Chapter Chapter 34 · MR. GRYCE RESUMES CONTROL

. MR. GRYCE RESUMES CONTROL

“It out-herods Herod.”

Hamlet.

“A thing devised by the enemy.”

Richard III.

A half-hour had passed. The train upon which I had every reason to

expect Mr. Gryce had arrived, and I stood in the doorway awaiting

with indescribable agitation the slow and labored approach of the

motley group of men and women whom I had observed leave the depot

at the departure of the cars. Would he be among them? Was the

telegram of a nature peremptory enough to make his presence here,

sick as he was, an absolute certainty? The written confession of

Hannah throbbing against my heart, a heart all elation now, as but

a short half-hour before it had been all doubt and struggle, seemed

to rustle distrust, and the prospect of a long afternoon spent in

impatience was rising before me, when a portion of the advancing

crowd turned off into a side street, and I saw the form of Mr.

Gryce hobbling, not on two sticks, but very painfully on one,

coming slowly down the street.

His face, as he approached, was a study.

“Well, well, well,” he exclaimed, as we met at the gate; “this is

a pretty how-dye-do, I must say. Hannah dead, eh? and everything

turned topsy-turvy! Humph, and what do you think of Mary

Leavenworth now?”

It would therefore seem natural, in the conversation which followed

his introduction into the house and installment in Mrs. Belden’s

parlor, that I should begin my narration by showing him Hannah’s

confession; but it was not so. Whether it was that I felt anxious

to have him go through the same alternations of hope and fear it

had been my lot to experience since I came to R----; or whether, in

the depravity of human nature, there lingered within me sufficient

resentment for the persistent disregard he had always paid to my

suspicions of Henry Clavering to make it a matter of moment to

me to spring this knowledge upon him just at the instant his own

convictions seemed to have reached the point of absolute certainty,

I cannot say. Enough that it was not till I had given him a full

account of every other matter connected with my stay in this house;

not till I saw his eye beaming, and his lip quivering with the

excitement incident upon the perusal of the letter from Mary, found

in Mrs. Belden’s pocket; not, indeed, until I became assured from

such expressions as “Tremendous! The deepest game of the season!

Nothing like it since the Lafarge affair!” that in another moment

he would be uttering some theory or belief that once heard would

forever stand like a barrier between us, did I allow myself to hand

him the letter I had taken from under the dead body of Hannah.

I shall never forget his expression as he received it; “Good

heavens!” cried he, “what’s this?”

“A dying confession of the girl Hannah. I found it lying in her bed

when I went up, a half-hour ago, to take a second look at her.”

Opening it, he glanced over it with an incredulous air that

speedily, however, turned to one of the utmost astonishment, as he

hastily perused it, and then stood turning it over and over in his

hand, examining it.

“A remarkable piece of evidence,” I observed, not without a certain

feeling of triumph; “quite changes the aspect of affairs!”

“Think so?” he sharply retorted; then, whilst I stood staring at

him in amazement, his manner was so different from what I expected,

looked up and said: “You tell me that you found this in her bed.

Whereabouts in her bed?”

“Under the body of the girl herself,” I returned. “I saw one corner

of it protruding from beneath her shoulders, and drew it out.”

He came and stood before me. “Was it folded or open, when you first

looked at it?”

“Folded; fastened up in this envelope,” showing it to him.

He took it, looked at it for a moment, and went on with his

questions.

“This envelope has a very crumpled appearance, as well as the

letter itself. Were they so when you found them?”

“Yes, not only so, but doubled up as you see.”

“Doubled up? You are sure of that? Folded, sealed, and then doubled

up as if her body had rolled across it while alive?”

“Yes.”

“No trickery about it? No look as if the thing had been insinuated

there since her death?”

“Not at all. I should rather say that to every appearance she held

it in her hand when she lay down, but turning over, dropped it and

then laid upon it.”

Mr. Gryce’s eyes, which had been very bright, ominously clouded;

evidently he had been disappointed in my answers. Laying the letter

down, he stood musing, but suddenly lifted it again, scrutinized

the edges of the paper on which it was written, and, darting me a

quick look, vanished with it into the shade of the window curtain.

His manner was so peculiar, I involuntarily rose to follow; but he

waved me back, saying:

“Amuse yourself with that box on the table, which you had such an

ado over; see if it contains all we have a right to expect to find

in it. I want to be by myself for a moment.”

Subduing my astonishment, I proceeded to comply with his request,

but scarcely had I lifted the lid of the box before me when he came

hurrying back, flung the letter down on the table with an air of

the greatest excitement, and cried:

“Did I say there had never been anything like it since the Lafarge

affair? I tell you there has never been anything like it in any

affair. It is the rummest case on record! Mr. Raymond,” and his

eyes, in his excitement, actually met mine for the first time in

my experience of him, “prepare yourself for a disappointment. This

pretended confession of Hannah’s is a fraud!”

“A fraud?”

“Yes; fraud, forgery, what you will; the girl never wrote it.”

Amazed, outraged almost, I bounded from my chair. “How do you know

that?” I cried.

Bending forward, he put the letter into my hand. “Look at it,” said

he; “examine it closely. Now tell me what is the first thing you

notice in regard to it?”

“Why, the first thing that strikes me, is that the words are

printed, instead of written; something which might be expected from

this girl, according to all accounts.”

“Well?”

“That they are printed on the inside of a sheet of ordinary

paper----”

“Ordinary paper?”

“Yes.”

“That is, a sheet of commercial note of the ordinary quality.”

“Of course.”

“But is it?”

“Why, yes; I should say so.”

“Look at the lines.”

“What of them? Oh, I see, they run up close to the top of the page;

evidently the scissors have been used here.”

“In short, it is a large sheet, trimmed down to the size of

commercial note?”

“Yes.”

“And is that all you see?”

“All but the words.”

“Don’t you perceive what has been lost by means of this trimming

down?”

“No, unless you mean the manufacturer’s stamp in the corner.” Mr.

Gryce’s glance took meaning. “But I don’t see why the loss of that

should be deemed a matter of any importance.”

“Don’t you? Not when you consider that by it we seem to be deprived

of all opportunity of tracing this sheet back to the quire of paper

from which it was taken?”

“No.”

“Humph! then you are more of an amateur than I thought you. Don’t

you see that, as Hannah could have had no motive for concealing

where the paper came from on which she wrote her dying words, this

sheet must have been prepared by some one else?”

“No,” said I; “I cannot say that I see all that.”

“Can’t! Well then, answer me this. Why should Hannah, a girl about

to commit suicide, care whether any clue was furnished, in her

confession, to the actual desk, drawer, or quire of paper from

which the sheet was taken, on which she wrote it?”

“She wouldn’t.”

“Yet especial pains have been taken to destroy that clue.”

“But----”

“Then there is another thing. Read the confession itself, Mr.

Raymond, and tell me what you gather from it.”

“Why,” said I, after complying, “that the girl, worn out with

constant apprehension, has made up her mind to do away with

herself, and that Henry Clavering----”

“Henry Clavering?”

The interrogation was put with so much meaning, I looked up. “Yes,”

said I.

“Ah, I didn’t know that Mr. Clavering’s name was mentioned there;

excuse me.”

“His name is not mentioned, but a description is given so

strikingly in accordance----”

Here Mr. Gryce interrupted me. “Does it not seem a little

surprising to you that a girl like Hannah should have stopped to

describe a man she knew by name?”

I started; it was unnatural surely.

“You believe Mrs. Belden’s story, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Consider her accurate in her relation of what took place here a

year ago?”

“I do.”

“Must believe, then, that Hannah, the go-between, was acquainted

with Mr. Clavering and with his name?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Then why didn’t she use it? If her intention was, as she here

professes, to save Eleanore Leavenworth from the false imputation

which had fallen upon her, she would naturally take the most direct

method of doing it. This description of a man whose identity she

could have at once put beyond a doubt by the mention of his name is

the work, not of a poor, ignorant girl, but of some person who, in

attempting to play the _role_ of one, has signally failed. But that

is not all. Mrs. Belden, according to you, maintains that Hannah

told her, upon entering the house, that Mary Leavenworth sent her

here. But in this document, she declares it to have been the work

of Black Mustache.”

“I know; but could they not have both been parties to the

transaction?”

“Yes,” said he; “yet it is always a suspicious circumstance, when

there is a discrepancy between the written and spoken declaration

of a person. But why do we stand here fooling, when a few words

from this Mrs. Belden, you talk so much about, will probably settle

the whole matter!”

“A few words from Mrs. Belden,” I repeated. “I have had thousands

from her to-day, and find the matter no nearer settled than in the

beginning.”

“_You_ have had,” said he, “but I have not. Fetch her in, Mr.

Raymond.”

I rose. “One thing,” said I, “before I go. What if Hannah had found

the sheet of paper, trimmed just as it is, and used it without any

thought of the suspicions it would occasion!”

“Ah!” said he, “that is just what we are going to find out.”

Mrs. Belden was in a flutter of impatience when I entered the

sitting-room. When did I think the coroner would come? and what did

I imagine this detective would do for us? It was dreadful waiting

there alone for something, she knew not what.

I calmed her as well as I could, telling her the detective had not

yet informed me what he could do, having some questions to ask

her first. Would she come in to see him? She rose with alacrity.

Anything was better than suspense.

Mr. Gryce, who in the short interim of my absence had altered his

mood from the severe to the beneficent, received Mrs. Belden with

just that show of respectful courtesy likely to impress a woman as

dependent as she upon the good opinion of others.

“Ah! and this is the lady in whose house this very disagreeable

event has occurred,” he exclaimed, partly rising in his enthusiasm

to greet her. “May I request you to sit,” he asked; “if a stranger

may be allowed to take the liberty of inviting a lady to sit in her

own house.”

“It does not seem like my own house any longer,” said she, but in

a sad, rather than an aggressive tone; so much had his genial way

imposed upon her. “Little better than a prisoner here, go and come,

keep silence or speak, just as I am bidden; and all because an

unhappy creature, whom I took in for the most unselfish of motives,

has chanced to die in my house!”

“Just so!” exclaimed Mr. Gryce; “it is very unjust. But perhaps

we can right matters. I have every reason to believe we can. This

sudden death ought to be easily explained. You say you had no

poison in the house?”

“No, sir.”

“And that the girl never went out?”

“Never, sir.”

“And that no one has ever been here to see her?”

“No one, sir.”

“So that she could not have procured any such thing if she had

wished?”

“No, sir.”

“Unless,” he added suavely, “she had it with her when she came

here?”

“That couldn’t have been, sir. She brought no baggage; and as for

her pocket, I know everything there was in it, for I looked.”

“And what did you find there?”

“Some money in bills, more than you would have expected such a girl

to have, some loose pennies, and a common handkerchief.”

“Well, then, it is proved the girl didn’t die of poison, there

being none in the house.”

He said this in so convinced a tone she was deceived.

“That is just what I have been telling Mr. Raymond,” giving me a

triumphant look.

“Must have been heart disease,” he went on, “You say she was well

yesterday?”

“Yes, sir; or seemed so.”

“Though not cheerful?”

“I did not say that; she was, sir, very.”

“What, ma’am, this girl?” giving me a look. “I don’t understand

that. I should think her anxiety about those she had left behind

her in the city would have been enough to keep her from being very

cheerful.”

“So you would,” returned Mrs. Belden; “but it wasn’t so. On the

contrary, she never seemed to worry about them at all.”

“What! not about Miss Eleanore, who, according to the papers,

stands in so cruel a position before the world? But perhaps she

didn’t know anything about that--Miss Leavenworth’s position, I

mean?”

“Yes, she did, for I told her. I was so astonished I could not keep

it to myself. You see, I had always considered Eleanore as one

above reproach, and it so shocked me to see her name mentioned in

the newspaper in such a connection, that I went to Hannah and read

the article aloud, and watched her face to see how she took it.”

“And how did she?”

“I can’t say. She looked as if she didn’t understand; asked me why

I read such things to her, and told me she didn’t want to hear any

more; that I had promised not to trouble her about this murder, and

that if I continued to do so she wouldn’t listen.”

“Humph! and what else?”

“Nothing else. She put her hand over her ears and frowned in such a

sullen way I left the room.”

“That was when?”

“About three weeks ago.”

“She has, however, mentioned the subject since?”

“No, sir; not once.”

“What! not asked what they were going to do with her mistress?”

“No, sir.”

“She has shown, however, that something was preying on her

mind--fear, remorse, or anxiety?”

“No, sir; on the contrary, she has oftener appeared like one

secretly elated.”

“But,” exclaimed Mr. Gryce, with another sidelong look at me, “that

was very strange and unnatural. I cannot account for it.”

“Nor I, sir. I used to try to explain it by thinking her

sensibilities had been blunted, or that she was too ignorant to

comprehend the seriousness of what had happened; but as I learned

to know her better, I gradually changed my mind. There was too much

method in her gayety for that. I could not help seeing she had

some future before her for which she was preparing herself. As,

for instance, she asked me one day if I thought she could learn

to play on the piano. And I finally came to the conclusion she

had been promised money if she kept the secret intrusted to her,

and was so pleased with the prospect that she forgot the dreadful

past, and all connected with it. At all events, that was the only

explanation I could find for her general industry and desire to

improve herself, or for the complacent smiles I detected now and

then stealing over her face when she didn’t know I was looking.”

Not such a smile as crept over the countenance of Mr. Gryce at that

moment, I warrant.

“It was all this,” continued Mrs. Belden, “which made her death

such a shock to me. I couldn’t believe that so cheerful and healthy

a creature could die like that, all in one night, without anybody

knowing anything about it. But----”

“Wait one moment,” Mr. Gryce here broke in. “You speak of her

endeavors to improve herself. What do you mean by that?”

“Her desire to learn things she didn’t know; as, for instance, to

write and read writing. She could only clumsily print when she came

here.”

I thought Mr. Gryce would take a piece out of my arm, he griped it

so.

“When she came here! Do you mean to say that since she has been

with you she has learned to write?”

“Yes, sir; I used to set her copies and----”

“Where are these copies?” broke in Mr. Gryce, subduing his voice to

its most professional tone. “And where are her attempts at writing?

I’d like to see some of them. Can’t you get them for us?”

“I don’t know, sir. I always made it a point to destroy them as

soon as they had answered their purpose. I didn’t like to have such

things lying around. But I will go see.”

“Do,” said he; “and I will go with you. I want to take a look at

things up-stairs, any way.” And, heedless of his rheumatic feet, he

rose and prepared to accompany her.

“This is getting very intense,” I whispered, as he passed me.

The smile he gave me in reply would have made the fortune of a

Thespian Mephistopheles.

Of the ten minutes of suspense which I endured in their absence, I

say nothing. At the end of that time they returned with their hands

full of paper boxes, which they flung down on the table.

“The writing-paper of the household,” observed Mr. Gryce; “every

scrap and half-sheet which could be found. But, before you examine

it, look at this.” And he held out a sheet of bluish foolscap, on

which were written some dozen imitations of that time-worn copy,

“BE GOOD AND YOU WILL BE HAPPY”; with an occasional “_Beauty soon

fades_,” and “_Evil communications corrupt good manners_.”

“What do you think of that?”

“Very neat and very legible.”

“That is Hannah’s latest. The only specimens of her writing to be

found. Not much like some scrawls we have seen, eh?”

“No.”

“Mrs. Belden says this girl has known how to write as good as this

for more than a week. Took great pride in it, and was continually

talking about how smart she was.” Leaning over, he whispered in my

ear, “This thing you have in your hand must have been scrawled some

time ago, if she did it.” Then aloud: “But let us look at the paper

she used to write on.”

Dashing open the covers of the boxes on the table, he took out the

loose sheets lying inside, and scattered them out before me. One

glance showed they were all of an utterly different quality from

that used in the confession. “This is all the paper in the house,”

said he.

“Are you sure of that?” I asked, looking at Mrs. Belden, who stood

in a sort of maze before us. “Wasn’t there one stray sheet lying

around somewhere, foolscap or something like that, which she might

have got hold of and used without your knowing it?”

“No, sir; I don’t think so. I had only these kinds; besides, Hannah

had a whole pile of paper like this in her room, and wouldn’t have

been apt to go hunting round after any stray sheets.”

“But you don’t know what a girl like that might do. Look at this

one,” said I, showing her the blank side of the confession.

“Couldn’t a sheet like this have come from somewhere about the

house? Examine it well; the matter is important.”

“I have, and I say, no, I never had a sheet of paper like that in

my house.”

Mr. Gryce advanced and took the confession from my hand. As he did

so, he whispered: “What do you think now? Many chances that Hannah

got up this precious document?”

I shook my head, convinced at last; but in another moment turned to

him and whispered back: “But, if Hannah didn’t write it, who did?

And how came it to be found where it was?”

“That,” said he, “is just what is left for us to learn.” And,

beginning again, he put question after question concerning the

girl’s life in the house, receiving answers which only tended to

show that she could not have brought the confession with her, much

less received it from a secret messenger. Unless we doubted Mrs.

Belden’s word, the mystery seemed impenetrable, and I was beginning

to despair of success, when Mr. Gryce, with an askance look at me,

leaned towards Mrs. Belden and said:

“You received a letter from Miss Mary Leavenworth yesterday, I

hear.”

“Yes, sir.”

“_This_ letter?” he continued, showing it to her.

“Yes, sir.”

“Now I want to ask you a question. Was the letter, as you see it,

the only contents of the envelope in which it came? Wasn’t there

one for Hannah enclosed with it?”

“No, sir. There was nothing in my letter for her; but she had a

letter herself yesterday. It came in the same mail with mine.”

“Hannah had a letter!” we both exclaimed; “and in the mail?”

“Yes; but it was not directed to her. It was”--casting me a look

full of despair, “directed to me. It was only by a certain mark in

the corner of the envelope that I knew----”

“Good heaven!” I interrupted; “where is this letter? Why didn’t you

speak of it before? What do you mean by allowing us to flounder

about here in the dark, when a glimpse at this letter might have

set us right at once?”

“I didn’t think anything about it till this minute. I didn’t know

it was of importance. I----”

But I couldn’t restrain myself. “Mrs. Belden, where is this

letter?” I demanded. “Have you got it?”

“No,” said she; “I gave it to the girl yesterday; I haven’t seen it

since.”

“It must be up-stairs, then. Let us take another look.” and I

hastened towards the door.

“You won’t find it,” said Mr. Gryce at my elbow. “I have looked.

There is nothing but a pile of burned paper in the corner. By the

way, what could that have been?” he asked of Mrs. Belden.

“I don’t know, sir. She hadn’t anything to burn unless it was the

letter.”

“We will see about that,” I muttered, hurrying up-stairs and

bringing down the wash-bowl with its contents. “If the letter was

the one I saw in your hand at the post-office, it was in a yellow

envelope.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yellow envelopes burn differently from white paper. I ought to

be able to tell the tinder made by a yellow envelope when I see

it. Ah, the letter has been destroyed; here is a piece of the

envelope,” and I drew out of the heap of charred scraps a small bit

less burnt than the rest, and held it up.

“Then there is no use looking here for what the letter contained,”

said Mr. Gryce, putting the wash-bowl aside. “We will have to ask

you, Mrs. Belden.”

“But I don’t know. It was directed to me, to be sure; but Hannah

told me, when she first requested me to teach her how to write,

that she expected such a letter, so I didn’t open it when it came,

but gave it to her just as it was.”

“You, however, stayed by to see her read it?”

“No, sir; I was in too much of a flurry. Mr. Raymond had just

come and I had no time to think of her. My own letter, too, was

troubling me.”

“But you surely asked her some questions about it before the day

was out?”

“Yes, sir, when I went up with her tea things; but she had nothing

to say. Hannah could be as reticent as any one I ever knew, when

she pleased. She didn’t even admit it was from her mistress.”

“Ah! then you thought it was from Miss Leavenworth?”

“Why, yes, sir; what else was I to think, seeing that mark in the

corner? Though, to be sure, it might have been put there by Mr.

Clavering,” she thoughtfully added.

“You say she was cheerful yesterday; was she so after receiving

this letter?”

“Yes, sir; as far as I could see. I wasn’t with her long; the

necessity I felt of doing something with the box in my charge--but

perhaps Mr. Raymond has told you?”

Mr. Gryce nodded.

“It was an exhausting evening, and quite put Hannah out of my head,

but----”

“Wait!” cried Mr. Gryce, and beckoning me into a corner, he

whispered, “Now comes in that experience of Q’s. While you are

gone from the house, and before Mrs. Belden sees Hannah again, he

has a glimpse of the girl bending over something in the corner of

her room which may very fairly be the wash-bowl we found there.

After which, he sees her swallow, in the most lively way, a dose of

something from a bit of paper. Was there anything more?”

“No,” said I.

“Very well, then,” he cried, going back to Mrs. Belden. “But----”

“But when I went up-stairs to bed, I thought of the girl, and going

to her door opened it. The light was extinguished, and she seemed

asleep, so I closed it again and came out.”

“Without speaking?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you notice how she was lying?”

“Not particularly. I think on her back.”

“In something of the same position in which she was found this

morning?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And that is all you can tell us, either of her letter or her

mysterious death?”

“All, sir.”

Mr. Gryce straightened himself up.

“Mrs. Belden,” said he, “you know Mr. Clavering’s handwriting when

_you_ see it?”

“I do.”

“And Miss Leavenworth’s?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, which of the two was upon the envelope of the letter you gave

Hannah?”

“I couldn’t say. It was a disguised handwriting and might have been

that of either; but I think----”

“Well?”

“That it was more like hers than his, though it wasn’t like hers

either.”

With a smile, Mr. Gryce enclosed the confession in his hand in the

envelope in which it had been found. “You remember how large the

letter was which you gave her?”

“Oh, it was large, very large; one of the largest sort.”

“And thick?”

“O yes; thick enough for two letters.”

“Large enough and thick enough to contain this?” laying the

confession, folded and enveloped as it was, before her.

“Yes, sir,” giving it a look of startled amazement, “large enough

and thick enough to contain that.”

Mr. Gryce’s eyes, bright as diamonds, flashed around the room, and

finally settled upon a fly traversing my coat-sleeve. “Do you need

to ask now,” he whispered, in a low voice, “where, and from whom,

this so-called confession comes?”

He allowed himself one moment of silent triumph, then rising, began

folding the papers on the table and putting them in his pocket.

“What are you going to do?” I asked, hurriedly approaching.

He took me by the arm and led me across the hall into the

sitting-room. “I am going back to New York, I am going to pursue

this matter. I am going to find out from whom came the poison

which killed this girl, and by whose hand this vile forgery of a

confession was written.”

“But,” said I, rather thrown off my balance by all this, “Q and the

coroner will be here presently, won’t you wait to see them?”

“No; clues such as are given here must be followed while the trail

is hot; I can’t afford to wait.”

“If I am not mistaken, they have already come,” I remarked, as a

tramping of feet without announced that some one stood at the door.

“That is so,” he assented, hastening to let them in.

Judging from common experience, we had every reason to fear that

an immediate stop would be put to all proceedings on our part, as

soon as the coroner was introduced upon the scene. But happily

for us and the interest at stake, Dr. Fink, of R ----, proved to

be a very sensible man. He had only to hear a true story of the

affair to recognize at once its importance and the necessity of

the most cautious action in the matter. Further, by a sort of

sympathy with Mr. Gryce, all the more remarkable that he had never

seen him before, he expressed himself as willing to enter into our

plans, offering not only to allow us the temporary use of such

papers as we desired, but even undertaking to conduct the necessary

formalities of calling a jury and instituting an inquest in such a

way as to give us time for the investigations we proposed to make.

The delay was therefore short. Mr. Gryce was enabled to take the

6:30 train for New York, and I to follow on the 10 P.M.,--the

calling of a jury, ordering of an autopsy, and final adjournment of

the inquiry till the following Tuesday, having all taken place in

the interim.