The Affair Next Door (10 page)

"One; a slight scar on the left ankle."

"What kind of a scar? Describe it."

"It was such as a burn might leave. In shape it was long and narrow, and
it ran up the limb from the ankle-bone."

"Was it on the right foot?"

"No; on the left."

"Did you call the attention of any one to this mark during or after your
examination?"

"Yes; I showed it to Mr. Gryce the detective, and to my two coadjutors;
and I spoke of it to Mr. Howard Van Burnam, son of the gentleman in
whose house the body was found."

It was the first time this young gentleman's name had been mentioned,
and it made my blood run cold to see how many side-long looks and
expressive shrugs it caused in the motley assemblage. But I had no time
for sentiment; the inquiry was growing too interesting.

"And why," asked the Coroner, "did you mention it to this young man in
preference to others?"

"Because Mr. Gryce requested me to. Because the family as well as the
young man himself had evinced some apprehension lest the deceased might
prove to be his missing wife, and this seemed a likely way to settle the
question."

"And did it? Did he acknowledge it to be a mark he remembered to have
seen on his wife?"

"He said she had such a scar, but he would not acknowledge the deceased
to be his wife."

"Did he see the scar?"

"No; he would not look at it."

"Did you invite him to?"

"I did; but he showed no curiosity."

Doubtless thinking that silence would best emphasize this fact, which
certainly was an astonishing one, the Coroner waited a minute. But there
was no silence. An indescribable murmur from a great many lips filled up
the gap. I felt a movement of pity for the proud family whose good name
was thus threatened in the person of this young gentleman.

"Doctor," continued the Coroner, as soon as the murmur had subsided,
"did you notice the color of the woman's hair?"

"It was a light brown."

"Did you sever a lock? Have you a sample of this hair here to show us?"

"I have, sir. At Mr. Gryce's suggestion I cut off two small locks. One I
gave him and the other I brought here."

"Let me see it."

The doctor passed it up, and in sight of every one present the Coroner
tied a string around it and attached a ticket to it.

"That is to prevent all mistake," explained this very methodical
functionary, laying the lock aside on the table in front of him. Then he
turned again to the witness.

"Doctor, we are indebted to you for your valuable testimony, and as you
are a busy man, we will now excuse you. Let Dr. Jacobs be called."

As this gentleman, as well as the witness who followed him, merely
corroborated the statements of the other, and made it an accepted fact
that the shelves had fallen upon the body of the girl some time after
the first wound had been inflicted, I will not attempt to repeat their
testimony. The question now agitating me was whether they would endeavor
to fix the time at which the shelves fell by the evidence furnished by
the clock.

Evidently not; for the next words I heard were: "Miss Amelia
Butterworth!"

I had not expected to be called so soon, and was somewhat flustered by
the suddenness of the summons, for I am only human. But I rose with
suitable composure, and passed to the place indicated by the Coroner, in
my usual straightforward manner, heightened only by a sense of the
importance of my position, both as a witness and a woman whom the once
famous Mr. Gryce had taken more or less into his confidence.

My appearance seemed to awaken an interest for which I was not prepared.
I was just thinking how well my name had sounded uttered in the sonorous
tones of the Coroner, and how grateful I ought to be for the courage I
had displayed in substituting the genteel name of Amelia for the weak
and sentimental one of Araminta, when I became conscious that the eyes
directed towards me were filled with an expression not easy to
understand. I should not like to call it admiration and will not call it
amusement, and yet it seemed to be made up of both. While I was puzzling
myself over it, the first question came.

As my examination before the Coroner only brought out the facts already
related, I will not burden you with a detailed account of it. One
portion alone may be of interest. I was being questioned in regard to
the appearance of the couple I had seen entering the Van Burnam mansion,
when the Coroner asked if the young woman's step was light, or if it
betrayed hesitation.

I replied: "No hesitation; she moved quickly, almost gaily."

"And he?"

"Was more moderate; but there is no signification in that; he may have
been older."

"No theories, Miss Butterworth; it is facts we are after. Now, do you
know that he was older?"

"No, sir."

"Did you get any idea as to his age?"

"The impression he made was that of being a young man."

"And his height?"

"Was medium, and his figure slight and elegant. He moved as a gentleman
moves; of this I can speak with great positiveness."

"Do you think you could identify him, Miss Butterworth, if you should
see him?"

I hesitated, as I perceived that the whole swaying mass eagerly awaited
my reply. I even turned my head because I saw others doing so; but I
regretted this when I found that I, as well as others, was glancing
towards the door beyond which the Van Burnams were supposed to sit. To
cover up the false move I had made—for I had no wish as yet to centre
suspicion upon anybody—I turned my face quickly back to the crowd and
declared in as emphatic a tone as I could command:

"I have thought I could do so if I saw him under the same circumstances
as those in which my first impression was made. But lately I have begun
to doubt even that. I should never dare trust to my memory in this
regard."

The Coroner looked disappointed, and so did the people around me.

"It is a pity," remarked the Coroner, "that you did not see more
plainly. And, now, how did these persons gain an entrance into the
house?"

I answered in the most succinct way possible.

I told them how he had used a door-key in entering, of the length of
time the man stayed inside, and of his appearance on going away. I also
related how I came to call a policeman to investigate the matter next
day, and corroborated the statements of this official as to the
appearance of the deceased at time of discovery.

And there my examination stopped. I was not asked any questions tending
to bring out the cause of the suspicion I entertained against the
scrub-woman, nor were the discoveries I had made in conjunction with Mr.
Gryce inquired into. It was just as well, perhaps, but I would never
approve of a piece of work done for me in this slipshod fashion.

A recess now followed. Why it was thought necessary, I cannot imagine,
unless the gentlemen wished to smoke. Had they felt as much interest in
this murder as I did, they would not have wanted bite or sup till the
dreadful question was settled. There being a recess, I improved the
opportunity by going into a restaurant near by where one can get very
good buns and coffee at a reasonable price. But I could have done
without them.

The next witness, to my astonishment, was Mr. Gryce. As he stepped
forward, heads were craned and many women rose in their seats to get a
glimpse of the noted detective. I showed no curiosity myself, for by
this time I knew his features well, but I did feel a great satisfaction
in seeing him before the Coroner, for now, thought I, we shall hear
something worth our attention.

But his examination, though interesting, was not complete. The Coroner,
remembering his promise to show us the other end of the steel point
which had been broken off in the dead girl's brain, limited himself to
such inquiries as brought out the discovery of the broken hat-pin in Mr.
Van Burnam's parlor register. No mention was made by the witness of any
assistance which he may have received in making this discovery; a fact
which caused me to smile: men are so jealous of any interference in
their affairs.

The end found in the register and the end which the Coroner's physician
had drawn from the poor woman's head were both handed to the jury, and
it was interesting to note how each man made his little effort to fit
the two ends together, and the looks they interchanged as they found
themselves successful. Without doubt, and in the eyes of all, the
instrument of death had been found. But what an instrument!

The felt hat which had been discovered under the body was now produced
and the one hole made by a similar pin examined. Then Mr. Gryce was
asked if any other pin had been picked up from the floor of the room,
and he replied, no; and the fact was established in the minds of all
present that the young woman had been killed by a pin taken from her own
hat.

"A subtle and cruel crime; the work of a calculating intellect," was the
Coroner's comment as he allowed the detective to sit down. Which
expression of opinion I thought reprehensible, as tending to prejudice
the jury against the only person at present suspected.

The inquiry now took a turn. The name of Miss Ferguson was called. Who
was Miss Ferguson? It was a new name to most of us, and her face when
she rose only added to the general curiosity. It was the plainest face
imaginable, yet it was neither a bad nor unintelligent one. As I studied
it and noted the nervous contraction that disfigured her lip, I could
not but be sensible of my blessings. I am not handsome myself, though
there have been persons who have called me so, but neither am I ugly,
and in contrast to this woman—well, I will say nothing. I only know
that, after seeing her, I felt profoundly grateful to a kind Providence.

As for the poor woman herself, she knew she was no beauty, but she had
become so accustomed to seeing the eyes of other people turn away from
her face, that beyond the nervous twitching of which I have spoken, she
showed no feeling.

"What is your full name, and where do you live?" asked the Coroner.

"My name is Susan Ferguson, and I live in Haddam, Connecticut," was her
reply, uttered in such soft and beautiful tones that every one was
astonished. It was like a stream of limpid water flowing from a most
unsightly-looking rock. Excuse the metaphor; I do not often indulge.

"Do you keep boarders?"

"I do; a few, sir; such as my house will accommodate."

"Whom have you had with you this summer?"

I knew what her answer would be before she uttered it; so did a hundred
others, but they showed their knowledge in different ways. I did not
show mine at all.

"I have had with me," said she, "a Mr. and Mrs. Van Burnam from New
York. Mr. Howard Van Burnam is his full name, if you wish me to be
explicit."

"Any one else?"

"A Mr. Hull, also from New York, and a young couple from Hartford. My
house accommodates no more."

"How long have the first mentioned couple been with you?"

"Three months. They came in June."

"Are they with you still?"

"Virtually, sir. They have not moved their trunks; but neither of them
is in Haddam at present. Mrs. Van Burnam came to New York last Monday
morning, and in the afternoon her husband also left, presumably for New
York. I have seen nothing of either of them since."

(It was on Tuesday night the murder occurred.)

"Did either of them take a trunk?"

"No, sir."

"A hand-bag?"

"Yes; Mrs. Van Burnam carried a bag, but it was a very small one."

"Large enough to hold a dress?"

"O no, sir."

"And Mr. Van Burnam?"

"He carried an umbrella; I saw nothing else."

"Why did they not leave together? Did you hear any one say?"

"Yes; I heard them say Mrs. Van Burnam came against her husband's
wishes. He did not want her to leave Haddam, but she would, and he was
none too pleased at it. Indeed they had words about it, and as both our
rooms overlook the same veranda, I could not help hearing some of their
talk."

"Will you tell us what you heard?"

"It does not seem right" (thus this honest woman spoke), "but if it's
the law, I must not go against it. I heard him say these words: 'I have
changed my mind, Louise. The more I think of it, the more disinclined I
am to have you meddle in the matter. Besides, it will do no good. You
will only add to the prejudice against you, and our life will become
more unbearable than it is now.'"

"Of what were they speaking?"

"I do not know."

"And what did she reply?"

"O, she uttered a torrent of words that had less sense in them than
feeling. She wanted to go, she would go,
she
had not changed
her
mind, and considered that her impulses were as well worth following as
his cool judgment. She was not happy, had never been happy, and meant
there should be a change, even if it were for the worse. But she did not
believe it would be for the worse. Was she not pretty? Was she not very
pretty when in distress and looking up thus? And I heard her fall on her
knees, a movement which called out a grunt from her husband, but whether
this was an expression of approval or disapproval I cannot say. A
silence followed, during which I caught the sound of his steady tramping
up and down the room. Then she spoke again in a petulant way. 'It may
seem foolish to
you
' she cried, 'knowing me as you do, and being used
to seeing me in all my moods. But to him it will be a surprise, and I
will so manage it that it will effect all we want, and more, too,
perhaps. I—I have a genius for some things, Howard; and my better angel
tells me I shall succeed.'"

"And what did he reply to that?"

"That the name of her better angel was Vanity; that his father would see
through her blandishments; that he forbade her to prosecute her schemes;
and much more to the same effect. To all of which she answered by a
vigorous stamp of her foot, and the declaration that she was going to do
what she thought best in spite of all opposition; that it was a lover,
and not a tyrant that she had married, and that if he did not know what
was good for himself, she did, and that when he received an intimation
from his father that the breach in the family was closed, then he would
acknowledge that if she had no fortune and no connections, she had at
least a plentiful supply of wit. Upon which he remarked: 'A poor
qualification when it verges upon folly!' which seemed to close the
conversation, for I heard no more till the sound of her skirts rustling
past my door assured me she had carried her point and was leaving the
house. But this was not done without great discomfiture to her husband,
if one may judge from the few brief but emphatic words that escaped him
before he closed his own door and followed her down the hall."