The Leavenworth Case (Penguin Classics)

by Anna Katharine Green

  “There!” exclaimed Mr. Gryce. “What do you think of that? Isn’t it becoming plain enough what was Mary’s motive for this murder? But go on, let us hear what followed.”

  With sinking heart, I continued. “The next entry is dated July 19, and runs thus:

  “I was right. After a long struggle with uncle’s invincible will, Mary has consented to dismiss Mr. Clavering. I was in the room when she made known her decision, and I shall never forget our uncle’s look of gratified pride as he clasped her in his arms and called her his own True Heart. He has evidently been very much exercised over this matter, and I cannot but feel greatly relieved that affairs have terminated so satisfactorily. But Mary? What is there in her manner that vaguely disappoints me? What is there in her action that seems to draw a determining line between us? I cannot say. I only know that I felt a powerful shrinking overwhelm me when she turned her face to me and asked if I were satisfied now. But I conquered my feeling and held out my hand. She did not take it.

  “July 26. How long the days are! The shadow of our late trial is upon me yet, I cannot shake it off. I seem to see Mr. Clavering’s despairing face wherever I go. How is it that Mary preserves her cheerfulness? If she does not love him I should think the respect which she must feel for his disappointment would keep her from levity at least.

  “Uncle has gone away again. Nothing I could say sufficed to keep him.

  “July 28. It has all come out. Mary has only nominally separated from Mr. Clavering, she still cherishes the idea of one day allying herself to him in marriage. The fact was revealed to me in a strange way not necessary to mention here; and has since been confirmed by Mary herself. ‘I admire the man,’ she declared, ‘and have no intention of giving him up.’ ‘Then why not tell uncle so?’ I asked. Her only answer was a bitter smile and a short—‘I leave that for you to do.’

  “July 30. Midnight. Worn completely out, but before my blood cools let me write. Mary Leavenworth is a wedded wife. I have just returned from seeing her give her hand to Henry Clavering. Strange that I can write it without quivering when my whole soul is one flush of indignation and revolt. But let me state the facts. Having left my room for a few minutes this morning, I returned to find on my dressing-table a note from Mary in which she informed me that she was going to take Mrs. Belden for a drive and would not be back for some hours. Convinced, as I had every reason to be, that she was on her way to meet Mr. Clavering, I only stopped to put on my hat——”

  There the diary ceased.

  “She was probably interrupted by Mary at that point,” exclaimed Mr. Gryce. “But we have heard all we want to know. Mr. Leavenworth threatened to supplant Mary with Eleanore if she persisted in marrying contrary to his wishes, and what other conclusion can we come to than that he, upon hearing some four or five weeks since this marriage had been entered into by her, repeated his threats and so drew down his fate upon him?”

  “None,” I returned, convinced at last. “It is only too clear.”

  Mr. Gryce rose.

  “But the writer of these words is saved,” I went on, trying to grasp the one comfort left me. “No one who reads this diary will ever dare to insinuate she is capable of committing a crime.”

  “No,” said he, “the diary settles that matter effectually.”

  I tried to be man enough to think of that and nothing else. To rejoice in her deliverance and let every other consideration go, but in this I did not succeed. “But Mary, her cousin, almost her sister, is lost,” I muttered.

  Mr. Gryce thrust his hands into his pockets and for the first time showed some evidence of secret disturbance. “Yes,” he murmured, “I am afraid she is, I really am afraid she is.” Then after a pause, during which I felt a certain thrill of vague hope—“Such an entrancing creature, too! it is a pity, it positively is a pity! I declare now the thing is worked up, I begin to feel almost sorry we have succeeded so well. Strange but true. If there was the least loophole out of it,” he murmured. “But there isn’t. The thing is clear as A, B, C.” Suddenly he rose and began pacing the floor very thoughtfully, casting his glances here, there, and everywhere, except at me, though I believe now, as then, I was all he saw.

  “Would it be a very great grief to you, Mr. Raymond, if Miss Mary Leavenworth should be arrested on this charge of murder?” he asked, pausing before a sort of tank in which two or three disconsolate-looking fishes were slowly swimming about.

  “Yes,” said I, “it would, a very great grief.”

  “Yet it has got to be done,” said he, though with a strange lack of his usual decision. “As an honest official trusted to bring the murderer of Mr. Leavenworth to the notice of the proper authorities, I have got to do it.”

  Again that strange thrill of hope at my heart induced by his peculiar manner.

  “Then my reputation as a detective. I ought surely to consider that. I am not so rich or so famous that I can afford to forget all that a success like this may bring me. No, lovely as she is, I have got to push it through.” But even as he said this, he became still more thoughtful, gazing down into the murky depths of the wretched tank before him with such an intentness I half-expected the fascinated fishes to rise from the water and return his gaze. What was it? What was in his mind?

  After a little while he turned, his indecision utterly gone. “Mr. Raymond,” said he, “come here again at three. I shall then have my report ready for the Superintendent. I should like to show it to you first, so don’t fail me.”

  There was something so repressed in his expression, I could not prevent myself from venturing one question. “Is your mind made up?” I asked.

  “Yes,” returned he, but in a peculiar tone and with a peculiar gesture.

  “And you are going to make the arrest you speak of?”

  “Come at three!”

  CHAPTER 3

  Gathered Threads

  This is the short and the long of it.

  —MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR.

  Promptly at the hour named, I made my appearance at Mr. Gryce’s door. I found him awaiting me on the threshold.

  “I have met you,” said he gravely, “for the purpose of requesting you not to speak during the coming interview under any circumstances whatever. I am to do the talking, you the listening. Neither are you to be surprised at anything I may do or say. I am in a facetious mood”—he did not look so—“and may take it into my head to address you by another name than your own. If I do, don’t mind it. Above all, don’t talk.” And without waiting to meet my look of doubtful astonishment, he led me softly upstairs.

  The room in which I had been accustomed to meet him was at the top of the first flight, but he took me past that into what appeared to be the garret story, where after many cautionary signs he ushered me into a room so strange and weird in its appearance, that it produced something of the same effect upon me that a prison cell would have done. In the first place, it was darkly gloomy, being lighted simply by a very dim and dirty skylight. Next, it was hideously empty; a pine table and two hard-backed chairs set face to face at each end of it being the only articles in the room. Lastly it was surrounded by several closed doors with blurred and ghostly ventilators over their tops, which being round, looked like the blank eyes of a row of staring mummies. Altogether it was a lugubrious spot, and in the present state of my mind made me feel as if something unearthly and threatening lay crouched in the very atmosphere. Nor sitting there cold and desolate could I imagine that the sunshine glowed without, or that life, beauty, and pleasure paraded the streets below.

  Mr. Gryce’s expression as he took a seat and beckoned me to do the same may have had something to do with this strange sensation, it was so mysteriously and somberly expectant.

  “You’ll not mind the room,” said he in a tone so low and muffled I could scarcely hear him. “It’s an awful lonesome spot, I know, but folks with such matters as these to deal with mustn’t be too particular as to the places in which they hold their consultations, if they don’t want all th
e world to know as much as they do. Smith?” and he gave me an admonitory shake of his finger while his voice took a more distinct tone, “I have done the business, the reward is mine, the assassin of Mr. Leavenworth is found and in two hours will be in custody. Do you want to know who it is?” leaning forward with every appearance of eagerness in tone and expression.

  I stared at him in great amazement. Had anything new come to light? any great change taken place in his conclusions? All this preparation could not be for the purpose of acquainting me with what I already knew, yet——

  He cut short my conjectures with a low expressive chuckle. “It was a long chase, I tell you,” raising his voice still more, “a tight go; a woman in the business too, but all the women in the world can’t pull the wool over the eyes of Ebenezer Gryce when he is on the trail, and the assassin of Mr. Leavenworth and”—here his voice became actually shrill in his excitement—“and of Hannah Chester is found.

  “Hush!” he went on, though I had neither spoken nor made any move, “you didn’t know Hannah Chester was murdered. Well, she wasn’t in one sense of the word, but in another she was, and by the same hand that killed the old gentleman. How do I know this? Look here! This scrap of paper was found on the floor of her room, it had a few particles of a white powder sticking to it, those particles were tested last night and found to be poison. But you say the girl took it herself, that she was a suicide. You are right, she did take it herself and it was a suicide, but who terrified her into committing it? Why, the one who had the most reason to fear her testimony, of course. But the proof? you say. Well, sir, this girl left a confession behind her, throwing the onus of the whole crime on a certain party believed to be innocent. This confession was a forged one, known from three facts, first: that the paper upon which it was written was unobtainable by the girl in the place where she then was; second, that the words used therein were printed in coarse awkward characters, whereas Hannah, thanks to the teaching of the woman under whose care she was, could write very well; third, that the story told in the confession was not that related by the girl herself. Now the fact of a forged confession throwing the guilt upon an innocent party having been found in the keeping of this ignorant girl, killed by a dose of poison, taken with the fact there stated, that on the morning of the day on which she killed herself the girl received, from someone manifestly acquainted with the customs of the Leavenworth family, a letter large enough and thick enough to contain the confession folded as it was when found, makes it almost certain to my mind that the murderer of Mr. Leavenworth sent this powder and this so-called confession to the girl, meaning her to use them precisely as she did, for the purpose of throwing off suspicion from the right track and of destroying herself at the same time; for as you know, dead men tell no tales.”

  He paused and looked at the dingy skylight above us. Why did the air seem to grow heavier and heavier? Why did I shudder in vague apprehension? I knew all this before; why did it strike me, then, as something new?

  “But who was this? you ask. Ah, that is the secret; that is the bit of knowledge which is to bring me fame and fortune. But secret or not, I don’t mind telling you,” lowering his voice and rapidly raising it again. “The fact is, I can’t keep it to myself, it burns like a new dollar in my pocket. Smith, my boy, the murderer of Mr. Leavenworth—but stay, who does the world say it is? Whom do the papers point at and shake their heads over? A woman, a young, beautiful, bewitching woman! Ha, ha, ha! The papers are right, it is a woman, young, beautiful, and bewitching too. But what one? Ah, that’s the question. There is more than one woman mixed up with this affair; which, then, of them all is it? Since Hannah’s death I have heard it openly advanced that she was the guilty party in the crime; bah! Others cry it is the niece that was so unequally dealt with by her uncle in his will; bah! again. But folks are not without some justification for this latter assertion. Eleanore Leavenworth did know more of this matter than appeared. Worse than that, Eleanore Leavenworth stands in a position of positive peril today. If you don’t think so, let me show you what the detectives have against her.

  “Firstly: there is the fact that a handkerchief with her name on it was found stained with pistol-grease upon the scene of murder; a place where she explicitly denied having been for twenty-four hours previous to the discovery of the dead body.

  “Secondly: the fact that she not only evinced terror when confronted with this bit of circumstantial evidence, but manifested a decided disposition both at this time and others to mislead inquiry, shirking a direct answer to some questions and refusing all answer to others.

  “Thirdly: that an attempt was made by her to destroy a certain letter evidently relating to this crime.

  “Fourthly: that the key to the library door was seen in her possession.

  “All this, taken with the fact that the fragments of the letter which this same lady attempted to destroy within an hour after the inquest were afterward put together and were found to contain a bitter denunciation of one of Mr. Leavenworth’s nieces, by a gentleman we will call x—in other words an unknown quantity—makes out a dark case against her, especially as after investigations revealed the fact that a secret underlay the history of the Leavenworth family. That, unknown to the world at large, and Mr. Leavenworth in particular, a marriage ceremony had been performed a year before in a little town called F——between a Miss Leavenworth and this same x. That, in other words, the unknown gentleman who, in the letter partly destroyed by Miss Eleanore Leavenworth, complained to Mr. Leavenworth of the treatment received by him from one of his nieces was in fact the secret husband of that niece. And that, moreover, this same gentleman, under an assumed name, called on the night of the murder at the house of Mr. Leavenworth and asked for Miss Eleanore.

  “Now you see with all this against her, Eleanore Leavenworth is lost if it cannot be proved, firstly that the articles testifying against her, viz.: the handkerchief, letter, and key, passed after the murder through other hands, before reaching hers; and secondly, that someone else had even a stronger reason than she for desiring Mr. Leavenworth’s death at this time.

  “Smith, my boy, both of these hypotheses have been established by me. By dint of moleing into odd secrets and following up of nice clues, I have finally come to the conclusion that not Eleanore Leavenworth, dark as are the appearances against her, but another woman, beautiful as she and fully as interesting, is the true criminal. In short, that her cousin, the exquisite Mary, is the murderer of Mr. Leavenworth, and by inference of Hannah Chester also.”

  He brought this out with such force and with such a look of triumph and appearance of having led up to it, that I was for the moment dumbfounded, and started as if I had not known what he was going to say. The stir I made seemed to awake an echo. Something like a suppressed cry was in the air about me. All the room appeared to breathe horror and dismay. Yet when in the excitation of this fancy, I half-turned round to look, I found nothing but the blank eyes of those dull ventilators staring upon me.

  “You are taken aback!” Mr. Gryce went on. “I don’t wonder. Everyone else is engaged in watching the movements of Eleanore Leavenworth, I only know where to put my hand upon the real culprit. You shake your head?” (Another fiction.) “You don’t believe me! Think I am deceived. Ha, ha! Ebenezer Gryce deceived after a month of hard work! You are as bad as Miss Leavenworth herself, who has so little faith in my sagacity that she offered me, of all men, an enormous reward if I would find her out the assassin of her uncle! But that is neither here nor there, you have your doubts and you are waiting for me to solve them. Well, nothing is easier; know first that on the morning of the inquest I made one or two discoveries not to be found in the records, viz.: that the handkerchief picked up as I have said in Mr. Leavenworth’s library had, notwithstanding its stains of pistol-grease, a decided perfume lingering about it. Going to the dressing-table of the two ladies, I sought for that perfume and found it in Mary’s room, not Eleanore’s. This led me to examine the pockets of the dresses respe
ctively worn by them the evening before. In that of Eleanore I found a handkerchief, presumably the one she had carried at that time. But in Mary’s there was none, nor did I see any lying about her room as if tossed down on her retiring. The conclusion I drew from this was, that she and not Eleanore had carried the handkerchief into her uncle’s room, a conclusion emphasized by the fact privately communicated to me by one of the servants, that Mary was in Eleanore’s room when the basket of clean clothes was brought up with this handkerchief lying on top.