Anybody But Anne

“No!” cried Mrs. Carstairs, impetuously; “David Van Wyck would not do that!”

“You seem very certain,” said Morland, looking at her coldly.

“I am certain,” she retorted, with a flush of her dark eyes. “Do you suppose I’ve lived under David Van Wyck’s roof all these years, without learning his nature fairly well? He was a hard man and severe,—but he was just, and above such meanness as you ascribe to him.”

“But,” said I, “you have already expressed an opinion that Mr. Van Wyck died by his own hand. Now, if the pearls were stolen by a burglar, it is a strange coincidence that the two crimes should occur the same night.”

Mrs. Carstairs looked at me with her face full of baffled rage. Her theories were indeed at variance. If an intruder took the pearls, undoubtedly David Van Wyck had been murdered. If, on the other hand, he had committed suicide, he would seem to be himself responsible for the disappearance of the jewels.

For a moment Mrs. Carstairs sat motionless, though it was evident her mind was working rapidly. The rest of us sat watching her, and I, at any rate, began to feel a dawning hope that what she might say next would throw a little light on the mystery.

At last she burst out, in a voice low, but tense with feeling: “I am sure David Van Wyck killed himself. I am sure that if before his death he secreted that valuable pearl necklace, he was entirely justified in doing so.”

“Just what do you mean by that?” demanded Archer, angrily.

“I think you all know, without being told,” returned Mrs. Carstairs, and her lips curled unpleasantly.

“Nevertheless, you shall tell!” and Archer’s voice fairly quivered with indignation. “Speak out before us all, and say what you mean by your insinuation.”

Mrs. Carstairs looked at him with an air half supercilious and half amused.

“Who are you, Mr. Archer,” she said, “that you should arraign me, in this manner?”

“And who are you,” thundered Archer, “that you should presume to cast aspersions at any of the Van Wyck family?”

Mr. Mellen broke in upon this controversy.

“What position do you hold in this house, Mrs. Carstairs?” he inquired, in a tone of such authority that it compelled a respectful answer.

“I have been Mr. Van Wyck’s housekeeper for seven years.”

“You were here, then, before he was married to the present Mrs. Van Wyck?”

“Five years before.”

The very tones of the housekeeper’s voice, the reminiscent look in her beautiful mysterious eyes, and the almost insolent toss of her well-poised head, fully confirmed my previous thought that she had deeply resented the advent of Anne.

Coroner Mellen looked at her a moment, and then said, as if dismissing her, “You will, of course, be called upon to give your testimony at the inquest.” His curt nod of dismissal was sufficient to send Mrs. Carstairs from the room, but she paid no heed to it, and remained sitting in her chair, without a trace of embarrassment or self-consciousness.

I couldn’t help admiring her aplomb,—her wonderful self-poise; nor could I help wondering whether she knew anything about the tragedy, or whether her sensational nature made her wish to appear mysterious.

I began to like the coroner. He was not prepossessing in appearance, being extremely young for his position, and of a sandy-haired, freckle-faced type that made him look like a blushing school-boy. But his blue eyes showed a quick intelligence, and I jumped to the conclusion that he was bright and intuitive, but inexperienced.

“I must ask a few preliminary questions,” he said, and there was a little nervous hesitation in his manner, “and I will hold my inquest this afternoon. Doctor Mason, can you tell me at what time the death of Mr. Van Wyck probably occurred?”

“He has been dead, fully nine or ten hours,” replied the doctor; “it is probable that he was killed about or after midnight. I refuse to accept the theory of suicide.”

“Was death instantaneous?” went on Mr. Mellen.

“It was; though I shall make further examination, I am already convinced that Mr. Van Wyck was stabbed with a sharp weapon by some one with murderous intent.”

“But nobody could get in!” exclaimed Mrs. Carstairs, and she sat forward, grasping the arms of her chair and gazing intently at the doctor, as if she would hypnotize him.

Although I had begun to dislike the woman, I was forced to admit to myself her marvellous charm. Every pose she assumed seemed more graceful, more picturesque than the one before; and yet I couldn’t help thinking that her effects were all carefully premeditated. She showed no self-consciousness, but her self-reliance and self-sufficiency were so marked, that I believed her a consummate actress.

“We are not considering that now,” said Mr. Mellen, looking at her keenly, and then turning to Morland, he said, “Who discovered your father’s body?”

Morland told briefly the circumstances of breaking in the door, and the coroner listened attentively and thoughtfully.

“Summon the valet,” he said, abruptly.

Mrs. Carstairs rose with a sudden start and exclaimed, “Why do you want him? He is in no way implicated in this matter! He did not attend his master last evening.”

“Good Heavens, madam,” said the coroner, amazed at this outbreak, “nobody has accused him! Pray, calm yourself. Why do you object to his presence here?”

“He is my son,” said Mrs. Carstairs.

“And if he is, that is no reason he should not be questioned.” Mr. Mellen gave a grim smile, and shook his head slightly, as if to imply that Mrs. Carstairs was a woman beyond his ken.

Morland had touched a bell, in response to which the valet appeared. He had little to tell, save to corroborate Morland’s story of the morning; but had he, himself, been guilty of crime he could not have acted more frightened. I remembered, however, that he had shown the same behavior when the alarm was first raised, and I concluded that it was merely a natural horror of death; and perhaps he had inherited his mother’s emotional disposition.

But whatever Mrs. Carstairs’s attitude toward David Van Wyck or his family, I now perceived that the woman’s all-absorbing passion was her son. She watched him with intensity. Her mobile face unconsciously followed the expressions of his countenance. She prompted his speech when he hesitated; and she interrupted, and spoke for him so frequently that Mr. Mellen was obliged to reprimand her.

But between the trembling valet and his anxious and apprehensive mother, nothing was learned that seemed to be of the least importance.

It seemed, that as Mr. Van Wyck expected to be up late with the committeemen, he had excused Carstairs from attending him when he retired, and the valet had had the evening to himself. When he went to his Master’s bedroom that morning, he found it had been unoccupied through the night, and he had raised an alarm. The rest of his story was exactly the same as Morland’s.

I could not see why his mother should be so wrought up over the matter of his appearance, but I set it down to an excessive maternal solicitude, lest he should be suspected of implication in the tragedy.

“This committee,” went on Mr. Mellen, his brows bent in perplexity, “who were they?”

“Three gentlemen from the village,” said Morland. “They met with my father last night, to discuss a business matter. They all went away before I left this room.”

Suddenly Lasseter made an announcement He had been looking over the papers that lay on the desk, and he said abruptly, “The deed of gift is gone.”

“What do you mean?” asked Coroner Mellen, alert for further information.

“Last night,” said Lasseter, “I was here during the conference of the gentlemen from the village and Mr. Van Wyck. He made out to them a deed of gift of a large sum of money. However, he retained this paper after his visitors had left. He may have put it away after I left myself, but so far I cannot find it.”

“At what time did you leave?” asked the coroner.

“Almost exactly at midnight,” returned the secretary.

“And where was the deed you speak of then?”

“Lying on this desk, in front of Mr. Van Wyck.”

“Who was here when you left, besides Mr. Van Wyck?”

“Only his son, Morland.”

“That’s a lie!” exclaimed Morland, springing up. “When I left this room at midnight, you were here alone with my father!”

To my surprise, the coroner did not question these contradictory statements. He looked at the two men without speaking, though his sharp blue eyes showed that he had understood what they said.

“The case is most mysterious,” he declared; “and I think it wiser to have no further discussion or investigation until I can hold the inquest and hear definite testimony. The facts of the absolutely inaccessible room and the entire absence of the fatal weapon are so irreconcilable, that I confess I am baffled. I think the only course to pursue, is to engage the services of a clever and experienced detective.”

“There is no occasion for such a thing,” said Mrs. Carstairs, quite as if she were in authority; “I object to it very decidedly.”

The coroner looked at her appraisingly, and then turned to Morland Van Wyck. Though he said no word, it was quite evident he was inquiring from whom he should take orders. My liking for Mr. Mellen deepened. He showed brains and commonsense, two qualities not always found together, and not universally the attributes of coroners.

“Your opinion is not wanted, Mrs. Carstairs,” Morland said pettishly, but I noticed he did not look at her. “I, too, think we should have a detective. What do you say, Barbara?”

Miss Van Wyck hesitated. “I hate the publicity of it,” she said; “but I think we ought to find the pearls.”

I looked at her in surprise. Were her thoughts all for the jewels, and had she no desire to find and bring to justice the murderer of her father? Then I remembered that her theory was, that David Van Wyck had secreted the pearls and then killed himself.

“Not only the pearls,” Morland was saying; “we must lay bare the whole mystery. I cannot live, not knowing how my father met his death. If some villain killed him, the murderer must be brought to justice.”

Morland strode up and down the room as he talked, and I thought I had never seen him look more manly. I felt a new respect for him, and a willingness to help him in any way I might.

“Of course,” Morland went on, “we must not make definite arrangements without consulting my Mrs. Van Wyck. It is for her to say whether we shall engage a detective.” He flashed a defiant glance at Mrs. Carstairs, as he spoke, but it did not ruffle the calm of that self-reliant personage.

Barbara went away to confer with Anne on the subject, and soon returned saying that her stepmother expressed entire indifference in the matter. She was perfectly willing that the detective should be engaged, if Barbara and Morland wished it.

“Do you know of a good detective, Mr. Mellen?” I asked, while my thoughts flew to Fleming Stone and his marvellous ability. But that great detective was far away, and so, unavailable.

“I know of none in Crescent Falls Village,” returned the coroner, “but I can send for a very good man from the city. His name is Markham, and I have reason to know he is exceedingly clever and successful; and though not a low-priced man, his fees are not exorbitant.”

“Thank you, Mr. Mellen,” said Barbara, simply; “that is the kind of man I should like to investigate this case. I am sure I am correct in my beliefs, and I think a detective can find the pearls for us. There is no other crime to be discovered.”

“That is what I think!” And moved by a sympathy of opinions, Mrs. Carstairs glided up to Barbara and took her hands. But she found herself coldly repulsed, as Miss Van Wyck said curtly, “Do you?” And drawing her hands from the clasp of the housekeeper, she moved slowly toward the door, with a backward glance at the still figure of her father.

And then came the undertaker and his men, and the coroner dismissed all of us, except Doctor Mason.

As we all walked silently through the corridor, Morland and Barbara turned aside into Anne’s room. I asked them to assure Mrs. Van Wyck of my sympathy, and to tell her how glad I would be if I might do anything for her. The message sounded perfunctory, but I think I had never said sincerer words.

The rest of us went various ways, Archer going off to his own room, and Mrs. Carstairs toward the servants’ wing.

I went to the library, and after a short time, Morland joined me there.

“How is Mrs. Van Wyck?” I inquired.

“She’s composed,” he answered briefly; “but exhausted from the shock. She is entirely unable to discuss details of arrangements, and says for Barbara and myself to manage things as we choose. She sends thanks for your kind message, and hopes to see you later in the day.”

My heart gave a throb at this, for though I was longing to see Anne, I wanted the suggestion to come from her.

“Then of course you will take complete authority,” I said to Morland, who sat on the edge of a table, moodily swinging one foot back and forth.

“Yes,” he said angrily, “if I can circumvent that Carstairs woman.”

I had resolved to be very discreet on this subject, so I only said, “She is a strange personality.”

“She’s a serpent!” Morland muttered, and just then Mrs. Stelton and Miss Fordyce appeared at the doorway.

“Mayn’t we come in?” begged Mrs. Stelton, in her pouting, childish way; “we’re so frightened and lonesome!”

Beth Fordyce said nothing, but her big blue eyes were full of tears, as she looked at Morland.

“Certainly,” I said, rising; “please come in and talk to me.”

The latter speech seemed necessary, for at their entrance, Morland walked out of the room without a word.

“Poor Mr. Morland,” said Mrs. Stelton, wringing her little hands, fussily; “I am so sorry for him! I wish I could comfort him.”

“I think he likes best to be let alone,” I said; “aside from his natural sorrow, he is suddenly loaded with grave responsibilities; enough to overwhelm any man.”

“They will not overwhelm him.” It was Miss Fordyce who spoke, and her eyes had the far-away look that always showed in them when her mood was occult. “I shall care for his spirit, and sustain him in his hour—”

“Now, Beth, let up on that rubbish!” And Mrs. Stelton was so in earnest, that she forgot to flutter. “You tell Mr. Sturgis what you have to tell him.”

“I’ve nothing to tell,” and Miss Fordyce looked positively dreamy.

“Yes, you have!” and Mrs. Stelton took her arm and shook her slightly. “Wake up, now, and stop your nonsense! Tell Mr. Sturgis what you saw last night”

“Was it a vision?” I asked, resigning myself to one of her usual psychic experiences.

“I did have a vision—” the girl began, but Mrs. Stelton interrupted her again.

“Never mind your vision,—stick to plain facts! You tell Mr. Sturgis the story, just exactly as you told it to me!”

“What is it?” I asked, interested now, and hoping it might be something of real importance. “Please tell me at once, Miss Fordyce, for some one may come in here at any moment.”

As she frequently did, Miss Fordyce changed her manner suddenly, and spoke with alert energy.

“It’s only this. I was wakeful last night, and I rose and sat by my window for a long time. The moon was bright, and everything looked so beautiful, it did my soul good. Well, as I sat there—”

“Excuse me a moment, Miss Fordyce, which is your room?”

“Directly over this,” she replied; “on the second floor.”

“I have the front room on the other side of the second floor,” I said, realizing that she could not see the East wing from her window.

“Yes, I know,” said Mrs. Stelton; “you have the room directly over Anne’s. Mr. Archer’s room is over Mr. Van Wyck’s bedroom. Mr. Van Wyck used to have the room Mr. Archer has now, before he married Anne. Then he had the first floor suite done up, and positively the rooms are of regal splendor. Why, Anne’s dressing-room—”

“Go on with your story, please, Miss Fordyce,” I said, taking advantage of one of Mrs. Stelton’s pauses for breath.

“As I sat by my window,” the girl went on, “I saw a very large motor car come slowly along the main road. It halted now and then, not as if because of any mechanical trouble, but as if its driver hesitated about proceeding. After stopping two or three times, it finally came into the grounds, and up our main road. But it continued to pause now and then until at last it made a mad dash around the house, passing right under my window. I didn’t see the car again, but a few moments later, I saw some person wrapped in a large coat, walk stealthily by my window. I don’t know whether it was a man or a woman, but whoever it was, seemed afraid of being seen. For the dark figure hid twice behind trees, and then suddenly ran swiftly away in the same direction the motor car had gone.”

“At what time did all this happen?” I asked.

“I’m not sure; but it was not far from midnight. At any rate, between twelve and one.”

“Miss Fordyce,” I said, “as you know, a great mystery at present surrounds the death of Mr. Van Wyck. This incident you saw, may have a bearing on the matter, and it may not But won’t you promise me not to speak of it to anyone else? And at the coroner’s inquest, which will be held this afternoon, won’t you tell this story simply and straightforwardly, as you have told it to me?”

“At the inquest!” Miss Fordyce exclaimed; “oh, I just couldn’t!”

“Yes, you can!” I answered her, sternly, “and you must. If you do it rightly, you may be of great help to the whole Van Wyck family; while, if you are foolish about it, you may impede justice and cause untold trouble.”

“There, I told you so!” cried Mrs. Stelton. “I knew it was important Now, Beth, you come along with me. I’ll see to it, Mr. Sturgis, that this girl tells her story and tells it right, when she is called upon to do so.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Stelton,” I said, heartily, and I had never liked the little lady so well before. “Keep Miss Fordyce up to the mark and don’t let her slip away into her dreams and visions.”

The two went away together, and I started off for a stroll by myself, to see what a little fresh air would do towards straightening out the complex questions that were baffling my brain.