The Clue (6 page)

“Natural excitement at the strange and awful conditions now present.”

“Yes, no doubt.” Doctor Hills spoke a bit impatiently. The phlegmatic attitude of his colleague jarred on his own overwrought nerves, and he rose and walked about the room, now and then stopping to scrutinize anew the victim of the cruel dagger.

At last he stood still, across the table from her, but looking at Doctor Leonard.

“I have no suggestion to make,” he said slowly. “I have no theory to offer, but I am firmly convinced that Madeleine Van Norman did not strike the blow that took away her life. Perhaps this is more a feeling or an intuition than a logical conviction, but—”

He hesitated and looked intently at the dead girl, as if trying to force the secret from her.

With a sudden start he took a step forward, and as he spoke his voice rang with excitement.

“Doctor Leonard,” he said, in a quick, concise voice, “will you look carefully at that dagger?”

“Yes,” said the older man, impressed by the other's sudden intensity; and, stepping forward, he scrutinized the dagger as it lay on the table, without, however, touching it.

“There is blood on the handle,” went on Doctor Hills.

“Yes, several stains, now dried.”

“And do you see any blood on the right hand of Miss Van Norman?”

Startled at the implication, Doctor Leonard bent to examine the cold white hand. Not a trace of blood was on it. Instinctively he looked at the girl's left hand, only to find that also immaculately white.

Doctor Leonard stood upright and pulled himself together.

“I was wrong, Doctor Hills,” he said, with a nod which in him betokened an unspoken apology. “It is a case for the coroner.”

VI

FESSENDEN COMES

IT WAS ABOUT NINE o'clock the next morning when Rob Fessenden rang the bell of the Van Norman house. Having heard nothing of the events of the night, he had called to offer any assistance he might give before the ceremony.

The trailing garland of white flowers with fluttering streamers of white ribbon that hung beside the portal struck a chill to his heart.

“What can have happened?” he thought blankly, and confused ideas of motor accidents were thronging his mind as the door was opened for him. The demeanor of the footman at once told him that he was in a house of mourning. Shown into the drawing-room, he was met by Cicely Dupuy.

“Mr. Fessenden!” she exclaimed as she greeted him. “Then you have not heard?”

“I've heard nothing. What is it?”

Poor Miss Dupuy had bravely taken up the burden of telling the sad story to callers who did not know of it, and this was not the first time that morning she had enlightened inquiring friends.

In a few words she told Mr. Fessenden of the events of the night before. He was shocked and sincerely grieved. Although his acquaintance with Miss Van Norman was slight, he was Schuyler Carleton's oldest and best friend, and so he had come from New York the day before in order to take his part at the wedding.

While they were talking Kitty French came in. As Mr. Fessenden began to converse with her Cicely excused herself and left the room.

“Isn't it awful?” began Kitty, and her tear-filled eyes supplemented the trite sentence.

“It is indeed,” said Rob Fessenden, taking her hand in spontaneous sympathy. “Why should she do it?”

“She didn't do it,” declared Kitty earnestly. “Mr. Fessenden, they all say she killed herself, but I know she didn't. Won't you help me to prove that, and to find out who did kill her?”

“What do you mean, Miss French? Miss Dupuy just told me it was a suicide.”

“They all say so, but I know better. Oh, I wish somebody would help me! Molly doesn't think as I do, and I can't do anything all alone.”

Miss French's face was small and flower-like, and when she clasped her little hands and bewailed her inability to prove her belief, young Fessenden thought he had never seen such a perfect picture of beautiful helplessness. Without reserve he instantly resolved to aid and advise her to the best of his own ability.

“And Mrs. Markham doesn't think as I do, either,” went on Kitty. “Nobody thinks as I do.”

“I will think as you do,” declared Fessenden, and so potent was the charm of the tearful violet eyes, that he was quite ready to think whatever she dictated. “Only tell me what to think, and what to do about it.”

“Why, I think Madeleine didn't kill herself at all. I think somebody else killed her.”

“But who would do such a thing? You see, Miss French, I know nothing of the particulars. I saw Miss Van Norman for the first time yesterday.”

“Had you never met her before?”

“Oh, yes; a few years ago. But I mean, I came to Mapleton only yesterday, and saw her in the afternoon. I was to be Schuyler's best man, you know, and as he didn't come here to dinner last night, I thought I'd better not come either, though I had been asked. He was a little miffed with Miss Van Norman, you know.”

“Yes, I know. Maddy did flirt with Tom, and it always annoyed Mr. Carleton. Did you dine with him?”

“Yes, at his home. I am staying there. By the way, I met Miss Burt there; do you know her?”

“No, not at all. Who is she?”

“She's a companion to Mrs. Carleton, Schuyler's mother. I never saw her until last night at dinner.”

“No, I don't know her,” repeated Kitty. “I don't believe she was invited to the wedding, for I looked over the list of invitations. Still, her name may have been there. The list was so very long.”

“And now there'll be no wedding and no guests.”

“No,” said Kitty; “only guests at a far different ceremony.” Again the deep violet eyes filled with tears, and Fessenden was conscious of a longing to comfort and help the poor little girl thrown thus suddenly into the first tragedy of her life.

“It would be dreadful enough if she had died from an illness,” he said; “but this added awfulness.”

“Yes,” interrupted Kitty; “but to me the worst part is for them to say she killed herself,—and I
know
she didn't. Why, Maddy was too fine and big-natured to do such a cowardly thing.”

“She seemed so to me, too, though of course I didn't know her so well as you did.”

“No, I'm one of her nearest friends,—though Madeleine was never one to have really intimate friends. But as her friend, I want to try to do what I can to put her right in the face of the world. And you said you'd help me.”

She looked at Fessenden with such hopefully appealing eyes, that he would willingly have helped her in any way he could, but he also realized that it was a very serious proposition this young girl was making.

“I will help you, Miss French,” he said gravely. “I know little of the details of the case, but if there is the slightest chance that you may be right, rest assured that you shall be given every chance to prove it.”

Kitty French gave a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank you,” she said earnestly; “but I'm afraid we cannot do much, however well we intend. Of course I'm merely a guest here, and I have no authority of any sort. And, too, to prove that Maddy did not kill herself would mean having a detective and everything like that.”

“I may not be ‘everything like that,'” said Fessenden, with a faint smile, “but I am a sort of detective in an amateur way. I've had quite a good deal of experience, and though I wouldn't take a case officially, I'm sure I could at least discover if your suspicions have any grounds.”

“But I haven't any suspicions,” said Kitty, agitatedly clasping her little hands against her breast; I've a deep, positive conviction, that Madeleine did not kill herself, and I'm sure I don't know who did kill her.”

Fessenden gave that grave smile of his and only said, “That doesn't sound like much to work upon, and yet I would often trust a woman's intuitive knowledge against the most conspicuous clues or evidences.”

Kitty thanked him with a smile, but before she could speak, Miss Morton came into the room.

“It's perfectly dreadful,” that lady began, in her impetuous way; “they're going to have the coroner after all! Doctor Leonard has sent for him and he may arrive at any minute. Isn't it awful? There'll be an inquest, and the house will be thronged with all sorts of people!”

“Why are they going to have an inquest?” demanded Kitty, whirling around and grasping Miss Morton by her elbows.

“Because,” she said, quite as excited as Kitty herself—“because the doctors think that perhaps Madeleine didn't kill herself; that she was—was—”

“Murdered!” exclaimed Kitty. “I knew it! I knew she was! Who killed her?”

“Mercy! I don't know,” exclaimed Miss Morton, frightened at Kitty's vehemence. “That's what the coroner is coming to find out.”

“But who do you think did it? You must have some idea!”

“I haven't! Don't look at me like that! What do you mean?”

“It must have been a burglar,” went on Kitty, “because it couldn't have been any one else. But why didn't he steal things? Perhaps he did! We never thought to look?”

“How you do run on! Nobody could steal the presents, because there was a policeman in the house all the time.”

“Then, why didn't he catch the burglar?” demanded Kitty, grasping Miss Morton's arm, as if that lady had information that must be dragged from her by force.

Feeling interested in getting at the facts in the case, and thinking that he could learn little from these two excited women, Rob Fessenden turned into the hall just in time to meet Doctor Hills, who was coming from the library.

“May I introduce myself?” he said. “I'm Robert Fessenden, of New York, a lawyer, and I was to have been best man at the wedding. You, I know, are Doctor Hills, and I want to say to you that if the earnest endeavor of an amateur detective would be of any use to you in this matter, it is at your disposal. Mr. Carleton is my old and dear friend, and I need not tell you how he now calls forth my sympathy.”

Instinctively, Doctor Hills liked this young man. His frank manner and pleasant, straightforward ways impressed the doctor favorably, and he shook hands warmly as he said, “This is most kind of you, Mr. Fessenden, and you may prove the very man we need. At first, we were all convinced that Miss Van Norman's death was a suicide; and though the evidence still strongly points to that, I am sure that there is a possibility, at least, that it is not true.”

“May I learn the details of the case? May I go into the library?” said Fessenden, hesitating to approach the closed door until invited.

“Yes, indeed; I'll take you in at once. Doctor Leonard, who is in there, is the county physician, and, though a bit brusque in his manner, he is an honest old soul, and does unflinchingly what he judges to be his duty.”

Neither then nor at any time, neither to Doctor Leonard himself nor to any one else, did Doctor Hills ever mention the difference of opinion which the two men had held for so long the night before, nor did he tell how he had proved his own theory so positively that Doctor Leonard had been obliged to confess himself wrong. It was not in Doctor Hills' nature to say “I told you so,” and, fully appreciating this, Doctor Leonard said nothing either, but threw himself into the case heart and soul in his endeavors to seek truth and justice.

Fessenden and Doctor Hills entered the library, where everything was much as it had been the night before. At one time the doctors had been about to move the body to a couch, and to remove the disfigured gown, but after Doctor Leonard had been persuaded to agree with Doctor Hills' view of the case, they had left everything untouched until the coroner should come.

The discovery of this was a satisfaction to Robert Fessenden. His detective instinct had begun to assert itself, and he was glad of an opportunity to examine the room before the arrival of the coroner. Though not seeming unduly curious, his eyes darted about in an eager search for possible clues of any sort. Without touching them, he examined the dagger, the written paper, the appointments of the library table, and the body itself, with its sweet, sad face, its drooping posture, and its tragically stained raiment.

In true detective fashion he scrutinized the carpet, glanced at the window fastenings, and noted the appointments of the library table.

The only thing Fessenden touched, however, was a lead pencil which lay on the pen-rack. It was an ordinary pencil, but he gazed intently at the gilt lettering stamped upon it, and then returned it to its place.

Again he glanced quickly but carefully at every article on the table, and then, taking a chair, sat quietly in a corner, unobtrusive but alert.

With something of a bustling air the coroner came in. Coroner Benson was a fussy sort of man, with a somewhat exaggerated sense of his own importance.

He paused with what he probably considered a dramatic start when he saw the dead body of Miss Van Norman, and, shaking his head, said, “Alas! Alas!” in tragic tones.

Miss Morton and Kitty French had followed him in, and stood arm in arm, a little bewildered, but determined to know whatever might transpire. Cicely Dupuy and Miss Markham had also come in.

But after a glance round and a preliminary clearing of his throat, he at once requested that everybody except the two doctors should leave the room.

Fessenden and Kitty French were greatly disappointed at this, but the others went out with a feeling of relief, for the strain was beginning to tell upon the nerves of all concerned.

As usual, Miss Morton tried to exercise her powers of generalship, and directed that they should all assemble in the drawing-room until recalled to learn the coroner's opinion.

Mrs. Markham, unheeding Miss Morton's dictum, went away to attend to her household duties, and Cicely went to her own room, but the others waited in the drawing-room. They were joined shortly by Tom Willard and Schuyler Carleton, who arrived at about the same time.

Mr. Carleton, never a robust man, looked like a wreck of his former self. Years had been added to his apparent age; his impassive face wore a look of stony grief, and his dark eyes seemed filled with an unutterable horror.

Tom Willard, on the contrary, being of stout build and rubicund countenance, seemed an ill-fitting figure in the sad and tearful group.

But as Kitty French remarked to Fessenden in a whisper, “Poor Tom probably feels the worst of any of us, and it isn't his fault that he can't make that fat, jolly face of his look more funereal.”

“And he's said to be the heir to the estate, too,” Fessenden whispered back.

“Now, that's mean of you,” declared Kitty. “Tom hasn't a greedy hair in his head, and I don't believe he has even thought of his fortune. And, besides, he was desperately in love with Madeleine. A whole heap more in love than Mr. Carleton was.”

Fessenden stared at her. “Then why was Carleton marrying her?”

“For her money,” said Kitty, with a disdainful air.

“I didn't know that,” went on Fessenden, quite seriously. “I thought Carleton was hard hit. She was a magnificent woman.”

“Oh, she was, indeed,” agreed Kitty enthusiastically. “Mr. Carleton didn't half appreciate her, and Tom did. But then she was always very different with Tom. Somehow she always seemed constrained when with Mr. Carleton.”

“Then why was she marrying him?”

“She was terribly in love with him. She liked Tom only in a cousinly way, but she adored Mr. Carleton. I know it.”

“Well, it seems you were right about her not killing herself, so you're probably right about this matter, too.”