The Leavenworth Case

‘I am not ready to say that,’ he returned, quite distressed. ‘A shadow is a very slight thing. There might have been a shadow—’

‘Between him and whom?’

A long hesitation. ‘One of his nieces, sir.’

‘Which one?’

Again that defiant lift of the head. ‘Miss Eleanore.’

‘How long has this shadow been observable?’

‘I cannot say.’

‘You do not know the cause?’

‘I do not.’

‘Nor the extent of the feeling?’

‘No, sir.’

‘You open Mr Leavenworth’s letters?’

‘I do.’

‘Has there been anything in his correspondence of late calculated to throw any light upon this deed?’

It actually seemed as if he never would answer. Was he simply pondering over his reply, or was the man turned to stone?

‘Mr Harwell, did you hear the juryman?’ inquired the coroner.

‘Yes, sir; I was thinking.’

‘Very well, now answer.’

‘Sir,’ he replied, turning and looking the juryman full in the face, and in that way revealing his unguarded left hand to my gaze, ‘I have opened Mr Leavenworth’s letters as usual for the last two weeks, and I can think of nothing in them bearing in the least upon this tragedy.’

The man lied; I knew it instantly. The clenched hand pausing irresolute, then making up its mind to go through with the lie firmly, was enough for me.

‘Mr Harwell, this is undoubtedly true according to your judgment,’ said the coroner; ‘but Mr Leavenworth’s correspondence will have to be searched for all that.’

‘Of course,’ he replied carelessly; ‘that is only right.’

This remark ended Mr Harwell’s examination for the time. As he sat down I made note of four things.

That Mr Harwell himself, for some reason not given, was conscious of a suspicion which he was anxious to suppress even from his own mind.

That a woman was in some way connected with it, a rustle as well as a footstep having been heard by him on the stairs.

That a letter had arrived at the house, which if found would be likely to throw some light upon this subject.

That Eleanore Leavenworth’s name came with difficulty from his lips; this evidently unimpressible man, manifesting more or less emotion whenever he was called upon to utter it.

CHAPTER IV (#ulink_db3a4221-a168-56a3-bd8a-3cd7443133da)

A CLUE (#ulink_db3a4221-a168-56a3-bd8a-3cd7443133da)

‘Something is rotten in the State of Denmark.’

—HAMLET

THE cook of the establishment being now called, that portly, ruddy-faced individual stepped forward with alacrity, displaying upon her good-humoured countenance such an expression of mingled eagerness and anxiety that more than one person present found it difficult to restrain a smile at her appearance. Observing this and taking it as a compliment, being a woman as well as a cook, she immediately dropped a curtsey, and opening her lips was about to speak, when the coroner, rising impatiently in his seat, took the word from her mouth by saying sternly:

‘Your name?’

‘Katherine Malone, sir.’

‘Well, Katherine, how long have you been in Mr Leavenworth’s service?’

‘Shure, it is a good twelvemonth now, sir, since I came, on Mrs Wilson’s ricommindation, to that very front door, and—’

‘Never mind the front door, but tell us why you left this Mrs Wilson?’

‘Shure, and it was she as left me, being as she went sailing to the ould country the same day when on her ricommindation I came to this very front door—’

‘Well, well; no matter about that. You have been in Mr Leavenworth’s family a year?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And liked it? Found him a good master?’

‘Och, sir, niver have I found a better, worse luck to the villain as killed him. He was that free and ginerous, sir, that many’s the time I have said to Hannah—’ She stopped, with a sudden comical gasp of terror, looking at her fellow servants like one who had incautiously made a slip.

The coroner, observing this, inquired hastily:

‘Hannah? Who is Hannah?’

The cook, drawing her roly-poly figure up into some sort of shape in her efforts to appear unconcerned, exclaimed boldly: ‘She? Oh, only the ladies’ maid, sir.’

‘But I don’t see anyone here answering to that description. You didn’t speak of anyone by the name of Hannah, as belonging to the house,’ said he, turning to Thomas.

‘No, sir,’ the latter replied, with a bow and a sidelong look at the red-cheeked girl at his side. ‘You asked me who were in the house at the time the murder was discovered, and I told you.’

‘Oh,’ cried the coroner, satirically; ‘used to police courts, I see.’ Then, turning back to the cook, who had all this while been rolling her eyes in a vague fright about the room, inquired, ‘And where is this Hannah?’

‘Shure, sir, she’s gone.’

‘How long since?’