The Clue (13 page)

XIII

AN INTERVIEW WITH CICELY

THIS SITTING-ROOM WAS on the second floor, directly back of Madeleine's bedroom, the bedroom being above the library. Miss Dupuy's own room was back of this and communicated with it.

The sitting-room was a pleasant place, with large light windows and easy chairs and couches. A large and well-filled desk seemed to prove the necessity of a social secretary, if Miss Van Norman cared to have any leisure hours.

Surrounded by letters and papers, Cicely sat at the desk as they entered, but immediately rose to meet them.

Kitty's tact in requesting the interview had apparently been successful, for Miss Dupuy was gracious and affable.

But after some desultory conversation which amounted to nothing, Fessenden concluded a direct course would be better.

“Miss Dupuy,” he said, “I'm a detective, at least in an amateur way.”

Cicely gave a start and a look of fear came into her eyes.

“I have the interests of Schuyler Carleton at heart,” the young man continued, “and my efforts shall be primarily directed toward clearing him from any breath of suspicion that may seem to have fallen upon him.”

“O, thank you!” cried Cicely, clasping her hands and showing such genuine gratitude that Fessenden was startled by a new idea.

“I'm sure,” he said, “that you'll give me any help in your power. As Miss Van Norman's private secretary, of course you know most of the details of her daily life.”

“Yes; but I don't see why I should tell everything to that Benson man!”

“You should tell him only such things as may have a bearing on this mystery that we are trying to clear up.”

“Then I know nothing to tell. I know nothing about the mystery.”

“No, Cicely,” said Kitty, in a soothing voice, “of course you know nothing definite; but if you could tell us some few things that may seem to you unimportant, we—that is, Mr. Fessenden—might find them of great help.”

“Well,” returned Cicely slowly, “you may ask questions, if you choose, Mr. Fessenden, and I will answer or not, as I prefer.”

“Thank you, Miss Dupuy.” You may feel sure I will ask only the ones I consider necessary to the work I have undertaken. And first of all, was Miss Van Norman in love with Carleton?”

“She was indeed, desperately so.”

“Yet she seemed greatly attached to her cousin, Mr. Willard.”

“That was partly a cousinly affection, and partly a sort of coquetry to pique Mr. Carleton.”

“And was Carleton devoted to her?”

“Must I answer that?” Cicely's eyes looked troubled.

“Yes, you must.” Fessenden's voice was very gentle.

“Then he was not devoted to her; in fact, he loved another.”

“Who is this other?”

“Dorothy Burt, his mother's companion, who lives at the Carleton home.”

“Did Miss Van Norman know this?”

“Yes, she learned of it lately, and it broke her heart. That is why she was so uncertain and erratic in her moods; that is why she coquetted with Mr. Willard, to arouse Schuyler Carleton's jealousy.”

“This throws a new light on it all,” said Fessenden gravely. “And this Miss Burt—did she return Carleton's regard?”

“I don't know,” said Cicely, and her agitation seemed to increase, though she tried hard to conceal it. “Of course Miss Van Norman didn't speak openly of this matter, but I knew her so well that I easily divined from her moods and her actions that she knew she had a rival in Mr. Carleton's affections.”

“Then he cared more for her in time past?”

“Yes, until that girl came to live with his mother. She's a designing little thing, and she just twisted Mr. Carleton round her finger.”

“Do you know her personally, Miss Dupuy?”

A look of intense hatred came over Cicely's expressive face.

“No! I wouldn't meet her for anything. But I have seen her, and I know perfectly well that Mr. Carleton cares for her more than he did for Miss Van Norman.”

“Yet he was about to marry Miss Van Norman.”

“Yes; because they were engaged before he saw the Burt girl. Then, you see, he didn't think it honorable to refuse to marry her, and she—”

“He had asked her, then, to give him back his freedom?”

“Yes, he had. And Miss Van Norman very rightly refused to do so.”

“Oh, no!” cried Kitty, “do you
know
this, or are you only surmising it?”

“I know it, Miss French. In her sorrow over the matter, Miss Van Norman often confided in me as in a friend.”

“And you were a good friend to her, I'm sure,” said Fessenden heartily. “Now, Miss Dupuy, do you think it could have been possible that Mr. Carleton came here late last night to ask Miss Van Norman once again to release him from the marriage?”

“He might have done so,” said Cicely in a noncommittal tone. “He was very much annoyed at her behavior with Mr. Willard in the afternoon.”

“But that was on purpose to annoy him?”

“Yes, and it succeeded.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Miss Van Norman intimated as much just before dinner, when we were here alone. She feared Mr. Carleton was so angry he wouldn't come to dinner at all.”

“And he didn't.”

“No, he didn't.”

“But, Miss Dupuy, it would scarcely be possible to think that if he did return later to ask his release—it would
not
be possible to think that on Miss Van Norman's refusal to release him he—was so incensed against her that.”

“Oh, no,
no
!”
cried Cicely. “Of course he didn't kill her! Of
course
he didn't! She killed herself! I don't care what any one says—I
know
she killed herself!”

“If so,” said Fessenden, “we must prove it by keeping on with our investigations. And now, Miss Dupuy, will you tell me what was your errand when you returned to the library late last night, when the two doctors were alone there in charge of the room?”

“I didn't!” declared Cicely, her cheeks flaming and her blue eyes fairly glaring at her interrogator.

“Please stick to the truth, Miss Dupuy,” said Fessenden coldly. “If you don't, we can't credit any of your statements. You opened the door very softly, and were about to enter, when you spied the doctors and withdrew.”

“I went to get that paper,” said Cicely, somewhat sulkily.

“Why did you want that?”

“Because it was mine. I had a right to it.”

“Then why didn't you go on in and get it? The doctors' presence need have made no difference.”

“I don't know
why
I didn't! I wish you'd stop asking questions!”

“I will, in a moment. You are sure you wrote that paper yourself?”

“Of course I am!” The answer was snapped out pertly.

“And you wrote it meaning yourself? You didn't write it with the intent that it should be taken for Miss Van Norman's message?”

Cicely eyes dropped involuntarily. Then she raised them, and stared straight at Fessenden. “What do you mean?” she asked haughtily.

“Just what I say. Was that written paper an expression of your own heart's secret?”

It must have been because of Fessenden's magnetism, or compelling sympathy, but for some reason Cicely took no offense at this, and answered simply, “Yes.”

“Strange,” mused Rob, “how that man won so many women's hearts.”

“No, it isn't strange,” said Cicely, also in slow, thoughtful tones. And then, suddenly realizing the admission she had made, and seeing how she had revealed her own secret she flew into a rage.

“What do you
mean
?”
she cried. “I didn't refer to Mr. Carleton.”

“Yes, you did,” said Fessenden, so quietly that again Cicely was silent, and Kitty sat surprised almost to breathlessness.

“There is to be only truth between us,” went on Rob. You did mean Mr. Carleton, by the letter ‘S'; but have no fear, your secret shall be respected. Now we will have only the truth—remember that. So please tell me frankly at what time you saw Mr. Carleton come into the house last night?”

“Just a few moments before half-past eleven.” Cicely said this glibly, as if reciting a carefully conned lesson.

“Wait a moment—you forget that Mr. Hunt fixed the time at quarter after eleven, and that he saw you looking over the baluster at the same time.”

With an agonized cry of dismay, Miss Dupuy fainted into utter unconsciousness.

Perplexed and baffled in his inquiries, Fessenden saw that for the moment Miss Dupuy's physical condition was of paramount importance, and at Kitty's request he rang for Marie. Even before she came the others had placed Cicely gently on a couch, and when the maid arrived Fessenden left the room, knowing that the girl was properly cared for.

Going downstairs again, he was about to make his adieux to Mrs. Markham and leave the house, when Kitty French, coming down soon after him, asked him to stay a few minutes longer.

The sight of her pretty face drove more serious thoughts from his mind, and he turned, more than willing to follow where she led. “Oh, whistle, and I'll come to you,” he whispered. But Kitty had weighty information to impart, and was in no mood for trifling. They found a quiet corner, and then Kitty told him that Cicely had regained consciousness almost immediately, but that just before she did so, she cried out sharply, “They must not think Schuyler did it! They must not!”

“And so,” said Kitty, astutely, “you see, it's as I told you. Mr. Carleton
did
kill Maddy, and Cicely knows it, but she doesn't want other people to find it out, because she's in love with him herself!”

Rob Fessenden gave his companion an admiring glance.

“That's good reasoning and sound logic,” he said; “and I'd subscribe to it if it were anybody but old Schuyler. But I can't and won't believe that man guilty without further evidence than that of a fainting, hysterical woman.”

“Everybody seems to be in love with Mr. Carleton,” said Kitty, demurely.

“You're not, are you?” said Rob, so quickly that Kitty blushed.

“No, I'm not,” she declared. “He's a stunning-looking man, and that superior, impassive way of his catches some women, but I don't care for it. I prefer a more enthusiastic temperament.”

“Like mine,” said Rob casually.

“Have you a temperament?” said Kitty saucily. “It isn't at all noticeable.”

“It will be, after you know me better. But Miss French, since you've raised this question of Miss Dupuy's evidence, let me tell you what it means to me. Or, rather, what it seems to point to, for it's all too vague for us to draw any real conclusions. But, as a first impression, my suspicion turns toward Miss Dupuy herself rather than Carleton.”

“Cicely! You don't mean
she
killed Maddy! Oh, how
can
you?”

“Now, don't fly into hysterics yourself. Wait a minute. I haven't accused her at all. But look at it. Miss Van Norman was certainly killed by Carleton,
or
by some one already in the house. It has been proved that nobody outside could get in. Now if the criminal
is
some one in the house, we must consider each one in turn. And if by chance we consider Miss Dupuy first, we must admit a motive.”

“What motive?”

“Why, that of a jealous woman. Miss Van Norman was just about to marry the man Miss Dupuy is in love with. Perhaps—do have patience, I'm merely supposing—perhaps she has vainly urged Miss Van Norman to give him up, and, finding she wouldn't do so, at the last minute she prevented the marriage herself,—putting that paper on the table to make it appear a suicide. This would explain her stealthy attempt to regain possession of the paper later.”

“Why should she want it?”

“So that it couldn't be
proved
not to be in Miss Van Norman's writing.”

“It's ingenious on your part,” said Kitty slowly, “but it can't be true. Cicely may be in love with Schuyler, but she wouldn't kill Maddy because of that.”

“Who can tell what a hysterical, jealous woman will do?” said Rob, with the air of an oracle. “And moreover, to my mind, that explains her half-conscious exclamation of which you just told me. When she said, ‘They must not think Schuyler did it,' it meant that she knew he didn't do it, but she didn't want suspicion to rest on him. That's why she insists it was a suicide.”

So in earnest was Fessenden that Kitty felt almost convinced there was something in his theory.

“But it can't be,” she said, at last, with an air of finality. “It wouldn't be
possible
for Cicely to do such a thing! I know
her
too well!”

“Then, Miss French, if that, to you, is a logical argument, you must admit mine. It wouldn't be
possible
for Carleton to do such a thing! I know
him
too well!”

Kitty had to smile at the imitation of the strong inflections she had used, and, too, she had to admit that one opinion was as permissible as the other.

“You see,” went on Rob quietly, “we're not really assuming Miss Dupuy's guilt, we're only seeing where these deductions lead us. Suppose, for the moment, that Miss Dupuy did, during that half-hour in the library, have an altercation with Miss Van Norman, and just suppose,—or imagine, if you prefer the word,—that she turned the dagger upon her friend and employer, wouldn't her subsequent acts have been just as they were? At Mr. Carleton's alarm, she came downstairs, fully dressed; later she tried to remove secretly that written paper; always at serious questioning she faints or flies into hysterics; and, naturally, when suspicion comes near the man she cares for, she tries to turn it off. And then, too, Miss French, a very strong point against her is that she was the last one, so far as we know, to see Miss Van Norman alive. Of course, the murderer was the last one; but I mean, of the witnesses, Miss Dupuy was the latest known to be with Miss Van Norman. Thus, her evidence cannot be corroborated, and it may or may not be true. If she is the guilty one, we cannot expect the truth from her, and so we must at least admit that there is room for investigation, if not suspicion.”