The Clue Page 9

  “No, I could not. My hearing is extremely acute, but as my room is on the third floor, all the sounds I heard were faint and muffled.”

  “Did you hear Mr. Carleton’s cry for help?”

  “I did, but at that distance it did not sound loud. However, I was sufficiently alarmed to open my door and step out into the hall. I had not taken off my evening gown, and, seeing bright lights downstairs, of course I immediately went down. The household was nearly all assembled when I reached the library. I saw at once what had happened, and I saw, too, that Mrs. Markham and the younger women were quite frantic with fright and excitement. I thought it my duty therefore to take up the reins of government, and I took the liberty of telephoning for the doctor. I think there is nothing more of importance that I can tell you.”

  At this Fessenden barely repressed a smile, for he could not see that Miss Morton had told anything of importance at all.

  “I would like,” said Mr. Benson, “for you to inform us as to your relations with the Van Norman household. Have you been long acquainted with Miss Van Norman?”

  “About two years,” replied Miss Morton, with a snapping together of her teeth, which was one of her many peculiarities of manner.

  “And how did the acquaintance come about?”

  “Her uncle and I were friends many years ago,” said Miss Morton. “I knew Richard Van Norman before Madeleine was born. We quarreled, and I never saw him again. After his death Madeleine wrote to me, and several letters passed between us. At her invitation I made a short visit here about a year ago. Again, at her invitation, I came here yesterday to be present at her wedding.”

  Miss Morton’s manner, though quiet, betokened repressed excitement rather than suppressed emotion. In no way did her hard, bright eyes show grief or sorrow, but they flashed in a way that indicated high nervous pressure.

  “Did you know that you were to inherit this house and a large sum of money at Miss Van Norman’s death?” The question was thrown at her so suddenly that Miss Morton almost gasped.

  She hesitated for an appreciable instant, then with a sudden snap of her strong, angular jaw, she said, “No!”

  “You had no intimation of it whatever?”

  “No.” Again that excessive decision of manner, which to Fessenden’s mind, at least, stultified rather than corroborated the verity of her statement.

  But Coroner Benson expressed no doubt of his witness, but merely said casually:

  “Yet, on the occasion of the tragedy last night, you at once assumed the attitude of the head of the house. You gave orders to the servants, you took up the reins of management, and seemed to anticipate the fact that the house was eventually to be your own.”

  Miss Morton looked aghast. If one chose to think so, she looked as if detected in a false statement. Glancing round the room, she saw the eyes of Kitty French and of Marie, the maid, intently fixed on her. This seemed to unnerve her, and in a broken, trembling voice, almost a whine, she said:

  “If I did so, it was only with a helpful motive. Mrs. Markham was so collapsed with the shock she had just sustained, that she was really incapable of giving orders. If I did so, it was only from a desire to be of service.”

  This seemed indeed plausible, and the most casual observer would know that Miss Morton’s “helpfulness” could only be accomplished in a peremptory and dictatorial manner.

  “Will you tell us why Miss Van Norman chose to leave you so large a bequest, when she had known you so slightly?” asked Mr. Benson.

  Fessenden thought Miss Morton would resent this question, but instead she answered, willingly enough:

  “Because she knew that except for my unfortunate quarrel with Richard Van Norman, many years ago, the place would have been mine any way.”

  “You mean you were to have married Mr. Van Norman.”

  “I mean just that.”

  Miss Morton looked a little defiant, but also an air of pride tinged her statement, and she seemed to be asserting her lifelong right to the property.

  “Miss Van Norman, then, knew of your friendship with her uncle, and the reason of its cessation?”

  “She learned of it about two years ago.”

  “How?”

  “By finding some letters of mine among Mr. Van Norman’s papers, shortly after his death.”

  “And in consequence of that discovery she willed you this house at her death?”

  “Yes; that is, I suppose she must have done so—as she did so will it.”

  “But you did not know of it, and the reading of the will was to you a surprise?”

  “Yes,” declared Miss Morton, and though the coroner then dismissed her without comment on her statements, there were several present who did not believe the lady spoke veraciously.

  Tom Willard was called next, and Fessenden wondered what could be the testimony of a man who had not arrived on the scene until more than two hours after the deed was done.

  And indeed there was little that Tom could say. Mr. Benson asked him to detail his own movements after he left the house the night before.

  “There’s little to tell,” said Tom, “but I’ll try to be exact. I went away from this house about ten o’clock, taking with me a suit-case full of clothes. I went directly to the Mapleton Inn, and though I don’t know exactly, I should say I must have reached there in something less than ten minutes. Then I went to the office of the establishment, registered, and asked for a room. The proprietor gave me a good enough room, a bellboy picked up my bag, and I went to my room at once.”

  “And remained there?”

  “Yes; later I rang for some ice water, which the same boy brought to me. Directly after that I turned in. I slept soundly until awakened by a knocking at my door at about two o’clock in the morning.”

  “The message from this house?”

  “Yes. The landlord himself stood there when I opened the door, and told me I was wanted on the telephone. When I went to the telephone I heard Miss Morton’s voice, and she asked me to come over here. I came as quickly as possible, and—”

  Tom’s voice broke at this point, and, feeling that his story was finished, Mr. Benson considerately asked him no further questions.

  XI

  “I DECLINE TO SAY”

  SCHUYLER CARLETON WAS QUESTIONED next. When Mr. Benson asked him to tell his story, he hesitated and finally said that he would prefer to have the coroner ask direct questions, which he would answer.

  “Did you go away from this house with the other guests at about ten o’clock last evening?”

  “No, I was not here at dinner. I left at about half-past five in the afternoon.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “I went directly home and remained there until late in the evening.”

  “Mr. Fessenden was with you?”

  “He was with us at dinner. He is staying at my house, as he was invited to be best man at the wedding.”

  Though this statement came calmly from Carleton’s lips, it was evident to all that he fully appreciated the tragic picture it suggested.

  “He was with you through the evening?”

  “Part of the time. He went early to his room, saying he had some business to attend to.”

  “Why were you two not here to dinner with Miss Van Norman?”

  Fessenden looked up, surprised at this question. Surely Mr. Benson had gathered odd bits of information since morning.

  Schuyler Carleton looked stern.

  “I did not come because I did not wish to. Mr. Fessenden remained with me, saying he did not care to attend the dinner unless I did.”

  Carleton looked casually at Fessenden as he said this, and though there was no question in the glance, Rob nodded his head in corroboration of the witness.

  “You spent the entire evening at home, then?”

  “Yes, until a late hou
r.”

  “And then?”

  “I returned here between eleven and twelve o’clock.”

  “To make a call?”

  “No, I came upon an errand.”

  “What was the errand?”

  “As it has no bearing upon the case, I think it is my privilege to decline to answer.”

  “You entered the house with a latch-key.”

  “I did.”

  “Is that latch-key your own property?”

  “For the time, yes. Mrs. Markham gave it to me a few days ago, for my convenience, because I have occasion to come to the house so frequently.”

  “Was it your intention when you went away in the afternoon to return later?”

  “It was.”

  “Upon this secret errand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you expect to see Miss Van Norman when you entered the house with the latch-key?”

  “I did not.”

  “And when you entered you discovered the tragedy in the library?”

  Schuyler Carleton hesitated. His dry lips quivered and his whole frame shook with intense emotion. “Y-yes,” he stammered.

  But the mere fact of that hesitation instantly kindled a spark of suspicion in the minds of some of his hearers. Until that moment Carleton’s excessive agitation had been attributed entirely to his grief at the awful fate which had come to his fiancée; but now, all at once, the man’s demeanor gave an impression of something else.

  Could it be guilt?

  Fessenden looked at his friend curiously. In his mind, however, no slightest suspicion was aroused, but he wondered what it was that Carleton was keeping back. Surely the man must know that to make any mystery about his call at the Van Norman mansion the night before, was to invite immediate and justifiable suspicion.

  The court had instructed the district attorney to be present at the inquest, and though that unobtrusive gentleman had taken notes, and otherwise shown a quiet interest in the proceedings, he now awakened to a more alert manner, and leaned forward to get a better look at the white, set face of the witness.

  Carleton looked like a marble image. His refined, patrician features seemed even handsomer for their haggard agony. Surely he was in no way responsible for the awful deed that had been done, and yet just as surely he was possessed of some awful secret fear which kept every nerve strained and tense.

  Endeavoring not to exhibit the surprise and dismay which he felt, Coroner Benson continued his questions.

  “And then, when you discovered Miss Van Norman, what did you do?”

  Carleton passed his hand across his white brow. “I hardly know,” he said. “I was stunned—dazed. I went toward her, and, seeing the dagger on the floor, I picked it up mechanically, scarcely knowing what I did. I felt intuitively that the girl was dead, but I did not touch her, and, not knowing what else to do, I cried out for help.”

  “And turned on the lights?”

  “I pushed several electric buttons, not knowing which were lights and which bells; my principal idea was to arouse the inmates of the house at once.”

  “Who first appeared in answer to your call?”

  “Miss Dupuy came running downstairs at once, followed by Miss Van Norman’s maid.”

  “And then you pointed to the paper that lay on the table near Miss Van Norman’s hand.”

  “Yes; I could not speak, and I thought that would tell Miss Dupuy that Miss Van Norman had taken her own life.”

  “You thought, then, that Miss Van Norman wrote the message?”

  “I thought so then—and I think so now.”

  This, of course, produced a sensation, but it was only evidenced by a deeper silence on the part of the startled audience.

  “But Miss Dupuy asserts that she wrote it,” said the coroner.

  To this Schuyler Carleton merely gave a slight bow of his handsome head, but it said as plainly as words that his belief was not altered by Miss Dupuy’s assertion.

  “Granting for the moment, then,” went on Mr. Benson, “that Miss Van Norman did write it, is the message intelligible to you?”

  “Intelligible, yes,” said Carleton, “but, as I have said before, inexplicable.”

  This ambiguous speech meant little to most of the listeners, but it seemed to give Robert Fessenden food for thought, and he looked at Carleton with a new wonder in his eyes.

  “Mr. Carleton,” said the coroner, with a note of gravity in his voice, “I think it my duty to tell you that your own interests require you to state the nature of your errand to this house last night.”

  “I decline to do so.”

  “Then, will you state as exactly as you can the hour at which you entered the front door?”

  “I don’t know precisely. But Miss Dupuy has testified that she came downstairs in response to my call at half-past eleven. I came into the house a—a few moments before.”

  “That is all,” said the coroner abruptly. “Mr. Hunt, if you please.”

  The man from headquarters, who had guarded the present room through the night, came in from the doorway where he had been standing.

  “Will you tell what you know concerning Mr. Carleton’s entrance last night?” said the coroner, briefly.

  “I was on guard in the present room from nine o’clock on,” said Mr. Hunt. “Of course I was on the watch-out for anything unusual, and alert to hear any sound. I heard the company go away at ten o’clock, I heard most of the people in the house go to their rooms right after that. I heard and I also saw Miss Dupuy go down to the library after that, and return to her room about half-past ten. I noticed all these things because that is my business, but they made no special impression on me, as they were but the natural proceedings of the people who belonged here. Of course I was only on the lookout for intruders. I heard the sound of a latch-key and I heard the front door open at exactly quarter after eleven. I stepped out into the hall, and, looking downstairs, I saw Mr. Carleton enter. I also saw Miss Dupuy in the upper hall looking over the banister. She, too, must have seen Mr. Carleton. But as all of this was none of my business, and as nobody had entered who hadn’t a right to, I simply returned to my post. At half-past eleven I heard Mr. Carleton’s cry, and saw the lights go up all over the house. Anything more, sir?”

  “Not at present, Mr. Hunt. Miss Dupuy, did you hear Mr. Carleton come in?”

  Cicely Dupuy turned an angry face toward Mr. Hunt and fairly glared at the mild-mannered man. She waited a moment before answering the coroner’s question, and then as if with a sudden resolve she spoke a sharp, quick “Yes.”

  “And that was at quarter after eleven?”

  “It was later,” declared Cicely. “For Mr. Carleton told you himself that he went directly into the library as soon as he came into the house, and as I heard his cry at half-past eleven he must have entered only a few moments before.”

  Schuyler Carleton stared at Cicely, and she returned his gaze.

  His face was absolutely inscrutable, a pallid mask, that might have concealed emotion of any sort. But there was a suggestion of fear in the strange eyes, as they gazed at Cicely, and though it was quickly suppressed it had been noted by those most interested.

  The girl looked straight at him, with determination written in every line of her face. It was quite evident to the onlookers that a mental message was passing between these two.

  “You are sure, Mr. Hunt, that your statement as to the time is correct?” said the coroner, turning again to him.

  “Perfectly sure, sir. It is my business to be sure of the time.”

  “Mr. Carleton,” said Mr. Benson, “there is an apparent discrepancy here, which it is advisable for you to explain. If you came into this house at quarter after eleven, and rang the bells for help at half-past eleven, what were you doing in the meantime?”

  It was out at last. The coroner
’s question, though quietly put, was equivalent to an accusation. Every eye in the room was turned toward Carleton, and every ear waited in suspense for his reply.

  At last the answer came. The dazed, uncertain look had returned to Carleton’s face and his voice sounded mechanical, like that of an automaton, as he replied, “I decline to say.”

  “I think, Mr. Carleton, you can scarcely realize the gravity of the moment, or the mistake you are making in refusing to answer this question.”

  “I have nothing to say,” repeated Carleton, and his pallor changed to a faint, angry flush of red.

  “I am sorry,” said Mr. Benson gently. He seemed to have lost his pompous manner in his genuine anxiety for his witness, and he looked sorrowfully at Carleton’s impassive, yet stubborn face.

  “As so much hinges on the question of who wrote that paper,” he resumed, “I will make a test now that ought to convince us all. Miss Dupuy, you say that you wrote it, I believe.”

  “I did, yes, sir,” said Cicely, stammering a little now, though she had been calm enough a few minutes before.

  “Then you know the words on the paper,—by rote?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Cicely, uncertain of where this was leading.

  “I will ask you, then, to take this paper and pencil, your own pencil and write the same words in the same way once more.”

  “Oh, don’t ask me to do that!” implored Cicely, clasping her hands and looking very distressed.

  “I not only ask you, but I direct you to do it, and do it at once.”

  An attendant handed pencil and paper to Cicely, and, after a glance at Carleton, who did not meet it, she began to write.

  Though evidently agitated, she wrote clearly and evenly, and the paper she handed to Coroner Benson a moment later was practically an exact duplicate of the one found on the library table.

  “It does not require a handwriting expert,” said the coroner, “to declare that these two papers were written by the same hand. The penmanship is indeed similar to Miss Van Norman’s, of whose writing I have here many specimens, but it is only similar. It is by no means identical. You may all examine these at your leisure and can only agree to what I say.”