"Well, my dear--any more news?" But even as Mrs. Tropenell, looking up
from her breakfast-table, asked the question, she knew what the answer
would be.
It was the following Monday morning. The post had just come in, and at
once, knowing that the postman called first at The Chase, Oliver had
hurried off to the telephone. He had been there a long time--perhaps as
long as ten minutes--and when he came back into the dining-room his
mother was struck afresh by the look of almost intolerable strain and
anxiety in his face and eyes.
They had spent a great part of Sunday with Laura, and during that long,
trying day Mrs. Tropenell had felt very much more concerned about her
son than she did about Godfrey Pavely.
Godfrey, so she told herself, with a touch of unreason not usual with
her, would almost certainly turn up all right--even if, as she was
inclined to believe possible, he had met with some kind of accident. But
Oliver, her beloved, the only human being in the world that really
mattered to her--what was wrong with him? Long after she had gone to bed
each evening she had heard him, during the last three nights, wandering
restlessly about the house.
After the first almost painful rush of joy which had come over her when
he had suddenly walked into her presence last Thursday night, she had
regretted, with unceasing bitter regret, his return home. It was so
horribly apparent to her, his mother, that Laura, _belle dame sans
merci_, held him in thrall.
"If you don't mind, mother, I think I shall go up to town to-day and see
the Scotland Yard people. I think--don't you?--it would-be a comfort to
Laura." There was a harassed, questioning note in his voice which
surprised Mrs. Tropenell. As a rule Oliver always knew exactly what he
meant to do.
She answered slowly, reluctantly (she hated so much his being mixed up
in this odd, mysterious matter of Godfrey's temporary disappearance!):
"Perhaps it would be. Still, I think Laura ought to communicate with
Godfrey's cousins. Of course I know he didn't care for them. Still,
after all, those people are his only near relations."
"That old Mr. Privet, Pavely's confidential clerk, is going up to town
to-day," observed Oliver inconsequently. "I thought he and I might
travel together, and that while he goes to the hotel, I can go to
Scotland Yard."
And then Mrs. Tropenell roused herself to try and give what help she
could.
"Lord St. Amant knows the new Commissioner of Police very well," she
said. "They met in India. Ask him to give you a note of introduction,
Oliver. He's in town just now, you would certainly find him, either at
his rooms or at his club."
There came a faint flush over her face. By her plate there lay Lord St.
Amant's daily letter. On Mondays London letters always arrived by the
second post, but yesterday her old friend had had a late-fee stamp put
on his letter, so that she might get it the first thing this morning.
He had suggested that Sir Angus Kinross--that was the name of the new
Commissioner--should be approached. He had even offered--and it was good
of him, for he hated taking trouble and he had always disliked Godfrey
Pavely--to go to Scotland Yard himself.
Oliver was still standing, though his breakfast was only half eaten, and
he was looking at his mother with that rather impatient, strained look
on his face to which she had by now become accustomed. "That's a good
idea," he said. And she felt glad that any idea proposed by her should
seem to be good. Yesterday her son, who was always so kindly, so
respectful in his manner to her, had--yes, snubbed her--when she had
proposed something which it had seemed to her would be of use.
"I think I'll go over to The Chase now, mother. It's impossible to say
all that one wants to say over the telephone."
She said nervously, "Won't you finish your breakfast?" and to her
surprise he obeyed her. To her surprise also, when at last he did get up
he seemed in no great hurry to go.
"Shall I come with you, my darling?" she said.
He shook his head. "No, mother. I'd rather discuss the matter with her
alone, but I'll make her come over as early as I can. You know she said
she would bring Alice to lunch to-day." And then, looking straight down
into her troubled face, he asked: "Mother? What do _you_ think has
happened to Godfrey Pavely?"
It was the first time he had asked her the direct question.
"I don't know what to think! But I suppose the most probable thing
is--that he's had an accident. After all, people do meet with bad
accidents, especially in wintry, foggy weather, in the London streets.
If so, he may be lying unconscious in one of the big hospitals. I can't
think why the London police shouldn't have been told of his
disappearance on Friday--that, as I told Laura yesterday, is the first
thing I should have done myself."
"Both Mrs. Winslow and Laura seemed to think he would dislike that so
very much," said Oliver slowly.
There was a defensive note in his voice, for he had made no effort to
back up his mother when she had strongly counselled Laura to communicate
with Scotland Yard.
"Has it ever occurred to you," he said suddenly, "that Pavely may be
dead, mother?"
"No, Oliver. That I confess has not occurred to me. In fact, I regard it
as extremely unlikely."
"Why that?" he asked in a hard voice. "People are often killed in street
accidents." Then, after a minute's pause: "Do you think Laura would mind
much?"
"I think it would give her a great shock!" She added, hesitatingly.
"They have been getting on rather better than usual--at least so it has
seemed to me."
"Have they indeed?"
His words cut like a whip, and she got up and went and stood by him. "My
son," she said very solemnly. "Oh, my darling, don't allow yourself to
wish--to hope--for Godfrey Pavely's death!"
Looking straight into her face, he exclaimed, "I can't help it, mother!
I do hope, I do wish, for Godfrey Pavely's death--with all the strength,
with all the power that is in me. Why should I be hypocritical--with
you? Am I the first man that has committed murder," he waited a
moment--"in his heart?"
"If that be really so--then don't let it ever be suspected, Oliver! For
God's sake, try and look differently from what you have looked the last
few days! If your wish is to be granted, your hope satisfied, then don't
let any one suspect that the hope or the wish was ever there!"
She spoke with an intensity of feeling and passion equal to his own.
"You're right, mother," he said in a low voice. "I know you're right!
And I promise you that I'll try and follow your advice. No man ever had
a wiser and a better mother than I!"
He turned round quickly and left the room.
Mrs. Tropenell did not see her son again till late that night, and then
not alone, for Laura spent the evening at Freshley, and after he had
taken their guest home to The Chase, he did not come in again for hours.
Old Mr. Privet, Godfrey Pavely's confidential clerk, had been rather
taken aback when he had learnt over the telephone, from Mrs. Pavely,
that he was to have Mr. Oliver Tropenell as his travelling companion to
London. But very soon, being a truly religious man, he came to see how
well and wisely everything had been ordered. To begin with, Mr.
Tropenell called for him at the Bank, thus saving him a very cold,
easterly-wind kind of walk to Pewsbury station, which was some way from
the town. And once there, Mr. Tropenell had taken two first-class
return tickets--that again being the action of a true gentleman, for he,
Mr. Privet, would have been quite content to go by himself third-class.
Also, as it turned out, during the long journey to London they had some
very pleasant and instructive conversation together.
Quite at first, in answer to a query as to what he thought of this
extraordinary business of Mr. Pavely's disappearance, Mr. Oliver
Tropenell had been perhaps a little short. He had replied that no one
could possibly venture an opinion as to what had happened. But then had
followed between them, in spite of the fact that the noise of the train
was very trying, a most agreeable chat over old times--over those days
when Mr. Godfrey Pavely's father, a fine type of the old country-town
banker, was still alive.
Mr. Privet, as a younger man, had had a good deal to do with the final
sale and purchase of The Chase, and Mr. Tropenell, as was very natural
in one whose own ancestors had lived there for hundreds of years, had
shown the greatest interest in that old story. Mr. Tropenell had not
been in the least over-curious or indiscreet, but Mr. Privet had been
led on to talk of his companion's grandfather, a gentleman who, if
rather wild, and certainly extravagant and headstrong, had been such a
grand sportsman--quite a hero among the young men of Pewsbury! What had
brought about the poor gentleman's undoing had been his taking over the
hounds, when Lord St. Amant's great-uncle had given them up.
So pleasant had been that conversation in the first-class carriage
shared by them, that for the first time since Thursday Mr. Privet had
almost forgotten the business on which they two were going to London!
But he had soon remembered it again--for at the station Mr. Oliver
Tropenell had suggested that, instead of going to the Hungerford Hotel,
he, Mr. Privet, should accompany him to Lord St. Amant's club, in order
to get a letter of introduction from that nobleman to the Commissioner
of Police.
Not long ago Mr. Privet had read an interesting book called _In London
Club Land_. But he had little thought, when he was reading that book,
that he would ever see the famous old political club to which a whole
chapter had been devoted, and to which so many of his own special
political heroes had belonged in their time!
And then, after Lord St. Amant, who also had treated Mr. Privet with
rather exceptional civility, not to say courtesy, had written the
letter, Mr. Tropenell suggested that they should go straight on to
Scotland Yard--pointing out, what was true enough, that Mr. Privet knew
far more of Mr. Godfrey Pavely's business and habits than any one else.
And so, together, they had driven off in a taxi--also a new, agreeable
experience to Mr. Privet--to the famous Bastille-like building on the
Thames Embankment.
But when there, the interview with the pleasant-spoken, genial gentleman
who wielded such immense powers had been disappointing.
Sir Angus Kinross had listened very carefully to all that he, Mr.
Privet, had had to say, and he had asked a number of acute, clever
questions of both his visitors. But very soon he had observed that he
feared much valuable time had been lost.
Later on, Mr. Privet, when he thought the interview over, could almost
hear the voice of Sir Angus repeating slowly, inexorably: "Thursday? And
it's now Monday afternoon! What a misfortune it is that Mrs.--ah,
yes--Mrs. Pavely, did not communicate with us at once. If she had
telephoned, here, when she first began to realise that there was
something strange in her husband's prolonged absence, she would almost
certainly have had some sort of news by now."
And then he, Mr. Privet, had answered quickly, "But we didn't begin to
feel anxious till the Friday, sir."
"I quite understand that! But if you, Mr.--ah yes--Mr. Privet--had
written then, we could have begun our inquiries on the Saturday morning.
Did it not occur to you to let the London police know of Mr. Pavely's
non-appearance?"
For a moment Mr. Privet had felt vaguely uncomfortable, for his
questioner had given him such a very odd, keen look, as he asked that
simple question. But he had answered, honestly enough, for after all
'Tho' truth may be blamed, it can never be shamed': "Mr. Pavely, sir,
did not like to be interfered with when he was away on business, and we
thought it would annoy him if we were to make too great a fuss. Once,
many years ago now--Mr. Pavely went over to Paris for some days, and
omitted to leave his address at the Bank. I couldn't help remembering
last week that Mr. Pavely, on that former occasion, had seemed somewhat
put out with me for expressing what I thought at the time a very natural
anxiety, sir."
They hadn't been very long at Scotland Yard, a little under half an hour
in all, and during the last ten minutes a shorthand writer had made some
notes of the conversation, which, indeed, had been almost entirely
carried on between him, Mr. Privet, and the Commissioner of Police. Mr.
Oliver Tropenell, as was bound to be the case, had had very little to
say, seeing that he was there merely as Mrs. Pavely's representative,
she having her only brother in Mexico.
After leaving Scotland Yard they had gone on to the Hungerford Hotel,
and there a lot of information had been afforded them. But it hadn't
amounted to very much--when all was said and done! They already knew
that all trace of Mr. Pavely had disappeared after eleven o'clock on the
Thursday morning. His room was even now exactly as he had left it; neat,
for he was always a most particular gentleman, but with nothing put
away. In fact the only news of him after that morning had been that
telephone message to The Chase--a message given by some one, the butler
by now wasn't even sure if it was a man or a woman, who was evidently in
a great hurry.
One thing the manager of the hotel had done which had rather surprised
and shocked both Mr. Privet and his companion. He had consulted a
detective about the affair, and, at Mr. Tropenell's request, the
detective was sent for.
Mr. Privet had thought this secret inquiry agent (as he called himself)
a queer kind of chap--in fact he had seemed much more anxious to
ascertain if a reward was going to be offered, than to offer any useful
advice as to this perplexing matter of Mr. Pavely's disappearance.
He had, however, seemed to think that the Thursday evening telephone
call was very important, and he had asked permission to come down to The
Chase to cross-examine the servant who had taken the message. But
that--so Mr. Tropenell had very properly said--was impossible, now that
the matter had been placed in the hands of Scotland Yard. In answer to
Mr. Privet's natural curiosity as to why the detective thought that
telephone call so important, the man had answered, rather crossly: "You
see, there's no record kept of telephone calls! There's a record kept of
telegrams, so one can always recover the original of a telegram."
Mr. Tropenell had been quite surprised on hearing this.
"I should have thought telephone calls quite as important as telegrams?"
he had exclaimed.
"So they are, with regard to _my_ kind of work," the man had replied.
"But even with regard to trunk-calls you've only got to go into a Post
Office and plank down your money and wait till you're through! Still,
the young woman at your country Exchange would probably have remembered
the call if she had been asked sooner. But it's all such a long time
ago."
A long time ago? What nonsense! He, Mr. Privet, felt quite put out with
this detective, and he began to see why Mr. Tropenell thought the man
ought not to have been brought into the business at all. It was
certainly rather cool of the hotel manager to have gone and brought
such a person into the affair, without asking Mr. Pavely's friends if he
was at liberty to do so.
They had managed to catch the six o'clock express back to Pewsbury, and
then Mr. Tropenell very kindly insisted on driving Mr. Privet home. Mr.
and Mrs. Privet owned a pretty, old-fashioned house on the other side of
the town. When Mr. Privet had married--a matter of forty years ago
now--he had made up his mind that it would do him good to be obliged to
take a good walk to and from the Bank every day.
On their arrival at the house--which, funnily enough, was called
Southbank--Mr. Tropenell, at the request of Mr. Privet, had come in for
a few minutes to make the acquaintance of Mrs. Privet. He had said how
much he liked their house, how much prettier it was, how much more
dignified--that had been his curious word--than the red brick villas
which had sprung up all over the outskirts of their beautiful old town.
And Mr. Privet had been secretly rather pleased, for lately "Mother"--as
he called Mrs. Privet--had become somewhat restless, being impressed by
certain improvements those gimcrack villas possessed, which their house
lacked, and that though he had put in a nice bathroom a matter of twenty
years ago.
Yes, of the several people who, that day, had been engaged in trying to
probe the mystery of Godfrey Pavely's disappearance, the only one who
found a great deal of natural pleasure and simple enjoyment out of it
all was Mr. Privet; and he, alone of them all, really cared for the
missing man, and, perhaps, alone of them all, had a genuine longing to
see him again.
Mr. Privet thought it was particularly kind of Mr. Oliver Tropenell to
be taking all this trouble for poor Mrs. Pavely; though of course he,
Mr. Privet, was well aware that Mrs. Pavely's brother was partner to Mr.
Tropenell in Mexico. He knew the sad truth--the sad truth, that is, as
to the disgraceful circumstances under which Gilbert Baynton had had to
leave England. No one else in the Bank had known--at least he and Mr.
Pavely hoped not. It had been very, very fortunate that the forged
signature had been on one of their own cheques. But for that fact,
nothing could have saved that good-for-nothing scoundrel--so Mr. Privet
always called Gillie Baynton in his own mind--from a prosecution.
Do any of us ever think, reader, of the way in which our most secret
business is known, nay, must be known, to a certain number of people of
whose existence we ourselves are scarcely aware?
Laura, when she came and talked, as she sometimes did talk, kindly, if a
little indifferently, to her husband's confidential clerk, would have
been disagreeably surprised had she been able to see into Mr. Privet's
heart and mind. As for Godfrey Pavely, nothing would have made him
credit, high as was his opinion of Mr. Privet's business acumen, the
fact that his clerk had a very shrewd suspicion where those three
hundred pounds in notes, lately drawn out by his employer for his own
personal use, had made their way....