The Clue (4 page)

IV

SUICIDE OR—?

MISS MORTON, ALSO, SEEMED to have distracting thoughts. She sat down on the sofa beside Mrs. Markham, then she jumped up suddenly and started for the door, only to turn about and resume her seat on the sofa. Here she sat for a few moments apparently in deep thought. Then she rose, and slowly stalked from the room and went upstairs.

After a few moments, Marie, the French maid, also rose and silently left the room.

Having concluded it was a case for the county physician, Doctor Hills apparently considered that his personal responsibility was at an end, and he sat quietly awaiting the coming of his colleague.

After a time, Miss Morton returned, and again took her seat on the sofa. She looked excited and a little flurried, but strove to appear calm.

It was a dreadful hour. Only rarely any one spoke, and though glances sometimes shot from the eyes of one to the eyes of another, each felt his gaze oftenest impelled toward that dread, beautiful figure by the table.

At last Schuyler Carleton, with an evident effort, said suddenly, “Oughtn't we to send for Tom Willard?”

Mrs. Markham gave a start. “Of course we must,” she said. “Poor Tom! He must be told. Who will tell him?”

“I will,” volunteered Miss Morton, and Doctor Hills looked up, amazed at her calm tone. This woman puzzled him, and he could not understand her continued attempts at authority in a household where she was a comparative stranger. And yet might it not be merely a kind consideration for those who were nearer and dearer to the principals of this awful tragedy?

But even as he thought this over, Miss Morton had gone to the telephone, her heavy silk gown rustling as she crossed the room, and her every movement assertive of her own importance.

Calling up the Mapleton Inn, she succeeded, after several attempts, in rousing some of its occupants, and finally was in communication with young Willard himself. She did not tell him of the tragedy, but only asked him to come over to the house at once, as something serious had happened, and returned to her seat with a murmured observation that Tom would arrive as soon as possible.

Again the little group lapsed into silence. Cicely Dupuy was very nervous, and kept picking at her handkerchief, quite unconscious that she was ruining its delicate lace edge.

Doctor Hills glanced furtively from one to another. Many things puzzled him, but most of all he was at a loss to understand the suicide of this beautiful girl on the very eve of her wedding.

At last Tom Willard came.

Miss Morton met him at the door, and took him into the drawing-room before he could turn toward the library.

Schuyler Carleton's frantic touches on various electric buttons had turned on all the lights in the drawing-room. As no one had noticed this, the great apartment had remained illuminated as if for a festivity, and the soft, bright lights fell on the floral bower and the elaborate decorations that had been arranged for the wedding day.

“What is it?” asked Tom, his own face white with an impending sense of dread as he looked into Miss Morton's eyes.

As gently as possible, but in her own straightforward and inevitably somewhat abrupt way, Miss Morton told him.

“I want to warn you,” she said, “to prepare for a shock, and I think it kinder to tell you the truth at once. Your cousin Madeleine—Miss Van Norman—has taken her own life.”

“What?” Tom almost shouted the word, and his face showed an absolutely uncomprehending amazement.

“She killed herself to-night,” Miss Morton went on, whose efforts were now directed toward making the young man understand, rather than towards sparing his feelings.

But Tom could not seem to grasp it. “What do you mean?” he said, catching her by both arms. “Madeleine? Killed herself?”

“Yes,” said Miss Morton, shaken out of her own calm by Tom's excited voice. “In the library, after we had all gone to bed, she stabbed herself with that horrible paper-cutter thing. Did you know she was unhappy?”

“Unhappy? No; why should she be? Tomorrow was to have been her wedding day!”

“To-day,” corrected Miss Morton. “It is already the day on which our dear Madeleine was to have become a bride. And instead “Glancing around the brilliant room and at the bridal bower, Miss Morton's composure gave way entirely, and she sobbed hysterically. At this Cicely Dupuy came across from the library. Putting her arm around Miss Morton, she led the sobbing woman away, and without a word to Tom Willard gave him a glance which seemed to say that he must look out for himself, for her duty was to attend Miss Morton.

As the two women left the drawing-room Tom followed them. He walked slowly, and stared about as if uncertain where to go. He paused a moment midway in the room, and, stooping, picked up some small object from the carpet, which he put in his waistcoat pocket.

A moment more and he had crossed the hall and stood at the library door, gazing at the scene which had already shocked and saddened the others.

With a groan, as of utter anguish, Tom involuntarily put up one hand before his eyes.

Then, pulling himself together with an effort, he seemed to dash away a tear, and walked into the room, saying almost harshly, “What does it mean?”

Doctor Hills rose to meet him, and by way of a brief explanation he put into Tom's hand the paper he had found on the table. Tom read the written message, and looked more stupefied than ever. With a sudden gesture he turned towards Schuyler Carleton and said in a low voice, “but you
did
love her, didn't you?”

“I did,” replied Carleton simply.

“Why should she have thought you didn't?” went on Tom, looking at the paper, and seeming to soliloquize rather than to address his question to any one else.

As this was the first time that the “S.” in Madeleine's note had been openly assumed to stand for Schuyler Carleton, there was a stir of excitement all round the room.

“I don't know,” said Carleton, but a dull, red flush spread over his white face and his voice trembled.

“You don't know!” said Tom, in cutting tones. “Man, you
must
know.”

But no reply was made, and, dropping into a chair, Tom buried his face in both hands and remained thus for a long time.

Tom Willard was a large, stout man, and possessed of the genial and merry demeanor which so often accompanies avoirdupois. Save for his occasional, though really rare, bursts of temper, Tom was always in joking and laughing mood.

To see him thus in an agonized, speechless despair deeply affected Mrs. Markham. Tom had always been a favorite with her, and not even Madeleine had regretted more than she the estrangement between Richard Van Norman and his nephew. And even as Mrs. Markham looked at the bowed head of the great strong man she suddenly bethought herself for the first time that Tom was now heir to the Van Norman fortune.

She wondered if he had himself yet realized it; and then she scolded herself for letting such thoughts intrude so unfittingly soon. And yet she well knew that it would not be in ordinary human nature long to ignore the fact of such a sudden change of fortunes. As she looked at Tom her glance strayed toward Mr. Carleton, and then the thought struck her that what Tom had gained this man had lost. For had Madeleine lived the Van Norman money would have been, in a way, at the disposal of her husband. The girl's death then would make Tom a rich man, while Schuyler Carleton would remain poor. He had always been poor, or at least far from wealthy, and more than one gossip was of the opinion that he had wooed Miss Van Norman not entirely because of disinterested love for her.

While Mrs. Markham was busy with these fast-following thoughts a voice in the doorway made her look up.

A quiet, unimportant-looking man stood there, and was respectfully addressing Doctor Hills.

“I'm Hunt, sir,” he said, “a plain-clothes man from headquarters.”

The three men in the room gave a start of surprise, and each turned an inquiring look at the newcomer.

“Who sent you? And what for?” asked Doctor Hills.

“I've been here all night, sir. I'm on guard in the present room upstairs.”

“I engaged him,” said Mrs. Markham. “Madeleine's presents are very valuable, and although the jewels are still in the bank, the silver and other things upstairs are worth a large amount, and I thought best to have this man remain here during the night.”

“A very wise precaution, Mrs. Markham,” said Doctor Hills; “and why did you leave your post, my man?”

“The butler told me of what had happened, and I wondered if I might be of any service down here. I left the butler in charge of the room while I came down to inquire.”

“Very thoughtful of you,” said Doctor Hills, with a nod of appreciation; “and while I hardly think so, we may have use for you before the night is over. I am expecting Doctor Leonard, the county physician, and until he comes I can do nothing. I am sure the room above is sufficiently guarded for the time being, so suppose you sit down here a few minutes and wait.”

Mr. Hunt chose to take a seat in the hall, just outside the library door, and thus added one more solemn presence to the quietly waiting group.

And now Doctor Hills had occasion to add another puzzling condition to those that had already confronted him.

Almost every one in the room was curiously affected by the appearance of this detective, or plain-clothes man, as he was called.

Schuyler Carleton gave a start, and his pale face became whiter yet.

Cicely Dupuy looked at him, and then turning her glance toward Mr. Hunt, whom she could see through the doorway, she favored the latter with a stare of such venomous hatred that Doctor Hills with difficulty repressed an exclamation.

Cicely's big blue eyes roved from Hunt to Carleton and back again, and her little hands clenched as with a firm resolve of some sort in her mind; she seemed to brace herself for action.

Her hovering glances annoyed Carleton; he grew nervous and at last stared straight at her, when her own eyes dropped, and she blushed rosy red.

But this side-play was observed by no one but Doctor Hills, for the others were evidently absorbed in serious thoughts of their own concerning the advent of Mr. Hunt.

Tom Willard stared at him in a sort of perplexity; but Tom's good-natured face had worn that perplexed look ever since he had heard the awful news. He seemed unable to understand, or even to grasp the facts so clearly visible before him.

But Miss Morton was more disturbed than any one else. She looked at Hunt, and an expression of fear came into her eyes. She fidgeted about, she felt in her pocket, she changed her seat twice, and she repeatedly asked Doctor Hills if he thought Doctor Leonard would arrive soon.

Doctor Leonard did not live in Mapleton, but motored over from his home in a nearby village. He was a stranger to all those awaiting him in the Van Norman house, with the exception of Doctor Hills. Unlike that pleasant-mannered young man, Doctor Leonard was middle aged, of a crusty disposition and curt speech.

When he came, Doctor Hills presented him to the ladies, and before he had time to introduce the two men, Doctor Leonard said crossly, “Put the women out. I cannot conduct this affair with petticoats and hysterics around me.”

Though not meant to reach the ears of the ladies, the speech was fairly audible, and with a trace of indignation Miss Morton arose and left the room. Mrs. Markham followed her, and Cicely went also.

Doctor Leonard closed the library doors, and, turning to Doctor Hills, asked for a concise statement of what had happened.

In his straightforward manner Doctor Hills gave him a brief outline of the case, including all the necessary details.

“And yet,” he concluded, “even in the face of that written message, I cannot think it a suicide.”

“Of course it's a suicide,” declared Doctor Leonard in his blustering way; “there is no question whatever. That written confession which you all declare to be in her handwriting is ample proof that the girl killed herself. Of course you had to send for me—the stupid old laws of New Jersey make it imperative that I shall be dragged out many miles away from my home for every death that isn't in conventional death-bed fashion; but there is no suspicion of foul play here. The poor girl chose to kill herself, and she has done so with the means which she found near at hand. I will write the burial certificate and leave it with you. There is no occasion for the coroner.”

“Thank God for that!” exclaimed Schuyler Carleton, in a fervent tone.

“Amen,” said Tom. “It's dreadful enough to think of poor Maddy as she is, but had it been any one else who—”

Unheeding the ejaculations of the two men, Doctor Hills said earnestly, “But, Doctor, if it had not been for the written paper, would you have called it suicide?”

“That has nothing to do with the case,” declared Doctor Leonard testily. “The paper is there, and is authentic. No sane man could doubt that it is a suicide after that.”

“But, Doctor Leonard, it would seem impossible for a woman to stab herself at that angle, and with such an astonishing degree of force; also to pull the dagger from the wound, cast it on the floor, and then to place her arm in that particular position on the table.”

“Why do you say in that particular position?”

“Because the position of her right arm is as if thrown there carelessly, and not as if flung there in a death agony.”

“You are imaginative, Doctor Hills. The facts may not seem possible, but since they are the facts you must admit that they are possible.”

“Very well, Doctor Leonard, I accept your decision, and I relinquish all professional responsibility in the matter.”

“You may do so. There is no occasion for mystery or question. It is a sad affair, indeed, but no crime is indicated beyond that of self-destruction. The written confession hints at the motive for the deed, but that is outside my jurisdiction. Who is the man in the hall? I fancied him a detective.”