The Mystery of the Sycamore

“Oh, probably not. But everything I can learn is of help in discovering the criminal and perhaps freeing your employers from suspicion.”

“And I wish that might be! To put it on the good man, now! And worse, upon the ladies – angels, both of them!”

“You are fond of the family, then?”

“I am that! I’ve worked here for eight years, and never a cross word from the missus or the master. As for Miss Maida – she’s my darlint.”

“They’re fortunate in having you here,” said Stone, kindly. “That’s all, now, cook, unless you can remember anything more of that person you saw.”

“Nothin’ more, sor. If I do, I’ll tell you.”

Thinking hard, Stone left her.

It was the most unusual case he had ever attempted. If he looked no further for the murderer than the Wheeler family, he still had enough to do in deciding which one of the three was guilty. But he yearned for another suspect. Not a foolish phantom that went around piping, or a perhaps imaginary prowler stalking on the piazza, but a real suspect with a sound, plausible motive.

Though, to be sure, the Wheelers had motive enough. To be condemned to an absurd restriction and then teased about it, was enough to make life gall and wormwood to a sensitive man like Wheeler.

And who could say what words had passed between them at that final interview? Perhaps Appleby had goaded him to the breaking point; perhaps Wheeler had stood it, but his wife, descending the stairs and hearing the men talk, had grown desperate at last; or, and Stone knew he thought this most plausible of all, perhaps Maida, in her window-seat, had stood as long as she could the aspersions and tauntings directed at her adored father, and had, with a reckless disregard of consequences, silenced the enemy forever.

Of young Allen, Stone had no slightest suspicion. To be sure, his interests were one with the Wheeler family, and moreover, he had hoped for a release from restrictions that would let the Wheelers go into Massachusetts and thereby make possible his home there with Maida.

For Maida’s vow that she would never go into the state if her father could not go, too, was, Allen knew, inviolable.

All this Stone mulled over, yet had no thought that Allen was the one he was seeking. Also, Curtis Keefe had testified that Allen was with him at the fire, during the time that included the moment of shooting.

Strolling out into the gardens, the detective made his way to the great tree, the big sycamore.

Here Fibsy joined him, and at Stone’s tacit nod of permission, the boy sat down beside his superior on the bench under the tree.

“What’s this about the tree going to Massachusetts?” Fibsy asked, his freckled face earnestly inquiring.

“One of old Appleby’s jokes,” Stone returned. “Doubtless made just after a reading of ‘Macbeth.’ You know, or if you don’t, you must read it up for yourself, there’s a scene there that hinges on Birnam Wood going to Dunsinane. I can’t take time to tell you about it, but quite evidently it pleased the old wag to tell Mr. Wheeler that he could go into his native state when this great tree went there.”

“Meaning not at all, I s’pose.”

“Of course. And any human intervention was not allowed. So though Birnam Wood was brought to Dunsinane, such a trick is not permissible in his case. However, that’s beside the point just now. Have you seen any of the servants?”

“Some. But I got nothing. They’re willing enough to talk, but they don’t know anything. They say I’d better tackle the ladies’ maid, a fair Rachel. So I’m going for her. But I bet I won’t strike pay-dirt.”

“You may. Skip along, now, for here comes Miss Maida, and she’s probably looking for me.”

Fibsy departed, and Maida, looking relieved to find Stone alone, came quickly toward him.

“You see, Mr. Stone,” she began, “you must start straight in this thing. And the only start possible is for you to be convinced that I killed Mr. Appleby.”

“But you must admit, Miss Wheeler, that I am not too absurd in thinking that though you say you did it, you are saying it to shield some one else – some one who is near and dear to you.”

“I know you think that – but it isn’t so. How can I convince you?”

“Only by circumstantial evidence. Let me question you a bit. Where did you get the revolver?”

“From my father’s desk drawer, where he always keeps it.”

“You are familiar with firearms?”

“My father taught me to shoot years ago. I’m not a crack shot – but that was not necessary.”

“You premeditated the deed?”

“For some time I have felt that I wanted to kill that man.”

“Your conscience?”

“Is very active. I deliberately went against its dictates for my father’s sake.”

“And you killed Mr. Appleby because he hounded your father in addition to the long deprivation he had imposed on him?”

“No, not that alone. Oh, I don’t want to tell you – but, if you won’t believe me otherwise, Mr. Stone, I will admit that I had a new motive – ”

“A new one?”

“Yes, a secret that I learned only a day or so before – before Mr. Appleby’s death.”

“The secret was Appleby’s?”

“Yes; that is, he knew it. He told it to me. If any one else should know it, it would mean the utter ruin and desolation of the lives of my parents, compared to which this present condition of living is Paradise itself!”

“This is true, Miss Wheeler?”

“Absolutely true. Now, do you understand why I killed him?”

CHAPTER XIII

SARA WHEELER

Fleming Stone was deeply interested in the Appleby case.

While his logical brain could see no possible way to look save toward one of the three Wheelers, yet his soul revolted at the thought that any one of them was the criminal.

Stone was well aware of the fact that the least seemingly guilty often proved to be a deep-dyed villain, yet he hesitated to think that Dan Wheeler had killed his old enemy, and he could not believe it was a woman’s work. He was impressed by Maida’s story, especially by the fact that a recent development had made her more strongly desirous to be rid of old Appleby. He wondered if it did not have something to do with young Appleby’s desire to marry her, and determined to persuade her to confide further in him regarding the secret she mentioned.

But first, he decided to interview Mrs. Wheeler. This could not be done offhand, so he waited a convenient season, and asked for a conference when he felt sure it would be granted.

Sara Wheeler received the detective in her sitting-room, and her manner was calm and collected as she asked him to make the interview as brief as possible.

“You are not well, Mrs. Wheeler?” Stone asked, courteously.

“I am not ill, Mr. Stone, but naturally these dreadful days have upset me, and the horror and suspense are still hanging over me. Can you not bring matters to a crisis? Anything would be better than present conditions!”