The Mystery of the Sycamore

“I do,” was the solemn reply. “I saw, as I told you, both my husband and my daughter looking at Mr. Appleby as he sat in his chair. I did not know then that he was dead, but he must have been dead or dying. The doctors said the death was practically instantaneous.”

“And from their attitude or their facial expression could you assume either your husband or daughter to have been the guilty one?”

“I can only say they both looked stunned and horrified. Just as one would expect them to look on the occasion of witnessing a horrible tragedy.”

“Whether they were responsible for it or not?”

“Yes. But I’m not sure the attitude would have been different in the case of a criminal or a witness. I mean the fright and horror I saw on their faces would be the same if they had committed a crime or had seen it done.”

Stone considered this. “You may be right,” he said; “I daresay absolute horror would fill the soul in either case, and would produce much the same effect in appearance. Now, let us suppose for a moment, that one or other of the two did do the shooting – wait a moment!” as Mrs. Wheeler swayed uncertainly in her chair. “Don’t faint. I’m supposing this only in the interests of you and yours. Suppose, I say, that either Mr. Wheeler or Miss Wheeler had fired the weapon – as they have both confessed to doing – which would you assume, from their appearance, had done it?”

Controlling herself by a strong effort, Sara Wheeler answered steadily, “I could not say. Honestly, to my startled eyes they seemed equally horrified and stunned.”

“Of course they would. You see, Mrs. Wheeler, the fact that they both confess it, makes it look as if one of them did do it, and the other having witnessed the deed, takes over the blame to save the guilty one. This sounds harsh, but we have to face the facts. Then, if we can get more or different facts, so much the better.”

“You’re suggesting, then, that one of my people did do it, and the other saw it done?”

“I’m suggesting that that might be the truth, and so far as we can see now, is the most apparent solution. But I’m not saying it is the truth, nor shall I relax my efforts to find another answer to our problem. And I want to tell you that you have helped materially by withdrawing your own confession. Every step I can take toward the truth is helpful. You have lessened the suspects from three to two; now if I can eliminate another we will have but one; and if I can clear that one, we shall have to look elsewhere.”

“That is specious argument, Mr. Stone,” and Sara Wheeler fixed her large, sad eyes upon his face. “For, if you succeeded in elimination of one of the two, it may be you cannot eliminate the third – and then – ”

“And then your loving perjuries will be useless. True, but I must do my duty – and that means my duty to you all. I may tell you that Mr. Appleby, who employed me, asked me to find a criminal outside of your family, whether the real one or not.”

“He put it that way!”

“He did; and while I do want to find the outside criminal, I can’t find him if he doesn’t exist.”

“Of course not. I daresay I shall regret what I’ve told you, but – ”

“But you couldn’t help it, I know. Don’t worry, Mrs. Wheeler. If you’ve no great faith in me, try to have a hopeful trust, and I assure you I will not betray it.”

“Well, Mr. McGuire,” Stone said to his adoring satellite, a little later, “there’s one out.”

“Mother Wheeler?”

“Yes, you young scamp; how did you know?”

“Saw you hobnobbing with her – she being took with a sudden attack of the confidentials – and, anyhow, two of ’em – at least – has got to cave in. You can ferret out which of ’em is George Washingtons and which isn’t.”

“Well, here’s the way it seems to stand now. Mind, I only say seems to stand.”

“Yessir.”

“The father and daughter – both of whom confess to the shooting, were seen in the room immediately after the event. Now, they were on opposite sides of the room, the victim being about midway between them. Consequently, if one shot, the other was witness thereto. And, owing to the deep devotion obtaining between them, either father or daughter would confess to the crime to save the other.”

“Then,” Fibsy summed up, “Mr. Wheeler and Maida don’t suspect each other; one did it, and both know which one.”

“Well put. Now, which is which?”

“More likely the girl did the shooting. She’s awful impulsive, awful high strung and awful fond of her father. Say the old Appleby gentleman was beratin’ and oratin’ and iratin,’ against Friend Wheeler, and say he went a leetle too far for Miss Maida to stand, and say she had that new secret, or whatever it is that’s eatin’ her – well, it wouldn’t surprise me overly, if she up and shot the varmint.”

“Having held the pistol in readiness?”

“Not nec’ess’rily. She coulda sprung across the room, lifted the weapon from its customed place in the drawer, and fired, all in a fleetin’ instant o’ time. And she’s the girl to do it! That Maida, now, she could do anything! And she loves the old man enough to do anything. Touch and go – that’s what she is! Especially go!”

“Well, all right. Yet, maybe it was the other way. Maybe, Wheeler, at the end of his patience, and knowing the ‘secret,’ whatever it may be, flung away discretion and grabbed up his own pistol and fired.”

“Coulda been, F. Stone. Coulda been – easily. But – I lean to the Maida theory. Maida for mine, first, last, and all the time.”

“For an admirer of hers, and you’re not by yourself in that, you seem cheerfully willing to subscribe to her guilt.”

“Well, I ain’t! But I do want to get the truth as to the three Wheelers. And once I get it fastened on the lovely Maida, I’ll set to work to get it off again. But, I’ll know where I’m at.”

“And suppose we fasten it on the lovely Daniel?”

“That’s a serious proposition, F. Stone. For, if he did it, he did it. And if Maida did it – she didn’t do it. See?”

“Not very clearly; but never mind, you needn’t expound. It doesn’t interest me.”

Fibsy looked comically chagrined, as he often did when Stone scorned his ideas, but he said nothing except:

“Orders, sir?”

“Yes, Terence. Hunt up Rachel, the maid, and find out all she knows. Use your phenomenal powers of enchantment and make her come across.”

“’Tis the same as done, sir!” declared the boy, and he departed at once in search of Rachel.

He sauntered out of the north door and took a roundabout way to the kitchen quarters.

Finally he found the cook, and putting on his best and most endearing little boy effects, he appealed for something to eat.

“Not but what I’m well treated at the table,” he said, “but, you know what boys are.”

“I do that,” and the good-natured woman furnished him with liberal pieces of pie and cake.

“Great,” said Fibsy, eating the last crumb as he guilefully complimented her culinary skill, “and now I’ve got to find a person name o’ Rachel. Where might she be?”

“She might be ’most anywhere, but she isn’t anywhere,” was the cryptic reply.

“Why for?”

“Well, she’s plain disappeared, if you know what that means.”

“Vamoosed? Skipped? Faded? Slid? Oozed out?”

“Yes; all those. Anyway, she isn’t on the place.”

“Since when?”