The Maxwell Mystery

When Mr. Hunt came back that evening he found me with Mr. Maxwell in the study. Although I did not wish to pain the old gentleman with more details than were necessary, yet I wanted him to know as nearly as possible how matters stood; and, too, I wanted the benefit of his sound judgment and good advice.

“Come in, Mr. Hunt, come in,” I said to the detective. “Let us three sum up the real evidence we have and see what may be best to do next.”

I closed the doors in order that we might feel more free to speak in tones which Mr. Maxwell could hear easily, and then I left it to Mr. Hunt to open the conversation.

“First,” said the detective, “I would like to know Mr. Maxwell’s opinion of Miss Leslie’s testimony.”

“I have just been reading the stenographer’s report of it,” said Mr. Maxwell. “I did not hear it clearly, so I asked permission to read the paper myself. I do not know Miss Leslie very well, but she impresses me as nothing more nor less than a merry, light-hearted, innocent girl. Coquettish, perhaps, but I think the depths of her nature are honest and sincere.

“Now, we have all agreed that her testimony regarding the inkstand and the bronze paper-weight cannot, in the very nature of things, be true testimony. For ink spilled on a carpet will remain there, and bronze horses cannot get up on a table by themselves.

“Personally, then, I am forced to the opinion that Miss Leslie’s mind is affected—temporarily only, I trust.

“But surely there is no other explanation for her strange statements. And, granting this, may it not be possible that her whole story of the man in the automobile coat is but a figment of her diseased brain?”

“It is possible,” said Mr. Hunt, “but they tell me that Miss Leslie is so clear-headed and rational in her conversation that I find it difficult to disbelieve her story of the intruder.”

“Nor do I ask you to,” said Mr. Maxwell. “I only want to call your attention to the logical point that such grave discrepancies in one part of her recital might argue doubt in other directions.

“I have a logical mind, but I have none of what is often called the ‘detective instinct.’ That is why I wish to put this whole affair entirely in the hands of an able detective.

“And again of a detective’s ability I do not consider myself a judge. If you think, Mr. Hunt, that you can take care of it successfully, I have sufficient confidence in you to give you the entire responsibility. Or, should you prefer to call in an assistant or an expert from the city, I am quite willing you should do so.”

“I don’t want to seem egotistical, Mr. Maxwell,” said Mr. Hunt, “but I can’t help feeling that Mr. King and I can take care of this thing. Mr. King, though not a professional, tells me he has what you have called the ‘detective instinct,’ at least, in some degree. And if he will help me, I would prefer his assistance to that of a stranger.”

“Then we will leave it that way,” said Mr. Maxwell. “I shall be glad to have Mr. King for my guest as long as he will stay, and you may consider yourselves authorized to make such investigations as you see fit.

“I do not presume to advise you, but I want to ask you to take an old man’s warning, and be sure of your proofs before you act upon them. Clues are often misleading; evidence may be false. But there are certain kinds of facts that point unmistakably to the truth. Those facts you must discover, and then follow where they lead, irrespective of whom they may implicate, and oblivious to any personal prejudice.”

I couldn’t help wondering if Mr. Maxwell shared my faint but growing suspicion that either Mr. Crane or Miss Gardiner, or both, knew more about the tragedy than they had yet told. I was sure the old gentleman’s conservative habits of speech would not allow him to put this into words, but that his sense of justice demanded an intimation of the idea.

After a little further conversation with Mr. Maxwell, we left the study, and Hunt and I went for a walk.

“It’s clear to my mind,” said Hunt, “that this shooting was done by an intruder from outside, not a common burglar but some past acquaintance of Philip’s who had some strong motive for ending the boy’s existence.

“It was some one whom Philip knew and recognized. The motive he did not know, for he was both surprised and grieved that this individual should intend to kill him.”

“Then you believe Mildred’s story, as a whole?”

“Yes. It seems to me that we have as yet no real reason to doubt her main statement, even though the details are mystifying.”

“Mystifying! They are impossible!”

“Nothing is impossible in detective work,” said Mr. Hunt, “at least nothing that is mysterious.” With that we parted. Mr. Hunt went home, and I went back to Maxwell Chimneys to toss all night on a bed of wakefulness. I felt flattered that Mr. Hunt had asked me to work with him and I resolved to do something that would prove my worth as his assistant.

I thought over what the nurse had said, but dismissed it from my mind as being merely the vagary of an ill-tempered and self-centred nature. I frankly admitted to myself that had her insinuations been directed toward anyone except Irene, I might have given them a little more thoughtful consideration. But it was out of the question to imagine Miss Gardiner in any way involved in the affair. And then I thought, suddenly, how I had left her at her own request on the upper veranda, before I saw Philip and Mildred in the library. But I had left her far around on the other side of the house, and later when I returned to tell her of the tragedy, she was on the veranda at the front of house. To be sure, when I found her there she was crying, or had been. But all these facts gave me no suggestion of her connection with the tragedy, but rather made me anxious to keep my knowledge of her movements to myself, lest any one else might put on them a wrong construction.

Then I thought about what the Earl had said regarding Mildred’s statements. Of course, Mildred Leslie was a frivolous-minded, mischievous girl, and more than once I had known her to make up stories out of her own fanciful brain, entirely for the purpose of astonishing her hearers. But I couldn’t think she would do this, when giving witness before a jury. And yet, I well remembered, when I dashed into the library that night after Crane’s fearful announcement, that I distinctly saw the inkstand in the middle of the table. It was one of those enormous glass and silver affairs, intended as an expensive gift and not always well adapted to practical use. It was, of course, shining and clean, and it was an absolute impossibility, if Mildred had thrown it, that she or anyone else could have replaced it in that immaculate condition in so short a time.

I mulled over the inkstand question until I felt as if my own brains were addled, and I finally fell asleep resolving to make the solution of that puzzle my definite work for the next day.

As a beginning, I begged Dr. Sheldon to allow me a short interview with Mildred the next morning.

He hesitated about this, and expressed himself as doubtful of its wisdom. He said his patient was rapidly recovering from the shock sustained by her nervous system, and was now suffering mainly from the flesh wound in her shoulder, but still, he feared that any excitement might bring on fever.

“But, Doctor Sheldon,” I said, “I particularly want to avoid excitement. I only want to ask her a few calm and straightforward questions. The nurse and Mrs. Whiting and yourself may all be present, and if you fear that I am alarming or overexciting your patient, I will go away at once.”

It required some further persuasion, but at last Doctor Sheldon reluctantly consented to the interview.

I stepped into the sick room, trying to assume a most casual air; and sitting by the girl’s bedside, I said, lightly, “I just ran in for a moment to say good morning, and to hope that you will soon be out among us again, for we miss you awfully.”

Mildred Leslie may have been ill, and may have been weakened by the shock and by the wound in her shoulder, but to look at her, one would never think it. Two long braids of golden hair lay outside the coverlet, tied at the top by enormous pink bows at each side of her head. The lacy frills of her gown fell away from her babylike throat, and the piquant face with its dancing blue eyes was as saucy as ever. One arm of course was in bandages, daintily hidden by the light folds of a lace scarf, but the other hand was held out to me in welcome.

“I’m awfully glad to see you, Mr. King,” she said, smiling; “they won’t let me see anybody; and going down-stairs yesterday afternoon was so perfectly horrid, that I think I ought to see somebody nice to make up for it.”

I looked at the girl in secret amazement. How could she show such lightness and gayety after the fearful tragedy she had been through, and which was even yet with us? I felt sure she had never loved Philip, but even so, his dreadful death which had appalled everybody else, must surely have affected her to some degree.

I think Edith Whiting read my thoughts, for she spoke quickly; “I’m glad you’ve come, too, Mr. King, to cheer Milly up. We do everything we can to keep her mind on pleasant things and away from any trouble.”

It seemed to me they had succeeded in their attempts, for certainly Milly’s manner was gay and care-free enough, although a little petulant at being kept in her room.

“I could just as well go down-stairs as not,” she declared, pouting; “you’d carry me down, wouldn’t you, Mr. King? I’ve one good arm that I could put round your neck.”

She waved a pretty dimpled arm toward me, and then, taking her hand, as if that would help to pin down her butterfly mind to seriousness for one moment, I spoke to her quietly but decidedly.

“I will carry you down-stairs, when the doctor allows it; but just now, Miss Leslie, I want to ask you one or two questions, and I know you’ll be kind enough to answer them. I’m sorry that I must turn your thoughts back to a scene that you must naturally try to forget. But please tell me if you are sure that you really threw that inkstand? Might you not have intended to throw it without doing so?”

She looked at me in amazement.

“Certainly I’m sure I threw it,” she said. “I distinctly remember picking it up and throwing it at the man. It did not hit him; it fell short of him, for it was heavier than I thought.

“So then I threw the bronze horse at him. That was heavy, too, and it struck the thick rug with a soft thud. That didn’t hit him, either; I never could throw things very well. But I scarcely knew what I was doing, and my acts were impulsive, almost unconscious.”

“That is just the point, Miss Leslie; since they were almost unconscious, might it not be that they were not acts at all, merely intention and imagination?”

“I am perfectly sure that I threw those things. Will you tell me why you doubt it?”

“Because,” I said, watching her carefully, “when I entered the room where you lay unconscious, the inkstand was undisturbed on the desk, and the bronze horse also.”

She drew her hand away from mine, and, as far as it was possible, her pretty baby face assumed a look of hurt dignity.

“I think,” she said, “I have as much reason to doubt your statements as you have to doubt mine. For I know I threw those things. The whole affair is like a dream, a vivid dream, in one way; yet in another way every instant of it is more acutely real to me than any other moment of my life.

“I positively threw those things just as I have described to you, and if, which seems impossible, they were returned to the desk, it was done by other hands than mine, either human or supernatural.” The last words were uttered in a rising key and ended in an almost hysterical shriek. She threw her right arm across her eyes, and turning away from me, thereby greatly disturbing her bandaged left shoulder, she burst into a fit of sobbing.

“I told you so!” exclaimed Nurse Lathrop, who had stood during our conversation, with an air of disapproval on her face.

She rushed to Milly, almost pushing me out of her way, and as I had promised to do in case this happened, I quickly left the room.

“Oh, Mr. King,” exclaimed Edith Whiting, who had followed me, “I’m so sorry you stirred Milly up so! Now she will have brain fever, I know! I daren’t go back there, for I am too much upset myself, and the doctor and nurse can take care of her best. But won’t you promise me that she shall not be disturbed again?”

It was plain enough that Mrs. Whiting did not blame me, for she knew that the inquiry and investigation must go on. But she seemed to think that I could prevent the further disturbing of her sister.

“I will promise you, Mrs. Whiting,” I returned, “that Miss Leslie shall not be questioned again until she is entirely well. I don’t think she will have brain fever,—though she will doubtless bring on feverish conditions by that hysterical sobbing.”

But even as I spoke Milly’s sobs died away and there was silence in the sick room.

In a moment the nurse came out into the hall, and said dictatorially, “You people must go away from here. We have given Miss Leslie an opiate, and I shall not allow any talking, or any noise near this room. It is too bad, Mr. King, that you should have brought on this relapse.”

“I’m not willing to take an individual responsibility for it, Miss Lathrop,” I returned; “I went to Miss Leslie’s room this morning with Doctor Sheldon’s full consent.”

“Yes! a consent forced from him, and which he knew was most injudicious! And now will you please go away?”

Without another word I bowed and turned away, and Mrs. Whiting went with me. We went downstairs, and finding the music-room empty, she drew me in there.

“You mustn’t think Milly heartless,” she said, and a sad look came over her face. “But, you see, Doctor Sheldon told us that we must not let her mind dwell on the scene of that night, or it would greatly retard her recovery. So we have not mentioned it, but have tried our best to talk of other things, and to keep her thoughts on joyful and pleasant subjects. We have read to her amusing stories, and Nurse Lathrop has been most ingenious in entertaining her. Don’t think hard of us for this, for my little sister is my beloved charge, and I would do any thing to help her to a quick recovery.”

“I quite appreciate the situation, Mrs. Whiting, and I cannot tell you how sorry I am that it was necessary to have that interview this morning, for it was necessary, for we must continue our investigation; and I had to know whether Miss Leslie’s statements were true, or whether at the inquest she was under some sort of hallucination, and detailed imaginary deeds.”

“And do you feel sure now that my sister has told you the truth?”

“I must admit the way that she talked to me just now was very convincing. She seemed so entirely herself and so sure of her memory, that I feel I have no reasonable grounds to doubt her assertions.”

“And you must not doubt them,” said Edith Whiting, earnestly; “I’m sure Milly told you the truth, and I think you will find that out for yourself sooner or later. Will you tell me, Mr. King, why you have—why anybody has a suspicious attitude toward my sister? It seems to me that Milly is one to be avenged, almost as much as Philip. Whoever murdered him, attempted to murder her. Why, then, is his a sainted memory, and my sister talked about and looked at with doubt and uncertainty?”

“Since you ask, Mrs. Whiting, I will admit frankly that there is as yet a mystery about it all. I’d rather not discuss it with you, but, as you know, Miss Leslie is of a volatile, even erratic nature, and—”

“I know what you’re going to say,” said Edith sadly; “that as Milly was found with a pistol in her hand, there is a doubt as to the truth of any of her stories! No, don’t interrupt me, Mr. King,—I quite understand; and I want you to go ahead with your investigations, and find the murderer as soon as you can. It will not prove to be my sister! but the only way she can be vindicated, is to bring the real criminal to justice and prove the truth of her stories. I don’t care if you did see that inkstand on the table, I am perfectly positive, after what she said this morning, that she did throw it at the man who came in at the window, exactly as she says she did! And you will yet believe this, too!”

She went away then, but she had left me something to think about; and she had made me more than ever determined to solve the mystery of the inkstand and the bronze horse before going any further.