The Maxwell Mystery

I went next to the music-room, where Lord Clarence was dismissing the guests who, less than a half-hour before, had been so hilarious.

The Earl acted like a splendid fellow, and his cool head and capable management proved to be just what was needed for the sorry situation.

In a short time nearly all the guests had gone. Gilbert Crane remained, and Mr. Hunt, who was a sort of society detective, asked to be allowed to stay. The coroner arrived just then, and learning in a few words the facts of the case, he advised Hunt to stay, for a time, at least.

Miss Lathrop, a trained nurse, who had been sent for by Dr. Sheldon, also came, and she was taken at once to Mildred’s apartment.

“Mysterious case,” said the coroner, after a long look at the room and its contents. “Might be an attempt at double suicide, or suicide and murder.”

“Or double murder,” said Mr. Hunt.

The coroner gave him a quick glance.

“We must work on evidence,” he said, “not imagination.”

“What evidences do you see?” asked Gilbert Crane.

“Very little, I confess,” replied the coroner, who was a frank, straightforward sort of a man, and whose name, as I afterward learned, was Billings.

“But,” he went on, “when a gentleman is found dead, and a wounded lady near-by, with a pistol in her hand, it doesn’t require an unusual intellect to deduce that she probably shot him. Unless, as I said, it is a double suicide, and he shot himself first, and then she shot herself.”

“Is Philip’s wound one that could have been self-inflicted?” I asked.

“Without a doubt,” replied Mr. Billings. “He is shot directly through the heart, and that could have been done by himself or another.”

“But of course we shall have medical evidence as to that.”

“How about the powder marks?” asked the quiet voice of Mr. Hunt, who was already examining the room and taking notes.

“It is difficult to judge,” answered Mr. Billings. “The shot went through both coat and waistcoat, and while the powder marks would seem to prove that the shot was fired from a distance of three or four feet, yet I cannot say so positively.”

I felt a certain relief at this, for while it was bad enough to think of poor Philip shooting himself, somehow it was worse to imagine Mildred shooting him.

Soon Dr. Burton came into the library. He talked with Mr. Hunt and Mr. Billings, and then said:

“As soon as you have completed all necessary investigations, Dr. Sheldon requests that the body shall be removed to Mr. Philip Maxwell’s room and laid upon the bed, in order that it may seem less shocking to his aunt and uncle.”

I liked this young doctor. He had Dr. Sheldon’s clean-cut, assured ways, but he spoke and moved with rather more grace and gentleness.

Dr. Sheldon had been a guest at the dance, which was fortunate, as it may have been the means of saving Mildred’s life. But Dr. Burton looked as if he were not at all inclined toward gayeties. Serious, grave, he gave Dr. Sheldon’s message, and then turned away, knowing he could do nothing more.

The coroner agreed to his suggestions, and later, I saw Mr. Maxwell and Miss Miranda go together to the room that had always been Philip’s.

As I look back upon that night now, it seems to me like a horrible dream—so many people coming and going, the servants beside themselves with grief and fright, and the dreadful facts themselves so mysterious and so difficult to realize.

It seemed impossible that Philip could be dead—merry, light-hearted Phil, who, except for the last week or so, had always been so gay and joyous.

And Mildred Leslie’s life hung in the balance.

Dr. Burton’s news of her had been this: she had been shot in the right shoulder, and the wound was dangerous but not necessarily fatal.

Partially paralyzed by the shot, or perhaps only fainting from fright, she had fallen to the floor, and struck her temple as she fell, presumably against the corner of the table near which she stood.

It was this blow which had made her unconscious, and which had left its mark in a huge, swollen discoloration on her fair brow.

She had as yet uttered no word, for she had been placed as soon as possible under the influence of ether, while the doctors probed for the bullet.

It had been successfully extracted, and was now in Dr. Sheldon’s possession.

Dr. Burton thought that Miss Leslie would soon regain consciousness, but deemed it exceedingly unwise to question her, or excite her in any way for some time to come. Indeed, he said he was sure Dr. Sheldon would allow no one to see her for several days except the nurse, and possibly her sister.

At last Mr. Maxwell and Miss Miranda were persuaded to retire, and the rest of us were advised to do so.

But Gilbert Crane announced his intention of staying at the house all night. He said some one should be in general charge, and as Philip’s best friend he considered he had the right to assume such a position. He established himself in Mr. Maxwell’s study, and told the servants and the doctors to call on him in any emergency.

Seeing that Mr. Hunt sat down there too, with the evident intention of discussing the affair, I delayed my retiring and joined them.

Lord Clarence looked in, and seemed to hesitate to intrude.

“Come in,” I said; “as one of the house guests you surely have a right.”

He came in, and almost immediately after, Mrs. Whiting and Irene came, and we went over and over the mysterious details.

“What were Mr. Philip Maxwell’s sentiments toward Miss Leslie?” inquired the detective.

No one seemed inclined to reply, and as I thought it my duty to shed all the light possible on the case, I said:

“I have good reason to believe that, at or about the time of his death, Mr. Maxwell was asking Miss Leslie to marry him.”

“Did she favor his suit?” pursued Mr. Hunt.

“No,” broke in Irene, “she did not. She told me so only this morning.”

“But that would be no reason for her shooting him and then shooting herself,” wailed Edith Whiting. “Oh, I am sure Mildred never did it. Or, at least, not intentionally.

“I’ve reasoned it all out, and I think he must have been showing her his pistol, or explaining it to her, and it went off accidentally, and then, in her grief and fright, she turned the weapon on herself.”

“Was it Philip’s pistol?” asked Irene.

“Yes,” said the detective, “that is, it had P. M. engraved on the handle.”

“Oh, it was Phil’s pistol,” said Gilbert Crane. “I know it well. And he always keeps it in the top drawer of that big table-desk they were standing by.”

“How do you know they were standing by it?” This question came from the Earl, who, though he had not spoken before, had been intently listening, and who now spoke in a curt, sharp voice, almost as if he were making an accusation.

“Because,” said Gilbert quietly, “there were no chairs near the desk. They both fell near the desk. Philip could not have walked a step after that shot through his heart, and Mildred must have been standing near the desk to fall and hit her head on it. Am I clear?”

“Perfectly,” said the Englishman, but his voice sounded ironical.

“Mildred never shot Philip intentionally,” reiterated Mrs. Whiting. “She is a rattle-pated girl—a coquette, I admit—and she was not in love with Philip Maxwell; but truly she was no more capable of a murderous thought or instinct than I am. You know that, don’t you, Irene?”

Irene Gardiner gave me one quick glance, and like a flash I remembered our conversation in the train about opportunity creating a criminal.

Could it be that pretty Mildred, holding a pistol in her hand, and alone with an unwelcome suitor could—no, I could no more believe it than Edith, and I flashed a look of amazed disapproval at Irene. But she was already speaking.

“I’m sure Mildred didn’t shoot Philip at all, Edith,” she said. “I think he shot himself and she tried to wrest the pistol from him, and in doing so wounded herself.”

This explanation struck us all as so plausible that we gladly accepted it—all of us except Gilbert Crane—and wondered we hadn’t thought of it before.

Gilbert said slowly:

“There could have been no struggle after that shot entered Philip’s heart. If he shot himself, and Miss Leslie then took the pistol from him, it was after he had ceased to breathe.”

“Was death, then, absolutely instantaneous?” I asked.

“Yes,” said Mr. Hunt, “both doctors are sure of that.”

Just here Tom Whiting came down-stairs and joined us in the study. His face wore a peculiar expression. One of awe and perplexity, yet tinged with a certain relief.

“I think you ought to know,” he said, “that Mildred is coming out of the ether’s influence, and has spoken several times, but only to repeat the same thing over and over. She continually cries: ‘He shot me. Oh, to think he should shoot me!’ I tell you this injustice to my wife’s sister.”

“I knew Mildred didn’t do it!” cried Edith, almost fainting in her husband’s arms. “I don’t care how black the evidence looked against her, I knew she never did it.”

The next morning it was a sad party that gathered around the Maxwell breakfast table.

After we were seated, the nurse, Miss Lathrop, glided in and took her place among us. It may have been prejudice, but I took an instant dislike to the woman from the way she glided in. Many trained nurses show a sense of their own importance, indeed, it seems to be a part of their uniform. But aside from this, Miss Lathrop gave an impression of knowing far more about the whole affair than any of the rest of us.

It was by no means what she said that carried this impression, but rather, what she didn’t say. If one of us made an observation or expressed an opinion, she turned suddenly to the speaker, gave him a sharp look, and then dropped her eyes again, but with a little superior smile hovering round her thin lips.

It exasperated me beyond endurance, though I had no real reason to resent her attitude.

In response to the queries we put to her, her definite news of Mildred was not encouraging.

“She will have brain fever,” announced Miss Lathrop; “Doctor Sheldon fears it, but I am sure of it. I have had great experience with patients of her temperament, and I know it cannot be averted.” She shut her lips together, giving the impression that since she so willed it, Mildred should have brain fever in spite of anybody.

“Has she talked at all?” asked Miss Maxwell. “She has said nothing,” replied Miss Lathrop, “except to repeat over and over again: ‘Oh, to think that he should shoot me!’ in surprised and agonized tones.”

Probably from her enjoyment of a dramatic sensation, Miss Lathrop’s voice and expression were almost theatrical, and though this jarred on all of us, it was especially harrowing for Miss Maxwell and her brother, who of course were the ones most deeply affected by Philip’s death.

Poor old Mr. Maxwell was crushed, and unless some one spoke directly to him, paid little heed to anything that was said.

Miss Miranda, on the other hand, tried to forget herself and her troubles in caring for her guests. It was pathetic to see her efforts to be cheerful and unselfish, and she seemed to me like a lovely saint ministering to unworthy mortals. .

As Mr. Hunt had remained over night, he was at breakfast with us. It seemed a strange coincidence that he should have been present the night before, for surely he would be of help in unravelling the mystery.

While not a professional detective, he had proved successful in many difficult cases in which he had chosen to interest himself.

“I can’t help thinking,” Mr. Hunt observed, “that when Miss Leslie is rational again, what she tells us may throw a new light on the matter.”

“I quite agree with you, Mr. Hunt,” said Miss Lathrop, in her cold, concise way; “I have reason to think that Miss Leslie will yet make further revelations. And I’m sure we are very fortunate in having an able detective right here in the house.” Miss Lathrop flashed a glance at Hunt, which obviously implied she knew more than she cared to tell, and then, with her odious little smile, calmly proceeded to extract the seeds from her grapes.

Mr. Maxwell looked up with a pained face. Miss Lathrop’s speech had seemed to rouse him almost to indignation.

“It is no case for a detective,” he said, with a severity of manner I had never noticed in him before. “If, as Miss Leslie asserts, my poor boy shot her, that is all that is necessary for us to know about the affair. As to motive, my nephew has been seriously troubled of late, and doubtless his worry so disturbed his mind that he was irresponsible for his act. At any rate, I choose to consider him so.”

“I’m sure we all agree to that,” said Lord Clarence, in his kind voice; “not one of us can believe for a moment, that Philip Maxwell would commit such a deed, if he were sane at the time.”

Miss Lathrop gave the Earl the benefit of one of her mysterious glances, and though she said no word, she clearly did not agree with him.

To my secret gratification, his lordship caught her up. “Have you definite reasons for not agreeing, Miss Lathrop?” he said.

Miss Lathrop was taken by surprise. She colored slightly, and then pursing her mouth, said primly; “Professional ethics will not allow me to say.”

“Professional ethics are out of place at this moment,” said Mr. Maxwell, sternly. “If you know anything, Miss Lathrop, that will cast any light on this subject, it is your duty to tell us at once.”

“I know nothing,” Miss Lathrop said, shortly, and I, for one, believed she spoke truly.