DETECTIVE EBENEZER GRYCE - Complete Murder-Mysteries Collection: 11 Novels in One Volume
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 XXV.
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