“Why, yes, sir, what else was I to think, seeing that mark in the corner? Though to be sure it might have been put there by Mr. Clavering,” she added thoughtfully.
“You say she was cheerful yesterday; was she so after receiving this letter?”
“Yes, sir, as far as I could see. I wasn’t with her long; the necessity I felt of doing something with the box in my charge—but perhaps Mr. Raymond has told you?”
Mr. Gryce nodded.
“It was an exhaustive evening and quite put Hannah out of my head, but——”
“Wait!” cried Mr. Gryce, and beckoning me into a corner, he whispered: “Now comes in that experience of Q’s. While you are gone from the house and before Mrs. Belden sees Hannah again, he has a glimpse of the girl bending over something in the corner of her room which may very fairly be the washbowl we found there. After which, he sees her swallow, in the most lively way, a dose of something from a bit of paper. Was there anything more?”
“No,” said I.
“Very well then,” cried he, going back to Mrs. Belden. “But——”
“But when I went upstairs to bed, I thought of the girl, and going to her door, opened it. The light was extinguished and she seemed asleep, so I closed it again and came out.”
“Without speaking?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you notice how she was lying?”
“Not particularly. I think on her back.”
“In something of the same position in which she was found this morning?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And that is all you can tell us either of her letter or her mysterious death?”
“All, sir.”
Mr. Gryce straightened himself up.
“Mrs. Belden,” said he, “you know Mr. Clavering’s handwriting when you see it?”
“I do.”
“And Miss Leavenworth’s?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now which of the two was upon the envelope of the letter you gave Hannah?”
“I couldn’t say. It was a disguised handwriting and might have been that of either, but I think——”
“Well?”
“That it was more like hers than his, though it wasn’t like hers either.”
With a smile Mr. Gryce enclosed the confession in his hand in the envelope in which it had been found. “You remember how large the letter was which you gave her?”
“Oh, it was large, very large, one of the largest sort.”
“And thick?”
“Oh, yes, thick enough for two letters.”
“Large enough and thick enough to contain this?” laying the confession folded and enveloped as it was before her.
“Yes, sir,” giving it a look of startled amazement, “large enough and thick enough to contain that.”
Mr. Gryce’s eyes, bright as diamonds, flashed round the room and finally settled upon a fly traversing my coat-sleeve.
“Do you need to ask now,” whispered he in a low voice, “where and from whom this so-called confession comes?”
Mr. Gryce allowed himself one moment of silent triumph, then rising, began folding the papers on the table and putting them in his pocket.
“What are you going to do?” I asked, hurriedly approaching.
He took me by the arm and led me across the hall into the sitting room. “I am going back to New York. I am going to pursue this matter. I am going to find out from whom came the poison that killed this girl, and by whose hand this vile forgery of a confession was written.”
“But,” said I, rather thrown off my balance by all this, “Q and the coroner will be here presently; won’t you wait to see them?”
“No,” said he, “clues such as are given here must be followed while the trail is hot. I can’t afford to wait.”
“If I am not mistaken they have already come,” said I, as a tramping of feet without announced that someone stood at the door.
“That is so,” cried he, hastening to let them in.
Judging from common experience, we had every reason to fear that an immediate stop would be put to all proceedings on our part, as soon as the coroner was introduced upon the scene. But happily for us and the interest at stake, Dr. Fink, of R——, proved to be a very sensible man. He had only to hear a true story of the affair, to recognize at once its importance and the necessity of the most cautious action in the matter. Further, by a sort of sympathy with Mr. Gryce, all the more remarkable that he had never seen him before, he expressed himself as willing to enter into our plans, offering not only to allow us the temporary use of such papers as we desired, but even undertaking to conduct the necessary formalities of calling a jury and instituting an inquest, in such a way as to give us time for the investigations we purposed to make.
The delay was therefore short. Mr. Gryce was enabled to take the 6:30 train for New York, and I to follow on the 10 P.M.—the calling of a jury, ordering of an autopsy, and final adjournment of the inquiry till the following Tuesday having all taken place in the interim.
CHAPTER 2
Fine Work
No hinge nor loop
To hang a doubt on!
But yet the pity of it, Iago! O Iago, the pity of it, Iago!
—OTHELLO.
Mr. Gryce had told me enough of his plans before leaving R——for me to understand that the clue he intended to follow was that given by the paper on which the confession was written. “Find in whose possession is the package of paper from which this sheet was taken, and you find the double murderer,” he had said.
I was therefore not surprised when upon visiting his house early the next morning, I beheld him seated before a table on which lay a lady’s writing-desk and a pile of paper, till he told me the desk was Eleanore’s. “What,” said I, “are you not yet satisfied of her innocence?”
“Oh, yes, but one must be thorough. No conclusion would be worth anything if the investigation made was not full and complete. Why,” he cried, casting his eyes complacently toward the fire-tongs, “I have even been rummaging through Mr. Clavering’s effects, unknown to him of course, as though the confession bears the proof upon its face that it could not have been written by him. It is not enough to look for evidence where you expect to find it, you must sometimes search for it where you don’t. Now,” said he, drawing the desk before him, “I don’t anticipate finding anything here that I want, but it is among the possibilities I may, and that is enough for a detective.”
“Did you see Miss Leavenworth this morning?” I asked, as he proceeded to fulfill his intention by emptying the contents of the desk upon the table.
“Yes, I was unable to procure what I desired without it. And she behaved very handsome, gave me the desk with her own hands and never raised an objection. To be sure she thought I wished it for the purpose of satisfying myself that she did not keep concealed in it the paper about which so much has been said. But it would have made but little difference if she had known the truth! There’s nothing here she need dread having seen.”
“Was Miss Leavenworth well?” I inquired, unable to control my anxiety. “And had she heard of Hannah’s sudden death?”
“Yes, and was in great agitation concerning it. I should say that her convictions in reference to her cousin were strengthened by it. But let us see what we have here,” pursued he, drawing the package of paper toward him with a look of great expectation. “I found this pile just as it is, in the drawer of the library table in Miss Leavenworth’s house in Fifth Avenue. If I am not mistaken, it is the thing we want.”
“But——”
“But this paper is square, while that of the confession is of the size and shape of commercial note? I know, but you remember the sheet used in the confession was trimmed down. Let us compare the quality.”
Taking the confession from his pocket and a sheet from the pile before him, he looked at them closely, then held them out for my inspection. A glance showed they were of the same color.
“Hold them up to the light,�
� said he.
I did so; the appearance presented by both was precisely alike.
“Now let us compare the ruling.” And laying them both down on the table, he placed the edges of the two sheets together. The lines on the one accommodated themselves to those on the other, and that question was decided.
His triumph was assured. “I was convinced of it,” said he. “From the moment I pulled open that drawer and saw this mass of paper lying within, I knew the end was come.”
“But,” cried I, in my old spirit of combativeness, “isn’t there any room for doubt? This paper is of the commonest kind. Every family on the block might easily have specimens of it in their library.”
“That isn’t so,” he said, “it is letter size, which has gone out. Mr. Leavenworth used it for his manuscript or I doubt if it would have been found in his library. But if you are still incredulous, let us see what can be done,” and jumping up, he carried the confession to the window, looked at it this way and that, and finally discovering what he wanted, came back and, laying it before me, pointed out one of the lines of ruling that was markedly heavier than the rest, and another which was so faint as to be almost indistinguishable. “Defects like these often run through a number of consecutive sheets,” said he. “If we could find the identical half-quire from which this was taken, I might show you proof that would dispel every doubt,” and taking up the one that lay on top, he rapidly counted the sheets. There were but eight. “It might have been taken from this one,” said he, but upon looking closely at the ruling he found that it was uniformly distinct. “Humph! that won’t do!” came from his lips.
The remainder of the paper, some dozen or so half-quires, looked undisturbed. Mr. Gryce tapped his fingers on the table and a frown crossed his face. “Such a pretty thing!” exclaimed he, “if it could only have been done!” Suddenly he took up the next half-quire. “Count the sheets,” said he, thrusting it toward me, and himself lifting another.
I did as I was bid. “Twelve.”
He counted his and laid them down. “Go on with the rest,” cried he.
I counted the sheets in the next; twelve. He counted those in the one following and paused. “Eleven!”
He counted again and quietly put them aside. “I made a mistake,” observed he.
But he was not to be discouraged. Taking another half-quire he went through with the same operation—in vain. With a sigh of impatience he flung it down on the table and looked up. “Halloo!” cried he, “what is the matter?”
“There are but eleven sheets in this package,” I said, placing it in his hand.
The excitement he immediately evinced was contagious. Oppressed as I was I could not resist his eagerness. “Oh, beautiful!” he exclaimed. “Oh, beautiful! see! the light line on the inside, the heavy one on the outside and both in positions precisely corresponding to those on this sheet of Hannah’s. What do you think now? Do you wish for any further proof?”
“The veriest doubter could ask for no more,” returned I.
With something like a considerate regard for my emotion, he turned away. “I am obliged to congratulate myself,” said he, “notwithstanding the gravity of the discovery that has been made. It is so neat, so very neat, and so conclusive. I declare I am astonished, myself, at the perfection of the thing. But what a woman that is!” cried he suddenly, in a tone of the greatest admiration, “what an intellect she has! what shrewdness! what skill! I declare it is almost a pity to entrap a woman who has done as well as this—taken a sheet from the very bottom of the pile, trimmed it into another shape, and then remembering the girl couldn’t write, put what she had to say into coarse awkward printing, Hannah-like. Splendid! or would have been if any other man than myself had had this thing in charge.” And all animated and glowing with his enthusiasm he eyed the chandelier above him as if it were the embodiment of his own sagacity.
Sunk in despair, I let him go on.
“Could she have done any better?” he now asked. “Watched, circumscribed as she was, could she have done any better? I hardly think so. The fact of Hannah’s having learned to write after she left here was fatal. No, she could not have provided against that contingency.”
“Mr. Gryce,” I here interposed, unable to endure this any longer, “did you have an interview with Miss Mary Leavenworth this morning?”
“No,” said he, “it was not my purpose to do so. I doubt, indeed, if she knew I was in her house. A servant maid who has a grievance is a very valuable assistance to a detective. With Molly at my side I didn’t need to pay my respects to the mistress.”
“Mr. Gryce,” I said again after another moment of silent self-congratulation on his part and of desperate self-control on mine, “what do you propose to do now? You have followed your clue to the end and are satisfied. Such knowledge as this is the precursor of action.”
“Humph! well, we will see,” he returned, going to his private desk and bringing out the box of papers which we had no opportunity of looking at while at R——. “First let us examine these documents and see if they do not contain some hint which may be of service to us.” And taking out the dozen or so loose sheets which had been torn from Eleanore’s diary, he began turning them over.
While he was doing this, I took occasion to examine the other contents of the box. I found them to be just what Mrs. Belden had described them. A certificate of marriage between Mary and Mr. Clavering, and a half-dozen or more letters. While glancing over the former, a short exclamation from Mr. Gryce startled me into looking up.
“What is it?” cried I.
He thrust into my hand the leaves of Eleanore’s diary. “Read,” said he. “Most of it is a repetition of what you have already heard from Mrs. Belden, though given from a different standpoint, but there is one passage in it which, if I am not mistaken, opens up the way to an explanation of his murder, such as we have not had yet. Begin at the beginning, you won’t find it dull.”
Dull! Eleanore’s feelings and thoughts during that anxious time, dull!
Mustering up my self-possession I spread out the leaves in their order and commenced.
“R——, July 6——”
“Two days after they got there, you perceive,” Mr. Gryce explained.
“—A gentleman was introduced to us today upon the piazza whom I cannot forbear mentioning, first, because he is the most perfect specimen of manly beauty I ever beheld, and, secondly, because Mary, who is usually so voluble when gentlemen are concerned, had nothing to say when in the privacy of our own apartment I questioned her as to the effect his appearance and conversation had made upon her. The fact that he is an Englishman may have something to do with this; uncle’s antipathy to everyone of that nation being as well known to her as to me. But somehow I cannot feel satisfied of this. That experience of hers with Charlie Somerville has made me suspicious, I fear. What if the story of last summer were to be repeated here with an Englishman for the hero! But I will not allow myself to contemplate such a possibility. Uncle will return in a few days and then all communication with one who, however elegant and prepossessing, is of a family and race with whom it is impossible for us to ally ourselves must of necessity cease. I should not have thought twice of all this if Mr. Clavering had not betrayed upon his introduction to Mary such intense and unrestrained admiration.
“July 8. The old story is to be repeated. Mary not only submits to the attentions of Mr. Clavering, but encourages them. Today she sat two hours at the piano singing over to him her favorite songs and tonight——But I will not put down every trivial circumstance that comes under my observation; it is unworthy of me. And yet how can I afford to blind my eyes when the happiness of so many I love is at stake!
“July 11. If Mr. Clavering is not absolutely in love with Mary he is on the verge of it. He is now hardly ever absent from her side, making no disguise of his sentiments. He is a very noble-looking man, too much so to be trifled with in this reckless fashion.
“July 13. Mary’s beauty blossoms like the ro
se. She was absolutely wonderful tonight in scarlet and silver. I think she is the sweetest-looking mortal I ever beheld, and in this I am sure Mr. Clavering passionately agrees with me: he never looked away from her tonight. But it is one thing for a woman like Mary to be loved, and another thing for her to return the passion lavished upon her. And yet from certain right true womanly signs, I begin to think that if Mr. Clavering were only an American, Mary would not be indifferent to his fine appearance, strong sense, and devoted affection. But did she not deceive us into believing she loved Charlie Somerville? In her case, blush and smile go for little, I fear. Would it not be wiser under the circumstances to say, I hope?
“July 17. Oh, my heart! Mary came into my room this evening and absolutely startled me by falling at my side and burying her face in my lap. ‘Oh, Eleanore, Eleanore!’ she murmured, quivering with what seemed to me very happy sobs. But when I strove to lift her head to my breast, she slid from my arms and drawing herself up into her old attitude of reserved pride, raised her hand as if to impose silence, and haughtily left the room. There is but one interpretation to put upon this. Mr. Clavering has expressed his sentiments, and she is filled with that reckless delight which in its first flush makes one insensible to the existence of barriers which have hitherto been deemed impassable. When will uncle come?
“July 18. Little did I think when I wrote the above that uncle was already in the house. He arrived unexpectedly on the last train and came into my room just as I was putting away my diary. Looking a little careworn, he took me in his arms and then asked for Mary. I dropped my head and could not help stammering as I replied that she was in her own room. Instantly his love took alarm, and leaving me, he hastened to her apartment where I afterward learned he found her sitting abstractedly before her dressing-table with Mr. Clavering’s family ring on her finger. I do not know what followed. An unhappy scene I fear, for Mary is ill this morning and uncle exceedingly melancholy and stern.
“Afternoon. We are an unhappy family. Uncle not only refuses to consider for a moment the question of Mary’s alliance with Mr. Clavering, but even goes so far as to demand from her his instant and unconditional dismissal on pain of his severest displeasure. The knowledge of this very painful determination of his came to me in the most distressing way. Recognizing the state of affairs but secretly rebelling against the power of a prejudice that could allow itself to separate two persons otherwise fitted for each other, I sought uncle’s presence this morning after breakfast, and attempted to plead their cause. But he almost instantly stopped me with the remark: ‘You are the last one, Eleanore, that should seek to promote this marriage.’ Trembling with apprehension, I asked him why. ‘For the reason that by so doing you work entirely for your own interest.’ More and more troubled I begged him to explain himself. ‘I mean,’ said he, ‘that if Mary disobeys me by marrying this Englishman, I shall disinherit her and substitute your name in the place of hers in my will as well as in my affection.’ For a moment the world swam before my eyes. ‘You will never make me so wretched,’ exclaimed I. ‘I will make you my heiress, if Mary persists in her present determination,’ and without further word he sternly left the room. What could I do but fall on my knees and pray. Of all in this miserable house, I am the most wretched. To supplant her! But I shall not be called upon to do it, Mary will give up Mr. Clavering.”
The Leavenworth Case (Penguin Classics) Page 32