A SCRAP OF PAPER.
Within twenty-four hours of the receipt by Philip Winslade of Miss
Sudlow's letter enclosing the copy of Mrs. Melray's statement, he and
Mr. Robert Melray were closeted together in a private room of the
hotel where the latter generally stayed during his visits to town.
"What a pity, what a very great pity it is that Denia was not
straightforward enough to tell me all this at first," said Mr. Melray
as he replaced the statement, which he had been glancing over afresh,
in his pocket. "As you will readily conceive, it is an immense relief
to me to find that she is in no way implicated in my poor brother's
tragical fate. It would indeed have been terrible had anything tending
to the contrary come to light, and I am truly thankful my mother and I
have been spared any such revelation. Unfortunately we seem no nearer
the elucidation of the mystery of James's death than we were before."
He sighed heavily, his chin drooped forward on his breast, and he
seemed lost in thought. There was a long pause. Suddenly he raised his
head and, with his eyes bent searchingly on Winslade, said: "I suppose
_you_ see no reason to doubt the accuracy of any of the details
embodied in my sister-in-law's narrative?"
It was a question which Phil had expected to have put to him, and
there was no hesitation in his reply.
"I see no valid reason for questioning the _bona fides_ of Mrs.
Melray's narrative. There are certain points in connection with the
events of September 18, as told by her, which would undoubtedly be
open to grave suspicion did she not account for them in such a
seemingly straightforward and natural way. For instance, on the face
of it, it seems nothing less than a most remarkable coincidence that
she and Wildash should have found themselves in her husband's private
office within so short a time of Mr. Melray's unaccountable return and
all that must have happened immediately after; and yet the explanation
of how they came to be there is so simple and direct that, when one
comes to consider, it seems by no means improbable that things should
have fallen out as she asserts them to have done."
"Does there not seem to you a possibility that my brother may have
accidentally discovered the assignation of the young people--that, in
point of fact, he may have come suddenly upon them while they were
talking together by the corner of the churchyard, that a quarrel may
thereupon have ensued, with a result that was fatal to James?"
"That is a point which I have not failed to consider; but it is one
which, the more I look at it, the more I find it to bristle with
difficulties. That Mr. Melray left home as usual at eight o'clock is
not questioned. Supposing him to have gone there direct, he was due at
the house of Mr. Arbour from ten to twelve minutes later. Mrs. Melray
states that, knowing her husband would not be back before half-past
ten at the soonest, she named nine o'clock for her meeting with
Wildash. This seems quite feasible, seeing that by that hour most of
the shops would be shut, that there would be fewer people in the
streets, and, consequently, less likelihood of their meeting being
observed. But, supposing Mrs. Melray to have been unwise enough to fix
a quarter or half-past eight for the meeting, what then? The
churchyard where the meeting is said to have taken place is in an
exactly opposite direction to the road Mr. Melray would have to
traverse on his way to Mr. Arbour's; what possible reason, therefore,
could take him so far out of his way? Even supposing for a moment
that, by some means of which we know nothing, he had got wind of the
assignation and had made up his mind to be present, that he carried
out his intention, that high words passed between the two men,
resulting in a quarrel fatal to one of them; supposing all this, we at
once find ourselves beset with a fresh difficulty--none other, in
fact, than to account for Mr. Melray's body being found in his own
office, and not in the street by the churchyard, where the quarrel,
had there been one, must presumably have taken place. But there is no
evidence of a quarrel, nor as much as a single witness to prove that
the two men ever met, while it could not for a moment be contended
that Wildash, after killing Mr. Melray, could unobserved have dragged
the body as far as Loudwater House. No; I confess it would be much
harder for me to swallow these difficulties than it is to accept Mrs.
Melray's narrative as a truthful statement of the facts of the case as
far as she was concerned in them; and, looked at from her point of
view, one can quite understand her anxiety to keep the whole affair a
secret from everybody."
"Your views in the main seem to tally with my own," said Mr. Melray,
"and I am glad to have them confirmed by you."
"It certainly seems somewhat singular," resumed Winslade presently,
"that no one in Solchester should have known of the return of Wildash,
and that by all his old associates the tidings of his death should
still be implicitly believed. His aunt's evidence on the point would
have been most valuable, because she, more than anyone, would have
been likely to know of his return; but, unfortunately, she died some
months ago. As to whether he and the stranger who was killed on the
railway were one and the same person, there seems very little
likelihood now of our ever being able to prove; the probability,
however, would seem to be in favour of their being the same man."
"It is a point which, I confess, has very little interest for me,"
replied the other. "But now comes the question," he presently resumed,
"of what I ought to say to my sister-in-law, of what notice, in point
of fact, it is advisable that I should take of her extraordinary
statement."
"If I may be allowed," said Winslade, "I would suggest that the less
notice you take of it the better."
"My own opinion exactly. Indeed, if she and I were brought face to
face, I scarcely know what I should find to say to her about it. For
me, at least, it opens up a very different view of her character from
the one I held before. But that," he added with one of his dry smiles,
"is scarcely a point as to which it behoves me to enlighten her." He
paused for a few seconds, sitting with half-shut eyes and drumming
softly on the table with one hand. Then he said: "Perhaps, after all,
my best plan will be to write her a brief note, telling her I have
read her statement, and that although I am sorry she did not see her
way to take me into her confidence long ago, yet, bearing in mind the
uncommon circumstances surrounding the affair, that I do not feel at
liberty to blame her for her reticence. Further, that I accept her
statement without the shadow of a doubt as to the truth of anything
there set down, and that for the future it may be as well that the
subject should not be further alluded to between us. Yes," he
continued with an air of relief, "I think that will decidedly be the
best thing to do."
At Loudwater House everything went on as before. Fanny and the younger
Mrs. Melray remained on the best of terms, and the latter continued to
join her and Freddy two or three times a week in their walks. Once,
and once only, did the young widow refer to a certain matter which was
as carefully shunned by Fanny as by herself. One day when Freddy was
out of hearing, Denia said: "I suppose I am only telling you what you
know already when I inform you that my brother-in-law's perusal of the
statement which I gave into your hands resulted in his writing me a
short, but extremely nice letter."
"I was given to understand that it was Mr. Melray's intention to write
to you."
"I cannot tell you how happy his letter has made me. Ever since
receiving it I have felt sorry and ashamed of myself for not having
taken him into my confidence at first and told him all I had to tell.
All my life long I shall think very differently of him from what I
used to do."
There was a little break in her voice as she finished speaking, and
Fanny, glancing at her, saw that her blue eyes were brimmed with
tears.
If, since her receipt of his letter, Mrs. Melray regarded her
brother-in-law from a changed standpoint, Fanny did not fail to notice
that he, on his part, now treated her with a certain show of
cordiality of which there had been no sign before. Heretofore he had
always addressed her ceremoniously as "Mrs. Melray," whereas he now as
often as not spoke to her and of her by her baptismal appellation. A
cloud seemed to have lifted itself off the house. The pretty widow's
eyes began to sparkle again as they had not sparkled since her
husband's death.
Only, Mrs. Melray the elder, when in her daughter-in-law's company,
continued to be as grim and taciturn as she had always been. Nothing
had happened which served to change or modify the silent, but
uncompromising hostility with which she regarded the younger woman.
That she could be very different when she chose was shown by her
treatment of Miss Sudlow, which was not merely considerate, but had in
it a certain element of cordiality, of a somewhat chill and stately
kind it may be, but which, coming from the person it did, meant more
than it would have meant from another.
One of the chief duties of the dowager's companion was to read aloud
to her mistress. Unfortunately, about this time Miss Armishaw
contracted a severe cold, which resulted, for the time being, in a
partial loss of voice. In this strait Fanny offered her services as
reader, an offer which Mrs. Melray was pleased to accept. This brought
the two women into more confidential relations than before, for the
readings always took place in the elder lady's private sitting-room,
and were usually followed by half-an-hour's chat on sundry topics of
the day before Fanny went back to her more immediate duties.
It was in the course of one of these after-reading talks that the
dowager said: "Not till a week ago, my dear, did Robert give me a
certain document to read, which, as I understand, was placed by my
daughter-in-law in your hands first of all. It is a document which
serves, in my opinion, to place her conduct in a very curious light
indeed, and one which she may well have shrunk from having thrown on
it. On that point, however, I will say no more. She is my son's widow,
and although it would be hypocrisy on my part to say that I like her,
I have no desire whatever to prejudice her in the eyes of others. Nay,
I will go so far as to admit that there was never the slightest fault
to be found with the way she did her duty by her husband, and that
since his death her conduct has been most exemplary. That her life
under this roof is a very lonely and isolated one cannot be disputed,
consequently that she should seek your society a good deal is not to
be wondered at. I am quite willing to grant her considerable powers of
attraction, and if anyone were to question me closely on the point, I
should probably be at a loss to say what there is about her which
repels me so. There the feeling is, however, and it is one which I
have been unable to overcome. If I were to describe it as a vague
instinctive distrust I should perhaps not be very wide of the mark."
Fanny knew not what reply to make to this unwonted burst of
confidence. But seeing that the dowager did not look as if any reply
were expected of her she wisely held her tongue.
After a pause, during which the elder lady sat staring into the fire
with a far-away look in her eyes, she spoke again.
"I suppose we may now finally give up all expectation of ever seeing
my poor son's murderer brought to the bar of justice."
"For my part, madam, I cannot go so far as to admit that," replied
Fanny. "One never can tell from day to day what clue may turn up, or
what important fact be brought to light, perhaps from a quarter the
least expected, or in a way the most surprising and unthought of. I
have read of cases as apparently unfathomable as that of Mr. Melray,
which time has unravelled after its own fashion, and after those most
experienced in such matters had given them up as hopeless."
"Let us trust, my dear, that it may prove so in my son's case; but
every day that passes tends to make it more unlikely."
"If one could only discover by what motive Mr. Melray was influenced,
or what particular object he had in view, in coming back to his office
after having set out for the house of Mr. Arbour, we should, I think,
lay our hands on a very important clue. I suppose there was nothing
found among Mr. Melray's papers bearing on that feature of the
affair?"
"So far as I am aware, nothing. Mr. Cray had the going through of my
son's papers, and had there been anything of the kind among them he
would surely not have overlooked it. Not only was he closely
questioned at the inquest, which was twice adjourned, but, later on,
he had more than one private interview with the officer from Scotland
Yard who had the case specially in hand. No man, however, could have
been more entirely bewildered and nonplussed than he was. Again and
again he declared that, as far as his knowledge went, his master had
not an enemy in the world--no, not a single enemy, but a thousand
friends!"
"I presume," said Fanny, "there was nothing found on Mr. Melray's
person after death--no letter, or memorandum of any kind--which would
serve to throw even a glimmer of light on the events of the 18th of
September?"
"Mine were the hands that emptied my son's pockets of their contents
after death," said the mother with a thin quaver in her voice. "Of
course she--his wife, I mean--was supposed to be too much overcome to
think of anything. I knew that James was in the habit of carrying a
pocket-book, and it seemed to me that there might perhaps be entries
in it which it would be as well that no strange eyes should read.
Accordingly I took possession of it, and it has never been out of my
keeping since that time."
"Pardon my inquisitiveness, but may I ask whether you have made
yourself acquainted with the contents of the pocket-book?"
"I went carefully through it within a few hours of my son's death."
"And there was nothing in it that would serve----?"
"Nothing whatever. Nearly the whole of the entries in it have
reference to his personal or domestic expenditure, for James was
methodical in all his ways, and as careful to balance his private
expenses as he was his business accounts. Since that day I have never
opened the book, but have kept it locked up in my writing-table. Of
course I was very much upset and put about just then, and it may be as
well that you, with your younger and more trained eyes, should look
over it, for, now that the point has been raised, it will certainly be
more satisfactory to me to be assured that it contains nothing of
moment which I may inadvertently have overlooked."
She rose, crossed to her writing-table, unlocked a drawer and produced
therefrom her dead son's pocket-book, which she at once placed in
Fanny's hands.
"Look carefully through it, my dear," she said. "There is nothing in
it that you may not read."
Fanny cast her eyes over a number of the entries, all of which bore
out Mrs. Melray's description of them. Then, because a pocket-book
without a pocket would in some sort be a misnomer, she turned to the
Russia-leather cover and, on lifting a flap, found the receptacle she
was in search of. It held nothing save a small folded paper, which,
from its texture, she took at first for a bank-note. When, however,
she had extracted it she saw that it was merely an ordinary piece of
tissue-paper with some written characters showing through it. Without
opening it she handed it to Mrs. Melray.
"What is this, my dear?" demanded the elder lady. "I saw nothing of
this when I looked through the book. But I suppose I did not look
carefully enough. There seems to be writing on it, but my eyes are so
weak that I must ask you to read it for me."
Accordingly Fanny took back the paper, which proved to be an ordinary
press copy of a letter, its uneven edge on one side tending to show
that it had been torn out of the tissue-book after having been passed
through the machine. Having unfolded it she proceeded to read aloud as
follows:
"Loudwater House,
"_September_ 4, 18--.
"Mr. John Noyes,
"Solchester.
"Sir,--I beg to enclose you Bank of England notes value three hundred
and fifty pounds (viz., three of 100_l_. each and one of 50_l_.) in
full discharge of the claim standing in your books against my name.
This I do in preference to forwarding you a cheque for the amount. You
will understand what I mean when I tell you that a few hours ago I had
a long interview with our mutual friend, Mr. ----. I have retained the
documents brought by him for my examination, as to the authenticity of
which it is not needful that I should enter into any particulars.
Kindly acknowledge the receipt of my enclosure by return, and at the
same time forward, through registered post, the important document
belonging to me which you have still in your possession.
"To a person of your business tact and experience I need scarcely
remark that in a delicate matter like the present discretion is a most
laudable virtue.
"Yours most truly,
"James Melray."
"Well, my dear, and what do you make of it?" asked Mrs. Melray, after
staring silently at Fanny for several seconds.
"On the face of it, it seems a very mysterious production, and I
confess that I don't in the least know what to make of it. The date of
it is just a fortnight before Mr. Melray's death."
"So it is. That is a point which failed to strike me at the moment.
But what is meant by 'our mutual friend, Mr. ----'? Is the name
omitted?"
"Not omitted, but owing to a fault in copying, it is so smudged as to
be illegible."
"That is a pity, but of course it can't be helped." Then, after a few
moments of silent consideration, she added: "I think this is a case as
to which it may be advisable to consult my son. What say you?"
"I quite agree with you, madam."
"Then you are inclined to attach some importance to the paper?"
"I am inclined to attach very great importance to it."
"In that case, will you be good enough to ring the bell?"
But Robert Melray was no more able to make head or tail of the paper
found by Fanny than his mother had been. "The name of the person to
whom the letter is addressed is altogether strange to me," he said;
"but that is hardly to be wondered at, seeing that I don't know more
than half-a-dozen people in all Solchester. I think we had better ask
Cray to come upstairs, and ascertain whether he can throw any light on
the affair."
But the managing clerk, when summoned, only shook his head. "The name
of Mr. Noyes is quite unknown to me," he said. "From the tenor of this
letter, I take it to refer to some private transaction of Mr. Melray.
There is certainly no entry in the books of the firm bearing on any
affair of the kind."
"I will have a copy of this copy made and forwarded to Winslade by
to-night's post," was Robert Melray's final decision. "If he can do
nothing else, he can at least establish for us the identity of Mr.
John Noyes."