Anybody But Anne

Luncheon was served informally. The members of the household and the guests drifted in and out of the dining-room, where the footmen served them from a buffet. It chanced that I sat down with Morland and Archer.

We all said little, but though Morland was quiet, it seemed as though we were endeavoring not to talk, though he really wanted to.

“Would you rather we went away?” Archer asked of him; “perhaps you would prefer not to have any guests at present”

“No, no,” said Morland a little irritably. “You two fellows stay on, of course. Perhaps you can help me, and Lord knows I need help. As to the ladies, they must do as they choose. Mrs. Stelton wants to remain; but I fear these awful scenes will prove too much for the nerves of Miss Fordyce. She is so highly strung—”

“These scenes are enough to shake the nerves of anybody,” I put in; “and you know, Morland, without being told, that Archer and I stand ready to help you in any way we can. But I confess I can’t find anything to do by way of assistance.”

“Nor I,” said Archer, “but if our presence here makes it any easier for you, here we stay as long as you wish. At any rate we can meet some of the visitors, and save you or Mrs. Van Wyck that annoyance.”

Of course everyone in the village knew of the tragedy by this time, and flocks of curious people were gathering in and about the house. Soon the whole place was in a turmoil. Neighbors and village people were coming and going, and everybody was making suggestions or propounding theories.

Barbara and Morland quarrelled openly; Anne refused to see anybody; Archer stood around, moody and taciturn; the languid figure of Beth Fordyce could be seen strolling about the gardens, wringing her hands in picturesque despair; while Mrs. Stelton fluttered about everywhere, asking absurd questions and making herself a general nuisance.

I longed for a little talk with Anne, but decided not to bother her, so I employed myself answering the questions of the curious visitors who came and went.

The whole village was up in arms. And yet nobody seemed to care very much that David Van Wyck was dead. Their all-absorbing interest was the mystery of the thing. They positively gloated over the seemingly contradictory facts that a man had met his death in an inaccessible room and yet apparently not by his own hand.

Dozens of explanations were offered, some ingenious, some ridiculous; but I listened to them all, hoping that perhaps a chance shot might hit the truth. For I too was deeply interested in solving the mystery. Quite apart from my personal connection with the matter, I felt a stirring of the detective instinct to solve the problem. And not the least curious phase of it was that apparently nobody accused or even suspected any individual. The whole argument seemed to be that it must have been the work of an expert burglar, and yet that the entrance of such an intruder was impossible!

Buttonwood Terrace, hitherto so exclusive, was thrown open to all. Beside the curiosity seekers from the village, many personal friends and some distant relatives arrived at the house.

As both Anne and Barbara declined to see anybody, Mrs. Carstairs acted as hostess. She was serene and composed, but with an air of calm determination that made me wonder what her thoughts might be. At one time I saw her in earnest colloquy with Mr. Markham. I burned to know what she was talking about and I asked him.

“Oh,” he said, “she doesn’t want to testify at the inquest, and she doesn’t want her son to, either. But of course they’ll have to.”

“Can he or they be implicated?” I asked, with interest.

“Probably not. More likely it’s a woman’s natural instinct to dread such an experience both for herself and for anyone dear to her.”

I thought then of the peculiar circumstances of Carstairs and his mother both hunting for something in the road, and both denying that they had lost anything. I was about to tell this to Mr. Markham when he was called away on some matter. And I thought too, perhaps it was better not to mention the subject until I should discover what developments might result from the inquest.

Coroner Mellen proved himself capable of conducting matters in a business-like way. If he appeared hard and heartless it was probably necessary, considering the work he had to do. The inquest was to be held at half-past two, and there was much to be done by way of preparation. The jurymen were arriving, also several policemen and a number of reporters.

The incoming trains brought people from the city, and many of the principal men of the village were in attendance. Not everyone was allowed to enter the house, but the grounds were thronged with curiosity-seekers and idlers.

As the time neared for the inquest, the great hall began to be filled with people. A table had been placed in the centre for the use of the coroner and the reporters, and a group of chairs near by were intended for the jury.

Seats were reserved for the members of the household, and the rest of the room was quickly filled by an interested if horrified audience.

The coroner and the jurymen filed in and took their places, and as if by the touch of a magic wand, the beautiful reception hall was transformed into a court-room.

The arrival of the family upon the scene created a decided stir amongst the audience.

Anne came first, walking with Condron Archer. Her beautiful face was white, but her eyes were not cast down; instead, she looked straight ahead of her, but with an unseeing gaze, as if walking in sleep. Archer led her to a chair and sat down beside her. They were followed immediately by Barbara and Morland, who were whispering together as they came in. This brother and sister were often at variance in their opinions and apparently the present occasion offered them opportunity for differing views.

Mrs. Stelton and Miss Fordyce followed them, both looking very much disturbed and embarrassed.

I, myself, came in with Markham, the detective, and behind us were Mrs. Carstairs and her son. The other servants were congregated in a nearby room, but Mrs. Carstairs had insisted on having her son by her side and it had been allowed.

Coroner Mellen was short and sharp in his speech, and wasted little time in preliminaries. His jury was sworn, and his first witness on the stand, almost before I realized that the inquest had begun.

The valet, Carstairs, was the first one questioned. He answered the coroner in a nervous and agitated manner, and it was clear to be seen that he was exceedingly ill at ease. To me, however, this was only a natural result of finding himself implicated in such a tragedy.

“Tell the story in your own way,” said Coroner Mellen, speaking a little more kindly, as he observed the man’s demeanor.

“I went to the master’s room this morning, sir, as I always do, and he wasn’t there, and his bed hadn’t been slept in. So as I couldn’t think of any place he might be, except in his study, I went there, sir, and it was locked, and I couldn’t get in. I knocked several times, but nobody answered; so I went and told Jeannette, and she told Mrs. Van Wyck.”

“Who is Jeannette?” asked Mr. Mellen.

“She’s Mrs. Van Wyck’s maid, sir. And then the gentlemen came from the dining-room, and they ordered the door broken in, sir. We called Ranney for that.”

“Never mind about that now; tell us of last evening. When did you see Mr. Van Wyck last?”

“When he was dressing for dinner, sir. And he told me then that I needn’t attend him when he retired. He said he expected some visitors in the evening, and as he should be up late I needn’t wait up for him.”

“And didn’t you?”

“N-no, sir.”

“Why did you hesitate at that reply?”

“I—I didn’t, sir.”

“You did. What time did you go to bed yourself last night?”

“At—at about midnight, sir.”

“And where were you all the evening?”

“I was down in the village. I went to a ball there.”

“And returned home about midnight?”

“Why—yes, sir.”

The valet did seem disingenuous, and I felt sure that the coroner doubted his truthfulness. But to my mind the man was merely confused by the questions shot at him.

During the examination Mrs. Carstairs sat looking at her son. Her hands were clasped in the intensity of her attention, and I could see that she was controlling her agitation by sheer force of will. I had no reason to think the valet had killed his master, but I couldn’t help surmising that either he or his mother, or both, knew something of the mystery that the others did not. I saw the coroner was about to dismiss the witness, and I scribbled a hasty line and passed it to Mr. Mellen, advising him to ask the valet further questions about the evening before.

The coroner seemed a little at sea in the matter, but he followed my advice.”

“Did you see any of the members of the household on your return last night?”

“N-no—sir.”

Either the man was actually scared out of his wits, or he was concealing something; for a more stammering, frightened witness I never saw.

“Are you sure of this?”

An affirmative nod was the only answer, and the valet’s fingers laced and interlaced until I feared he would injure them.

“The servants,—did you see any of them?”

“Why—yes, sir,” and Carstairs’s eyes rolled wildly, as though he had made a terrifying admission.

“Which ones?”

“Only Jeannette, sir.”

“Where did you see her?”

“In the servants’ dining-room, sir.”

“What was she doing there, at midnight?”

“She was just about to go to attend on Mrs. Van Wyck, sir.”

I saw Jeannette’s white face peeping in from the next room, and she looked about as terrified as the valet himself. In an undertone, I drew Mr. Markham’s attention to this fact, but he seemed to think it unimportant, and said that servants were always rattled at being made publicly conspicuous.

I didn’t entirely agree with him, and I felt fully convinced that Carstairs and Jeannette had knowledge of some sort bearing on the tragedy. I glanced at Anne, and found that she, like Mrs. Carstairs, was simply holding herself together by strong will power.

The others were not so deeply affected. The Van Wyck brother and sister were quiet and composed, though Morland had that same effect of being ready to break out indignantly at any moment. Mrs. Stelton was frankly interested in the proceedings, and showed it in her eager countenance; but Miss Fordyce sat with closed eyes, as if overcome by the whole affair. Archer looked grave, but as he continually glanced toward Anne, I was certain that he felt even more solicitude for her well-being than for the developments of the case.

Apparently the coroner thought the valet’s evidence not of crucial importance, for he concluded by saying:

“Did you see any of the members of the household on your return?”

“None but the servants, sir.”

“You didn’t see Mr. Van Wyck in his room or in his study?”

“No, sir; I did not.”

This answer, at least, was given without hesitation, and, apparently satisfied, the coroner dismissed the witness.

Ranney, the garage mechanician, was next called. His testimony was straightforward, and he was entirely unembarrassed, and indeed seemed almost uninterested.

“Mr. Morland called me,” he said, “and ordered me to pick the lock of the study door. Of course, with my knowledge of mechanics, I could do this; and as it was then bolted, he ordered me to saw out the piece of wood containing the bolt. This I did, and we opened the door.”

“You live in the house?” asked Mr. Mellen.

“No, sir; I live in a cottage near the stables and garage.”

“What time did you retire last night?”

“Early, sir; between nine and ten o’clock.”

“Were you awake at or about midnight?”

Before replying, Ranney gave a long steady glance at Carstairs. The valet returned it with a belligerent stare that seemed to convey a threat. I was surprised at the directness of this glance, after Carstairs’s exhibition of nervousness. Apparently it was entirely intelligible to Ranney, for he set his jaw with grim determination, and proceeded to answer the coroner.

“I was wakeful off and on, all night, sir. I can’t say as I was awake at twelve o’clock, and I can’t say as I wasn’t. I’m a light sleeper, sir.”

“Then you would have heard if anything unusual was taking place?”

“Do you mean here at the house, sir? Because my cottage is too far away for me to hear burglars or anything like that”

“Did you hear or see anything unusual at any time during the night?”

Again Ranney hesitated, again he looked at Carstairs, this time including Mrs. Carstairs in his glance.

To my surprise, while the valet still had a threatening aspect, his mother smiled slightly at Ranney. It was a strange smile, a little coaxing and of a persuasive charm.

I don’t know whether anyone else noticed this by-play, and the detective paid no attention to it whatever, but it interested me. And I thoroughly believed that it was in response to Mrs. Carstairs’s beseeching glance, that Ranney said, firmly:

“No, sir, nothing did I hear or see all night long.”

I didn’t believe him. To me it was a palpable untruth, but I saw a quiet smile of satisfaction on Mrs. Carstairs’s face, and a victorious gleam in the eyes of her son. What it all meant, I didn’t know, and I began to think perhaps I was making too much of it, when suddenly I remembered Miss Fordyce’s account of the motor car and the man she had seen from her window. Could Ranney or Carstairs know anything about this, and did it bear on the mystery? I glanced at Miss Fordyce, but she still sat with closed eyes, and looked like one in a trance. I doubted if she had even heard Ranney’s evidence, or that of the valet.

But I argued to myself that it would be wiser for me to say nothing, and wait until the testimony of Miss Fordyce should be called for; when she would have to tell about the motor car, and I could then see if either of these servants showed any guilty knowledge.

Next came the evidence of the doctor.

He deposed that he had been the Van Wyck family physician for a great many years. He told of being called that morning to Buttonwood Terrace, and of his seeing the body of David Van Wyck. It was his opinion after examination that Mr. Van Wyck’s death occurred about midnight.

“From what cause?” asked the coroner. “I frankly admit,” said Doctor Mason, “that I am puzzled as to the instrument which caused Mr. Van Wyck’s death. I have made an examination of the body, and I find no bullet or shot. I conclude, therefore, that he was stabbed with some sharp, pointed instrument which has left a small circular hole in the clothing and the flesh.”

“Could it have been a hat-pin?” asked the coroner.

“No, it could not,” declared the doctor, a little shortly. “I don’t know why people are so ready to assume a hat-pin. As a matter of fact, a hat-pin is a most impracticable weapon. It would either bend double or break off if used for such a purpose. Nor was it a dagger—of any usual description. A dagger or a knife would leave a slit-like incision, and the mark in question is absolutely circular. I can only say that the weapon must have been sharp-pointed and round. Further than that, I do not know.”

“Could the wound have been self-inflicted?” asked the coroner.

“So far as its position is concerned, yes; but it is improbable that a man could have sufficient force of nerve to stab himself in that manner, for it meant a sure, strong drive of the weapon. Also, it is improbable that after that thrust the victim could live long enough to draw out the weapon and hide or dispose of it. And I understand it has not been found.”

“No,” returned Mr. Mellen; “it has not yet been found, but it may be eventually discovered. It is your opinion, then, Doctor Mason, that David Van Wyck was not a suicide?”

“That is my opinion,” returned Doctor Mason positively.