The Mystery of the Sycamore

“If some member of your family would tell me the truth,” Stone said frankly, “it would help a great deal. You know, Mrs. Wheeler, when three people insist on being regarded as the criminal, it’s difficult to choose among them. Now, won’t you, at least, admit that you didn’t shoot Mr. Appleby?”

“But I did,” and the serene eyes looked at Stone calmly.

“Can you prove it – I mean, to my satisfaction? Tell me this: where did you get a pistol?”

“I used Mr. Wheeler’s revolver.”

“Where did you get it?”

“From the drawer in his desk, where he always keeps it.”

Stone sighed. Of course, both Maida and her mother knew where the revolver was kept, so this was no test of their veracity as to the crime.

“When did you take it from the drawer?”

Sara Wheeler hesitated for an instant and from that, Stone knew that she had to think before she spoke. Had she been telling the truth, he argued, she would have answered at once.

But immediately she spoke, though with a shade of hesitation.

“I took it earlier in the day – I had it up in my own room.”

“Yes; where did you conceal it there?”

“In – in a dresser drawer.”

“And, when you heard the alarm of fire, you ran downstairs in consequence – but you paused to get the revolver and take it with you!”

This sounded absurd, but Sara Wheeler could see no way out of it, so she assented.

“Feeling sure that you would find your husband and Mr. Appleby in such a desperate quarrel that you would be called upon to shoot?”

“I – I overheard the quarrel from upstairs,” she faltered, her eyes piteous now with a baffled despair.

“Then you went down because of the quarreling voices – not because of the fire-alarm?”

Unable to meet Stone’s inexorable gaze, Mrs. Wheeler’s eyes fell and she nervously responded: “Well, it was both.”

“Now, see here,” Stone said, kindly; “you want to do anything you can, don’t you, to help your husband and daughter?”

“Yes, of course!” and the wide-open eyes now looked at him hopefully.

“Then will you trust me far enough to believe that I think you will best help them by telling the truth?”

“Oh, I can’t!” and with a low moan the distracted woman hid her face in her hands.

“Please do; your attitude proves you are concealing important information. I am more than ever sure you are not the guilty one – and I am not at all sure that it was either of the other two.”

“Then who could it have been?” and Sara Wheeler looked amazed.

“That we don’t know. If I had a hint of any direction to look I’d be glad. But if you will shed what light you can, it may be of great help.”

“Even if it seems to incriminate my – ”

“What can incriminate them more than their own confessions?”

“Their confessions contradict each other. They can’t both be guilty.”

“And you don’t know which one is?”

“N – no,” came the faltering reply.

“But that admission contradicts your own confession. Come now, Mrs. Wheeler, own up to me that you didn’t do it, and I’ll not tell any one else, unless it becomes necessary.”

“I will tell you, for I can’t bear this burden alone any longer! I did go downstairs because of the alarm of fire, Mr. Stone. Just before I came to the open door of the den, I heard a shot, and as I passed the door of the den, I saw Mr. Appleby, fallen slightly forward in his chair, my husband standing at a little distance looking at him, and Maida in the bay window, also staring at them both.”

“What did you do? Go in?”

“No; I was so bewildered, I scarcely knew which way to turn, and in my fear and horror I ran into my own sitting-room and fell on the couch there in sheer collapse.”

“You stayed there?”

“Until I heard voices in the den – the men came back from the fire and discovered the – the tragedy. At least, I think that’s the way it was. It’s all mixed up in my mind. Usually I’m very clear-headed and strong nerved, but that scene seemed to take away all my will-power – all my vitality.”

“I don’t wonder. What did you do or say?”

“I had a vague fear that my husband or daughter would be accused of the crime, and so, at once, I declared it was the work of the phantom bugler. You’ve heard about him?”

“Yes. You didn’t think it was he, though, did you?”

“I wanted to – yes, I think I did. You see, I don’t think the bugler was a phantom, but I do think he was a criminal. I mean, I think it was somebody who meant harm to my husband. I – well – I think maybe the shot was meant for Mr. Wheeler.”

Stone looked at her sharply, and said: “Please, Mrs. Wheeler, be honest with me, whatever you may pretend to others. Are you not springing that theory in a further attempt to direct suspicion away from Mr. Wheeler?”

She gave a gesture of helplessness. “I see I can hide nothing from you, Mr. Stone! You are right – but may there not be a chance that it is a true theory after all?”

“Possibly; if we can find any hint of the bugler’s identity. Mr. Keefe says, find the bugler and you’ve found the murderer.”

“I know he does, but Keefe is – as I am – very anxious to direct suspicion away from the Wheeler family. You see, Mr. Keefe is in love with my daughter – ”

“As who isn’t? All the young men fall down before her charms!”

“It is so. Although she is engaged to Mr. Allen, both Mr. Keefe and Mr. Sam Appleby are hopeful of yet winning her regard. To me it is not surprising, for I think Maida the very flower of lovely girlhood, but I also think those men should recognize Jeffrey Allen’s rights and cease paying Maida such definite attentions.”

“It is hard to repress an ardent admirer,” Stone admitted, “and as you say, that is probably Keefe’s intent in insisting on the finding of the bugler. You do not, then, believe in your old legend?”

“I do and I don’t. My mind has a tendency to revere and love the old traditions of my family, but when it comes to real belief I can’t say I am willing to stand by them. Yet where else can we look for a criminal – other than my own people?”

“Please tell me just what you saw when you looked into the den immediately after you heard the shot. You must realize how important this testimony is.”