“Yes”; her hands pressing themselves painfully together.
“Miss Leavenworth, the key to the library door is missing.”
She made no answer.
“It has been testified to, that previous to the actual discovery of the murder, you visited the door of the library alone. Will you tell us if the key was then in the lock?”
“It was not.”
“Are you certain?”
“I am.”
“Now, was there anything peculiar about this key, either in size or shape?”
She strove to repress the sudden terror which this question produced, glanced carelessly around at the group of servants stationed at her back and trembled. “It was a little different from the others,” she murmured at last.
“In what respect?”
“The handle was broken.”
“Ah, gentlemen, the handle was broken,” the coroner observed, looking toward the jury.
Mr. Gryce seemed to take the information to himself, for he gave another of his quick nods.
“You would, then, recognize this key, Miss Leavenworth, if you should see it?”
She cast a startled look at him, as if she expected to behold it in his hand, but seeming to gather courage at not finding it produced, replied quite easily:
“I think I should, sir.”
“Very well then,” said he, waving his hand in dismissal. “That is all, gentlemen,” continued he, looking at the jurymen, “you have heard the testimony of the members of the household, and——” But here Mr. Gryce, quietly advancing, touched him on the arm. “One moment,” said he, and stooping, he whispered a few words in the coroner’s ear, then recovering himself, stood with his right hand in his breast pocket and his eye upon the chandelier.
I scarcely dared to breathe. Had he repeated to the coroner the words he had inadvertently overheard in the hall above? But a glance at the latter’s face satisfied me that nothing so important as that had transpired. He looked not only tired but a trifle annoyed.
“Miss Leavenworth,” said he, turning again in her direction, “you have declared that you were not with your uncle last evening, did not visit his room. Do you repeat the assertion?”
“I do.”
He glanced at Mr. Gryce, who immediately drew from his breast a handkerchief curiously soiled. “It is strange, then,” remarked he, “that this handkerchief of yours, in the hands of the officer, should have been found this morning in that room.”
The girl uttered a cry; then while Mary’s face hardened into a sort of strong despair Eleanore tightened her lip and coldly replied: “I do not see that it is so very strange. I was in that room early this morning.”
“And you dropped it then?”
A distressed blush crossed her face; she did not reply.
“Soiled in this way?” he went on.
“I know nothing about the soil. What is it? Let me see.”
“In a moment; what we now wish, is to know how it came to be in your uncle’s apartment.”
“There are many ways. I might have left it there, days ago. I have told you that I was in the habit of visiting his room. But first, let me see if it is my handkerchief.” And she held out her hand.
“I presume so, as I am told it has your initials embroidered in the corner,” he returned, as Mr. Gryce passed it to her.
But she with horrified voice interrupted him. “These dirty spots—what are they? They look like——”
“Like what they are,” said the coroner. “If you have ever cleaned a pistol you must know what they are, Miss Leavenworth.”
She let the handkerchief fall convulsively from her hand, and stood staring at it, lying before her on the floor. “I know nothing about it, gentlemen,” she said. “It is my handkerchief, but——” For some cause she did not finish her sentence, but again repeated: “Indeed, gentlemen, I know nothing about it.” This closed her testimony.
Kate, the cook, was now recalled, and asked to tell when she last washed the handkerchief.
“This, sir; this handkerchief? Oh, some time this week, sir,” throwing a deprecatory glance at her mistress.
“What day?”
“Well, I wish I could forget, Miss Eleanore, but I can’t. It is the only one like it in the house. I washed it day before yesterday.”
“When did you iron it?”
“Yesterday morning,” half-choking over the words.
“And when did you take it to her room?”
The cook threw her apron over her head. “Yesterday afternoon with the rest of the clothes, just before dinner. Indade, I could not help it, Miss Eleanore,” whispered she; “it was the truth.”
Eleanore Leavenworth frowned. That somewhat contradictory evidence had very sensibly affected her; and when a moment later, the coroner, having dismissed the witness, turned toward her, and inquired if she had anything further to say in regard to this matter, in the way of explanation or otherwise, she threw her hands up almost spasmodically, slowly shook her head, and without word or warning fainted quietly away in her chair.
A commotion, of course, followed, during which I noticed that Mary did not hasten to her cousin, but left it for Molly and Kate to do what they could toward her resuscitation. In a few moments this was in so far accomplished, that they were enabled to lead her from the room. As they did so, I observed a tall man rise and follow her out.
A momentary silence ensued, soon broken, however, by an impatient stir as our little juryman rose and proposed that the jury should now adjourn for the day. This seeming to fall in with the coroner’s views, he announced that the inquest would stand adjourned till three o’clock the next day, when he trusted all the jurors would be present.
A general rush followed, that in a few minutes emptied the room of all but Miss Leavenworth, Mr. Gryce and myself.
CHAPTER 9
A Discovery
His rolling Eies did never rest in place,
But walkte each where for feare of hid mischance,
Holding a lattis still before his Face,
Through which he still did peep as forward he did pace.
—FAERIE QUEENE.
Miss Leavenworth, who appeared to have lingered from a vague terror of everything and everybody in the house not under her immediate observation, shrank from my side the moment she found we were left comparatively alone, and retiring to a distant corner, gave herself up to grief. Turning my attention, therefore, in the direction of Mr. Gryce, I found that person busily engaged in counting his own fingers with a troubled expression upon his countenance, which may or may not have been the result of that arduous employment.
But at my approach, satisfied perhaps that he possessed no more than the requisite number, he dropped his hands and greeted me with a faint smile that was, considering all things, too suggestive to be pleasant.
“Well,” said I, taking my stand before him, “I cannot blame you. You had a right to do as you thought best, but how had you the heart? Was she not sufficiently compromised without your bringing out that wretched handkerchief, which may or may not have dropped in that room, but whose presence there, soiled though it was with pistol grease, is certainly no proof that she herself was connected with this murder?”
“Mr. Raymond,” returned he, “I have been detailed as police officer and detective to look after this case, and I propose to do it.”
“Of course,” I hastened to reply, “I am the last man to wish you to shirk your duty; but you cannot have the temerity to declare, that this young and tender creature can by any possibility be considered as at all likely to be implicated in a crime so monstrous and unnatural. The mere assertion of another woman’s suspicions on the subject ought not——”
But here Mr. Gryce interrupted me. “You talk when your attention should be directed to more important matters. That other woman, as you are pleased to designate the fairest ornament of New York society, sits over there in tears; go and comfort her.”
Looking at him in amazement, I hesitated
to comply, but seeing he was in earnest, crossed to Mary Leavenworth and sat down by her side. She was weeping, but in a slow unconscious way, as if grief had been mastered by fear. The fear was too undisguised and the grief too natural for me to doubt the genuineness of either.
“Miss Leavenworth,” said I, “any attempt at consolation on the part of a stranger must seem at a time like this the most bitter of mockeries, but do try and consider that circumstantial evidence is not always absolute proof.”
Starting like one caught back from the verge of a precipice, just as destruction seemed inevitable, she turned her eyes upon me with a slow comprehensive gaze wonderful to see in orbs so tender and womanly.
“No,” murmured she, “circumstantial evidence is not absolute proof, but Eleanore does not know this. She is so intense; she cannot see but one thing at a time. She has been running her head into a noose and oh——” Pausing she clutched my arm with a passionate grasp. “Do you think there is any danger? Will they——” She could not go on.
“Miss Leavenworth,” whispered I with a warning look toward the detective, “what do you mean?”
Like a flash her glance followed mine, an instant change taking place in her bearing.
“Your cousin may be intense,” I went on as if nothing had occurred, “but I do not know to what you refer, when you say that she has been running her head into a noose.”
“I mean this,” returned she firmly; “that wittingly or unwittingly, she has so parried and met the questions which have been put to her in this room, that anyone listening to her would give her the credit of knowing more than she ought to of this horrible affair. She acts”—Mary whispered, but not so low but that every word could be distinctly heard in all quarters of the room—“as if she were anxious to conceal something. But she is not, I am sure she is not. Eleanore and I are not good friends, but all the world could never make me believe that she has any more knowledge of this murder than I have. Won’t somebody tell her, then—won’t you—that her manner is a mistake, that it is calculated to arouse suspicion, that it has already done so? And, oh, tell her from me——” she went on, her voice sinking to a low whisper now—“what you have just said, that circumstantial evidence is not always absolute proof.”
I surveyed her with great astonishment. What an actress this woman was!
“You request me to tell her this,” said I: “wouldn’t it be better for you to speak to her yourself?”
“Eleanore and I hold little or no confidential communication,” replied she.
I could easily believe that, and yet I was puzzled. Indeed, there was something incomprehensible in her whole manner. Not knowing what else to say, I remarked: “That is unfortunate. She ought to be told that the straightforward course is the best by all means.”
Mary Leavenworth only wept. “Oh, why has this awful trouble come to me who have always been so happy before!”
“Perhaps for the very reason that you have always been so happy.”
“It was not enough that dear uncle should die in this horrible manner; but she, my own cousin, had to——”
I touched her arm, and the action seemed to recall her to herself. Stopping short she bit her lip.
“Miss Leavenworth,” I whispered, “you should hope for the best. Besides, I honestly believe that you are disturbing yourself unnecessarily. If nothing fresh transpires, a mere prevarication or so of your cousin’s will not suffice to injure her.”
I said this to see if she had any reason to doubt the future. I was amply rewarded.
“Anything fresh? How could there be anything fresh, when she is perfectly innocent?”
Suddenly a thought seemed to strike her.
“Mr. Raymond,” said she, wheeling round in her seat till her lovely, perfumed wrapper brushed my knee, “why didn’t they ask me more questions? I could have told them Eleanore never left her room last night.”
“You could?” What was I to think of this woman?
“Yes; my room is nearer the head of the stairs than hers; to have gone down, she would have been obliged to pass my door. I should have heard her, don’t you see?”
Ah, was that all?
“That does not follow,” I answered sadly. “Can you give no other reason?”
“I would say whatever was necessary,” she whispered.
I started back. Yes, this woman would lie now to save her cousin, had lied during the inquest, but then I felt grateful, and now I was simply horrified.
“Miss Leavenworth,” said I, “nothing can justify one in violating the dictates of his own conscience, not even the safety of one we do not altogether love.”
“No!” returned she; and her lip took a tremulous curve; the lovely bosom heaved and she softly looked away.
If Eleanore’s beauty had made one jot less of an impression on my fancy, or her frightful situation awakened one iota less of anxiety in my breast, I should have been a lost man from that moment.
“I did not mean to do anything very wrong,” murmured she; “do not think too badly of me.”
“No, no,” said I; and there is not a man living who would not have said the same in my place.
What more might have passed between us on this subject I cannot say, for just then the door opened and a man entered whom I recognized as the one who had followed Eleanore Leavenworth out a short time before.
“Mr. Gryce,” said he, pausing just inside the door, “a word if you please.”
The detective nodded, but did not hasten toward him; instead of that, walked deliberately away to the other end of the room, where he lifted the lid of an inkstand he saw there, muttered some unintelligible words into it, and speedily shut it again.
Immediately the uncanny fancy seized me, that if I should leap to that inkstand, open it and peer in, I should surprise and capture a bit of confidence he had entrusted to it. But I restrained my foolish impulse, and contented myself with noting the subdued look of respect with which the gaunt subordinate watched the approach of his superior.
“Well?” inquired the latter as he reached him, “what now?”
The man shrugged his shoulders and drew his principal through the open door. Once in the hall their voices sank to a whisper, and as their backs only were visible, I turned to look at my companion. She was pale but composed.
“Has he come from Eleanore?”
“I do not know; I fear so. Miss Leavenworth,” said I, “can it be possible that your cousin has anything in her possession that she desires to conceal?”
“Then you think she is trying to conceal something?”
“I do not say so. But there was considerable talk about a paper——”
“They will never find any paper or anything else suspicious in Eleanore’s possession,” interrupted she. “In the first place, there was no paper of importance enough”—I saw Mr. Gryce’s form suddenly stiffen—“for anyone to think of concealment. Don’t I know? Was I not my uncle’s confidante?”
“I do not suppose there was,” suggested I, “as far as your knowledge goes. But could she not have been acquainted with something——”
She drew back coldly. “There was nothing to be acquainted with, Mr. Raymond. We lived the most methodical and domestic of lives. I cannot understand for my part why so much should be made out of this. My uncle undoubtedly came to his death by the hand of some intended burglar. That nothing was stolen from the house, is no proof that a burglar never entered it. As for the doors and windows being locked, will you take the word of an Irish servant as infallible upon such a point as that? I cannot. I believe the assassin to be one of a gang who make their living by breaking into houses, and if you cannot honestly agree with me, do try and consider such an explanation as possible if not for the sake of the family credit, why, then”—and she turned her face with all its fair beauty upon mine, eyes, cheeks, mouth all so exquisite and winsome—“why, then, for mine.”
Instantly Mr. Gryce turned toward us. “Mr. Raymond, will you be kind enough to step this way?
”
Glad to escape from my present position, I hastily obeyed.
“What has happened?” I inquired.
“We propose to take you into our confidence,” murmured Mr. Gryce easily. “Excuse me, Mr. Raymond, Mr. Fobbs.”
I bowed to the man I saw before me, and stood uneasily waiting. Anxious as I was to know what we really had to fear, I still intuitively shrank from any communication with one whom I looked upon as a spy.
“A matter of some importance,” continued Mr. Gryce. “It is not necessary for me to remind you that it is in confidence, is it?”
“No.”
“I thought not. Mr. Fobbs, you may proceed.”
Instantly the whole appearance of the man Fobbs changed. Assuming an expression of lofty importance, he laid his large hand outspread upon his heart and commenced.
“Detailed by Mr. Gryce to watch the movements of Miss Eleanore Leavenworth, I left this room upon her departure from it, and followed her and the two servants who conducted her upstairs to her own apartment. Once there——”
Mr. Gryce interrupted him. “Once there? Where?”
“Her own room, sir.”
“Where situated?”
“At the head of the stairs.”
“That is not her room. Go on.”
“Not her room? Then it was the fire she was after,” cried he, clapping himself on the knee.
“The fire?”
“Excuse me, I am ahead of my story. She did not appear to notice me much, though I was right behind her. It was not until she had reached the door of this room—which was not her room,” he interpolated dramatically—“and turned to dismiss her servants, that she seemed conscious that she was followed. Looking at me then with an air of great dignity, quickly eclipsed, however, by an expression of patient endurance, she walked in, leaving the door open behind her in a courteous way that I cannot sufficiently commend.”
I could not help frowning. Honest as the man appeared, this was evidently anything but a sore subject with him. Observing me frown, he softened his manner.
The Leavenworth Case (Penguin Classics) Page 9