“Unless necessary, I prefer not to say.”
“It is necessary.”
“I went to Coney Island.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see anybody there you know?”
“No.”
“And when did you return?”
“At midnight.”
“When did you reach your rooms?”
“Later.”
“How much later?”
“Two or three hours.”
“And where were you during those hours?”
“I was walking the streets.”
The ease, the quietness with which he made these acknowledgments were remarkable. The jury to a man honored him with a prolonged stare, and the awe-struck crowd scarcely breathed during their utterance. At the last sentence a murmur broke out, at which he raised his head and with an air of surprise surveyed the people before him. Though he must have known what their astonishment meant, he neither quailed nor blanched, and while not in reality a handsome man, he certainly looked handsome at this moment.
I did not know what to think; so forbore to think anything. Meanwhile the examination went on.
“Mr. Van Burnam, I have been told that the locket I see there dangling from your watch-chain contains a lock of your wife’s hair. Is it so?”
“I have a lock of her hair in this; yes.”
“Here is a lock clipped from the head of the unknown woman whose identity we seek. Have you any objection to comparing the two?”
“It is not an agreeable task you have set me,” was the imperturbable response; “but I have no objection to doing what you ask.” And calmly lifting the chain, he took off the locket, opened it, and held it out courteously toward the Coroner. “May I ask you to make the first comparison,” he said.
The Coroner, taking the locket, laid the two locks of brown hair together, and after a moment’s contemplation of them both, surveyed the young man seriously, and remarked:
“They are of the same shade. Shall I pass them down to the jury?”
Howard bowed. You would have thought he was in a drawing-room, and in the act of bestowing a favor. But his brother Franklin showed a very different countenance, and as for their father, one could not even see his face, he so persistently held up his hand before it.
The jury, wide-awake now, passed the locket along, with many sly nods and a few whispered words. When it came back to the Coroner, he took it and handed it to Mr. Van Burnam, saying:
“I wish you would observe the similarity for yourself. I can hardly detect any difference between them.”
“Thank you! I am willing to take your word for it,” replied the young man, with most astonishing aplomb. And Coroner and jury for a moment looked baffled, and even Mr. Gryce, of whose face I caught a passing glimpse at this instant, stared at the head of his cane, as if it were of thicker wood than he expected and had more knotty points on it than even his accustomed hand liked to encounter.
Another effort was not out of place, however; and the Coroner, summoning up some of the pompous severity he found useful at times, asked the witness if his attention had been drawn to the dead woman’s hands.
He acknowledged that it had. “The physician who made the autopsy urged me to look at them, and I did; they were certainly very like my wife’s.”
“Only like.”
“I cannot say that they were my wife’s. Do you wish me to perjure myself?”
“A man should know his wife’s hands as well as he knows her face.”
“Very likely.”
“And you are ready to swear these were not the hands of your wife?”
“I am ready to swear I did not so consider them.”
“And that is all?”
“That is all.”
The Coroner frowned and cast a glance at the jury. They needed prodding now and then, and this is the way he prodded them. As soon as they gave signs of recognizing the hint he gave them, he turned back, and renewed his examination in these words:
“Mr. Van Burnam, did your brother at your request hand you the keys of your father’s house on the morning of the day on which this tragedy occurred?”
“He did.”
“Have you those keys now?”
“I have not.”
“What have you done with them? Did you return them to your brother?”
“No; I see where your inquiries are tending, and I do not suppose you will believe my simple word; but I lost the keys on the day I received them; that is why—”
“Well, you may continue, Mr. Van Burnam.”
“I have no more to say; my sentence was not worth completing.”
The murmur which rose about him seemed to show dissatisfaction; but he remained imperturbable, or rather like a man who did not hear. I began to feel a most painful interest in the inquiry, and dreaded, while I anxiously anticipated, his further examination.
“You lost the keys; may I ask when and where?”
“That I do not know; they were missing when I searched for them; missing from my pocket, I mean.”
“Ah! and when did you search for them?”
“The next day—after I had heard—of—of what had taken place in my father’s house.”
The hesitations were those of a man weighing his reply. They told on the jury, as all such hesitations do; and made the Coroner lose an atom of the respect he had hitherto shown this easy-going witness.
“And you do not know what became of them?”
“No.”
“Or into whose hands they fell?”
“No, but probably into the hands of the wretch—”
To the astonishment of everybody he was on the verge of vehemence; but becoming sensible of it, he controlled himself with a suddenness that was almost shocking.
“Find the murderer of this poor girl,” said he, with a quiet air that was more thrilling than any display of passion, “and ask him where he got the keys with which he opened the door of my father’s house at midnight.”
Was this a challenge, or just the natural outburst of an innocent man. Neither the jury nor the Coroner seemed to know, the former looking startled and the latter nonplussed. But Mr. Gryce, who had moved now into view, smoothed the head of his cane with quite a loving touch, and did not seem at this moment to feel its inequalities objectionable.
“We will certainly try to follow your advice,” the Coroner assured him. “Meanwhile we must ask how many rings your wife is in the habit of wearing?”
“Five. Two on the left hand and three on the right.”
“Do you know these rings?”
“I do.”
“Better than you know her hands?”
“As well, sir.”
“Were they on her hands when you parted from her in Haddam?”
“They were.”
“Did she always wear them?”
“Almost always. Indeed I do not ever remember seeing her take off more than one of them.”
“Which one?”
“The ruby with the diamond setting.”
“Had the dead girl any rings on when you saw her?”
“No, sir.”
“Did you look to see?”
“I think I did in the first shock of the discovery.”
“And you saw none?”
“No, sir.”
“And from this you concluded she was not your wife?”
“From this and other things.”
“Yet you must have seen that the woman was in the habit of wearing rings, even if they were not on her hands at that moment?”
“Why, sir? What should I know about her habits?”
“Is not that a ring I see
now on your little finger?”
“It is; my seal ring which I always wear.”
“Will you pull it off?”
“Pull it off!”
“If you please; it is a simple test I am requiring of you, sir.”
The witness looked astonished, but pulled off the ring at once.
“Here it is,” said he.
“Thank you, but I do not want it. I merely want you to look at your finger.”
The witness complied, evidently more nonplussed than disturbed by this command.
“Do you see any difference between that finger and the one next it?”
“Yes; there is a mark about my little finger showing where the ring has pressed.”
“Very good; there were such marks on the fingers of the dead girl, who, as you say, had no rings on. I saw them, and perhaps you did yourself?”
“I did not; I did not look closely enough.”
“They were on the little finger of the right hand, on the marriage finger of the left, and on the forefinger of the same. On which fingers did your wife wear rings?”
“On those same fingers, sir, but I will not accept this fact as proving her identity with the deceased. Most women do wear rings, and on those very fingers.”
The Coroner was nettled, but he was not discouraged. He exchanged looks with Mr. Gryce, but nothing further passed between them and we were left to conjecture what this interchange of glances meant.
The witness, who did not seem to be affected either by the character of this examination or by the conjectures to which it gave rise, preserved his sang-froid, and eyed the Coroner as he might any other questioner, with suitable respect, but with no fear and but little impatience. And yet he must have known the horrible suspicion darkening the minds of many people present, and suspected, even if against his will, that this examination, significant as it was, was but the forerunner of another and yet more serious one.
“You are very determined,” remarked the Coroner in beginning again, “not to accept the very substantial proofs presented you of the identity between the object of this inquiry and your missing wife. But we are not yet ready to give up the struggle, and so I must ask if you heard the description given by Miss Ferguson of the manner in which your wife was dressed on leaving Haddam?
“I have.”
“Was it a correct account? Did she wear a black and white plaid silk and a hat trimmed with various colored ribbons and flowers?”
“She did.”
“Do you remember the hat? Were you with her when she bought it, or did you ever have your attention drawn to it in any particular way?”
“I remember the hat.”
“Is this it, Mr. Van Burnam?”
I was watching Howard, and the start he gave was so pronounced and the emotion he displayed was in such violent contrast to the self-possession he had maintained up to this point, that I was held spell-bound by the shock I received, and forebore to look at the object which the Coroner had suddenly held up for inspection. But when I did turn my head towards it, I recognized at once the multi-colored hat which Mr. Gryce had brought in from the third room of Mr. Van Burnam’s house on the evening I was there, and realized almost in the same breath that great as this mystery had hitherto seemed it was likely to prove yet greater before its proper elucidation was arrived at.
“Was that found in my father’s house? Where—where was that hat found?” stammered the witness, so far forgetting himself as to point towards the object in question.
“It was found by Mr. Gryce in a closet off your father’s dining-room, a short time after the dead girl was carried out.”
“I don’t believe it,” vociferated the young man, paling with something more than anger, and shaking from head to foot.
“Shall I put Mr. Gryce on his oath again?” asked the Coroner, mildly.
The young man stared; evidently these words failed to reach his understanding.
“Is it your wife’s hat?” persisted the Coroner with very little mercy. “Do you recognize it for the one in which she left Haddam?”
“Would to God I did not!” burst in vehement distress from the witness, who at the next moment broke down altogether and looked about for the support of his brother’s arm.
Franklin came forward, and the two brothers stood for a moment in the face of the whole surging mass of curiosity-mongers before them, arm in arm, but with very different expressions on their two proud faces. Howard was the first to speak.
“If that was found in the parlors of my father’s house,” he cried, “then the woman who was killed there was my wife.” And he started away with a wild air towards the door.
“Where are you going?” asked the Coroner, quietly, while an officer stepped softly before him, and his brother compassionately drew him back by the arm.
“I am going to take her from that horrible place; she is my wife. Father, you would not wish her to remain in that spot for another moment, would you, while we have a house we call our own?”
Mr. Van Burnam the senior, who had shrunk as far from sight as possible through these painful demonstrations, rose up at these words from his agonized son, and making him an encouraging gesture, walked hastily out of the room; seeing which, the young man became calmer, and though he did not cease to shudder, tried to restrain his first grief, which to those who looked closely at him was evidently very sincere.
“I would not believe it was she,” he cried, in total disregard of the presence he was in, “I would not believe it; but now—” A certain pitiful gesture finished the sentence, and neither Coroner nor jury seemed to know just how to proceed, the conduct of the young man being so markedly different from what they had expected. After a short pause, painful enough to all concerned, the Coroner, perceiving that very little could be done with the witness under the circumstances, adjourned the sitting till afternoon.
CHAPTER XIV
A SERIOUS ADMISSION
I went at once to a restaurant. I ate because it was time to eat, and because any occupation was welcome that would pass away the hours of waiting. I was troubled; and I did not know what to make of myself. I was no friend to the Van Burnams; I did not like them, and certainly had never approved of any of them but Mr. Franklin, and yet I found myself altogether disturbed over the morning’s developments, Howard’s emotion having appealed to me in spite of my prejudices. I could not but think ill of him, his conduct not being such as I could honestly commend. But I found myself more ready to listen to the involuntary pleadings of my own heart in his behalf than I had been prior to his testimony and its somewhat startling termination.
But they were not through with him yet, and after the longest three hours I ever passed, we were again convened before the Coroner.
I saw Howard as soon as anybody did. He came in, arm in arm as before, with his faithful brother, and sat down in a retired corner behind the Coroner. But he was soon called forward.
His face when the light fell on it was startling to most of us. It was as much changed as if years, instead of hours, had elapsed since last we saw it. No longer reckless in its expression, nor easy, nor politely patient, it showed in its every lineament that he had not only passed through a hurricane of passion, but that the bitterness, which had been its worst feature, had not passed with the storm, but had settled into the core of his nature, disturbing its equilibrium forever. My emotions were not allayed by the sight; but I kept all expression of them out of view. I must be sure of his integrity before giving rein to my sympathies.
The jury moved and sat up quite alert when they saw him. I think that if these especial twelve men could have a murder case to investigate every day, they would grow quite wide-awake in time. Mr. Van Burnam made no demonstration. Evidently there was not likely to be a repetition of the morning’s display of passion. He had been iron in his impassi
bility at that time, but he was steel now, and steel which had been through the fiercest of fires.
The opening question of the Coroner showed by what experience these fires had been kindled.
“Mr. Van Burnam, I have been told that you have visited the Morgue in the interim which has elapsed since I last questioned you. Is that true?”
“It is.”
“Did you, in the opportunity thus afforded, examine the remains of the woman whose death we are investigating, attentively enough to enable you to say now whether they are those of your missing wife?”
“I have. The body is that of Louise Van Burnam; I crave your pardon and that of the jury for my former obstinacy in refusing to recognize it. I thought myself fully justified in the stand I took. I see now that I was not.”
The Coroner made no answer. There was no sympathy between him and this young man. Yet he did not fail in a decent show of respect; perhaps because he did feel some sympathy for the witness’s unhappy father and brother.
“You then acknowledge the victim to have been your wife?”
“I do.”
“It is a point gained, and I compliment the jury upon it. We can now proceed to settle, if possible, the identity of the person who accompanied Mrs. Van Burnam into your father’s house.”
“Wait,” cried Mr. Van Burnam, with a strange air, “I acknowledge I was that person.”
It was coolly, almost fiercely said, but it was an admission that wellnigh created a hubbub. Even the Coroner seemed moved, and cast a glance at Mr. Gryce which showed his surprise to be greater than his discretion.
“You acknowledge,” he began—but the witness did not let him finish.
“I acknowledge that I was the person who accompanied her into that empty house; but I do not acknowledge that I killed her. She was alive and well when I left her, difficult as it is for me to prove it. It was the realization of this difficulty which made me perjure myself this morning.”
“So,” murmured the Coroner, with another glance at Mr. Gryce, “you acknowledge that you perjured yourself. Will the room be quiet!”
The Lady Sleuths MEGAPACK ™: 20 Modern and Classic Tales of Female Detectives Page 67