“You are My Mother”
Three men sat in conference in the small library at Henry Matthewson’s
residence at Waterville, the morning after the bridge incident. These
were Henry Matthewson himself, three years younger than his brother
Charles, opposite whom was the man who had come from Millbank by the
midnight train, Frank Hunter, brother of Charles Hunter and himself an
attorney in the late Mr. Wing’s office.
“The papers are not in the office,” Hunter was saying. “I was nearly
certain he did not keep them there, but I made the search carefully.”
“How about his private safe at home?” Henry Matthewson asked.
“Of course I’ve had no opportunity to examine that----”
“You should have made one,” said Charles Matthewson sternly.
The remark threw a chill over the talk, that made it a little difficult
to break the embarrassed silence that followed. At last, Hunter said:
“It was too dangerous to risk turning any general question in that
direction. Besides, Trafford had the first shy at that.”
“Mr. Hunter is right,” Henry Matthewson said, with that tone that men
described as “masterful,” and which generally prevailed with Charles,
in part because it so much resembled his mother’s. “It would have been
too much risk.”
“What are you going to do?” demanded Charles; “let the papers fall
into Trafford’s hands, to be used against us, or sold back to us at an
enormous price? Wing’s death came at a strangely opportune time; are we
going to throw the chance away?”
“If there were papers,” Henry affirmed, “McManus or Trafford had them
almost before we heard of the murder. We want to know whether there
were papers or not, but we don’t want to advertise their existence. If
we get a chance to buy, we may think ourselves lucky.”
“Trafford!” said Hunter with a touch of scorn in his voice. “We owe
them thanks for putting him on to the job.”
“Are you certain of your grounds for judgment, Mr. Hunter?” Charles
Matthewson asked. “I’m a little afraid you underrate his ability.”
“Why, what’s he found out in his fortnight’s work?” demanded Hunter.
“That’s just what I’d like to find out, but can’t,” said Matthewson.
“Whatever he’s after, he acts as if he’d get it first and do his
crowing afterwards.”
“Trafford’s at the top, so far as ability is concerned,” said Henry;
“and the next best man’s Cranston. If you’re going to set a man at
work, you’d better take him. There are two things for him to do: First,
keep track of Trafford and let him give us notice quick if he hears
of the papers; second, work up the story of Wing’s birth. We’ve got
to keep that more in the public eye. I can’t for the life of me see
anything in it to lead to the murder, but the public think there’s some
connection between the two, and we mustn’t let them lose sight of it.”
“But there must have been some motive in the murder,” Hunter affirmed.
“If we can get hold of the papers, we’ll let the motive take care of
itself,” Charles interposed. “To think, I was in Millbank that very
night--almost at the very moment! If I’d known--I’d have found out what
was in that room before any detective had a chance!”
He looked at Hunter with an implication of failure. He would gladly
have defended himself, but he remembered that he might have been on the
scene before McManus, and that he had dawdled over his breakfast and
let the opportunity slip. No one would have refused him admission any
more than McManus had been refused. How many anxious hours he might
have saved himself!
As a result of the conference, Cranston was sent for and put on the
case. He listened to his instructions and then said:
“I’ve got to know what you want, if I’m to work with any advantage to
you or myself. You want to find out who Wing’s mother was--but that’s
incidental. You want to know who murdered Wing--but that’s incidental.
What is it I’m to do really?”
Again Henry Matthewson showed his superior masterfulness by deciding
and acting.
“Mr. Wing had been for some time at work upon a matter that concerns
materially the logging interests of this State. We simply know the
fact, for he took no one into his confidence, and was so secretive as
to keep the papers about him or in his private safe in his library.
Without knowing what the papers contain, we believe if they should fall
into the hand of a less scrupulous man than Mr. Wing, they might become
dangerous--that is, a source of blackmail. We want to locate those
papers, and if possible get possession of them.”
“How far am I warranted in going in order to get hold of them?” he
asked.
“Only to locate them and report to me. We will decide then on the safe
course.” It was Henry Matthewson who spoke, as always when prompt
decision was demanded.
“If they had not already been removed,” said Cranston, “Trafford and
McManus have had a chance long since to secure them. I’m like to find
them in their hands.”
“Excepting that they might not know their value,” said Charles
Matthewson.
Cranston looked at the speaker quizzically.
“I don’t know about your Mr. McManus,” he said. “He’s a lawyer. But as
to Trafford, I can answer. If he’s had his hands on those papers, he
knows their value.”
“I don’t think,” said Hunter, after the detective had received his
instructions and gone, “that my brother would quite approve time spent
in discovering Wing’s mother. He doesn’t believe that affair had
anything to do with the murder.”
“How can any sensible man?” Henry Matthewson demanded impatiently; “but
we don’t know where the enquiry is going to land us nor what help we
may want before we’re through. If the judge’s statement is true, this
woman has a high position to lose and has great influence with her
husband, who holds a strong place politically. It can’t be a matter of
much trouble to unravel that part of the affair, and it may give us
some one whom we can use advantageously in case of an emergency. It
may bring to our aid a force that naturally would be glad to crush us.
I’ll take the risk at any rate!”
“All right,” said Hunter. “I’m agreeable, though I thought it proper to
state my brother’s position.”
Cranston entered upon his work at once and with zeal. His first visit
was to Millbank and the Parlin house, where, as has been said, he
searched from top to bottom. He plied Mrs. Parlin with questions that
finally got from her the story of the package of papers, which she was
not conscious of having seen until his questions stirred her memory to
recall a picture of the room the night before the murder. Then came
out clearly and distinctly the package of papers lying on the desk.
It was, however, equally certain that they were gone, and of this he
was able to satisfy himself without letting Mrs. Parlin understand
that he attached any importance to the matter. The task was left him
of ascertaining whether Trafford or McManus had them. The episode of
the writing-pad convinced him that Trafford was the man, and that the
pad was simply a cover to the removal of the papers that were resting
on it. It was this that caused the annoyance to which Mrs. Parlin had
referred.
He went over the ground under the consciousness that eyes at least
as capable of seeing as his own had preceded him, and that there was
little chance that anything had escaped them and less chance that, if
there had, he would be able to discover it. It irritated him that men
who wanted real service should call him in at so late an hour, and then
seem to take it for granted that they had done all that was necessary.
“Oldbeg has been here a good many years,” he said carelessly to Mrs.
Parlin, who insisted on attending him in his investigation.
“He’s been with us about six years; one year before the judge died.”
“You have always found him faithful?”
“There has been nothing particular to complain of. He’s been steady and
has worked hard and usually shown good temper.”
“Usually,” Cranston repeated. “Then sometimes he hasn’t.”
“He has his off-days, the same as the rest of us; days when things
don’t go right and he gets surly. But those spells pass quickly
and he’s always sorry for them, seemingly. There aren’t any of us
smooth-feathered all the time.”
“When did he have one of these ‘off-days,’ as you call them, last?” The
tone was careless, as if Cranston did not attach much importance to the
enquiry, and yet made it, as in duty bound.
“On the Sunday before----”
“May ninth,” interrupted Cranston.
“Yes. In the afternoon he was dressed up to go visiting. Theodore sent
for him to put his driving horse into the light buggy, so he could
drive to Norridgewock. Jonathan didn’t like it and said if he couldn’t
have Sunday afternoons, he’d find some place where he could.”
“Was that all there was to it?” Cranston asked, after waiting a moment
for Mrs. Parlin to continue.
“Why, about all. It’s all too silly to repeat.”
“I’d rather judge of that,” Cranston said, more shortly perhaps than he
intended.
Mrs. Parlin grew cold and distant, with that poise of the head that, to
her friends, at least, told of offence taken.
“It was only irritation and he didn’t even mean that Theodore should
hear him, but Theodore did and answered pretty sharply and----”
“Please, what did he say?”
“That he could go any time it suited him, and that, while he intended
to give a man all the privileges he could, he intended also to have his
services when he wanted them. Jonathan said if he wanted a man to work
like a nigger, he’d better get one; and Theodore told him if he heard
another word from him, he’d discharge him on the spot.” Mrs. Parlin had
spoken formally and distantly, as if to assert the compulsion under
which she complied with his demand.
“Was that the end of it?” he asked.
“Why, of course. Neither of them meant it, and the easiest way was to
let it pass. Theodore understood that and didn’t refer to it again.
It’s sometimes the best way to get along with hasty folks.”
“But did Oldbeg forget it?” Cranston asked significantly.
“Possibly not. He knew he was wrong and it made him uneasy, but of
course, it all went when the terrible murder was discovered.”
Cranston looked at her with a puzzled expression, and then smiled as he
realised that she had not understood his question. He was glad that it
was so, and at once passed to other matters.
To Frank Hunter, however, that night he reported his conviction that
the evidence pointed more strongly to Oldbeg as the murderer than he
had supposed.
“In fact,” he said, “there’s enough to justify his arrest, and with
that I feel pretty certain he’ll break down and we’ll get the truth.”
“But the papers,” said Hunter, impatiently. “Oldbeg could have had no
knowledge of them, but they’re what we’re first of all interested in.”
“Oh, as for them, Trafford’s got them beyond doubt. They were last
seen on the writing-pad, and he made quite a show of taking that. It
was nothing but a cover for the papers, of course. You’ve got to open
negotiations with him for their purchase, but you can’t do that so long
as he thinks they may have something to do with the murder. When the
question of the murder’s out of the way, then the papers ’ll simply be
papers and you can make quick work of ’em: another reason why you ought
to arrest Oldbeg and get that settled.”
“But my brother’s positive Oldbeg had nothing to do with the murder,
and whatever his interest may be, he’s not going to let an innocent
man suffer an unjust arrest. I’m confident, unless you can give him
positive proofs in the matter, he’ll not allow it to be done.”
“Well,” said the man sulkily, “I’m in your employ and shall obey
orders, but if I was working on the case as a public matter, I’d have
the arrest made and made quick.”
Mr. Charles Hunter was obdurate. He declared that enough injustice had
already been done in turning public suspicion against the man without a
shred to hang it on, and he was not going to be a party to keeping it
up.
“It’ll take the man years to recover from it now,” he affirmed;
“and an arrest would down him forever. Oh, yes, I know you bring in
a motive in a petty fuss that occurred on Sunday--a thing that might
happen anywhere and to any one. A man going to see his girl gets
miffed because he has to harness a horse and is impertinent, and you
conclude that that’s reason for his shooting his employer. It’s against
all reason and common sense, and I won’t insult my intelligence by
considering it.”
“Most murders are against reason and common sense,” said the detective;
“at least, that’s my experience, and more than that, nine murders out
of ten are for absolutely trivial causes. Before you get through with
this case, you’ll see Oldbeg arrested, or I’ll miss my guess.”
“Well, I shan’t be responsible for it,” the other retorted.
Thwarted in this part of his search, Cranston turned his attention
to tracing Wing’s mother, to which both Hunter and the Matthewsons
appeared to attach considerable importance--more, in fact, than he
could find in it. Confessedly, it was a cover or subterfuge and meant
the unearthing of a secret that might ruin a woman’s good name for a
mistake made forty years before. It seemed to him a strange twist of
conscience, which revolted at the arrest of a man for a crime of which
circumstances tended to show him guilty, while it gave willing assent
to bringing to light that which might have been lived down years before
and redeemed by a clean life during more years than any of these men
had lived.
As soon, however, as he took up the matter, the spirit of the quest
possessed him, and this grew strong as the facts unearthed began to
point in a certain direction, while wonder and a low greed found seeds
in the case as it unfolded. At last, with the truth before him, he
was at the point where paths separated, with insistent necessity for
him to take one or the other. Should he go to the woman and demand
his price for silence; or should he give the sons the facts and make
them the purchasers? Whichever he decided on, he would deal honestly
as a man should, and he would not pit one against the other. Hence,
the importance of the decision, for once made it barred him from
negotiations with any one else. Preferably, he would keep the matter
a secret from the sons, save that he had a shrewd suspicion that they
were in a better position to pay the price than was the mother. On the
other hand, the mother might prove the more defiant, especially if she
credited his unwillingness to go to others. It was at best a delicate
question, but fortunately it would “keep” and be as valuable a month
hence as now. He could, therefore, wait and let development lead him in
his decision.
Then came the thought of Trafford. Trafford had, of course, followed
up this clue and, equally of course, had unearthed the facts. He,
therefore, was in the market, with the danger that he might not prove
as “honourable” as Cranston purposed being, and, therefore, might
damage the price that the latter had expected to obtain. Indeed, it
was an awkward predicament for a man who had a valuable secret to sell
and natural purchasers at hand, yet wished at the same time to shape
his course to the demands of fair dealing and honour. Still, before he
moved, it was necessary that he should ascertain, if possible, whether
Trafford had approached either of the persons interested and if so,
what he had done.
It was the day on which Trafford returned from his fruitless visit to
the logging drives. Charles Matthewson, uneasy and anxious, found his
office more conducive to nervousness than work, and finally, throwing
down his pen, had reached for his hat for a turn out of doors, when the
door opened and his mother entered.
“Why, mother,” he said, rising to meet her, and striving to stifle the
apprehension her presence brought, “this is an unusual honour. It’s
a pleasure I would not deny myself, yet I would have spared you the
trouble if you had sent for me.”
“I came to talk with you, Charles,” she said, as she took the proffered
chair by the window; “and it was better and easier to talk here than at
home.”
“It is a matter of moment, mother?” he asked anxiously.
Endowed though Charles Matthewson was with that relentless persistence,
that knows no conscience save success in the pursuit of a purpose,
which had carried the family so far, there was a gentler side to his
nature that was wanting in his younger brother. The development of
this was peculiarly in his relationship with his mother, who in turn
gave him a tenderness of affection of which few dreamed her capable. A
desire, born of all that was womanly in her masculine nature, had been
fed by this son’s love, which was in strong contrast to the awe and
deference accorded her by most of her relatives. It was no easy task
for her to turn for aid to any one, but if she was forced to do so,
it was naturally to Charles she would go. On the other hand, he knew
her well enough to know that an appeal struck its roots deep before it
could bring her to such a course.
“Is it you, Charles, who are having this woman hunted down?”
“What woman, mother?” he asked in surprise.
She seemed to find difficulty in answering; but after a struggle,
raised her head almost defiantly, and said in a hard, cold voice:
“The mother of Theodore Wing.”
His face hardened in turn to a strange resemblance to her own.
“You have nothing to do with such a woman as that, mother.”
“Every woman has to do with another who is being oppressed and wronged.
Why is the dead past of that woman to be laid bare to the world?
Are the years since her wrongdoing to count for nothing? Is this
generation, that has grown up since all this happened, to be the judge
of what she did before it was born? Is my son to be the one to allow
the wrong?”
This new phase of his mother’s character struck him strangely and not
pleasantly. She was not wont to show large sympathy with her sex,
though he would be far from accusing her of hardness or cruelty.
Still she had left with him the impression of sympathies and feelings
that were rather masculine than feminine; the impressions of one who,
accepting the task of fighting her own way in the world, felt it no
injustice or wrong to impose the same on others.
“I have no wish, mother, to hunt down this or any other woman; but a
terrible murder has been committed, a murder the more terrible because
of its motiveless and mysterious character. I have been called in as
counsel to those who are seeking to unravel this mystery and punish the
murderer, and it’s my duty to use every means to accomplish this end.”
“Then you are hunting this woman out and will expose her nakedness to
the world!” The words were a cry, that had its force even more in the
tone than in the words themselves.
“I am certainly endeavouring to discover the woman. I could do no less
under the circumstances. I think I have a fair prospect of success.”
She rose from her chair and looked at him strangely and despairingly.
Then she turned towards the door.
“I will go,” she said. “This is no place for me. I will go.”
He looked at her coldly, almost repellantly, as he said, checking her:
“Mother, what does this mean?”
No man who had once seen it, could forget the look she gave him. There
was heartbreak in it; there was more than that, there was the crushing
back of a life-long pride.
“What can it mean?” she asked.
His head fell on his breast. He had never guessed before the bitterness
that life can have, that a moment of time can bring. She never took her
eyes from his. Whatever the sentence, she would meet it as became her
past. Slowly his head came up; slowly the misery in his eyes rose to
hers. Then he came and laid his lips on her forehead and said:
“You are my mother: I shall obey your wish.”