The Clue (17 page)

“How much more sensible you are than Mr. Willard,” said Kitty, with an admiring glance that went straight to the young man's heart, and stayed there. “And, too, you always make use of ‘clues' if you do find them. Look how cleverly you deduced about the soft and hard lead pencils.”

“Oh, that was nothing,” said Fessenden modestly, though her praise was ecstasy to his soul.

“Indeed it
was
something! It was great work. And I truly believe you'll make as great a deduction from that little thing you found this morning. What do you call it?”

“A cachou.”

“Yes, a cachou. The whole discovery of the murderer may hinge on that tiny clue we found.”

“It may, but I can hardly hope so.”

“I hope so,—for I do want to prove to Tom Willard that our search for clues wasn't silly, after all.”

And Fessenden's foolish heart was so joyed at Kitty's use of “we” and “our” that he cared not a rap for Willard's opinion of his detective methods.

XVII

MISS MORTON'S STATEMENTS

THAT AFTERNOON ANOTHER SESSION of the inquest was held.

Fessenden had told Coroner Benson of Marie's disclosures concerning Miss Morton, and in consequence that lady was the first witness called.

The summons was a complete surprise to her. Turning deathly white, she endeavored to answer to her name, but only gave voice to an unintelligible stammer.

The coroner spoke gently, realizing that his feminine cloud of witnesses really gave him a great deal of trouble.

“Please tell us, Miss Morton,” he said, “what was your errand when you left the library and went upstairs, remaining there nearly half an hour, on the night of Miss Van Norman's death?”

“I didn't do any such thing!” snapped Miss Morton, and though her tone was defiant now, her expression still showed fear and dismay.

“You must have forgotten. Think a moment. You were seen to leave the library, and you were also seen after you reached the upper floors. So try to recollect clearly, and state your errand upstairs at that time.”

“I—I was overcome at the tragedy of the occasion, and I went to my own room to be alone for a time.”

“Did you go directly from the library to your own room?”

“Yes.”

“Without stopping in any other room on the way?”

“Yes.”

“Think again, please. Perhaps I had better tell you, a witness has already told of your stopping on the way to your own room.”

“She told falsely, then. I went straight to my bedroom.”

“In the third story?”

“Yes.”

Coroner Benson was a patient man. He had no wish to confound Miss Morton with Marie's evidence, and too, there was a chance that Marie had not told the truth. So he spoke again persuasively:

“You went there afterward, but first you stopped for a moment or two in Miss Van Norman's sitting-room.”

“Who says I did?”

“An eye-witness, who chanced to see you.”

“Chanced to see me, indeed! Nothing of the sort! It was that little French minor, Marie, who is everlastingly spying about! Well, she is not to be believed.”

“I am sorry to doubt your own statement, Miss Morton, but another member of the household also saw you. Denial is useless; it would be better for you to tell us simply why you went to Miss Van Norman's room at that time.”

“It's nobody's business,” snapped Miss Morton. “My errand there had nothing to do in any way with Madeleine Van Norman, dead or alive.”

“Then, there is no reason you should not tell frankly what that errand was.”

“I have my own reasons, and I refuse to tell.”

Mr. Benson changed his tactics.

“Miss Morton,” he said, “when did you first know that you were to inherit this house and also a considerable sum of money at the death of Miss Van Norman?”

The effect of this sudden question was startling.

Miss Morton seemed to be taken off her guard. She turned red, then paled to a sickly white. Once or twice she essayed to speak, but hesitated and did not do so.

“Come, come,” said the coroner, “that cannot be a difficult question to answer. When was your first intimation that you were a beneficiary by the terms of Miss Van Norman's will?”

And now Miss Morton had recovered her bravado.

“When the will was read,” she said in cold, firm accents.

“No; you knew it before that. You learned it when you went to Miss Van Norman's room and read some papers which were in her desk. You read from a small private memorandum book that she had bequeathed this place to you at her death.”

“Nothing of the sort,” returned the quick, snappy voice. “I knew it before that.”

“And you just said you learned of it first when the will was read!”

“Well, I forgot. Madeleine told me the day I came here last year that she had made a will leaving the house to me, because she thought it should have been mine any way.”

“The day you were here last year, she told you this?”

“Yes, we had a little conversation on the subject, and she told me.”

“Why did you not say this when I first asked you concerning the matter?”

“I forgot it. Miss Morton spoke nonchalantly, as if contradicting oneself was a matter of no moment.

“Then you knew of your legacy before Miss Van Norman died?”

“Yes, now that I think of it, I believe I did.”

She was certainly a difficult witness. She seemed unable to look upon the questions as important, and her answers were given either in a flippant or savage manner.

“Then why did you go to Miss Van Norman's room to look for her will that night?”

“Her will? I didn't!”

“No, not the will that bequeathed you the house, but a later will that made a different disposal of it.”

“There wasn't such a one,” said Miss Morton, in a low, scared voice.

“What, then, was the paper which you took from Miss Van Norman's desk, carried to your own room, and burned?”

The coroner's voice was not persuasive now; it was accusing, and his face was stern as he awaited her reply.

Again Miss Morton's face blanched to white. Her thin lips formed a straight line, and her eyes fell, but her voice was strong and sibilant, as she fairly hissed:

“How dare you! Of what do you accuse me?”

“Of burning a paper which you took secretly from Miss Van Norman's private desk.”

A moment's hesitation, and then, “I did not do it,” she said clearly.

“But you were seen to do it.”

“By whom?”

“By a disinterested and credible witness.”

“By a sly, spying French servant!”

“It matters not by whom; you are asked to explain the act of burning that paper.”

“I have nothing to explain. I deny it.”

And try as he would Mr. Benson could not prevail upon Miss Morton to admit that she had burned a paper.

He confronted her with the witness, Marie, but Miss Morton coldly refused to listen to her, or to pay any attention to what she said. She insisted that Marie was not speaking the truth, and as the matter rested between the two, there was nothing more to be done. modest voice, with a touch of sadness, as befitting the occasion, seemed to have just the right ring to it.

Kitty French said that she saw Miss Morton go into Madeleine's room, and afterward go upstairs to her own room, but she knew nothing about the papers in question.

Still adhering to her denial of Marie's story, Miss Morton was excused from the witness stand.

Another witness called was Dorothy Burt. Fessenden was sorry that this had to be, for he dreaded to have the fact of Carleton's infatuation for this girl brought into public notice.

Miss Burt was a model witness, as to her manner and demeanor. She answered promptly and clearly all the coroner's questions, and at first Rob thought that perhaps she was, after all, the innocent child that Carleton thought her.

But he couldn't help realizing, as the cross-questioning went on, that Miss Burt really gave very little information of any value. Perhaps because she had none to give, perhaps because she chose to withhold it.

“Your name?” Mr. Benson had first asked.

“Dorothy Burt,” was the answer, and the modest voice, with a touch of sadness, as befitting the occasion, seemed to have just the right ring to it.

“Your occupation?”

“I am companion and social secretary to Mrs. Carleton.”

“Do you know of anything that can throw any light on any part of the mystery surrounding the death of Miss Van Norman?”

Miss Burt drew her pretty eyebrows slightly together, and thought a moment.

“No,” she said quietly; “I am sure I do not.”

So gentle and sweet was she, that many a questioner would have dismissed her then and there; but Mr. Benson, hoping to get at least a shred of evidence bearing on Schuyler Carleton's strange behavior, continued to question her.

“Tell us, please, Miss Burt, what you know of Mr. Carleton's actions on the night of Miss Van Norman's death.”

“Mr. Carleton's actions?” The delicate eyebrows lifted as if in perplexity at the question.

“Yes; detail his actions, so far as you know them, from the time he came home to dinner that evening.”

“Why, let me see;” pretty Dorothy looked thoughtful again. “He came to dinner, as usual. Mr. Fessenden was there, but no other guest. After dinner we all sat in the music room. I played a little,—just some snatches of certain music that Mrs. Carleton is fond of Mr. Carleton and Mr. Fessenden chatted together.”

Rob raised his own eyebrows a trifle at this. Carleton had not been at all chatty; indeed, Fessenden and Mrs. Carleton had sustained the burden of the conversation; and while Miss Burt had played, it had been bits of romantic music that Rob felt sure had been for Schuyler's delectation more than his mother's.

“Is that all?” said Mr. Benson.

“Yes, I think so,” said Miss Burt; “we all went to our rooms early, as the next day was the day appointed for Mr. Carleton's wedding, and we assumed he wanted to be alone.”

Rob looked up astounded. Was she going to make no mention of the stroll in the rose-garden? He almost hoped she wouldn't, and yet that was certainly the evidence Mr. Benson was after.

“You said good-night to Mr. Carleton at what time, then?” was the next rather peculiar question.

It might have been imagination, but Fessenden thought the girl was going to name an earlier hour, then, catching sight of Rob's steady eyes upon her, she hesitated an instant, and then said: “About ten o'clock, I think.”

“Mrs. Carleton and Mr. Fessenden went to their rooms at the same time?”

Dorothy Burt turned very pale. She shot a quick glance at Schuyler Carleton and another at Fessenden, and then said in a low tone: “They had gone upstairs a short time before.”

“And you remained downstairs for a time with Mr. Carleton?”

“Yes.” The answer, merely a whisper, seemed forced upon her lips.

“Where were you?”

Again the hesitation. Again the swift glances at Carleton and Rob, and then the low answer:

“In the rose-garden.”

Fessenden understood. The girl had no desire to tell these things, but she knew that he knew the truth, and so she was too clever to lie uselessly.

“How long were you two in the rose-garden, Miss Burt?”

Another pause. Somehow, Fessenden seemed to see the workings of the girl's mind. If she designated a long time it would seem important. If too short a time, Rob would know of her inaccuracy. And if she said she didn't know, it would lend a meaning to the rose-garden interview which it were better to avoid.

“Perhaps a half-hour,” she said, at last, and, though outwardly calm, her quickly-drawn breath and shining eyes betokened a suppressed excitement of some sort.

“And you left Mr. Carleton at ten o'clock?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know what he did after that?”

“I do not!” the answer rang out clearly, as if Miss Burt were glad to be well past the danger point of the dialogue. But it came back at her with the next question.

“What was the tenor of your conversation with Mr. Carleton in the rose garden?”

At this Dorothy Burt's calm gave Way. She trembled, her red lower lip quivered, and her eyelids fluttered, almost as if she were about to faint.

But, by a quick gesture, she straightened herself up, and, looking her interlocutor in the eyes said:

“I trust I am not obliged to answer that very personal question.”

Like a flash it came to Fessenden that her perturbation had been merely a clever piece of acting. She had trembled and seemed greatly distressed in order that Mr. Benson's sympathy might be so aroused that he would not press the question.

And indeed it required a hardened heart to insist on an answer from the lovely, agitated girl.

But Mr. Benson was not so susceptible as some younger men, and, moreover, he was experienced in the ways of witnesses.

“I am sorry to be so personal, Miss Burt,” he said firmly; “but I fear it is necessary for us to learn the purport of your talk with Mr. Carleton at that time.”

Dorothy Burt looked straight at Schuyler Carleton.

Neither gave what might be called a gesture, and yet a message and a response flashed between the two.

Rob Fessenden, watching intently, translated it to mean a simple negative on Schuyler's part, but the question in the girl's eyes he could not read.

Carleton's “No,” however, was as plain as if spoken, and, apparently comprehending, Miss Burt went evenly on.

“We talked,” she said, “on such subjects as might be expected on the eve of a man's wedding day. We discussed the probability of pleasant weather, mention was made of Miss Van Norman and her magnificent personality. The loneliness of Mrs. Carleton after her son's departure was touched upon, and, while I cannot remember definitely, I think our whole talk was on those or kindred topics.”

“Why did you so hesitate a moment ago, when I asked you to tell this?”

Dorothy opened her lovely eyes in surprise.

“Hesitate! Why, I didn't. Why should I?”

Mr. Benson was at last put to rout. She
had
hesitated—more than hesitated; she had been distinctly averse to relating what she now detailed as a most indifferent conversation, but, in the face of that expression of injured innocence, Mr. Benson could say no more on that subject.

“When you left Mr. Carleton,” he went on, “did you know he was about to come over here to Miss Van Norman's?”

Again the telegraphic signals between Miss Burt and Carleton.

Quick as a flash—invisible to most of the onlookers, but distinctly seen by Fessenden—a question was asked and answered.

“No,” she said quickly; “I did not.”

“You left him at ten o'clock, then, and did not see him again that night?”