The Trevor case

Many called, but few were invited to attend Mrs. Van Zandt Macallister’s stately entertainments. Possibly for that reason alone her invitations were eagerly sought and highly prized by social aspirants.

For more years than she cared to remember, official, residential, and diplomatic Washington had gathered on an equal footing in her hospitable mansion on F Street. So strictly did she draw social distinctions that one disgruntled climber spoke of her evening receptions as “Resurrection Parties,” and the name clung. But all Washingtonians took a deep interest in “Madam” Macallister, as they affectionately called her. She was grande dame to her fingertips.

On the occasion of her daughter’s marriage to the Duke of Middlesex she gave a beautiful wedding breakfast. The wedding was of international importance. The President, his Cabinet, and the Diplomatic Corps were among the guests.

Mrs. Macallister was standing in the drawing-room with her back to the dining-room door talking to the President. As the butler drew apart the folding doors, the long table, covered with massive silver, china, and glass, gave way under the weight. The crash was resounding. The terrified guests glanced at each other. Mrs. Macallister never even turned her head, but went on conversing placidly with the President.

The doors were instantly closed; the guests, taking their cue from their hostess, resumed their light chatter and laughter; and in a remarkably short time the table was cleared and reset, and the breakfast announced. As the President, with a look of deep admiration, offered his arm to Mrs. Macallister, he murmured in her ear:

“‘And mistress of herself though china fall.’”

Washington society had never forgotten the incident.

Mrs. Macallister had rather a caustic tongue, but a warm, generous heart beat under her somewhat frosty exterior. Her charities were never aired in public. Only the clergymen knew how many families she kept supplied with coal in winter and ice in summer. And many an erring sister had cause to bless her name.

Mrs. Macallister glanced impatiently at the clock—twenty minutes past five. She leaned forward and touched the electric bell beside the large open fireplace. There were two things she abominated—to be kept waiting—and midday dinners; the former upset her nerves; the latter her digestion.

“Has Miss Margaret returned?” she asked, as Hurley entered with the tea tray.

Before the butler could answer there was the sound of a quick, light footstep in the hall, and then the portières were pushed aside.

Mrs. Macallister looked approvingly at her granddaughter. Peggy was more like her father’s people, and her grandmother’s heart had warmed to her from the moment the motherless little baby had been placed in her tender care. The young father, never very strong, had not long outlived his girl-wife. Since then Peggy and her grandmother had lived alone in the old-fashioned residence, which her grandfather Macallister had bought years before when coming to live in Washington on the expiration of his third term as Governor of Pennsylvania.

“Well, Granny, am I very late?” giving Mrs. Macallister a warm hug. She had never stood in awe of her formidable grandmother, but with all the passionate feeling of her loving nature, she looked up to and adored her.

“My dear, five o’clock is five o’clock, not twenty minutes past,” retorted Mrs. Macallister, smoothing her silvery hair, which had been decidedly ruffled by Peggy’s precipitancy.

“I declare, Granny, you are as bad as Nana; if it is three minutes past five she says its ‘hard on six o’clock.’ I had an awfully good time at the luncheon, and stayed to talk things over with Maud. She has asked me to be one of her bridesmaids, you know.”

“Did you hear the news there?”

“News? What news?”

“Mrs. Trevor has been murdered!”

“Mrs. Trevor—murdered!” Peggy nearly dropped her teacup on the floor.

“I really wish, Peggy, you would stop your habit of repeating my words. It’s very uncomfortable living with an echo under one’s nose.”

“Oh, Granny, please tell me all about it right away.”

“Well, according to the Evening Star— What is it, Hurley?” as that solemn individual entered the room.

“Mr. Tillinghast, to see you and Miss Margaret, ma’am.”

“Show him in. Now, Peggy, we will probably get the news at first hand. Good evening, Dick.”

The young fellow bowed with old-fashioned courtesy over her beautifully shaped, blue-veined hand. Clean living and plenty of outdoor sports could be read in his clear skin and splendid physique. He was a particular favorite of Mrs. Macallister’s.

“I suppose you are discussing the all-absorbing topic,” he said after greeting Peggy.

“I have been reading this.” Mrs. Macallister held up the paper with its flaring headlines:

MURDER MOST FOUL
MRS. TREVOR KILLED
BY BURGLAR
CRIMINAL IN THE TOILS

“The police acted very promptly, and deserve a lot of praise,” said Dick.

“Well,” remarked Mrs. Macallister, slowly, “they have caught the burglar, but whether he is also the murderer is yet to be proved.”

“That’s true; but there is hardly any doubt. Nothing was stolen, therefore it is a fairly easy deduction that Mrs. Trevor, disturbed by some noise, went down into the office to investigate and was killed. He had the safe already open, stabbed her, then locked her in. Probably his nerve forsook him, and he fled without stopping to steal what he came for.”

“My dear Dick! Your theory might answer if any other woman was in question; but Mrs. Trevor—she wouldn’t have troubled herself if there had been a cloud-burst in the office. She was simply a human mollusk. And as for—” Mrs. Macallister’s feelings were beyond expression.

“I say, aren’t you a little hard on her? I don’t know when I’ve seen a more beautiful woman, and one so popular—”

“With men,” supplemented Mrs. Macallister, dryly.

Dick laughed outright. “Anyway,” he said, “the police have found that the burglar entered the house by the window on the stair landing, which looks out on the roof of the butler’s pantry. It is an easy climb for an active man. All the windows on the first floor are heavily barred. They found one of the small panes of glass had been cut out, and the window unfastened, although closed. I’m afraid our friend, the burglar, will have a hard time proving his innocence.”

“It is terrible, terrible,” groaned Peggy, who had been reading the paper’s account of the tragedy. “I must go at once and leave a note for Beatrice,” and she started to rise.

“Sit still, child; I have just returned from the Trevors, and left your card and mine with messages.”

“Did you see Beatrice, Granny?”

“No, only that odious Alfred Clark. I cannot bear the man, he is so—so specious—” hunting about for a word. “He told me that Beatrice and the Attorney General would see no one.”

“Beatrice must be terribly upset, poor darling.”

“I didn’t know there was much love lost between them?”

“There wasn’t,” confessed Peggy. “Mrs. Trevor was perfectly horrid to her.”

“That’s news to me,” said Dick, helping himself to another sandwich.

“Beatrice is not the kind to air her troubles in public,” answered Peggy, “and she never talked much to me, either; but I couldn’t help noticing lots of things. I’ve got eyes in my head.”

“That you have,” thought Dick, who had long since fallen a victim.

“Why, last night Beatrice and I went to the Bachelors’ together. I stopped for her, and she just broke down and cried right there in the carriage. She had had an awful scene with her stepmother just before I got there. We had to drive around for half an hour before she was composed enough to enter the ballroom.”

“What did they quarrel about?” asked Mrs. Macallister, deeply interested.

“She didn’t tell me.”

“By Jove! what actresses women are,” ejaculated Dick. “I danced with her several times, and I thought she was enjoying herself immensely.”

Peggy sniffed; she had not a high opinion of a mere man’s perceptions; then she qualified her disapproval by a smile which showed each pretty dimple, and sent Dick into the seventh heaven of bliss.

“Of what nationality was Mrs. Trevor?” asked Mrs. Macallister, coming out of a brown study.

“She was an Italian,” answered Dick.

“No, Dick, I think you are mistaken. I am sure she was a Spaniard,” declared Peggy. “She spoke Spanish faultlessly.”

Mrs. Macallister shook her head. “That doesn’t prove anything. She spoke French like a Parisian, and also Italian fluently. The only language in which her accent was pronounced was English.”

“Beatrice told me her maiden name was de Beaupré, so perhaps she was of French descent,” continued Peggy. “Mr. Trevor met her in London. They were married six weeks later very quietly, and Beatrice was not told of the affair until after the ceremony.”

“Indeed!” Mrs. Macallister smiled grimly. “Marry in haste, repent at leisure.”

“But being a lawyer perhaps he just naturally pressed his suit quickly,” interrupted Dick, man-like, standing up for his sex. “I’d do the same, if you gave me half a chance,” he added in an ardent aside to Peggy, whose only answer was a vivid blush.

“Don’t talk to me of lawyers,” retorted Mrs. Macallister, who had unpleasant recollections of a bitter lawsuit with one of her relatives. “Their ways are past finding out. But I really must discover who Mrs. Trevor was before her marriage.”

“Why, Granny, I have just told you she was Mademoiselle de Beaupré.”

“The only de Beaupré I have ever heard of, Peggy, is Anne de Beaupré. And I imagine it is a far cry from Sainte Anne to Hélène whose very name suggests sulphur. Must you go?” she asked, as Dick rose.

“Yes. I have a special story to send on to the Philadelphia papers. If I hear any further details of the murder, I’ll drop in and tell you.”

“Thanks; but I have decided to attend the inquest, which the papers say will be held at the Trevors’.”

“Granny!” cried Peggy, in a tone of horror.

“Tut, child, of course I am going. I dearly love a mystery; besides, the world and his wife will be there.”

“And so will I,” added Dick, as he bowed himself out.