sure it is your duty, madam,” said the detective as he somewhat eagerly took the letter from her hand.
I caught sight of the inscription and a fierce anger kindled within me.
“That is a letter to Mrs. Van Wyck!” I exclaimed. “You have no right to read it, Mr. Markham! Mrs. Carstairs, where did you get it?”
My vehemence seemed to frighten her, and she clasped her hands to her breast with a little fluttering motion. “Oh, have I done wrong? Shall I put it back? I thought—I thought that in a case like this, you know, it was one’s duty to tell, if one found important evidence.”
Of course this was enough for Markham, and he held the letter firmly, with no intention of giving it up. But I made another desperate attempt. “Mr. Markham, you shall not read that letter, without Mrs. Van Wyck’s permission! Have you read it?” and I turned and glared at the housekeeper.
“I have,” she said, softly, with a look of pain in her deep eyes. “Oh, believe me, I did not know it was wrong! I thought I ought to.”
“And you are right, madam,” said the detective. “Mr. Sturgis knows you are right. It is only his personal feeling that makes him want to withhold the information this letter may give.”
“Oh, is that it?” And Mrs. Carstairs did not glance at me, but confined her attention to Markham. “Then you will read it, won’t you, and tell me I was right in bringing it to you. I was so uncertain what to do. If Mr. Sturgis does not want to hear it, perhaps he had better go away.”
In my indignation, I was quite ready to walk away rather than be a party to this disgraceful act but as she spoke, Mrs. Carstairs swept me a glance, in which, beneath its apparent frankness, I thought I caught a malevolent gleam, and I promptly decided that I preferred to know all that anyone else knew, either for or against Anne.
The letter had been opened, and without further hesitation, Mr. Markham drew the paper from its envelope.
It was a half sheet and its message was typewritten. The detective did not read it aloud, but as I looked over his shoulder, we two scanned its contents at the same time.
There was no address, no preliminary greeting of any sort, but it was dated “Friday.” Then the message ran:
“To-night is the time. After the comittee meeting. Don’t be afraid. You can never be found out. I will protect you and look out for you.” There was no signature. I read the lines twice, but even then was unable to sense their purport. I took the sheet from Markham and scrutinized it closely. Meanwhile, he examined the envelope.
There could be no doubt of its genuineness. It was addressed, in typewriting, to Mrs. David Van Wyck, Buttonwood Terrace, Town, and it bore the postmark of two days before, and of the Crescent Falls Village Post-office. A postmark on the back showed that it had been mailed Friday morning and received the same afternoon. It had been opened neatly, and gave every evidence of being a letter received and read by Anne Van Wyck on Friday. And it was on Friday night that David Van Wyck had died.
The half sheet of paper was undoubtedly from the same box of stationery as the envelope, both were of good style, rather large-sized and of good quality.
Mr. Markham read it over several times, and at last he said, “This is of very grave import. You did quite right, Mrs. Carstairs, to bring it to me. Where did you find it?”
“It was in a book, which lay on a table in Mrs. Van Wyck’s dressing-room. I chanced to pick up the book to put it away in its place, and this letter fell out.”
“And you deliberately read it!” I exclaimed, and I daresay I glared at her.
“Perhaps I ought not to have done so, Mr. Sturgis; but I can’t help thinking that in such a mysterious case as we have before us now, certain conventional rules may be laid aside.”
“I quite agree with you, madam,” said the detective, “and I can’t help thinking that this is a most important piece of evidence. Is it your habit to look after Mrs. Van Wyck’s belongings?”
“It is my duty to see that her rooms are kept in immaculate order. And unless I show a certain amount of oversight, sometimes the maids become a little careless in their care of the appointments of her dressing-table and such matters. And so, as I was in there this morning on a tour of inspection, I found this letter, as I have told you.”
I was absolutely crushed. I felt as if a black mantle had fallen over me like an enveloping pall. Not for a moment did I believe Anne guilty, even of complicity in her husband’s death; but I realized that my refusal to believe it was based solely on my unwillingness to do so. However, the thought flashed through my mind that this letter was dangerous and it must be destroyed or suppressed. I knew, too, that Mr. Markham was ready and eager to make use of it and I concluded that the only thing I could do was to beg for time.
So I said: “I quite agree with you, Mr. Markham, that this is a serious matter. So much so, that I think you will both be willing to agree to my proposition, which is to say nothing about it for a day or two. Let us, at least, wait until after Mr. Van Wyck’s funeral, which takes place to-morrow afternoon. I think it only decent courtesy that all investigation should be postponed until after that.”
Mr. Markham considered this matter. “It might be well to adopt that course,” he said, slowly, “though of course I shall conduct personally and privately any investigation I choose. But I’m quite willing to agree that the whole matter shall not be mentioned to any member of the family until after the funeral.”
“Perhaps it need never be mentioned,” said Mrs. Carstairs, and her face was drawn with sorrow. “I’m just beginning to realize what it would mean if this discovery of mine were made public. Why, it is practically a condemnation of Anne Van Wyck!”
“It is nothing of the sort!” I cried out, angrily. “It is doubtless a harmless communication on a totally different subject. There is really nothing to connect it with the crime in the study.”
“Don’t talk rubbish,” said Mr. Markham, testily. “If ever a bit of evidence pointed straight to a criminal, this certainly does. There can be no doubt of its genuineness. The date and postmarks prove that Mrs. Van Wyck received this letter on Friday afternoon. The fact that it was found in a book which she had been reading, proves that she received and opened it herself. If all this is not so, what is your explanation of the incident, Mr. Sturgis?”
“Yes, do tell us,” said Mrs. Carstairs, wringing her beautiful hands. “I should be so glad to put any construction on it favorable to Mrs. Van Wyck. Would it be better to go to her and ask her frankly what it means?”
“No!” I thundered; “that poor woman is not to be harassed any more than is necessary during these awful days. You have both promised to keep this matter a secret until after the funeral and I hold you to your word.”
To my relief, they both agreed to this, and promised not to mention that awful letter to any one at present
I looked curiously at Mrs. Carstairs. As always, she mystified me, and yet I couldn’t say how or why. Surely she had been guilty of a breach of good manners in reading a letter addressed to another. But in her opinion the occasion had justified it; and doubtless many people would agree with her. Really, I could not help distrusting her, in spite of the fact that she now expressed so much sympathy for Anne and seemed so truly grieved at the thought of her trouble that she seemed to be sincere. And again, what could she have done with the letter better than to bring it straight to the detective. It was the most logical proceeding and the most just. If she had taken the letter to Morland or Barbara it might have made infinitely more trouble. I walked away, leaving the two on the terrace still conferring on the matter. As I turned aside I heard Mr. Markham say, “What was the book in which you found the letter?” And Mrs. Carstairs replied, “A Volume on Rose Culture.”
The question struck me as absurd, for what difference could it possibly make what the subject of the book might be.
I walked along the terrace and down into the gardens. Finding a pleasant