Anybody But Anne

Mrs. Van Wyck was next called to testify. If Barbara had appeared calm and composed, the same could not be said of Anne. She was white and trembling to the very lips; she tottered as she walked, and with an audible sigh she sank into the chair placed for her. But all this, at least to my mind, in no way impaired her strange, eerie beauty. Her large gray eyes looked almost black against the whiteness of her pallor, and as she swept a mournful, unseeing glance round the room, I endeavored to intercept her gaze and give her a nod of sympathy and help. But she did not look at me, and, clasping her hands in her lap, prepared to meet the ordeal of the coroner’s questions.

Mr. Mellen looked at her for a moment before he spoke, and his hard face took on a slightly softer expression at the sight of her evident distress.

In what he doubtless meant to be a gentle voice, he said, “When did you last see your husband alive, Mrs. Van Wyck?”

To my surprise, Anne showed a decided agitation. She clasped her hands tightly to her breast, and in a choked, almost inaudible voice she replied, “When he left me after dinner, to go to his study.”

“He was then in good health and spirits?” asked Mr. Mellen, and a more inane question I never heard. It seemed perfunctory, as if the man scarcely knew how to broach the subject.

For a moment Anne simply stared at her questioner, as if trying to control her voice. Then she said, “My husband was in perfect health, and—yes, I think I may say he was in good spirits.”

“What were his last words to you as he left you?”

If this were a random shot, it was certainly a peculiar coincidence. For we all remembered how, as he left the room, David Van Wyck had whispered to his wife something that had caused her the deepest emotion.

Anne’s great eyes looked at each of us in turn. After the briefest glance at the others, she gazed longer at Archer. It may have been my imagination, but I thought he gave to her an almost imperceptible negative shake of his head. She looked frightened, and then her glance met mine. I so feared that any appearance of secrecy on her part would be prejudicial to her, that I nodded my head affirmatively, meaning for her to answer the question.

“Must I tell that?” she asked in a pained voice.

“Yes,” said Mr. Mellen; “especially if it has any bearing on Mr. Van Wyck’s death.”

But Anne did not hear the coroner’s words. She was nerving herself for her reply, and she said in a low voice, but distinctly, “As he left me, my husband whispered to me that he would give the Van Wyck pearls as well as his gift of money to the library committee.”

A wave of indignation swept over the audience. Anxious as the villagers were for the gift of the library, not one of them would have wished Anne Van Wyck’s jewels sacrificed in its cause.

Elated by the sensational answer, the coroner continued. “Did he say anything more?” he inquired.

“Must I tell that?” Anne scarcely breathed, her face as white as the handkerchief she held.

And the coroner said inexorably, “Yes.”

Had Anne looked toward me then, I should have shaken my head, for I feared from her expression that the revelation would be a startling one. She looked dazed, she spoke almost as one in a trance, but she said clearly, “He said, ‘Now don’t you wish I was dead?’ ”

Doubtless it was unconscious and involuntary, but Anne had reproduced almost exactly the jeering tones of David Van Wyck’s sarcastic voice, and not one of us doubted that those were the very words and the very inflection that had sounded in her ear as he had whispered to her just before leaving the drawing-room. I well remembered the agonized expression on her face as he turned away from her, and I knew that at this moment she was vividly seeing a picture of the scene.

The audience fairly rustled with this new sensation. The coroner seemed spurred, and with great enthusiasm continued his catechising.

“Why did he say that?” he said bluntly. “Had you wished him dead?”

A murmur of indignation was heard from the audience, and both Archer and Morland started as if about to protest.

But Anne raised her clear eyes to the coroner’s face, and said coldly, “No, I had never wished such a thing.”

“Why, then, did he speak that way?”

“Mr. Van Wyck was quick-tempered and very sarcastic of speech,” she replied. “I can only explain his remark by assuming that it was prompted by anger and sarcasm.”

“Mr. Van Wyck was angry, then?”

“Yes, he was angry.”

“At what?”

“He was angry because the members of his family were opposed to his plan of giving away practically all his fortune to a public institution.”

“And then Mr. Van Wyck left you, and you never saw him again alive?”

“That—that is so.”

Except for a slight hesitation, the statement was direct, but it was manifestly untrue. Anne’s eyes fell, the color came and went in her cheeks, her foot tapped nervously on the floor, and she was rapidly tying her handkerchief into knots. A more agonized, indeed a more guilty, demeanor could not have been manifested.

At that moment my eyes met hers, and it flashed across me that she and I had looked in at the window of the study and had seen Mr. Van Wyck in colloquy with the committee. Perhaps it was telepathy that carried the same thought to her, for she said suddenly, and I know she spoke truly, “Oh, yes, I did see him again after that! I was walking on the terrace later, and I saw him through the study window, talking with his visitors.”

“At what hour was this?” inquired the coroner, as if the exact time of the incident were the turning-point of the whole case.

“I don’t know,” returned Anne carelessly. “Perhaps about half-past nine or quarter of ten, I should say.”

Mr. Mellen looked a little crestfallen, as if an important bit of evidence had gone wrong. To my mind, he certainly was a block-head, but, after all, he was merely there to ask questions, and, if the jurymen desired, they could supplement his inquiries. I glanced at the detective, Markham, to see how he took it. He was exceedingly attentive to what was going on, and sat with his head slightly forward and his eyes alert, apparently gleaning more information than was offered by the mere spoken words.

“And then,” pursued the coroner, “after that glimpse through the window, you never saw your husband again alive?”

Anne answered this in the negative, but so low and uncertain was her voice that she was obliged to repeat it twice before the coroner was satisfied with her reply. I felt a vague alarm. If Anne were speaking the truth, why should she act so strangely about it? And if, by any chance, she was not veracious, she must know that her manner was unconvincing. I had no interest in any one else who might be implicated in the tragedy, but my heart again cried out, “Anybody but Anne!”

“At what time did you retire, Mrs. Van Wyck?” went on the questioner.

“I went to my room about half-past ten o’clock.”

“And you retired then?”

“I did not. I read for a time, and wrote some letters, and went to bed about midnight. Or perhaps it was later—I dare say it was one o’clock.”

“Are you not sure?”

“No, I didn’t notice the time. Perhaps my maid can tell you. She was with me.”

So casual was Anne’s manner now that the coroner seemed to realize his questions were not of particular importance, and he tried a new tack.

“Was your husband kind to you, Mrs. Van Wyck?”

Anne stared at him coldly for a few seconds, and then spoke with great deliberation: “I decline to answer such a question, and I’m sure you are overstepping your rights in asking it.”

Her manner even more than her words abashed the coroner, but to cover his chagrin he became insistent. “It is necessary that I should know if there was harmony between you,” he declared. “I regret that the circumstances make it necessary for me to press the question.”

Anne’s eyes flashed. Her agitation was gone now, and her poise and calmness seemed to disconcert her inquisitor even more than her embarrassment had.

“There was perfect harmony between us,” she said, holding her head proudly and looking straight at the coroner, “with the exception of this matter of the library. I tried to dissuade my husband from his intent, for his own sake quite as much as for my own, for I felt sure he would regret such quixotic generosity. But he was determined to proceed in his plan, in spite of my protests.”

“And at the last moment he decided to add the valuable jewels to his gift?”

“Yes; his words to me last evening were the first intimation I had had that he meant to give away the Van Wyck pearls.”

“Had you any reason to doubt your husband’s sanity?”

“None, except in this matter of the library gift. Nor do I call that insanity; but rather a monomania which possessed him temporarily.”

“Do you think your late husband hid the pearls, or do you think they have been stolen?”

“I can form no opinion, as my husband’s death is so wrapped in mystery. He may have secreted the pearls or they may have been stolen by an expert burglar. Personally, I have no theories on the subject. It is all utterly mysterious to me.”

Anne passed her hand wearily across her brow with a gesture of exhaustion. I think this roused the coroner’s sympathy, and he excused her from further questioning.

Mrs. Carstairs was next called as a witness. There was a stir among the audience as she rose and walked slowly to the witness chair.

It was quite evident that considerable curiosity was felt regarding this woman.

I expected she would appear perturbed, but instead, she had a calm air of superiority and held her head high as if entirely mistress of the situation.

In spite of myself, I was obliged to admit that her face was fascinating in its expression, quite apart from the real beauty of her features. And then I suddenly realized that this remarkable woman was deliberately trying to charm the coroner by her demeanor!

She was beautifully gowned, as always, in black lustreless crêpe de chine, which clung to her beautiful figure in long sinuous lines and which, to my imagination, gave her the effect of a beautiful serpent. Her personality affected me unpleasantly and yet absorbed my attention entirely. She was so evidently conscious of the effect she produced, that it was as interesting as a play to watch her.

The very way in which she sat in her chair was a picture of itself. But it was no strained or forced pose, merely the careless grace of a perfectly poised woman. I glanced at Anne, and was surprised to see that she, too, was looking at Mrs. Carstairs admiringly. The two women were deadly enemies at heart, and it seemed to me to indicate a fine, generous nature in Anne to forget her prejudice in an honest appreciation of the other’s charm.

Mr. Mellen looked at his witness a little uncertainly. Clearly he did not understand Mrs. Carstairs, and was not sure how to address a woman of this type.

After the preliminary questions, as to her position and length of sojourn in the family, he said, almost abruptly:

“Do you think Mr. Van Wyck was a suicide?”

“It may be,” replied Mrs. Carstairs, in low, musical tones. “Mr. Van Wyck had reason to wish to die. And there are those who wished him dead.”

As she said these words, Mrs. Carstairs dropped her eyes and sat quietly awaiting further questions. Her speech almost amounted to an accusation, and Morland looked at her with a face full of rage and with clenched hands.

“Will you explain that implication, Madam?” asked the coroner.

“It was no implication, it was merely a statement”

“Very well, then, amplify it. Who are those, who, in your opinion, wished the death of David Van Wyck?”

Mrs. Carstairs assumed an expression of gentle pathos, which, while beautiful to behold, seemed to me the quintessence of hypocrisy. In a sad, low voice, she said, slowly:

“A man’s foes shall be they of his own household.”

Mr. Mellen stared at her. “It is your opinion, then,” he said, “that David Van Wyck’s death may have been brought about by some one who lived under this roof?”

“Do you not think so?” and the question was accompanied by a grave look, of infinite pain.

“You are here to answer questions, not to ask them. Nor are you invited to give unsupported opinions. If you know of anything, madam, definite and positive, that would lead you to suspect the thing you mention, tell us of it at once. But if not, kindly refrain from insinuation or implication.”

Mrs. Carstairs looked amazed rather than reproved. To my mind, she was suddenly confronted by a man who could not be cajoled by her fascinations, and who was outspoken in reply to her veiled hints.

“Assuredly I know of nothing definite, or I should have divulged it sooner.”

“To your knowledge, had Mr. Van Wyck an enemy in his own household?”

“Enemy is a harsh word. But the man was far from happy with one who should have been his closest friend.”

“Meaning his wife?”

“Meaning his wife.” Mrs. Carstairs’s face was white, now, and her eyes had a steely glitter as she said these words, looking straight at the coroner.

“You state, then, that Mr. Van Wyck was not happy in his marital relations?”

“I state that, emphatically.”

There was a murmur of disapproval all through the room at the trend of this conversation, and more than one was heard to whisper, “Shame!” and, “This won’t do!”

I could see that Archer, Morland and the others were restrained from speech only by Anne herself.

As I had noticed before when these two women clashed, Anne won by the force of her marvellous aloofness. She now sat regarding Mrs. Carstairs with an expression of slight scorn, which said far more strongly than words could have expressed, that the witness was talking nonsense. Anne Van Wyck looked like a queen listening to the prattle of a demented subject, and her absolute indifference to the housekeeper’s remarks was the one reason why her friends did not at once put a stop to the testimony.

I saw at once that Anne’s attitude was the best possible refutation of the housekeeper’s evidence; and I saw, too, that Mrs. Carstairs was herself quite aware of this. I think Anne’s look of supercilious scorn, almost tinged with amusement, acted as a whip to the housekeeper’s burdened soul, and spurred her to greater effort.

“I know of what I am speaking,” Mrs. Carstairs went on, “for David Van Wyck was engaged to me, when he met and wooed the lady he made his wife.” She flashed a dazzling smile at the coroner, which went far to disturb that gentleman’s equilibrium.

“It was then—it was then, a breach of promise?” he said, half involuntarily.

“It was,—yes. But of course I never sued him, or in any way asserted my rights. He was sufficiently punished by his unhappy marriage. His wife has always been jealous of me. She has endeavored many times to have me dismissed from my position, but with no success. However,” and here Mrs. Carstairs turned her direct gaze upon Anne, “since the death of her husband, Mrs. Van Wyck has asserted her intention of getting rid of me! I accuse no one. I only state that there are several who would consider themselves benefited by the death of David Van Wyck.”

The quiet intensity of the speaker’s voice took away the melodramatic effect of the scene, and made her seem like an accusing angel speaking words of Fate.

There was a pause which was broken by Detective Markham, who burst out, with something the effect of a bomb-shell: “And your son is one of them!”

At last something had disturbed Mrs. Carstairs’s calm. She turned white to the very lips, and she trembled as if mortally afraid. But she made a brave effort to control herself, and said, distinctly, though in tones that quivered, “My son is in no way implicated!”

“Then what were you searching in the road for, early this morning?”

“I was not searching—” began Mrs. Carstairs, and then, as she saw me looking intently at her, she stopped speaking.

“You were,” declared the detective; “there’s no use your denying it! And later on, your son was seen searching in the same place. What clue was he looking for?”

Mrs. Carstairs could not speak. Her lips moved inaudibly, but she was striving to pull herself together and would doubtless have succeeded, when, breaking the silence, the voice of Beth Fordyce was heard.

It sounded weird, and the audience listened breathlessly as Beth said, in dreamy, far-away tones, “Wheel tracks! He was looking for wheel tracks! He was the man who came in the motor car! I recognize him now,—it was Carstairs, Mr. Van Wyck’s valet, who came into the grounds, at midnight, in a motor car. Who stopped—and hesitated —and proceeded at intervals—who left the car, and walked stealthily around the house in the shadow of the eaves—evading the moonlight—seeking the shadow—the shadow—”

Miss Fordyce’s voice trailed away in a whisper, and I knew that she was in one of the semi-trances, or whatever word might express the strange condition that sometimes enveloped her. She was perfectly conscious, but her mentality seemed dual. She envisioned other scenes than those she might be among, and while she saw them clearly she spoke as if through a mist.

The audience sat enthralled. Here at last was a hint of something real and tangible! Wheel tracks were legitimate clues! If Miss Fordyce’s story were true, there was at last a way to look for light on the mystery!

I glanced at Mrs. Carstairs, expecting to find her almost collapsed; but instead, she had again risen to the occasion and resumed her grasp of the situation. I saw, too, that it was the alarm of her mother instinct, that had nerved her to a renewed effort at composure, and she said quietly, “There is no meaning to the babble of a mind given to frequent hallucinations!”

But apparently the coroner thought there was, for he abruptly dismissed Mrs. Carstairs as a witness, and recalled her son.

The valet looked wretched, but seemed ready to answer questions.

“Did you come into this place in a motor last night at midnight?” the coroner shot at him.

“No, sir,” and the answer was firm, though in a low tone.

“You have testified that you were at a ball in the village.”

“Yes, sir, but I walked home. It—it isn’t far, sir.”

“Can you prove that you were at this village ball? Did any of the servants of this house see you there?”

“N-no, sir.”

“How does that happen?” snapped the coroner; “were none of them present at the ball?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“What do you mean? Look here, Carstairs, you weren’t at that ball at all! Where were you? Were you out in a motor?”

“No, sir; oh, no, sir!” The man’s denial was so emphatic and his manner so agitated, that it was palpably a falsehood on the face of it.

“I think you were,” the coroner went on, “and as I doubt your word, I will ask some one else.”

Then the coroner called for Ranney, the garage mechanician.

This witness doggedly persisted that he knew nothing of Carstairs’s whereabouts the night before. But persistent nagging by the coroner finally drew out the fact that the new touring car had been taken out.

“How do you know it had?” asked the coroner, and Ranney seemed suddenly to decide that he would make a clean breast of the matter.

“I seen the wheel tracks, sir,” he said.

“How did you know them from any other tracks?”

“It’s a new car, sir, and it has peculiar tires. You can’t mistake the tracks, sir.”

I saw it all in a flash. Carstairs had taken the car out for a ‘joy ride,’ and in order to escape discovery, he had endeavored to obliterate these peculiar tire marks from the dust of the road. And without a doubt, his mother had been engaged in the same work of precaution.

The detective also jumped to these conclusions, and after a few of his questions, in conjunction with the coroner’s inquiries, they forced a confession from the valet.

Carstairs’s manner became sullen as he owned up to his wrongdoing. It seemed that the use of a motor car by any of the servants was a most grave offense in the eyes of David Van Wyck. And especially, to take out the big new touring car was a daring thing to do!

Seeing that the valet was not making a good story of it, his mother cleverly managed the coroner so that she told the story instead. As Ranney had divulged the secret, she admitted that her son had taken out the car the night before. She said that it was wrong, and that she did not excuse him for it; but that since David Van Wyck was no longer here to reprove or punish him, no one else had the right to do so, and that the offense was a thing of the past, and should be forgotten. She admitted that she had heard her son return in the car, and that she was so worried about his wrong deed that she had tried to eliminate any possible proof against him in the matter of the wheel tracks. But, she concluded, this had no bearing on the crime of the night before, as her son had returned about eleven o’clock and had put the car away and had then retired. She overreached herself here, because the valet had previously testified that he came home about midnight, and both Miss Fordyce and Ranney agreed that the big car had arrived at about twelve o’clock.

But when this was put to her, Mrs. Carstairs became excited again, and insisted that the hour of her son’s return was of no consequence, as he had not gone to the study at all and knew nothing of the occurrences there.

“You have no right to suspect him!” she blazed out, finally; “it is wicked for you to do so!”

“We have not said we suspected him, madam,” said the coroner, gravely, “but if we do suspect him, or even feel inclined to investigate his story, it is because he has not been frank in the whole matter, and neither have you. And now I wish to ask you further, did your son know that in the will of Mr. Van Wyck, five thousand dollars was bequeathed to him, and twenty-five thousand to yourself?”

Mrs. Carstairs hesitated.

“It would be wiser for you to tell the truth,” prompted the coroner, “as you know a lack of frankness has not served you well so far. Now answer my questions truly.”

“Yes, we have both known of these facts for some years.”

“That is all, madam,” and to my surprise, Mr. Mellen dismissed the housekeeper without a further word.

I did not quite understand his attitude in the matter, but I had no time to think about it, for I was just then called to the witness stand myself, and asked to give any information I could, that might be of any assistance in solving the mystery.

I had not had time to consider this new phase of the situation that included the valet’s evidence, but I had previously made up my mind what I should say when called upon.