Anybody But Anne

The next day was Sunday. As the inquest was not to be continued, I hoped for a quiet day; but aside from the necessary arrangements for funeral appointments, there seemed to be much going on in the way of investigations. Mr. Markham had developed a tendency to question everybody, right and left, and I continually ran against him interviewing a servant, a guest or a caller.

I hung around somewhat listlessly, hoping to be permitted to see Anne; but Miss Fordyce informed me that Anne refused to see anyone except her two step-children.

I strolled out on the terrace, hoping to have a talk with Archer, but instead, I met Mr. Markham and he proceeded briskly to interview me.

I had no objection to this, as although there were a few things I knew that I intended to keep from him, I was quite willing to give him freely any other information I possessed.

But his talk after all, was a repetition of what I already knew, or a verbose disquisition on his own theories and plans.

As we talked, Mrs. Carstairs came out on the terrace, and after a cautious glance about, she glided up to us, with a mysterious air.

“May I speak to you a minute, Mr. Markham?” she said, and though I disliked and distrusted the woman, I could not help admiring her beauty and grace. She was truly unusual in her charm, and Markham beamed on her with a smile at once admiring and deferential.

“Shall I remain?” I asked,—and for the life of me I couldn’t help speaking kindly to her,—“or do I intrude?”

“Not at all,” she replied; “I should be glad, Mr. Sturgis, for you to hear what I have to say. I am in a dilemma, and I don’t know exactly what I ought to do. I found this,” and she produced a letter, which, with a hesitating air, she offered to Mr. Markham. “I hate to bring it to you,” she went on, half withdrawing it as he was about to take it, “and yet, I feel it my duty to do so.”

“I’m sure it is your duty, madam,” said the detective as he somewhat eagerly took the letter from her hand.

I caught sight of the inscription and a fierce anger kindled within me.

“That is a letter to Mrs. Van Wyck!” I exclaimed. “You have no right to read it, Mr. Markham! Mrs. Carstairs, where did you get it?”

My vehemence seemed to frighten her, and she clasped her hands to her breast with a little fluttering motion. “Oh, have I done wrong? Shall I put it back? I thought—I thought that in a case like this, you know, it was one’s duty to tell, if one found important evidence.”

Of course this was enough for Markham, and he held the letter firmly, with no intention of giving it up. But I made another desperate attempt. “Mr. Markham, you shall not read that letter, without Mrs. Van Wyck’s permission! Have you read it?” and I turned and glared at the housekeeper.

“I have,” she said, softly, with a look of pain in her deep eyes. “Oh, believe me, I did not know it was wrong! I thought I ought to.”

“And you are right, madam,” said the detective. “Mr. Sturgis knows you are right. It is only his personal feeling that makes him want to withhold the information this letter may give.”

“Oh, is that it?” And Mrs. Carstairs did not glance at me, but confined her attention to Markham. “Then you will read it, won’t you, and tell me I was right in bringing it to you. I was so uncertain what to do. If Mr. Sturgis does not want to hear it, perhaps he had better go away.”

In my indignation, I was quite ready to walk away rather than be a party to this disgraceful act but as she spoke, Mrs. Carstairs swept me a glance, in which, beneath its apparent frankness, I thought I caught a malevolent gleam, and I promptly decided that I preferred to know all that anyone else knew, either for or against Anne.

The letter had been opened, and without further hesitation, Mr. Markham drew the paper from its envelope.

It was a half sheet and its message was typewritten. The detective did not read it aloud, but as I looked over his shoulder, we two scanned its contents at the same time.

There was no address, no preliminary greeting of any sort, but it was dated “Friday.” Then the message ran:

“To-night is the time. After the comittee meeting. Don’t be afraid. You can never be found out. I will protect you and look out for you.” There was no signature. I read the lines twice, but even then was unable to sense their purport. I took the sheet from Markham and scrutinized it closely. Meanwhile, he examined the envelope.

There could be no doubt of its genuineness. It was addressed, in typewriting, to Mrs. David Van Wyck, Buttonwood Terrace, Town, and it bore the postmark of two days before, and of the Crescent Falls Village Post-office. A postmark on the back showed that it had been mailed Friday morning and received the same afternoon. It had been opened neatly, and gave every evidence of being a letter received and read by Anne Van Wyck on Friday. And it was on Friday night that David Van Wyck had died.

The half sheet of paper was undoubtedly from the same box of stationery as the envelope, both were of good style, rather large-sized and of good quality.

Mr. Markham read it over several times, and at last he said, “This is of very grave import. You did quite right, Mrs. Carstairs, to bring it to me. Where did you find it?”

“It was in a book, which lay on a table in Mrs. Van Wyck’s dressing-room. I chanced to pick up the book to put it away in its place, and this letter fell out.”

“And you deliberately read it!” I exclaimed, and I daresay I glared at her.

“Perhaps I ought not to have done so, Mr. Sturgis; but I can’t help thinking that in such a mysterious case as we have before us now, certain conventional rules may be laid aside.”

“I quite agree with you, madam,” said the detective, “and I can’t help thinking that this is a most important piece of evidence. Is it your habit to look after Mrs. Van Wyck’s belongings?”

“It is my duty to see that her rooms are kept in immaculate order. And unless I show a certain amount of oversight, sometimes the maids become a little careless in their care of the appointments of her dressing-table and such matters. And so, as I was in there this morning on a tour of inspection, I found this letter, as I have told you.”

I was absolutely crushed. I felt as if a black mantle had fallen over me like an enveloping pall. Not for a moment did I believe Anne guilty, even of complicity in her husband’s death; but I realized that my refusal to believe it was based solely on my unwillingness to do so. However, the thought flashed through my mind that this letter was dangerous and it must be destroyed or suppressed. I knew, too, that Mr. Markham was ready and eager to make use of it and I concluded that the only thing I could do was to beg for time.

So I said: “I quite agree with you, Mr. Markham, that this is a serious matter. So much so, that I think you will both be willing to agree to my proposition, which is to say nothing about it for a day or two. Let us, at least, wait until after Mr. Van Wyck’s funeral, which takes place to-morrow afternoon. I think it only decent courtesy that all investigation should be postponed until after that.”

Mr. Markham considered this matter. “It might be well to adopt that course,” he said, slowly, “though of course I shall conduct personally and privately any investigation I choose. But I’m quite willing to agree that the whole matter shall not be mentioned to any member of the family until after the funeral.”

“Perhaps it need never be mentioned,” said Mrs. Carstairs, and her face was drawn with sorrow. “I’m just beginning to realize what it would mean if this discovery of mine were made public. Why, it is practically a condemnation of Anne Van Wyck!”

“It is nothing of the sort!” I cried out, angrily. “It is doubtless a harmless communication on a totally different subject. There is really nothing to connect it with the crime in the study.”

“Don’t talk rubbish,” said Mr. Markham, testily. “If ever a bit of evidence pointed straight to a criminal, this certainly does. There can be no doubt of its genuineness. The date and postmarks prove that Mrs. Van Wyck received this letter on Friday afternoon. The fact that it was found in a book which she had been reading, proves that she received and opened it herself. If all this is not so, what is your explanation of the incident, Mr. Sturgis?”

“Yes, do tell us,” said Mrs. Carstairs, wringing her beautiful hands. “I should be so glad to put any construction on it favorable to Mrs. Van Wyck. Would it be better to go to her and ask her frankly what it means?”

“No!” I thundered; “that poor woman is not to be harassed any more than is necessary during these awful days. You have both promised to keep this matter a secret until after the funeral and I hold you to your word.”

To my relief, they both agreed to this, and promised not to mention that awful letter to any one at present

I looked curiously at Mrs. Carstairs. As always, she mystified me, and yet I couldn’t say how or why. Surely she had been guilty of a breach of good manners in reading a letter addressed to another. But in her opinion the occasion had justified it; and doubtless many people would agree with her. Really, I could not help distrusting her, in spite of the fact that she now expressed so much sympathy for Anne and seemed so truly grieved at the thought of her trouble that she seemed to be sincere. And again, what could she have done with the letter better than to bring it straight to the detective. It was the most logical proceeding and the most just. If she had taken the letter to Morland or Barbara it might have made infinitely more trouble. I walked away, leaving the two on the terrace still conferring on the matter. As I turned aside I heard Mr. Markham say, “What was the book in which you found the letter?” And Mrs. Carstairs replied, “A Volume on Rose Culture.”

The question struck me as absurd, for what difference could it possibly make what the subject of the book might be.

I walked along the terrace and down into the gardens. Finding a pleasant seat on one of the by-paths I sat down there to think it over. I didn’t need the letter to look at, its words were branded into my brain.

Alone by myself, I was forced to admit that the letter, if genuine, was definitely condemning. And it was genuine, beyond a doubt. Anne had certainly received that letter on Friday. The letter stated that after the committee meeting that same night was the time for some preconcerted plan to be carried out. That the plan was a dangerous one was proved by the wording of the letter. And it was shortly after that committee meeting that David Van Wyck had died a violent death.

I forced myself to face the matter squarely. Not because I believed it, but merely as a necessary argument, I accepted the implication that the letter conveyed. Then it would mean that Anne had an accomplice, or at least an advisor in the matter.

Who could the accomplice be? But my mind refused to work in that direction, and I resolutely pushed the matter out of my mind and began to think what I could do to help and protect Anne if she should be accused. I almost thought of urging her to run away with me while she yet had opportunity to escape.

And as my thoughts were in this turmoil, Anne herself came walking along the path near me.

Her soft, trailing black garments made her beautiful face seem whiter than ever.

“Sit down, Raymond,” she said, as I rose; “talk to me a little, can’t you? I feel dazed and weak.”

Surely this was no time to ask questions, so I talked to her gently, on casual subjects, and after a time the conversation veered around to the tragedy.

“I felt a premonition something would happen that night,” said Anne, her large, dark eyes growing misty with the memory. “I was so restless I couldn’t go to bed, and I wrote letters and read until quite late.”

“What were you reading, Anne?”

“I was looking through a book about rose growing. The gardener had been asking me about some new varieties he had just bought. I’m interested in such things, and the book was well written. But I never want to see it again,—or a rose either.”

There was a look of horror in her eyes, and I felt that the rose-book brought back the scenes of that dreadful night so poignantly that she could scarcely bear it.

I changed the subject, and persistently led her mind away from the scene of the tragedy.

“You always do me so much good, Raymond,” Anne said, gratefully, as at last we started back to the house; “you always know just what to say to me. You’re a real comfort”

“You need and deserve comfort, Anne,” I said, gently, “and I think you know you may always depend upon me to give you all I can. And, Anne, if you ever want more of me,—if you want real assistance,—or if you want to confide in me,—you will do so, won’t you?”

She turned to me with a startled look. “Why what do you mean?” she asked, and her voice quivered, and she almost gasped for breath.

I looked her straight in the eyes. “I don’t mean anything,” I said, “except that I am your friend through any circumstance that may come to you. In any trouble or danger,—count on me.”

“Even if I have been wicked?” said Anne, in a whisper.

“Yes, even then,” but a pang shot through my heart, not so much because of the words she said, as the look of horror and despair that came into her eyes.

The days went by slowly. On Monday the funeral was held, and with appropriate obsequies the body of David Van Wyck was buried. The house guests had all chosen to remain at Buttonwood Terrace, in response to Anne’s urgent invitation that we should do so. She seemed to have a dread of being left alone with her step-children, and it became more and more evident that matters were far from harmonious between her and David Van Wyck’s son and daughter.

The day after the funeral I had a long talk with Mr. Markham.

“There is no doubt in my mind,” he declared, “that Mrs. Van Wyck is the guilty party. We never can fasten the crime upon her, for it cannot be explained how she left the room locked up. But it must be that she did do so in some clever way.”

“But there isn’t any such way,” I objected. “If it were the mere turning of a key, it might be done from the other side, but heavy bolts cannot be shot into their sockets except by a person on the inside of the room. And again, waiving the mystery of the locked room, we are as well justified in suspecting Morland or Barbara as Anne.”

“That is true,” agreed Markham. “But the stiletto was found in her room, and her maid is missing, and then there is that mysterious letter. That mystery must be sifted out. To my mind it would be better to put the question plainly to Mrs. Van Wyck and ask her what it means.”

“I wish you’d try some other way first,” I said. “What’s the use of being a detective, if you can’t trace a letter to its source without asking anybody. Why, if Fleming Stone saw that letter he’d soon tell you who wrote it and what it all meant”

Mr. Markham didn’t like this speech, and I didn’t blame him. I daresay I ought not to have said it. But he had so little of what is known as the detective method that I couldn’t help speaking my mind.

“Well, I’ll tell you one thing I think about it,” he said, “that is, whoever wrote that letter to Mrs. Van Wyck, was certainly her accomplice. Now who could that be, but that valet, Carstairs? He has acted queer from the beginning, and I’m going to hunt him up and make him tell all he knows.”

“Carstairs!” I exclaimed in amazement. “You don’t think Mrs. Van Wyck would stoop to receiving letters from a servant!”

“If Mrs. Van Wyck has stooped to crime, or participation in crime, she cannot be very particular about her associates.”

“But she hasn’t stooped to crime! Good heavens, man, don’t condemn her unheard!” But even as I spoke, I remembered that Anne had asked me if I would stand by her even if she were wicked! And I had said I would. Yes, and I would, too, even if she were convicted of the worst crime in the calendar!

I don’t know whether it was because of my reference to Stone or not, but Markham seemed to acquire new energy. He announced with great determination that he was going to find out about that letter, whatever method he might have to pursue.

And it was partly to divert his sudden energy from this subject, that I proposed again that we should make search for Jeannette.

“Strange about Jeannette,” I observed. “Suppose we set out to trace her. That would be at least a step in the right direction.”

“There have been very few steps taken in any direction,” said the detective moodily. “My own movements are hampered by orders from the family. Of course there’s no one to say what I shall do, except Mrs. Van Wyck and her two step-children. And every direction in which I wish to investigate is forbidden by one or another of those three. Sometimes I think they are all in connivance, and their inharmonious attitude toward one another is a mere bluff.”

This was a new idea to me, and I pondered it. But I couldn’t think it a true theory, and said so.

“Maybe not, maybe not,” said Markham; “but they do act mighty queer. Miss Barbara, for instance, begged me if I found any clues which might incriminate her brother, to suppress them and tell nobody.”

“Did she really suppose that you would do that?” I asked.

“Yes, she was very much in earnest. But I haven’t found anything that points to Morland definitely. If I did, I’d show it up fast enough.”

“I should hope so,” I returned emphatically. “I’d far rather suspect Morland of his father’s death than Mrs. Van Wyck.”

“Yes, so should I. But it’s a mystery, whichever way one turns. I can’t seem to make any start. But, as you say, Mr. Sturgis, it would be a good idea to hunt for that maid.”

It proved not to be a difficult matter to find Jeannette, for we soon discovered that she had gone to stay with her sister in a neighboring village. I couldn’t help thinking that Anne had known all along where the girl was, for she seemed rather annoyed than otherwise that we had made the discovery.

At any rate, Jeannette was brought home, and closely questioned by Mr. Markham and myself.

And the result of the questioning was to eliminate entirely the stiletto as incriminating evidence. Jeannette explained that she had used that stiletto to dig a refractory cork out of a bottle of bronze shoe-dressing. The bronze had given the metal a reddish stain, which she could not remove, and she had hidden it, lest she be scolded for having used the dainty implement for such a purpose. Markham was frankly disappointed. I can’t think he wanted to prove Anne guilty, but his pride was hurt at having his cleverness in finding the stiletto of no avail. “But,” I said to Jeannette, “why did you run away?”

“I didn’t ran away,” she said. “I merely went to visit my sister.”

“But you took a strange time to do that, when your mistress was in such trouble and sorrow.”

“I thought I’d better go,” responded Jeannette; and Markham jumped at this admission.

“Why did you think it better to go?” he demanded.

But Jeannette turned pale and looked very much frightened. “I didn’t have any reason,” she said, beginning to cry. “I just—I just thought I’d go.” We tried every possible way to learn more from her, but without success. She became hysterical and stupid by turns, and finally refused to answer our questions. Markham declared that this attitude on Jeannette’s part was strongly against Anne, but this I would not believe.

Finally I said, “Jeannette, the reason you refuse to talk is because you’re afraid of Carstairs. Now I’ll tell you, it will be better in the long run, if you make a clean breast of this matter and tell us all you know.” And then between her hysterical sobs Jeannette managed to stammer out that Carstairs had said he would kill her if she told.

Certainly she was weak-minded, and I thought the best thing was to scare her a little.

“Nonsense, Jeannette,” I said; “of course Carstairs won’t kill you. Don’t be so foolish. But you may get into very serious trouble if you don’t tell this thing that you’re keeping back. How would you like to go to prison for withholding evidence?”

The girl shivered at the thought, and a little more of this sort of persuasion soon brought her to the point of saying that she would tell all she knew, but that she knew nothing of importance.

“We will judge of the importance,” I said; “and what we want from you is a full account of anything you know concerning last Friday night. In the first place, were you at that ball in the village?”

“No, sir.” The answer, though in low tones, was positive.

“Was Carstairs at that ball?”

“No, sir.”

“Where were you both?”

It seemed almost as if the girl were hypnotized by my question, for she spoke like one in a trance. Nevertheless her answers bore the stamp of truth and it seemed impossible to doubt that she was telling a straight story.

In the same low steady voice Jeannette went on: “We both went for a ride in Mr. Van Wyck’s new car. This was forbidden, of course, but Carstairs said his master would never find it out.”

“You went then, on what is called a ‘joy ride’?”

“I suppose so.”

“And what time did you get home?”

“About midnight.”

“Then it was Carstairs that Miss Fordyce saw sneaking into the grounds?”

“I don’t know, sir, but Ranney saw us and Carstairs made him promise not to tell.”

“At last we’re getting at something definite,” said Mr. Markham, fairly rubbing his hands with pleasure at these new developments. He then took up the work of questioning himself.

“You came into the house about twelve o’clock that night?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And then what did you do?”

“I stopped in the servants’ dining-room, sir, and in a few minutes, Carstairs came in there after putting away the car. He said nobody had seen us except Ranney and he wouldn’t tell. Then he told me I’d better go and see if Mrs. Van Wyck wanted me. So I started for Mrs. Van Wyck’s room, but before I reached it, I saw her coming out of the study.”

“Coming out of the study! Be careful what you’re saying, girl! Are you sure of this?”

“Of course I’m sure. Mrs. Van Wyck had on one of her boudoir gowns, and she was just coming through the study door into the corridor as I saw her. I asked her if she wanted me to help her undress.”

“And what did she say?” The detective was almost breathless now in his excitement.

“She said, ‘No, no! for heaven’s sake go away!’ ”

“Why did she speak like that?”

“I don’t know, sir. She was greatly excited, and her eyes were blazing like stars. She was clutching her hands and she looked almost distracted.”

“Jeannette,” I said, very sternly, “you’re telling the truth?”

“Only the truth, sir. I was frightened at Mrs. Van Wyck’s appearance, but as she said she didn’t want me, I went straight back to the servants’ dining-room. I found Carstairs there, and he looked frightened and white, too. I was all upset, sir, at these queer actions, and I said good-night to Carstairs and went right up to my room.”

“At what time was all this?” asked Mr. Markham.

“When I reached my bedroom it was half-past twelve.”

Mr. Markham looked at the girl thoughtfully. “I believe your story,” he said, “but you will have to tell it again under oath. And in the meantime I forbid you to mention a word of this to anyone. Do you understand? I forbid you!”

“Yes, sir.”

“You ought to have been here and given this evidence at the inquest. Why did you go away just then? You may as well own up.”

Jeannette hesitated only a moment, and then she said simply, “Mrs. Carstairs advised me to go.”

“Mrs. Carstairs! Why did she do that?”

“I don’t know, sir. She said for me to go to my sister’s for a day or two and make a little visit.”

“That is all for the present, Jeannette,” said Mr. Markham. “You may go now, but remember you are not to say a word about all this to anyone.”

“I will remember, sir,” said Jeannette, and she went away.