In Which Mr. Varney Prepares a Deception
Varney’s domestic arrangements were of the simplest. Unlike the
majority of those who engage in dishonest transactions, he was frugal,
thrifty and content with little. Of what he earned, honestly or
otherwise, he saved as much as he could; and now that he was free of
the parasite who had clung to him for so long and had a future to look
forward to, he was more than ever encouraged to live providently well
within his modest means. For residence he occupied a couple of
furnished rooms in Ampthill Square, Camden Town, but he spent little
of his time in them, for he had a little studio in a quiet turning off
the High Street, which he held on lease and which contained his few
household goods and formed his actual home. Thither he usually
repaired as soon as he had breakfasted, buying a newspaper on the way
and sitting in the Windsor armchair by the gas fire—alight or not,
according to the season—to smoke his morning pipe and glance over the
news before beginning work. Following his usual custom, on a bright,
sunny morning near the end of October, he arrived at the studio with a
copy of the _Times_ under his arm, and, letting himself in with his
latch-key, laid the paper on the work-bench, hung up his hat and put a
match to the gas fire. Then, having drawn the chair up to the fire, he
drew forth his pipe and pouch and sauntered over to the bench, where
he stood, filling his pipe and gazing absently at the bench whereon
the paper lay while his thoughts travelled along a well-worn, if
somewhat vague track into a pleasant and tranquil future. Not for him
alone was that future pleasant and tranquil. It held another figure—a
sweet and gracious figure that lived in all his countless day-dreams.
She should be happy, too, freed, like himself, from that bloated
parasite who had fastened upon her. Indeed, she was free now, if only
she could be made to know it.
Again, for the thousandth time, he wondered, did she care for him? It
was impossible to guess. She seemed always pleased to see him; she was
warmly appreciative of his attentiveness and his efforts to help her,
and her manner towards him was cordial and friendly. There was no
doubt that she liked him; and what more could he ask until such time
as the veil should be lifted and her freedom revealed to her? For
Maggie Purcell was not only a pure-minded and innocent woman; she was
the very soul of loyalty, even to the surly brute who had intruded
unbidden into her life. And for this Varney loved her the more. But it
left his question unanswered and unanswerable. For while her husband
lived—in her belief—no thought of love for any other could be
consciously admitted to that loyal heart.
He had filled his pipe, had taken a match-box from his pocket and was
in the act of striking a match when, in an instant, his movement was
arrested and he stood rigid and still with the match poised in his
hand and his eyes fixed on the newspaper. But no longer absently; for
his wandering glance, travelling unheedingly over the printed page,
had lighted by chance upon the name Purcell, printed in small
capitals. For a few moments he stood with his eyes riveted on the
familiar name; then he picked up the paper and read eagerly.
It was an advertisement in the “Personal” column and read thus:
“_Purcell, (D)_ is requested to communicate at once with Mr. J.
Penfield, who has important information to impart to him _in re_
Catford, deceased. The matter is urgent as the will has been proved
and must now be administered.”
Varney read the advertisement through twice, and as he read it he
smiled grimly, not, however, without a certain vague discomfort. There
was nothing in the paragraph which affected him, but yet he found it,
in some indefinable way, disquieting. And the more he reflected on the
matter the more disturbing did it appear. Confound Purcell! The fellow
was dead, and there was an end of it; at least that was what he had
intended and what he wished. But it seemed that it was not the end of
it. Ever since that tragic voyage when he had boldly cut the Gordian
knot of his entanglements, Purcell had continued to reappear in one
way or another, still, as ever, seeming to dominate his life. From his
unknown and unsuspected grave, fathoms deep in the ocean, mysterious
and disturbing influences seemed to issue as though, even in death,
his malice was still active. When would it be possible to shake him
off for good?
Varney laid down the paper, and, flinging himself into the chair, set
himself to consider the bearings of this new incident. How did it
affect him? At the first glance it appeared not to affect him at all.
Penfield would get no reply and after one or two more trials he would
have to give it up. That was all. The affair was no concern of his.
But was that all? And was it no concern of his? Reflection did not by
any means confirm these assumptions. Varney knew little about the law
but he realized that a will which had been proved was a thing that had
to be dealt with in some conclusive manner. When Penfield failed to
get into touch with Purcell, what would he do? The matter, as he had
said, was urgent. Something would have to be done. Quite probably
Penfield would set some inquiries on foot. He would learn from Maggie,
if he did not already know, of Purcell’s supposed visit to Falmouth
and the mythical voyage to Ipswich. Supposing he followed up those
false tracks systematically? That might lead to complications. Those
inventions had been improvised rather hastily, principally for
Maggie’s benefit. They might not bear such investigation as a lawyer
might bring to bear on them. There was the ship, for instance. It
would be possible to ascertain definitely what passengers she carried
from Falmouth. And when it became certain that Purcell was not one of
them, at the best, the inquiry would draw a blank; at the worst there
might be some suspicion of a fabrication of evidence on his part. In
any case the inquiry would be brought back to Penzance.
That would not do at all. Inquiries must be kept away from Penzance.
He was the only witness of that mythical landing on the pier and
hitherto no one had thought of questioning his testimony. He believed
that his own arrival on the pier had been unnoticed. But who could
say? A vessel entering a harbour is always an object of interest to
every nautical eye that beholds her. Who could say that some unseen
watcher had not observed the yacht’s arrival and noted that she was
worked single-handed and that one man only had gone ashore? It was
quite possible, though he had seen no such watcher; and the risk was
too great to be thought of. At all costs, the inquiry must be kept
away from Penzance.
How was that to be managed? The obvious way was to fabricate some sort
of reply to the advertisement purporting to come from Purcell; a
telegram, for instance, from France or Belgium, or even from some
place in the Eastern Counties. The former was hardly possible,
however. He could not afford the time or expense of a journey abroad,
and, moreover, his absence from England would be known and its
coincidence with the arrival of the telegram might easily be noticed.
Coincidences of that kind were much better avoided.
On reflection, the telegram did not commend itself. Penfield would
naturally ask himself “Why a telegram when a letter would have been
equally safe and so much more efficient?” For both would reveal,
approximately, the whereabouts of the sender. No, a telegram would not
answer the purpose. It would not be quite safe; for telegrams, like
typewritten letters, are always open to suspicion as to their
genuineness. Such suspicions may lead to inquiries at the telegraph
office. On the other hand, a letter, if it could be properly managed,
would have quite the contrary effect. It would be accepted as
convincing evidence, not only of the existence of the writer but of
his whereabouts at the time of writing—if only it could be properly
managed. But could it be?
He struck a match and lit his pipe—to little purpose, for it went out
and was forgotten in the course of a minute. Could he produce a letter
from Purcell? A practicable letter which would pass without suspicion
the scrutiny, not only of Penfield himself, who was familiar with
Purcell’s handwriting, but also of Maggie, to whom it would almost
certainly be shown. It was a serious question, and he gave it very
serious consideration, balancing the chances of detection against the
chances of success and especially dwelling upon the improbability of
any question arising as to its authenticity.
Now Varney was endowed in a remarkable degree with the dangerous gift
of imitating handwriting; indeed it was this gift, and its untimely
exercise, that had been the cause of all his troubles. And the natural
facility in this respect had been reinforced by the steadiness of hand
and perfect control of line that had come from his years of practice
as a copperplate engraver. In that craft his work had largely
consisted of minute and accurate imitation of writing and other linear
forms and he was now capable of reproducing his “copy” with
microscopic precision and fidelity. Reflecting on this, and further,
that he was in possession of Purcell’s own fountain pen with its
distinctive ink, he decided confidently that he could produce a letter
which would not merely pass muster but would even defy critical
examination—to which it was not likely to be subjected.
Having decided that the letter could be produced, the next question
was that of ways and means. It would have been best for it to be sent
from some place abroad, but that could not very well be managed.
However, it would answer quite well if it could be sent from one of
the towns or villages of East Anglia; in fact that would perhaps be
the best plan as it would tend to confirm the Falmouth and Ipswich
stories and be, in its turn, supported by them. But there was the
problem of getting the letter posted. That would involve a journey
down to Suffolk or Norfolk, and to this there were several objections.
In the first place he could ill spare the time, for he had a good deal
of work on hand; he had an engagement with a dealer on the present
evening, he had to arrange about an exhibition on the following day
and in the evening he was to dine with Maggie and Phillip Rodney. None
of these engagements, but especially the last, was he willing to
cancel; and yet, if the letter was to be sent, there ought not to be
much delay. But the most serious objection was the one that had
occurred to him in relation to the telegram. His absence from town
would probably be known and he might even be seen, either at his East
Anglian destination or on his way thither or returning and the
coincidence of those movements with the arrival of the letter could
hardly fail to be noticed. Indeed, if he were seen in the locality
from whence the letter came, or going or returning, that would be a
perilously striking coincidence.
What, then, was the alternative? He reflected awhile; and presently he
had an idea. How would it answer if he should not post the letter at
all, but simply drop it into Penfield’s letter-box? There was
something to be said for that. It would go to prove that Purcell must
be lurking somewhere in London; not an unlikely thing in itself, for
London is so large that it is hardly a locality at all, and it is
admittedly one of the safest of hiding-places. But, for that matter,
why not post the letter, say in Limehouse or Ratcliff and thus suggest
a lurking-place in the squalid and nautical east? That did not seem a
bad idea. But still his preference leaned towards the Eastern
Counties; somewhere in the neighbourhood of Ipswich, which would give
consistency to the account of the voyage from Falmouth. It was
something of a dilemma and he turned over the alternative plans for
some time without coming to any conclusion.
As he sat thus meditating, his eye roamed idly about the bare but
homely studio; and presently it encountered an object that started a
new and interesting train of thought. Pushed away in a corner was a
small lithographic press, now mostly disused; for the little
“auto-lithographs” that he used to produce had ceased to be profitable
now that there was a fair demand for his etchings and mezzotints. But
the press was in going order and he was a moderately expert
lithographer; quite expert enough to produce a perfectly convincing
post-mark on a forged letter, especially if that post-mark were
carefully indented after printing, to disguise the process by which it
had been produced.
It was a brilliant idea. In his pleased excitement he started up from
his chair and began rapidly to pace up and down the studio. A most
admirable plan! For it not only disposed of all the difficulties but
actually turned them into advantages. He would get the letter
prepared; he would keep his engagement with Maggie; then, after
leaving her, he would make his way to George Yard and there drop the
letter into Penfield’s letter-box. It would be found on the following
morning and would appear to have been posted the previous evening and
delivered by the first post. He would actually be present in Maggie’s
flat at the very moment when the letter was (apparently) being posted
in Suffolk. A most excellent scheme!
Chuckling with satisfaction, he set himself forthwith to carry it out.
The means and appliances were in a cupboard that filled a recess; just
a plain wall-cupboard, but fitted with a chub lock of the highest
class. Unlocking this he cast his eye over the orderly shelves. Here,
standing upright in an empty ink-bottle, was the thick-barrelled
fountain pen that had once been Purcell’s. Varney took out the pen in
its container and stood it on the table. Next from the back of the
cupboard he reached out an expanding letter file, and, opening it,
took from the compartment marked “P” a small bundle of letters
docketed “Purcell” which he also laid on the table. They were all
harmless, unimportant letters (saved for that very reason), and if one
should have asked why Varney had kept them, the answer—applicable to
most of the other contents of the file—would have been that they had
been preserved in obedience to the forger’s instinct to keep a few
originals in stock on the chance that they might come in handy one
day.
He drew a chair up to the table and began methodically to look through
the letters, underlining with a lead pencil the words that he would
probably want to copy. In the third letter that he read he had an
unexpected stroke of luck, for it contained a reference to Mr.
Penfield, to whom some enclosed document was to be sent, and it
actually gave his full name and address. This was a windfall indeed!
As he encircled the address with a pencil mark, Varney smiled
complacently and felt that Fortune was backing him up handsomely.
Having secured the “copy” for the handwriting, the next thing was to
get the post-mark drawn and printed. The letters in the file had no
envelopes, but he had in his pocket a letter that he had received that
morning from an inn-keeper at Tenterden, to whom he had written for
particulars as to accommodation. It was probably a typical country
letter and its post-mark would serve as well as any other. He took it
from his pocket and laying it on a small drawing-board, pinned a piece
of tracing-paper over it and made a very careful tracing of the
postmark. Then he drew away the letter and slipped in its place a
small piece of lithographic transfer paper with a piece of black lead
transfer paper over it and went over the tracing carefully with a hard
pencil. He now had a complete tracing of the post-mark on the
lithographic paper including the name “Tenterden” and the date and
time, which he had included to give the dimensions and style of the
lettering. But he now patiently erased them, excepting the year date,
and replaced them, in the same style and size, with the inscription,
“Woodbridge, Oct. 28, 4:30 P.M.,” drawn firmly with a rather soft
pencil.
He now fetched his lithographic ink and pens from the cupboard, and,
with the original before him, inked in the tracing, being careful to
imitate all the accidental characters of the actual post-mark such as
the unequal thickness of the lines due to the uneven pressure of the
marking-stamp. When he had finished, he turned the envelope over and
repeated the procedure with the London post-mark; only here he made an
exact facsimile excepting as to the date and time, which he altered to
Oct. 29, 11:20 P.M.
The next proceeding was to transfer the inked tracings to a
lithographic stone. He used a smallish stone, placing the two
post-marks a convenient distance apart, so that they could be printed
separately. When the transfer and the subsequent “etching” processes
were completed and the stone was ready for printing, he inked up and
took a trial proof of the two post-marks on a sheet of paper. The
result was perfectly convincing. Ridiculously so. As he held the paper
in his hand and looked at those absurd post-marks, he chuckled aloud.
With a little ingenuity, how easy it was to sprinkle salt on the
forensic tail of the inscrutable Penfield! He was disposed to linger
and picture to himself the probable proceedings of that astute
gentleman when he received the letter. But there was a good deal to do
yet and he must not waste time. There was the problem of printing the
Woodbridge post-mark fairly on the stamp; and then there was the
addressing and writing of the letter.
The first problem he solved by tracing the outline of an envelope on
the sheet that he had printed, with the post-mark in the correct place
for the stamp; cutting this piece out and using it to make register
marks on the stone. Then he affixed a stamp exactly to the correct
spot on the envelope, inked up the stone, laid the envelope against
the register marks and passed the stone under the roller. When he
picked up the envelope, the stamp bore the Woodbridge post-mark with
just that slight inaccuracy of imposition that made it perfectly
convincing. The London post-mark presented no difficulty as it did not
matter to half an inch where it was placed. Another inking-up and
another turn of the crank-handle and the envelope was ready for the
penmanship.
Although Varney was so expert a copyist he decided to take no
unnecessary risks. Accordingly he made a careful tracing of Penfield’s
name and address from the original letter and transferred this in
black lead to the envelope. Then, with Purcell’s pen, charged with its
special black ink, and with the original before him, he inked in the
tracing with a free and steady hand and quickly enough to avoid any
tell-tale wavering or tremor of the line. It was certainly a masterly
performance, and when it was done, it would have puzzled a much
greater expert than Penfield to distinguish between the copy and the
original.
Varney regarded it with deep satisfaction. He was about to put it
aside to dry, before he should rub out the tracing-marks, when it
occurred to him that Purcell would almost certainly have marked it
“confidential” or “personal.” It was, in fact, rather desirable that
this missive should be opened by Penfield himself. The fewer hands it
passed through the better; and then, of course, it was not worth while
to let any of the clerks into the secret of Purcell’s disappearance.
Accordingly, with the original letter still before him, he wrote at
the top of the envelope, in bold and rather large characters, the word
“Personal.” That ought to make it safe.
He put the envelope aside and began to think out the text of the
letter that he was going to write. As he did so, his eye rested
gloatingly on the work that he had done, and done to such a perfect
finish. It was really a masterpiece of deception. Even a Post Office
sorter would have been taken in by it. He took it up and again
regarded it admiringly. Then he began to consider whether
“Confidential” would not have been better than “Personal.” It was
certainly most desirable that this letter should not be opened even by
the chief clerk; for it would let the cat out of the bag rather
completely. He held the envelope irresolutely for a full minute,
turning the question over. Finally he picked up the pen, and, laying
the envelope before him, turned the full stop into an “and” and
followed this with the word “Confidential.” There was not as much
space as he would have liked, and in his anxiety to preserve the
character of the handwriting while compressing the letters the tail of
the final l strayed on to the edge of the stamp, which to his critical
eye looked, a little untidy; but that was of no consequence, in fact
it was rather an additional realistic touch.
He now set to work upon the letter itself. It was to be but a short
letter and it took him only a few minutes to draft out the matter in
pencil. Then, spreading Purcell’s letter before him, he studied it
word by word and letter by letter. When he had got the character of
the writing well into his mind, he took a sheet of note-paper, and,
with a well-sharpened H pencil, made a very careful copy of his draft,
constantly referring to Purcell’s original and even making tracings of
important words and of the signature. Having compared the lightly
pencilled copy with Purcell’s letter and made one or two corrections,
he picked up the pen and traced over the pencil writing with the
sureness and steadiness that his training as an engraver made
possible.
The letter being finished with a perfect facsimile of the signature,
he made a final comparison of the handwriting with Purcell’s, and,
finding it beyond criticism, read through the letter again,
speculating on Mr. Penfield’s probable proceedings when he received
it. The text of the letter ran thus:
“Dear Mr. Penfield:
“I have just seen your advertisement in _The Times_ and am writing
to let you know that circumstances render it impossible for me to
call on you, and for the same reason I am unable to give you my
present address. If there is anything connected with the Catford
business that you wish me to know, perhaps you could put it briefly
in another advertisement to which I could reply if necessary. Sorry
to give you this trouble.
“Yours sincerely,
“Daniel Purcell.”
Laying down the letter Varney once more turned to the envelope. First,
with a piece of artist’s soft rubber he removed the pencil marks of
the tracing. Then, placing the envelope on a sheet of blotting paper,
he carefully traced over the post-marks with an agate tracing-style,
following the two concentric circles of each with their enclosed
letters and figures with minute accuracy and pressing somewhat firmly.
The result was that each of the two post-marks was visibly indented,
as if made by a sharply-struck marking-stamp. It only remained to
erase the pencil marks from the letter, to place it in the envelope
and close the latter; and, when this was done, Varney rose and having
once more lit his pipe, began to replace the materials in the
cupboard, where also he bestowed the letter for the present.
He was in the act of closing the cupboard door when his glance fell on
a small deed-box on the top shelf. He looked at it thoughtfully for a
few moments, then lifted it down, placed it on the table and unlocked
it. The contents were three paper packets, each sealed with his
ring-seal, He broke the seals of all three and opened the packets. Two
of them contained engraved copper plates, of a twenty-pound and a
five-pound note respectively. The third packet contained a sheaf of
paper blanks. Varney took out the latter and counted them, holding
each one up to the light to examine the water-mark. There were twelve
of them, all five-pound notes. He laid them down and cogitated
profoundly; and unconsciously his eyes turned to the etching press at
the end of the bench. A few minutes’ work, a smear of ink and a turn
of the press, would convert those blanks into actual notes, so good
that they could be passed with perfect safety. Twelve fives; sixty
pounds—it was handsome pay for half an hour’s work; and five-pound
notes were so easy to get rid of.
It was a severe temptation to a comparatively poor man whose ethical
standards were none of the highest. Prosperous as he now thought
himself, with the growing demand for his etchings, sixty pounds
represented the product of nearly two months’ legitimate work. It was
a great temptation. There were the blanks, all ready for the magic
change. It seemed a pity to waste them. There were only a dozen, and,
there would be no more. This would really be the end of the lay. After
this he could go straight and live a perfectly reputable life.
The gambler’s lure, the attraction of easily-won wealth, was beginning
to take effect. He had actually picked up the five-pound plate and was
moving towards the bench when something in his mind brought him
suddenly to a stop. In that moment there had risen before his mental
vision the sweet and gracious figure of Margaret Purcell. Instantly
his feelings underwent a revulsion. That which, but a minute ago, had
seemed natural and reasonable now looked unspeakably sordid and base.
No compulsion now urged him on unwillingly to crime. It would be his
own choice—the choice of mere greed. Was it for this that he had set
her and himself free? Could he stand in her presence and cherish
thoughts of honourable love with this mean crime—committed of his own
free will—on his conscience? Assuredly not. The very corpse of Purcell
cried out from its dark tomb beneath the Wolf on this voluntary
resumption of the chains which he had broken at the cost of murder.
Once more he turned towards the bench, but now with a different
purpose. Hurriedly, as if fearful of another backsliding, he caught up
a large graver and drove its point across the plate from corner to
corner, ploughing up the copper in a deep score. That finished the
matter. Never again could that plate be printed from. But he did not
leave it at that. With a shaving scraper he pared off the surface of
the plate until the engraving on it was totally obliterated. He
fetched the other plate and treated it in a similar manner. Then he
flung both plates into a porcelain dish and filled it with strong
nitric acid mordant. Finally, as the malodorous, red fumes began to
rise from the dish, he took up the sheaf of blanks and held them in
the flame of the gas stove. When the last blackened fragments had
fallen to the earth, he drew a deep breath. Now at last he was free.
Really free. Free even from the peril of his own weakness.
His labours had consumed the best part of the morning, but in any case
he was in no mood for his ordinary work. Opening the window a little
wider to let the fumes escape, he took his hat from the peg and went
forth, turning his steps in the direction of Regent’s Park.