The Leavenworth Case
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But what can express the anxiety of that moment to me? Gentle as she now appeared, she was capable of great wrath, as I knew. Was she going to reiterate her suspicions here? Did she hate as well as mistrust her cousin? Would she dare assert in this presence, and before the world, what she found it so easy to utter in the privacy of her own room and the hearing of the one person concerned? Did she wish to? Her own countenance gave me no clue to her intentions, and, in my anxiety, I turned once more to look at Eleanore. But she, in a dread and apprehension I could easily understand, had recoiled at the first intimation that her cousin was to speak, and now sat with her face covered from sight, by hands blanched to an almost deathly whiteness.
The testimony of Mary Leavenworth was short. After some few questions, mostly referring to her position in the house and her connection with its deceased master, she was asked to relate what she knew of the murder itself, and of its discovery by her cousin and the servants.
Lifting up a brow that seemed never to have known till now the shadow of care or trouble, and a voice that, whilst low and womanly, rang like a bell through the room, she replied:
‘You ask me, gentlemen, a question which I cannot answer of my own personal knowledge. I know nothing of this murder, nor of its discovery, save what has come to me through the lips of others.’
My heart gave a bound of relief, and I saw Eleanore Leavenworth’s hands drop from her brow like stone, while a flickering gleam as of hope fled over her face, and then died away like sunlight leaving marble.
‘For, strange as it may seem to you,’ Mary earnestly continued, the shadow of a past horror revisiting her countenance, ‘I did not enter the room where my uncle lay. I did not even think of doing so; my only impulse was to fly from what was so horrible and heart-rending. But Eleanore went in, and she can tell you—’
‘We will question Miss Eleanore Leavenworth later,’ interrupted the coroner, but very gently for him. Evidently the grace and elegance of this beautiful woman were making their impression. ‘What we want to know is what you saw. You say you cannot tell us of anything that passed in the room at the time of the discovery?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Only what occurred in the hall?’
‘Nothing occurred in the hall,’ she innocently remarked.
‘Did not the servants pass in from the hall, and your cousin come out there after her revival from her fainting fit?’
Mary Leavenworth’s violet eyes opened wonderingly.
‘Yes, sir; but that was nothing.’
‘You remember, however, her coming into the hall?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘With a paper in her hand?’
‘Paper?’ and she wheeled suddenly and looked at her cousin. ‘Did you have a paper, Eleanore?’
The moment was intense. Eleanore Leavenworth, who at the first mention of the word paper had started perceptibly, rose to her feet at this naïve appeal, and opening her lips seemed about to speak, when the coroner, with a strict sense of what was regular, lifted his hand with decision, and said:
‘You need not ask your cousin, Miss; but let us hear what you have to say yourself.’
Immediately, Eleanore Leavenworth sank back, a pink spot breaking out on either cheek; while a slight murmur testified to the disappointment of those in the room, who were more anxious to have their curiosity gratified than the forms of law adhered to.
Satisfied with having done his duty, and disposed to be easy with so charming a witness, the coroner repeated his question. ‘Tell us, if you please, if you saw any such thing in her hand?’
‘I? Oh, no, no; I saw nothing.’
Being now questioned in relation to the events of the previous night, she had no new light to throw upon the subject. She acknowledged her uncle to have been a little reserved at dinner, but no more so than at previous times when annoyed by some business anxiety.
Asked if she had seen her uncle again that evening, she said no, that she had been detained in her room. That the sight of him, sitting in his seat at the head of the table, was the very last remembrance she had of him.
There was something so touching, so forlorn, and yet so unobtrusive, in this simple recollection of hers, that a look of sympathy passed slowly around the room.
I even detected Mr Gryce softening towards the inkstand. But Eleanore Leavenworth sat unmoved.
‘Was your uncle on ill terms with anyone?’ was now asked. ‘Had he valuable papers or secret sums of money in his possession?’
To all these inquiries she returned an equal negative.
‘Has your uncle met any stranger lately, or received any important letter during the last few weeks, which might seem in any way to throw light upon this mystery?’
There was the slightest perceptible hesitation in her voice, as she replied: ‘No, not to my knowledge; I don’t know of any such.’ But here, stealing a side glance at Eleanore, she evidently saw something that reassured her, for she hastened to add:
‘I believe I may go further than that, and meet your question with a positive no. My uncle was in the habit of confiding in me, and I should have known if anything of importance to him had occurred.’
Questioned in regard to Hannah, she gave that person the best of characters; knew of nothing which could have led either to her strange disappearance, or to her connection with crime. Could not say whether she kept any company, or had any visitors; only knew that no one with any such pretensions came to the house. Finally, when asked when she had last seen the pistol which Mr Leavenworth always kept in his stand drawer, she returned, ‘not since the day he bought it’; Eleanore, and not herself, having the charge of her uncle’s apartments.
It was the only thing she had said which, even to a mind freighted like mine, would seem to point to any private doubt or secret suspicion; and this, uttered in the careless manner in which it was, would have passed without comment if Eleanore herself had not directed at that moment a very much aroused and inquiring look upon the speaker.
But it was time for the inquisitive juror to make himself heard again. Edging to the brink of the chair, he drew in his breath, with a vague awe of Mary’s beauty, almost ludicrous to see, and asked if she had properly considered what she had just said.
‘I hope, sir, I consider all I am called upon to say at such a time as this,’ was her earnest reply.
The little juror drew back, and I looked to see her examination terminate, when suddenly his ponderous colleague of the watch-chain, catching the young lady’s eye, inquired:
‘Miss Leavenworth, did your uncle ever make a will?’
Instantly every man in the room was in arms, and even she could not prevent the slow blush of injured pride from springing to her cheek. But her answer was given firmly, and without any show of resentment.
‘Yes, sir,’ she returned simply.
‘More than one?’
‘I never heard of but one.’
‘Are you acquainted with the contents of that will?’
‘I am. He made no secret of his intentions to anyone.’
The juryman lifted his eye-glass and looked at her. Her grace was little to him, or her beauty or her elegance. ‘Perhaps, then, you can tell me who is the one most likely to be benefited by his death?’
The brutality of this question was too marked to pass unchallenged. Not a man in that room, myself included, but frowned with sudden disapprobation. But Mary Leavenworth, drawing herself up, looked her interlocutor calmly in the face, and restrained herself to say:
‘I know who would be the greatest losers by it. The children he took to his bosom in their helplessness and sorrow; the young girls he enshrined with the halo of his love and protection, when love and protection were what their immaturity most demanded; the women who looked to him for guidance when childhood and youth were passed—these, sir, these are the ones to whom his death is a loss, in comparison to which all others which may hereafter befall them must ever seem trivial and unimportant.’
It was a noble reply to the basest of insinuations, and the juryman drew back rebuked; but here another of them, one who had not spoken before, but whose appearance was not only superior to the rest, but also almost imposing in its gravity, leaned from his seat and in a solemn voice said:
‘Miss Leavenworth, the human mind cannot help forming impressions. Now have you, with or without reason, felt at any time conscious of a suspicion pointing towards any one person as the murderer of your uncle?’
It was a frightful moment. To me and to one other, I am sure it was not only frightful, but agonising. Would her courage fail? Would her determination to shield her cousin remain firm in the face of duty and at the call of probity? I dared not hope it.
But Mary Leavenworth, rising to her feet, looked judge and jury calmly in the face, and, without raising her voice, giving it an indescribably clear and sharp intonation, replied:
‘No; I have neither suspicion nor reason for any. The assassin of my uncle is not only entirely unknown to, but completely unsuspected by, me.’
It was like the removal of a stifling pressure. Amid a universal outgoing of the breath, Mary Leavenworth stood aside and Eleanore was called in her place.
CHAPTER VIII
CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE
‘O dark, dark, dark!’
—MILTON’S SAMSON AGONISTES
AND now that the interest was at its height, that the veil which shrouded this horrible tragedy seemed about to be lifted, if not entirely withdrawn, I felt a desire to fly the scene, to leave the spot, to know no more. Not that I was conscious of any particular fear of this woman betraying herself. The cold steadiness of her now fixed and impassive countenance was sufficient warranty in itself against the possibility of any such catastrophe. But if, indeed, the suspicions of her cousin were the offspring, not only of hatred, but of knowledge; if that face of beauty was in truth only a mask, and Eleanore Leavenworth was what the words of her cousin and her own after behaviour would seem to imply, how could I bear to sit there and see the frightful serpent of deceit and sin evolve itself from the bosom of this white rose? And yet, such is the fascination of uncertainty that, although I saw something of my own feelings reflected in the countenances of many about me, not a man in all that assemblage showed any disposition to depart, I least of all.
The coroner, upon whom the blonde loveliness of Mary had impressed itself to Eleanor’s apparent detriment, was the only one in the room who showed himself unaffected at this moment. Turning toward the witness with a look which, while respectful, had a touch of austerity in it, he began:
‘You have been an intimate of Mr Leavenworth’s family from childhood, they tell me, Miss Leavenworth?’
‘From my tenth year,’ was her quiet reply.
It was the first time I had heard her voice, and it surprised me; it was so like, and yet so unlike, that of her cousin. Similar in tone, it lacked its expressiveness, if I may so speak; sounding without vibration on the ear, and ceasing without an echo.
‘Since that time you have been treated like a daughter, they tell me?’
‘Yes, sir, like a daughter, indeed; he was more than a father to both of us.’
‘You and Miss Mary Leavenworth are cousins, I believe. When did she enter the family?’
‘At the same time I did. Our respective parents were victims of the same disaster. If it had not been for our uncle, we should have been thrown, children as we were, upon the world. But he’—here she paused, her firm lips breaking into a half tremble—‘but he, in the goodness of his heart, adopted us into his family, and gave us what we had both lost, a father and a home.’
‘You say he was a father to you as well as to your cousin—that he adopted you. Do you mean by that, that he not only surrounded you with present luxury, but gave you to understand that the same should be secured to you after his death; in short, that he intended to leave any portion of his property to you?’
‘No, sir; I was given to understand, from the first, that his property would be bequeathed by will to my cousin.’
‘Your cousin was no more nearly related to him than yourself, Miss Leavenworth; did he never give you any reason for this evident partiality?’
‘None but his pleasure, sir.’
Her answers up to this point had been so straightforward and satisfactory that a gradual confidence seemed to be taking the place of the rather uneasy doubts which had from the first circled about this woman’s name and person. But at this admission, uttered as it was in a calm, unimpassioned voice, not only the jury, but myself, who had so much truer reason for distrusting her, felt that actual suspicion in her case must be very much shaken before the utter lack of motive which this reply so clearly betokened.
Meanwhile the coroner continued: ‘If your uncle was as kind to you as you say, you must have become very much attached to him?’
‘Yes, sir,’ her mouth taking a sudden determined curve.
‘His death, then, must have been a great shock to you?’
‘Very, very great.’
‘Enough of itself to make you faint away, as they tell me you did, at the first glimpse you had of his body?’
‘Enough, quite.’
‘And yet you seemed to be prepared for it?’
‘Prepared?’
‘The servants say you were much agitated at finding that your uncle did not make his appearance at the breakfast table.’
‘The servants!’ Her tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of her mouth; she could hardly speak.
‘That when you returned from his room you were very pale.’
Was she beginning to realise that there was some doubt, if not actual suspicion, in the mind of the man who could assail her with questions like these? I had not seen her so agitated since that one memorable instant up in her room. But her mistrust, if she felt any, did not long betray itself. Calming herself by a great effort, she replied, with a quiet gesture:
‘That is not so strange. My uncle was a very methodical man; the least change in his habits would be likely to awaken our apprehensions.’
‘You were alarmed, then?’
‘To a certain extent I was.’
‘Miss Leavenworth, who is in the habit of overseeing the regulation of your uncle’s private apartments?’
‘I am, sir.’
‘You are doubtless, then, acquainted with a certain stand in his room containing a drawer?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘How long is it since you had occasion to go to this drawer?’
‘Yesterday,’ visibly trembling at the admission.
‘At what time?’
‘Near noon, I should judge.’
‘Was the pistol he was accustomed to keep there in its place at the time?’
‘I presume so; I did not observe.’
‘Did you turn the key upon closing the drawer?’
‘I did.’
‘Take it out?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Miss Leavenworth, that pistol, as you have perhaps observed, lies on the table before you. Will you look at it?’ And lifting it up into view, he held it towards her.
If he had meant to startle her by the sudden action, he amply succeeded. At the first sight of the murderous weapon she shrank back, and a horrified but quickly suppressed shriek burst from her lips. ‘Oh, no, no!’ she moaned, flinging out her hands before her.
‘I must insist upon your looking at it, Miss Leavenworth,’ pursued the coroner. ‘When it was found just now, all the chambers were loaded.’
Instantly the agonised look left her countenance. ‘Oh, then—’ She did not finish, but put out her hand for the weapon.
But the coroner, looking at her steadily, continued: ‘It has been lately fired off, for all that. The hand that cleaned the barrel forgot the cartridge-chamber, Miss Leavenworth.’
She did not shriek again, but a hopeless, helpless look slowly settled over her face, and she seemed about to sink; but like a flash the reaction came, and lifting her head with a steady, grand action I have never seen equalled, she exclaimed, ‘Very well, what then?’
The coroner laid the pistol down; men and women glanced at each other; everyone seemed to hesitate to proceed. I heard a tremulous sigh at my side, and, turning, beheld Mary Leavenworth staring at her cousin with a startled flush on her cheek, as if she began to recognise that the public, as well as herself, detected something in this woman, calling for explanation.
At last the coroner summoned up courage to continue.
‘You ask me, Miss Leavenworth, upon the evidence given, what then? Your question obliges me to say that no burglar, no hired assassin, would have used this pistol for a murderous purpose, and then taken the pains, not only to clean it, but to reload it, and lock it up again in the drawer from which he had taken it.’
She did not reply to this; but I saw Mr Gryce make a note of it with that peculiar emphatic nod of his.
‘Nor,’ he went on, even more gravely, ‘would it be possible for anyone who was not accustomed to pass in and out of Mr Leavenworth’s room at all hours, to enter his door so late at night, procure this pistol from its place of concealment, traverse his apartment, and advance as closely upon him as the facts show to have been necessary, without causing him at least to turn his head to one side; which, in consideration of the doctor’s testimony, we cannot believe he did.’
It was a frightful suggestion, and we looked to see Eleanore Leavenworth recoil. But that expression of outraged feeling was left for her cousin to exhibit. Starting indignantly from her seat, Mary cast one hurried glance around her, and opened her lips to speak; but Eleanore, slightly turning, motioned her to have patience, and replied in a cold and calculating voice: ‘You are not sure, sir, that this was done. If my uncle, for some purpose of his own, had fired the pistol off yesterday, let us say—which is surely possible, if not probable—the like results would be observed, and the same conclusions drawn.’
‘Miss Leavenworth,’ the coroner went on, ‘the ball has been extracted from your uncle’s head!’
‘Ah!’
‘It corresponds with those in the cartridges found in his stand drawer, and is of the number used with this pistol.’
Her head fell forward on her hands; her eyes sought the floor; her whole attitude expressed disheartenment. Seeing it, the coroner grew still more grave.
‘Miss Leavenworth,’ said he, ‘I have now some questions to put you concerning last night. Where did you spend the evening?’
‘Alone, in my own room.’
‘You, however, saw your uncle or your cousin during the course of it?’
‘No, sir; I saw no one after leaving the dinner table—except Thomas,’ she added, after a moment’s pause.
‘And how came you to see him?’
‘He came to bring me the card of a gentleman who called.’
‘May I ask the name of the gentleman?’
‘The name on the card was Mr LeRoy Robbins.’
The matter seemed trivial; but the sudden start given by the lady at my side made me remember it.
‘Miss Leavenworth, when seated in your room, are you in the habit of leaving your door open?’
A startled look at this, quickly suppressed. ‘Not in the habit; no, sir.’
‘Why did you leave it open last night?’
‘I was feeling warm.’
‘No other reason?’
‘I can give no other.’
‘When did you close it?’
‘Upon retiring.’
‘Was that before or after the servants went up?’
‘After.’
‘Did you hear Mr Harwell when he left the library and ascended to his room?’
‘I did, sir.’
‘How much longer did you leave your door open after that?’
‘I—I—a few minutes—a—I cannot say,’ she added, hurriedly.
‘Cannot say? Why? Do you forget?’
‘I forget just how long after Mr Harwell came up I closed it.’
‘Was it more than ten minutes?’
‘Yes.’
‘More than twenty?’
‘Perhaps.’ How pale her face was, and how she trembled!
‘Miss Leavenworth, according to evidence, your uncle came to his death not very long after Mr Harwell left him. If your door was open, you ought to have heard if anyone went to his room, or any pistol shot was fired. Now, did you hear anything?’
‘I heard no confusion; no, sir.’
‘Did you hear anything?’
‘Nor any pistol shot.’
‘Miss Leavenworth, excuse my persistence, but did you hear anything?’
‘I heard a door close.’
‘What door?’
‘The library door.’
‘When?’
‘I do not know.’ She clasped her hands hysterically. ‘I cannot say. Why do you ask me so many questions?’
I leaped to my feet; she was swaying, almost fainting. But before I could reach her, she had drawn herself up again, and resumed her former demeanour. ‘Excuse me,’ said she; ‘I am not myself this morning. I beg your pardon,’ and she turned steadily to the coroner. ‘What was it you asked?’
‘I asked,’ and his voice grew thin and high—evidently her manner was beginning to tell against her—‘when it was you heard the library door shut?’
‘I cannot fix the precise time, but it was after Mr Harwell came up, and before I closed my own.’
‘And you heard no pistol shot?’
‘No, sir.’
The coroner cast a quick look at the jury, who almost to a man glanced aside as he did so.
‘Miss Leavenworth, we are told that Hannah, one of the servants, started for your room late last night after some medicine. Did she come there?’
‘No, sir.’
‘When did you first learn of her remarkable disappearance from this house during the night?’
‘This morning before breakfast. Molly met me in the hall, and asked how Hannah was. I thought the inquiry a strange one, and naturally questioned her. A moment’s talk made the conclusion plain that the girl was gone.’
‘What did you think when you became assured of this fact?’
‘I did not know what to think.’
‘No suspicion of foul play crossed your mind?’
‘No, sir.’
‘You did not connect the fact with that of your uncle’s murder?’
‘I did not know of this murder then.’
‘And afterwards?’
‘Oh, some thought of the possibility of her knowing something about it may have crossed my mind; I cannot say.’
‘Can you tell us anything of this girl’s past history?’
‘I can tell you no more in regard to it than my cousin has done.’
‘Do you not know what made her sad at night?’
Her cheek flushed angrily; was it at his tone, or at the question itself? ‘No, sir! She never confided her secrets to my keeping.’
‘Then you cannot tell us where she would be likely to go upon leaving this house?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘Miss Leavenworth, we are obliged to put another question to you. We are told it was by your order your uncle’s body was removed from where it was found, into the next room.’
She bowed her head.
‘Didn’t you know it to be improper for you or anyone else to disturb the body of a person found dead, except in the presence and under the authority of the proper officer?’
‘I did not consult my knowledge, sir, in regard to the subject: only my feelings.’
‘Then I suppose it was your feelings which prompted you to remain standing by the table at which he was murdered, instead of following the body in and seeing it properly deposited? Or perhaps,’ he went on, with relentless sarcasm, ‘you were too much interested, just then, in the piece of paper you took away, to think much of the proprieties of the occasion?’
‘Paper?’ lifting her head with determination. ‘Who says I took a piece of paper from the table?’
‘One witness has sworn to seeing you bend over the table upon which several papers lay strewn; another, to meeting you a few minutes later in the hall just as you were putting a piece of paper into your pocket. The inference follows, Miss Leavenworth.’