The Leavenworth Case

XXVI. MR. GRYCE EXPLAINS HIMSELF

 
“Sits the wind in that corner?”
 

—Much Ado about Nothing.

I DO not propose to enter into a description of the mingled feelings aroused in me by this announcement. As a drowning man is said to live over in one terrible instant the events of a lifetime, so each word uttered in my hearing by Mary, from her first introduction to me in her own room, on the morning of the inquest, to our final conversation on the night of Mr. Clavering’s call, swept in one wild phantasmagoria through my brain, leaving me aghast at the signification which her whole conduct seemed to acquire from the lurid light which now fell upon it.

“I perceive that I have pulled down an avalanche of doubts about your ears,” exclaimed my companion from the height of his calm superiority. “You never thought of this possibility, then, yourself?”

“Do not ask me what I have thought. I only know I will never believe your suspicions true. That, however much Mary may have been benefited by her uncle’s death, she never had a hand in it; actual hand, I mean.”

“And what makes you so sure of this?”

“And what makes you so sure of the contrary? It is for you to prove, not for me to prove her innocence.”

“Ah,” said Mr. Gryce, in his slow, sarcastic way, “you recollect that principle of law, do you? If I remember rightly, you have not always been so punctilious in regarding it, or wishing to have it regarded, when the question was whether Mr. Clavering was the assassin or not.”

“But he is a man. It does not seem so dreadful to accuse a man of a crime. But a woman! and such a woman! I cannot listen to it; it is horrible. Nothing short of absolute confession on her part will ever make me believe Mary Leavenworth, or any other woman, committed this deed. It was too cruel, too deliberate, too–”

“Read the criminal records,” broke in Mr. Gryce.

But I was obstinate. “I do not care for the criminal records. All the criminal records in the world would never make me believe Eleanore perpetrated this crime, nor will I be less generous towards her cousin. Mary Leavenworth is a faulty woman, but not a guilty one.”

“You are more lenient in your judgment of her than her cousin was, it appears.”

“I do not understand you,” I muttered, feeling a new and yet more fearful light breaking upon me.

“What! have you forgotten, in the hurry of these late events, the sentence of accusation which we overheard uttered between these ladies on the morning of the inquest?”

“No, but–”

“You believed it to have been spoken by Mary to Eleanore?”

“Of course; didn’t you?”

Oh, the smile which crossed Mr. Gryce’s face! “Scarcely. I left that baby-play for you. I thought one was enough to follow on that tack.”

The light, the light that was breaking upon me! “And do you mean to say it was Eleanore who was speaking at that time? That I have been laboring all these weeks under a terrible mistake, and that you could have righted me with a word, and did not?”

“Well, as to that, I had a purpose in letting you follow your own lead for a while. In the first place, I was not sure myself which spoke; though I had but little doubt about the matter. The voices are, as you must have noticed, very much alike, while the attitudes in which we found them upon entering were such as to be explainable equally by the supposition that Mary was in the act of launching a denunciation, or in that of repelling one. So that, while I did not hesitate myself as to the true explanation of the scene before me, I was pleased to find you accept a contrary one; as in this way both theories had a chance of being tested; as was right in a case of so much mystery. You accordingly took up the affair with one idea for your starting-point, and I with another. You saw every fact as it developed through the medium of Mary’s belief in Eleanore’s guilt, and I through the opposite. And what has been the result? With you, doubt, contradiction, constant unsettlement, and unwarranted resorts to strange sources for reconcilement between appearances and your own convictions; with me, growing assurance, and a belief which each and every development so far has but served to strengthen and make more probable.”

Again that wild panorama of events, looks, and words swept before me. Mary’s reiterated assertions of her cousin’s innocence, Eleanore’s attitude of lofty silence in regard to certain matters which might be considered by her as pointing towards the murderer.

“Your theory must be the correct one,” I finally admitted; “it was undoubtedly Eleanore who spoke. She believes in Mary’s guilt, and I have been blind, indeed, not to have seen it from the first.”

“If Eleanore Leavenworth believes in her cousin’s criminality, she must have some good reasons for doing so.”

I was obliged to admit that too. “She did not conceal in her bosom that telltale key,—found who knows where?—and destroy, or seek to destroy, it and the letter which introduced her cousin to the public as the unprincipled destroyer of a trusting man’s peace, for nothing.”

“No, no.”

“And yet you, a stranger, a young man who have never seen Mary Leavenworth in any other light than that in which her coquettish nature sought to display itself, presume to say she is innocent, in the face of the attitude maintained from the first by her cousin!”

“But,” said I, in my great unwillingness to accept his conclusions, “Eleanore Leavenworth is but mortal. She may have been mistaken in her inferences. She has never stated what her suspicion was founded upon; nor can we know what basis she has for maintaining the attitude you speak of. Clavering is as likely as Mary to be the assassin, for all we know, and possibly for all she knows.”

“You seem to be almost superstitious in your belief in Clavering’s guilt.”

I recoiled. Was I? Could it be that Mr. Harwell’s fanciful conviction in regard to this man had in any way influenced me to the detriment of my better judgment?

“And you may be right,” Mr. Gryce went on. “I do not pretend to be set in my notions. Future investigation may succeed in fixing something upon him; though I hardly think it likely. His behavior as the secret husband of a woman possessing motives for the commission of a crime has been too consistent throughout.”

“All except his leaving her.”

“No exception at all; for he hasn’t left her.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that, instead of leaving the country, Mr. Clavering has only made pretence of doing so. That, in place of dragging himself off to Europe at her command, he has only changed his lodgings, and can now be found, not only in a house opposite to hers, but in the window of that house, where he sits day after day watching who goes in and out of her front door.”

I remembered his parting injunction to me, in that memorable interview we had in my office, and saw myself compelled to put a new construction upon it.

“But I was assured at the Hoffman House that he had sailed for Europe, and myself saw the man who professes to have driven him to the steamer.”

“Just so.”

“And Mr. Clavering returned to the city after that?”

“In another carriage, and to another house.”

“And you tell me that man is all right?”

“No; I only say there isn’t the shadow of evidence against him as the person who shot Mr. Leavenworth.”

Rising, I paced the floor, and for a few minutes silence fell between us. But the clock, striking, recalled me to the necessity of the hour, and, turning, I asked Mr. Gryce what he proposed to do now.

“There is but one thing I can do,” said he.

“And that is?”

“To go upon such lights as I have, and cause the arrest of Miss Leavenworth.”

I had by this time schooled myself to endurance, and was able to hear this without uttering an exclamation. But I could not let it pass without making one effort to combat his determination.

“But,” said I, “I do not see what evidence you have, positive enough in its character, to warrant extreme measures. You have yourself intimated that the existence of motive is not enough, even though taken with the fact of the suspected party being in the house at the time of the murder; and what more have you to urge against Miss Leavenworth?”

“Pardon me. I said ‘Miss Leavenworth’; I should have said ‘Eleanore Leavenworth.’”

“Eleanore? What! when you and all unite in thinking that she alone of all these parties to the crime is utterly guiltless of wrong?”

“And yet who is the only one against whom positive testimony of any kind can be brought.”

I could but acknowledge that.

“Mr. Raymond,” he remarked very gravely; “the public is becoming clamorous; something must be done to satisfy it, if only for the moment. Eleanore has laid herself open to the suspicion of the police, and must take the consequences of her action. I am sorry; she is a noble creature; I admire her; but justice is justice, and though I think her innocent, I shall be forced to put her under arrest unless–”

“But I cannot be reconciled to it. It is doing an irretrievable injury to one whose only fault is an undue and mistaken devotion to an unworthy cousin. If Mary is the–.”

“Unless something occurs between now and tomorrow morning,” Mr. Gryce went on, as if I had not spoken.

“To-morrow morning?”

“Yes.”

I tried to realize it; tried to face the fact that all my efforts had been for nothing, and failed.

“Will you not grant me one more day?” I asked in my desperation.

“What to do?”

Alas, I did not know. “To confront Mr. Clavering, and force from him the truth.”

“To make a mess of the whole affair!” he growled. “No, sir; the die is cast. Eleanore Leavenworth knows the one point which fixes this crime upon her cousin, and she must tell us that point or suffer the consequences of her refusal.”

I made one more effort.

“But why to-morrow? Having exhausted so much time already in our inquiries, why not take a little more; especially as the trail is constantly growing warmer? A little more moleing–”

“A little more folderol!” exclaimed Mr. Gryce, losing his temper. “No, sir; the hour for moleing has passed; something decisive has got to be done now; though, to be sure, if I could find the one missing link I want–”

“Missing link? What is that?”

“The immediate motive of the tragedy; a bit of proof that Mr. Leavenworth threatened his niece with his displeasure, or Mr. Clavering with his revenge, would place me on the vantage-point at once; no arresting of Eleanore then! No, my lady! I would walk right into your own gilded parlors, and when you asked me if I had found the murderer yet, say ‘yes,’ and show you a bit of paper which would surprise you! But missing links are not so easily found. This has been moled for, and moled for, as you are pleased to call our system of investigation, and totally without result. Nothing but the confession of some one of these several parties to the crime will give us what we want. I will tell you what I will do,” he suddenly cried. “Miss Leavenworth has desired me to report to her; she is very anxious for the detection of the murderer, you know, and offers an immense reward. Well, I will gratify this desire of hers. The suspicions I have, together with my reasons for them, will make an interesting disclosure. I should not greatly wonder if they produced an equally interesting confession.”

I could only jump to my feet in my horror.

“At all events, I propose to try it. Eleanore is worth that much risk any way.”

“It will do no good,” said I. “If Mary is guilty, she will never confess it. If not–”

“She will tell us who is.”

“Not if it is Clavering, her husband.”

“Yes; even if it is Clavering, her husband. She has not the devotion of Eleanore.”

That I could but acknowledge. She would hide no keys for the sake of shielding another: no, if Mary were accused, she would speak. The future opening before us looked sombre enough. And yet when, in a short time from that, I found myself alone in a busy street, the thought that Eleanore was free rose above all others, filling and moving me till my walk home in the rain that day has become a marked memory of my life. It was only with nightfall that I began to realize the truly critical position in which Mary stood if Mr. Gryce’s theory was correct. But, once seized with this thought, nothing could drive it from my mind. Shrink as I would, it was ever before me, haunting me with the direst forebodings. Nor, though I retired early, could I succeed in getting either sleep or rest. All night I tossed on my pillow, saying over to myself with dreary iteration: “Something must happen, something will happen, to prevent Mr. Gryce doing this dreadful thing.” Then I would start up and ask what could happen; and my mind would run over various contingencies, such as,—Mr. Clavering might confess; Hannah might come back; Mary herself wake up to her position and speak the word I had more than once seen trembling on her lips. But further thought showed me how unlikely any of these things were to happen, and it was with a brain utterly exhausted that I fell asleep in the early dawn, to dream I saw Mary standing above Mr. Gryce with a pistol in her hand. I was awakened from this pleasing vision by a heavy knock at the door. Hastily rising, I asked who was there. The answer came in the shape of an envelope thrust under the door. Raising it, I found it to be a note. It was from Mr. Gryce, and ran thus:

“Come at once; Hannah Chester is found.”

“Hannah found?”

“So we have reason to think.”

“When? where? by whom?”

“Sit down, and I will tell you.”

Drawing up a chair in a flurry of hope and fear, I sat down by Mr. Gryce’s side.

“She is not in the cupboard,” that person dryly assured me, noting without doubt how my eyes went travelling about the room in my anxiety and impatience. “We are not absolutely sure that she is anywhere. But word has come to us that a girl’s face believed to be Hannah’s has been seen at the upper window of a certain house in—don’t start—R–, where a year ago she was in the habit of visiting while at the hotel with the Misses Leavenworth. Now, as it has already been determined that she left New York the night of the murder, by the – –Railroad, though for what point we have been unable to ascertain, we consider the matter worth inquiring into.”

“But—”

“If she is there,” resumed Mr. Gryce, “she is secreted; kept very close. No one except the informant has ever seen her, nor is there any suspicion among the neighbors of her being in town.”

“Hannah secreted at a certain house in R–? Whose house?”

Mr. Gryce honored me with one of his grimmest smiles. “The name of the lady she’s with is given in the communication as Belden; Mrs. Amy Belden.”

“Amy Belden! the name found written on a torn envelope by Mr. Clavering’s servant girl in London?”

“Yes.”

I made no attempt to conceal my satisfaction. “Then we are upon the verge of some discovery; Providence has interfered, and Eleanore will be saved! But when did you get this word?”

“Last night, or rather this morning; Q brought it.”

“It was a message, then, to Q?”

“Yes, the result of his moleings while in R–, I suppose.”

“Whom was it signed by?”

“A respectable tinsmith who lives next door to Mrs. B.”

“And is this the first you knew of an Amy Belden living in R–?”

“Yes.”

“Widow or wife?”

“Don’t know; don’t know anything about her but her name.”

“But you have already sent Q to make inquiries?”

“No; the affair is a little too serious for him to manage alone. He is not equal to great occasions, and might fail just for the lack of a keen mind to direct him.”

“In short–”

“I wish you to go. Since I cannot be there myself, I know of no one else sufficiently up in the affair to conduct it to a successful issue. You see, it is not enough to find and identify the girl. The present condition of things demands that the arrest of so important a witness should be kept secret. Now, for a man to walk into a strange house in a distant village, find a girl who is secreted there, frighten her, cajole her, force her, as the case may be, from her hiding-place to a detective’s office in New York, and all without the knowledge of the next-door neighbor, if possible, requires judgment, brains, genius. Then the woman who conceals her! She must have her reasons for doing so; and they must be known. Altogether, the affair is a delicate one. Do you think you can manage it?”

“I should at least like to try.”

Mr. Gryce settled himself on the sofa. “To think what pleasure I am losing on your account!” he grumbled, gazing reproachfully at his helpless limbs. “But to business. How soon can you start?”

“Immediately.”

“Good! a train leaves the depot at 12.15. Take that. Once in R–, it will be for you to decide upon the means of making Mrs. Belden’s acquaintance without arousing her suspicions. Q, who will follow you, will hold himself in readiness to render you any assistance you may require. Only this thing is to be understood: as he will doubtless go in disguise, you are not to recognize him, much less interfere with him and his plans, till he gives you leave to do so, by some preconcerted signal. You are to work in your way, and he in his, till circumstances seem to call for mutual support and countenance. I cannot even say whether you will see him or not; he may find it necessary to keep out of the way; but you may be sure of one thing, that he will know where you are, and that the display of, well, let us say a red silk handkerchief—have you such a thing?”

“I will get one.”

“Will be regarded by him as a sign that you desire his presence or assistance, whether it be shown about your person or at the window of your room.”

“And these are all the instructions you can give me?” I said, as he paused.

“Yes, I don’t know of anything else. You must depend largely upon your own discretion, and the exigencies of the moment. I cannot tell you now what to do. Your own wit will be the best guide. Only, if possible, let me either hear from you or see you by to-morrow at this time.”

And he handed me a cipher in case I should wish to telegraph.

BOOK III. HANNAH

XXVII. AMY BELDEN

 
“A merrier man
Within the limits of becoming mirth,
I never spent an hour’s talk withal.”
 

—Love’s Labour’s Last.

I HAD a client in R– by the name of Monell; and it was from him I had planned to learn the best way of approaching Mrs. Belden. When, therefore, I was so fortunate as to meet him, almost on my arrival, driving on the long road behind his famous trotter Alfred, I regarded the encounter as a most auspicious beginning of a very doubtful enterprise.

“Well, and how goes the day?” was his exclamation as, the first greetings passed, we drove rapidly into town.

“Your part in it goes pretty smoothly,” I returned; and thinking I could never hope to win his attention to my own affairs till I had satisfied him in regard to his, I told him all I could concerning the law-suit then pending; a subject so prolific of question and answer, that we had driven twice round the town before he remembered he had a letter to post. As it was an important one, admitting of no delay, we hasted at once to the post-office, where he went in, leaving me outside to watch the rather meagre stream of goers and comers who at that time of day make the post-office of a country town their place of rendezvous. Among these, for some reason, I especially noted one middle-aged woman; why, I cannot say; her appearance was anything but remarkable. And yet when she came out, with two letters in her hand, one in a large and one in a small envelope, and meeting my eye hastily drew them under her shawl, I found myself wondering what was in her letters and who she could be, that the casual glance of a stranger should unconsciously move her to an action so suspicious. But Mr. Monell’s reappearance at the same moment, diverted my attention, and in the interest of the conversation that followed, I soon forgot both the woman and her letters. For determined that he should have no opportunity to revert to that endless topic, a law case, I exclaimed with the first crack of the whip,–“There, I knew there was something I wanted to ask you. It is this: Are you acquainted with any one is this town by the name of Belden?”

“There is a widow Belden in town; I don’t know of any other.”

“Is her first name Amy?”

“Yes, Mrs. Amy Belden.”

“That is the one,” said I. “Who is she, what is she, and what is the extent of your acquaintance with her?”

“Well,” said he, “ I cannot conceive why you should be interested in such an antiquated piece of commonplace goodness as she is, but seeing you ask, I have no objection to telling you that she is the very respectable relict of a deceased cabinetmaker of this town; that she lives in a little house down the street there, and that if you have any forlorn old tramp to be lodged over night, or any destitute family of little ones to be looked after, she is the one to go to. As to knowing her, I know her as I do a dozen other members of our church there up over the hill. When I see her I speak to her, and that is all.”

“A respectable widow, you say. Any family?”

“No; lives alone, has a little income, I believe; must have, to put the money on the plate she always does; but spends her time in plain sewing and such deeds of charity, as one with small means but willing heart can find the opportunity of doing in a town like this. But why in the name of wonders do you ask?”

“Business,” said I, “business. Mrs. Belden–don’t mention it by the way–has got mixed up in a case of mine, and I felt it due to my curiosity if not to my purse, to find out something about her. And I am not satisfied yet. The fact is I would give something, Monell, for the opportunity of studying this woman’s character. Now couldn’t you manage to get me introduced into her house in some way that would make it possible and proper for me to converse with her at my leisure? Business would thank you if you could.”

“Well, I don’t know; I suppose it could be done. She used to take lodgers in the summer when the hotel was full, and might be induced to give a bed to a friend of mine who is very anxious to be near the post-office on account of a business telegram he is expecting, and which when it comes will demand his immediate attention.” And Mr. Monell gave me a sly wink of his eye, little imagining how near the mark he had struck.

“You need not say that. Tell her I have a peculiar dislike to sleeping in a public house, and that you know of no one better fitted to accommodate me, for the short time I desire to be in town, than herself.”

“And what will be said of my hospitality in allowing you under these circumstances to remain in any other house than my own?”

“I don’t know; very hard things, no doubt; but I guess your hospitality can stand it.”

“Well, if you persist, we will see what can be done.” And driving up to a neat white cottage of homely, but sufficiently attractive appearance, he stopped.

“This is her house,” said he, jumping to the ground; “let’s go in and see what we can do.”

Glancing up at the windows, which were all closed save the two on the veranda overlooking the street, I thought to myself, “If she has anybody in hiding here, whose presence in the house she desires to keep secret, it is folly to hope she will take me in, however well recommended I may come.” But, yielding to the example of my friend, I alighted in my turn and followed him up the short, grass-bordered walk to the front door.

“As she has no servant, she will come to the door herself, so be ready,” he remarked as he knocked.

I had barely time to observe that the curtains to the window at my left suddenly dropped, when a hasty step made itself heard within, and a quick hand drew open the door; and I saw before me the woman whom I had observed at the post-office, and whose action with the letters had struck me as peculiar. I recognized her at first glance, though she was differently dressed, and had evidently passed through some worry or excitement that had altered the expression of her countenance, and made her manner what it was not at that time, strained and a trifle uncertain. But I saw no reason for thinking she remembered me. On the contrary, the look she directed towards me had nothing but inquiry in it, and when Mr. Monell pushed me forward with the remark, “A friend of mine; in fact my lawyer from New York,” she dropped a hurried old-fashioned curtsey whose only expression was a manifest desire to appear sensible of the honor conferred upon her, through the mist of a certain trouble that confused everything about her.

“We have come to ask a favor, Mrs. Belden; but may we not come in? “said my client in a round, hearty voice well calculated to recall a person’s thoughts into their proper channel. “I have heard many times of your cosy home, and am glad of this opportunity of seeing it.” And with a blind disregard to the look of surprised resistance with which she met his advance, he stepped gallantly into the little room whose cheery red carpet and bright picture-hung walls showed invitingly through the half-open door at our left.

Finding her premises thus invaded by a sort of French coup d’etat, Mrs. Belden made the best of the situation, and pressing me to enter also, devoted herself to hospitality. As for Mr. Monell, he quite blossomed out in his endeavors to make himself agreeable; so much so, that I shortly found myself laughing at his sallies, though my heart was full of anxiety lest, after all, our efforts should fail of the success they certainly merited. Meanwhile, Mrs. Belden softened more and more, joining in the conversation with an ease hardly to be expected from one in her humble circumstances. Indeed, I soon saw she was no common woman. There was a refinement in her speech and manner, which, combined with her motherly presence and gentle air, was very pleasing. The last woman in the world to suspect of any underhanded proceeding, if she had not shown a peculiar hesitation when Mr. Monell broached the subject of my entertainment there.

“I don’t know, sir; I would be glad, but,” and she turned a very scrutinizing look upon me, “the fact is, I have not taken lodgers of late, and I have got out of the way of the whole thing, and am afraid I cannot make him comfortable. In short, you will have to excuse me.”

“But we can’t,” returned Mr. Monell. “What, entice a fellow into a room like this”—and he cast a hearty admiring glance round the apartment which, for all its simplicity, both its warm coloring and general air of cosiness amply merited, “and then turn a cold shoulder upon him when he humbly entreats the honor of staying a single night in the enjoyment of its attractions? No, no, Mrs. Belden; I know you too well for that. Lazarus himself couldn’t come to your door and be turned away; much less a good-hearted, clever-headed young gentleman like my friend here.”

“You are very good,” she began, an almost weak love of praise showing itself for a moment in her eyes; “but I have no room prepared. I have been house-cleaning, and everything is topsy-turvy Mrs. Wright, now, over the way–”

“My young friend is going to stop here,” Mr. Mouell broke in, with frank positiveness. “If I cannot have him at my own house,—and for certain reasons it is not advisable,—I shall at least have the satisfaction of knowing he is in the charge of the best housekeeper in R–.”

“Yes,” I put in, but without too great a show of interest; “I should be sorry, once introduced here, to be obliged to go elsewhere.”

The troubled eye wavered away from us to the door.

“I was never called inhospitable,” she commenced; “but everything in such disorder. What time would you like to come?”

“I was in hopes I might remain now,” I replied; “I have some letters to write, and ask nothing better than for leave to sit here and write them.”

At the word letters I saw her hand go to her pocket in a movement which must have been involuntary, for her countenance did not change, and she made the quick reply:

“Well, you may. If you can put up with such poor accommodations as I can offer, it shall not be said I refused you what Mr. Monell is pleased to call a favor.”

And, complete in her reception as she had been in her resistance, she gave us a pleasant smile, and, ignoring my thanks, bustled out with Mr. Monell to the buggy, where she received my bag and what was, doubtless, more to her taste, the compliments he was now more than ever ready to bestow upon her.

“I will see that a room is got ready for you in a very short space of time,” she said, upon re-entering. “Meanwhile, make yourself at home here; and if you wish to write, why I think you will find everything for the purpose in these drawers.” And wheeling up a table to the easy chair in which I sat, she pointed to the small compartments beneath, with an air of such manifest desire to have me make use of anything and everything she had, that I found myself wondering over my position with a sort of startled embarrassment that was not remote from shame.

“Thank you; I have materials of my own,” said I, and hastened to open my bag and bring out the writing-case, which I always carried with me.

“Then I will leave you,” said she; and with a quick bend and a short, hurried look out of the window, she hastily quitted the room.

I could hear her steps cross the hall, go up two or three stairs, pause, go up the rest of the flight, pause again, and then pass on. I was left on the first floor alone.