The Clue (15 page)

After further rapt and earnest conversation, Carleton took Miss Burt gently in his arms and kissed her lightly on the forehead. Then, drawing her arm through his own, they turned and walked slowly to the house.

A few moments later Rob heard the girl's light footsteps as she came up to her room, but Carleton stayed down in the library until long after all the rest of the household were sleeping.

XV

FESSENDEN'S DETECTIVE WORK

NEXT MORNING ROB WENT over to the Van Norman house with a clearly developed plan of action. He declared to himself that he would allow no circumstance to shake his faith in his friend, that he would hold Carleton innocent of all wrongdoing in the affair, and that he would put all his ingenuity and cleverness to work to discover the criminal or any clue that might lead to such a discovery.

Although some questions he had wished to ask Cicely Dupuy were yet unanswered, Fessenden had discovered several important facts, and, after being admitted to the house, he looked about him for a quiet spot to sit down and tabulate them in black and white. The florist's men were still in the drawing-room, so he went into the library. Here he found only Mrs. Markham and Miss Morton, who were apparently discussing a question on which they held opposite opinions.

“Come in, Mr. Fessenden,” said Mrs. Markham, as he was about to withdraw. “I should be glad of your advice. Ought I to give over the reins of government at once to Miss Morton?”

“Why not?” interrupted Miss Morton, herself. “The house is mine; why should I not be mistress here?”

Fessenden repressed a smile. It seemed to him absurd that these two middle-aged women should discuss an issue of this sort with such precipitancy.

“It seems to me a matter of good taste,” he replied. “The house, Miss Morton, is legally yours, but as its mistress, I think you'd show a more gracious manner if you would wait for a time before making any changes in the domestic arrangements.”

Apparently undesirous of pursuing the gracious course he recommended, Miss Morton rose abruptly and flounced out of the room.

“Now she's annoyed again,” observed Mrs. Markham placidly. “The least little thing sets her off.”

“If not intrusive, Mrs. Markham, won't you tell me how it comes about that Miss Morton inherits this beautiful house? Is she a relative of the Van Normans?”

“Not a bit of it. She was Richard Van Norman's sweetheart, years and years and
years
ago. They had a falling-out, and neither of them ever married. Of course he didn't leave her any of his fortune. But only a short time ago, long after her uncle's death, Madeleine found out about it from some old letters. She determined then to hunt up this Miss Morton, and she did so, and they had quite a correspondence. She came here for the wedding, and Madeleine intended she should make a visit, and intended to give her a present of money when she went away. In the meantime Madeleine had made her will, though I didn't know this until to-day, leaving the place and all her own money to Miss Morton. I'm not surprised at this, for Tom Willard has plenty, and as there was no other heir, I know Madeleine felt that part of her uncle's fortune ought to be used to benefit the woman he had loved in his youth.”

“That explains Miss Morton, then,” said Fessenden. “But what a peculiar woman she is!”

“Yes, she is,” agreed Mrs. Markham, in her serene way. “But I'm used to queer people. Richard Van Norman used to give way to the most violent bursts of temper I ever saw. Maddy and Tom are just like him. They would both fly into furious rages, though I must say they didn't do it often, and never unless for some deep reason.”

“And Mr. Carleton—has he a high temper?”

Mrs. Markham's brow clouded. “I don't understand that man,” she said slowly. “I don't think he has a quick temper, but there's something deep about him that I can't make out. Oh, Mr. Fessenden, do you think he killed our Madeleine?”

“Do you?” said Fessenden suddenly, looking straight at her.

“I do,” she said, taken off her guard. “That is, I couldn't believe it, only, what else can I think? Mr. Carleton is a good man, but I know Maddy never killed herself, and I know the way this house is locked up every night. No burglar or evil-doer could possibly get in.”

“But the murderer may have been concealed in the house for hours beforehand.”

“Nonsense! That would be impossible, with a house so full of people, and the wedding preparations going on, and everything. Besides, Mr. Hunt would have heard any intruder prowling around; and then again, how could he have gone out? Everything was bolted on the inside, except the front door, and had he gone out that way he must surely have been heard.”

“Well reasoned, Mrs. Markham! I think, with you, we may dismiss the possibility of a burglar. The time was too short for anything except a definitely premeditated act. And yet I cannot believe the act was that of Schuyler Carleton. I know that man very well, and a truer, braver soul never existed.”

“I know it,” declared Mrs. Markham, “but I think I'm justified in telling you this. Mr. Carleton didn't love Madeleine, and he did love another girl. Madeleine worshipped him, and I think he came last night to ask her to release him, and she refused, and then—and then—”

Something about Mrs. Markham's earnest face and sad, distressed voice affected Fessenden deeply, and he wondered if this theory she had so clearly, though hesitatingly, stated, could be the true one. Might he, after all, be mistaken in his estimate of Schuyler Carleton, and might Mrs. Markham's suggestion have even a foundation of probability?

They were both silent for a few minutes, and then Mr. Fessenden said, “But you thought it was suicide at first.”

“Indeed I did; I looked at the paper through glasses that were dim with tears, and it looked to me like Madeleine's writing. Of course Miss Morton also thought it was, as she was only slightly familiar with Maddy's hand. But now that we know some one else wrote that message, of course we also know the dear girl did not bring about her own death.”

Mrs. Markham was called away on some household errands then, and Fessenden remained alone in the library, trying to think of some clue that would point to some one other than Carleton.

“I'm sure that man is not a murderer,” he declared to himself. “Carleton is peculiar, but he has a loyal, honest heart. And yet, if not, who can have done the deed? I can't seem to believe it really was either the Dupuy woman or the Burt girl, And I
know
it wasn't Schuyler! There must have been some motive of which I know nothing. And perhaps I also know nothing of the murderer. It need not necessarily have been one of these people we have already questioned.” His thoughts strayed to the under-servants of the house, to common burglars, or to some powerful unknown villain. But always the thought returned that no one could have entered and left the house unobserved within that fatal hour.

And then, to his intense satisfaction, Kitty French came into the room.

“Good morning, Rose of Dawn,” he said, looking at her bright face. “Are you properly glad to see me?”

“Yes, kind sir,” she said, dropping a little curtsey, and smiling in a most friendly way.

“Well, then, sit down here, and let me talk to you, for my thoughts are running riot, and I'm sure you alone can help me straighten them out.”

“Of course I can. I'm wonderful at that sort of thing. But, first I'll tell you about Miss Dupuy. She's awfully ill—I mean prostrated, you know; and she has a high fever and sometimes she chatters rapidly, and then again she won't open her lips even if any one speaks to her. We've had the doctor, and he says it's just overstrained nerves and a naturally nervous disposition; but, Mr. Fessenden, I think it's more than that; I think it's a guilty conscience.”

“And yesterday, when I implied that Miss Dupuy might know more about it all than she admitted, you wouldn't listen to a word of it!”

“Yes, I know it, but I've changed my mind.”

“Oh, you have; just for a change, I suppose.”

“No,” said Kitty, more seriously; “but because I've heard a lot of Cicely's ranting,—for that's what it is,—and while it's been only disconnected sentences and sudden exclamations, yet it all points to a guilty knowledge of some sort, which she's trying to conceal. I don't say I suspect her, Mr. Fessenden, but I do suspect that she knows a lot more important information than she's told.”

“Miss Dupuy's behavior has certainly invited criticism,” began Rob, but before he could go further, the French girl, Marie, appeared at the door, and seemed about to enter.

“What is it, Marie?” said Kitty kindly. “Are you looking for me?”

“Yes,
mademoiselle
,”
said Marie, “and I would speak with
monsieur
too. I have that to say which is imperative. Too long already have I kept the silence. I must speak at last. Have I permission?”

“Certainly,” said Fessenden, who saw that Marie was agitated, but very much in earnest. “Tell us what you have to say. Do not be afraid.”

“I am afraid,” said Marie, “but I am afraid of one only. It is the Miss Morton, the stranger lady.”

“Miss Morton?” said Kitty, in surprise. “She won't hurt you; she has been very good to you,”

“Ah, yes,
mademoiselle
;
but
too
good. Miss Morton has been too kind, too sweet, to Marie! It is that which troubles me.”

“Well, out with it, Marie,” said Rob. “Close that door, if you like, and then speak out, without any more beating around the bush.”

“No,
monsieur
,
I will no longer beat the bush; I will now tell.”

Marie carefully closed the door, and then began her story:

“It was the night of the—of the horror. You remember, Miss French, we sat all in this very room, awaiting the coming of the great doctor—the doctor Leonard.”

“Yes,” said Kitty, looking intently at the girl; “yes, I know most of you stayed here waiting,—but I was not here; Doctor Hills sent Miss Gardner and me to our rooms.”

“Yes; it is so. Well, we sat here, and Miss Morton rose with suddenness and left the room. I followed, partly that I thought she might need my services, and partly—I confess it—because I trusted her not at all, and I wished to assure myself that all was well. I followed her,—but secretly,—and I—shall I tell you what she did?”

Kitty hesitated. She was not sure she should listen to what was, after all, servants' gossip about a guest of the house.

But Fessenden looked at it differently. He knew Marie had been the trusted personal maid of Miss Van Norman, and he deemed it right to hear the evidence that she was now anxious to give.

“Go on, Marie,” he said gravely. Be careful to tell it exactly as it happened, whatever it is.”

“Yes,
m'sieur
.
Well, then, I softly followed Miss Morton, because she did not go directly to her own room, but went to Miss Van Norman's sitting-room and stood before the desk of Miss Madeleine.”

“You are sure, Marie?” said Kitty, who couldn't help feeling it was dishonorable to listen to this.

“Please, Miss French, let her tell the story in her own way,” said Rob. “It is perhaps of the utmost importance, and may lead to great results.”

Then Marie went uninterruptedly on.

“She stood in front of the desk,
m'sieur
;
she searched eagerly for papers, reading and discarding several. Then she found some, which she saw with satisfaction, and hastily concealed in her pocket. Miss Morton is a lady who yet has pockets in her gowns. With the papers in her pocket, then, Miss Morton looks about carefully, and, thinking herself unobserved, creeps, but stealthily, to her own room. There—
m'sieur
,
I was obliged to peep at the keyhole—there she lighted a fire in her grate, and burned those papers. With my eyes I saw her. Never would I have told, for it was not my affair, but that I fear for Miss Dupuy. It is in the air that she knows secrets concerning Miss Van Norman's death. Ah, if one would know secrets, one should question Miss Morton.”

“This is a grave charge you bring against the lady, Marie,” said Fessenden.

“Yes,
monsieur
,
but it is true.”

“I know it is true,” said Kitty; “I have not mentioned it before, but I saw Miss Morton go to Madeleine's room that night, and afterward go to her own room. I knew nothing, of course, of the papers, and so thought little of the whole incident, but if she really took papers from Madeleine's desk and burned them, it's indeed important. What could the papers have been?”

“You know she inherited,” began Fessenden.

“Oh, a will!” cried Kitty.

“Marie, you may go now,” Rob interrupted; “you did right to tell us this, and rest assured you shall never be blamed for doing so. You will probably be questioned further, but for the present you may go. And thank you.”

Marie curtseyed and went away.

“She's a good girl,” said Kitty. “I always liked her; and she must have heard, as I did, so much of Cicely's chatter, that she feared some sort of suspicion would fall on Cicely, and she wanted to divert it toward Miss Morton instead.”

“As usual, with your quick wits, you've gone right to the heart of her motive,” said Rob; “but it may be more serious than you've yet thought of. Miss Morton inherits, you know.”

“Yes,
now
,”
said Kitty significantly, “since she burnt that other will.”

“What other will?”

“Oh, don't you see? The will she burnt was a later one, that
didn't
give her this house. She burnt it so the earlier one would stand.”

“How do you know this?”

“I don't know it, except by common sense! What else would she take from Maddy's desk and burn except a will? And, of course, a will
not
in her favor, leaving the one that
did
bequeath the house to her to appear as the latest will.”

“Does this line of argument take us any further?” said Rob, so seriously that Kitty began to think.

“You don't mean,” she whispered, “that Miss Morton—in order to—”