Tarlton Law Library
Jamail Center for Legal Research

"Confusion now hath made his master-piece; 
Most sacrilegious murder hath broke ope 
The Lord's anointed temple, and stolen thence 
The life of the building." 
                               --Macbeth. 

     "Well, Thomas, how long have you been employed in your present 
situation?" 
     "It must be a matter of two years now, sir." 
     "You are the person who first discovered the body of Mr. 
Leavenworth?" 
     "Yes, sir; I and Mr. Harwell." 
     "And who is Mr. Harwell?" 
     "Mr. Harwell is Mr. Leavenworth's private secretary, sir; the one 
who did his writing." 
     "Very good. Now at what time of the day or night did you make this 
discovery?" 
     "It was early, sir; early this morning, about eight." 
     "And where?" 
     "In the library, sir, off Mr. Leavenworth's bedroom. We had forced 
our way in, feeling anxious about his not coming to breakfast." 
     "You forced your way in; the door was locked, then?" 
     "Yes, sir." 
     "On the inside?" 
     "That I cannot tell; there was no key in the door." 
     "Where was Mr. Leavenworth lying when you first found him?" 
     "He was not lying, sir. He was seated at the large table in the 
centre of his room, his back to the bedroom door, leaning forward, his
head on his hands." 
     "How was he dressed?" 
     "In his dinner suit, sir, just as he came from the table last 
night." 
     "Were there any evidences in the room that a struggle had taken 
place?" 
     "No, sir." 
     "Any pistol on the floor or table?" 
     "No, sir?" 

     "Any reason to suppose that robbery had been attempted?" 
     "No, sir. Mr. Leavenworth's watch and purse were both in his 
pockets." 
     Being asked to mention who were in the house at the time of the 
discovery, he replied, "The young ladies, Miss Mary Leavenworth and 
Miss Eleanore, Mr. Harwell, Kate the cook, Molly the upstairs girl, and 
myself." 
     "The usual members of the household?" 
     "Yes, sir." 
     "Now tell me whose duty it is to close up the house at night." 
     "Mine, sir." 
     "Did you secure it as usual, last night?" 
     "I did, sir." 
     "Who unfastened it this morning?" 
     "I, sir."
     "How did you find it?" 
     "Just as I left it." 
     "What, not a window open nor a door unlocked?" 
     "No, sir." 
     By this time you could have heard a pin drop. The certainty that the 
murderer, whoever he was, had not left the house, at least till after 
it was opened in the morning, seemed to weigh upon all minds. 
Forewarned as I had been of the fact, I could not but feel a certain 
degree of emotion at having it thus brought before me; and, moving so 
as to bring the butler's face within view, searched it for some secret 
token that he had spoken thus emphatically in order to cover up some 
failure of duty on his own part. But it was unmoved in its candor, and 
sustained the concentrated gaze of all in the room like a rock. 

     Being now asked when he had last seen Mr. Leavenworth alive, he 
replied, "At dinner last night." 
     "He was, however, seen later by some of you?" 
     "Yes, sir; Mr. Harwell says he saw him as late as half-past ten in 
the evening." 
     "What room do you occupy in this house?" 
     "A little one on the basement floor." 
     "And where do the other members of the household sleep?" 
     "Mostly on the third floor, sir; the ladies in the large back 
rooms, and Mr. Harwell in the little one in front. The girls sleep 
above." 
     "There was no one on the same floor with Mr. Leavenworth?" 
     "No, sir." 
     "At what hour did you go to bed?" 
     "Well, I should say about eleven." 
     "Did you hear any noise in the house either before or after that 
time, that you remember?" 
     "No, sir." 
     "So that the discovery you made this morning was a surprise to you?" 
     "Yes, sir." 
     Requested now to give a more detailed account of that discovery, he 
went on to say it was not till Mr. Leavenworth failed to come to his 
breakfast at the call of the bell that any suspicion arose in the house 
that all was not right. Even then they waited some little time before 
doing anything, but as minute after minute went by and he did not come, 
Miss Eleanore grew anxious, and finally left the room saying she would 
go and see what was the matter, but soon returned looking very much 
frightened, saying she had knocked at her uncle's door, and had even 

called to him, but could get no answer. At which Mr. Harwell and 
himself had gone up and together tried both doors, and, finding them 
locked, burst open that of the library, when they came upon Mr. 
Leavenworth, as he had already said, sitting at the table, dead. 
     "And the ladies?" 
     "Oh, they followed us up and came into the room and Miss Eleanore 
fainted away." 
     "And the other one,--Miss Mary, I believe they call her?" 
     "I don't remember anything about her; I was so busy fetching water 
to restore Miss Eleanore, I didn't notice." 
     "Well, how long was it before Mr. Leavenworth was carried into the 
next room?" 
     "Almost immediate, as soon as Miss Eleanore recovered, and that was 
as soon as ever the water touched her lips." 
     "Who proposed that the body should be carried from the spot?" 
     "She, sir. As soon as ever she stood up she went over to it and 
looked at it and shuddered, and then calling Mr. Harwell and me, bade 
us carry him in and lay him on the bed and go for the doctor, which we 
did." 
     "Wait a moment; did she go with you when you went into the other 
room?" 
     "No, sir." 
     "What did she do?" 
     "She stayed by the library table." 
     "What doing?" 
     "I couldn't see; her back was to me." 
     "How long did she stay there?" 
     "She was gone when we came back." 

     "Gone from the table?" 
     "Gone from the room." 
     "Humph! when did you see her again?" 
     "In a minute. She came in at the library door as we went out." 
     "Anything in her hand?" 
     "Not as I see." 
     "Did you miss anything from the table?" 
     "I never thought to look, sir. The table was nothing to me. I was 
only thinking of going for the doctor, though I knew it was of no use." 
     "Whom did you leave in the room when you went out?" 
     "The cook, sir, and Molly, sir, and Miss Eleanore." 
     "Not Miss Mary?" 
     "No, sir." 
     "Very well. Have the jury any questions to put to this man?" 
     A movement at once took place in that profound body. 
     "I should like to ask a few," exclaimed a weazen-faced, excitable 
little man whom I had before noticed shifting in his seat in a restless 
manner strongly suggestive of an intense but hitherto repressed desire 
to interrupt the proceedings. 
     "Very well, sir," returned Thomas. 
     But the juryman stopping to draw a deep breath, a large and 
decidedly pompous man who sat at his right hand seized the opportunity 
to inquire in a round, listen-to-me sort of voice: 
     "You say you have been in the family for two years. Was it what you 
might call a united family?" 
     "United?" 
     "Affectionate, you know,--on good terms with each other." And the 

juryman lifted the very long and heavy watch-chain that hung across his 
vest as if that as well as himself had a right to a suitable and 
well-considered reply. 
     The butler, impressed perhaps by his manner, glanced uneasily 
around. "Yes, sir, so far as I know." 
     "The young ladies were attached to their uncle?" 
     "O yes, sir." 
     "And to each other?" 
     "Well, yes, I suppose so; it's not for me to say." 
     "You suppose so. Have you any reason to think otherwise?" And he 
doubled the watch-chain about his fingers as if he would double its 
attention as well as his own. 
     Thomas hesitated a moment. But just as his interlocutor was about to 
repeat his question, he drew himself up into a rather stiff and formal 
attitude and replied: 
     "Well, sir, no." 
     The juryman, for all his self-assertion, seemed to respect the 
reticence of a servant who declined to give his opinion in regard to 
such a matter, and drawing complacently back, signified with a wave of 
his hand that he had no more to say. 
     Immediately the excitable little man, before mentioned, slipped 
forward to the edge of his chair and asked, this time without 
hesitation: "At what time did you unfasten the house this morning?" 
     "About six, sir." 
     "Now, could any one leave the house after that time without your 
knowledge?" 
     Thomas glanced a trifle uneasily at his fellow-servants, but 
answered up promptly and as if without reserve; 

     "I don't think it would be possible for anybody to leave this house 
after six in the morning without either myself or the cook's knowing of 
it. Folks don't jump from second-story windows in broad daylight, and 
as to leaving by the doors, the front door closes with such a slam all 
the house can hear it from top to bottom, and as for the back-door, no 
one that goes out of that can get clear of the yard without going by 
the kitchen window, and no one can go by our kitchen window without the 
cook's a-seeing of them, that I can just swear to." And he cast a 
half-quizzing, half-malicious look at the round, red-faced individual 
in question, strongly suggestive of late and unforgotten bickerings 
over the kitchen coffee-urn and castor. 
     This reply, which was of a nature calculated to deepen the 
forebodings which had already settled upon the minds of those present, 
produced a visible effect. The house found locked, and no one seen to 
leave it! Evidently, then, we had not far to look for the assassin. 
     Shifting on his chair with increased fervor, if I may so speak, the 
juryman glanced sharply around. But perceiving the renewed interest in 
the faces about him, declined to weaken the effect of the last 
admission, by any further questions. Settling, therefore, comfortably 
back, he left the field open for any other juror who might choose to 
press the inquiry. But no one seeming to be ready to do this, Thomas in 
his turn evinced impatience, and at last, looking respectfully around, 
inquired: 
     "Would any other gentleman like to ask me anything?" 
     No one replying, he threw a hurried glance of relief towards the 
servants at his side, then, while each one marvelled at the sudden 

change that had taken place in his countenance, withdrew with an eager 
alacrity and evident satisfaction for which I could not at the moment 
account. 
     But the next witness proving to be none other than my acquaintance 
of the morning, Mr. Harwell, I soon forgot both Thomas and the doubts 
his last movement had awakened, in the interest which the examination 
of so important a person as the secretary and right-hand man of Mr. 
Leavenworth was likely to create. 
     Advancing with the calm and determined air of one who realized that 
life and death itself might hang upon his words, Mr. Harwell took his 
stand before the jury with a degree of dignity not only highly 
prepossessing in itself, but to me, who had not been over and above 
pleased with him in our first interview, admirable and surprising. 
Lacking, as I have said, any distinctive quality of face or form 
agreeable or otherwise--being what you might call in appearance a 
negative sort of person, his pale, regular features, dark, 
well-smoothed hair and simple whiskers, all belonging to a recognized 
type and very commonplace--there was still visible, on this occasion at 
least, a certain self-possession in his carriage, which went far 
towards making up for the want of impressiveness in his countenance and 
expression. Not that even this was in any way remarkable. Indeed, there 
was nothing remarkable about the man, any more than there is about a 
thousand others you meet every day on Broadway, unless you except the 
look of concentration and solemnity which pervaded his whole person; a 
solemnity which at this time would not have been noticeable, perhaps, 
if it had not appeared to be the habitual expression of one who in his 
short life had seen more of sorrow than joy, less of pleasure than care 
and anxiety. 

     The coroner, to whom his appearance one way or the other seemed to 
be a matter of no moment, addressed him immediately and without reserve: 
     "Your name?" 
     "James Trueman Harwell." 
     "Your business?" 
     "I have occupied the position of private secretary and amanuensis 
to Mr. Leavenworth for the past eight months." 
     "You are the person who last saw Mr. Leavenworth alive, are you not?" 
     The young man raised his head with a haughty gesture which well-nigh 
transfigured it. 
     "Certainly not, as I am not the man who killed him." 
     This answer, which seemed to introduce something akin to levity or 
badinage into an examination the seriousness of which we were all 
beginning to realize, produced an immediate revulsion of feeling toward 
the man who, in face of facts revealed and to be revealed, could so 
lightly make use of it. A hum of disapproval swept through the room, 
and in that one remark, James Harwell lost all that he had previously 
won by the self-possession of his bearing and the unflinching regard of 
his eye. He seemed himself to realize this, for he lifted his head 
still higher, though his general aspect remained unchanged. 
     "I mean," the coroner exclaimed, evidently nettled that the young 
man had been able to draw such a conclusion from his words, "that you 
were the last one to see him previous to his assassination by some 
unknown individual?" 
     The secretary folded his arms, whether to hide a certain tremble 
which had seized him, or by that simple action to gain time for a 

moment's further thought, I could not then determine. "Sir," he 
replied at length, "I cannot answer yes or no to that question. In all 
probability I was the last to see him in good health and spirits, but 
in a house as large as this I cannot be sure of even so simple a fact 
as that." Then, observing the unsatisfied look on the faces around, 
added slowly, "It is my business to see him late." 
     "Your business? Oh, as his secretary, I suppose?" 
     He gravely nodded. 
     "Mr. Harwell," the coroner went on, "the office of private 
secretary in this country is not a common one. Will you explain to us 
what your duties were in that capacity; in short, what use Mr. 
Leavenworth had for such an assistant and how he employed you?" 
     "Certainly. Mr. Leavenworth was, as you perhaps know, a man of 
great wealth. Connected with various societies, clubs, institutions, 
etc., besides being known far and near as a giving man, he was 
accustomed every day of his life to receive numerous letters, begging 
and otherwise, which it was my business to open and answer, his private 
correspondence always bearing a mark upon it which distinguished it 
from the rest. But this was not all I was expected to do. Having in his 
early life been engaged in the tea-trade, he had made more than one 
voyage to China, and was consequently much interested in the question 
of international communication between that country and our own. 
Thinking that in his various visits there, he had learned much which, 
if known to the American people, would conduce to our better 
understanding of the nation, its peculiarities, and the best manner of 
dealing with it, he has been engaged for some time in writing a book on 
the subject, which same it has been my business for the last eight 

months to assist him in preparing, by writing at his dictation three 
hours out of the twenty-four, the last hour being commonly taken from 
the evening, say from half-past nine to half-past ten, Mr. Leavenworth 
being a very methodical man and accustomed to regulate his own life and 
that of those about him with almost mathematical precision." 
     " You say you were accustomed to write at his dictation evenings? 
Did you do this as usual last evening?" 
     "I did, sir." 
     "What can you tell us of his manner and appearance at the time? 
Were they in any way unusual?"
    A frown crossed the secretary's brow. 
     "As he probably had no premonition of his doom, why should there 
have been any change in his manner?"
     This giving the coroner an opportunity to revenge himself for his 
discomfiture of a moment before, he said somewhat severely: 
"It is the business of a witness to answer questions, not to put 
them." 
     The secretary flushed and the account stood even. 
     "Very well, then, sir; if Mr. Leavenworth felt any forebodings of 
his end, he did not reveal them to me. On the contrary, he seemed to be 
more absorbed in his work than usual. One of the last words he said to 
me was, 'In a month we will have this book in press, eh, Trueman?' I 
remember this particularly, as he was filling his wine-glass at the 
time. He always drank one glass of wine before retiring, it being my 
duty to bring the decanter of sherry from the closet the last thing 
before leaving him. I was standing with my hand on the knob of the 

hall-door, but advanced as he said this and replied, 'I hope so, 
indeed, Mr. Leavenworth.' 'Then join me in drinking a glass of 
sherry,' said he, motioning me to procure another glass from the 
closet. I did so, and he poured me out the wine with his own hand. I am 
not especially fond of sherry, but the occasion was a pleasant one and 
I drained my glass. I remember being slightly ashamed of doing so, for 
Mr. Leavenworth set his down half full. It was half full when we found 
him this morning." 
     Do what he would, and being a reserved man he appeared anxious to 
control his emotion, the horror of his first shock seemed to overwhelm 
him here. Pulling his handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped his 
forehead. "Gentlemen, that is the last action of Mr. Leavenworth I 
ever saw. As he set the glass down on the table, I said good-night to 
him and left the room." 
     The coroner, with a characteristic imperviousness to all expressions 
of emotion, leaned back and surveyed the young man with a scrutinizing 
glance. "And where did you go then?" he asked. 
     "To my own room." 
     "Did you meet anybody on the way?" 
     "No, sir." 
     "Hear any thing or see anything unusual?" 
     The secretary's voice fell a trifle. "No, sir." 
     "Mr. Harwell, think again. Are you ready to swear that you neither 
met anybody, heard anybody, nor saw anything which lingers yet in your 
memory as unusual?" 
     His face grew quite distressed. Twice he opened his lips to speak, 
and as often closed them without doing so. At last, with an effort, he 
replied: 
     "I saw one thing, a little thing, too slight to mention, but it was 

unusual, and I could not help thinking of it when you spoke." 
     "What was it?" 
     "Only a door half open." 
     "Whose door?" 
     "Miss Eleanore Leavenworth's." His voice was almost a whisper now. 
     "Where were you when you observed this fact?" 
     "I cannot say exactly. Probably at my own door, as I did not stop 
on the way. If this frightful occurrence had not taken place I should 
never have thought of it again." 
     "When you went into your room did you close your door?" 
     "I did, sir." 
     "How soon did you retire?" 
     "Immediately." 
     "Did you hear nothing before you fell asleep?" 
     Again that indefinable hesitation. 
     "Barely nothing." 
     "Not a footstep in the hall?" 
     "I might have heard a footstep." 
     "Did you?" 
     "I cannot swear I did." 
     "Do you think you did?" 
     "Yes, I think I did. To tell the whole: I remember hearing, just 
as I was falling into a doze, a rustle and a footstep in the hall; but 
it made no impression upon me, and I dropped asleep." 
     "Well?" 
     "Some time later I woke, woke suddenly, as if something had 
startled me, but what, a noise or move, I cannot say. I remember rising 
up in my bed and looking around, but hearing nothing further, soon 

yielded to the drowsiness which possessed me and fell into a deep 
sleep. I did not wake again till morning." 
     Here requested to relate how and when he became acquainted with the 
fact of the murder, he substantiated, in all particulars, the account 
of the matter already given by the butler; which subject being 
exhausted, the coroner went on to ask if he had noted the condition of 
the library table after the body had been removed. 
     "Somewhat; yes, sir." 
     "What was on it?" 
     "The usual properties, sir, books, paper, a pen with the ink dried 
on it, besides the decanter and the wineglass from which he drank the 
night before." 
     "Nothing more?" 
     "I remember nothing more." 
     "In regard to that decanter and glass," broke in the juryman of the 
watch and chain, "did you not say that the latter was found in the 
same condition in which you saw it at the time you left Mr. Leavenworth 
sitting in his library?" 
     "Yes, sir, very much." 
     " Yet he was in the habit of drinking a full glass?" 
     "Yes, sir." 
     "An interruption must then have ensued very close upon your 
departure, Mr. Harwell." 
     A cold bluish pallor suddenly broke out upon the young man's face. 
He started, and for a moment looked as if struck by some horrible 
thought. "That does not follow, sir," he articulated with some 
difficulty. "Mr. Leavenworth might—" but suddenly stopped, as if 
too much distressed to proceed. 
     "Go on, Mr. Harwell, let us hear what you have to say." 

     "There is nothing," he returned faintly, as if battling with some 
strong emotion. 
     As he had not been answering a question, only volunteering an 
explanation, the coroner let it pass; but I saw more than one pair of 
eyes roll suspiciously from side to side, as if many there felt that 
some sort of clue had been offered them in this man's emotion. The 
coroner, ignoring in his easy way both the emotion and the universal 
excitement it had produced, now proceeded to ask: "Do you know 
whether the key to the library was in its place when you left the room 
last night?" 
     "No, sir; I did not notice." 
     "The presumption is, it was?" 
     "I suppose so." 
     "At all events, the door was locked in the morning, and the key 
gone?" 
     "Yes, sir." 
     "Then whoever committed this murder locked the door on passing 
out, and took away the key?" 
     "It would seem so." 
     The coroner turning, faced the jury with an earnest look. 
"Gentlemen," said he, "there seems to be a mystery in regard to this 
key which must be looked into." 
     Immediately a universal murmur swept through the room, testifying to 
the acquiescence of all present. The little juryman hastily rising 
proposed that an instant search should be made for it; but the coroner, 
turning upon him with what I should denominate as a quelling look, 
decided that the inquest should proceed in the usual manner, till the 
verbal testimony was all in. 
     "Then allow me to ask a question," again volunteered the 

irrepressible. "Mr. Harwell, we are told that upon the breaking in of 
the library door this morning, Mr. Leavenworth's two nieces followed 
you into the room." 
     "One of them, sir, Miss Eleanore." 
     "Is Miss Eleanore the one who is said to be Mr. Leavenworth's sole 
heiress?" the coroner here interposed. 
     "No, sir, that is Miss Mary." 
     "That she gave orders," pursued the juryman, "for the removal of 
the body into the further room?"
     "Yes, sir." 
     "And that you obeyed her by helping to carry it in?" 
     "Yes, sir." 
     "Now, in thus passing through the rooms, did you observe anything 
to lead you to form a suspicion of the murderer?" 
     The secretary shook his head. "I have no suspicion," he 
emphatically said. 
     Somehow, I did not believe him. Whether it was the tone of his 
voice, the clutch of his hand on his sleeve—and the hand will often 
reveal more than the countenance—I felt that this man was not to be 
relied upon in making this assertion. 
     "I should like to ask Mr. Harwell a question," said a juryman who 
had not yet spoken. "We have had a detailed account of what looks 
like the discovery of a murdered man. Now, murder is never committed 
without some motive. Does the secretary know whether Mr. Leavenworth 
had any secret enemy?" 
     "I do not." 
     "Every one in the house seemed to be on good terms with him?" 

     "Yes, sir," with a little quaver of dissent in the assertion, 
however. 
     "Not a shadow lay between him and any other member of his 
household, so far as you know?" 
     "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.