The Leavenworth Case (36 page)

“That was when?”

“About three weeks ago.”

“She has, however, mentioned the subject since?”

“No, sir; not once.”

“What! not asked what they were going to do with her mistress?”

“No, sir.”

“She has shown, however, that something was preying on her mind—fear, remorse, or anxiety?”

“No, sir; on the contrary, she has oftener appeared like one secretly elated.”

“But,” exclaimed Mr. Gryce, with another sidelong look at me, “that was very strange and unnatural. I cannot account for it.”

“Nor I, sir. I used to try to explain it by thinking her sensibilities had been blunted, or that she was too ignorant to comprehend the seriousness of what had happened; but as I learned to know her better, I gradually changed my mind. There was too much method in her gayety for that. I could not help seeing she had some future before her for which she was preparing herself. As, for instance, she asked me one day if I thought she could learn to play on the piano. And I finally came to the conclusion she had been promised money if she kept the secret intrusted to her, and was so pleased with the prospect that she forgot the dreadful past, and all connected with it. At all events, that was the only explanation I could find for her general industry and desire to improve herself, or for the complacent smiles I detected now and then stealing over her face when she didn’t know I was looking.”

Not such a smile as crept over the countenance of Mr. Gryce at that moment, I warrant.

“It was all this,” continued Mrs. Belden, “which made her death such a shock to me. I couldn’t believe that so cheerful and healthy a creature could die like that, all in one night, without anybody knowing anything about it. But—”

“Wait one moment,” Mr. Gryce here broke in. “You speak of her endeavors to improve herself. What do you mean by that?”

“Her desire to learn things she didn’t know; as, for instance, to write and read writing. She could only clumsily print when she came here.”

I thought Mr. Gryce would take a piece out of my arm, he griped it so.

“When she came here! Do you mean to say that since she has been with you she has learned to write?”

“Yes, sir; I used to set her copies and—”

“Where are these copies?” broke in Mr. Gryce, subduing his voice to its most professional tone. “And where are her attempts at writing? I’d like to see some of them. Can’t you get them for us?”

“I don’t know, sir. I always made it a point to destroy them as soon as they had answered their purpose. I didn’t like to have such things lying around. But I will go see.”

“Do,” said he; “and I will go with you. I want to take a look at things up-stairs, any way.” And, heedless of his rheumatic feet, he rose and prepared to accompany her.

“This is getting very intense,” I whispered, as he passed me.

The smile he gave me in reply would have made the fortune of a Thespian Mephistopheles.

Of the ten minutes of suspense which I endured in their absence, I say nothing. At the end of that time they returned with their hands full of paper boxes, which they flung down on the table.

“The writing-paper of the household,” observed Mr. Gryce; “every scrap and half-sheet which could be found. But, before you examine it, look at this.” And he held out a sheet of bluish foolscap, on which were written some dozen imitations of that time-worn copy, “BE GOOD AND YOU WILL BE HAPPY”; with an occasional “
Beauty soon fades,
” and “
Evil communications corrupt good manners
.”

“What do you think of that?”

“Very neat and very legible.”

“That is Hannah’s latest. The only specimens of her writing to be found. Not much like some scrawls we have seen, eh?”

“No.”

“Mrs. Belden says this girl has known how to write as good as this for more than a week. Took great pride in it, and was continually talking about how smart she was.” Leaning over, he whispered in my ear, “This thing you have in your hand must have been scrawled some time ago, if she did it.” Then aloud: “But let us look at the paper she used to write on.”

Dashing open the covers of the boxes on the table, he took out the loose sheets lying inside, and scattered them out before me. One glance showed they were all of an utterly different quality from that used in the confession. “This is all the paper in the house,” said he.

“Are you sure of that?” I asked, looking at Mrs. Belden, who stood in a sort of maze before us. “Wasn’t there one stray sheet lying around somewhere, foolscap or something like that, which she might have got hold of and used without your knowing it?”

“No, sir; I don’t think so. I had only these kinds; besides, Hannah had a whole pile of paper like this in her room, and wouldn’t have been apt to go hunting round after any stray sheets.”

“But you don’t know what a girl like that might do. Look at this one,” said I, showing her the blank side of the confession. “Couldn’t a sheet like this have come from somewhere about the house? Examine it well; the matter is important.”

“I have, and I say, no, I never had a sheet of paper like that in my house.”

Mr. Gryce advanced and took the confession from my hand. As he did so, he whispered: “What do you think now? Many chances that Hannah got up this precious document?”

I shook my head, convinced at last; but in another moment turned to him and whispered back: “But, if Hannah didn’t write it, who did? And how came it to be found where it was?”

“That,” said he, “is just what is left for us to learn.” And, beginning again, he put question after question concerning the girl’s life in the house, receiving answers which only tended to show that she could not have brought the confession with her, much less received it from a secret messenger. Unless we doubted Mrs. Belden’s word, the mystery seemed impenetrable, and I was beginning to despair of success, when Mr. Gryce, with an askance look at me, leaned towards Mrs. Belden and said:

“You received a letter from Miss Mary Leavenworth yesterday, I hear.”

“Yes, sir.”

“
This
letter?” he continued, showing it to her.

“Yes, sir.”

“Now I want to ask you a question. Was the letter, as you see it, the only contents of the envelope in which it came? Wasn’t there one for Hannah enclosed with it?”

“No, sir. There was nothing in my letter for her; but she had a letter herself yesterday. It came in the same mail with mine.”

“Hannah had a letter!” we both exclaimed; “and in the mail?”

“Yes; but it was not directed to her. It was”—casting me a look full of despair, “directed to me. It was only by a certain mark in the corner of the envelope that I knew—”

“Good heaven!” I interrupted; “where is this letter? Why didn’t you speak of it before? What do you mean by allowing us to flounder about here in the dark, when a glimpse at this letter might have set us right at once?”

“I didn’t think anything about it till this minute. I didn’t know it was of importance. I—”

But I couldn’t restrain myself. “Mrs. Belden, where is this letter?” I demanded. “Have you got it?”

“No,” said she; “I gave it to the girl yesterday; I haven’t seen it since.”

“It must be up-stairs, then. Let us take another look.” and I hastened towards the door.

“You won’t find it,” said Mr. Gryce at my elbow. “I have looked. There is nothing but a pile of burned paper in the corner. By the way, what could that have been?” he asked of Mrs. Belden.

“I don’t know, sir. She hadn’t anything to burn unless it was the letter.”

“We will see about that,” I muttered, hurrying up-stairs and bringing down the wash-bowl with its contents. “If the letter was the one I saw in your hand at the post-office, it was in a yellow envelope.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yellow envelopes burn differently from white paper. I ought to be able to tell the tinder made by a yellow envelope when I see it. Ah, the letter has been destroyed; here is a piece of the envelope,” and I drew out of the heap of charred scraps a small bit less burnt than the rest, and held it up.

“Then there is no use looking here for what the letter contained,” said Mr. Gryce, putting the wash-bowl aside. “We will have to ask you, Mrs. Belden.”

“But I don’t know. It was directed to me, to be sure; but Hannah told me, when she first requested me to teach her how to write, that she expected such a letter, so I didn’t open it when it came, but gave it to her just as it was.”

“You, however, stayed by to see her read it?”

“No, sir; I was in too much of a flurry. Mr. Raymond had just come and I had no time to think of her. My own letter, too, was troubling me.”

“But you surely asked her some questions about it before the day was out?”

“Yes, sir, when I went up with her tea things; but she had nothing to say. Hannah could be as reticent as any one I ever knew, when she pleased. She didn’t even admit it was from her mistress.”

“Ah! then you thought it was from Miss Leavenworth?”

“Why, yes, sir; what else was I to think, seeing that mark in the corner? Though, to be sure, it might have been put there by Mr. Clavering,” she thoughtfully added.

“You say she was cheerful yesterday; was she so after receiving this letter?”

“Yes, sir; as far as I could see. I wasn’t with her long; the necessity I felt of doing something with the box in my charge—but perhaps Mr. Raymond has told you?”

Mr. Gryce nodded.

“It was an exhausting evening, and quite put Hannah out of my head, but—”

“Wait!” cried Mr. Gryce, and beckoning me into a corner, he whispered, “Now comes in that experience of Q’s. While you are gone from the house, and before Mrs. Belden sees Hannah again, he has a glimpse of the girl bending over something in the corner of her room which may very fairly be the wash-bowl we found there. After which, he sees her swallow, in the most lively way, a dose of something from a bit of paper. Was there anything more?”

“No,” said I.

“Very well, then,” he cried, going back to Mrs. Belden. “But—”

“But when I went up-stairs to bed, I thought of the girl, and going to her door opened it. The light was extinguished, and she seemed asleep, so I closed it again and came out.”

“Without speaking?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you notice how she was lying?”

“Not particularly. I think on her back.”

“In something of the same position in which she was found this morning?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And that is all you can tell us, either of her letter or her mysterious death?”

“All, sir.”

Mr. Gryce straightened himself up.

“Mrs. Belden,” said he, “you know Mr. Clavering’s handwriting when
you
see it?”

“I do.”

“And Miss Leavenworth’s?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, which of the two was upon the envelope of the letter you gave Hannah?”

“I couldn’t say. It was a disguised handwriting and might have been that of either; but I think—”

“Well?”

“That it was more like hers than his, though it wasn’t like hers either.”

With a smile, Mr. Gryce enclosed the confession in his hand in the envelope in which it had been found. “You remember how large the letter was which you gave her?”

“Oh, it was large, very large; one of the largest sort.”

“And thick?”

“O yes; thick enough for two letters.”

“Large enough and thick enough to contain this?” laying the confession, folded and enveloped as it was, before her.

“Yes, sir,” giving it a look of startled amazement, “large enough and thick enough to contain that.”

Mr. Gryce’s eyes, bright as diamonds, flashed around the room, and finally settled upon a fly traversing my coat-sleeve. “Do you need to ask now,” he whispered, in a low voice, “where, and from whom, this so-called confession comes?”

He allowed himself one moment of silent triumph, then rising, began folding the papers on the table and putting them in his pocket.

“What are you going to do?” I asked, hurriedly approaching.

He took me by the arm and led me across the hall into toe sitting-room. “I am going back to New York, I am going to pursue this matter. I am going to find out from whom came the poison which killed this girl, and by whose hand this vile forgery of a confession was written.”

“But,” said I, rather thrown off my balance by all this, “Q and the coroner will be here presently, won’t you wait to see them?”

“No; clues such as are given here must be followed while the trail is hot; I can’t afford to wait.”

“If I am not mistaken, they have already come,” I remarked, as a tramping of feet without announced that some one stood at the door.

“That is so,” he assented, hastening to let them in.

Judging from common experience, we had every reason to fear that an immediate stop would be put to all proceedings on our part, as soon as the coroner was introduced upon the scene. But happily for us and the interest at stake, Dr. Fink, of R—, proved to be a very sensible man. He had only to hear a true story of the affair to recognize at once its importance and the necessity of the most cautious action in the matter. Further, by a sort of sympathy with Mr. Gryce, all the more remarkable that he had never seen him before, he expressed himself as willing to enter into our plans, offering not only to allow us the temporary use of such papers as we desired, but even undertaking to conduct the necessary formalities of calling a jury and instituting an inquest in such a way as to give us time for the investigations we proposed to make.

The delay was therefore short. Mr. Gryce was enabled to take the 6:30 train for New York, and I to follow on the 10 p.m.,—the calling of a jury, ordering of an autopsy, and final adjournment of the inquiry till the following Tuesday, having all taken place in the interim.

XXXV. FINE WORK

“No hinge nor loop

To hang a doubt on!”

“But yet the pity of it, Iago! Oh, Iago, the pity of it, Iago.”

—Othello.

ONE SENTENCE DROPPED BY
Mr. Gryce before leaving R— prepared me for his next move.

“The clue to this murder is supplied by the paper on which the confession is written. Find from whose desk or portfolio this especial sheet was taken, and you find the double murderer,” he had said.