Anybody But Anne

We all three went back to the study. Stone looked thoughtful, even puzzled.

“It is the most mysterious case I have ever known,” he said.

“I heard you say once,” I observed, “that the deeper the apparent mystery, the easier the solution.”

“And that is true, in a way, Mr. Sturgis. A simple commonplace case with little mystery and much seemingly direct evidence, is often more difficult than a case which presents startling and strange features.”

“Well,” put in Mr. Markham, “if another mystery will help you in the matter, here it is,” and he handed Fleming Stone the typewritten letter.

“A letter always means a great deal,” said Stone, as he scrutinized the address.

Markham and I watched him almost breathlessly as he drew out the letter and read it.

He studied both the sheet and the envelope for a few moments, and then looked up and said quietly, “the letter is a decoy.”

“We thought of that,” said Mr. Markham, eager to seem astute; “and it was mailed the day of Mr. Van Wyck’s death, and the letter was written on the typewriter in this very room!”

“Mailed in the morning and received in the afternoon,” agreed Stone, glancing at the postmarks. “It was written on two different typewriters, and to my mind this clearly tells the whole story. I am willing to aver that whoever sent this missive abstracted from Mrs. Van Wyck’s room, perhaps from her waste basket, a complete letter probably an unimportant one,—which she had received duly in her Friday afternoon mail. That letter bore writing only on its first page;—it might have been a printed advertisement Whoever was managing the affair, tore off that first page and utilized this second half of the sheet for this letter, bringing it in here to write. Then it was an easy matter to put it back in the envelope, thus making it seem like a letter which had come duly through the mail. It was brought to you, a bit of faked evidence, —and I doubt if Mrs. Van Wyck ever saw the letter at all.”

“But it was found in a book she was reading the very night the crime occurred,” said Mr. Markham.

“You mean you have been told that it was. Have you asked Mrs. Van Wyck, herself?”

“Would she admit it, if she were guilty?” said

Markham with a triumphant air of having said something clever.

“Not in so many words, perhaps; but surely one could judge from her manner. Now then, to discover who did write this letter; which ought not to be at all difficult. It does not bear on its face evidence of being the work of either of David Van Wyck’s children.”

“No,” agreed Mr. Markham, eagerly, “they would scarcely connive with their step-mother in such a deed.”

“I don’t mean that! There was no conniving. Nobody really wrote to Mrs. Van Wyck that she should do this thing, and he would protect her! The thing is a fraud, I tell you, and was written merely to throw suspicion on Mrs. Van Wyck.”

I could have hugged Stone for this. Wherever his deductions might lead it would certainly be toward anybody but Anne!

“Of course,” he went on, “this in no sense exonerates Mrs. Van Wyck; nor does it prove anything except that some one chose this means of throwing suspicion on her. It was cleverly done, and yet it is, after all, a clumsy piece of work, for it bears on its face the stamp of fraud. Anyone ought to know to-day, that the fact of using different typewriters would give away the game Therefore, it was written by some one who—by the way, are there any French people in the house?”

Stone asked this question, after a further perusal of the letter.

“Yes,” said Mr. Markham, quickly, “there are two of them.”

“I have a strong conviction that one of them wrote this letter,” said Stone.

“Carstairs! I told you so!” and Mr. Markham looked elated; “he’s Mr. Van Wyck’s valet, and I knew all along he was in connivance with Mrs. Van Wyck.”

Fleming Stone looked at him, “I have told you,” he said, “this letter does not mean connivance. Would this valet, for any reason, want to throw suspicion on Mrs. Van Wyck?”

“I don’t know,” and Mr. Markham looked positively sullen because Fleming Stone’s deductions did not seem to agree with his own.

“Who is the other French person?” asked Stone.

“It’s Carstairs’ mother,” I said. “She is housekeeper here.”

“Carstairs is not a French name.”

“No, Mr. Stone; but she is a Frenchwoman. I believe her husband was an Englishman, and her son seems to have the traits of both. Mr. Van Wyck considered him an exceptionally good valet.”

“Please send for them both,” was Fleming Stone’s order, and Markham rang the bell.

The two Carstairs came in together, and to my mind the mother looked like a lioness defending her young. Surely whatever traits this strange woman possessed, her maternal instinct was among the strongest. She looked defiant as she entered, and putting Carstairs in the background, she herself took a chair near Stone, and seemed ready to answer questions.

Of course, we had told Fleming Stone everything we knew concerning the whole matter. He knew of Carstairs’ joy ride, and of his fright lest it be discovered. His gaze went past the mother and fastened on the white-faced young man.

“Carstairs,” he said, in a quiet pleasant tone, “you really needn’t feel so frightened. You didn’t kill your master,—you had no hand in it. Now, secure in the knowledge of your innocence, why are you so filled with alarm?”

“I’m n-not, sir,” and though the valet looked greatly relieved at Stone’s words, he was still nervously agitated.

But the look of relief on Mrs. Carstairs’ face was unmistakable. A light spread over her whole countenance, and she looked like one who had narrowly escaped disaster.

Fleming Stone looked at her intently. She returned his gaze without fear, even with a trace of her usual seductive manner; but he seemed to look straight through any mannerism to her very soul.

After a moment, he said, and his words shot out suddenly:

“Mrs. Carstairs, had you any reason for wishing to fasten this crime on Mrs. Van Wyck, except to direct suspicion from your own son?”

The housekeeper’s eyes blazed. “I hate her!” and the exclamation seemed wrung from her by Stone’s compelling eyes.

“Why?” The inquiry was in the most casual tones.

“Because she—”

“Mother!” young Carstairs interrupted her; “what are you saying? Collect yourself! You make a mistake!”

Mrs. Carstairs gave one frightened, bewildered glance at her son, and then like a flash she changed the whole expression of her face.

“I beg your pardon,” she said, gently; “I spoke without thinking. I really have no animosity toward Mrs. Van Wyck. I did feel a slight jealousy when she married a man who had promised to marry me. But that is past now, and I bear her no ill will.”

“You are telling deliberate untruths,” said Stone, straightforwardly; “but it does not matter; I have learned what I have wanted to know. Now Mrs. Carstairs you have no notion who sent this letter to Mrs. Van Wyck, I suppose?”

“Certainly not,” she returned, disdainfully eying the letter Stone held up.

“You found it in a book, as you described to Mr. Markham?”

“Yes.”

“And you came and asked Mr. Sturgis for it, saying that he might keep a copy of it?”

“I did.”

“I have concluded, Mrs. Carstairs, to grant that request, if you will make the copy yourself.”

“I cannot use a typewriter, Mr. Stone. I’m not familiar with the work.”

The valet gave an involuntary glance of surprise at his mother, but immediately dropped his eyes again.

She can use a typewriter! I thought to myself, and won’t admit it!

But Stone said, lightly, “Oh, that doesn’t matter. Just write with a lead pencil. Here is one.”

“I prefer not to do it,” and Mrs. Carstairs looked at the great detective with the air of a frightened animal, who does not understand into what snare it is being led.

“Why not?” asked Stone.

“Because—because—”

“You seem to have no reason for refusing. It is a small matter. Kindly make a copy at my dictation.”

He offered a pencil and a paper pad to Mrs. Carstairs, and though she hesitated, she finally took them, as there seemed to be nothing else to do.

In a low, clear tone, Fleming Stone read the sentences from the letter, waiting after each until Mrs. Carstairs had written it

The woman looked utterly miserable. It was evident that she could not see why she had to do this, but she feared some underlying reason that boded ill for her.

Inexorably, Stone continued. One after another, the short, direful sentences fell from his lips. Mrs. Carstairs grew whiter and her fingers almost refused to hold the pencil, but with indomitable courage she persevered to the end.

After the last word, Stone held out his hand for the paper, and she mutely handed it to him. The rest of us sat spellbound. There was nothing theatrical in the episode, it was the quietest possible procedure, and yet the incident seemed fraught with intense mystery and importance.

Fleming Stone gave the merest glance at the paper, tore it into tiny bits and threw it into the waste-basket.

“Mrs. Carstairs,” he said, and his tone was almost careless; “you wrote that letter yourself on the typewriter in this room. It was cleverly done. You used the blank half of a letter Mrs. Van Wyck had already received and the envelope it came in. You pretended that she had received and read this letter. Now will you tell us just why you did this, or would you prefer to explain it to the coroner later? “

“I didn’t—”

“It is useless to say you didn’t,” interrupted Stone. “The proof is positive. Now I’ll repeat my question of some time ago. Did you wish to incriminate Mrs. Van Wyck merely to divert suspicion from your son, or for any other reason?”

Again anger and rage gleamed from Mrs. Carstairs’ eyes. She was about to burst into a torrent of language, when she controlled herself, glanced at her son, and said in a low, even thrilling tone: “Only to save my son from possible suspicion!”

“Again, you’re telling an untruth, madam,” said Stone, as if it were a matter of no moment. “You are rather expert at it. However, if you’ll take my advice, you will do wisely to adhere to that statement! Let me suggest that you keep your other reason to yourself. You may go.”

For the first time in my experience, I saw Mrs. Carstairs’ face wear a beaten look. She rose from her chair, a vanquished woman. But she had nerve enough to make a slight mocking bow as, accompanied by her son, she left the room.

“The whole matter of that letter means nothing,” said Fleming Stone; “the case is still the deepest mystery to me. I saw at once after I learned Mrs. Carstairs had written that letter, that her prime motive was to save that idolized son of hers from accusation or suspicion. But another reason, was her hatred of Mrs. Van Wyck. I advised her to keep that to herself, and as I imagine she will do so, I doubt if she can do any more harm.”

“How are you sure she wrote the note?” asked Mr. Markham, and I, too, waited with eagerness for the answer.

“It was a random shot,” said Stone, smiling a little; “although it was quite evident how the thing was done. But you remember, I asked you if there were any French people about. As you see, in this letter, the word committee is spelled with one “M.” While that might be a mere verbal error, it gave me the impression that the note was written by a French native. For their word is ‘comite,’ and while the writer of the note is familiar with the English tongue, that is a tricky word for a Frenchman to spell, because of the double letters. However, that proof needed confirmation, so I simply asked the lady to write the note from my dictation; and, if you please, she misspelled ‘committee’ in exactly the same way! Even then, it might have been that the son wrote it,—or any one else, for that matter, but when I declared with conviction that she had written it, she was unable to deny it!”

“It all sounds so simple, now that you explain it,” I said, with a feeling of chagrin that I had not noticed the misspelled word.

“That particular bit of a mystery was simple of solution,” said Stone, “but it helps us not a bit with the main issue.”

At Stone’s request, we went in search of Anne.

We found her in the music-room with Archer. They were in close conversation, and I had no doubt he was urging her again to give him the right to protect her. I knew Archer felt, as I did, that all usual conventions were to be ignored in such circumstances as these we were experiencing.

Fleming Stone spoke directly to Anne, and his calm, pleasant manner seemed to imbue her with an equal quietness of demeanor. She even almost smiled when Stone said, “Please don’t think me over-intrusive, Mrs. Van Wyck, but will you tell me what gown you wore at dinner last Friday evening?”

“Certainly,” said Anne, rising. “If you will come to my room, I will show it to you.”

Although uninvited, Archer and I followed. On reaching Anne’s dressing-room, she took from a wardrobe the beautiful yellow satin gown, which I well remembered, and which now seemed to mock at the sombre black robe she wore.

Stone looked at the gown admiringly, and seemed to show a special interest in the frills and jabots of the bodice. Truly, this man’s ways were past understanding! What clue could he expect to find in this way?

“And when you came to your room that night; did you keep on this gown until you prepared to retire?”

“No,” said Anne, looking at him wonderingly; but even as she looked, her eyes fell before his and she continued in a hesitating way, “No, I changed into a negligee gown.”

“May I see that?” asked Stone pleasantly.

This time, it seemed to me, with reluctance, Anne took from the wardrobe a charming boudoir robe of chiffon and lace. It was decorated with innumerable frills and rosettes, and again Stone seemed eagerly interested in the trimmings. He even picked daintily at some of the bows and ruches, saying lightly, “I am not a connoisseur in ladies’ apparel, but this seems to me an exquisite confection.”

“It is,” replied Anne. “It is Parisian.” But she spoke with a preoccupied air, and I knew she was deeply anxious as to the meaning of all this. She hung the gown back in its place, and then Stone seated himself, after having courteously placed a chair for her.

“I warned you I should ask a few questions, Mrs. Van Wyck,” he began; “so please tell me, first, how you occupied the time before you retired that evening?”

Anne’s embarrassment had vanished, and she looked straight at her questioner as she replied in even tones, “I’m afraid I did nothing worth-while. I wrote one or two notes to friends, glanced through a book about Gardening, tried on a new hat, and then unpacked a glass vase which Mr. Sturgis brought me, because I preferred not to trust that task to a servant.”

“And your maid was here when you finally retired?”

“No, I had dismissed Jeannette earlier, and told her she need not return.”

“And did you leave your rooms late that night?”

“No.”

“Not at all?”

“No.”

But Anne was fast losing control of herself. Her voice trembled, and her large eyes were fixed on Stone’s face. His expression was one of infinite pity, and he said gently, “Please think carefully, and be sure of what you are saying.”

“I am sure,” murmured Anne, and then Archer leaned over and whispered to her. What he said I do not know, but it must have been an accusation of some sort, for Anne turned scarlet and stared at Archer with angry eyes. She glanced at her bookshelves, and then back at Archer and then at Stone, and finally, with a look of pathetic appeal, directly at me.

I knew she was asking my help, but what could I do? In a sudden desperate attempt to relieve her, for at least a moment, I turned the subject, and, touching the beautiful Florentine chest on the table beside me, I drew Stone’s attention to it as a work of art.

“Yes,” he agreed; “it is a fine piece. Worthy of holding the family heirlooms.”

“Instead of which,” I said lightly, “Mrs. Van Wyck uses it merely as a receptacle for old photographs.” Anne’s agitation seemed to be increasing, and, determined to keep Stone from addressing her for a few moments longer, I opened the chest to prove my words. Stone glanced carelessly at the old pictures, faded except round their edges, and then, suddenly rising, he picked up two or three and looked at them intently. A sudden light flashed into his eyes, and, turning to Anne, he said in tones of genuine admiration, “Wonderful, Mrs. Van Wyck! Positively splendid! I congratulate you.”

I looked at him in amazement. There was no portrait of Anne among the old photographs he held, and what he meant I could not imagine.

But Anne knew. Sinking back in her chair, she covered her face with her hands and gave a low moan.