Chapter Chapter 25 · TIMOTHY COOK

. He has been absent, but returned to F---- two days

ago. Can be seen if required.”

“Ah, ha!” I cried aloud at this point, in my sudden surprise and

satisfaction; “now we have something to work upon!” And sitting

down I penned the following reply:

“T. C. wanted by all means. Also any evidence going to prove

that H. C. and E. L. were married at the house of Mr. S. on

any day of July or August last.”

Next morning came the following telegram:

“T. C. on the road. Remembers a marriage. Will be with you

by 2 P.M.”

At three o’clock of that same day, I stood before Mr. Gryce. “I am

here to make my report,” I announced.

The flicker of a smile passed over his face, and he gazed for the

first time at his bound-up finger-ends with a softening aspect

which must have done them good. “I’m ready,” said he.

“Mr. Gryce,” I began, “do you remember the conclusion we came to at

our first interview in this house?”

“I remember the _one you_ came to.”

“Well, well,” I acknowledged a little peevishly, “the one I came

to, then. It was this: that if we could find to whom Eleanore

Leavenworth felt she owed her best duty and love, we should

discover the man who murdered her uncle.”

“And do you imagine you have done this?”

“I do.”

His eyes stole a little nearer my face. “Well! that is good; go on.”

“When I undertook this business of clearing Eleanore Leavenworth

from suspicion,” I resumed, “it was with the premonition that this

person would prove to be her lover; but I had no idea he would

prove to be her husband.”

Mr. Gryce’s gaze flashed like lightning to the ceiling.

“What!” he ejaculated with a frown.

“The lover of Eleanore Leavenworth is likewise her husband,” I

repeated. “Mr. Clavering holds no lesser connection to her than

that.”

“How have you found that out?” demanded Mr. Gryce, in a harsh tone

that argued disappointment or displeasure.

“That I will not take time to state. The question is not how I

became acquainted with a certain thing, but is what I assert in

regard to it true. If you will cast your eye over this summary of

events gleaned by me from the lives of these two persons, I think

you will agree with me that it is.” And I held up before his eyes

the following:

“During the two weeks commencing July 6, of the year 1875,

and ending July 19, of the same year, Henry R. Clavering,

of London, and Eleanore Leavenworth, of New York, were

guests of the same hotel. _Fact proved by Visitor Book of

the Hotel Union at R_----, _New York_.

“They were not only guests of the same hotel, but are known

to have held more or less communication with each other.

_Fact proved by such servants now employed in R---- as were

in the hotel at that time._

“July 19. Mr. Clavering left R---- abruptly, a circumstance

that would not be considered remarkable if Mr. Leavenworth,

whose violent antipathy to Englishmen as husbands is

publicly known, had not just returned from a journey.

“July 30. Mr. Clavering was seen in the parlor of Mr.

Stebbins, the Methodist minister at F----, a town about

sixteen miles from R----, where he was married to a lady

of great beauty. _Proved by Timothy Cook, a man in the

employ of Mr. Stebbins, who was called in from the garden

to witness the ceremony and sign a paper supposed to be a

certificate._

“July 31. Mr. Clavering takes steamer for Liverpool.

_Proved by newspapers of that date._

“September. Eleanore Leavenworth in her uncle’s house in

New York, conducting herself as usual, but pale of face

and preoccupied in manner. _Proved by servants then in

her service._ Mr. Clavering in London; watches the United

States mails with eagerness, but receives no letters.

Fits up room elegantly, as for a lady. _Proved by secret

communication from London._

“November. Miss Leavenworth still in uncle’s house. No

publication of her marriage ever made. Mr. Clavering in

London; shows signs of uneasiness; the room prepared for

lady closed. _Proved as above._

“January 17, 1876. Mr. Clavering, having returned to

America, engages room at Hoffman House, New York.

“March 1 or 2. Mr. Leavenworth receives a letter signed

by Henry Clavering, in which he complains of having been

ill-used by one of that gentleman’s nieces. A manifest

shade falls over the family at this time.

“March 4. Mr. Clavering under a false name inquires at

the door of Mr. Leavenworth’s house for Miss Eleanore

Leavenworth. _Proved by Thomas._”

“March 4th?” exclaimed Mr. Gryce at this point. “That was the night

of the murder.”

“Yes; the Mr. Le Roy Robbins said to have called that evening was

none other than Mr. Clavering.”

“March 19. Miss Mary Leavenworth, in a conversation with me,

acknowledges that there is a secret in the family, and is just

upon the point of revealing its nature, when Mr. Clavering

enters the house. Upon his departure she declares her

unwillingness ever to mention the subject again.”

Mr. Gryce slowly waved the paper aside. “And from these facts you

draw the inference that Eleanore Leavenworth is the wife of Mr.

Clavering?”

“I do.”

“And that, being his wife----”

“It would be natural for her to conceal anything she knew likely to

criminate him.”

“Always supposing Clavering himself had done anything criminal!”

“Of course.”

“Which latter supposition you now propose to justify!”

“Which latter supposition it is left for _us_ to justify.”

A peculiar gleam shot over Mr. Gryce’s somewhat abstracted

countenance. “Then you have no new evidence against Mr. Clavering?”

“I should think the fact just given, of his standing in the

relation of unacknowledged husband to the suspected party was

something.”

“No positive evidence as to his being the assassin of Mr.

Leavenworth, I mean?”

I was obliged to admit I had none which he would consider positive.

“But I can show the existence of motive; and I can likewise show

it was not only possible, but probable, he was in the house at the

time of the murder.”

“Ah, you can!” cried Mr. Gryce, rousing a little from his

abstraction.

“The motive was the usual one of self-interest. Mr. Leavenworth

stood in the way of Eleanore’s acknowledging him as a husband, and

he must therefore be put out of the way.”

“Weak!”

“Motives for murders are sometimes weak.”

“The motive for this was not. Too much calculation was shown

for the arm to have been nerved by anything short of the most

deliberate intention, founded upon the deadliest necessity of

passion or avarice.”

“Avarice?”

“One should never deliberate upon the causes which have led to the

destruction of a rich man without taking into account that most

common passion of the human race.”

“But----”

“Let us hear what you have to say of Mr. Clavering’s presence in

the house at the time of the murder.”

I related what Thomas the butler had told me in regard to Mr.

Clavering’s call upon Miss Leavenworth that night, and the lack of

proof which existed as to his having left the house when supposed

to do so.

“That is worth remembering,” said Mr. Gryce at the conclusion.

“Valueless as direct evidence, it might prove of great value as

corroborative.” Then, in a graver tone, he went on to say: “Mr.

Raymond, are you aware that in all this you have been strengthening

the case against Eleanore Leavenworth instead of weakening it?”

I could only ejaculate, in my sudden wonder and dismay.

“You have shown her to be secret, sly, and unprincipled; capable

of wronging those to whom she was most bound, her uncle and her

husband.”

“You put it very strongly,” said I, conscious of a shocking

discrepancy between this description of Eleanore’s character and

all that I had preconceived in regard to it.

“No more so than your own conclusions from this story warrant me in

doing.” Then, as I sat silent, murmured low, and as if to himself:

“If the case was dark against her before, it is doubly so with this

supposition established of her being the woman secretly married to

Mr. Clavering.”

“And yet,” I protested, unable to give up my hope without a

struggle; “you do not, cannot, believe the noble-looking Eleanore

guilty of this horrible crime?”

“No,” he slowly said; “you might as well know right here what I

think about that. I believe Eleanore Leavenworth to be an innocent

woman.”

“You do? Then what,” I cried, swaying between joy at this admission

and doubt as to the meaning of his former expressions, “remains to

be done?”

Mr. Gryce quietly responded: “Why, nothing but to prove your

supposition a false one.”

Chapter 25. TIMOTHY COOK

“Look here upon this picture and on this.”

Hamlet.

I stared at him in amazement. “I doubt if it will be so very

difficult,” said he. Then, in a sudden burst, “Where is the man

Cook?”

“He is below with Q.”

“That was a wise move; let us see the boys; have them up.”

Stepping to the door I called them.

“I expected, of course, you would want to question them,” said I,

coming back.

In another moment the spruce Q and the shock-headed Cook entered

the room.

“Ah,” said Mr. Gryce, directing his attention at the latter in

his own whimsical, non-committal way; “this is the deceased Mr.

Stebbins’ hired man, is it? Well, you look as though you could tell

the truth.”

“I usually calculate to do that thing, sir; at all events, I was

never called a liar as I can remember.”

“Of course not, of course not,” returned the affable detective.

Then, without any further introduction: “What was the first name of

the lady you saw married in your master’s house last summer?”

“Bless me if I know! I don’t think I heard, sir.”

“But you recollect how she looked?”

“As well as if she was my own mother. No disrespect to the lady,

sir, if you know her,” he made haste to add, glancing hurriedly at

me. “What I mean is, she was so handsome, I could never forget the

look of her sweet face if I lived a hundred years.”

“Can you describe her?”

“I don’t know, sirs; she was tall and grand-looking, had the

brightest eyes and the whitest hand, and smiled in a way to make

even a common man like me wish he had never seen her.”

“Would you know her in a crowd?”

“I would know her anywhere.”

“Very well; now tell us all you can about that marriage.”

“Well, sirs, it was something like this. I had been in Mr.

Stebbins’ employ about a year, when one morning as I was hoeing

in the garden I saw a gentleman walk rapidly up the road to our

gate and come in. I noticed him particularly, because he was so

fine-looking; unlike anybody in F----, and, indeed, unlike anybody

I had ever seen, for that matter; but I shouldn’t have thought much

about that if there hadn’t come along, not five minutes after, a

buggy with two ladies in it, which stopped at our gate, too. I saw

they wanted to get out, so I went and held their horse for them,

and they got down and went into the house.”

“Did you see their faces?”

“No, sir; not then. They had veils on.”

“Very well, go on.”

“I hadn’t been to work long, before I heard some one calling my

name, and looking up, saw Mr. Stebbins standing in the doorway

beckoning. I went to him, and he said, ‘I want you, Tim; wash your

hands and come into the parlor.’ I had never been asked to do that

before, and it struck me all of a heap; but I did what he asked,

and was so taken aback at the looks of the lady I saw standing up

on the floor with the handsome gentleman, that I stumbled over

a stool and made a great racket, and didn’t know much where I

was or what was going on, till I heard Mr. Stebbins say ‘man and

wife’; and then it came over me in a hot kind of way that it was a

marriage I was seeing.”

Timothy Cook stopped to wipe his forehead, as if overcome with the

very recollection, and Mr. Gryce took the opportunity to remark:

“You say there were two ladies; now where was the other one at this

time?”

“She was there, sir; but I didn’t mind much about her, I was so

taken up with the handsome one and the way she had of smiling when

any one looked at her. I never saw the beat.”

I felt a quick thrill go through me.

“Can you remember the color of her hair or eyes?”

“No, sir; I had a feeling as if she wasn’t dark, and that is all I

know.”

“But you remember her face?”

“Yes, sir!”

Mr. Gryce here whispered me to procure two pictures which I would

find in a certain drawer in his desk, and set them up in different

parts of the room unbeknown to the man.

“You have before said,” pursued Mr. Gryce, “that you have no

remembrance of her name. Now, how was that? Weren’t you called upon

to sign the certificate?”

“Yes, sir; but I am most ashamed to say it; I was in a sort

of maze, and didn’t hear much, and only remember it was a Mr.

Clavering she was married to, and that some one called some one

else Elner, or something like that. I wish I hadn’t been so stupid,

sir, if it would have done you any good.”

“Tell us about the signing of the certificate,” said Mr. Gryce.

“Well, sir, there isn’t much to tell. Mr. Stebbins asked me to

put my name down in a certain place on a piece of paper he pushed

towards me, and I put it down there; that is all.”

“Was there no other name there when you wrote yours?”

“No, sir. Afterwards Mr. Stebbins turned towards the other lady,

who now came forward, and asked her if she wouldn’t please sign it,

too; and she said, ‘yes,’ and came very quickly and did so.”

“And didn’t you see her face then?”

“No, sir; her back was to me when she threw by her veil, and I

only saw Mr. Stebbins staring at her as she stooped, with a kind

of wonder on his face, which made me think she might have been

something worth looking at too; but I didn’t see her myself.”

“Well, what happened then?”

“I don’t know, sir. I went stumbling out of the room, and didn’t

see anything more.”

“Where were you when the ladies went away?”

“In the garden, sir. I had gone back to my work.”

“You saw them, then. Was the gentleman with them?”

“No, sir; that was the queer part of it all. They went back as

they came, and so did he; and in a few minutes Mr. Stebbins came

out where I was, and told me I was to say nothing about what I had

seen, for it was a secret.”

“Were you the only one in the house who knew anything about it?

Weren’t there any women around?”

“No, sir; Miss Stebbins had gone to the sewing circle.”

I had by this time some faint impression of what Mr. Gryce’s

suspicions were, and in arranging the pictures had placed one,

that of Eleanore, on the mantel-piece, and the other, which was

an uncommonly fine photograph of Mary, in plain view on the desk.

But Mr. Cook’s back was as yet towards that part of the room, and,

taking advantage of the moment, I returned and asked him if that

was all he had to tell us about this matter.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then,” said Mr. Gryce, with a glance at Q, “isn’t there something

you can give Mr. Cook in payment for his story? Look around, will

you?”

Q nodded, and moved towards a cupboard in the wall at the side

of the mantel-piece; Mr. Cook following him with his eyes, as

was natural, when, with a sudden start, he crossed the room

and, pausing before the mantel-piece, looked at the picture of

Eleanore which I had put there, gave a low grunt of satisfaction

or pleasure, looked at it again, and walked away. I felt my heart

leap into my throat, and, moved by what impulse of dread or hope I

cannot say, turned my back, when suddenly I heard him give vent to

a startled exclamation, followed by the words: “Why! here she is;

this is her, sirs,” and turning around saw him hurrying towards us

with Mary’s picture in his hands.

I do not know as I was greatly surprised. I was powerfully

excited, as well as conscious of a certain whirl of thought, and

an unsettling of old conclusions that was very confusing; but

surprised? No. Mr. Gryce’s manner had too well prepared me.

“This the lady who was married to Mr. Clavering, my good man? I

guess you are mistaken,” cried the detective, in a very incredulous

tone.

“Mistaken? Didn’t I say I would know her anywhere? This is the

lady, if she is the president’s wife herself.” And Mr. Cook leaned

over it with a devouring look that was not without its element of

homage.

“I am very much astonished,” Mr. Gryce went on, winking at me in

a slow, diabolical way which in another mood would have aroused

my fiercest anger. “Now, if you had said the other lady was the

one”--pointing to the picture on the mantel-piece,” I shouldn’t

have wondered.”

“She? I never saw that lady before; but this one--would you mind

telling me her name, sirs?”

“If what you say is true, her name is Mrs. Clavering.”

“Clavering? Yes, that was his name.”

“And a very lovely lady,” said Mr. Gryce. “Morris, haven’t you

found anything yet?”

Q, for answer, brought forward glasses and a bottle.

But Mr. Cook was in no mood for liquor. I think he was struck with

remorse; for, looking from the picture to Q, and from Q to the

picture, he said:

“If I have done this lady wrong by my talk, I’ll never forgive

myself. You told me I would help her to get her rights; if you have

deceived me ----”

“Oh, I haven’t deceived you,” broke in Q, in his short, sharp way.

“Ask that gentleman there if we are not all interested in Mrs.

Clavering getting her due.”

He had designated me; but I was in no mood to reply. I longed to

have the man dismissed, that I might inquire the reason of the

great complacency which I now saw overspreading Mr. Gryce’s frame,

to his very finger-ends.

“Mr. Cook needn’t be concerned,” remarked Mr. Gryce. “If he will

take a glass of warm drink to fortify him for his walk, I think

he may go to the lodgings Mr. Morris has provided for him without

fear. Give the gent a glass, and let him mix for himself.”

But it was full ten minutes before we were delivered of the man and

his vain regrets. Mary’s image had called up every latent feeling

in his heart, and I could but wonder over a loveliness capable of

swaying the low as well as the high. But at last he yielded to the

seductions of the now wily Q, and departed.

Left alone with Mr. Gryce, I must have allowed some of the

confused emotions which filled my breast to become apparent on

my countenance; for after a few minutes of ominous silence,

he exclaimed very grimly, and yet with a latent touch of that

complacency I had before noticed:

“This discovery rather upsets you, doesn’t it? Well, it don’t me,”

shutting his mouth like a trap. “I expected it.”

“Your conclusions must differ very materially from mine,” I

returned; “or you would see that this discovery alters the

complexion of the whole affair.”

“It does not alter the truth.”

“What is the truth?”

Mr. Gryce’s very legs grew thoughtful; his voice sank to its

deepest tone. “Do you very much want to know?”

“Want to know the truth? What else are we after?”

“Then,” said he, “to my notion, the complexion of things has

altered, but very much for the better. As long as Eleanore was

believed to be the wife, her action in this matter was accounted

for; but the tragedy itself was not. Why should Eleanore or

Eleanore’s husband wish the death of a man whose bounty they

believed would end with his life? But with Mary, the heiress,

proved the wife!--I tell you, Mr. Raymond, it all hangs together

now. You must never, in reckoning up an affair of murder like this,

forget who it is that most profits by the deceased man’s death.”

“But Eleanore’s silence? her concealment of certain proofs and

evidences in her own breast--how will you account for that? I can

imagine a woman devoting herself to the shielding of a husband from

the consequences of crime; but a cousin’s husband, never.”

Mr. Gryce put his feet very close together, and softly grunted.

“Then you still think Mr. Clavering the assassin of Mr.

Leavenworth?”

I could only stare at him in my sudden doubt and dread. “Still

think?” I repeated.

“Mr. Clavering the murderer of Mr. Leavenworth?”

“Why, what else is there to think? You don’t--you can’t--suspect

Eleanore of having deliberately undertaken to help her cousin out

of a difficulty by taking the life of their mutual benefactor?”

“No,” said Mr. Gryce; “no, I do not think Eleanore Leavenworth had

any hand in the business.”

“Then who--” I began, and stopped, lost in the dark vista that was

opening before me.

“Who? Why, who but the one whose past deceit and present

necessity demanded his death as a relief? Who but the beautiful,

money-loving, man-deceiving goddess----”

I leaped to my feet in my sudden horror and repugnance. “Do not

mention the name! You are wrong; but do not speak the name.”

“Excuse me,” said he; “but it will have to be spoken many

times, and we may as well begin here and now--who then but Mary

Leavenworth; or, if you like it better, Mrs. Henry Clavering? Are

you so much surprised? It has been my thought from the beginning.”