The Clue Page 8

  “What was the first intimation you had that anything had happened?” asked Mr. Benson.

  “Kitty French came to my door and called to me. Her excited voice made me think something was wrong, and, dressing hastily, I came downstairs, to find many of the household already assembled.”

  “And then you went into the library?”

  “Yes; I had no idea Madeleine was dead. I thought she had fainted, and I went toward her at once.”

  “Did you touch her?”

  “Yes; and I saw at once she was not living, but Miss Morton said perhaps she might be, and then she telephoned for Doctor Hills.”

  “Can you tell me if the house is carefully locked at night?”

  “It is, I am sure; but it is not in my province to attend to it.”

  “Whose duty is it?”

  “That of Harris, the butler.”

  “Will you please call Harris at once?” Mr. Benson’s tone of finality seemed to dismiss Mrs. Markham as a witness, and she rang the bell for the butler.

  Harris came in, a perfect specimen of that type of butler that is so similar to a certain type of bishop.

  Aside from the gravity of the occasion, he seemed to show a separate gravity of position, of importance, and of all-embracing knowledge.

  “Your name is Harris?” said Mr. Benson.

  “Yes, sir; James Harris, sir.”

  “You have been employed in this house for some years?”

  “Seventeen years and more, sir.”

  “Is it your duty to lock up the house at night?”

  “It is, sir. Mr. Van Norman was most particular about it, sir, being as how the house is alone like in the grounds, and there being so much trees and shrubberies about.”

  “There are strong bolts to doors and windows?”

  “Most especial strong, sir. It was Mr. Van Norman’s wish to make it impossible for burglars to get in.”

  “And did he succeed in this?”

  “He did, sir, for sure. There are patent locks on every door and window, more than one on most of them; and whenever Mr. Van Norman heard of a new kind of lock, he’d order it at once.”

  “Is the house fitted with burglar alarms?”

  “No, sir; Mr. Van Norman depended on his safety locks and strong bolts. He said he didn’t want no alarm, because it was forever getting out o’ kilter, and bolts were surer, after all.”

  “And every night you make sure that these bolts and fastenings are all secured in place?”

  “I do, sir, and I have done it for many years.”

  “You looked after them last night, as usual?”

  “Sure, sir; every one of them I attended to myself.”

  “You can testify, then, that the house could not have been entered by a burglar last night?” asked Mr. Benson.

  “Not by a burglar, nor by nobody else, sir, unless they broke down a door or cut out a pane of glass.”

  “Yet Mr. Carleton came in.” Harris looked annoyed. “Of course, sir, anybody could come in the front door with a latch-key. I didn’t mean that they couldn’t. But all the other doors and windows were fastened all right, and I found them all right this morning.”

  “You made a careful examination of them?”

  “Yes, sir. Of course we was all up through the night, and as soon as I learned that Miss Madeleine was—was gone, sir, I felt I ought to look about a bit. And everything was as right as could be, sir. No burglar was into this house last night, sir.”

  “How about the cellar?”

  “We never bother much about the cellar, sir, as there’s nothing down there to steal, unless they take the furnace or the gas-meter. But the door at the top of the cellar stairs, as opens into the hall, sir, is locked every night with a double lock and a bolt besides.”

  “Then no burglar could come up through the cellar way?”

  “That he couldn’t, sir. Nor yet down through the skylight, for the skylight is bolted every night same as the windows.”

  “And the windows on the second floor—are they fastened at night?”

  “They are in the halls, sir. But of course in the bedrooms I don’t know how they may be. That is, the occupied bedrooms. When the guest rooms are vacant I always fasten those windows.”

  “Then you can testify, Harris, that there was no way for any one to enter this house last night except at the front door with a latch-key or through the window of some occupied bedroom?”

  “I can swear to that, sir.”

  “You are sure you’ve overlooked no way? No back window, or seldom-used door?”

  Harris was a little hurt at this insistent questioning, but the coroner recognized that this was a most important bit of evidence, and so pressed his questions.

  “I’m sure of it, sir. Mr. Van Norman taught me to be most thorough about this matter, and I’ve never done different since Miss Madeleine has been mistress here.”

  “That is all, thank you, Harris. You may go.”

  Harris went away, his honest countenance showing a look of relief that his ordeal was over, and yet betokening a perplexed anxiety also.

  Cicely Dupuy was next called upon to give her evidence, or rather to continue the testimony which she had begun in the library. The girl had a pleasanter expression than she had shown at the previous questioning, but a red spot burned in either cheek, and she was clearly trying to be calm, though really under stress of a great excitement.

  “You were with Miss Van Norman in the library last evening?” began Mr. Benson, speaking more gently than he had been doing, for he feared an emotional outburst might again render this witness unavailable.

  “Yes,” said Miss Dupuy, in a low tone; “when Mrs. Markham came upstairs she stopped at my door and said Miss Van Norman wanted me, and I went down immediately.”

  “You have been Miss Van Norman’s secretary for some time?”

  “For nearly five years.”

  “What were your duties?”

  “I attended to her social correspondence; helped her with her accounts, both household and personal; read to her, and often did errands and made calls for her.”

  “She was kind to you?”

  “She was more than kind. She treated me always as her social equal, and as her friend.”

  Cicely’s blue eyes filled with tears, and her voice quivered as she spoke this tribute to her employer.

  Again Mr. Benson feared she would break down, and changed his course of questioning.

  “At what time did you go to the library last evening?”

  “It could not have been more than a few minutes past ten.”

  “What did you do there?”

  “Miss Van Norman dictated some lists of matters to be attended to, and she discussed with me a few final arrangements for her wedding.”

  “Did she seem about as usual in her manner?”

  “Yes,—except that she was very tired, and seemed a little preoccupied.”

  “And then she dismissed you?”

  “Yes. She told me to go to bed, and said that she should sit up for an hour or so, and would write some notes herself.”

  “Apparently she did not do so, as no notes have been found in the library.”

  “That must be so, sir.”

  But as she said this, a change came over Miss Dupuy’s face. She seemed to think that the absence of those notes was of startling importance, and though she tried not to show her agitation, it was clearly evident from the way she bit her lower lip, and clenched her fingers.

  “At what time did Miss Van Norman dismiss you?” asked Mr. Benson, seeming to ignore her embarrassment.

  “At half-past ten.”

  “Did you retire at once?”

  “No; I had some notes to write for Miss Van Norman, and also some of my own, and I sat at my desk for some time. I
don’t know just how long.”

  “And then what happened?”

  At this question Cicely Dupuy became more nervous and embarrassed than ever. She hesitated and then made two or three attempts to speak, each one of which resulted in no intelligible sound.

  X

  SOME TESTIMONY

  “THERE IS NOTHING TO fear,” said Mr. Benson kindly. “Simply tell us what you heard while sitting there writing, that caused you to leave your room.”

  Glancing around as if in search of some one, Cicely finally managed to make an audible reply. “I heard a loud cry,” she said, “that sounded as if somebody were frightened or in danger. I naturally ran out into the hall, and, looking over the baluster, I saw Mr. Carleton in the hall below. I felt sure then that it was he who had cried out, so I came downstairs.”

  “At what time was this?”

  “At half-past eleven exactly.”

  “How do you know so accurately?”

  “Because as I came downstairs the old clock on the middle landing chimed the half-hour. It has a deep soft note, and it struck just as I passed the clock, and it startled me a little, so of course I remember it perfectly.”

  “And then?”

  “And then”—Cicely again hesitated, but with a visible effort resumed her speech—“why, and then I came on down, and found Mr. Carleton nearly distracted. I could not guess what was the matter. He was turning on the lights and ringing the servants’ bells and acting like a man beside himself. Then in a moment Marie appeared, and gave one of her French shrieks that completely upset what little nerve I had left.”

  “And what did you do next?”

  “I—I went into the library.”

  “Why?”

  Cicely looked up suddenly, as if startled, but after only an instant’s hesitation replied:

  “Because Mr. Carleton pointed toward the doorway, and Marie and I went in together.”

  “You knew at once that Miss Van Norman was not alive?”

  “I was not sure, but Marie went toward her, and then turned away with another of her horrid screams, and I felt that Miss Van Norman must be dead.”

  “What did Mr. Carleton say?”

  “He said nothing. He—he pointed to the written paper on the table.”

  “Which you had written yourself?”

  “Yes, but he didn’t know that.” Cicely spoke eagerly, as if saying something of importance. “He thought she wrote it.”

  “Never mind that point for the moment. But I must now ask you to explain that written message which you have declared that you yourself wrote.”

  At this Cicely’s manner changed. She became again the obstinate and defiant woman who had answered the coroner’s earlier questions.

  “I refuse to explain it.”

  “Consider a moment,” said Mr. Benson quietly. “Sooner or later—perhaps at a trial—you will be obliged to explain this matter. How much better, then, to confide in us now, and perhaps lead to an immediate solution of the mystery.”

  Cicely pondered a moment, then she said, “I have nothing to conceal, I will tell you. I did write that paper, and it was the confession of my heart. I am very miserable, and when I wrote it I quite intended to take my own life. When I was called to go to Miss Van Norman in the library, I gathered up some notes and lists from my desk to take to her. In my haste I must have included that paper without knowing it, for when I reached my room I could not find it. And then—then when I saw it—there on the table—I—” Cicely had again grown nervous and excited. Her voice trembled, her eyes filled with tears, and, fearing a nervous collapse, Mr. Benson hurried on to other questions.

  “Whom does that S. in your note stand for.”

  “That I shall never tell.” The determination in her voice convinced him that it was useless to insist on that point, so the coroner went on.

  “Perhaps we have no right to ask. Now you must tell me some other things, and, believe me, my questions are not prompted by curiosity, but are necessary to the discovery of the truth. Why did Mr. Carleton point to that paper?”

  “He—he seemed so shocked and stunned that he was almost unable to speak. I suppose he thought that would explain why she had killed herself.”

  “But she hadn’t killed herself.”

  “But he thought she had, and he thought that paper proved it.”

  “But why had he need to prove it, and to you?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know what he thought! I don’t know what I thought myself after I reached the library door and looked in and saw that dreadful sight! Oh, I shall see it all my life!” At the memory Cicely broke down again and sank into her chair, shaking with convulsive sobs.

  Mr. Benson did not disturb her further, but proceeded to question the others.

  The account of Marie, the maid, merely served to corroborate what Cicely had said. Marie, too, had heard Carleton’s cry for help, and, throwing on a dressing-gown, had run down-stairs to Madeleine’s room. Not finding her mistress there, she had hurried down to the first floor, reaching the lower hall but a few minutes after Cicely did. She said also that it was just about half-past eleven by the clock in her own room when she heard Mr. Carleton’s cry.

  “You knew who it was that had called out so loudly?” asked Mr. Benson.

  “No, m’sieu; I heard only the shriek as of one in great disaster. I ran to Miss Van Norman’s room, as that was my first duty.”

  “Were you not in attendance upon her?”

  “No; she had sent me the message by Miss Dupuy, that I need not attend her when she retired.”

  “Did this often occur?”

  “Not often; but sometimes when Miss Van Norman sat up late, by herself, she would excuse me at an earlier hour. She was most kind and considerate of everybody.”

  “Then when at last you saw Miss Van Norman in the library, what did you do?”

  “Mon Dieu! I shrieked! Why not? I was amazed, shocked, but, above all, desolated! It was a cruel scene. I knew not what to do, so, naturally, I shrieked.”

  Marie’s French shrug almost convinced her hearers that truly that was the only thing to do on such an occasion.

  “And now,” said Coroner Benson, “can you tell us of anything, any incident or any knowledge of your own, that will throw any light on this whole matter?”

  Marie’s pretty face took on a strange expression. It was not fear or terror, but a sort of perplexity. She gave a furtive glance at Mr. Carleton and then at Miss Morton, and hesitated.

  At last she spoke, slowly:

  “If monsieur could perhaps word his question a little differently—with more of a definiteness.”

  “Very well; do you know anything of Miss Van Norman’s private affairs that would assist us in discovering who killed her.”

  “No, monsieur,” said Marie promptly, and with a look of relief.

  “Did Miss Van Norman ever, in the slightest way, express any intention or desire to end her life?”

  “Never, monsieur.”

  “Do you think she was glad and happy in the knowledge of her fast-approaching wedding-day?”

  “I am sure of it,” and Marie’s tone was that of one who well knew whereof she spoke.

  “That is all, then, for the present,” and Marie, with another sidelong, curious glance at Miss Morton, resumed her seat.

  Kitty French and Molly Gardner were questioned, but they told nothing that would throw any light on the matter. They had heard the cry, and while hastily dressing had heard the general commotion in the house. They had thought it must be a fire, and not until they reached the library did they know what had really happened.

  “And then,” said Kitty indignantly, in conclusion of her own recital, “we were not allowed to stay with the others, but were sent to our rooms. So how can we give any evidence?”

  It was plain to be
seen, Miss French felt herself defrauded of an opportunity that should have been hers, but Miss Gardner was of quite a different mind. She answered in whispered monosyllables the questions put by the coroner, and as she knew no more than Kitty of the whole matter, she was not questioned much.

  Robert Fessenden smiled a little at the different attitudes of the two girls. He knew Kitty was eager to hear all the exciting details, while Molly shrank from the whole subject. However, as they were such minor witnesses, the coroner paid little serious attention to them or to their statements.

  Miss Morton’s testimony came next. Fessenden regarded her with interest, as, composed and calm, she waited the coroner’s interrogations.

  She was deliberate and careful in making her replies, and it seemed to the young detective as if she knew nothing whatever about the whole affair, but was trying to imply that she knew a great deal.

  “You went to your room when the others did, at about ten o’clock?” asked Mr. Benson.

  “Yes, but I did not retire at once.”

  “Did you hear any sounds that caused you alarm?”

  “No, not alarm. Curiosity, perhaps, but that is surely pardonable to a naturally timid woman in a strange house.”

  “Then you did hear sounds. Can you describe them?”

  “I do not think they were other than those made by the servants attending to their duties. But the putting on of coal or the fastening of windows are noticeable sounds when one is not accustomed to them.”

  “You could discern, then, that it was the shovelling of coal or the fastening of windows that you heard?”