The Greatest Works of Anna Katharine Green. Анна Грин

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ was possible. The woman had been killed at twelve, and the clock had fallen at five. How could the two be made to agree, and which, since agreement was impossible, should be made to give way, the theory or the testimony of the clock? Both seemed incontrovertible, and yet one must be false. Which?

      I was inclined to think that the trouble lay with the clock; that I had been deceived in my conclusions, and that it was not running at the time of the crime. Mr. Gryce may have ordered it wound, and then have had it laid on its back to prevent the hands from shifting past the point where they had stood at the time of the crime’s discovery. It was an unexplainable act, but a possible one; while to suppose that it was going when the shelves fell, stretched improbability to the utmost, there having been, so far as we could learn, no one in the house for months sufficiently dexterous to set so valuable a timepiece; for who could imagine the scrub-woman engaging in a task requiring such delicate manipulation.

      No! some meddlesome official had amused himself by starting up the works, and the clue I had thought so important would probably prove valueless.

      There was humiliation in the thought, and it was a relief to me to hear an approaching carriage just as the clock on my mantel struck twelve. Springing from my chair, I put out my light and flew to the window.

      The coach drew up and stopped next door. I saw a gentleman descend and step briskly across the pavement to the neighboring stoop. The figure he presented was not that of the man I had seen enter the night before.

Chapter VIII.

       The Misses Van Burnam

       Table of Contents

      Late as it was when I retired, I was up betimes in the morning—as soon, in fact, as the papers were distributed. The Tribune lay on the stoop. Eagerly I seized it; eagerly I read it. From its headlines you may judge what it had to say about this murder:

      A STARTLING DISCOVERY IN THE VAN BURNAM MANSION IN GRAMERCY PARK.

      A Young Girl Found there, Lying Dead under an Overturned Cabinet.

      Evidences that she was Murdered before it was Pulled down upon her.

      Thought by Some to be Mrs. Howard Van Burnam.

      A Fearful Crime Involved in an Impenetrable Mystery.

      What Mr. Van Burnam Says about it: He does not Recognize the Woman as his Wife.

      So, so, it was his wife they were talking about. I had not expected that. Well! well! no wonder the girls looked startled and concerned. And I paused to recall what I had heard about Howard Van Burnam’s marriage.

      It had not been a fortunate one. His chosen bride was pretty enough, but she had not been bred in the ways of fashionable society, and the other members of the family had never recognized her. The father, especially, had cut his son dead since his marriage, and had even gone so far as to threaten to dissolve the partnership in which they were all involved. Worse than this, there had been rumors of a disagreement between Howard and his wife. They were not always on good terms, and opinions differed as to which was most in fault. So much for what I knew of these two mentioned parties.

      Reading the article at length, I learned that Mrs. Van Burnam was missing; that she had left Haddam for New York the day before her husband, and had not since been heard from. Howard was confident, however, that the publicity given to her disappearance by the papers would bring immediate news of her.

      The effect of the whole article was to raise grave doubts as to the candor of Mr. Van Burnam’s assertions, and I am told that in some of the less scrupulous papers these doubts were not only expressed, but actual surmises ventured upon as to the identity between the person whom I had seen enter the house with the young girl. As for my own name, it was blazoned forth in anything but a gratifying manner. I was spoken of in one paper—a kind friend told me this—as the prying Miss Amelia. As if my prying had not given the police their only clue to the identification of the criminal.

      The New York World was the only paper that treated me with any consideration. That young man with the small head and beady eyes was not awed by me for nothing. He mentioned me as the clever Miss Butterworth whose testimony is likely to be of so much value in this very interesting case.

      It was the World I handed the Misses Van Burnam when they came down-stairs to breakfast. It did justice to me and not too much injustice to him. They read it together, their two heads plunged deeply into the paper so that I could not watch their faces. But I could see the sheet shake, and I noticed that their social veneer was not as yet laid on so thickly that they could hide their real terror and heart-ache when they finally confronted me again.

      “Did you read—have you seen this horrible account?” quavered Caroline, as she met my eye.

      “Yes, and I now understand why you felt such anxiety yesterday. Did you know your sister-in-law, and do you think she could have been beguiled into your father’s house in that way?”

      It was Isabella who answered.

      “We never have seen her and know little of her, but there is no telling what such an uncultivated person as she might do. But that our good brother Howard ever went in there with her is a lie, isn’t it, Caroline?—a base and malicious lie?”

      “Of course it is, of course, of course. You don’t think the man you saw was Howard, do you, dear Miss Butterworth?”

      Dear? O dear!

      “I am not acquainted with your brother,” I returned. “I have never seen him but a few times in my life. You know he has not been a very frequent visitor at your father’s house lately.”

      They looked at me wistfully, so wistfully.

      “Say it was not Howard,” whispered Caroline, stealing up a little nearer to my side.

      “And we will never forget it,” murmured Isabella, in what I am obliged to say was not her society manner.

      “I hope to be able to say it,” was my short rejoinder, made difficult by the prejudices I had formed. “When I see your brother, I may be able to decide at a glance that the person I saw entering your house was not he.”

      “Yes, oh, yes. Do you hear that, Isabella? Miss Butterworth will save Howard yet. O you dear old soul. I could almost love you!”

      This was not agreeable to me. I a dear old soul! A term to be applied to a butter-woman not to a Butterworth. I drew back and their sentimentalities came to an end. I hope their brother Howard is not the guilty man the papers make him out to be, but if he is, the Misses Van Burnam’s fine phrase, We could almost love you, will not deter me from being honest in the matter.

      Mr. Gryce called early, and I was glad to be able to tell him that the gentleman who visited him the night before did not recall the impression made upon me by the other. He received the communication quietly, and from his manner I judged that it was more or less expected. But who can be a correct judge of a detective’s manner, especially one so foxy and imperturbable as this one? I longed to ask who his visitor was, but I did not dare, or rather—to be candid in little things that you may believe me in great—I was confident he would not tell me, so I would not compromise my dignity by a useless question.

      He СКАЧАТЬ