not only surrounded
you with present luxury, but gave you to understand that the
same should be secured to you after his death; in short, that he
intended to leave any portion of his property to you?”
“No, sir; I was given to understand, from the first, that his
property would be bequeathed by will to my cousin.”
“Your cousin was no more nearly related to him than yourself, Miss
Leavenworth; did he never give you any reason for this evident
partiality?”
“None but his pleasure, sir.”
Her answers up to this point had been so straightforward and
satisfactory that a gradual confidence seemed to be taking the
place of the rather uneasy doubts which had from the first circled
about this woman’s name and person. But at this admission, uttered
as it was in a calm, unimpassioned voice, not only the jury, but
myself, who had so much truer reason for distrusting her, felt that
actual suspicion in her case must be very much shaken before the
utter lack of motive which this reply so clearly betokened.
Meanwhile the coroner continued: “If your uncle was as kind to you
as you say, you must have become very much attached to him?”
“Yes, sir,” her mouth taking a sudden determined curve.
“His death, then, must have been a great shock to you?”
“Very, very great.”
“Enough of itself to make you faint away, as they tell me you did,
at the first glimpse you had of his body?”
“Enough, quite.”
“And yet you seemed to be prepared for it?”
“Prepared?”
“The servants say you were much agitated at finding your uncle did
not make his appearance at the breakfast table.”
“The servants!” her tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of her
mouth; she could hardly speak.
“That when you returned from his room you were very pale.”
Was she beginning to realize that there was some doubt, if not
actual suspicion, in the mind of the man who could assail her with
questions like these? I had not seen her so agitated since that one
memorable instant up in her room. But her mistrust, if she felt
any, did not long betray itself. Calming herself by a great effort,
she replied, with a quiet gesture--
“That is not so strange. My uncle was a very methodical man;
the least change in his habits would be likely to awaken our
apprehensions.”
“You were alarmed, then?”
“To a certain extent I was.”
“Miss Leavenworth, who is in the habit of overseeing the regulation
of your uncle’s private apartments?”
“I am, sir.”
“You are doubtless, then, acquainted with a certain stand in his
room containing a drawer?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How long is it since you had occasion to go to this drawer?”
“Yesterday,” visibly trembling at the admission.
“At what time?”
“Near noon, I should judge.”
“Was the pistol he was accustomed to keep there in its place at the
time?”
“I presume so; I did not observe.”
“Did you turn the key upon closing the drawer?”
“I did.”
“Take it out?”
“No, sir.”
“Miss Leavenworth, that pistol, as you have perhaps observed, lies
on the table before you. Will you look at it?” And lifting it up
into view, he held it towards her.
If he had meant to startle her by the sudden action, he amply
succeeded. At the first sight of the murderous weapon she shrank
back, and a horrified, but quickly suppressed shriek, burst from
her lips. “Oh, no, no!” she moaned, flinging out her hands before
her.
“I must insist upon your looking at it, Miss Leavenworth,” pursued
the coroner. “When it was found just now, all the chambers were
loaded.”
Instantly the agonized look left her countenance. “Oh, then--” She
did not finish, but put out her hand for the weapon.
But the coroner, looking at her steadily, continued: “It has been
lately fired off, for all that. The hand that cleaned the barrel
forgot the cartridge-chamber, Miss Leavenworth.”
She did not shriek again, but a hopeless, helpless look slowly
settled over her face, and she seemed about to sink; but like a
flash the reaction came, and lifting her head with a steady, grand
action I have never seen equalled, she exclaimed, “Very well, what
then?”
The coroner laid the pistol down; men and women glanced at each
other; every one seemed to hesitate to proceed. I heard a tremulous
sigh at my side, and, turning, beheld Mary Leavenworth staring at
her cousin with a startled flush on her cheek, as if she began to
recognize that the public, as well as herself, detected something
in this woman, calling for explanation.
At last the coroner summoned up courage to continue.
“You ask me, Miss Leavenworth, upon the evidence given, what then?
Your question obliges me to say that no burglar, no hired assassin,
would have used this pistol for a murderous purpose, and then taken
the pains, not only to clean it, but to reload it, and lock it up
again in the drawer from which he had taken it.”
She did not reply to this; but I saw Mr. Gryce make a note of it
with that peculiar emphatic nod of his.
“Nor,” he went on, even more gravely, “would it be possible for any
one who was not accustomed to pass in and out of Mr. Leavenworth’s
room at all hours, to enter his door so late at night, procure
this pistol from its place of concealment, traverse his apartment,
and advance as closely upon him as the facts show to have been
necessary, without causing him at least to turn his head to one
side; which, in consideration of the doctor’s testimony, we cannot
believe he did.”
It was a frightful suggestion, and we looked to see Eleanore
Leavenworth recoil. But that expression of outraged feeling was
left for her cousin to exhibit. Starting indignantly from her
seat, Mary cast one hurried glance around her, and opened her lips
to speak; but Eleanore, slightly turning, motioned her to have
patience, and replied in a cold and calculating voice: “You are
not sure, sir, that this _was_ done. If my uncle, for some purpose
of his own, had fired the pistol off yesterday, let us say--which
is surely possible, if not probable--the like results would be
observed, and the same conclusions drawn.”
“Miss Leavenworth,” the coroner went on, “the ball has been
extracted from your uncle’s head!”
“Ah!”
“It corresponds with those in the cartridges found in his stand
drawer, and is of the number used with this pistol.”
Her head fell forward on her hands; her eyes sought the floor; her
whole attitude expressed disheartenment. Seeing it, the coroner
grew still more grave.
“Miss Leavenworth,” said he, “I have now some questions to put you
concerning last night. Where did you spend the evening?”
“Alone, in my own room.”
“You, however, saw your uncle or your cousin during the course of
it?”
“No, sir; I saw no one after leaving the dinner table--except
Thomas,” she added, after a moment’s pause.
“And how came you to see him?”
“He came to bring me the card of a gentleman who called.”
“May I ask the name of the gentleman?”
“The name on the card was Mr. Le Roy Robbins.”
The matter seemed trivial; but the sudden start given by the lady
at my side made me remember it.
“Miss Leavenworth, when seated in your room, are you in the habit
of leaving your door open?”
A startled look at this, quickly suppressed. “Not in the habit; no,
sir.”
“Why did you leave it open last night?”
“I was feeling warm.”
“No other reason?”
“I can give no other.”
“When did you close it?”
“Upon retiring.”
“Was that before or after the servants went up?”
“After.”
“Did you hear Mr. Harwell when he left the library and ascended to
his room?”
“I did, sir.”
“How much longer did you leave your door open after that?”
“I--I--a few minutes--a--I cannot say,” she added, hurriedly.
“Cannot say? Why? Do you forget?”
“I forget just how long after Mr. Harwell came up I closed it.”
“Was it more than ten minutes?”
“Yes.”
“More than twenty?”
“Perhaps.” How pale her face was, and how she trembled!
“Miss Leavenworth, according to evidence, your uncle came to his
death not very long after Mr. Harwell left him. If your door was
open, you ought to have heard if any one went to his room, or any
pistol shot was fired. Now, did you hear anything?”
“I heard no confusion; no, sir.”
“Did you hear anything?”
“Nor any pistol shot.”
“Miss Leavenworth, excuse my persistence, but did you hear
anything?”
“I heard a door close.”
“What door?”
“The library door.”
“When?”
“I do not know.” She clasped her hands hysterically. “I cannot say.
Why do you ask me so many questions?”
I leaped to my feet; she was swaying, almost fainting. But before
I could reach her, she had drawn herself up again, and resumed
her former demeanor. “Excuse me,” said she; “I am not myself
this morning. I beg your pardon,” and she turned steadily to the
coroner. “What was it you asked?”
“I asked,” and his voice grew thin and high,--evidently her manner
was beginning to tell against her,--“when it was you heard the
library door shut?”
“I cannot fix the precise time, but it was after Mr. Harwell came
up, and before I closed my own.”
“And you heard no pistol shot?”
“No, sir.”
The coroner cast a quick look at the jury, who almost to a man
glanced aside as he did so.
“Miss Leavenworth, we are told that Hannah, one of the servants,
started for your room late last night after some medicine. Did she
come there?”
“No, sir.”
“When did you first learn of her remarkable disappearance from this
house during the night?”
“This morning before breakfast. Molly met me in the hall, and asked
how Hannah was. I thought the inquiry a strange one, and naturally
questioned her. A moment’s talk made the conclusion plain that the
girl was gone.”
“What did you think when you became assured of this fact?”
“I did not know what to think.”
“No suspicion of foul play crossed your mind?”
“No, sir.”
“You did not connect the fact with that of your uncle’s murder?”
“I did not know of this murder then.”
“And afterwards?”
“Oh, some thought of the possibility of her knowing something about
it may have crossed my mind; I cannot say.”
“Can you tell us anything of this girl’s past history?”
“I can tell you no more in regard to it than my cousin has done.”
“Do you not know what made her sad at night?”
Her cheek flushed angrily; was it at his tone, or at the question
itself? “No, sir! she never confided her secrets to my keeping.”
“Then you cannot tell us where she would be likely to go upon
leaving this house?”
“Certainly not.”
“Miss Leavenworth, we are obliged to put another question to you.
We are told it was by your order your uncle’s body was removed from
where it was found, into the next room.”
She bowed her head.
“Didn’t you know it to be improper for you or any one else to
disturb the body of a person found dead, except in the presence and
under the authority of the proper officer?”
“I did not consult my knowledge, sir, in regard to the subject:
only my feelings.”
“Then I suppose it was your feelings which prompted you to
remain standing by the table at which he was murdered, instead
of following the body in and seeing it properly deposited? Or
perhaps,” he went on, with relentless sarcasm, “you were too much
interested, just then, in the piece of paper you took away, to
think much of the proprieties of the occasion?”
“Paper?” lifting her head with determination. “Who says I took a
piece of paper from the table?”
“One witness has sworn to seeing you bend over the table upon which
several papers lay strewn; another, to meeting you a few minutes
later in the hall just as you were putting a piece of paper into
your pocket. The inference follows, Miss Leavenworth.”
This was a home thrust, and we looked to see some show of
agitation, but her haughty lip never quivered.
“You have drawn the inference, and you must prove the fact.”
The answer was stateliness itself, and we were not surprised to see
the coroner look a trifle baffled; but, recovering himself, he said:
“Miss Leavenworth, I must ask you again, whether you did or did not
take anything from that table?”
She folded her arms. “I decline answering the question,” she
quietly said.
“Pardon me,” he rejoined: “it is necessary that you should.”
Her lip took a still more determined curve. “When any suspicious
paper is found in my possession, it will be time enough then for me
to explain how I came by it.”
This defiance seemed to quite stagger the coroner.
“Do you realize to what this refusal is liable to subject you?”
She dropped her head. “I am afraid that I do; yes, sir.”
Mr. Gryce lifted his hand, and softly twirled the tassel of the
window curtain.
“And you still persist?”
She absolutely disdained to reply.
The coroner did not press it further.
It had now become evident to all, that Eleanore Leavenworth not
only stood on her defence, but was perfectly aware of her position,
and prepared to maintain it. Even her cousin, who until now had
preserved some sort of composure, began to show signs of strong and
uncontrollable agitation, as if she found it one thing to utter an
accusation herself, and quite another to see it mirrored in the
countenances of the men about her.
“Miss Leavenworth,” the coroner continued, changing the line
of attack, “you have always had free access to your uncle’s
apartments, have you not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Might even have entered his room late at night, crossed it and
stood at his side, without disturbing him sufficiently to cause him
to turn his head?”
“Yes,” her hands pressing themselves painfully together.
“Miss Leavenworth, the key to the library door is missing.”
She made no answer.
“It has been testified to, that previous to the actual discovery
of the murder, you visited the door of the library alone. Will you
tell us if the key was then in the lock?”
“It was not.”
“Are you certain?”
“I am.”
“Now, was there anything peculiar about this key, either in size or
shape?”
She strove to repress the sudden terror which this question
produced, glanced carelessly around at the group of servants
stationed at her back, and trembled. “It was a little different
from the others,” she finally acknowledged.
“In what respect?”
“The handle was broken.”
“Ah, gentlemen, the handle was broken!” emphasized the coroner,
looking towards the jury.
Mr. Gryce seemed to take this information to himself, for he gave
another of his quick nods.
“You would, then, recognize this key, Miss Leavenworth, if you
should see it?”
She cast a startled look at him, as if she expected to behold it
in his hand; but, seeming to gather courage at not finding it
produced, replied quite easily:
“I think I should, sir.”
The coroner seemed satisfied, and was about to dismiss the witness
when Mr. Gryce quietly advanced and touched him on the arm. “One
moment,” said that gentleman, and stooping, he whispered a few
words in the coroner’s ear; then, recovering himself, stood with
his right hand in his breast pocket and his eye upon the chandelier.
I scarcely dared to breathe. Had he repeated to the coroner the
words he had inadvertently overheard in the hall above? But a
glance at the latter’s face satisfied me that nothing of such
importance had transpired. He looked not only tired, but a trifle
annoyed.
“Miss Leavenworth,” said he, turning again in her direction;
“you have declared that you did not visit your uncle’s room last
evening. Do you repeat the assertion?”
“I do.”
He glanced at Mr. Gryce, who immediately drew from his breast a
handkerchief curiously soiled. “It is strange, then, that your
handkerchief should have been found this morning in that room.”
The girl uttered a cry. Then, while Mary’s face hardened into a
sort of strong despair, Eleanore tightened her lips and coldly
replied, “I do not see as it is so very strange. I was in that room
early this morning.”
“And you dropped it then?”
A distressed blush crossed her face; she did not reply.
“Soiled in this way?” he went on.
“I know nothing about the soil. What is it? let me see.”
“In a moment. What we now wish, is to know how it came to be in
your uncle’s apartment.”
“There are many ways. I might have left it there days ago. I have
told you I was in the habit of visiting his room. But first, let me
see if it is my handkerchief.” And she held out her hand.
“I presume so, as I am told it has your initials embroidered in the
corner,” he remarked, as Mr. Gryce passed it to her.
But she with horrified voice interrupted him. “These dirty spots!
What are they? They look like--”
“--what they are,” said the coroner. “If you have ever cleaned a
pistol, you must know what they are, Miss Leavenworth.”
She let the handkerchief fall convulsively from her hand, and stood
staring at it, lying before her on the floor. “I know nothing about
it, gentlemen,” she said. “It is my handkerchief, but--” for some
cause she did not finish her sentence, but again repeated, “Indeed,
gentlemen, I know nothing about it!”
This closed her testimony.
Kate, the cook, was now recalled, and asked to tell when she last
washed the handkerchief?
“This, sir; this handkerchief? Oh, some time this week, sir,”
throwing a deprecatory glance at her mistress.
“What day?”
“Well, I wish I could forget, Miss Eleanore, but I can’t. It is the
only one like it in the house. I washed it day before yesterday.”
“When did you iron it?”
“Yesterday morning,” half choking over the words.
“And when did you take it to her room?”
The cook threw her apron over her head. “Yesterday afternoon, with
the rest of the clothes, just before dinner. Indade, I could not
help it, Miss Eleanore!” she whispered; “it was the truth.”
Eleanore Leavenworth frowned. This somewhat contradictory
evidence had very sensibly affected her; and when, a moment
later, the coroner, having dismissed the witness, turned towards
her, and inquired if she had anything further to say in the
way of explanation or otherwise, she threw her hands up almost
spasmodically, slowly shook her head and, without word or warning,
fainted quietly away in her chair.
A commotion, of course, followed, during which I noticed that Mary
did not hasten to her cousin, but left it for Molly and Kate to do
what they could toward her resuscitation. In a few moments this was
in so far accomplished that they were enabled to lead her from the
room. As they did so, I observed a tall man rise and follow her out.
A momentary silence ensued, soon broken, however, by an impatient
stir as our little juryman rose and proposed that the jury should
now adjourn for the day. This seeming to fall in with the coroner’s
views, he announced that the inquest would stand adjourned till
three o’clock the next day, when he trusted all the jurors would be
present.
A general rush followed, that in a few minutes emptied the room of
all but Miss Leavenworth, Mr. Gryce, and myself.
IX. A DISCOVERY
“His rolling Eies did never rest in place,
But walkte each where for feare of hid mischance,
Holding a lattis still before his Pace,
Through which he still did peep as forward he did pace.”
Faerie Queene.
Miss Leavenworth, who appeared to have lingered from a vague terror
of everything and everybody in the house not under her immediate
observation, shrank from my side the moment she found herself
left comparatively alone, and, retiring to a distant corner,
gave herself up to grief. Turning my attention, therefore, in
the direction of Mr. Gryce, I found that person busily engaged
in counting his own fingers with a troubled expression upon his
countenance, which may or may not have been the result of that
arduous employment. But, at my approach, satisfied perhaps that
he possessed no more than the requisite number, he dropped his
hands and greeted me with a faint smile which was, considering all
things, too suggestive to be pleasant.
“Well,” said I, taking my stand before him, “I cannot blame you.
You had a right to do as you thought best; but how had you the
heart? Was she not sufficiently compromised without your bringing
out that wretched handkerchief, which she may or may not have
dropped in that room, but whose presence there, soiled though it
was with pistol grease, is certainly no proof that she herself was
connected with this murder?”
“Mr. Raymond,” he returned, “I have been detailed as police officer
and detective to look after this case, and I propose to do it.”
“Of course,” I hastened to reply. “I am the last man to wish you to
shirk your duty; but you cannot have the temerity to declare that
this young and tender creature can by any possibility be considered
as at all likely to be implicated in a crime so monstrous and
unnatural. The mere assertion of another woman’s suspicions on the
subject ought not----”
But here Mr. Gryce interrupted me. “You talk when your attention
should be directed to more important matters. That other woman,
as you are pleased to designate the fairest ornament of New York
society, sits over there in tears; go and comfort her.”
Looking at him in amazement, I hesitated to comply; but, seeing he
was in earnest, crossed to Mary Leavenworth and sat down by her
side. She was weeping, but in a slow, unconscious way, as if grief
had been mastered by fear. The fear was too undisguised and the
grief too natural for me to doubt the genuineness of either.
“Miss Leavenworth,” said I, “any attempt at consolation on the part
of a stranger must seem at a time like this the most bitter of
mockeries; but do try and consider that circumstantial evidence is
not always absolute proof.”
Starting with surprise, she turned her eyes upon me with a slow,
comprehensive gaze wonderful to see in orbs so tender and womanly.
“No,” she repeated; “circumstantial evidence is not absolute proof,
but Eleanore does not know this. She is so intense; she cannot
see but one thing at a time. She has been running her head into a
noose, and oh,--” Pausing, she clutched my arm with a passionate
grasp: “Do you think there is any danger? Will they--” She could
not go on.
“Miss Leavenworth,” I protested, with a warning look toward the
detective, “what do you mean?”
Like a flash, her glance followed mine, an instant change taking
place in her bearing.
“Your cousin may be intense,” I went on, as if nothing had
occurred; “but I do not know to what you refer when you say she has
been running her head into a noose.”
“I mean this,” she firmly returned: “that, wittingly or
unwittingly, she has so parried and met the questions which have
been put to her in this room that any one listening to her would
give her the credit of knowing more than she ought to of this
horrible affair. She acts”--Mary whispered, but not so low but
that every word could be distinctly heard in all quarters of the
room--“as if she were anxious to conceal something. But she is not;
I am sure she is not. Eleanore and I are not good friends; but all
the world can never make me believe she has any more knowledge
of this murder than I have. Won’t somebody tell her, then--won’t
you--that her manner is a mistake; that it is calculated to arouse
suspicion; that it has already done so? And oh, don’t forget to
add”--her voice sinking to a decided whisper now--“what you have
just repeated to me: that circumstantial evidence is not always
absolute proof.”
I surveyed her with great astonishment. What an actress this woman
was!
“You request me to tell her this,” said I. “Wouldn’t it be better
for you to speak to her yourself?”
“Eleanore and I hold little or no confidential communication,” she
replied.
I could easily believe this, and yet I was puzzled. Indeed, there
was something incomprehensible in her whole manner. Not knowing
what else to say, I remarked, “That is unfortunate. She ought to be
told that the straightforward course is the best by all means.”
Mary Leavenworth only wept. “Oh, why has this awful trouble come to
me, who have always been so happy before!”
“Perhaps for the very reason that you have always been so happy.”
“It was not enough for dear uncle to die in this horrible manner;
but she, my own cousin, had to----”
I touched her arm, and the action seemed to recall her to herself.
Stopping short, she bit her lip.
“Miss Leavenworth,” I whispered, “you should hope for the best.
Besides, I honestly believe you to be disturbing yourself
unnecessarily. If nothing fresh transpires, a mere prevarication or
so of your cousin’s will not suffice to injure her.”
I said this to see if she had any reason to doubt the future. I was
amply rewarded.
“Anything fresh? How could there be anything fresh, when she is
perfectly innocent?”
Suddenly, a thought seemed to strike her. Wheeling round in her
seat till her lovely, perfumed wrapper brushed my knee, she asked:
“Why didn’t they ask me more questions? I could have told them
Eleanore never left her room last night.”
“You could?” What was I to think of this woman?
“Yes; my room is nearer the head of the stairs than hers; if she
had passed my door, I should have heard her, don’t you see?”
Ah, that was all.
“That does not follow,” I answered sadly. “Can you give no other
reason?”
“I would say whatever was necessary,” she whispered.
I started back. Yes, this woman would lie now to save her cousin;
had lied during the inquest. But then I felt grateful, and now I
was simply horrified.
“Miss Leavenworth,” said I, “nothing can justify one in violating
the dictates of his own conscience, not even the safety of one we
do not altogether love.”
“No?” she returned; and her lip took a tremulous curve, the lovely
bosom heaved, and she softly looked away.
If Eleanore’s beauty had made less of an impression on my fancy,
or her frightful situation awakened less anxiety in my breast, I
should have been a lost man from that moment.
“I did not mean to do anything very wrong,” Miss Leavenworth
continued. “Do not think too badly of me.”
“No, no,” said I; and there is not a man living who would not have
said the same in my place.
What more might have passed between us on this subject I cannot
say, for just then the door opened and a man entered whom I
recognized as the one who had followed Eleanore Leavenworth out, a
short time before.
“Mr. Gryce,” said he, pausing just inside the door; “a word if you
please.”
The detective nodded, but did not hasten towards him; instead of
that, he walked deliberately away to the other end of the room,
where he lifted the lid of an inkstand he saw there, muttered
some unintelligible words into it, and speedily shut it again.
Immediately the uncanny fancy seized me that if I should leap to
that inkstand, open it and peer in, I should surprise and capture
the bit of confidence he had intrusted to it. But I restrained my
foolish impulse, and contented myself with noting the subdued look
of respect with which the gaunt subordinate watched the approach of
his superior.
“Well?” inquired the latter as he reached him: “what now?”
The man shrugged his shoulders, and drew his principal through the
open door. Once in the hall their voices sank to a whisper, and as
their backs only were visible, I turned to look at my companion.
She was pale but composed.
“Has he come from Eleanore?”
“I do not know; I fear so. Miss Leavenworth,” I proceeded, “can it
be possible that your cousin has anything in her possession she
desires to conceal?”
“Then you think she is trying to conceal something?”
“I do not say so. But there was considerable talk about a paper----”
“They will never find any paper or anything else suspicious in
Eleanore’s possession,” Mary interrupted. “In the first place,
there was no paper of importance enough”--I saw Mr. Gryce’s form
suddenly stiffen--“for any one to attempt its abstraction and
concealment.”
“Can you be sure of that? May not your cousin be acquainted with
something----”
“There was nothing to be acquainted with, Mr. Raymond. We lived
the most methodical and domestic of lives. I cannot understand,
for my part, why so much should be made out of this. My uncle
undoubtedly came to his death by the hand of some intended burglar.
That nothing was stolen from the house is no proof that a burglar
never entered it. As for the doors and windows being locked, will
you take the word of an Irish servant as infallible upon such
an important point? I cannot. I believe the assassin to be one
of a gang who make their living by breaking into houses, and if
you cannot honestly agree with me, do try and consider such an
explanation as possible; if not for the sake of the family credit,
why then”--and she turned her face with all its fair beauty upon
mine, eyes, cheeks, mouth all so exquisite and winsome--“why then,
for mine.”
Instantly Mr. Gryce turned towards us. “Mr. Raymond, will you be
kind enough to step this way?”
Glad to escape from my present position, I hastily obeyed.
“What has happened?” I asked.
“We propose to take you into our confidence,” was the easy
response. “Mr. Raymond, Mr. Fobbs.”
I bowed to the man I saw before me, and stood uneasily waiting.
Anxious as I was to know what we really had to fear, I still
intuitively shrank from any communication with one whom I looked
upon as a spy.
“A matter of some importance,” resumed the detective. “It is not
necessary for me to remind you that it is in confidence, is it?”
“No.”
“I thought not. Mr. Fobbs you may proceed.”
Instantly the whole appearance of the man Fobbs changed. Assuming
an expression of lofty importance, he laid his large hand outspread
upon his heart and commenced.
“Detailed by Mr. Gryce to watch the movements of Miss Eleanore
Leavenworth, I left this room upon her departure from it, and
followed her and the two servants who conducted her up-stairs to
her own apartment. Once there---”
Mr. Gryce interrupted him. “Once there? where?”
“Her own room, sir.”
“Where situated?”
“At the head of the stairs.”
“That is not her room. Go on.”
“Not her room? Then it _was_ the fire she was after!” he cried,
clapping himself on the knee.
“The fire?”
“Excuse me; I am ahead of my story. She did not appear to notice
me much, though I was right behind her. It was not until she
had reached the door of this room--which was not her room!” he
interpolated dramatically, “and turned to dismiss her servants,
that she seemed conscious of having been followed. Eying me then
with an air of great dignity, quickly eclipsed, however, by an
expression of patient endurance, she walked in, leaving the door
open behind her in a courteous way I cannot sufficiently commend.”
I could not help frowning. Honest as the man appeared, this was
evidently anything but a sore subject with him. Observing me frown,
he softened his manner.
“Not seeing any other way of keeping her under my eye, except by
entering the room, I followed her in, and took a seat in a remote
corner. She flashed one look at me as I did so, and commenced
pacing the floor in a restless kind of way I’m not altogether
unused to. At last she stopped abruptly, right in the middle
of the room. ‘Get me a glass of water!’ she gasped; ‘I’m faint
again--quick! on the stand in the corner.’ Now in order to get
that glass of water it was necessary for me to pass behind a
dressing mirror that reached almost to the ceiling; and I naturally
hesitated. But she turned and looked at me, and--Well, gentlemen,
I think either of you would have hastened to do what she asked;
or at least”--with a doubtful look at Mr. Gryce--“have given your
two ears for the privilege, even if you didn’t succumb to the
temptation.”
“Well, well!” exclaimed Mr. Gryce, impatiently.
[Illustration: “She . . . was fumbling with the waist of her dress
in a way to convince me she had something concealed there which she
was anxious to dispose of”]
“I am going on,” said he. “I stepped out of sight, then, for a
moment; but it seemed long enough for her purpose; for when I
emerged, glass in hand, she was kneeling at the grate full five
feet from the spot where she had been standing, and was fumbling
with the waist of her dress in a way to convince me she had
something concealed there which she was anxious to dispose of. I
eyed her pretty closely as I handed her the glass of water, but she
was gazing into the grate, and didn’t appear to notice. Drinking
barely a drop, she gave it back, and in another moment was holding
out her hands over the fire. ‘Oh, I am so cold!’ she cried, ‘so
cold.’ And I verily believe she was. At any rate, she shivered most
naturally. But there were a few dying embers in the grate, and
when I saw her thrust her hand again into the folds of her dress I
became distrustful of her intentions and, drawing a step nearer,
looked over her shoulder, when I distinctly saw her drop something
into the grate that clinked as it fell. Suspecting what it was, I
was about to interfere, when she sprang to her feet, seized the
scuttle of coal that was upon the hearth, and with one move emptied
the whole upon the dying embers. ‘I want a fire,’ she cried, ‘a
fire!’ ‘That is hardly the way to make one,’ I returned, carefully
taking the coal out with my hands, piece by piece, and putting it
back into the scuttle, till--”
“Till what?” I asked, seeing him and Mr. Gryce exchange a hurried
look.
“Till I found this!” opening his large hand, and showing me _a
broken-handled key_.
X. MR. GRYCE RECEIVES NEW IMPETUS
“There’s nothing ill
Can dwell in such a temple.”
Tempest.
This astounding discovery made a most unhappy impression upon me.
It was true, then. Eleanore the beautiful, the lovesome, was--I did
not, could not finish the sentence, even in the silence of my own
mind.
“You look surprised,” said Mr. Gryce, glancing curiously towards
the key. “Now, I ain’t. A woman does not thrill, blush, equivocate,
and faint for nothing; especially such a woman as Miss Leavenworth.”
“A woman who could do such a deed would be the last to thrill,
equivocate, and faint,” I retorted. “Give me the key; let me see
it.”
He complacently put it in my hand. “It is the one we want. No
getting out of that.”
I returned it. “If she declares herself innocent, I will believe
her.”
He stared with great amazement. “You have strong faith in the
women,” he laughed. “I hope they will never disappoint you.”
I had no reply for this, and a short silence ensued, first broken
by Mr. Gryce. “There is but one thing left to do,” said he. “Fobbs,
you will have to request Miss Leavenworth to come down. Do not
alarm her; only see that she comes. To the reception room,” he
added, as the man drew off.
No sooner were we left alone than I made a move to return to Mary,
but he stopped me.
“Come and see it out,” he whispered. “She will be down in a moment;
see it out; you had best.”
Glancing back, I hesitated; but the prospect of beholding Eleanore
again drew me, in spite of myself. Telling him to wait, I returned
to Mary’s side to make my excuses.
“What is the matter--what has occurred?” she breathlessly asked.
“Nothing as yet to disturb you much. Do not be alarmed.” But my
face betrayed me.
“There is something!” said she.
“Your cousin is coming down.”
“Down here?” and she shrank visibly.
“No, to the reception room.”
“I do not understand. It is all dreadful; and no one tells me
anything.”
“I pray God there may be nothing to tell. Judging from your present
faith in your cousin, there will not be. Take comfort, then, and
be assured I will inform you if anything occurs which you ought to
know.”
Giving her a look of encouragement, I left her crushed against the
crimson pillows of the sofa on which she sat, and rejoined Mr.
Gryce. We had scarcely entered the reception room when Eleanore
Leavenworth came in.
More languid than she was an hour before, but haughty still, she
slowly advanced, and, meeting my eye, gently bent her head.
“I have been summoned here,” said she, directing herself
exclusively to Mr. Gryce, “by an individual whom I take to be in
your employ. If so, may I request you to make your wishes known at
once, as I am quite exhausted, and am in great need of rest.”
“Miss Leavenworth,” returned Mr. Gryce, rubbing his hands together
and staring in quite a fatherly manner at the door-knob, “I am very
sorry to trouble you, but the fact is I wish to ask you----”
But here she stopped him. “Anything in regard to the key which that
man has doubtless told you he saw me drop into the ashes?”
“Yes, Miss.”
“Then I must refuse to answer any questions concerning it. I have
nothing to say on the subject, unless it is this:”--giving him a
look full of suffering, but full of a certain sort of courage,
too--“that he was right if he told you I had the key in hiding
about my person, and that I attempted to conceal it in the ashes of
the grate.”
“Still, Miss----”
But she had already withdrawn to the door. “I pray you to excuse
me,” said she. “No argument you could advance would make any
difference in my determination; therefore it would be but a waste
of energy on your part to attempt any.” And, with a flitting glance
in my direction, not without its appeal, she quietly left the room.
For a moment Mr. Gryce stood gazing after her with a look of great
interest, then, bowing with almost exaggerated homage, he hastily
followed her out.
I had scarcely recovered from the surprise occasioned by this
unexpected movement when a quick step was heard in the hall, and
Mary, flushed and anxious, appeared at my side.
“What is it?” she inquired. “What has Eleanore been saying?”
“Alas!” I answered, “she has not said anything. That is the
trouble, Miss Leavenworth. Your cousin preserves a reticence upon
certain points very painful to witness. She ought to understand
that if she persists in doing this, that----”
“That what?” There was no mistaking the deep anxiety prompting this
question.
“That she cannot avoid the trouble that will ensue.”
For a moment she stood gazing at me, with great horror-stricken,
incredulous eyes; then sinking back into a chair, flung her hands
over her face with the cry:
“Oh, why were we ever born! Why were we allowed to live! Why did we
not perish with those who gave us birth!”
In the face of anguish like this, I could not keep still.
“Dear Miss Leavenworth,” I essayed, “there is no cause for such
despair as this. The future looks dark, but not impenetrable. Your
cousin will listen to reason, and in explaining----”
But she, deaf to my words, had again risen to her feet, and stood
before me in an attitude almost appalling.
“Some women in my position would go mad! mad! mad!”
I surveyed her with growing wonder. I thought I knew what she
meant. She was conscious of having given the cue which had led to
this suspicion of her cousin, and that in this way the trouble
which hung over their heads was of her own making. I endeavored to
soothe her, but my efforts were all unavailing. Absorbed in her own
anguish, she paid but little attention to me. Satisfied at last
that I could do nothing more for her, I turned to go. The movement
seemed to arouse her.
“I am sorry to leave,” said I, “without having afforded you any
comfort. Believe me; I am very anxious to assist you. Is there no
one I can send to your side; no woman friend or relative? It is sad
to leave you alone in this house at such a time.”
“And do you expect me to remain here? Why, I should die! Here
to-night?” and the long shudders shook her very frame.
“It is not at all necessary for you to do so, Miss Leavenworth,”
broke in a bland voice over our shoulders.
I turned with a start. Mr. Gryce was not only at our back, but
had evidently been there for some moments. Seated near the door,
one hand in his pocket, the other caressing the arm of his chair,
he met our gaze with a sidelong smile that seemed at once to beg
pardon for the intrusion, and to assure us it was made with no
unworthy motive. “Everything will be properly looked after, Miss;
you can leave with perfect safety.”
I expected to see her resent this interference; but instead of
that, she manifested a certain satisfaction in beholding him there.
Drawing me to one side, she whispered, “You think this Mr. Gryce
very clever, do you not?”
“Well,” I cautiously replied, “he ought to be to hold the position
he does. The authorities evidently repose great confidence in him.”
Stepping from my side as suddenly as she had approached it, she
crossed the room and stood before Mr. Gryce.
“Sir,” said she, gazing at him with a glance of entreaty: “I hear
you have great talents; that you can ferret out the real criminal
from a score of doubtful characters, and that nothing can escape
the penetration of your eye. If this is so, have pity on two orphan
girls, suddenly bereft of their guardian and protector, and use
your acknowledged skill in finding out who has committed this
crime. It would be folly in me to endeavor to hide from you that
my cousin in her testimony has given cause for suspicion; but I
here declare her to be as innocent of wrong as I am; and I am only
endeavoring to turn the eye of justice from the guiltless to the
guilty when I entreat you to look elsewhere for the culprit who
committed this deed.” Pausing, she held her two hands out before
him. “It must have been some common burglar or desperado; can you
not bring him, then, to justice?”
Her attitude was so touching, her whole appearance so earnest and
appealing, that I saw Mr. Gryce’s countenance brim with suppressed
emotion, though his eye never left the coffee-urn upon which it had
fixed itself at her first approach.
“You must find out--you can!” she went on. “Hannah--the girl who
is gone--must know all about it. Search for her, ransack the city,
do anything; my property is at your disposal. I will offer a large
reward for the detection of the burglar who did this deed!”
Mr. Gryce slowly rose. “Miss Leavenworth,” he began, and stopped;
the man was actually agitated. “Miss Leavenworth, I did not need
your very touching appeal to incite me to my utmost duty in
this case. Personal and professional pride were in themselves
sufficient. But, since you have honored me with this expression
of your wishes, I will not conceal from you that I shall feel a
certain increased interest in the affair from this hour. What
mortal man can do, I will do, and if in one month from this day I
do not come to you for my reward, Ebenezer Gryce is not the man I
have always taken him to be.”
“And Eleanore?”
“We will mention no names,” said he, gently waving his hand to and
fro.
A few minutes later, I left the house with Miss Leavenworth, she
having expressed a wish to have me accompany her to the home
of her friend, Mrs. Gilbert, with whom she had decided to take
refuge. As we rolled down the street in the carriage Mr. Gryce had
been kind enough to provide for us, I noticed my companion cast a
look of regret behind her, as if she could not help feeling some
compunctions at this desertion of her cousin.
But this expression was soon changed for the alert look of one who
dreads to see a certain face start up from some unknown quarter.
Glancing up and down the street, peering furtively into doorways as
we passed, starting and trembling if a sudden figure appeared on
the curbstone, she did not seem to breathe with perfect ease till
we had left the avenue behind us and entered upon Thirty-seventh
Street. Then, all at once her natural color returned and, leaning
gently toward me, she asked if I had a pencil and piece of paper I
could give her. I fortunately possessed both. Handing them to her,
I watched her with some little curiosity while she wrote two or
three lines, wondering she could choose such a time and place for
the purpose.
“A little note I wish to send,” she explained, glancing at the
almost illegible scrawl with an expression of doubt. “Couldn’t you
stop the carriage a moment while I direct it?”
I did so, and in another instant the leaf which I had torn from my
note-book was folded, directed, and sealed with a stamp which she
had taken from her own pocketbook.
“That is a crazy-looking epistle,” she muttered, as she laid it,
direction downwards, in her lap.
“Why not wait, then, till you arrive at your destination, where you
can seal it properly, and direct it at your leisure?”
“Because I am in haste. I wish to mail it now. Look, there is a box
on the corner; please ask the driver to stop once more.”
“Shall I not post it for you?” I asked, holding out my hand.
But she shook her head, and, without waiting for my assistance,
opened the door on her own side of the carriage and leaped to the
ground. Even then she paused to glance up and down the street,
before venturing to drop her hastily written letter into the box.
But when it had left her hand, she looked brighter and more hopeful
than I had yet seen her. And when, a few moments later, she turned
to bid me good-by in front of her friend’s house, it was with
almost a cheerful air she put out her hand and entreated me to call
on her the next day, and inform her how the inquest progressed.
I shall not attempt to disguise from you the fact that I spent all
that long evening in going over the testimony given at the inquest,
endeavoring to reconcile what I had heard with any other theory
than that of Eleanore’s guilt. Taking a piece of paper, I jotted
down the leading causes of suspicion as follows:
1. Her late disagreement with her uncle, and evident estrangement
from him, as testified to by Mr. Harwell.
2. The mysterious disappearance of one of the servants of the house.
3. The forcible accusation made by her cousin,--overheard, however,
only by Mr. Gryce and myself.
4. Her equivocation in regard to the handkerchief found stained
with pistol smut on the scene of the tragedy.
5. Her refusal to speak in regard to the paper which she was
supposed to have taken from Mr. Leavenworth’s table immediately
upon the removal of the body.
6. The finding of the library key in her possession.
“A dark record,” I involuntarily decided, as I looked it over; but
even in doing so began jotting down on the other side of the sheet
the following explanatory notes:
1. Disagreements and even estrangements between relatives are
common. Cases where such disagreements and estrangements have led
to crime, rare.
2. The disappearance of Hannah points no more certainly in one
direction than another.
3. If Mary’s private accusation of her cousin was forcible and
convincing, her public declaration that she neither knew nor
suspected who might be the author of this crime, was equally so.
To be sure, the former possessed the advantage of being uttered
spontaneously; but it was likewise true that it was spoken under
momentary excitement, without foresight of the consequences, and
possibly without due consideration of the facts.
4, 5. An innocent man or woman, under the influence of terror, will
often equivocate in regard to matters that seem to criminate them.
But the key! What could I say to that? Nothing. With that key in
her possession, and unexplained, Eleanore Leavenworth stood in
an attitude of suspicion which even I felt forced to recognize.
Brought to this point, I thrust the paper into my pocket, and took
up the evening _Express_. Instantly my eye fell upon these words:
SHOCKING MURDER
MR. LEAVENWORTH, THE WELL-KNOWN MILLIONAIRE, FOUND DEAD IN HIS
ROOM
NO CLUE TO THE PERPETRATOR OF THE DEED
THE AWFUL CRIME COMMITTED WITH A PISTOL--EXTRAORDINARY FEATURES
OF THE AFFAIR
Ah! here at least was one comfort; her name was not yet mentioned
as that of a suspected party. But what might not the morrow bring?
I thought of Mr. Gryce’s expressive look as he handed me that key,
and shuddered.
“She must be innocent; she cannot be otherwise,” I reiterated to
myself, and then pausing, asked what warranty I had of this? Only
her beautiful face; only, only her beautiful face. Abashed, I
dropped the newspaper, and went down-stairs just as a telegraph
boy arrived with a message from Mr. Veeley. It was signed by the
proprietor of the hotel at which Mr. Veeley was then stopping and
ran thus:
“WASHINGTON, D. C.
“Mr. Everett Raymond--
“Mr. Veeley is lying at my house ill. Have not shown him
telegram, fearing results. Will do so as soon as advisable.
“Thomas Loworthy.”
I went in musing. Why this sudden sensation of relief on my part?
Could it be that I had unconsciously been guilty of cherishing a
latent dread of my senior’s return? Why, who else could know so
well the secret springs which governed this family? Who else could
so effectually put me upon the right track? Was it possible that
I, Everett Raymond, hesitated to know the truth in any case? No,
that should never be said; and, sitting down again, I drew out
the memoranda I had made and, looking them carefully over, wrote
against No. 6 the word _suspicious_ in good round characters.
There! no one could say, after that, I had allowed myself to be
blinded by a bewitching face from seeing what, in a woman with
no claims to comeliness, would be considered at once an almost
indubitable evidence of guilt.
And yet, after it was all done, I found myself repeating aloud as
I gazed at it: “If she declares herself innocent, I will believe
her.” So completely are we the creatures of our own predilections.
XI. THE SUMMONS
“The pink of courtesy.”
Romeo and Juliet.
The morning papers contained a more detailed account of the murder
than those of the evening before; but, to my great relief, in none
of them was Eleanore’s name mentioned in the connection I most
dreaded.
The final paragraph in the _Times_ ran thus: “The detectives are
upon the track of the missing girl, Hannah.” And in the _Herald_ I
read the following notice:
“_A Liberal Reward_ will be given by the relatives of Horatio
Leavenworth, Esq., deceased, for any news of the whereabouts
of one Hannah Chester, disappeared from the house ---- Fifth
Avenue since the evening of March 4. Said girl was of Irish
extraction; in age about twenty-five, and may be known by the
following characteristics. Form tall and slender; hair dark
brown with a tinge of red; complexion fresh; features delicate
and well made; hands small, but with the fingers much pricked
by the use of the needle; feet large, and of a coarser type
than the hands. She had on when last seen a checked gingham
dress, brown and white, and was supposed to have wrapped
herself in a red and green blanket shawl, very old. Beside the
above distinctive marks, she had upon her right hand wrist the
scar of a large burn; also a pit or two of smallpox upon the
left temple.”
This paragraph turned my thoughts in a new direction. Oddly enough,
I had expended very little thought upon this girl; and yet how
apparent it was that she was the one person upon whose testimony,
if given, the whole case in reality hinged, I could not agree with
those who considered her as personally implicated in the murder.
An accomplice, conscious of what was before her, would have hid in
her pockets whatever money she possessed. But the roll of bills
found in Hannah’s trunk proved her _to_ have left too hurriedly
for this precaution. On the other hand, if this girl had come
unexpectedly upon the assassin at his work, how could she have been
hustled from the house without creating a disturbance loud enough
to have been heard by the ladies, one of whom had her door open? An
innocent girl’s first impulse upon such an occasion would have been
to scream; and yet no scream was heard; she simply disappeared.
What were we to think then? That the person seen by her was one
both known and trusted? I would not consider such a possibility;
so laying down the paper, I endeavored to put away all further
consideration of the affair till I had acquired more facts upon
which to base the theory. But who can control his thoughts when
over-excited upon any one theme? All the morning I found myself
turning the case over in my mind, arriving ever at one of two
conclusions. Hannah Chester must be found, or Eleanore Leavenworth
must explain when and by what means the key of the library door
came into her possession.
At two o’clock I started from my office to attend the inquest;
but, being delayed on the way, missed arriving at the house until
after the delivery of the verdict. This was a disappointment to
me, especially as by these means I lost the opportunity of seeing
Eleanore Leavenworth, she having retired to her room immediately
upon the dismissal of the jury. But Mr. Harwell was visible, and
from him I heard what the verdict had been.
“Death by means of a pistol shot from the hand of some person
unknown.”
The result of the inquest was a great relief to me. I had
feared worse. Nor could I help seeing that, for all his studied
self-command, the pale-faced secretary shared in my satisfaction.
What was less of a relief to me was the fact, soon communicated,
that Mr. Gryce and his subordinates had left the premises
immediately upon the delivery of the verdict. Mr. Gryce was not the
man to forsake an affair like this while anything of importance
connected with it remained unexplained. Could it be he meditated
any decisive action? Somewhat alarmed, I was about to hurry from
the house for the purpose of learning what his intentions were,
when a sudden movement in the front lower window of the house on
the opposite side of the way arrested my attention, and, looking
closer, I detected the face of Mr. Fobbs peering out from behind
the curtain. The sight assured me I was not wrong in my estimate of
Mr. Gryce; and, struck with pity for the desolate girl left to meet
the exigencies of a fate to which this watch upon her movements was
but the evident precursor, I stepped back and sent her a note, in
which, as Mr. Veeley’s representative, I proffered my services in
case of any sudden emergency, saying I was always to be found in my
rooms between the hours of six and eight. This done, I proceeded
to the house in Thirty-seventh Street where I had left Miss Mary
Leavenworth the day before.
Ushered into the long and narrow drawing-room which of late years
has been so fashionable in our uptown houses, I found myself almost
immediately in the presence of Miss Leavenworth.
“Oh,” she cried, with an eloquent gesture of welcome, “I had begun
to think I was forsaken!” and advancing impulsively, she held out
her hand. “What is the news from home?”
“A verdict of murder, Miss Leavenworth.”
Her eyes did not lose their question.
“Perpetrated by party or parties unknown.”
A look of relief broke softly across her features.
“And they are all gone?” she exclaimed.
“I found no one in the house who did not belong there.”
“Oh! then we can breathe easily again.”
I glanced hastily up and down the room.
“There is no one here,” said she.
And still I hesitated. At length, in an awkward way enough, I
turned towards her and said:
“I do not wish either to offend or alarm you, but I must say that I
consider it your duty to return to your own home to-night.”
“Why?” she stammered. “Is there any particular reason for my doing
so? Have you not perceived the impossibility of my remaining in the
same house with Eleanore?”
“Miss Leavenworth, I cannot recognize any so-called impossibility
of this nature. Eleanore is your cousin; has been brought up to
regard you as a sister; it is not worthy of you to desert her at
the time of her necessity. You will see this as I do, if you will
allow yourself a moment’s dispassionate thought.”
“Dispassionate thought is hardly possible under the circumstances,”
she returned, with a smile of bitter irony.
But before I could reply to this, she softened, and asked if I was
very anxious to have her return; and when I replied, “More than I
can say,” she trembled and looked for a moment as if she were half
inclined to yield; but suddenly broke into tears, crying it was
impossible, and that I was cruel to ask it.
I drew back, baffled and sore. “Pardon me,” said I, “I have indeed
transgressed the bounds allotted to me. I will not do so again; you
have doubtless many friends; let some of them advise you.”
She turned upon me all fire. “The friends you speak of are
flatterers. You alone have the courage to command me to do what is
right.”
“Excuse me, I do not command; I only entreat.”
She made no reply, but began pacing the room, her eyes fixed, her
hands working convulsively. “You little know what you ask,” said
she. “I feel as though the very atmosphere of that house would
destroy me; but--why cannot Eleanore come here?” she impulsively
inquired. “I know Mrs. Gilbert will be quite willing, and I could
keep my room, and we need not meet.”
“You forget that there is another call at home, besides the one I
have already mentioned. To-morrow afternoon your uncle is to be
buried.”
“O yes; poor, poor uncle!”
“You are the head of the household,” I now ventured, “and the
proper one to attend to the final offices towards one who has done
so much for you.”
There was something strange in the look which she gave me. “It is
true,” she assented. Then, with a grand turn of her body, and a
quick air of determination: “I am desirous of being worthy of your
good opinion. I will go back to my cousin, Mr. Raymond.”
I felt my spirits rise a little; I took her by the hand. “May that
cousin have no need of the comfort which I am now sure you will be
ready to give her.”
Her hand dropped from mine. “I mean to do my duty,” was her cold
response.
As I descended the stoop, I met a certain thin and fashionably
dressed young man, who gave me a very sharp look as he passed. As
he wore his clothes a little too conspicuously for the perfect
gentleman, and as I had some remembrance of having seen him at
the inquest, I set him down for a man in Mr. Gryce’s employ, and
hasted on towards the avenue; when what was my surprise to find on
the corner another person, who, while pretending to be on the look
out for a car, cast upon me, as I approached, a furtive glance of
intense inquiry. As this latter was, without question, a gentleman,
I felt some annoyance, and, walking quietly up to him, asked if he
found my countenance familiar, that he scrutinized it so closely.
“I find it a very agreeable one,” was his unexpected reply, as he
turned from me and walked down the avenue.
Nettled, and in no small degree mortified, at the disadvantage
in which his courtesy had placed me, I stood watching him as he
disappeared, asking myself who and what he was. For he was not
only a gentleman, but a marked one; possessing features of unusual
symmetry as well as a form of peculiar elegance. Not so very
young--he might well be forty--there were yet evident on his face
the impress of youth’s strongest emotions, not a curve of his chin
nor a glance of his eye betraying in any way the slightest leaning
towards _ennui_, though face and figure were of that type which
seems most to invite and cherish it.
“He can have no connection with the police force,” thought I; “nor
is it by any means certain that he knows me, or is interested in my
affairs; but I shall not soon forget him, for all that.”
The summons from Eleanore Leavenworth came about eight o’clock in
the evening. It was brought by Thomas, and read as follows:
“Come, Oh, come! I--” there breaking off in a tremble, as if the
pen had fallen from a nerveless hand.
It did not take me long to find my way to her home.
XII. ELEANORE.
“Constant you are--
. . . And for secrecy
No lady closer.”
Henry IV.
“No, ’tis slander,
Whose edge is sharper than the sword whose tongue
Outvenoms all the worms of Nile.”
Cymbeline.
The door was opened by Molly. “You will find Miss Eleanore in the
drawing-room, sir,” she said, ushering me in.
Fearing I knew not what, I hurried to the room thus indicated,
feeling as never before the sumptuousness of the magnificent
hall with its antique flooring, carved woods, and bronze
ornamentations:--the mockery of _things_ for the first time
forcing itself upon me. Laying my hand on the drawing-room door,
I listened. All was silent. Slowly pulling it open, I lifted the
heavy satin curtains hanging before me to the floor, and looked
within. What a picture met my eyes!
Sitting in the light of a solitary gas jet, whose faint glimmering
just served to make visible the glancing satin and stainless marble
of the gorgeous apartment, I beheld Eleanore Leavenworth. Pale as
the sculptured image of the Psyche that towered above her from the
mellow dusk of the bow-window near which she sat, beautiful as
it, and almost as immobile, she crouched with rigid hands frozen
in forgotten entreaty before her, apparently insensible to sound,
movement, or touch; a silent figure of despair in presence of an
implacable fate.
Impressed by the scene, I stood with my hand upon the curtain,
hesitating if to advance or retreat, when suddenly a sharp tremble
shook her impassive frame, the rigid hands unlocked, the stony
eyes softened, and, springing to her feet, she uttered a cry of
satisfaction, and advanced towards me.
“Miss Leavenworth!” I exclaimed, starting at the sound of my own
voice.
She paused, and pressed her hands to her face, as if the world
and all she had forgotten had rushed back upon her at this simple
utterance of her name.
“What is it?” I asked.
Her hands fell heavily. “Do you not know? They--they are beginning
to say that I--” she paused, and clutched her throat. “Read!” she
gasped, pointing to a newspaper lying on the floor at her feet.
I stooped and lifted what showed itself at first glance to be the
_Evening Telegram_. It needed but a single look to inform me to
what she referred. There, in startling characters, I beheld:
THE LEAVENWORTH MURDER
LATEST DEVELOPMENTS IN THE MYSTERIOUS CASE
A MEMBER OF THE MURDERED MAN’S OWN FAMILY STRONGLY SUSPECTED
OF THE CRIME
THE MOST BEAUTIFUL WOMAN IN NEW YORK UNDER A CLOUD
PAST HISTORY OF MISS ELEANORE LEAVENWORTH
I was prepared for it; had schooled myself for this very thing, you
might say; and yet I could not help recoiling. Dropping the paper
from my hand, I stood before her, longing and yet dreading to look
into her face.
“What does it mean?” she panted; “what, what does it mean? Is the
world mad?” and her eyes, fixed and glassy, stared into mine as if
she found it impossible to grasp the sense of this outrage.
I shook my head. I could not reply.
“To accuse _me_,” she murmured; “me, me!” striking her breast with
her clenched hand, “who loved the very ground he trod upon; who
would have cast my own body between him and the deadly bullet if
I had only known his danger. Oh!” she cried, “it is not a slander
they utter, but a dagger which they thrust into my heart!”
Overcome by her misery, but determined not to show my compassion
until more thoroughly convinced of her complete innocence, I
replied, after a pause:
“This seems to strike you with great surprise, Miss Leavenworth;
were you not then able to foresee what must follow your determined
reticence upon certain points? Did you know so little of human
nature as to imagine that, situated as you are, you could keep
silence in regard to any matter connected with this crime, without
arousing the antagonism of the crowd, to say nothing of the
suspicions of the police?”
“But--but----”
I hurriedly waved my hand. “When you defied the coroner to find
any suspicious paper in your possession; when”--I forced myself to
speak--“you refused to tell Mr. Gryce how you came in possession of
the key--”
She drew hastily back, a heavy pall seeming to fall over her with
my words.
“Don’t,” she whispered, looking in terror about her. “Don’t!
Sometimes I think the walls have ears, and that the very shadows
listen.”
“Ah,” I returned; “then you hope to keep from the world what is
known to the detectives?”
She did not answer.
“Miss Leavenworth,” I went on, “I am afraid you do not comprehend
your position. Try to look at the case for a moment in the light of
an unprejudiced person; try to see for yourself the necessity of
explaining----”
“But I cannot explain,” she murmured huskily.
“Cannot!”
I do not know whether it was the tone of my voice or the word
itself, but that simple expression seemed to affect her like a blow.
“Oh!” she cried, shrinking back: “you do not, cannot doubt me, too?
I thought that you--” and stopped. “I did not dream that I--” and
stopped again. Suddenly her whole form quivered. “Oh, I see! You
have mistrusted me from the first; the appearances against me have
been too strong”; and she sank inert, lost in the depths of her
shame and humiliation. “Ah, but now I am forsaken!” she murmured.
The appeal went to my heart. Starting forward, I exclaimed: “Miss
Leavenworth, I am but a man; I cannot see you so distressed. Say
that you are innocent, and I will believe you, without regard to
appearances.”
Springing erect, she towered upon me. “Can any one look in my
face and accuse me of guilt?” Then, as I sadly shook my head, she
hurriedly gasped: “You want further proof!” and, quivering with an
extraordinary emotion, she sprang to the door.
“Come, then,” she cried, “come!” her eyes flashing full of resolve
upon me.
Aroused, appalled, moved in spite of myself, I crossed the room to
where she stood; but she was already in the hall. Hastening after
her, filled with a fear I dared not express, I stood at the foot
of the stairs; she was half-way to the top. Following her into the
hall above, I saw her form standing erect and noble at the door of
her uncle’s bedroom.
“Come!” she again cried, but this time in a calm and reverential
tone; and flinging the door open before her, she passed in.
Subduing the wonder which I felt, I slowly followed her. There was
no light in the room of death, but the flame of the gas-burner, at
the far end of the hall, shone weirdly in, and by its glimmering I
beheld her kneeling at the shrouded bed, her head bowed above that
of the murdered man, her hand upon his breast.
“You have said that if I declared my innocence you would believe
me,” she exclaimed, lifting her head as I entered. “See here,” and
laying her cheek against the pallid brow of her dead benefactor,
she kissed the clay-cold lips softly, wildly, agonizedly, then,
leaping to her feet, cried, in a subdued but thrilling tone: “Could
I do that if I were guilty? Would not the breath freeze on my lips,
the blood congeal in my veins, and my heart faint at this contact?
Son of a father loved and reverenced, can you believe me to be a
woman stained with crime when I can do this?” and kneeling again
she cast her arms over and about that inanimate form, looking in
my face at the same time with an expression no mortal touch could
paint, nor tongue describe.
“In olden times,” she went on, “they used to say that a dead body
would bleed if its murderer came in contact with it. What then
would happen here if I, his daughter, his cherished child, loaded
with benefits, enriched with his jewels, warm with his kisses,
should be the thing they accuse me of? Would not the body of the
outraged dead burst its very shroud and repel me?”
I could not answer; in the presence of some scenes the tongue
forgets its functions.
“Oh!” she went on, “if there is a God in heaven who loves justice
and hates a crime, let Him hear me now. If I, by thought or action,
with or without intention, have been the means of bringing this
dear head to this pass; if so much as the shadow of guilt, let
alone the substance, lies upon my heart and across these feeble
woman’s hands, may His wrath speak in righteous retribution to
the world, and here, upon the breast of the dead, let this guilty
forehead fall, never to rise again!”
An awed silence followed this invocation; then a long, long sigh of
utter relief rose tremulously from my breast, and all the feelings
hitherto suppressed in my heart burst their bonds, and leaning
towards her I took her hand in mine.
“You do not, cannot believe me tainted by crime now?” she
whispered, the smile which does not stir the lips, but rather
emanates from the countenance, like the flowering of an inner
peace, breaking softly out on cheek and brow.
“Crime!” The word broke uncontrollably from my lips; “crime!”
“No,” she said calmly, “the man does not live who could accuse me
of crime, _here_.”
For reply, I took her hand, which lay in mine, and placed it on the
breast of the dead.
Softly, slowly, gratefully, she bowed her head.
“Now let the struggle come!” she whispered. “There is one who will
believe in me, however dark appearances may be.”
XIII. THE PROBLEM
“But who would force the soul, tilts with a straw
Against a champion cased in adamant.”
Wordsworth.
When we re-entered the parlor below, the first sight that met our
eyes was Mary, standing wrapped in her long cloak in the centre of
the room. She had arrived during our absence, and now awaited us
with lifted head and countenance fixed in its proudest expression.
Looking in her face, I realized what the embarrassment of this
meeting must be to these women, and would have retreated, but
something in the attitude of Mary Leavenworth seemed to forbid my
doing so. At the same time, determined that the opportunity should
not pass without some sort of reconcilement between them, I stepped
forward, and, bowing to Mary, said:
“Your cousin has just succeeded in convincing me of her entire
innocence, Miss Leavenworth. I am now ready to join Mr. Gryce,
heart and soul, in finding out the true culprit.”
“I should have thought one look into Eleanore Leavenworth’s face
would have been enough to satisfy you that she is incapable of
crime,” was her unexpected answer; and, lifting her head with a
proud gesture, Mary Leavenworth fixed her eyes steadfastly on mine.
I felt the blood flash to my brow, but before I could speak, her
voice rose again still more coldly than before.
“It is hard for a delicate girl, unused to aught but the most
flattering expressions of regard, to be obliged to assure the
world of her innocence in respect to the committal of a great
crime. Eleanore has my sympathy.” And sweeping her cloak from her
shoulders with a quick gesture, she turned her gaze for the first
time upon her cousin.
Instantly Eleanore advanced, as if to meet it; and I could not but
feel that, for some reason, this moment possessed an importance
for them which I was scarcely competent to measure. But if I found
myself unable to realize its significance, I at least responded to
its intensity. And indeed it was an occasion to remember. To behold
two such women, either of whom might be considered the model of her
time, face to face and drawn up in evident antagonism, was a sight
to move the dullest sensibilities. But there was something more in
this scene than that. It was the shock of all the most passionate
emotions of the human soul; the meeting of waters of whose depth
and force I could only guess by the effect. Eleanore was the first
to recover. Drawing back with the cold haughtiness which, alas, I
had almost forgotten in the display of later and softer emotions,
she exclaimed:
“There is something better than sympathy, and that is justice”; and
turned, as if to go. “I will confer with you in the reception room,
Mr. Raymond.”
But Mary, springing forward, caught her back with one powerful
hand. “No,” she cried, “you shall confer with _me_! I have
something to say to you, Eleanore Leavenworth.” And, taking her
stand in the centre of the room, she waited.
I glanced at Eleanore, saw this was no place for me, and hastily
withdrew. For ten long minutes I paced the floor of the reception
room, a prey to a thousand doubts and conjectures. What was the
secret of this home? What had given rise to the deadly mistrust
continually manifested between these cousins, fitted by nature
for the completest companionship and the most cordial friendship?
It was not a thing of to-day or yesterday. No sudden flame could
awake such concentrated heat of emotion as that of which I had just
been the unwilling witness. One must go farther back than this
murder to find the root of a mistrust so great that the struggle it
caused made itself felt even where I stood, though nothing but the
faintest murmur came to my ears through the closed doors.
Presently the drawing-room curtain was raised, and Mary’s voice was
heard in distinct articulation.
“The same roof can never shelter us both after this. To-morrow, you
or I find another home.” And, blushing and panting, she stepped
into the hall and advanced to where I stood. But at the first
sight of my face, a change came over her; all her pride seemed to
dissolve, and, flinging out her hands, as if to ward off scrutiny,
she fled from my side, and rushed weeping up-stairs.
I was yet laboring under the oppression caused by this painful
termination of the strange scene when the parlor curtain was again
lifted, and Eleanore entered the room where I was. Pale but calm,
showing no evidences of the struggle she had just been through,
unless by a little extra weariness about the eyes, she sat down
by my side, and, meeting my gaze with one unfathomable in its
courage, said after a pause: “Tell me where I stand; let me know
the worst at once; I fear that I have not indeed comprehended my
own position.”
Rejoiced to hear this acknowledgment from her lips, I hastened to
comply. I began by placing before her the whole case as it appeared
to an unprejudiced person; enlarged upon the causes of suspicion,
and pointed out in what regard some things looked dark against her,
which perhaps to her own mind were easily explainable and of small
account; tried to make her see the importance of her decision, and
finally wound up with an appeal. Would she not confide in me?
“But I thought you were satisfied?” she tremblingly remarked.
“And so I am; but I want the world to be so, too.”
“Ah; now you ask too much! The finger of suspicion never forgets
the way it has once pointed,” she sadly answered. “My name is
tainted forever.”
“And you will submit to this, when a word--”
“I am thinking that any word of mine now would make very little
difference,” she murmured.
I looked away, the vision of Mr. Fobbs, in hiding behind the
curtains of the opposite house, recurring painfully to my mind.
“If the affair looks as bad as you say it does,” she pursued,
“it is scarcely probable that Mr. Gryce will care much for any
interpretation of mine in regard to the matter.”
“Mr. Gryce would be glad to know where you procured that key, if
only to assist him in turning his inquiries in the right direction.”
She did not reply, and my spirits sank in renewed depression.
“It is worth your while to satisfy him,” I pursued; “and though it
may compromise some one you desire to shield----”
She rose impetuously. “I shall never divulge to any one how I came
in possession of that key.” And sitting again, she locked her hands
in fixed resolve before her.
I rose in my turn and paced the floor, the fang of an unreasoning
jealousy striking deep into my heart.
“Mr. Raymond, if the worst should come, and all who love me should
plead on bended knees for me to tell, I will never do it.”
“Then,” said I, determined not to disclose my secret thought,
but equally resolved to find out if possible her motive for this
silence, “you desire to defeat the cause of justice.”
She neither spoke nor moved.
“Miss Leavenworth,” I now said, “this determined shielding of
another at the expense of your own good name is no doubt generous
of you; but your friends and the lovers of truth and justice cannot
accept such a sacrifice.”
She started haughtily. “Sir!” she said.
“If you will not assist us,” I went on calmly, but determinedly,
“we must do without your aid. After the scene I have just witnessed
above; after the triumphant conviction which you have forced upon
me, not only of your innocence, but your horror of the crime and
its consequences, I should feel myself less than a man if I did not
sacrifice even your own good opinion, in urging your cause, and
clearing your character from this foul aspersion.”
Again that heavy silence.
“What do you propose to do?” she asked, at last.
Crossing the room, I stood before her. “I propose to relieve you
utterly and forever from suspicion, by finding out and revealing to
the world the true culprit.”
I expected to see her recoil, so positive had I become by this time
as to who that culprit was. But instead of that, she merely folded
her hands still more tightly and exclaimed:
“I doubt if you will be able to do that, Mr. Raymond.”
“Doubt if I will be able to put my finger upon the guilty man, or
doubt if I will be able to bring him to justice?”
“I doubt,” she said with strong effort, “if any one ever knows who
is the guilty person in this case.”
“There is one who knows,” I said with a desire to test her.
“One?”
“The girl Hannah is acquainted with the mystery of that night’s
evil doings, Miss Leavenworth. Find Hannah, and we find one who can
point out to us the assassin of your uncle.”
“That is mere supposition,” she said; but I saw the blow had told.
“Your cousin has offered a large reward for the girl, and the whole
country is on the lookout. Within a week we shall see her in our
midst.”
A change took place in her expression and bearing.
“The girl cannot help me,” she said.
Baffled by her manner, I drew back. “Is there anything or anybody
that can?”
She slowly looked away.
“Miss Leavenworth,” I continued with renewed earnestness, “you have
no brother to plead with you, you have no mother to guide you; let
me then entreat, in default of nearer and dearer friends, that you
will rely sufficiently upon me to tell me one thing.”
“What is it?” she asked.
“Whether you took the paper imputed to you from the library table?”
She did not instantly respond, but sat looking earnestly before her
with an intentness which seemed to argue that she was weighing the
question as well as her reply. Finally, turning toward me, she said:
“In answering you, I speak in confidence. Mr. Raymond, I did.”
Crushing back the sigh of despair that arose to my lips, I went on.
“I will not inquire what the paper was,”--she waved her hand
deprecatingly,--“but this much more you will tell me. Is that paper
still in existence?”
She looked me steadily in the face.
“It is not.”
I could with difficulty forbear showing my disappointment. “Miss
Leavenworth,” I now said, “it may seem cruel for me to press you at
this time; nothing less than my strong realization of the peril in
which you stand would induce me to run the risk of incurring your
displeasure by asking what under other circumstances would seem
puerile and insulting questions. You have told me one thing which I
strongly desired to know; will you also inform me what it was you
heard that night while sitting in your room, between the time of
Mr. Harwell’s going up-stairs and the closing of the library door,
of which you made mention at the inquest?”
I had pushed my inquiries too far, and I saw it immediately.
“Mr. Raymond,” she returned, “influenced by my desire not to appear
utterly ungrateful to you, I have been led to reply in confidence
to one of your urgent appeals; but I can go no further. Do not ask
me to.”
Stricken to the heart by her look of reproach, I answered with some
sadness that her wishes should be respected. “Not but what I intend
to make every effort in my power to discover the true author of
this crime. That is a sacred duty which I feel myself called upon
to perform; but I will ask you no more questions, nor distress
you with further appeals. What is done shall be done without your
assistance, and with no other hope than that in the event of my
success you will acknowledge my motives to have been pure and my
action disinterested.”
“I am ready to acknowledge that now,” she began, but paused and
looked with almost agonized entreaty in my face. “Mr. Raymond,
cannot you leave things as they are? Won’t you? I don’t ask for
assistance, nor do I want it; I would rather----”
But I would not listen. “Guilt has no right to profit by the
generosity of the guiltless. The hand that struck this blow shall
not be accountable for the loss of a noble woman’s honor and
happiness as well.
“I shall do what I can, Miss Leavenworth.”
As I walked down the avenue that night, feeling like an adventurous
traveller that in a moment of desperation has set his foot upon a
plank stretching in narrow perspective over a chasm of immeasurable
depth, this problem evolved itself from the shadows before me: How,
with no other clue than the persuasion that Eleanore Leavenworth
was engaged in shielding another at the expense of her own good
name, I was to combat the prejudices of Mr. Gryce, find out the
real assassin of Mr. Leavenworth, and free an innocent woman from
the suspicion that had, not without some show of reason, fallen
upon her?
BOOK II. HENRY CLAVERING
XIV. MR. GRYCE AT HOME
“Nay, but hear me.”
Measure for Measure.
That the guilty person for whom Eleanore Leavenworth stood ready
to sacrifice herself was one for whom she had formerly cherished
affection, I could no longer doubt; love, or the strong sense of
duty growing out of love, being alone sufficient to account for
such determined action. Obnoxious as it was to all my prejudices,
one name alone, that of the commonplace secretary, with his
sudden heats and changeful manners, his odd ways and studied
self-possession, would recur to my mind whenever I asked myself who
this person could be.
Not that, without the light which had been thrown upon the affair
by Eleanore’s strange behavior, I should have selected this man as
one in any way open to suspicion; the peculiarity of his manner at
the inquest not being marked enough to counteract the improbability
of one in his relations to the deceased finding sufficient motive
for a crime so manifestly without favorable results to himself.
But if love had entered as a factor into the affair, what might
not be expected? James Harwell, simple amanuensis to a retired
tea-merchant, was one man; James Harwell, swayed by passion for
a woman beautiful as Eleanore Leavenworth, was another; and in
placing him upon the list of those parties open to suspicion I felt
I was only doing what was warranted by a proper consideration of
probabilities.
But, between casual suspicion and actual proof, what a gulf! To
believe James Harwell capable of guilt, and to find evidence enough
to accuse him of it, were two very different things. I felt myself
instinctively shrink from the task, before I had fully made up my
mind to attempt it; some relenting thought of his unhappy position,
if innocent, forcing itself upon me, and making my very distrust of
him seem personally ungenerous if not absolutely unjust. If I had
liked the man better, I should not have been so ready to look upon
him with doubt.
But Eleanore must be saved at all hazards. Once delivered up to the
blight of suspicion, who could tell what the result might be; the
arrest of her person perhaps,--a thing which, once accomplished,
would cast a shadow over her young life that it would take more
than time to dispel. The accusation of an impecunious secretary
would be less horrible than this. I determined to make an early
call upon Mr. Gryce.
Meanwhile the contrasted pictures of Eleanore standing with her
hand upon the breast of the dead, her face upraised and mirroring
a glory, I could not recall without emotion; and Mary, fleeing a
short half-hour later indignantly from her presence, haunted me
and kept me awake long after midnight. It was like a double vision
of light and darkness that, while contrasting, neither assimilated
nor harmonized. I could not flee from it. Do what I would, the
two pictures followed me, filling my soul with alternate hope and
distrust, till I knew not whether to place my hand with Eleanore
on the breast of the dead, and swear implicit faith in her truth
and purity, or to turn my face like Mary, and fly from what I could
neither comprehend nor reconcile.
Expectant of difficulty, I started next morning upon my search
for Mr. Gryce, with strong determination not to allow myself to
become flurried by disappointment nor discouraged by premature
failure. My business was to save Eleanore Leavenworth; and to do
that, it was necessary for me to preserve, not only my equanimity,
but my self-possession. The worst fear I anticipated was that
matters would reach a crisis before I could acquire the right,
or obtain the opportunity, to interfere. However, the fact of
Mr. Leavenworth’s funeral being announced for that day gave me
some comfort in that direction; my knowledge of Mr. Gryce being
sufficient, as I thought, to warrant me in believing he would wait
till after that ceremony before proceeding to extreme measures.
I do not know that I had any very definite ideas of what a
detective’s home should be; but when I stood before the neat
three-story brick house to which I had been directed, I could not
but acknowledge there was something in the aspect of its half-open
shutters, over closely drawn curtains of spotless purity, highly
suggestive of the character of its inmate.
A pale-looking youth, with vivid locks of red hair hanging straight
down over either ear, answered my rather nervous ring. To my
inquiry as to whether Mr. Gryce was in, he gave a kind of snort
which might have meant no, but which I took to mean yes.
“My name is Raymond, and I wish to see him.”
He gave me one glance that took in every detail of my person and
apparel, and pointed to a door at the head of the stairs. Not
waiting for further directions, I hastened up, knocked at the
door he had designated, and went in. The broad back of Mr. Gryce,
stooping above a desk that might have come over in the _Mayflower_,
confronted me.
“Well!” he exclaimed; “this is an honor.” And rising, he opened
with a squeak and shut with a bang the door of an enormous stove
that occupied the centre of the room. “Rather chilly day, eh?”
“Yes,” I returned, eyeing him closely to see if he was in a
communicative mood. “But I have had but little time to consider the
state of the weather. My anxiety in regard to this murder----”
“To be sure,” he interrupted, fixing his eyes upon the poker,
though not with any hostile intention, I am sure. “A puzzling piece
of business enough. But perhaps it is an open book to you. I see
you have something to communicate.”
“I have, though I doubt if it is of the nature you expect. Mr.
Gryce, since I saw you last, my convictions upon a certain point
have been strengthened into an absolute belief. The object of your
suspicions is an innocent woman.”
If I had expected him to betray any surprise at this, I was
destined to be disappointed. “That is a very pleasing belief,” he
observed. “I honor you for entertaining it, Mr. Raymond.”
I suppressed a movement of anger. “So thoroughly is it mine,” I
went on, in the determination to arouse him in some way, “that I
have come here to-day to ask you in the name of justice and common
humanity to suspend action in that direction till we can convince
ourselves there is no truer scent to go upon.”
But there was no more show of curiosity than before. “Indeed!” he
cried; “that is a singular request to come from a man like you.”
I was not to be discomposed, “Mr. Gryce,” I went on, “a woman’s
name, once tarnished, remains so forever. Eleanore Leavenworth
has too many noble traits to be thoughtlessly dealt with in so
momentous a crisis. If you will give me your attention, I promise
you shall not regret it.”
He smiled, and allowed his eyes to roam from the poker to the arm
of my chair. “Very well,” he remarked; “I hear you; say on.”
I drew my notes from my pocketbook, and laid them on the table.
“What! memoranda?” he exclaimed. “Unsafe, very; never put your
plans on paper.”
Taking no heed of the interruption, I went on.
“Mr. Gryce, I have had fuller opportunities than yourself for
studying this woman. I have seen her in a position which no guilty
person could occupy, and I am assured, beyond all doubt, that not
only her hands, but her heart, are pure from this crime. She may
have some knowledge of its secrets; that I do not presume to deny.
The key seen in her possession would refute me if I did. But what
if she has? You can never wish to see so lovely a being brought to
shame for withholding information which she evidently considers
it her duty to keep back, when by a little patient finesse we may
succeed in our purposes without it.”
“But,” interposed the detective, “say this is so; how are we to
arrive at the knowledge we want without following out the only clue
which has yet been given us?”
“You will never reach it by following out any clue given you by
Eleanore Leavenworth.”
His eyebrows lifted expressively, but he said nothing.
“Miss Eleanore Leavenworth has been used by some one acquainted
with her firmness, generosity, and perhaps love. Let us discover
who possesses sufficient power over her to control her to this
extent, and we find the man we seek.”
“Humph!” came from Mr. Gryce’s compressed lips, and no more.
Determined that he should speak, I waited.
“You have, then, some one in your mind”; he remarked at last,
almost flippantly.
“I mention no names,” I returned. “All I want is further time.”
“You are, then, intending to make a personal business of this
matter?”
“I am.”
He gave a long, low whistle. “May I ask,” he inquired at length,
“whether you expect to work entirely by yourself; or whether, if a
suitable coadjutor were provided, you would disdain his assistance
and slight his advice?”
“I desire nothing more than to have you for my colleague.”
The smile upon his face deepened ironically. “You must feel very
sure of yourself!” said he.
“I am very sure of Miss Leavenworth.”
The reply seemed to please him. “Let us hear what you propose
doing.”
I did not immediately answer. The truth was, I had formed no plans.
“It seems to me,” he continued, “that you have undertaken a rather
difficult task for an amateur. Better leave it to me, Mr. Raymond;
better leave it to me.”
“I am sure,” I returned, “that nothing would please me better----”
“Not,” he interrupted, “but that a word from you now and then would
be welcome. I am not an egotist. I am open to suggestions: as, for
instance, now, if you could conveniently inform me of all you have
yourself seen and heard in regard to this matter, I should be most
happy to listen.”
Relieved to find him so amenable, I asked myself what I really had
to tell; not so much that he would consider vital. However, it
would not do to hesitate now.
“Mr. Gryce,” said I, “I have but few facts to add to those already
known to you. Indeed, I am more moved by convictions than facts.
That Eleanore Leavenworth never committed this crime, I am assured.
That, on the other hand, the real perpetrator is known to her, I
am equally certain; and that for some reason she considers it a
sacred duty to shield the assassin, even at the risk of her own
safety, follows as a matter of course from the facts. Now, with
such data, it cannot be a very difficult task for you or me to work
out satisfactorily, to our own minds at least, who this person can
be. A little more knowledge of the family--”
“You know nothing of its secret history, then?”
“Nothing.”
“Do not even know whether either of these girls is engaged to be
married?”
“I do not,” I returned, wincing at this direct expression of my own
thoughts.
He remained a moment silent. “Mr. Raymond,” he cried at last, “have
you any idea of the disadvantages under which a detective labors?
For instance, now, you imagine I can insinuate myself into all
sorts of society, perhaps; but you are mistaken. Strange as it may
appear, I have never by any possibility of means succeeded with one
class of persons at all. I cannot pass myself off for a gentleman.
Tailors and barbers are no good; I am always found out.”
He looked so dejected I could scarcely forbear smiling,
notwithstanding my secret care and anxiety.
“I have even employed a French valet, who understood dancing
and whiskers; but it was all of no avail. The first gentleman I
approached stared at me,--real gentleman, I mean, none of your
American dandies,--and I had no stare to return; I had forgotten
that emergency in my confabs with Pierre Catnille Marie Make-face.”
Amused, but a little discomposed by this sudden turn in the
conversation, I looked at Mr. Gryce inquiringly.
“Now you, I dare say, have no trouble? Was born one, perhaps. Can
even ask a lady to dance without blushing, eh?”
“Well,--” I commenced.
“Just so,” he replied; “now, I can’t. I can enter a house, bow to
the mistress of it, let her be as elegant as she will, so long as I
have a writ of arrest in my hand, or some such professional matter
upon my mind; but when it comes to visiting in kid gloves, raising
a glass of champagne in response to a toast--and such like, I am
absolutely good for nothing.” And he plunged his two hands into his
hair, and looked dolefully at the head of the cane I carried in my
hand. “But it is much the same with the whole of us. When we are in
want of a gentleman to work for us, we have to go outside of our
profession.”
I began to see what he was driving at; but held my peace, vaguely
conscious I was likely to prove a necessity to him, after all.
“Mr. Raymond,” he now said, almost abruptly; “do you know a
gentleman by the name of Clavering residing at present at the
Hoffman House?”
“Not that I am aware of.”
“He is very polished in his manners; would you mind making his
acquaintance?”
I followed Mr. Gryce’s example, and stared at the chimney-piece.
“I cannot answer till I understand matters a little better,” I
returned at length.
“There is not much to understand. Mr. Henry Clavering, a gentleman
and a man of the world, resides at the Hoffman House. He is a
stranger in town, without being strange; drives, walks, smokes, but
never visits; looks at the ladies, but is never seen to bow to one.
In short, a person whom it is desirable to know; but whom, being a
proud man, with something of the old-world prejudice against Yankee
freedom and forwardness, I could no more approach in the way of
acquaintance than I could the Emperor of Austria.”
“And you wish----”
“He would make a very agreeable companion for a rising young lawyer
of good family and undoubted respectability. I have no doubt, if
you undertook to cultivate him, you would find him well worth the
trouble.”
“But----”
“Might even desire to take him into familiar relations; to confide
in him, and----”
“Mr. Gryce,” I hastily interrupted; “I can never consent to plot
for any man’s friendship for the sake of betraying him to the
police.”
“It is essential to your plans to make the acquaintance of Mr.
Clavering,” he dryly replied.
“Oh!” I returned, a light breaking in upon me; “he has some
connection with this case, then?”
Mr. Gryce smoothed his coat-sleeve thoughtfully. “I don’t know as
it will be necessary for you to betray him. You wouldn’t object to
being introduced to him?”
“No.”
“Nor, if you found him pleasant, to converse with him?”
“No.”
“Not even if, in the course of conversation, you should come across
something that might serve as a clue in your efforts to save
Eleanore Leavenworth?”
The no I uttered this time was less assured; the part of a spy was
the very last one I desired to play in the coming drama.
“Well, then,” he went on, ignoring the doubtful tone in which my
assent had been given, “I advise you to immediately take up your
quarters at the Hoffman House.”
“I doubt if that would do,” I said. “If I am not mistaken, I have
already seen this gentleman, and spoken to him.”
“Where?”
“Describe him first.”
“Well, he is tall, finely formed, of very upright carriage, with a
handsome dark face, brown hair streaked with gray, a piercing eye,
and a smooth address. A very imposing personage, I assure you.”
“I have reason to think I have seen him,” I returned; and in a few
words told him when and where.
“Humph!” said he at the conclusion; “he is evidently as much
interested in you as we are in him.
“How’s that? I think I see,” he added, after a moment’s thought.
“Pity you spoke to him; may have created an unfavorable impression;
and everything depends upon your meeting without any distrust.”
He rose and paced the floor.
“Well, we must move slowly, that is all. Give him a chance to
see you in other and better lights. Drop into the Hoffman House
reading-room. Talk with the best men you meet while there; but not
too much, or too indiscriminately. Mr. Clavering is fastidious,
and will not feel honored by the attentions of one who is
hail-fellow-well-met with everybody. Show yourself for what you
are, and leave all advances to him; he’ll make them.”
“Supposing we are under a mistake, and the man I met on the corner
of Thirty-seventh Street was not Mr. Clavering?”
“I should be greatly surprised, that’s all.”
Not knowing what further objection to make, I remained silent.
“And this head of mine would have to put on its thinking-cap,” he
pursued jovially.
“Mr. Gryce,” I now said, anxious to show that all this talk about
an unknown party had not served to put my own plans from my mind,
“there is one person of whom we have not spoken.”
“No?” he exclaimed softly, wheeling around until his broad back
confronted me. “And who may that be?”
“Why, who but Mr.--” I could get no further. What right had I to
mention any man’s name in this connection, without possessing
sufficient evidence against him to make such mention justifiable?
“I beg your pardon,” said I; “but I think I will hold to my first
impulse, and speak no names.”
“Harwell?” he ejaculated easily.
The quick blush rising to my face gave an involuntary assent.
“I see no reason why we shouldn’t speak of him,” he went on; “that
is, if there is anything to be gained by it.”
“His testimony at the inquest was honest, you think?”
“It has not been disproved.”
“He is a peculiar man.”
“And so am I.”
I felt myself slightly nonplussed; and, conscious of appearing at a
disadvantage, lifted my hat from the table and prepared to take my
leave; but, suddenly thinking of Hannah, turned and asked if there
was any news of her.
He seemed to debate with himself, hesitating so long that I began
to doubt if this man intended to confide in me, after all, when
suddenly he brought his two hands down before him and exclaimed
vehemently:
“The evil one himself is in this business! If the earth had opened
and swallowed up this girl, she couldn’t have more effectually
disappeared.”
I experienced a sinking of the heart. Eleanore had said: “Hannah
can do nothing for me.” Could it be that the girl was indeed gone,
and forever?
“I have innumerable agents at work, to say nothing of the general
public; and yet not so much as a whisper has come to me in regard
to her whereabouts or situation. I am only afraid we shall find her
floating in the river some fine morning, without a confession in
her pocket.”
“Everything hangs upon that girl’s testimony,” I remarked.
He gave a short grunt. “What does Miss Leavenworth say about it?”
“That the girl cannot help her.”
I thought he looked a trifle surprised at this, but he covered it
with a nod and an exclamation. “She must be found for all that,”
said he, “and shall, if I have to send out Q.”
“Q?”
“An agent of mine who is a living interrogation point; so we call
him _Q_, which is short for query.” Then, as I turned again to go:
“When the contents of the will are made known, come to me.”
The will! I had forgotten the will.
XV. WAYS OPENING
“It is not and it cannot come to good.”
Hamlet.
I attended the funeral of Mr. Leavenworth, but did not see the
ladies before or after the ceremony. I, however, had a few moments’
conversation with Mr. Harwell; which, without eliciting anything
new, provided me with food for abundant conjecture. For he had
asked, almost at first greeting, if I had seen the _Telegram_ of
the night before; and when I responded in the affirmative, turned
such a look of mingled distress and appeal upon me, I was tempted
to ask how such a frightful insinuation against a young lady of
reputation and breeding could ever have got into the papers. It was
his reply that struck me.
“That the guilty party might be driven by remorse to own himself
the true culprit.”
A curious remark to come from a person who had no knowledge or
suspicion of the criminal and his character; and I would have
pushed the conversation further, but the secretary, who was a man
of few words, drew off at this, and could be induced to say no
more. Evidently it was my business to cultivate Mr. Clavering, or
any one else who could throw any light upon the secret history of
these girls.
That evening I received notice that Mr. Veeley had arrived home,
but was in no condition to consult with me upon so painful a
subject as the murder of Mr. Leavenworth. Also a line from
Eleanore, giving me her address, but requesting me at the same time
not to call unless I had something of importance to communicate, as
she was too ill to receive visitors. The little note affected me.
Ill, alone, and in a strange home,--’twas pitiful!
The next day, pursuant to the wishes of Mr. Gryce, in I stepped
into the Hoffman House, and took a seat in the reading room. I
had been there but a few moments when a gentleman entered whom I
immediately recognized as the same I had spoken to on the corner
o
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