course, he made a careful examination of the whole room. But he found nothing that would throw any light on the mystery, and I felt a little disappointed at his non-committal attitude. He spent much time examining locks and bolts and inquiring as to keys. But he only proved, what we had known before, that the study was absolutely inaccessible to an intruder. Then, of course, he declared it must have been a suicide. Then, when he was convinced of the utter absence of any weapon, and the practical impossibility of the wound being self-inflicted, he returned to the theory of murder. He was greatly enthused over the mystery of the case and the contradictory evidence.
“If I may say so,” he observed, pompously, “I have been especially fortunate and successful in the criminal cases which I have undertaken. I have the instinct of a sleuth, and I discover clues where none seems to exist. But I never before have had the kind of a case that depends upon proving the presence of an intruder in a locked room. Now, we know that no one could have entered this room and left it, locked as it was. And yet, if not a case of suicide, some one did do so. It is for me to discover how.”
Mr. Markham made this speech with such an air of having made a discovery, that I was not surprised when Morland said, brusquely:
“We knew already, Mr. Markham, that my father’s death was either a suicide or a murder. We knew, too, that this room was so securely barred and bolted that we had to force an entrance. Now we have sent for you to learn if possible the truth of the matter. But what we want, is not the propounding of the problem, but its solution.”
Mr. Markham did not appear at all offended by this, and only said, “Quite so, quite so, Mr. Van Wyck. Now I must remind you that aside from the crime of murder, we have the loss of the pearls to consider. I must not only solve the mystery of your father’s death, but I must recover those valuable gems. Very well. I am not, of course, able to do these things in a moment, but by careful investigation and some shrewd deduction, I hope to succeed, in time.”
“Of course, Mr. Markham,” said Morland, “I didn’t expect results at once. Pursue your own methods and call on any of us for such information or help as you may desire. Pray consider the house at your disposal, interview the servants if you choose, and feel at liberty to do what you will, unquestioned.”
“I shall also,” returned the detective, “expect to be allowed to interview members of the family or guests.”
“That, of course,” said Morland; “but I must ask of you to spare the feelings of the family as far as you possibly can, and to intrude upon the guests as little as may be.”
I was not surprised at this from Morland, for it seemed to me that the detective was of a nature so zealous and so unheedful of others’ feelings, that he might easily prove an annoying interviewer.
Chapter IX.
The Inquest
Luncheon was served informally. The members of the household and the guests drifted in and out of the dining-room, where the footmen served them from a buffet. It chanced that I sat down with Morland and Archer.
We all said little, but though Morland was quiet, it seemed as though we were endeavoring not to talk, though he really wanted to.
“Would you rather we went away?” Archer asked of him; “perhaps you would prefer not to have any guests at present”
“No, no,” said Morland a little irritably. “You two fellows stay on, of course. Perhaps you can help me, and Lord knows I need help. As to the ladies, they must do as they choose. Mrs. Stelton wants to remain; but I fear these awful scenes will prove too much for the nerves of Miss Fordyce. She is so highly strung—”
“These scenes are enough to shake the nerves of anybody,” I put in; “and you know, Morland, without being told, that Archer and I stand ready to help you in any way we can. But I confess I can’t find anything to do by way of assistance.”
“Nor I,” said Archer, “but if our presence here makes it any easier for you, here we stay as long as you wish. At any rate we can meet some of the visitors, and save you or Mrs. Van Wyck that annoyance.”
Of course everyone in the village knew of the tragedy by this time, and flocks of curious people were gathering in and about the house. Soon the whole place was in a turmoil. Neighbors and village people were coming and going, and everybody was making suggestions or propounding theories.
Barbara and Morland quarrelled openly; Anne refused to see anybody; Archer stood around, moody and taciturn; the languid figure of Beth Fordyce could be seen strolling about the gardens, wringing her hands in picturesque despair; while Mrs. Stelton fluttered about everywhere, asking absurd questions and making herself a general nuisance.
I longed for a little talk with Anne, but decided not to bother her, so I employed myself answering the questions of the curious visitors who came and went.
The whole village was up in arms. And yet nobody seemed to care very much that David Van Wyck was dead. Their all-absorbing interest was the mystery of the thing. They positively gloated over the seemingly contradictory facts that a man had met his death in an inaccessible room and yet apparently not by his own hand.
Dozens of explanations were offered, some ingenious, some ridiculous; but I listened to them all, hoping that perhaps a chance shot might hit the truth. For I too was deeply interested in solving the mystery. Quite apart from my personal connection with the matter, I felt a stirring of the detective instinct to solve the problem. And not the least curious phase of it was that apparently nobody accused or even suspected any individual. The whole argument seemed to be that it must have been the work of an expert burglar, and yet that the entrance of such an intruder was impossible!
Buttonwood Terrace, hitherto so exclusive, was thrown open to all. Beside the curiosity seekers from the village, many personal friends and some distant relatives arrived at the house.
As both Anne and Barbara declined to see anybody, Mrs. Carstairs acted as hostess. She was serene and composed, but with an air of calm determination that made me wonder what her thoughts might be. At one time I saw her in earnest colloquy with Mr. Markham. I burned to know what she was talking about and I asked him.
“Oh,” he said, “she doesn’t want to testify at the inquest, and she doesn’t want her son to, either. But of course they’ll have to.”
“Can he or they be implicated?” I asked, with interest.
“Probably not. More likely it’s a woman’s natural instinct to dread such an experience both for herself and for anyone dear to her.”
I thought then of the peculiar circumstances of Carstairs and his mother both hunting for something in the road, and both denying that they had lost anything. I was about to tell this to Mr. Markham when he was called away on some matter. And I thought too, perhaps it was better not to mention the subject until I should discover what developments might result from the inquest.
Coroner Mellen proved himself capable of conducting matters in a business-like way. If he appeared hard and heartless it was probably necessary, considering the work he had to do. The inquest was to be held at half-past two, and there was much to be done by way of preparation. The jurymen were arriving, also several policemen and a number of reporters.
The incoming trains brought people from the city, and many of the principal men of the village were in attendance. Not everyone was allowed to enter the house, but the grounds were thronged with curiosity-seekers and idlers.
As the time neared for the inquest, the great hall began to be filled with people. A table had been placed in the centre for the use of the coroner and the reporters, and a group of chairs near by were intended for the jury.
Seats were reserved for the members of the household, and the rest of the room was quickly filled by an interested if horrified audience.
The coroner and the jurymen filed in and took their