THE PUZZLE WHICH DONALD LINDSAY LEFT
BEHIND HIM
Donald Lindsay was buried on a glorious afternoon, when all the world
seemed at its best and brightest. Carriages from all parts of the
district represented their absent owners, but only four mourners were
actually present. Nora and Elaine stood together on one side of the
grave, confronting Dr. Banyard and Mr. Nash. Afterwards the four were
again together in the room at Cloverlea which Nora regarded as in an
especial sense her own. The blinds at last were drawn; the windows
stood wide open; the April sun, warm enough for June, came streaming
in, but it brought no brightness to those within. Each of the
quartette seemed to be singularly ill at ease. It was not strange that
such should have been the case with Nora; it was her hour of trial.
But why Elaine Harding should have been unlike her usual self was not
so obvious. An impartial observer, knowing her well, would have said
that she had never appeared to such little advantage. Black never
became her; either because she was physically unwell, or for some more
obscure reason, that afternoon, in her mourning, she looked almost
hideous. Had she been at liberty to choose, she would have been
present neither at the funeral nor afterwards in Nora's room; but she
had not seen her way to refuse compliance with Nora's positive
request. Since Mr. Nash had told her of his, and Dr. Banyard's,
failure to find among the dead man's papers anything to show that he
had left any real provision for his daughter at all, she had been
living in what seemed to her to be a continual nightmare. Day
and night she was haunted by the three thousand one hundred and
twenty-seven pounds which she had regarded as treasure-trove. Had
she not taken it for granted that Nora would be a rich woman she would
not have touched a farthing; of that she was certain. It was the
conviction that such a sum would mean nothing to Nora which had been
the irresistible temptation. Had it been in her power she would have
replaced the money even then, and would have been only too glad to do
it, though it left her penniless. But she had learnt what has to be
learnt by all of us, how much easier it is to do than to undo. Any
attempt in the direction of restitution would mean not only exposure,
but ruin. Herbert Nash had to be considered. He had had two hundred
pounds of the money; what he had done with it he alone knew. Then he
had swallowed the tale of her aunt's legacy; she was perfectly well
aware that if it had not been for that supposititious two thousand
pounds she would never have been his promised wife. Was she to tell
him now that she had lied? What explanation was she to offer him if
she did? Would he not be entitled to regard her as some unspeakable
thing? She did not doubt that his love would turn to scorn; that he
would cast her from him with loathing and disgust.
No; anything rather than that; for she loved him.
On the other hand, if it was true that Nora had been left a pauper?
and she had robbed her of her all! Would that fact not be shouted at
her from out of the flaming sky for ever and for aye? would not the
face of God be turned from her through all eternity? And how often,
and how fervently, she had prayed that God might guide and bless her.
She dared not think of the punishment which must inevitably crown so
great a sin. She racked her brain to find some way out of the peril
which threatened her on every hand; if only she could light on some
plausible compromise. And at last she thought--she hoped--that she had
discovered something which would relieve the situation at the point of
its greatest strain. Three thousand one hundred and twenty-seven
pounds she had--found; she had told Mr. Nash that her aunt had left
two thousand. Her idea had been that she would have a good, round sum
in hand, unknown to him, which, in case of need, would be of service
in a tight place. What was to prevent her, should the tale of Nora's
impoverishment turn out to be correct, disclosing the existence of
that balance of over a thousand pounds; her fertile brain would easily
invent some reasonable explanation; though that tale of the legacy
would not do for Nora, who knew too much of her family affairs. Then
she might insist on Nora accepting it as--what should she call it? a
gift? a loan? It did not matter what she called it so long as Nora
took the money; and she would have to take it. In that case Nora would
regard her as her benefactor, instead of--what she was.
It is wonderful with what ointments we try to salve our consciences.
At intervals Elaine was almost pleased with herself as she thought of
how, if the worst came to the worst, she was going to present Nora
with more than a thousand pounds. Yet that afternoon, in that pleasant
room, in which she and her friend had spent so many happy hours, she
was as one who knew not peace.
Nor did it seem to be peace with Mr. Nash. If one might judge from his
physiognomy he did not appear to be at all inclined to congratulate
himself on the position which it seemed likely he would occupy, of
administrator of the dead man's estate. Such a position would mean
something for him, if it meant nothing for anybody else; in such a
case a lawyer always esteems himself worthy of his hire; and he sees
that he gets it. Yet he looked as if he would have preferred to have
been almost anywhere else rather than where he was.
The same remark applied to Dr. Banyard; though even a superficial
observer might have guessed that the two men were troubled because of
different things. A keen judge of human nature might have perceived
that the doctor was troubled because of Nora; Herbert Nash because of
himself.
The order of the proceedings was singular; it required pressure to
induce Nora to sit down.
"I would much rather stand," she said. "I don't know what you have to
say to me; but I hope that, whatever it is, it won't take long; I feel
as if I can't sit; I would much sooner listen standing if you don't
mind."
But the doctor did mind; he would not have it; he made her sit. Then
nothing would satisfy her but that Elaine should sit by her; which was
agony to Miss Harding, who was in the condition which is known as
being all over pins and needles; it would have been a relief to have
been able to scream.
"Now, Nash," inquired the doctor, when the two young women, looking,
in their several ways, pictures of misery, were seated on adjacent
chairs, "where are those papers? Let's get to business; and be as
brief and as clear as you can."
Nash, with what was almost a hang-dog air, took some papers out of a
black leather bag. Untying the tape which bound them together he
began. His tale was neither very brief nor very clear; though his
meaning was plain enough when it was ended. The dead man had left
everything to his daughter; but he had nothing to leave; that was what
it came to. There was less than a hundred pounds at the bank; and
there was Cloverlea and the contents of the house. On the debit side
there were debts amounting, so far as could be ascertained, to several
thousand pounds; claims had come in from wholly unexpected quarters
for large sums. If they had to be paid at once that would involve a
forced sale of Cloverlea, and that would probably mean that very
little would be left for Nora.
The faces of the two girls, as this state of affairs was being
unfolded, were studies. On Miss Harding's face there came, by degrees,
an expression of actual agony, as if her lover was playing the part of
a torturer, whose every word was a fresh turn of the rack, or of the
thumbscrew. Nora's face, on the other hand, as she began to perceive
the point at which Mr. Nash was aiming, suggested anger rather than
pain; the same suggestion was in her voice, as she addressed a
question to him, so soon as he showed signs of having finished.
"Do you wish me to understand that my father has left no money?"
Mr. Nash looked down, as if unwilling to meet her eyes.
"Neither Dr. Banyard nor I have been able to find anything which
points to money, I am sorry to say."
"You needn't be sorry." She turned to Dr. Banyard; with, as she did
so, something in her manner which was hardly flattering to Mr. Nash.
"If my father has left no money on what have we been living? Does Mr.
Nash mean that my father spent all his money before he died? because,
if he does, I tell him, quite plainly, that I don't believe it."
The doctor got up. It was a peculiarity of his that, while he was
always anxious that others should sit still, he never could do so
himself when he was moved. Thrusting his hands into his trousers
pockets he began to fidget about the room.
"That's the point," he exclaimed. "It's a pity, my dear Miss Lindsay,
that your father didn't take you more into his confidence."
"He was entitled to do as he pleased."
"Precisely! and he did as he pleased! and this is the result! that you
know nothing; that we know nothing; and, apparently, that we can find
out nothing. We have been in communication with his London club; they
tell us that he was an occasional attendant; that, so far as they
know, this was his only address; that sometimes, but not often,
letters came for him; but there are none awaiting him at present; they
can give us no further information, and we have not the dimmest notion
who can. Let me add a sort of postscript to what Mr. Nash has told
you, which will shed another sidelight on the position. It is now
about five years since your father bought Cloverlea. Ever since he
bought it he has paid three thousand pounds into the local bank four
times each year, always in notes and gold, which, as you are possibly
aware, is not a form in which such payments are usually made. His next
payment, if he intended to follow his usual rule, was due last week,
to be exact, last Friday; for four years in succession he has paid in
three thousand pounds, in notes and gold, on the first Friday in
April. He was taken ill, as you know, on Thursday; if he had intended
to make his usual payment on the following day the money would have
been in his possession; we should have found it; we have found
nothing."
Although no one seemed to notice it, Miss Harding looked as if she
were trembling on the verge of a serious attack of illness. Her face
was white and drawn, her eyes were half closed, her mouth was tightly
shut, her hand was pressed against her side, as if compelled to that
position by sudden pain. The doctor, oblivious of the fact that it
looked as if his services would presently be required, went
remorselessly on.
"The only possible alternative is that the money was stolen, and that
after he was taken ill; you know what likelihood there is of that. But
in order to leave no room for doubt we have questioned every one
connected with the household; I am bound to say that we have
discovered nothing in the least suspicious."
"Of course not; I wish I had known what you were doing, I would have
stopped it. The idea of supposing that any one here would rob me;
there is not a creature about the place I would not trust with my
life."
This was Nora; her words were like poisoned darts to at least one of
her hearers. The doctor continued.
"Just so; but allow me to point out, Miss Lindsay, the inference which
may be drawn from what we have been able to learn of your father's
methods. He has paid twelve thousand pounds a year into the local
bank, invariably in notes and gold, never a cheque among the lot; does
not this suggest that he wished to conceal, even from his bankers, the
source from which the money came?"
"I don't see why you say that."
"If their ledgers contained the record of his having paid in even so
much as a single cheque we might have been able to trace the history
of that cheque, and in so doing might have lighted upon something
which would have served as the key to the whole puzzle; if, that is,
we could discover some one who ever paid him anything we might find
out why he paid, and so might chance upon a clue which in the end
might show us where his income came from. As it is we have nothing to
go upon; and I can't help thinking that he meant his bankers should
have nothing to go upon; whether he intended that you should be in the
same position is another question. The consequence is, as matters
stand, I am bound to say so, my dear Miss Nora, it is no use blinking
the truth----"
"Please tell me what you believe to be the truth; pray don't what you
call blink it."
"It is a perfectly fair deduction to draw that he had come to the end
of his resources, whatever they may have been; quite conceivably the
immediate cause of his illness was the consciousness that it was so; I
am free to confess that, in this connection, the absence of the three
thousand pounds, his usual quarterly payment into the bank, and,
indeed, of any cash, is significant. I can only hope, Miss Nora, that
you know something which will place the matter in quite a different
aspect."
When the doctor ceased there was silence. Mr. Nash, fidgeting with his
papers, seemed disposed to let his eyes rest anywhere rather than on
the faces of his companions. Miss Harding, judging from her
appearance, continually hovered on the verge of collapse; that no one
noticed her condition showed how the others were preoccupied. Of the
four Nora still bore herself as the one who was most at ease. She sat
up straight; well back on her chair; her hands lying idle on her lap;
a look upon her face which suggested an assurance which nothing they
might say to her could touch; when she spoke she held her head a
little back, with, in her wide-open eyes, what was almost the glint of
a smile.
"I don't know what you call knowledge. I can only say that I am sure
that you have not yet got to the root of the matter; that there is
still something to be explained; because I am convinced that my father
has left behind him a great deal of money."
"It is more than probable you are right; nothing will surprise me more
than to learn that he hasn't; all that is wanted is a clue. Tell us on
what you found your conviction."
"It is not altogether easy, but I'll try." The faintest touch of
colour tinged her cheeks. "You know I am engaged to be married. My
father, in congratulating me, said that the fact that Mr. Spencer had
no money wouldn't matter, because I should have enough for both. I am
sure he would not have said that had it not been true; I know my
father."
"In other words, he practically told you that, after he was gone, he
would leave you well provided for."
"That was what it amounted to, yes."
"He said nothing about the quarter from which the provision was to
come?"
"He said nothing except what I have told you; but, for me, that is
enough."
"No doubt, Miss Nora, but what we want is something which will tell us
where the money which he spoke of is to be found."
"It will be found."
"Where? how? when? These questions must be answered."
"They will be answered, in God's good time."
The doctor gave an impatient gesture.
"I wish to say nothing in the least impious; but if it is to be in
good time the answer must come now; before Cloverlea is sold, and you
are homeless."
"Cloverlea--sold?" The notion seemed to startle her. "Who talks of
selling Cloverlea?"
"My dear young lady, here's a creditor for over four thousand pounds,
who writes to say that if his claim is not settled at once proceedings
will immediately be taken against your father's estate----"
"Four thousand pounds! To whom did my father owe four thousand
pounds?"
"That's the worst of it; it's a money-lender."
"A money-lender?"
"The fellow holds your father's paper--promissory notes--to the amount
of nearly four thousand five hundred pounds, which is now overdue; and
he says he has other paper, which will mature shortly, to the extent
of another five thousand pounds. And he is not the only one; claims
have been raining in from similar gentry. It actually appears that
your father owed them at least thirty thousand pounds."
"I don't believe it."
The doctor shrugged his shoulders.
"I found it hard to credit; but--there are the bills, accepted by your
father; what do you suggest? that they are forgeries?"
"At present I suggest nothing; what can I suggest? But I do not
believe that my father ever borrowed money from a usurer."
"I am afraid that this is not a matter with which we can deal as a
question of belief; do you propose to contest these claims? If so,
notice must be given at once; you must clearly understand what that
would mean; you would have to prove that the signatures upon these
bills, which purport to be your father's, are forgeries; I don't know
in which event the consequences would be more serious, if you proved
it or if you failed to prove it."
"How do the people who hold these bills pretend they got them?"
"Guldenheim, who is the chief holder, is, in his way, a perfectly
respectable man, and enormously rich. I called on him yesterday to put
that question. He looked me up and down; and then observed that if
payment was not made this week he should commence proceedings, when he
would supply the Court with all the necessary information; then he
asked his clerk to show me to the door. I am afraid there was
something in the manner in which I asked the question which he
resented, and perhaps was entitled to resent."
"What will be the result if he does take proceedings?"
"Probably in a short time you'll have the sheriff's officers in the
house, and, perhaps before you've had time to turn round, you'll be
left without a roof to cover you. Whatever happens we must avoid
that."
"How are we going to avoid it? How are we going to find money with
which to pay these men?"
"My proposal is that the creditors should be called together all of
them; we will explain to them exactly how matters stand; and then I
think, for their own sakes, they will join with us in making the best
of what your father has left."
"As you say that Cloverlea is all that my father has left I presume
that means that, in any case, Cloverlea will have to be sold, that we,
my home and I, are at the mercy of a gang of usurers."
"I am afraid I don't see what else is to be done."
"Thank you; that is all I wish to know." She stood up, very erect; on
her face there was still no sign of bitterness, only a quiet calmness,
which was in strange contrast with the conspicuous lack of ease which
marked the bearing of the others. "Do not suppose," she said, in a
voice which was very soft and gentle, "that I am not grateful to you
both for all that you have done for me. I had thought it possible, Mr.
Nash, that the share you were taking in straightening out my small
affairs might be of permanent use to you; I hoped you would allow me
to retain you as my lawyer; but it seems that's not to be, that I'm
not likely to want a lawyer very long. I'm sorry for both our sakes.
For the trouble you have taken, doctor, no words of mine can thank
you; because you--you're my very dear friend, and I fear you'll insist
on making my sorrows your own, and--and that mustn't be." She stopped,
as if, for the moment, she was unable to continue; and then added,
"I'll think over all that you have said."
Without another word she left the room. The trio neither moved nor
spoke some seconds after she had gone. Then Elaine Harding started to
her feet with what sounded like a sob of passion.
"It's cruel!" she cried. "Cruel! I don't believe it's so bad as you
make it out to be, I won't believe it! If Mr. Lindsay were still alive
you wouldn't accuse him of the dreadful things you now pretend he's
done, you wouldn't dare to do it!"
She rushed away in what seemed an agony of tears. The doctor stared at
the door through which she had vanished; then he turned and stared at
Nash; then he laughed queerly.
"Well! who'd have thought she'd such a temper! I like her better for
it, the little whirlwind! She might as well have accused us of
conspiracy to defraud Miss Lindsay; what do you think of that?"
"Women," observed Mr. Nash, with downcast eyes, and a wry smile, "are
capable of anything."