John Curran - The Leavenworth Case

‘Miss Leavenworth,’ said he, turning again in her direction; ‘you have declared that you did not visit your uncle’s room last evening. Do you repeat the assertion?’

‘I do.’

He glanced at Mr Gryce, who immediately drew from his breast a handkerchief curiously soiled. ‘It is strange, then, that your handkerchief should have been found this morning in that room.’

The girl uttered a cry. Then, while Mary’s face hardened into a sort of strong despair, Eleanore tightened her lips and coldly replied, ‘I do not see as it is so very strange. I was in that room early this morning.’

‘And you dropped it then?’

A distressed blush crossed her face; she did not reply.

‘Soiled in this way?’ he went on.

‘I know nothing about the soil. What is it? Let me see.’

‘In a moment. What we now wish, is to know how it came to be in your uncle’s apartment.’

‘There are many ways. I might have left it there days ago. I have told you I was in the habit of visiting his room. But first, let me see if it is my handkerchief.’ And she held out her hand.

‘I presume so, as I am told it has your initials embroidered in the corner,’ he remarked, as Mr Gryce passed it to her.

But she with horrified voice interrupted him. ‘These dirty spots! What are they? They look like—’

‘—what they are,’ said the coroner. ‘If you have ever cleaned a pistol, you must know what they are, Miss Leavenworth.’

She let the handkerchief fall convulsively from her hand, and stood staring at it, lying before her on the floor. ‘I know nothing about it, gentlemen,’ she said. ‘It is my handkerchief, but—’ For some cause she did not finish her sentence, but again repeated, ‘Indeed, gentlemen, I know nothing about it!’

This closed her testimony.

Kate, the cook, was now recalled, and asked to tell when she last washed the handkerchief.

‘This, sir; this handkerchief? Oh, some time this week, sir,’ throwing a deprecatory glance at her mistress.

‘What day?’

‘Well, I wish I could forget, Miss Eleanore, but I can’t. It is the only one like it in the house. I washed it day before yesterday.’

‘When did you iron it?’

‘Yesterday morning,’ half choking over the words.

‘And when did you take it to her room?’

The cook threw her apron over her head. ‘Yesterday afternoon, with the rest of the clothes, just before dinner. Indade, I could not help it, Miss Eleanore!’ she whispered; ‘it was the truth.’

Eleanore Leavenworth frowned. This somewhat contradictory evidence had very sensibly affected her; and when, a moment later, the coroner, having dismissed the witness, turned towards her, and inquired if she had anything further to say in the way of explanation or otherwise, she threw her hands up almost spasmodically, slowly shook her head and, without word or warning, fainted quietly away in her chair.

A commotion, of course, followed, during which I noticed that Mary did not hasten to her cousin, but left it for Molly and Kate to do what they could toward her resuscitation. In a few moments this was in so far accomplished that they were enabled to lead her from the room. As they did so, I observed a tall man rise and follow her out.

A momentary silence ensued, soon broken, however, by an impatient stir as our little juryman rose and proposed that the jury should now adjourn for the day. This seeming to fall in with the coroner’s views, he announced that the inquest would stand adjourned till three o’clock the next day, when he trusted all the jurors would be present.

A general rush followed, that in a few minutes emptied the room of all but Miss Leavenworth, Mr Gryce, and myself.

‘His rolling Eies did never rest in place,

But walkte each where for feare of hid mischance,

Holding a lattis still before his Face,

Through which he still did peep as forward he did pace.’

—SPENSER’S THE FAERIE QUEENE

MISS LEAVENWORTH, who appeared to have lingered from a vague terror of everything and everybody in the house not under her immediate observation, shrank from my side the moment she found herself left comparatively alone, and, retiring to a distant corner, gave herself up to grief. Turning my attention, therefore, in the direction of Mr Gryce, I found that person busily engaged in counting his own fingers with a troubled expression upon his countenance, which may or may not have been the result of that arduous employment. But, at my approach, satisfied perhaps that he possessed no more than the requisite number, he dropped his hands and greeted me with a faint smile which was, considering all things, too suggestive to be pleasant.

‘Well,’ said I, taking my stand before him, ‘I cannot blame you. You had a right to do as you thought best; but how had you the heart? Was she not sufficiently compromised without your bringing out that wretched handkerchief, which she may or may not have dropped in that room, but whose presence there, soiled though it was with pistol grease, is certainly no proof that she herself was connected with this murder?’

‘Mr Raymond,’ he returned, ‘I have been detailed as police officer and detective to look after this case, and I propose to do it.’

‘Of course,’ I hastened to reply. ‘I am the last man to wish you to shirk your duty; but you cannot have the temerity to declare that this young and tender creature can by any possibility be considered as at all likely to be implicated in a crime so monstrous and unnatural. The mere assertion of another woman’s suspicions on the subject ought not—’

But here Mr Gryce interrupted me. ‘You talk when your attention should be directed to more important matters. That other woman, as you are pleased to designate the fairest ornament of New York society, sits over there in tears; go and comfort her.’

Looking at him in amazement, I hesitated to comply; but, seeing he was in earnest, crossed to Mary Leavenworth and sat down by her side. She was weeping, but in a slow, unconscious way, as if grief had been mastered by fear. The fear was too undisguised and the grief too natural for me to doubt the genuineness of either.

‘Miss Leavenworth,’ said I, ‘any attempt at consolation on the part of a stranger must seem at a time like this the most bitter of mockeries; but do try and consider that circumstantial evidence is not always absolute proof.’

Starting with surprise, she turned her eyes upon me with a slow, comprehensive gaze wonderful to see in orbs so tender and womanly.

‘No,’ she repeated; ‘circumstantial evidence is not absolute proof, but Eleanore does not know this. She is so intense; she cannot see but one thing at a time. She has been running her head into a noose, and oh—’ Pausing, she clutched my arm with a passionate grasp: ‘Do you think there is any danger? Will they—’ She could not go on.

‘Miss Leavenworth,’ I protested, with a warning look toward the detective, ‘what do you mean?’