“Well, if you take my advice, you’ll look after yourself and leave him to do the same,” urged Marian. “I shall be all right, you know. You get away while you can, Leonard.”
“I might telephone,” muttered Tasker. But then he remembered how disagreeable Walter had been on the telephone of late, and added sardonically: “Or I might not.”
Scene 7. An Old Man Dies
MR. ANSTEY had announced by telephone that his father wished for a private interview with Mr. Crosland at an early hour that morning, preferably at Clay Hall, if Mr. Crosland could make it convenient. Although surprised by this formality from a relative and by the unwonted effort on the part of old Sir John, who rarely did anything of that kind nowadays, Mr. Crosland of course agreed, telephoned to Clay Mills that he should not be there till later in the morning, and provided suitable refreshments for his early guests. They were now leaving, after half an hour’s earnest conversation; old Sir John was already seated in the car, his venerable head, bald and pale, sunk between his shoulders with a tortoise-like effect, slightly a-quiver; his dried hands, the colour of parchment, resting with the immobility of fatigue on the rug about his knees. For discretion’s sake the Ansteys had brought no chauffeur, and this had proved a wise precaution, for as he stood on the steps of his home now, speeding his guests, Henry Clay Crosland looked a stricken man. He was wearing a small black cap over his ear to hide its dressing; and this lent an additional eeriness to the fearful look of perplexity and distress, which contorted his face and made it ghastly.
“I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Henry,” said Sir John in his thin old tones, leaning a little forward: “But we both felt it our duty, as your oldest friends, to inform you of what is going on, in case your co-directors are concealing it from you—from motives of kindness, no doubt.” This was part of his carefully prepared opening speech for that morning; he was so upset by Mr. Crosland’s anguish that he wished to comfort him, but so exhausted by the trying interview that he could find no new words.
“I’m deeply obliged to you both,” said Henry Clay Crosland with proud sincerity.
“You should put yourself in the hands of your solicitor at once,” urged Mr. Anstey. He had brought his father on this errand from a feeling of respect for Henry Clay Crosland, thinking that it would spare his pride and soften the blow to hear the news from a contemporary; but the whole thing was such a nasty mess, needing such prompt and decided action if anything was to be saved at all, that he could not forbear breaking in from time to time with practical advice. “You must dissociate yourself from your co-directors at once; you ought to volunteer information to the Director of Public Prosecutions.”
“But Walter?” stammered Mr. Crosland, reverting to this topic, as he had repeatedly reverted throughout the preceding interview, in pitiful request for reassurance—“Walter? You surely don’t think he is criminally involved?”
“Surely not,” said Sir John soothingly, his old head nodding.
His son gave a smile which was meant to convey agreeable acquiescence; but in point of fact, remembering as he did Walter’s determined effort to find Arnold Lumb a job, and interpreting it in the light of later events as a piece of bribery on Walter’s part, an attempt to keep Arnold quiet which had failed, Mr. Anstey’s considered judgment was that young Haigh was in the Tasker Haigh mess up to his neck. Mr. Anstey had held his tongue about it in public, for the Crosland’s sake, but for the life of him he could not make his smile convincing now, and Henry Clay Crosland was not deceived.
As the Ansteys’ car moved away Mr. Crosland bowed formally in farewell, and remained on the Clay Hall steps in the attitude of a courteous host until his guests had passed out of sight round the curve of the drive. Then he walked slowly down into the garden, and pausing, turned and looked back at his house, grey and old and beautiful, gracious from having held for centuries man’s thoughts of home.
It was a delicious summer’s morning, fresh, sparkling, sunny; the flower-beds in front of Clay Hall—a harmonious mass of pinks and snapdragons, dahlias and sweet-smelling stocks—breathed fragrance and colour joyously on the calm air; pairs of butterflies curvetted over them in swift assured swoops and vibrant flutterings, or lighted on the blooms and hung there caressingly, savouring their sweetness. One of these darlings of the day poised for a moment on Henry Clay Crosland’s grey sleeve, and spread its scarlet and black wings horizontally, to their full extent, with a delicious air of coquetry and preening, so that it reminded him of Elaine. Mr. Crosland gazed down at the exquisite patterns on the butterfly’s wings, the lovely soft black fur of its palpitating little thorax, and felt pain stab his heart. For these beauties were for him no more; he no longer had the quiet mind, the innocent heart, which made him fit to approach and love them. He saw the gracious and agreeable figure of his daughter-in-law, busy among her flowers, slowly drawing near him, and turned aside; the news he had just heard, the hints he had received, were so appalling, that he felt he must have time to recover from the awful shock before facing any other human being. He must pull himself rapidly together, of course, and brace himself for speedy action; he must consult his solicitor at once, he must see Walter. He gave a long anguished sigh at this last thought. Surely, surely Walter was not criminally involved! That nice good lad, so fond of Ralph, Elaine’s adoring husband! But it was only too clear that John Anstey thought him so. With every step he took across the sweet bright garden, Henry Clay Crosland saw vistas darker and more terrible opening before him. That the Tasker Haigh Company’s balance sheet was indeed fraudulent, he had little doubt—had he not always, at the bottom of his heart, despised Leonard Tasker and distrusted him? If the balance sheet contained fraudulent statements, there must be some reason for them; the reason was only too probably that the accounts of the firm could not be balanced otherwise. The money subscribed three years ago by the public—could it all be legitimately accounted for? Mr. Crosland sadly feared it could not. The whole thing would come out at the company’s annual meeting next week, even if the Director of Public Prosecutions took no action earlier, as the Ansteys had hinted that he would; the company would crash; his own holding would be worthless, his personal guarantees would be called upon, the Crosland Spinning Company nowadays could not stand for a moment the withdrawal of such sums as would be necessary to bolster up Messrs. Tasker Haigh—if indeed that could be done at all. Henry Clay Crosland saw himself stripped, bankrupt, penniless; his fine old business foundering, Clay Hall sold after a hundred years’ possession by the Croslands, nothing left with which to start Ralph in life or even finish his education, nothing to provide for Elaine. And Elaine’s husband in similar desperate plight. But all that financial disaster could have been endured, thought Henry Clay Crosland, his old heart thudding—it was terrible, but it could all have been endured with head erect—if only it had been incurred in innocence, if only his integrity had remained intact, if only he could still feel himself pure of heart and clean of hand. But he couldn’t; all that was gone, it was gone, it was irrevocably gone! His name was tarnished; he was involved, he was responsible—yes, he was terribly responsible; those wretched small investors, who were now to lose all their savings, had invested in the Tasker Haigh Company on the security of his name. He had allowed himself to be duped, when he had no right to allow himself to be duped, for he was the representative of others and had their interests in his care. Because he was old, and deaf, and tired, and had let things slide, hundreds of innocent decent folk were to know suffering and loss. A fearful sense of guilt pressed down upon him; unaccustomed, heavy; indeed it was too heavy to be borne. He could not bear it. He could not bear it! That he, Henry Clay Crosland, a man who had preserved, not always without cost, through all these long years, the most scrupulous honesty, the most sensitive integrity, the most determined magnanimity and benevolence towards his fellow-men—that he should at the end of it all be implicated in this coarse, colossal, common swindle—“for that’s what it is,” whispered Henry Clay Crosland
to himself: “It’s a common swindle. And I have given it my support.” His son had given his life for his country, and all that his father could find to do to show his pride in him, thought Henry Clay Crosland in shame and anguish, was to betray the trust of the people for whose peace Richard had died. A groan escaped the old man’s ashen lips; ah, Richard, Richard, he thought, if you had been alive! And suddenly his mind was made up, his decision taken; staggering a little, his fine grey eyes dilated, his handsome head thrust oddly forward, he crossed the sunlit garden, entered the cool house, went upstairs to his daughter-in-law’s apartment, and having paused there for a moment to look at the photographs of Richard and Elaine and Ralph which stood upon her writing-table, passed on through the communicating door to his son’s former dressing-room. He knew he should find there what he wanted; he knew.
Scene 8. A Young Man Finishes His Career
TASKER again!” thought Walter furiously, summoned from the Valley Mill dye-pans to a telephone call. He snatched up the receiver and shouted “What is it?” with a brutal inflexion of ennui.
But it was not Tasker who answered him. It was Elaine, who in a queer dry little tone told him that her grandfather was dead.
“Oh, no!” exclaimed Walter in horrified grief. “Not dead! Surely it can’t be, Elaine! How can he be dead? How did it happen? Was he run over? He didn’t hear the horn?”
There was a pause.
“Tell me about it, darling,” urged Walter uneasily.
There was a further pause. At length Elaine said in the same strange little voice: “He shot himself.”
“What!” exclaimed Walter. His blood froze, his scalp seemed to prickle; the nerves of his thumbs leaped in a sudden searing agony. It’s come, he thought, and somebody has told Mr. Crosland. It’s come! We’re done for!
“Walter, you must come home now, at once,” cried Elaine, suddenly weeping bitterly. “It’s all so terrible. It seems so strange. Poor grandfather! Poor, poor old thing! And there have been some men here—I don’t know who they are. Oh, it’s all horrible! Walter, do come quickly. Walter, do come.”
“I’ll come instantly, lovey,” Walter soothed her, in a hoarse strained tone. “Don’t cry. I’ll come at once.”
When he had rung off, however, he made no attempt to carry out this promise, but stood, his eyes dilated, panting a little, while thoughts flew across his mind like shuttles in the loom. He’s shot himself to escape the shame; I’d forgotten he would be in it too; we’re all done for; we’re ruined; I must ring up and warn Tasker; the old man’s well out of it; I loved him; Elaine won’t have a penny—“Harry!” he shouted in a loud hoarse tone, suddenly rushing into the mill: “Harry!” As Harry did not immediately appear, he shouted again in a wild screaming tone: “Harry! Harry Schofield!”
Harry came up with a look of surprise at this violent summons.
“Have you got those strips of iron and nails and things I gave you the other day, handy?” demanded Walter rapidly.
“Aye,” began Harry. “They’re in t’cupboard.”
“Then get them and come downstairs,” commanded Walter, striding away. “Bring a hammer.”
He went downstairs into the cropping-room, and walked impatiently up and down, gazing at the bases of the row of machines and the wooden floor on which they rested, till Harry joined him with a discontented expression on his face and a box full of ironware in his hands. Walter seized one of the bent metal strips which he had had prepared, put it in position over the round foot of the nearest machine, and kneeling down on the dirty floor, thick with indigo flocks, hammered nails in each side furiously. When he had driven the nails home, that foot of the machine was firmly secured to the floor. Harry stood by gaping at him in wonder, and the man at the cropping machine obviously thought he had gone mad.
“Well, come along!” urged Walter impatiently, rising from his knees. “Get to work—get another hammer, and start. Get some of the younger lads to help you.”
“Are we to do all these i’ this room like yon?” demanded Harry, with the resigned air of a subordinate accepting orders he does not understand.
“Of course,” said Walter, taking another strip from the pile. “Look sharp now—start.”
Harry sighed and moved away.
Walter threw off his coat and set to work on another machine in a frenzy. The fabric belongs to Elaine, he thought; if I fasten the machinery down she’ll have first claim on it when I go bankrupt; with a little management she can get hold of the whole thing; we’ll borrow the money from somewhere and I’ll start again here, on my own. So they think they’ve got me down, do they, he raged, gritting his teeth and hammering furiously; well, they haven’t! No, by God they haven’t! It takes more than that to down Walter Haigh! He hammered till the sweat poured down his forehead and into his eyes; Harry had now returned with more hammers and helpers, and the room resounded with the clang of iron on iron.
“I must go now,” panted Walter at last, putting on his coat. “Mr. Crosland’s dead, so I must get home. But you go on and finish the job. Do every machine in the mill as sharp as you can. And use the bolts and nuts for those on concrete floors.”
“Right,” said Harry. But he felt that it was very far from right; he did not like Walter’s feverish looks, and was uneasy about this sudden hurry to fasten everything down. There seemed to him no sense in it. The machinery had done very well without being fastened, all through his father’s time, and as far as he could see, it would do very well a bit longer. He suddenly wished very much that he had Milner at hand to consult, and made up his mind to drag the job out and do little at it till he had been home at midday.
Walter had gone the length of the room when he suddenly turned back, and came to Harry’s side again. “Listen, Harry,” he said hoarsely, fixing his foreman with glittering eyes. “If anything ever—happens—to me, be sure you break it gently to my mother.”
Harry, utterly taken aback, gaped at him without a word, and as Walter hurried away down the room, slowly and dubiously began to scratch the back of his head, in complete perplexity.
Conscious that he had let a long time elapse between Elaine’s summons and his departure for Clay Hall, Walter looked at his watch anxiously—without, however, seeing what time it recorded—as he climbed into his car, and swung round the awkward turning from the Valley Mill yard into the steep side-street much faster than he usually considered prudent. A few yards up the hill, at the corner of the Valley Mill wall, he suddenly pulled up, however, with screaming brakes—a police inspector in the middle of the road was holding up his hand to stop the car.
“What’s the matter, officer?” demanded Walter testily, leaning out of the side-window. “I’m in the deuce of a hurry.”
A man in a brown suit and a bowler hat stepped out from behind the corner of the mill wall, to Walter’s side.
“Mr. Walter Haigh? Excuse me, sir,” he said politely: “I daresay you know me—could I have a word with you in private?”
“No, I don’t know you. What do you want?” snapped Walter, exasperated by the delay.
“I’m a member of the Hudley C.I. department—this is my official card, sir,” said the man. He proffered a small leather folder, on the outside of which was printed, in gilt, the words: Warrant Card of Detective Officer..
“Something about my wife’s grandfather?” said Walter, nervously. The Valley Mill lorry, returning from its daily journey to Ashworth, just then thudded slowly by, and the driver and his mate gazed down at the scene with more curiosity than seemed desirable.
“If I might get in, sir?” suggested the man in the brown suit, smoothly.
“Oh, get in, get in!” urged Walter with growing irritation, throwing open the door.
The detective stepped in and seated himself beside Walter. He then put his hand into his breast pocket, and drew out an official-looking document which he proffered to the young man. “I have a warrant here, sir,” he said, “for your arrest. Would you care to read it?”
; “Good God!” cried Walter. He stared at the man for a long moment of horror, while the blood drained slowly from his face, leaving it ghastly. “A—warrant?” he stammered. “For my—arrest?” The man continued to hold out the document; mechanically Walter took it, and undid its crisp folds with shaking fingers. At first he could see nothing but the Royal Coat of Arms and County Borough of Hudley in the West Riding of Yorkshire; but suddenly his own name leaped out at him, and lower on the page he read: aiding and abetting Leonard Tasker… prospectus… annual reports of the directors of the company… false in material particulars … intent to deceive the shareholders … conspiracy …
“Well—I suppose——” he began to stammer pitifully: “I suppose—it’s—all right?”
“I think you’ll find it quite in order, sir,” said the detective in a courteous tone. “If you would just drive to the Hudley Police headquarters, sir, in Prince’s Road, now, we should get it all over without any fuss. We always try to do these things as quietly as possible.” He lifted a finger to another man of similar appearance to himself, who had been standing in the background; this second detective climbed into the dickey seat, and Walter obediently drove away as directed, no longer a free man.
Scene 9. Recall
IS THAT you, Mester Arnold?” shouted Harry at the top of his voice—he was not used to telephones, and the process of getting a trunk call through to Bradford had quite shaken his nerve.
“Yes—who’s that?” said Arnold’s voice faintly.
“This is Harry Schofield,” shouted Harry, shouting each word separately with heavy emphasis. “I’ve telephoned to say as how Mester Walter has been tekken by the police.”
“To say what?” demanded Arnold.
“Mester Walter,” shouted Harry again.
“Who?” said Arnold, beginning to shout himself from the force of example.
A Modern Tragedy Page 36
