Anybody But Anne

“I can tell you nothing in the way of facts that you do not already know,” I said, “but I wish to say that I entirely coincide with Miss Van Wyck’s opinion that her father ended his own life. It is not incredible that his very erratic mind gave way at the last. Nor is it surprising that he should destroy the deed and hide the pearls under stress of sudden insanity.”

“And what is your theory regarding the manner of his death?”

“I have no definite theory; but I wish to call attention to the fact that I found several shot on the floor at Mr. Van Wyck’s feet”

My statement produced quite a sensation in the audience; for the suggestion of shot seemed to imply at least a possible method of the crime.

But the detective, Mr. Markham, interrupted me and said quietly: “It is not worth while, Mr. Coroner, to waste time in consideration of the shot. There is a small receptacle on Mr. Van Wyck’s desk, filled with that same shot, used as a pen-cleaner. I observed that the shot found on the floor was the same, as I have no doubt it was spilled by accident”

The Coroner turned to Doctor Mason and inquired if Mr. Van Wyck’s death could have been brought about by shot.

“No,” replied the doctor positively. “I probed the wound and found no bullet or shot. David Van Wyck was stabbed, and the weapon was afterward withdrawn. I cannot subscribe to the icicle theory, though I do not say it would be impossible. But the deceased was most assuredly not shot.”

I felt crestfallen and a little ashamed. For, having picked up the shot, I should have noticed the same among the furnishings of the desk. The coroner asked me only a few more questions, of relative unimportance, and was about to dismiss me when he added, as an afterthought, “When did you last see Mr. Van Wyck alive?”

It was the query I had been dreading. But there was nothing for it except to tell the truth. Involuntarily, I glanced at Anne, but her eyes were cast down, and she paid no heed to me.

“Of course I was with him at dinner,” I said, “and after dinner he left us to go to the study. After that I saw him a moment when from the terrace I glanced in at the study window.”

“You glanced in? For what purpose?”

“No particular purpose. Mrs. Van Wyck and I were strolling by, and merely chanced to look in.”

“What was Mr. Van Wyck doing?”

“Conferring with the committee from the village, I assumed. We could not hear his words, of course, nor did we try to.”

“What was Mr. Van Wyck’s apparent attitude?”

“He seemed to be angry,” I felt myself obliged to say.

“Angry at the gentlemen of the committee?”

I was indeed sorry to give this evidence, but I was forced to do it. To decline to answer would be absurd, and, after all, everybody knew that Morland and his father were at odds in the matter. So I said, “No, he was addressing his son.”

“Ah! And he seemed to be angry?”

“He did.”

“Then, they were quarrelling?”

“As to that, I cannot say. I merely tell you what I saw: that Mr. Van Wyck was addressing his son, and that he had the appearance of being angry.” The coroner excused me then, and, turning to Morland, said directly, “Did you quarrel with your father last evening?”

“I told him what I thought of his procedure,” replied Morland. “I make no secret of the fact that I tried my best to persuade my father not to give away his fortune.”

“And do you persist in your assertion that when you left your father at midnight his secretary was still with him?”

“I do,” said Morland firmly.

“And you deny this, Mr. Lasseter?”

“I do,” replied the secretary, quite as positively. This deadlock was a peculiar feature of the situation. Both men could not be telling the truth, and, considering Morland’s greater reason for desiring that the great gift should not be made, perhaps it was not strange that many of the audience began to turn upon him the eye of suspicion.

Everybody now had testified, and the coroner began summing up.

“I have had no direct evidence,” he said, “that would tend to cast suspicion on any person. I think we must all admit that since the room was locked and barred on the inside, Mr. Van Wyck’s death was not a murder. I think the erratic mind of the deceased gives us reason to assume a sudden attack of insanity. I think we must agree that if it was suicide, there was no possible means or method, unless we accept the really clever suggestion of the icicle.”

At this point Mr. Markham interrupted! the coroner.

“I think we may discard the icicle theory,” he said, “as I have found the weapon with which the crime was committed. Here it is.”

Stepping forward, he laid on the table in front of the coroner a small, sharp implement partly covered with brownish stains.

The coroner looked at it as if he could scarcely believe his eyes. “What is it?” he said, picking it up gingerly.

“It is an implement used in embroidering,” said Mr. Markham. “It is called a stiletto, and it forms part of every lady’s sewing equipment.”

The audience were fairly breathless with suspense. Swayed by the slightest hint, they were quite ready to drop suspicion of Morland and turn it toward the women of the family.

“Where did you find this?” said the coroner.

“In Mrs. Van Wyck’s dressing-room,” returned the detective.

“Is it your property?” asked the coroner of Anne.

“Yes,” she replied, after a glance at the stiletto. “It belongs in my work-basket.”

“Can you account for these stains upon it?” pursued the coroner, and he showed far more agitation than did the woman he addressed.

“I cannot,” she replied coldly. “I have never used it except for embroidery purposes.”

Now, of course if Anne Van Wyck had used this implement for the purpose of killing her husband, she could scarcely be expected to say so. And so her flat denial carried little weight

“Where in the dressing-room was it found?” asked the coroner.

“Hidden beneath a pile of towels in a cupboard,” replied Mr. Markham.

Whereupon the coroner inquired of Doctor Mason if the stiletto would have been a possible instrument of death.

“Mr. Van Wyck was stabbed with some weapon about that size,” replied the doctor gravely.

“And are these brownish stains upon it stains of blood?”

“That I cannot tell without subjecting them to analysis,” returned the doctor, but his hearers were impressed with the thought that he was endeavoring by delay to give Anne the benefit of the doubt.

“I think,” went on the coroner, in a hesitating manner, “that this piece of evidence must change the trend of our inquiries. Mrs. Van Wyck, did you or did you not put this stiletto in the place where it was found?”

“I did not,” replied Anne quietly.

“Do you know who did place it there?”

“I do not”

“Of course,” said the coroner, “the discovery of this instrument in this condition does not necessarily implicate its owner. Other hands might have used it and secreted it where it was found, perhaps with the intent of diverting suspicion. Who has the care of your dressing-room, Mrs. Van Wyck?”

“My maid, Jeannette.”

“Let her be summoned,” the coroner ordered. But Jeannette was nowhere to be found. She had disappeared, no one knew when or where. To the minds of most present, this looked suspicious. It was easily to be seen that the villagers were quite ready to denounce Anne Van Wyck as the slayer of her own husband. Anne had never been popular with the village people. Clever and highly strung as she was, she had found little in common with their ordinary and, to her, stupid pursuits. And now they were quite ready to believe the worst of her.

Anne herself looked supercilious and scornful. “I have no notion where my maid has gone,” she stated, “but I am positive that she is in no way implicated in this tragedy. She may have gone on some errand, and will doubtless return soon. I am entirely sure she can give you no information or enlightenment as to the crime that has been committed in this house, any more than I can.”

“And you can tell us nothing, Mrs. Van Wyck, more than we know already?” the coroner said, floundering a little in the complexity of his emotions.

“No,” replied Anne quietly.

The coroner fidgeted uneasily, and then said, “It is impossible to carry matters further without the testimony of the maid, Jeannette. I therefore declare this inquest adjourned for a few days, by which time I trust we may have further and more definite evidence.”

The jury, to a man, looked decidedly relieved, but it was a rather disappointed audience that filed slowly out of the house. To my mind, the coroner’s reason for adjourning the inquest was a pretext. I think he felt sure that if the jury had had to decide then and there, they must have accused Anne of the murder. And the evidence was certainly incriminating. While I felt, with every fibre of my being, the wish and desire to hold Anne innocent, yet there was something terribly convincing of guilt in the fact of that hidden stiletto. But again, the absurdity of it! How was it humanly possible, even granting that Anne had used the fatal instrument, for her to leave the study so securely locked and bolted on the inside? But that was the old question, and the one to which no one had an answer. But how I hoped the answer might incriminate anybody but Anne!

That evening was a strange one. As an experience of my life, I shall never forget it The members of the household all seemed to be at cross purposes. There were a great many people about, with the result that the Van Wycks and their house guests chose the music room for themselves and denied the others admission.

In the library were gathered the coroner and Mr. Markham in confab with Mr. Van Wyck’s lawyers, and some directors of the companies with which he had been identified.

The ceremony of dinner had been a great strain on us all, but now that we were by ourselves, the tension was loosened a little.

Anne was verging on the hysterical. She had borne up so long and so bravely against the onslaughts of Mrs. Carstairs that a reaction had set in, and she seemed to lose all her defensive courage. As a result, we all tried to comfort or cheer her, and avoided referring to painful subjects.

Archer was gentle and deferential, but he said little to her, and seemed to content himself with, watching her closely.

Barbara and Morland were in quarrelsome mood, a condition not unusual with them. Of course it was necessary they should make certain arrangements, pertaining to the funeral of their father, and naturally they deferred to Anne in many matters. But Anne listlessly declined to express any opinions, and insisted that they should use their own judgment and settle all questions between themselves.

The subject of the stiletto was not so much as mentioned, and indeed, the whole great matter of the tragedy and the inquest, was not even touched upon.

Beth Fordyce was the only one who seemed inclined to open the subject, and she occasionally declared with insistence that Carstairs had killed his master.

As we were awaiting the detective’s investigation of the valet’s affairs, we had no wish to discuss this. Or at least, if some of us had, we did not want to do it in the presence of the Van Wyck family. I made up my mind to talk alone with Archer later, but at present, I considered it my duty to do anything I might to avoid serious or tragic considerations.

It seemed to me that Anne became more and more drooping, and at last I begged of her to go for a short walk on the terrace. She agreed more readily than I had hoped, and we went out together. It was an exquisite night, the air soft and balmy, and the moon overhead.

“Just for a little while, Anne,” I said gently, “forget it all, can’t you? A short respite from these harrowing thoughts will clear your brain and heart, and make you stronger to bear what must come to-morrow.”

She spoke suddenly, repeating my words in a frightened tone: “What must come to-morrow! What do you mean, Raymond?”

I couldn’t bring myself to speak of that tell-tale stiletto, so I said, “The whole dreadful business, Anne. The conclusion of the inquest, the detective work that must follow, the funeral, and all the thousand and one accompaniments of this tragedy that has come to you. Just for an hour, put it out of your mind, and I know it will help you. Let us talk of things far off and unassociated with this place. Let us talk of when we went to school together.”

We had left the terrace, and were walking down a path through one of the formal gardens. She gave me a look of trust, as she said, softly, “You are very good to me, Raymond.”

“I’m your friend, Anne; it is not being good, as you phrase it, to want to help you in your sadness and trouble.”

“You are my friend?” she said, slowly. “Does that mean you trust me,—you have faith in me?”

“Of course I have! I trust you infinitely. I have unbounded faith in you.”

Anne’s voice sank to a whisper, and she tremblingly said, “You wouldn’t if you knew! Oh, Raymond, that is the pity of it—you wouldn’t—if you knew—”

I was appalled. Not so much by her words as by the despair in her voice. Though I wouldn’t admit it to myself, it was like the wail of a guilty conscience.

Like a flash, I remembered the peculiar tone of her voice when she had said to me, “I am capable of crime.”

But I wouldn’t believe it. Nothing could make me believe it,—not even Anne herself.

“Don’t talk,” I said to her; “you are overwrought, to-night. You can’t see things at their proper value, and you’re exaggerating something to yourself. Now I command you,” and I endeavored to be playful, “to talk about the moon. How large do you think it is?”

Anne smiled involuntarily, for she remembered, as I did, that in our school days, it had been one of our games to discuss the apparent size of the moon.

But my project was unsuccessful. After a fleeting memory, Anne forgot the moon, and burst out, passionately: “Why does that woman hate me so?”

I saw that it was useless to try to divert her thoughts, so I concluded to talk with her, and it seemed to me that a direct common-sense attitude would be the best for her.

“Anne,” I said, “you know very well why she hates you. You know that, whether she told the truth or not when she said Mr. Van Wyck had promised to marry her, she certainly hoped that he would do so; and when he married you instead, it is not surprising that it should anger her against you.”

“It is more than that,” said Anne, musingly; “she has for me an animosity beyond that of a jealous rival. She seems uncanny, sometimes, and looks at me with what I think must be the evil eye.”

“Well, granted it is so, Anne, you must rise above it. However she has troubled you in the past, she cannot trouble you any more. After a short time she will go away from here and you, Anne,—you don’t expect to stay on here, do you?”

“I don’t know; I haven’t thought about it,” and Anne gave a weary little sigh. “I wish I had some one to help me decide these things. Morland and Barbara are so fiery-tempered that I can’t discuss plans coolly with them. I don’t know how the will reads exactly, but I suppose it is thirds. They may have Buttonwood Terrace, if they want it, I don’t care. But I don’t know where to go, myself.”

It is a tribute to my own self-control that I didn’t tell her what was in my heart concerning her future welfare, but I knew from the tone of her voice that no thought of me as a factor in her future had yet entered her mind. Whether she thought thus of Archer, or not, I did not know; but surely while David Van Wyck lay dead in the house, no one could speak of love to his widow. And yet I had a brave hope that time might bring me that for which I longed with my whole heart.

“Let the future take care of itself,” I responded, gently. “What I want, Anne, just now, is for you to pluck up your courage and carry yourself through the ordeal of the next few days as bravely as may be. I have seen you rise above the annoyance of Mrs. Carstairs’ presence and vanquish her with your own superiority. What you have done, you can do again.”

“But that was before last night!” and Anne fairly moaned in despair. “Oh, Raymond! you don’t know—you don’t know!”

At that moment we heard a slight sound behind us, and a dark clad form glided by. It was Mrs. Carstairs herself, and as she passed, she murmured, “But I know, Anne Van Wyck!—I know!”

She passed away as swiftly as she had come, and as silently, and I felt Anne’s form grow limp and lean against me. I could have carried her to the house, but I did not wish to subject her to a possible mortification. So, instead, I grasped her arm firmly, and whispered in her ear: “Brace up! now is the time to show what you’re made of! call upon your pride, your dignity, your scorn,—whatever you will —but succeed!”

The force of my voice must have nerved her, for she straightened up and walked with a steady step toward the house. I kept my hold on her arm, till we reached the door, and then, seeing one of the maids in the hall, I bade her take Mrs. Van Wyck to her room.

Then I went to the smoking-room, and though I would not allow myself even to surmise what Anne had meant by her strange words, nor what Mrs. Carstairs had meant by her threatening whisper, I said over and over from the depths of my soul, “Anybody but Anne!”