Excellent Intentions

by Richard Hull

  “Part of the sixpenny violet of the later issue, I should think—and a pen-cancelled specimen at that, judging by the smear of ink by the ‘H’—faded gradually in the sun and then coloured carefully the right shade. I should destroy those stamps if I were you, sir.”

  “I shall, I think.” Cargate had looked thoroughly uneasy. “I can’t think how or why it was done, but it’s a marvellous piece of work. Take them away from that machine and you would never spot the joins.”

  “Never. It’s a wonderful machine too.”

  “It is.” Cargate looked at it angrily. “I wish it hadn’t been invented. It seems to me to be definitely a case of where ignorance is bliss.”

  On the whole Cargate had carried it off so well—he had even retained his air of contemptuous disdain—that at the time Macpherson had been quite unable to believe, although of course the idea occurred to him at once, that the repairs had been carried out by Cargate himself. To offer for sale as a genuine stamp one composed of four or five pieces of which only some were ever part of the stamp the whole was supposed to be, with the perforations tampered with so as to represent the scarcest variety, was undoubtedly dishonest if it had been done consciously. But had it? Macpherson, incapable of such a thing himself, was inclined to give Cargate the benefit of the doubt. As to the great-uncle who was alleged to have brought them home, either he had amused himself by making up these fraudulent works of art just for the fun of doing so and without intent to part with them, or Cargate was wrong, and he had not bought them from the post-office in the Bahamas, but in this country, and from some dishonest person.

  The impression of honesty was on the whole increased when Cargate came in some months later and asked him if he would test the genuineness by means of his lamp of a pair of stamps which he had been offered, though at a rather high price. Macpherson professed himself delighted, but then added:

  “You really ought to get one of these lamps, sir. They don’t cost a very great deal. It’s well worth the while of any serious collector.”

  “If you don’t want to let me use it—”

  “But by all means, sir, by all means. Pleased to do a little thing like that for a less good customer than yourself. What are the stamps this time, sir? I hope that I shan’t have bad news for you a second time.”

  On this occasion the stamps proved to be a pair of British green and red twopenny stamps of the last type of the Victorian issues, both of which were overprinted “British Protectorate Oil Rivers” and in addition both were surcharged with the words “One Shilling” with a bar underneath. But while one of the surcharges was in violet, one was in black.

  “You certainly do bring me scarce things to look at. The black surcharge is catalogued a hundred and twenty pounds by itself and se tenant with the violet one, it must be unique. I do hope all’s well.”

  Once more the lamp came into play, and once more there was to be disappointment. There was no doubt that the colour of the black surcharge was originally the same as that of the violet one. Traces of the old colour and the chemical used to alter the shade were still visible.

  “I am afraid that they are only a pair in the black ink. Rare enough even so, but nothing like what they appear to be. I’m beginning to have doubts about the genuineness of the whole surcharge too.” Macpherson fell to examining the pair once more.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Cargate broke out, “I shan’t be buying it. Dishonest lot you stamp dealers are.”

  Macpherson drew up his tall, rather gaunt frame to its full height and shook his grey hair violently.

  “No, on the whole definitely not. And I must ask you not to say such things again.”

  “With those things in front of you?”

  “There may be an occasional wrong ’un in the trade. What trade hasn’t got one or two? But if we can find him out, we out him pretty quickly. Who supplied you with this?”

  “Never you mind.”

  Macpherson pressed for the information as much as he could, but it was useless. Cargate absolutely refused to give the name which, if Macpherson had been a better judge of character or had known Cargate more intimately, he would have realized in itself was suspicious, for normally Cargate was prepared to betray anyone. As it was the stamp dealer soon gave it up.

  “Though if I knew who it was, I’d murder him,” he muttered to himself, inwardly adding: “and if I was quite sure that it was you—” But outwardly he said no more.

  Nevertheless from that time onward Macpherson had always kept a very wary eye open when he was dealing with Cargate. For that matter the freemasonry amongst the dealers practically obliged him to drop a guarded hint or two to his fellow dealers. But for a long while he had no cause to complain. At first it had surprised him that Cargate still came to his shop; but when he persisted the surprise wore off. On the whole it seemed to augur well for Cargate’s innocence, though it was undoubtedly true that Macpherson had one of the best, if not the best, stock of those countries in which Cargate was interested. Also Cargate, like all other collectors, did not confine himself to one dealer.

  But beyond those two incidents Macpherson had never had any reason to suspect Cargate’s honesty, a ridiculous idea anyhow to hold of a man so obviously wealthy, until the day when Macpherson, much protesting, was induced to go down to Scotney End Hall.

  “Nevertheless,” Fenby said, “you went down to Larkingfield.”

  It was some days after he had started his investigation at Scotney End. Indeed he had come up from there to see Macpherson and he would be going down there again very soon in all probability.

  “I did,” Macpherson answered. “I didn’t want to, but Cargate was always difficult and tried to make me come to him. On the whole it was worth my while to do so, and also on this occasion he had made some imputations about some stamps which I had sent to him on approval which had to be cleared up by a personal interview.”

  “You did let part of your stock be in his hands, despite your doubts as to his honesty?”

  “Before that afternoon when I went to Scotney End, there were only two occasions when I had any doubt about him. One might have been a case where he, or his uncle, had been imposed upon. The other was when he asked my opinion about some stamps which he said he was thinking of buying. I was pretty sure that the surcharges of both were wholly bogus. In other words that two stamps worth a few shillings each had been turned into a pair, one of which would be catalogued seven pounds and one a hundred and twenty and worth, as a pair, more than that. But I had no reason to think that he was responsible for either of them.”

  “Yet you went round to Ley as his executor and told him that he ought not to try to sell Cargate’s collection without having it very carefully examined first?”

  “Yes.”

  “Just exactly why?”

  “I had seen his St. Vincents in the interval.”

  “What was wrong with them?”

  “A great many of them are perfectly all right. In fact I’ve sold many of them to him myself. But scattered amongst them are things that I believe are forgeries. So I think that they all ought to be examined.”

  “I see. Can you, without being too technical, give me an idea of what may be wrong. I mean if they are palpable forgeries, it does not matter. And if they were hard to notice, I don’t see how you know. I gather you did not have a long examination.”

  “No. He was out of the room for quite a short while, but they happen to be stamps of which I know a good deal. The really good old St. Vincent stamps, especially well-centred copies with good colour and which have not had their perforations damaged or played about with, are all scarce.”

  “How scarce? I mean I have heard that a stamp has fetched about five thousand pounds.”

  “We aren’t dealing with the Post Office Mauritius or the British Guiana one cent black on magenta. No, these St. Vincents are worth anything up to a hundred pounds
, but the best of them perhaps, though others are catalogued just as highly, are some provisionals issued in 1880 and 1881; especially the halfpenny on half of the sixpenny in pair, one having a fraction bar to the figure ½ and one having it missing. Gibbons, though for what reason they select these stamps only and not many others, I do not know, deliberately do not illustrate the surcharges correctly. In fact they say so. But I know them when I see them and a good many other things about them too, and Cargate’s, I could see at a glance, did not pass muster in all cases, but they would have been accepted by a great many people.”

  “I see. That seems a reason for warning Ley. But what was Cargate’s object? I mean why consciously put forged stamps in your own collection?”

  “One of two things. Either he was in touch with someone who was a forger—in which case he himself was the dupe; or he wanted to show off—he was that sort of man—and make the collection look better than it was.”

  “But he could have bought the genuine ones? He was pretty rich, I understand.”

  “No one, though I would not like to confess it too openly, is rich enough to buy all the stamps that he wants. I think it was vanity on his part; but whether he did it or not they are, believe me, pretty dangerous forgeries. Not to me, or to any one of a dozen other people in London, and perhaps as many more elsewhere, but nearly everyone else would be deceived. Even some experts might pass them, which is why I want those stamps destroyed.”

  Fenby could not help wondering if it also provided a reason for why Macpherson wanted Cargate destroyed, that is, if Macpherson really thought that Cargate was the forger. Therefore he went on to say meditatively:

  “I suppose you would like to know who the forger is.”

  “I certainly would, and I suppose that forgery being a crime you would help me to find out.”

  “We should have to have something more definite on which to work, but if somebody, not knowing that Cargate has died, sends along a selection, I’ll promise to get in touch with you.”

  “I should be grateful, but I don’t think anyone will. I think Cargate did it himself.”

  “But you said just now, as I understood it, that you were in fact trusting him? No, that was before you saw these St. Vincent stamps. But even then you weren’t sure.”

  “It was what happened that afternoon after he came back into the room which convinced me.”

  “I see. Perhaps you had better give me an account of what happened.” It was in fact exactly what Fenby had come to find out, but he far preferred reaching it by indirect methods, and the fact that Macpherson had been at pains to find out from Miss Knox Forster who was Cargate’s executor and give him a warning as to the disposal of the collection, had been a convenient chance which had made his appearance in Macpherson’s office more natural.

  “My orders were,” Macpherson accentuated the word “orders” with a slight sarcastic bitterness, “to call on him at 2.30 p.m. For that purpose I was to be picked up at the inn in Larkingfield at quarter past two. You see he made it quite clear that I was not good enough to have lunch with him and I think that I had equally implied that I would not lunch in the servants’ hall. However, at 2.30 I arrived and was shown in to him.”

  “Into the library?”

  “I suppose so. On the left of the hall as you come in.”

  “Quite. Go on.”

  “He was looking at these St. Vincent stamps which I mentioned to you and he immediately began to tell me what a wonderful collection of them he had. In fact he told me that I was never likely to see such a remarkably fine lot of them again, and to imply that he was conferring a great favour by letting me see them. Actually I have had many lots quite as good through my hands, but his were undoubtedly very fine. There was no denying that. Or rather they would have been if they had been what they purported to be.”

  “But they weren’t?”

  “They were not. I suppose that Cargate’s tone and manner ruffled me and that therefore I was critical.” Macpherson ran his hand through his grey hair so that it certainly looked literally ruffled while he himself seemed to get quite irritable at the very thought. “Anyhow, I looked at them carefully and I suppose my expression gave me away.”

  Fenby, looking at the dealer, thought that in all probability his face was often far more expressive than he knew. However, that was not a point which he wanted to stress, so he brought the conversation back to the point.

  “You saw at once that some of them were forged?”

  “One or two of them. At least I very strongly suspected it and I made a mistake. I at once asked him where he had got one particular stamp from. ‘Not from you,’ was his answer. ‘I hope not,’ I said. At that he got thoroughly cross and asked what I was implying. I told him that I guaranteed the genuineness of everything I sold and that I would not be sure of that particular copy. It was the pair of halfpenny on sixpence which I have already mentioned to you. On that he turned thoroughly nasty and said that in future he would not show me things that were too good for me to look at. If you come to think of it it would have been more reasonable if he had said that he would never have any more dealings with me again, but he knew quite well that that would be cutting off his own nose to spite his face, because I was certain to get hold of what he wanted, so he confined himself to being rude and he ended by saying that I was in no position to talk because I was in the habit of submitting very peculiar items in my own approval books. That, of course, I indignantly denied. It was in fact the point I had come down to discuss with him. You remember I said something of it?”

  “Yes. And was this also concerned with the stamps of St. Vincent?”

  “No. It happened to be Ireland this time. There isn’t anything very frightfully special there, but some of the no-accent varieties are fairly good.”

  Fenby groaned.

  “Must I understand about them too?”

  “It’s quite easy. Some of them have the word ‘Saorstát’ on them. It means, I think, ‘Free State’, and there ought to be an accent on the second ‘á’, but here and there it’s missing. On the ten shilling it’s a fairly good stamp, and it was about a block of four, one with the accent missing, that he had made his dirty insinuations.” Macpherson got quite heated as he recalled the incident.

  “He accused me, if you please,” he went on, “of having removed the accent from the face of one of them and of having attempted to do the same to the back. Now that would be a foolish trick because the pressure of the printing would always leave a mark, a ridge so to speak, where the stamping had pushed the paper out, and I don’t believe that you could remove it. Besides, I do not do that sort of thing anyhow. All the same I will admit that it was a very unpleasant accusation to have made to one, because even the rumour of it, if it were spread about to a really considerable extent, would damage my business very seriously. You can easily see that if people did not trust me, they would only buy common things from me since they could be certain of them, it not being worth while to spend several hours turning a stamp worth sixpence into a stamp worth ninepence. But nobody would rely on me to sell them anything decent, if you understand what I mean.”

  “I quite see. But what evidence did Cargate bring as to this accusation?”

  “A block of four stamps on one of which in fact an attempt had been made to remove this accent.”

  “Which he had with him?”

  “Which were stuck into my approval book. But not by me. Or by any of my assistants. They wouldn’t be such fools as to do it on purpose. They might, I suppose, have stolen the genuine ones and put in this manufactured variety, but I do not believe it. They have all been with me at least five years and I have never known anything of the sort happen before. But, to go back, Cargate told me of this block and I, of course, at once said that I didn’t believe him, and asked him to show it to me. ‘I certainly shall,’ was his answer, ‘in fact I have every intention of doing so. I me
ant to have the book handy but you arrived a few minutes early, so I must just get it out of my safe.’ With that he left the room and I, as I told you, took a further look at the St. Vincents on his writing-table. Perhaps that was a mistake because it led to even further unpleasantness.”

  “I think that I can guess what is coming,” Fenby said, “but go on.”

  “Can you? He came back with my own approval stock book and showed me this block of four with the very amateur attempt to alter it. It was priced at twenty-five pounds which means that that is what I have lost by someone—Cargate, as I suspect—playing this trick on me. At least, not quite, because the other three stamps of the block remain, and together they are worth four or five pounds.”

  “You mean that there was a genuine no-accent variety block there before?”

  “Yes. It was a sufficiently good item for me to remember it. But that isn’t the end of the story. While I was looking at this, Cargate turned back to his own St. Vincents. I wasn’t watching him particularly carefully, but what I now know that he did was to take out one stamp, the earliest sixpenny, which is a very distinctive deep yellow-green and is very scarce in good mint condition, and accuse me of having stolen it.”

  Fenby, recognizing the repetition of the trick played on Yockleton, was not in the least surprised.

  “And you hadn’t?” he said mildly, and without really thinking what he was saying.

  “Of course I hadn’t! Do you take me for a thief too?”