The Dead Letter · Part I · Chapter 1 4 (2/2)

With a woman’s instinct she put up her hand to smooth her disordered hair, came slowly back and took the bonnet which I extended toward her, without speaking. I hesitated what move to make next. I wished to address her⁠—she was here, in my grasp, and I ought to satisfy myself, as far as possible, about the suspicions which I had conceived. I might do her an irreparable injury by making my feelings public, if she were innocent of any aid or instigation of the crime which had been committed, yet there were circumstances which could hardly pass unchallenged. That unaccountable absence of hers on Saturday, from three o’clock until an hour after the murder was committed; the statement of her aunt that she was in the city, and my finding her in this spot, in connection with the midnight visit to the window, and the other things which I had observed, were sufficient to justify inquiry. Yet, if I alarmed her prematurely I should have the less chance of coming upon proofs, and her accomplices, if she had any, would be led to take steps for greater safety. Anyhow, I would make her speak, and find what there was in her voice.

“Your aunt told me that you had gone to New York,” I said, stepping along beside her, as she turned away.

“She thought so. Did you come here to see me, sir?” stopping short in her walk, and looking at me as if she expected me to tell my business.

This again did not look like the trepidation of guilt.

“No. I came out for a walk. I suppose our thoughts have led us both in the same direction. This place will have an interest to many, hereafter.”

“Interest! the interest of vulgar curiosity! It will give them something to talk about. I hate it!” She spoke more to herself than to me, while a ray of fire darted from those black orbs; the next instant her face subsided into that passionate stillness again.

Her speech was not that of her station; I recalled what her aunt had said about the education she had bestowed on her, and decided that the girl’s mind was one of those which reach out beyond their circumstances⁠—aspiring⁠—ambitious⁠—and that this aspiring nature may have led her into her present unhappiness. That she was unhappy, if not sinful, it took but a glance to assure me.

“So do I hate it. I do not like to have the grief of my friends subjected to cold and curious eyes.”

“Yet, it is a privilege to have the right to mourn. I tell you the sorrow of that beautiful lady he was to have married is light compared with trouble that some feel. There are those who envy her.”

It was not her words, as much as her wild, half-choked voice, which gave effect to them; she spoke, and grew silent, as if conscious that the truth had been wrung from her in the ear of a stranger. We had reached the gate, and she seemed anxious to escape through it; but I held it in my hand, looking hard at her, as I said⁠—“It may have been the hand of envy which dashed the cup of fruition from her lips. Her young life is withered never to bloom again. I can imagine but one wretchedness in this world greater than hers⁠—and that is the wretchedness of the guilty person who has murder written on his or her soul.”

A spasm contracted her face; she pushed at the gate which I still held.

“Ah, don’t,” she said; “let me pass.”

I opened it and she darted through, fleeing along the road which led out around the backward slope of the hill, like Io pursued by the stinging fly. Her path was away from the village, so that I hardly expected to see her again that day.

Within two minutes the gardener’s wife came up the road to the gate. She had been down to visit the corpse of her young master; her eyes were red with weeping.

“How do you do, Mr. Redfield? These be miserable times, ain’t they? My very heart is sore in my breast; but I couldn’t cry a tear in the room where he was, a-lying there like life, for Miss Eleanor sot by him like a statue. It made me cold all over to see her⁠—I couldn’t speak to save me. The father and mother are just broke down, too.”

“How is Miss Eleanor, this morning?”

“The Lord knows! She doesn’t do anything but sit there, as quiet as can be. It’s a bad symptom, to my thinking. ‘Still waters run deep.’ They’re a-dreading the hour when they’ll have to remove the body from the house⁠—they’re afraid her mind’ll go.”

“No, no,” I answered, inwardly shuddering; “Eleanor’s reason is too fine and powerful to be unstrung, even by a blow like this.”

“Who was that went out the gate as I came around the bend? Was it that girl, again?”

“Do you mean Leesy Sullivan?”

“Yes, sir. Do you know her? She acts mighty queer, to my thinkin’. She was out here Saturday, sittin’ in the summerhouse, all alone, ’till the rain began to fall⁠—I guess she got a good soaking going home. I didn’t think much about her; it was Saturday, and I thought likely she was taking a holiday, and there’s many people like to come here, it’s so pleasant. But what’s brought her here again today is more’n I can guess. Do you know, sir?”

“I do not. I found her sitting on the portico looking at the river. Maybe she comes out for a walk and stops here to rest. She probably feels somewhat at home, she has sewed so much in the family. I don’t know her at all, myself; I never spoke to her until just now. Did you get much acquainted with her, when she was in the house?”

“I never spoke to her above a dozen times. I wasn’t at the house much, and she was always at work. She seemed fast with her needle, and a girl who minded her own business. I thought she was rather proud, for a seamstress⁠—she was handsome, and I reckon she knew it. She’s getting thinner; she had red spots on her cheeks, Saturday, that I didn’t like⁠—looked consumptive.”

“Did the family treat her with particular kindness?” It was as near as I cared to put into words what I was thinking of.

“You know it’s in the whole Moreland race to be generous and kind to those under them. I’ve known Henry more than once, when the family was going out for a drive, to insist upon Miss Sullivan’s taking a seat in the carriage⁠—but never when he was going alone. I heard him tell his mother that the poor girl looked tired, as if she needed a breath of air and a bit of freedom, and the kindhearted lady would laugh at her son, but do as he said. It was just like him. But I’d stake my everlasting futur’ that he never took any advantage of her feelings, if it’s that you’re thinking of, Mr. Redfield.”

“So would I, Mrs. Scott. There is no one can have a higher respect for the character of that noble young gentleman, than I. I would resent an insult to his memory more quickly than if he had been my brother. But, as you say, there is something queer in the actions of Miss Sullivan. I know that I can trust your discretion, Mrs. Scott, for I have heard it well spoken of; do not say anything to others, not even to your husband, but keep a watch on that person if she should come here any more. Report to me what she does, and what spot she frequents.”

“I will do so, sir. But I don’t think any harm of her. She may have been unfortunate enough to think too much of the kindness with which he treated her. If so, I pity her⁠—she could hardly help it, poor thing. Henry Moreland was a young gentleman a good many people loved.”

She put her handkerchief to her eyes in a fresh burst of tears. Wishing her good morning, I turned toward the village, hardly caring what I should do next. Mrs. Scott was an American woman, and one to be trusted; I felt that she would be the best detective I could place at that spot.

When I reached the office, on my homeward route, I went in. Mr. Argyll was there alone, his head leaning on his hand, his face anxious and worn, his brow contracted in deep thought. As soon as I came in, he sprung up, closed the outer door, and said to me, in a low voice,

“Richard, another strange thing has occurred.”

I stared at him, afraid to ask what.

“I have been robbed of two thousand dollars.”

“When and how?”

“That is what I do not know. Four days ago I drew that amount in bills from the Park Bank. I placed it, in a roll, just as I received it, in my library desk, at home. I locked the desk, and have carried the key in my pocket. The desk has been locked, as usual, every time that I have gone to it. How long the money has been gone, I can not say; I never looked after it, since placing it there, until about an hour ago. I wanted some cash for expenses this afternoon, and going for it, the roll was gone.”

“Haven’t you mislaid it?”

“No. I have one drawer for my cash, and I placed it there. I remember it plainly enough. It has been stolen”⁠—and he sat down in his chair with a heavy sigh. “That money was for my poor Eleanor. She was to complete her wedding outfit this week, and the two thousand dollars was for refurnishing the place out at the Grove. I don’t care for the loss so much⁠—she doesn’t need it now⁠—but it’s singular⁠—at this time!”

He looked up at me, vague suspicions which he could not shape floating in his brain.

“Who knew of your having the money?”

“No one, that I am aware of, except my nephew. He drew it for me when he went down to the city last Wednesday.”

“Could you identify the money?”

“Not all of it. I only remember that there was one five hundred dollar bill in the package, a fresh issue of the Park Bank, of which, possibly, they may have the number. The rest was city money of various denominations and banks. I can think of but one thing which seems probable. James must have been followed from the city by some professional thief, who saw him obtain the money, and kept an eye upon it, waiting for a suitable opportunity, until it was deposited in the desk. The key is a common one, which could be easily duplicated, and we are so careless in this quiet community that a thief might enter at almost any hour of the night. Perhaps the same villain dogged poor Henry in hopes of another harvest.”

“You forget that there was no attempt to rob Henry.”

“True⁠—true. Yet the murderer may have been frightened away before he had secured his prize.”

“In which case, he would have returned, as the body remained undiscovered all night.”

“It may be so. I am dizzy with thinking it over and over.”

“Try and not think any more, dear sir,” I said, gently. “You are feverish and ill now. I am going, this afternoon, with the friends to the city, and I will put the police on the watch for the money. We will get the number of the large bill, if possible, from the bank, and I will have investigations made as to the passengers of Wednesday on the train with James. Have you said anything to him about your loss?”

“I have not seen him since I made the discovery. You may tell him if you see him first; and do what you can, Richard, for I feel as weak as a child.”