The Golden Deed

by Andrew Garve

  ‘More than prison?’

  ‘I think so … I’d much prefer to tell the truth and take the consequences.’

  ‘Tony and Alison would have to take the consequences too, darling. Their young lives would be pretty well blasted … Isn’t it possible that confession would be a bit of a self-indulgence?’

  ‘I don’t know … I suppose it would …’ Mellanby passed a hand wearily over his face. ‘Who said, the path of duty was strait and narrow? It’s so wide you can get lost in it … Honestly, Sally, I don’t know what we should do.’

  There was a little silence. Then Sally said, with deep conviction, ‘Well, I do, darling – I think we should keep quiet. I know how you feel, and I respect you for it but I think this is a case where you’ve simply got to sit on your feelings … You’ve done nothing wrong, you don’t have to have a conscience about anything, and if you’ve got to live with a lie it’s not a lie you need be ashamed of …’

  ‘I wonder,’ Mellanby said.

  ‘You know it isn’t … Darling, I’m absolutely certain that your duty is to say nothing – if only for the sake of the children. Quite frankly, I don’t think you’ve the right to do anything else.’

  There were sounds on the landing as she finished – Kira’s voice, a high-pitched laugh from Alison, the pounding of feet. The day had begun. Sally said, in an urgent tone, ‘John, we’ve got to decide … Please!’

  Mellanby got up from the bed. His face was expressionless. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘We’ll take Roscoe’s things along to George and he can dig another hole.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Sally had to wait for a suitable moment to tell Kira and the children that Roscoe had left. It would be a mistake, she decided, to rush and announce the fact right away, as though it were the only thing on her mind; she must tell them soon, but it must come naturally. As it turned out the perfect opportunity presented, itself when she went down to the kitchen. There was the fragrant smell of coffee in the air – breakfast was under way. As she entered, she heard Kira say, ‘Alison, please ask Uncle Frank if I shall boil an egg for him …’

  ‘Uncle Frank’s gone,’ Sally said, ‘he left last night …’ As three faces turned to her in surprise, she added, ‘He was very sorry not to have a chance to say goodbye, but he had to make up his mind in rather a hurry … He asked me to say goodbye to you all for him …’

  Kira said, ‘He has stopped looking for a farm …?’

  ‘He heard of one in Sussex, Kira – that’s south of London – and he thought he’d better go along right away and see it … He thinks he’ll prefer Sussex.’

  ‘Is he coming back?’ Tony asked.

  ‘No, I don’t think so, darling.’

  ‘But, Mummy, he’s left his boxing gloves and punchball … They’re in the shed – I just saw them.’

  Sally said, ‘Oh …!’ She wondered how many other things they’d overlooked. Not that it really mattered, as long as they weren’t things he’d obviously need. ‘Well, if he wants them I expect he’ll send for them … We can’t write because we don’t know where he is.’

  ‘Perhaps he’ll forget,’ Tony said hopefully. ‘It’s a good punchball.’ He went off into the dining-room with Alison, who seemed to have taken the loss of Uncle Frank with complete unconcern.

  Sally said, ‘Frank was very sorry not to see you before he went, Kira … I’d have told you last night when you came in but you looked a bit tired and I thought it might – well – upset you a little.’

  Kira gave a faint smile. ‘I am not upset.’

  ‘I thought you rather liked him …’

  ‘At first I liked him – but not later. He was not a nice man, I think. He was not sympathetic … I shall not cry.’

  ‘I’m very glad,’ Sally said.

  ‘Will you have a boiled egg?’

  ‘No, thank you – just coffee.’ Sally turned away. Duplicity was as foreign to her as to Mellanby – particularly where the children were concerned. It had been a hateful conversation. But at least one ordeal was over.

  The real strain, though, was still to come. Worn out after their appalling night both Sally and Mellanby now had to maintain an outwardly cheerful aspect and behave as though nothing unusual had happened. The main burden of the deception at home inevitably fell on Sally. Mellanby had already made an appointment for that morning to discuss the details of an archaeological television programme with the curator of the local museum, and with some reluctance he went off at ten to keep it. He had scarcely left the house when the telephone started to ring. The first call was from a Bath estate agent, with an urgent message for Mr Roscoe about a likely property. Sally had to tell him that Roscoe had given up the Bath district and departed to look elsewhere. The agent seemed surprised, but he was quite philosophical about it and apologized for troubling her. Then, about eleven, Eleanor Bryce rang up for a chat, and in the course of the conversation she asked if Roscoe had had any luck with his search, and Sally had to repeat her story. Finally, just before noon, Sherston telephoned to see if all was well. Sally discreetly assured him there was nothing to worry about, and said that she and Mellanby would be along as soon as they could.

  In the afternoon Sally packed Kira and the children off to the park. Directly they’d gone, Mellanby whisked Roscoe’s suitcase into the car while Sally kept an eye on cook and the ‘daily’ in the kitchen. Once in the privacy of the garage, Mellanby went carefully through the contents of the case. There might be some letters or papers, he thought, referring to appointments or commitments – things that could lead to inquiries later. But there was nothing of that kind at all – only clothes and other personal effects. He re-packed everything, and went in to tell Sally he was ready. A few minutes later they were on their way to the caravan.

  It was a sombre meeting with the Sherstons. Awareness of the grave in the bushes hung over everyone like a pall. Eve, suffering badly from reaction, seemed a bundle of nerves. Sherston was grim. There was nothing anyone wanted to talk about but Roscoe, and once Mellanby had confirmed his intention to keep his own counsel, there were only a few practical things to discuss. Mellanby briefly reported on the domestic position. Then, while Sally and Eve rested in the caravan and tried to give each other comfort and reassurance, Sherston took Mellanby back to the burial place. ‘I’d like you to see for yourself that there’s nothing to worry about,’ he said.

  Deep in the bushes, Mellanby gazed down in horrid fascination at the spot. There was no doubt that Sherston had done an efficient job. Where the hole had been, the ground was now quite level, with nothing to catch the eye, nothing at all to distinguish it from the surrounding area. Sherston had skilfully drawn some trailing brambles over the place, and scattered some leaves. Soon, more leaves would fall, completely covering the grave. Mellanby gave a brief nod, trying not to think of what the hole contained.

  ‘Where will you bury the suitcase?’ he asked.

  ‘Right here beside the body – it’s the only place in the quarry where the ground’s soft enough. I’ll shove it in just as it is.’

  ‘Be careful, won’t you …? If you were seen …!’

  ‘You bet I’ll be careful. I’ll wait till it’s dark, and Eve will keep watch … Don’t worry.’

  Mellanby nodded again, ‘What are your plans, George?’

  ‘Well, I thought we’d move on tomorrow – Eve can’t wait to get away. Neither can I, for that matter. This place has kind of lost its charm!’

  ‘I should think so …! Where will you make for?’

  ‘The Continent, in the end – but we’ll stick around in England till we’re sure there’s not going to be any trouble … If anything did crop up, of course, we’d need each other like hell – but I’m pretty certain it won’t … Short of that, I reckon the less we see of each other, the better. I’ll give you a ring in a week or two, just to check up with you that everything’s okay …’ He looked a little anxiously at Mellanby. ‘I hope you don’t still blame me, John. I guess I was a bit high-h
anded …’

  ‘No, I don’t blame you,’ Mellanby said. ‘If you’d consulted me, I doubt if I’d have agreed – but I don’t know …? There are pressures … Anyway, that’s academic now. I’ve accepted the position, and I shall go through with it.’

  ‘Good man …!’ Sherston gave a rather wry smile. ‘You’re a bit of a dark horse, John, aren’t you …? Gentle exterior, but as tough as hell inside.’

  ‘I wish that were true,’ Mellanby said.

  ‘Tough enough, anyway … Well, I hope we’ll be able to meet again somewhere, all of us, when everything’s blown over. It’s been a rotten business – messed up a promising friendship, among other things. I can tell you Eve’s going to miss Sally a lot … You know John, although Roscoe’s dead and buried, I still hate his guts!’

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Sherstons left the district early next day, after a final telephone call to say that the suitcase had been safely disposed of and to wish Sally and Mellanby the best of luck. With their departure, the active phase of the Roscoe affair seemed to be over. There was still plenty to worry about, but nothing more to do. On the surface, at least the Mellanby household reverted to normal. Sally resumed her usual holiday activities with the family. Mellanby, with a conscious effort of will, forced himself to return to his writing. Kira, to all appearances, was cheerful and content. The children were happy, and Tony’s occasional references to Uncle Frank were matter-of-fact and free from nostalgia. No one else showed any interest in what had happened to Roscoe – he had left, and that was that. As far as danger was concerned, it seemed to Sally that the whole thing had already blown over.

  She felt a good deal of anxiety on other grounds. By tacit agreement she and Mellanby had virtually stopped talking about Roscoe, but she knew that he thought about the dead man even more then she did. After what had happened, she doubted if either of them would ever completely recapture their old, unclouded happiness – though with only two or three days gone since Roscoe’s death, it was really too early to look into the future. For the moment, the important thing was that the family was intact, and that John was a free man. As long as he was free, there was hope.

  Then, on the morning of the fourth day, a letter arrived for Roscoe – postmarked ‘London, N.1’ and addressed in a precise and rather elegant hand. It was Mellanby who picked it up. With feelings not unlike the foreboding he’d had when the telephone had rung on the fatal night, he opened it and read it. It was as follows:

  Flat 23, Highgate 031 Egham Court London, N1

  Dear Roscoe,

  I was surprised and distressed at the contents of your second letter, which I found waiting for me when I returned here today. The money I gave you was specifically for investment in the company, and as I gather you have not yet closed the deal it should still be in your possession in full. You certainly had no right at all to use any part of it for your own purposes – which, judging from your evasive tone, I begin to think you must have done. Indeed, I am now seriously wondering whether the company ever existed, and whether perhaps I was not taken in by a smooth talker! If I am wrong about this I shall be only too happy to apologize – but I don’t mink I am. I feel very worried and upset – and angry. I have been very patient, but now my patience is exhausted. The purpose of this letter is to tell you that I expect the return of the £7,000 in full and immediately. I will accept no excuses. If I do not receive your cheque by first post on Friday morning, I shall go at once to the police and ask for your apprehension on a charge of false pretences and fraud. In view of our past relationship I deeply regret this, but you have left me with no alternative. Charles E. Faulkner

  Chapter Twenty

  Mellanby went straight to his study and dropped into a chair. The contents of the letter had hit him like a blow between the eyes. Since Roscoe’s death there had always been a possibility that something awkward might turn up, but the crisis they were now suddenly plunged into was more acute and dangerous than anything he had imagined. It didn’t help that he probably ought to have foreseen it. The danger had been signalled with that first letter Roscoe had received, and Mellanby blamed himself fiercely for not having given it more thought, once Colonel Lancaster had been exposed as an invention. After all, someone had written an upsetting letter. Roscoe’s story about Lancaster had been bogus, but his anxiety hadn’t been. A crook from top to toe, he had owed seven thousand pounds which he couldn’t repay – but he’d owed it to this man Faulkner. And now everything was plain. That first letter, the one he’d so wisely thrown away, had no doubt asked for the money back – or at least for some accounting. Roscoe, desperate to stave off the reckoning, had first come to Mellanby with his phony story and his appeal for help – and when that hadn’t worked he’d resorted to crude menace … The driving force behind his fantastic behaviour was suddenly clear … What wasn’t clear was how this new and appallingly imminent danger was to be met …

  Mellanby was still groping for an answer when Sally came in search of him. His withdrawal at so early an hour was unusual, and she’d guessed that something had happened. She glanced over his shoulder at the letter, ‘What is it, John? – bad news?’

  ‘Very bad, I’m afraid.’ He passed it to her.

  She read it through twice, slowly.

  ‘So he did owe money,’ she said, in a flat voice.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And if this man Faulkner tells the police about him, I suppose they’ll come here?’

  ‘They’re bound to. Straight here. It was Roscoe’s last known address.’

  Sally looked at the letter again. ‘He says Friday. Friday is tomorrow!’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘John! – what will you tell them?’ There was panic in her voice now. ‘You said if inquiries ever started …’

  Mellanby nodded. ‘It’s still true – we simply can’t afford any inquiries. Imagine the questions they’d ask … Where did he say he was going to? Did he go by train? What train did he catch? Did he take a taxi or did you drive him to the station? Did you see him off? What luggage had he? How was he dressed? Did you know he was a crook? Did he try to borrow any money from you? How did you get on with him …? And so on. All of them awkward. All of them full of pitfalls.’

  ‘I can see they’d be awkward,’ Sally said, ‘but surely we could make up a watertight story between us … He told us he was going to Sussex but he didn’t tell us where – that’s what we’ve said already … He hadn’t a car so of course he’d have had to go by train. He caught the eight o’clock to London. You drove him to the station. He was wearing his grey suit and carrying his brown case. You didn’t wait to see him off. You hadn’t very much liked him – you’d have to say that because Kira would know – but you didn’t realize he was a crook … Wouldn’t that be all right? After all, I don’t see why they should suspect us of anything.’

  ‘They wouldn’t at first, Sally, but it wouldn’t be long before they did … They’d start by checking up on his movements, to make sure he really did go to London. They’d go to the station and they’d find that no one had seen him. With a man as striking as Roscoe, that would seem pretty odd. They’d talk to the porters in the yard and discover that no one had seen my car. They’d come back and ask more questions and probably tangle us up. It isn’t as though we’re used to this sort of thing – we’d be caught in a web in no time … Whatever story we told, they’d be able to disprove it. Then they’d really start ferreting around. They’d question the neighbours. Someone might have heard me drive off in the early hours. They’d want to know where I went, and why. They’d find out about the caravan …’

  ‘Only if you told them.’

  ‘They’d get on to it anyway, Sally, sooner or later … Jack Reed saw Roscoe there when he went along with the breakdown van – so did his men … And people talk. The police would soon discover the connection. When they found that Roscoe had completely disappeared, they’d investigate everything – they’d never let go … Honestly, Sally, it’s madness to
think along these lines – especially after we’ve kept quiet so long. If the facts were to come out now, George and I might really be finished. The charge could easily be murder …’

  Sally stared at him, white-faced. ‘Then what are we going to do?’

  ‘Well, I’ve been thinking … Somehow we’ve got to stop the police coming, and I believe I know how it might be done. I’ll have to see Faulkner, and I’ll have to see him today …’ Briefly, he told Sally what was in his mind. ‘Is his telephone number on the letter?’

  ‘Yes – Highgate 031.’

  ‘Then I’ll ring him right away,’ Mellanby said. ‘If he’s a decent chap, it may work.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  It was close on three o’ clock that afternoon when Mellanby’s taxi drew up outside the modern block of flats in Highgate where Charles Faulkner lived. Flat 23, the porter told him, was on the third floor. Mellanby walked up, drawing out the last moments before the fateful interview. It wasn’t that he hadn’t a perfectly clear plan in his mind – the long journey up from Bath had given him plenty of time to decide what he was going to say. It was just that such guile was hopelessly out of character for him. Every word was going to stick in his throat His expression was strained as he touched the bell.

  The door was opened by an elderly, rather frail-looking man, with a deeply lined face and snow-white hair. For a moment he inspected his visitor through the upper lenses of a pair of bifocals. ‘Mr Mellanby?’ he said. His voice was cultured, and much more vigorous than his appearance.

  Mellanby nodded.

  ‘Do come in, won’t you …’ Faulkner turned and led the way into a small but pleasantly-furnished sitting-room with a fine open view. There was an attractive seascape on the wall opposite the window, and below it, on a little table, a three-master in a bottle. ‘You’ll find that chair quite comfortable …’ Mellanby sat down, with a word of thanks. The old man took a chair opposite him. There was something almost spinsterish about his prim neatness, yet in an odd way he had an air of authority. ‘Well, now – you said you wanted to talk to me about Frank Roscoe. What is it, Mr Mellanby?’