Little was said until he returned, and even then the breakfast proceeded in a gloomy silence that contrasted strangely with the usual vivacity of the gatherings around that hospitable table. A feeling of tense expectation pervaded the party and a vivid sense of impending disaster. Dreary efforts were made to keep some kind of conversation going, but the talk was colourless and disjointed with long and awkward pauses.
Varney especially was wrapped in deep meditation. Outwardly he preserved an appearance of sympathetic anxiety, but inwardly he was conscious of a strange, rather agreeable excitement, almost of elation. When he looked at Margaret’s troubled face he felt a pang of regret, of contrition; but principally he was sensible of a feeling of power, of knowledge. He sat apart, as it were, Godlike, omniscient. He knew all the facts that were hidden from the others. The past lay clear before him to the smallest detail; the involved present was as an open book which he read with ease, and he could even peer confidently into the future.
And these men and the woman before him, and those others afar off—the men at the office, the caretaker, Penfield the lawyer, and Bradford at his inn in Norfolk—what were they but so many puppets, moving feverishly hither and thither as he, the unseen master-spirit, directed them by a pull at the strings? It was he who had wound them up and set them going; and here he sat, motionless and quiet, watching them do his bidding. He was reminded of an occasion when he had been permitted for a short time to steer a five-thousand-ton steamer. What a sense of power it had given him to watch the stupendous consequences of his own trifling movements! A touch of the little wheel, the movement of a spoke or two to right or left, and what a commotion followed! How the steam gear had clanked with furious haste to obey, and the great ship had presently swerved round, responsive to the pressure of his fingers! What a wonderful thing it had been! There was that colossal structure with its enormous burden of merchandise, its teeming population sweating in the stokehold or sleeping in the dark forecastle, its unconscious passengers chatting on the decks, reading, writing, or playing cards in saloon or smoking-room; and he had had it all in the grasp of one hand, had moved it and turned it about with the mere touch of a finger.
And so it was now. The magical pressure of his finger on the trigger, a few turns of a rope, the hoisting of an iron weight, and behold! the whole course of a human life—probably of several human lives—was changed utterly.
It was a tremendous thought.
In a little over an hour the replies to Rodney’s discreetly worded inquiries had come in. Mr. Purcell had not been home nor had he been heard of at the office. Mr. Penfield had been inquiring as to his whereabouts and so had Mr. Bradford. That was all. And what it amounted to was that Daniel Purcell had disappeared.
“Can’t you remember exactly what Dan said about going to Falmouth, Mr. Varney?” Margaret asked.
“I am sorry to say I can’t,” replied Varney. “You see, he just threw the remark off casually, and I didn’t ask any questions. He isn’t very fond of being questioned, you know.”
“I wonder what he could have been going to Falmouth for,” she mused. In reality she did not wonder at all. She felt pretty certain that she knew. But pride would not allow her publicly to adopt that explanation until it was forced on her. “It seems to me that there is only one course,” she continued. “I must go up to town and see Mr. Penfield. Don’t you think so, Mr. Rodney?”
“Certainly. He is the only one who knows anything and is able to advise.” He hesitated a moment, and then added: “Hadn’t we better come up with you?”
“Yes,” said Varney eagerly; “let us all go up.”
Margaret considered for a few moments. “It is excessively kind and sympathetic of you all, and I am glad you offered, because it makes me feel that I have good loyal friends, which is a great deal to know just now. But, really, there would be no use in breaking up your holidays. What could you do? We can’t make a search in person. Why not take over the house and stay on here?”
“We don’t want the house if you’re not in it,” said Philip.
“No,” agreed Jack Rodney; “if we can’t be of use to you we shall get afloat and begin to crawl round the coast homewards.”
“I think I shall run over to Falmouth and see if I can pick up any news,” said Varney.
“Thank you,” said Margaret. “I think that would be really useful,” and Rodney agreed heartily, adding: “Why not come round in the yacht, Varney? We shall probably get there tomorrow night.”
Varney reflected. And suddenly it was borne in upon him that he felt an unspeakable repugnance to the idea of going on board the yacht, and especially to making the voyage from Sennen to Penzance. The feeling came to him as an utter surprise, but there was no doubt of its reality.
“I think I’ll go over by train,” he said. “It will save a day, you know.”
“Then we will meet you there,” said Rodney; “and, Mrs. Purcell, will you send us a letter to the Green Banks Hotel, Falmouth, and let us know what Mr. Penfield says, and if you would like us to come up to town to help you?”
“Thank you, yes, I will,” Margaret replied heartily. “And I promise that, if I want your help, I will ask for it.”
“That is a solemn promise, mind,” said Rodney.
“Yes, I mean it—a solemn promise.”
So the matter was arranged. By twelve o’clock, the weather being calm, the yacht was got under way for Penzance. And even as on that other occasion, she headed seaward with her crew of two, watched from the shore by a woman and a man.
CHAPTER III
In which Margaret Purcell consults Mr. Penfield
Mr. Joseph Penfield was undeniably in a rather awkward dilemma. For he had hooked the wrong fish. His letter to Maggie Purcell had been designed to put him immediately in touch with Purcell himself, whereas it had evoked an urgent telegram from Maggie announcing her intention of calling on him “on important business” and entreating him to arrange an interview.
It was really most unfortunate. There was no one in the world whom he had less desire to see, at the present moment, than Margaret Purcell. And yet there was no possible escape; for not only was he her solicitor and her trustee, but he was an old family friend, and not a little attached to her in his dry way. But he didn’t want her just now. He wanted Purcell, and he wanted him very badly.
For a solicitor of irreproachable character and spotless reputation his position was highly unpleasant. As soon as he had opened the letter from Penzance he had recognised the nature of the enclosures, and had instantly connected them with the forgeries of Bank of England notes of which he had heard. The intricate water-marks on the “blanks” were unmistakable. But so was the handwriting of the accompanying letter. It was Daniel Purcell’s beyond a doubt, and the peculiar, intensely black ink was equally characteristic. And, short as the note was, it made perfectly clear its connection with the incriminating enclosures. It wrote down Daniel Purcell a banknote forger.
Now Mr. Penfield was, as we have said, a man of irreproachable character. But he was a very secretive and rather casuistical old gentleman; and his regard for Margaret had led him to apply his casuistry to the present case, pretending to himself that his discovery of the illicit blanks came within the category of “clients’ secrets,” which he need not divulge. But in his heart he knew that he was conniving at a felony, that he ought to give information to the police or to the Bank, and that he wasn’t going to. His plan was to get hold of Purcell, make him destroy the blanks in his presence, and deliver such a warning as would put a stop to the forgeries.
But if he did not propose to give Purcell away, neither did he intend to give himself away. He would share his compromising secret with no one—especially with a lady. And this consideration raised the difficult question, What on earth was he to say to Margaret Purcell when she arrived? A question which he was still debating, with her telegram spread out before him and his silver snuff-box in his hand, when a clerk entered his private office to announce the
unwelcome visitor.
Fortifying himself with a pinch of snuff, he rose and advanced towards the door to receive her, and as she entered he made a quick mental note of her anxious and troubled expression.
“How do you do, Mrs. Purcell?” said he, with a ceremonious bow. “You have had a long journey and rather an early one. How very unfortunate that this business, to which you refer in your telegram, should have arisen while you were on holiday so far away!”
“You have guessed what the business is, I suppose?” said Margaret.
Mr. Penfield smiled deprecatingly. “We lawyers,” said he, “are not much addicted to guessing, especially when definite information is available. Pray be seated. And now,” he continued, as Margaret subsided into the clients’ chair and he resumed his own, resting his elbows on the arms and placing his fingertips together, “let us hear what this new and important business is.”
“It is about that mysterious letter that you had from my husband,” said Margaret.
“Dear, dear!” said Mr. Penfield. “What a pity that you should have taken this long journey for such a trifling affair! And I thought I gave you all the particulars.”
“You didn’t mention whom the letter was from.”
“For several excellent reasons,” replied Mr. Penfield, checking them off on his fingers. “First, I don’t know; second, it is not my business; third, your husband, whose business it is, does know. My object in writing to you was to get into touch with him so that I could hand back to him this letter, which should never have come into my possession. Shall I take down his address now?”
“I haven’t it myself,” Margaret replied with a faint flush. “I have no idea where he is at present. He left Sennen on the 2nd to go to Oulton via Penzance. But he never arrived at Oulton. He has not been home, he has not been to the office, and he has not written. It is rather alarming, especially in connection with your mysterious letter.”
“Was my letter mysterious?” said Mr. Penfield, rapidly considering this new but not very surprising development. “I hardly think so. It was not intended to be. What was there mysterious about it?”
“Everything,” she replied, producing the letter from her bag and glancing at it as she spoke. “You emphasise that Dan’s letter and the other contents have been seen by no eye but yours, and that they are in a receptacle to which no one has access but yourself. There is a strong hint of something secret and compromising in the nature of Dan’s letter and enclosures.”
“I would rather say ‘confidential,’” murmured Mr. Penfield.
“And,” Margaret continued, “you must see that there is an evident connection between this misdirected letter and Dan’s disappearance.”
Mr. Penfield saw the connection very plainly, but he was admitting nothing. He did, indeed, allow that “it was a coincidence,” but would not agree to ‘a necessary connection.’ “Probably you will hear from your husband in a day or two, and then the letter can be returned.”
“Is there any reason why you should not show me Dan’s letter?” Margaret demanded. “Surely I am entitled, as his wife, to see it.”
Mr. Penfield pursed up his lips and took a deliberate pinch of snuff.
“We must not confuse,” said he, “the theological relations of married people with their legal relations. Theologically they are one; legally they are separate persons subject to a mutual contract. As to this letter, it is not mine, and consequently I can show it to no one; and I must assume that if your husband had desired you to see it he would have shown it to you himself.”
“But,” Margaret protested impatiently, “are not my husband’s secrets my secrets?”
“That,” replied the lawyer, “is a delicate question which we need not consider. There is the question of the secrets of a third party. If I had the felicity to be a married man, which unfortunately I have not, you would hardly expect me to communicate your private, and perhaps secret, affairs to my wife. Now would you?”
Margaret had to admit that she would not. But she instantly countered the lawyer by inquiring:
“Then I was apparently right in inferring that this letter and the enclosures contained matter of a secret and compromising character?”
“I have said nothing to that effect,” replied Mr. Penfield uncomfortably; and then, seeing that he had no choice between a downright lie and a flat refusal to answer any questions, he continued “The fact is that it is not admissible for me to make any statement. This letter came to me by an error, and my position must be as if I had not seen it.”
“But it can’t be,” Margaret persisted, “because you have seen it. I want to know if Dan’s letter was addressed to anyone whom I know. You could tell me that, surely?”
“Unfortunately, I cannot,” replied the lawyer, glad to be able to tell the literal truth for once. “The letter was without any formal opening. There was nothing to indicate the identity or even the sex of the person to whom it was addressed.”
Margaret noted this curious fact and then asked:
“With regard to the enclosures. Did they consist of money?”
“They did not,” was the reply, “nor cheques.” A brief silence followed, during which Margaret reflected rapidly on what she had learned and what she had not learned. At length she looked up with a somewhat wry smile and said: “Well, Mr. Penfield, I suppose that is all I shall get out of you?”
“I am afraid it is,” he replied. “The necessity of so much reservation is most distasteful, I assure you; but it is the plain duty of a lawyer to keep not only his own counsel but other people’s.”
“Yes, of course, I quite understand that. And now, as we have finished with the letter, there is the writer to consider. What had I better do about Dan?”
“Why do anything? It is only four days since he left Sennen.”
“Yes, but something has evidently happened. He may have met with an accident and be in some hospital. Do you think that I ought to notify the police that he is missing?”
“No; certainly not,” Mr. Penfield replied emphatically, for, in his mind, Purcell’s disappearance was quite simply explained. He had discovered the mistake of the transposed letter, and knew that Penfield held the means of convicting him of a felony, and he had gone into hiding until he should discover what the lawyer meant to do. To put the police on his track would be to convince him of his danger and drive him hopelessly out of reach. But Mr. Penfield could not explain this to Margaret, and to cover his emphatic rejection of police assistance he continued: “You see, he can hardly be said to be missing; he may merely have altered his plans and neglected to write. Have patience for a day or two, and if you still hear no tidings of him, send me a line, and I will take what measures seem advisable for trying to get into touch with him.”
“Thank you,” said Margaret, not very enthusiastically, rising to take her departure. She was in the act of shaking Mr. Penfield’s hand when, with a sudden afterthought, she asked: “By the way, was there anything in Dan’s letter that might account for his disappearance in this fashion?”
This was rather a facer for Mr. Penfield, who, like many casuists, hated telling a direct lie. For the answer was clearly “Yes,” whereas the sense that he was compelled to convey was “No.”
“You are forgetting that the letter was not addressed to me,” he said. “And that reminds me that there must have been another letter—the one that was addressed to me and that must have been put into the other person’s envelope. May I ask if that letter has been returned?”
“No, it has not,” replied Margaret.
“Ha!” said Mr. Penfield. “But it probably will be in the course of a day or two. Then we shall know what he was writing to me about and who is the other correspondent. Good-day, good-day, Mrs. Purcell.”
He shook her hand warmly, and hastened to open the door for her in the hope, justified by the result, that she would not realize until she had left that her very significant question had not been answered.
Indeed, she did not realiz
e how adroitly the old solicitor had evaded that question until she was too far away to return and put it afresh, even if that had seemed worth while; for her attention was occupied by the other issue that he had so artfully raised. She had overlooked the presumable existence of the second transposed letter, the one that should have been in Mr. Penfield’s envelope. It ought to have been returned at once. Possibly it was even now waiting at Sennen to be forwarded. If it arrived, it would probably disclose the identity of the mysterious correspondent. On the other hand, it might not; and if it were not returned at all, that would confirm the suspicion that there was something gravely wrong. And it was at this point that Margaret became conscious of Mr. Penfield’s last evasion.
Its effect was to confirm the generally disagreeable impression that she had received from the interview. She was a little resentful of the lawyer’s elaborate reticence, which, coupled with the strange precautionary terms of his letter to her, convinced her that her husband had embarked on some questionable transaction, and that Mr. Penfield knew it and knew the nature of that transaction. His instant rejection of the suggestion that an accident might have occurred and that the police should be notified seemed to imply that he had some inkling of Purcell’s proceedings, and his final evasion of her question strongly suggested that the letter, or the enclosures, or both, contained some clue to the disappearance.
Thus, as she took her way home, Margaret turned over again and again the puzzling elements of the mystery, and at each reshuffling of the scanty facts the same conclusion emerged: her husband had absconded, and he had not absconded alone. The secret that Mr. Penfield was guarding was such a secret as might, if divulged, have pointed the way to the divorce court. And with this conclusion and a frown of disgust, she turned into the entry of her flat and ascended the stairs.
As she let herself in, the maid met her in the hakl. “Mr. Varney is in the drawing-room, ma’am,” she said. “He came about ten minutes ago. I am getting tea for him.”
The Second R. Austin Freeman Megapack Page 78
