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.”
“He is; that is, he is a man from headquarters who is here to watch over the bridal gifts. He came down-stairs thinking we might require his services in another way.”
“Send him back to his post. There is no work for detectives, just because a young girl chose to end her unhappy life.”
Doctor Hills opened the library door and directed Hunt to return to his place in the present room.
Doctor Leonard, still with his harsh and disagreeable manner, advised Willard and Carleton to go to their homes, saying he and Doctor Hills would remain in charge of the library for the rest of the night.
Doctor Hills found the women in the drawing-room, awaiting such message as Doctor Leonard might have for them. Doctor Hills told them all that Doctor Leonard had said, and advised them to retire, as the next day would be indeed a difficult and sorrowful one.
V
A CASE FOR THE CORONER
IT WAS CHARACTERISTIC OF Miss Morton that she went straight to her own room and shut the door. Mrs. Markham, on the other hand, went to the room occupied by Kitty French. Molly Gardner was there, too, and the two girls, robed in kimonas, were sitting, white-faced and tearful-eyed, waiting for some further news from the room whence they had been banished.
Mrs. Markham told them what Doctor Leonard had said, but Kitty French broke out impetuously, “Madeleine never killed herself, never! I know she always said that about the dagger, but she never really meant it, and any way she never would have done it the night before her wedding. I tell you she didn’t do it! It was some horrid burglar who came in to steal her presents, who killed her.”
“I would almost rather it had been so, Kitty dear,” said Mrs. Markham, gently stroking the brow of the excited girl; “but it could not have been, for we have very strong locks and bolts against burglars, and Harris is very careful in his precautions for our safety.”
“I don’t care! Maddy never killed herself. She wouldn’t do it, I know her too well. Oh, dear! now there won’t be any wedding at all! Isn’t it dreadful to think of that decorated room, and the bower we planned for the bride!”
At these thoughts Kitty’s tears began to flow afresh, and Molly, who was already limp from weeping, joined her.
“There, there,” said Mrs. Markham, gently patting Molly’s shoulder. “Don’t cry so, dearie. It can’t do any good, and you’ll just make yourself ill.”
“But I don’t understand,” said Molly, as she mopped her eyes with her wet ball of a handkerchief; “why did she kill herself?”
“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Markham, but her expression seemed to betoken a sad suspicion.
“She didn’t kill herself,” reiterated Kitty. “I stick to that, but if she did, I know why.”
This feminine absence of logic was unremarked by her hearers, who both said, “Why?”
Because Schuyler didn’t love her enough,” said Kitty earnestly. “She just worshipped him, and he used to care more for her, but lately
he hasn’t.”
“How do you know?” asked Molly.
“Oh, Madeleine didn’t tell me,” returned Kitty. “I just gathered it. I’ve been here most a week—you know I came several days before you did, Molly—and I’ve noticed her a lot. Oh, I don’t mean I spied on her, or anything horrid. Only, I couldn’t help seeing that she wished Mr. Carleton would be more attentive.”
“Why, I thought he was awfully attentive,” said Molly.
“Oh, attentive, yes. I don’t exactly mean that. But there was something lacking,—don’t you think so, Mrs. Markham?”
“Yes, Kitty, I do think so. In fact, I know that Mr. Carleton didn’t give Madeleine the heartwhole affection that she gave him. But I hoped it would all turn out right, and I surely never dreamed it was such a serious matter as to bring Madeleine to this. But she was a reserved, proud nature, and if she thought Mr. Carleton had ceased to love her, I know she would far rather die than marry him.”
“But she could have refused to marry him,” cried Molly. “She didn’t have to kill herself to get rid of him.”
“She didn’t kill herself,” stubbornly repeated Kitty, but Mrs. Markham said:
“You don’t understand Maddy’s nature, Molly; she must have had some sudden and positive proof of Mr. Carleton’s lack of true affection for her to drive her to this step. But once convinced that he did not care for her, I know her absolute despair would impel her to the desperate deed.”
“Why didn’t he love her?” said Molly, who could see no reason why any man shouldn’t love the magnificent Madeleine.
“I think,” said Kitty slowly, “there was somebody else.”
“How did you know that?” exclaimed Mrs. Markham sharply, as if she had detected Kitty in some wrongdoing.
“I don’t know it, but I can’t help thinking so. Madeleine has sometimes asked me if I didn’t think most men preferred gentle, timid dispositions to a strong, capable nature like her own. Of course she didn’t express it just like that, but she hinted at it so wistfully, that I told her no, she was the splendidest, most adorable woman in the whole world. I meant it, too, but at the same time I do think men most always love the soft, tractable kind of girls, that are not so imperious and awe-inspiring as Maddy was.”
Surely Kitty ought to know, for she was the most delicious type of soft, tractable femininity.
Her round, dimpled face was positively peachy, and her curling tendrils of goldy hair clustered round a low white brow, above appealing violet eyes. A man might admire the haughty Madeleine, but he would caressingly love bewitching little Kitty, and would involuntarily feel a sense of protection toward her, because of the shy trustfulness in her glance.
This was not entirely ingenuous, for wise little Kitty quite understood her own charm, but it was natural, and in no way forced; and she was quite content that her lines had fallen in her own pleasant places, and she left the magnificent Madeleines of the world to pursue their own roles. But she had admired and loved Maddy Van Norman, and just because of their differing natures, had understood why Schuyler Carleton’s affection was tempered with a certain sense of inferiority.
“You know,” she went on, as if thinking aloud, “everybody was a little afraid of magnificent Maddy. She was so superb, so regal. You couldn’t imagine yourself cuddling her!”
“I should say not!” exclaimed Molly. “I could only imagine salaaming to her, or deferentially kissing her hand.”
“Yes, that’s what I mean. Well, Mr. Carleton got tired of that stilted kind of an attitude,—or, at least, she thought he did. I don’t know, I’m sure, but she was possessed with a notion that he cared for some other girl,—some one of the clinging rosebud sort.”
“Do you know this?” asked Mrs. Markham; “I mean, do you know that Maddy thought this?”
“Yes, I know it,” asserted Kitty, with a wag of her wise little head. “I tried to persuade her that no clinging rosebud could rival a tall, proud lily, but she thoroughly believed there was some one else.”
“But Mr. Carleton was to marry her,” said Mrs. Markham. “I can’t believe he would do that if he loved another.”
“That’s what bothered Maddy,” said Kitty; “she knew how honorable Mr. Carleton had always been, and she said that as he was engaged to her, he would think it his duty to marry her, even though his heart belonged to some one else.”
“Oh, pshaw!” said Molly. “If he was going to marry her, and didn’t love her, it was because of her fortune. Probably his rosebud girl hasn’t a cent.”
“Don’t talk like that,” said Kitty, shuddering. “Somehow it seems disloyal to both of them.”
“But it is all true,” said Mrs. Markham sadly. “Madeleine has never been of a confidential nature, but I know that she had the idea Kitty tells of, and I fear it was true. And I may be disloyal, or even unjust, but I can’t help thinking Schuyler was attracted by Maddy’s money. He is proud and ambitious, and he would be quite in his element as the head of a fine establishment, with plenty of money to spend on it.”
“Well, he’ll never have it now,” said Molly, and as this brought back the realization of the awful event that had happened, both girls burst into crying again.
Mrs. Markham, herself with overwrought nerves, found she could do nothing to comfort the girls, so left them and went to commune with her grief in her own room.
Meantime the two doctors alone in the library were still in discussion.
“Well, what do you want?” inquired Doctor Leonard angrily. “Do you want to imply, and with no evidence whatever, that the girl died by some hand other than her own? Do you want to involve the family in the expense and unpleasant publicity of a coroner’s inquest, when there is not only no reason for such a proceeding, but there is every reason against it?”
“I want nothing but to get at the truth,” rejoined Doctor Hills, a little ruffled himself. “I hold that a young woman, unless endowed with unusual strength, or possibly under stress of intense passion, could not inflict upon herself a blow strong enough to drive that dagger to the hilt in her own breast, pull it forth again, and cast it on the floor, and after that place her arm in the position it now occupies.”
Doctor Leonard looked thoughtful. “I agree with you,” he said slowly; “that is, I agree that it does not seem as if a woman could do that. But, my dear Doctor Hills, Miss Van Norman did do that. We know she did, from her own written confession, and also by the theory of elimination. What else could have happened? Have you any suggestion to advance?”
Doctor Hills was somewhat taken aback at Doctor Leonard’s suddenness. Up to this moment the county physician had stoutly maintained that the case was a suicide beyond any question, and then, turning, he had put the question to the younger doctor in such a way that Doctor Hills was not quite ready with an answer.
“No,” he said hesitatingly; “I have no theory to advance, and, moreover, I do not consider this an occasion for theories. But we must ascertain the facts. I state it as a fact that a woman could not stab herself as Miss Van Norman is stabbed, withdraw the dagger, and then place her right arm on the table in the position you see it.”
“And I assert that you are stating what is not a fact, but merely your own opinion.”
Doctor Hills looked disconcerted at this. His companion was an older and far more experienced man than himself, and not only did Doctor Hills have no desire to antagonize him, but he wished to show him the deference that was justly his due.
“You are right,” he said frankly; “it is merely my own opinion. But now will you give me yours, based, not on the written paper, but the position and general effect of the body of Miss Van Norman?”
Put thus on his mettle, Doctor Leonard looked carefully at the dead girl, whose pose was so natural and graceful that she might have been merely sitting there, resting.
He gazed long and intently, and then said, slowly:
&
nbsp; “I see your point, Doctor Hills. It was a vigorous blow, suddenly and forcefully given. It could scarcely have been done, had the subject been a frail, slight woman. But Miss Van Norman was of a strong, even athletic build, and her whole physical make-up indicates strength and force of muscle. Your observation as to her apparently natural position is all right so far as it goes; but I have observed more carefully still, and I notice her evident physical strength, which was doubtless greatly aided by her stress of mental passion, and I aver that a woman of her physique could have driven the blow, removed the weapon, and, perhaps even then unconscious, have thrown her arm on the table as we now see it.”
“I thank you, Doctor Leonard,” said young Hills, “for your patience with me. You are doubtless right, and I frankly admit you have made out a clear case. Miss Van Norman was, indeed, a strong woman. I have been the family physician for several years, and I know her robust constitution. Knowing this, and appreciating your superior judgment as to the possibility of the deed, I am forced to admit your opinion is the true one. And yet—”
“Besides, Doctor Hills,” went on Doctor Leonard, as the younger man hesitated, “we cannot, we must not, ignore the written paper. Why should we do so? Those who know, tell us Miss Van Norman wrote it. It is, therefore, her dying statement. Dare we disregard her last message, written in explanation of her otherwise inexplicable act? We may wonder at this suicide, we may shudder at it; but we may not doubt that it is a suicide. That paper is not merely evidence,—it is testimony, it is incontrovertible proof.”
Doctor Leonard ceased speaking, and sat silent because he had nothing more to say.
Doctor Hills also sat silent, because, try as he might, he could not feel convinced that the older physician was right. It was absurd, he well knew, but every time he glanced at the relaxed pose of that white right arm on the table, he felt more than ever sure that it had lain there just so when the dagger entered the girl’s breast.
As the two men sat there, almost as motionless as the other still figure, both saw the knob of the door turn.
The Clue Page 4