by Clara Benson
She stared at him in mistrust.
‘But are you—’ she said. ‘I mean, you’ve read it, I suppose?’
‘I’m afraid I have,’ said Freddy. ‘I’m sorry. Ticky died, and it was a motive for murder, you see, so I had to. But I promise you I’ve told no-one else, and nor will I. I shall forget it as soon as I can, in fact.’
‘I wish I could,’ she said. ‘But this whole thing has caused so much pain to everyone that I don’t know whether I shall ever get over it.’
‘I’m so awfully sorry about Ann,’ said Freddy. ‘Sorry for Larry, I mean. I expect he’s dreadfully cut up about it, is he?’
‘He is, rather,’ she said. ‘My poor boy. It’s been a shock to us all.’
‘I wish it hadn’t all turned out the way it did,’ said Freddy. ‘I mean to say, I might have let things well alone, but I couldn’t let an innocent person take the blame.’
‘No, of course not. That wouldn’t have been right,’ she said. ‘And I understand she was quite violent in the end.’
‘Yes,’ he said, wincing slightly.
‘How is your arm, by the way?’
‘A little sore, but I’ll mend.’
There was a silence, as she looked down at the cutting which had been the cause of so much anguish for so long.
‘Tear it up,’ suggested Freddy.
She glanced up at him, then almost hesitantly did as he said. She tore it into halves, then quarters, then eighths, and then kept on tearing until she had a handful of tiny scraps of paper, like confetti.
‘There,’ he said. ‘As though it never existed.’
‘Thank you,’ she said sincerely.
‘You’re very welcome. And now, if you don’t mind, I think I’d better make myself scarce before Larry gets back. I don’t suppose he’s exactly pleased with me at the moment.’
‘He’s upset, but it couldn’t be helped.’
‘Still, there’s no need to rub it in by intruding my presence upon you more than necessary,’ he said.
She tried to thank him again but he waved it away and departed, leaving her to stare mournfully out of the window. It was too much to say that she felt relief, for there was always the risk that someone else would find out her secret one day, but for now she trusted she was safe. The past could not be put right, now that both of her husbands were dead, but were she ever to marry again—and she was a handsome woman still, so it was not beyond hope—she should tell the truth to her new husband, that she might never again be exposed to such unpleasantness.
Here, her thoughts turned involuntarily to a dinner she had attended the previous evening, during which she had received a number of politely admiring glances from a Swiss gentleman who was engaged in the business of importing and exporting precious metals, and she smiled gently.
FREDDY’S NEXT STOP was Dover Street. He knocked at a certain number, and the door was opened by a brown-skinned manservant, who at length informed him that Captain Atherton would be pleased to see him. He led Freddy up a flight of stairs and into a large living-room which was unmistakably masculine, for the walls were hung with swords and axes, and other odd wooden artifacts, and the heads of exotic animals, and photographs of natives and elephants and straw huts, while every surface seemed covered with globes and maps and log-books and journals. In one corner was a large, leather trunk, while in another was an enormous curved tube, seemingly fashioned from the trunk of a small tree, and decorated with brightly-coloured woven cords. Whether it were a ceremonial weapon or a musical instrument, Freddy could not tell.
Captain Atherton rose from his chair as Freddy came in, and held out a hand.
‘Mrs. Pilkington-Soames’s boy, aren’t you?’ he said.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Freddy.
‘Sit down, if you like,’ said Atherton. There was a wary look on his face, and Freddy wondered if he suspected something. He had noticed that on a table by Atherton’s chair lay a shiny revolver. It did nothing to ease his nervousness.
‘Thank you,’ he said, and did so. There was no sense in beating about the bush, so he took a deep breath, and said: ‘I’ve come to return your letters.’
‘My letters?’ said Atherton. He seemed to stiffen. ‘Which letters?’
‘The ones Ticky was using to blackmail you,’ said Freddy. ‘He wasn’t doing it only to you, by the way. I happen to know he had lots of people in his clutches. And I also know that his manservant, Weaver, was intending to continue with the business. He told me so himself.’
‘Ah. He got you, too, did he?’ said Atherton. ‘I had no idea he’d made such a general concern of it.’
‘Not me. But friends of mine,’ said Freddy. ‘I don’t like that sort of thing, so I thought I’d scout about a bit and see if I could discover what Ticky and Weaver were hiding, before the police found it all and started making a nuisance of themselves.’
‘I tried that myself—or rather, Mahomet did,’ said Atherton. ‘But there was nothing doing. It wasn’t kept in the house.’
‘Oh, was that you?’ said Freddy. ‘I’m sorry to say your man was spotted by a tramp.’
‘Indeed? That was careless of him. Ought I to tell him to disappear for a while?’
‘I don’t think there’s any need,’ said Freddy. ‘The man in question can barely remember his own name most of the time. The police would never be stupid enough to put him in the witness-box.’
‘Good,’ said Atherton. ‘I shouldn’t like to have to do without him.’
‘At any rate,’ went on Freddy, ‘I wanted to find whatever Ticky was keeping before the police did, since it didn’t seem fair that everyone’s secrets should come out when only one person murdered him, so I employed somebody to keep an eye on Weaver. Fortunately, he led us to the hiding-place before he died. A good thing, too, or someone else might have got hold of it all.’
Atherton was sitting up rather straighter now, and his expression was wooden. Freddy, feeling most uncomfortable, continued:
‘I’ve spent the past few days sending back letters and documents to all the people who lost them. It’s been a queasy business, all told, but I thought it ought to be done. I sent them back with a note to say that all accounts had been settled.’
‘Kind of you,’ said Atherton.
Freddy reached into his pocket and brought out a small sheaf of letters, all written in the same crabbed scrawl, and handed them to the other man.
‘These are yours, I believe,’ he said.
Atherton glanced down at the papers.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Have you told anyone about them?’
Freddy glanced at the revolver. Feeling once again that he was taking his life in his hands, even though Ticky’s murderer had been caught, he decided to tell the truth.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Nobody knows about them except me.’
‘And you haven’t come to continue the business?’
‘Certainly not. The letters aren’t mine. I haven’t the slightest interest in them. They’re yours, and you can count on my silence. I give you my word.’
He made as if to rise, but Captain Atherton held up a hand.
‘One moment,’ he said. ‘Since you evidently know all, I should like to tell you that I’m not such a coward and a fraud as you may think—or rather, I’ve been both of those things, but no longer. I’ve lived with the lie for some years now, but it’s time to tell the truth. You’ve read the letters?’
‘Yes,’ admitted Freddy.
‘Then you’ll know it wasn’t I who discovered the Injinka tribe, but a young Austrian student by the name of Heinrich Schmidt.’
‘That’s what he said,’ said Freddy cautiously.
‘Oh, it was all true enough,’ said Captain Atherton. ‘He found the tribe first, and led me to them, then disappeared for months. I thought he was dead, so I came home and claimed all the credit for the discovery, although I’d had nothing to do with it. I was hailed a hero, a second Dr. Livingstone, and bedecked with honours and awards. But it was all a sha
m, of course. Schmidt turned up eventually, ready to tell the world of what he had discovered, only to find that I’d already laid claim to it. What was he to do? I was the famous explorer—discoverer of the remains of the lost Cushite city of Kedzala; the only white man to undergo the ancient initiation rituals of the jungle peoples of the Maroban Islands; the first to reach corners of the earth we never before knew existed—whereas he was nobody. At first he didn’t quite believe I’d done it. He sent a letter full of polite doubts and requests for me to give him the credit that was due to him, but by then I was too caught up with the fame and adulation to be willing to give it up easily. I lived in fear of exposure, but I knew the sort of man he was—knew he was tremendously modest and not the kind to make a fuss, and so I took the risk, and bet that he would keep quiet about it. I ignored his letters, and at length he stopped writing. Afterwards, I found out he’d died, and breathed a sigh of relief. It was shortly after that that Maltravers got hold of the letters from that manservant of his, who stole them from me during a house party, and began demanding money in return for my silence. Of course I paid up—what else could I do? It was either that or face exposure. Then the two of them were murdered and I ought to have been happy, but I wasn’t. I lost the ability to be happy a long time ago, when I gave up honour and decency in favour of glory. But now I’ve decided it’s time to tell the truth.’
‘Oh?’ said Freddy.
‘Yes. It’s all in my memoirs. I finished them a few weeks ago and had been about to send them off, but I changed my mind at the last minute and added a chapter, in which I give Heinrich Schmidt full credit for the discovery that made me the most celebrated explorer of the age. I sent the book to my publisher this morning. I expect it will cause something of a stir. Of course, you’ll say I ought to have done it long ago—and you’re quite right, but better late than never, I suppose.’
‘That’s rather a brave thing to do, sir,’ said Freddy.
‘Don’t call me brave. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you about the self-disgust I’ve felt ever since I took that first fatal step along the road to perdition. In the end, confessing will be no harder than living with the lie has been.’
He fell silent, and Freddy found himself lost for words. He had done what he set out to do, and returned Captain Atherton’s documents to him so that he might keep his secret if he wished, but it seemed Atherton could no longer stomach the idea of what he had become, and was proposing to create an enormous scandal by admitting the truth at last. Freddy had no idea whether Atherton was doing the right thing, but it was not for him to try and persuade him into one course of action or the other, so after a minute or two he got up and took his leave.
The captain was staring straight ahead, and barely seemed to notice as Freddy bade him goodbye and went out, but after a few minutes he came to himself. He stood up and looked out of the window until Freddy was out of sight, then returned to his armchair, sat down, and picked up the revolver that was sitting on the table next to him. Freddy need not have worried that he was in danger, for Atherton had quite another purpose in mind for the gun. He had lived a life of great daring and intrepidity—a good, active life, all told. He had added to the sum of human knowledge, and would be remembered for many discoveries, although of course they would now all be overshadowed by his disgrace. He had achieved all that he was ever likely to achieve, and so what was the use in sitting and waiting for the blow to fall, for the humiliation to be heaped upon him? No; it was much better this way. He should put an end to it all now and let the world think of him as it would.
He raised the revolver and put it to his temple, then, before he could change his mind, pulled the trigger. There was a click, and he lowered the gun and stared at it in puzzlement, for he knew he had loaded it only that morning. But now it was empty. He was still regarding it when he felt a presence at his shoulder and looked up to see Mahomet, his faithful servant, standing there.
‘Did you do this?’ he said.
Mahomet bowed his head.
‘Yes, sir,’ he said.
‘Why?’
‘Because you are not ready to die,’ said Mahomet.
‘And what if I say I am? What if I say I don’t wish to remain here while the world vilifies me and abuses my very name—and justifiably so?’
‘It was an error on your part,’ said Mahomet. ‘Are we not all entitled to make a mistake?’
Atherton gave a short laugh.
‘It was more than that,’ he said. ‘It was deliberate dishonesty. I deserve to be publicly disgraced.’
‘You will be punished,’ acknowledged Mahomet. ‘It is inevitable. You did wrong, and everyone will know it. But think of all the right you have done, too—all the things you have discovered, all your past kindnesses. I have not forgotten how you rescued me from those robbers, who would surely have killed me had you not arrived in time to see them off. And not only that; I have seen many, many other instances of your generosity and goodwill. Do you not remember how you single-handedly evacuated an entire Indian village and saved all its inhabitants from dangerous flood waters when the dam burst in a storm? Think of all the innocent women and children who would have died had you not remained until the very end, to clear out every last house, at great risk to your own life. Those people are ignorant and illiterate; they do not write letters to newspapers, but even today they will praise your very name to the skies. And there are many more such stories. Do not waste such a life by ending it here in London, where people have nothing better to do than judge you for one moment of madness.’
‘Then what do you suggest I do?’
‘There is a boat that sails for Cape Town in two days. Let us take it and return to the life that suits you best, far away from all this.’
Atherton stared at his manservant for a few moments, then turned his head to look out of the window. Outside all was grey and wet. He thought of the heat, and the sun, and the dust, and the smells, and the noise, and the gay colours of Africa, and felt a pang of the old longing. Mahomet was right: he had been too long in London, and he did not really wish to die while there was life, and excitement, and adventure still to be had. Perhaps a bullet to the head was not the only way out, after all.
‘Do you think we might be ready in time?’ he said.
‘I have already begun packing, sir,’ said Mahomet.
FREDDY’S LAST STOP was Brook Street, where Blanche Van Leeuwen lived. He found her curled up on the sofa in her cat-like way, reading a magazine. In the grey afternoon half-light she looked not a day older than thirty.
‘Hallo, Freddy,’ she said in her usual languid drawl, as he entered her well-appointed sitting-room. ‘Are you looking for Amelia? She’s gone to see Lady Bendish, or so she says.’
‘Oh?’ said Freddy.
‘Yes. Of course, it’s all nonsense. She’s really gone to hang around Larry. They were quite the sweet little girl-and-boy-friend at one time, you know. For a while I thought he was going to take her off my hands for good, but then the Chadwick girl came along and stole him from under her nose and she had to pretend not to care. She’ll get him this time, though.’
‘Do you think so?’ said Freddy, disconcerted. ‘I thought he was inconsolable.’
‘Don’t be silly. No man is inconsolable. She’ll listen to him and comfort him and praise him and agree with everything he says, and he’ll simply lap it up. Just you watch. If they’re not engaged by the spring then I’m a Dutchman.’
This was a disappointment, but Freddy bore the blow as philosophically as he could. Amelia was a sweet girl, and undoubtedly very pretty, but she was not the only pretty girl in London, for everywhere he looked he seemed to see lovely faces and bewitching smiles—sometimes even directed at him. Moreover, he felt obliquely as though he owed Larry Bendish something in return for having deprived him of his fiancée—and what better than a new fiancée? One, moreover, who was not burdened with an inconveniently murderous past. And so Freddy resigned himself to the inevitable.
‘As a matter of fact, I came to see you,’ he said. He brought out the last cutting, which he had kept carefully hidden from Amelia, and handed it to Blanche.
‘What’s this?’ she said, and glanced at it. ‘Ah! You found it. And you’ve come to give it back to me.’
‘Yes,’ said Freddy. ‘I don’t know why you wanted it kept hidden. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.’
‘I’m not ashamed of it,’ she said. ‘But when one’s face is one’s fortune, it’s only sensible to keep an eye on one’s public image, don’t you think? When I came to England everybody knew me as Blanche de Montmorency of Sydney, one of the last descendants of the ancient French family of aristocrats. Of course I had the looks, but it was the name that got me into the highest social circles. How far do you think I’d have got if they’d known I was plain old Lizzie Atwell, the second daughter of a sheep farmer from Harper Springs? Beauty will get one so far, but here in London it’s family that counts, so I decided to invent a better one.’
She was looking at him with an expression that held any amount of mischief. It was perfectly evident that she felt no guilt at all at her deception.
‘But you paid Ticky to keep it quiet.’
‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘I bargained hard, though. I told him exactly how much it was worth to me to buy his silence, and it wasn’t anywhere near what he wanted, but he had to agree in the end. To tell you the truth, I didn’t much care whether he told anybody or not—or rather, shall we say I was mostly worried he’d tell your ghastly mother, and she’d put it in the paper. I’m sorry, darling, I’m sure she’s delightful underneath it all.’
‘Well, you’ve nothing to worry about now,’ said Freddy. ‘I promise I won’t tell a soul.’
‘You’re a good boy, Freddy,’ she said. She sat up and placed the cutting in an ash-tray, then carefully set light to it. They watched as it curled and blackened in the flames. ‘There. It’s gone. I know I said I didn’t care, but Amelia would have been very disappointed in me, and I shouldn’t have liked that. I’m terribly fond of her, really.’
