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Clue

<div><h1>XVIII</h1></div> CARLETON IS FRANK Nearly a week had passed. The funeral of Madeleine Van Norman had been such as befitted the last of the name, and she had been reverently laid away to rest in the old family vault. But the mystery of her death was not yet cleared up. The coroner’s inquest had been finished, but most of the evidence, though vaguely indicative, had been far from conclusive. No further witnesses had been found, and no further important fact had been discovered. Schuyler Carleton maintained the same inscrutable air, and, though often nervous to the verge of collapse, had reiterated his original story over and over again without deviation. He still refused to state his errand to the Van Norman house on the night of Madeleine’s death. He still declined to say what he was doing between the time he entered the house and the time when he cried out for help. He himself asserted there was little, if any, time therein unaccounted for. Tom Willard, of course, repeated his story, and it was publicly corroborated by witnesses from the hotel. Tom had changed some during these few days. The sudden accession of a large fortune seemed to burden him rather than to bring him joy. But no one wondered at this when they remembered the sad circumstances which gave him his wealth, and remembered, too, what was no secret to anybody, that he had deeply loved his cousin Madeleine. Of the other witnesses, Cicely Dupuy was the only one whose later evidence was not entirely in accordance with her earlier statements. She often contradicted herself, and when in the witness chair was subject to sudden fainting attacks, whether real or assumed no one was quite sure. And so, after the most exhaustive inquiry and the most diligent sifting of evidence, the jury could return only the time-worn verdict, “Death at the hands of some person or persons unknown.” But in addition to this it was recommended by the jury that Schuyler Carleton be kept under surveillance. There had not been enough evidence to warrant his arrest, but the district attorney was so convinced of the man’s guilt that he felt sure proofs of it would sooner or later be brought to light. Carleton himself seemed apathetic in the matter. He quite realized that his guilt was strongly suspected by most of the community, but, instead of breaking down under this, he seemed rather to accept it sadly and without dispute. But though the inquest itself was over, vigorous investigation was going on. A detective of some reputation had the case in hand officially, and, unlike many celebrated detectives, he was quite willing to confer with or to be advised by young Fessenden. Spurred by the courtesy and confidence of his superior, Rob devoted himself with energy to the work of unravelling the mystery, but it was baffling work. As he confessed to Kitty French, who was in all things his confidante, every avenue of argument led up against a blank wall. “Either Carleton did do or he did not,” he said reflectively. “If he did, there’s absolutely no way we can prove it; and if he didn’t, who did?” Kitty agreed that this was a baffling situation. “What about that cachou, or whatever you call it?” she said. “It didn’t amount to anything as a clue,” returned Rob moodily. “I showed it to some of the servants, and they said they had never seen such a thing before. Harris was quite sure that none of the men who came here ever use them. I asked Carleton, just casually, for one the other day, and he said he didn’t have any and never had had any. I asked Willard for one at another time, and he said the same thing. It must have been dropped by some of the decorator’s men; they seemed a Frenchy crowd, and I’ve been told the French are addicted to these things.” Rob took the tiny silver sphere from his pocket and looked at it as he talked. “Besides, it wouldn’t mean a thing if it had belonged to anybody. I just picked it up because it was the only thing I could find in the drawing-room that wasn’t too heavy to lift.” Rob put his useless clue back into his pocket with a sigh. “I’m going to give it up,” he said, “and go back to New York. I’ve stayed here in Mapleton over a week now, hoping I could be of some help to poor old Carleton; but I can’t—and yet I know he’s innocent! Fairbanks, the detective on the case, is pleasant to work with, and I like him; but if he can’t find out anything, of course I needn’t hope to. I’d stay on, though, if I thought Carleton cared to have me. But I’m not sure he does, so I’m going back home. When are you going to New York, Kitty?” But the girl did not answer his question. “Rob,” she said, for the intimacy between these two young people had reached the stage of first names, “I have an inspiration.” “I wish I had some faith in it, my dear girl; but your inspirations have such an inevitable way of leading up a tree.” “I know it, and this may also. But listen: doesn’t Schuyler believe that you suspect him?” “I don’t suspect him,” declared Rob, almost fiercely. “I know you don’t; but doesn’t Schuyler think you do?” “Why, I don’t know; I never thought about it. I think very likely he does.” “And he’s so proud, of course he won’t discuss it with you, or justify himself in any way. Now, look here, Rob: you go to Schuyler, and in your nicest, friendliest way tell him you don’t believe he did it. Then—don’t you see?—if he is innocent, he will expand and confide in you, and you may get a whole lot of useful information. And on the other hand, if he is guilty, you’ll probably learn the fact from his manner.” Rob thought it over. “Kitty,” he said at last, “you’re a trump. I believe you have hit upon the only thing there is to try, and I’ll try it before I decide to go to New York. I’ll stay in Mapleton a day or two longer, for the more I think about it, the more I think I haven’t been fair or just to the old boy in not even asking for his confidence.” “It isn’t that so much, but you must assure him of your belief in him. Tell him you know he is innocent.” “I do know it.” “Yes, I know that has been your firm conviction all along, though it isn’t mine. But don’t tell him it isn’t mine; just tell him of your own confidence and sympathy and faith in him, and see what happens.” “A woman’s intuitions are always ahead of a man’s,” declared Rob heartily. “I’ll do just as you say, Kitty, and I’ll do it whole-heartedly, and to the best of my ability.” Kitty was still staying in the Van Norman house, which had not yet been, and probably would not soon be, known by any other name. Mrs. Markham had gone away temporarily, though it was believed that when she returned it would be merely to arrange for her permanent departure. The good lady had received a generous bequest in Madeleine’s will, and, except for the severing of old associations, she had no desire to remain in a house no longer the home of the Van Normans. Miss Morton was therefore mistress of the establishment, and thoroughly did she enjoy her position. She invited Miss French to remain for a time as her visitor, and Kitty had stayed on, in hope of learning the truth about the tragedy. At Miss Morton’s invitation Tom Willard had left the hotel and returned to his old room, which he had given up to Miss Morton herself at Madeleine’s request. Willard without doubt sorrowed deeply for his beautiful cousin, but he was a man who rarely gave voice to his grief, and his feelings were evident more from his manner than his words. He seemed preoccupied and absent-minded, and, quite unlike Miss Morton, he was in no haste to take even preliminary steps toward the actual acquisition of his fortune. Fessenden was curious to know whether Willard suspected that his cousin’s death was the work of Schuyler Carleton. But when he tried to sound Tom on the subject he was met by a rebuff. It was politely worded, but it was nevertheless a plain-spoken rebuff, and conclusively forbade further discussion of the subject. And so as an outcome of Kitty’s suggestion, Fessenden determined to have a plain talk with Schuyler Carleton. “Old man,” he said, the first time opportunity found him alone with Schuyler in the Carleton library, “I want to offer you my help. I know that sounds presumptuous, but we’re old friends, Carleton, and I think I may be allowed a little presumption on that score. And first, though it seems to me absurdly unnecessary, I want to assure you of my belief in your own innocence. Pshaw, belief is a weak word! I know, I am positive, that you no more killed that girl than I did!” The light that broke over Carleton’s countenance was a fine vindication of Kitty’s theory. The weary, drawn look disappeared from his face, and, impulsively grasping Rob’s hand, he exclaimed, “Do you mean that?” “Of course I mean it. I never for an instant thought it possible. You’re not that sort of a man.” “Not that sort of a man;” Carleton spoke musingly. “That isn’t the point, Fessenden. I’ve thought this thing out pretty thoroughly, and I must say I don’t wonder that they suspect me of the deed. You see, it’s a case of exclusive opportunity.” “That phrase always makes me tired,” declared Rob. “If there’s one thing more misleading than ‘circumstantial evidence,’ it is ‘exclusive opportunity.’ Now, look here, Carleton, if you’ll let me, I’m going to take up this matter. Should you be arrested and tried—and I may as well tell you frankly I’m pretty sure that you will be—I want to act as your lawyer. But in the meantime I want to endeavor to track down the real murderer and so leave no occasion for your trial.” Schuyler Carleton looked like a condemned man who has just been granted a reprieve. “Do you know, Fessenden,” he said, “you’re the only one who does believe me innocent?” “Nonsense, man! Nobody believes you guilty.” “They’re so strongly suspicious that it’s little short of belief,” said Carleton sadly. “And truly, Rob, I can’t blame them. Everything is against me.” “I admit there are some things that must be explained away; and, Schuyler, if I’m to be your lawyer, or, rather, since I am your lawyer, I must ask you to be perfectly frank with me.” Carleton looked troubled. He was not of a frank nature, and it was always difficult for him to confide his personal affairs to anybody. Fessenden saw this, and resolved upon strong measures. “You must tell me everything,” he said somewhat sternly. “You must do this at the sacrifice of your own wishes. You must ignore yourself, and lay your whole heart bare to me, for the sake of your mother, and—for the sake of the woman you love.” Schuyler Carleton started as if he had been physically struck. “What do you mean?” he cried. “You know what I mean,” said Fessenden gently. “You did not love the woman you were about to marry. You do love another. Can you deny it?” “No,” said Carleton, settling back into his apathy. “And since you know that, I may as well tell you all. I admired and respected Madeleine Van Norman, and when I asked her to marry me I thought I loved her. After that I met some one else. You know this?” “Yes; Miss Burt.” “Yes. She came into this house as my mother’s companion, and almost from the first time I saw her I knew that she and not Madeleine was the one woman in the world for me. But, Fessenden, never by word or look did I betray this to Miss Burt while Madeleine lived. If she guessed it, it was only because of her woman’s intuition. I was always loyal to Madeleine in word and deed, if I could not be in thought.” “Was it not your duty to tell Madeleine this?” “I tried several times to do so, but, though I hate to sound egotistical, she loved me very deeply, and I felt that honor bound me to her.” “I’m not here to preach to you, and that part of it is, of course, not my affair. I know your nature, and I know that you were as loyal to Miss Van Norman as you would have been had you never seen Miss Burt, and I honor and respect you for it. But you were jealous of Willard?” “My nature is insanely jealous, yes. And though he was her cousin, I knew Willard was desperately in love with her, and somehow it always made me frantic to see him showing affection toward the woman I meant to make my wife.” “She was not in love with Willard?” “Not in the least. Madeleine’s heart beat only for me, ungrateful wretch that I am. Her little feints at flirting with Willard were only to pique me. I knew this, and yet to see them together always roused that demon of jealousy which I cannot control. Fessenden, aside from all else, how can people think I killed the woman who loved me as she did?” “Of course that argument appeals to you, and of course it does to me. But you must see how others, not appreciating all this, and even suspecting or surmising that your heart was not entirely with your intended bride—you must see that some appearances, at least, are against you.” “I do see; and I see it so plainly that even to me those appearances seem conclusive of my guilt.” “Never mind what they seem to you, old man; they don’t seem so to me, and now I’m going to get to work. First, as I told you, you are going to be frank with me. What were you doing in the Van Norman house before you went into the library?” Schuyler Carleton blushed. It was not the shame of a guilty man, but the embarrassment of one detected in some betrayal of sentiment. “Of course I will tell you,” he said after a moment. “I went there on an errand which I wished to keep entirely secret. There is a foolish superstition in our family that has been observed for many generations. An old reliquary which was blessed by some ancient Pope has been handed down from father to son for many generations. The superstition is that unless this ancient trinket hangs over the head of a bridegroom on his wedding day, ill fortune will follow him through life. It is part of the superstition that the reliquary must be put in place secretly, and especially without the knowledge of the bride, else its charm is broken. The whole notion is foolishness, but as my wedding was an ill-starred one, any way, I hoped to gain happiness, if possible, by this means. Of course, I don’t think I really had any faith in the thing, but it is such an old tradition in the family that it never occurred to me not to follow it. My mother gave me the reliquary, after my father’s death, telling me the history of it. I had it with me when I was at the house in the afternoon, and I hoped to find an opportunity to fasten it up in that floral bower, unobserved. But the workmen were busy there when I came away, and I knew there would be many people about the next morning; so I decided to return late at night to do my errand. I had no thought of seeing Madeleine. There were no bright lights in the house, and the drawing-room itself was dark save for what light came in from the hall. I did go into the house, I suppose, at about quarter after eleven. I didn’t note the time, but I dare say Mr. Hunt was correct. Without glancing toward the library then, I went at once to the drawing-room and hid the reliquary among the garlands that formed the top of that bower. As I stood there, I thought over what I was about to do the next day. It seemed to me that I was doing right, and I vowed to myself to be a true and loving husband to my chosen wife. I stood there some time, thinking, and then turned to go away. As I left the room I noticed a low light in the library, and it occurred to me that if any one should be in there it would be wiser to make my presence known. So I crossed the hall and went into the library. The rest you know. The sudden shock of seeing Madeleine as she was, just as I had come from what was to have been our bridal bower, nearly unhinged my mind. I picked up the dagger, I turned on lights and rang bells, not knowing what I did. Now I have told you the truth, and if my demeanor has seemed strange, can you wonder at it in a man who experienced what I did, and then is suspected of being the criminal?” “Indeed, no,” said Fessenden, grasping his friend’s hand in sincere sympathy. “It was a terrible experience, and the injustice of the suspicion resting on you makes it a hundredfold more horrible.” “When I went back to the house next morning I watched for an opportunity, and managed, unobserved, to remove the reliquary from its floral hiding-place. I shall never use it now. There are some men fated not to know happiness, and I am of those.” “Let us hope not,” said Fessenden gently. “But whatever the future may hold, let us now keep to the business at hand, and use every possible means to discover the evil-doer.” <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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