In Which Varney Has an Inspiration
The adjournment to the drawing-room was the signal for Varney to fetch
his portfolio and exhibit his little collection, which he did with a
frank interest and pleasure in his works that was yet entirely free
from any appearance of vanity. Thorndyke examined the proofs with a
curiosity that was not wholly artistic. Varney interested him
profoundly. There was about him a certain reminiscence of Benvenuto
Cellini, a combination of the thoroughgoing rascal with the sincere
and enthusiastic artist. But Thorndyke could not make up his mind how
close the parallel was. From Cellini’s grossness Varney appeared to be
free; but how about the other vices. Had Varney been forced into
wrongdoing by the pressure of circumstances on a weak will? Or was he
a criminal by choice and temperament? That was what Thorndyke could
not decide.
An artist’s work may show only one side of his character, but it shows
that truthfully and unmistakably. A glance through Varney’s works made
it clear that he was an artist of no mean talent. There was not only
skill, which Thorndyke had looked for, but a vein of poetry which he
noted with appreciation and almost with regret.
“You don’t seem to value your aquatints,” he said, “but I find them
very charming. This sea-scape with the fleet of luggers half hidden in
the mist and the lighthouse peeping over the top of the fog-bank, is
really wonderful. You couldn’t have done that with the point.”
“No,” Varney agreed; “every process has its powers and its
limitations.”
“The lighthouse, I suppose, is no lighthouse in particular?”
“Well, no; but I had the Wolf in my mind when I planned this plate. As
a matter of fact, I saw a scene very like this when I was sailing
round with Purcell to Penzance the day he vanished. The lighthouse
looked awfully ghostly with its head out of the fog and its body
invisible.”
“Wasn’t that the time you had to climb up the mast?” asked Margaret.
“Yes; when the jib halyard parted and the jib went overboard. It was
rather a thrilling experience, for the yacht was out of control for
the moment and the Wolf rock was close under our lee. Dan angled for
sail while I went aloft.”
Thorndyke looked thoughtfully at the little picture and Varney watched
him with outward unconcern but with secret amusement and a sort of
elfish mischief.
And again he was conscious of a sense of power, of omniscience. Here
was this learned, acute lawyer and scientist looking in all innocence
at the very scene on which he, Varney, had looked as he was washing
the stain of Purcell’s blood from the sail. Little did he dream of the
event which this aquatint commemorated! For all his learning and his
acuteness, he, Varney, held him in the hollow of his hand.
To Thorndyke, the state of mind revealed by this picture was as
surprising as it was illuminating. This was, in effect, a souvenir of
that mysterious and tragic voyage. Whatever had happened on that
voyage was clearly the occasion of no remorse. There was no shrinking
from the memory of that day, but rather evidence that it was recalled
with a certain satisfaction. In that there seemed a most singular
callousness. But what did that callous indifference, or even
satisfaction, suggest? A man who had made away with a friend with the
express purpose of getting possession of that friend’s wife would
surely look back on the transaction with some discomfort; indeed would
avoid looking back on it at all. Whereas one who had secured his
liberty by eliminating his oppressor could hardly be expected to feel
either remorse or regrets. It looked as if the blackmail theory were
the true one, after all.
“That will be Mr. Rodney,” Margaret said, looking expectantly at the
door.
“I didn’t hear the bell,” said Varney. Neither had Thorndyke heard it;
but he had not been listening, whereas Margaret apparently had, which
perhaps accounted for the slightly preoccupied yet attentive air that
he had noticed once or twice when he had looked at her. A few moments
later John Rodney entered the room unannounced and Margaret went
forward quickly to welcome him. And for the second time that evening,
Thorndyke found himself looking, all unsuspected, into the secret
chamber of a human heart.
As Margaret had advanced towards the door, he and Varney stood up.
They were thus both behind her when Rodney entered the room. But on
the wall by the door was a small mirror; and in this Thorndyke had
caught an instantaneous glimpse of her face as she met Rodney. That
glimpse had told him what, perhaps, she had hardly guessed herself;
but the face which appeared for a moment in the mirror and was gone
was a face transfigured. Not, indeed, with the expression of
passionate adoration that he had seen on Varney’s face. That meant
passion consciously recognized and accepted. What Thorndyke saw on
Margaret’s face was a softening, a tender, joyful welcome such as a
mother might bestow on a beloved child. It spoke of affection rather
than passion. But it was unmistakable. Margaret Purcell loved John
Rodney. Nor, so far as Thorndyke could judge, was the affection only
on one side. Rodney, facing the room, naturally made no demonstration;
but still, his greeting had in it something beyond mere cordiality.
It was an extraordinarily complex situation; and there was in it a
bitter irony such as De Maupassant would have loved. Thorndyke glanced
at Varney—from whom Margaret’s face had been hidden—with a new
interest. Here was a man who had made away with an unwanted husband,
perhaps with the sole purpose of securing the reversion of the wife!
and behold! he had only created a vacancy for another man.
“This is a great pleasure, Thorndyke,” said Rodney, shaking hands
heartily. “Quite an interesting experience, too, to see you in evening
clothes, looking almost human. I am sorry I couldn’t get here to
dinner. I should like to have seen you taking food like an ordinary
mortal.”
“You shall see him take some coffee presently,” said Margaret. “But
doesn’t Dr. Thorndyke usually look human?”
“Well,” replied Rodney, “I won’t say that there isn’t a certain
specious resemblance of a human being. But it is illusory. He is
really a sort of legal abstraction like John Doe or Richard Roe. Apart
from the practice of the law there is no such person.”
“That sounds to me like a libel,” said Margaret.
“Yes,” agreed Varney. “You’ve done it now, Rodney. It must be
actionable to brand a man as a mere hallucination. There will be wigs
on the green—barrister’s wigs—when Dr. Thorndyke begins to deal out
writs.”
“Then I shall plead justification,” said Rodney, “and I shall cite the
present instance. For what do these pretences of customary raiment and
food consumption amount to? They are mere camouflage, designed to
cover a legal inquiry into the disappearances from his usual places of
resort of one Daniel Purcell.”
“Now you are only making it worse,” said Margaret, “for you are
implicating me. You are implying that my little dinner party is
nothing more than a camouflaged legal inquisition.”
“And you are implicating me, too,” interposed Varney, “as an accessory
before, during and after the fact. You had better be careful, Rodney.
It will be a joint action, and Dr. Thorndyke will produce scientific
witnesses who will prove anything he tells them to.”
“I call this intimidation,” said Rodney. “The circumstances seem to
call for the aid of tobacco—I see that permission has been given to
smoke.”
“And perhaps a cup of coffee might help,” said Margaret, as the maid
entered with the tray.
“Yes, that will clear my brain for the consideration of my defence.
But still, I must maintain that this is essentially a legal
inquisition. We have assembled primarily to consider the position
which is created by this letter that Penfield has received.”
“Nothing of the kind,” said Margaret. “I asked you primarily that I
might enjoy the pleasure of your society and secondly that you might
enjoy the pleasure of one another’s—”
“And yours.”
“Thank you. But as to the letter, I don’t see that there is anything
to discuss. We now know where Dan is, but that doesn’t seem to alter
the situation.”
“I don’t agree with you in either respect,” said Rodney. “There seems
to me a good deal to discuss; and our knowledge as to Dan’s
whereabouts alters the situation to this extent: that we can get into
touch with him if we want to—or, at least, Dr. Thorndyke can, I
presume.”
“I am not so sure of that,” said Thorndyke. “But we could consider the
possibility if the necessity should arise. Had you anything in your
mind that would suggest such a necessity?”
“What I have in my mind,” replied Rodney, “is this; Purcell has left
his wife for reasons known only to himself. He has never sent a word
of excuse, apology or regret. Until this letter arrived, it was
possible to suppose that he might be dead, or have lost his memory, or
in some other way be incapable of communicating with his friends. Now
we know that he is alive, that he has all his faculties—except the
faculty of behaving like a decent and responsible man—and that he has
gone away and is staying away of his own free will and choice. If
there was ever any question as to his coming back, there is none now;
and if there could ever have been any excuse or extenuation of his
conduct there is now none. We see that, although he has never sent a
message of any kind to his wife, yet, when the question of a sum of
money arises, he writes to his solicitor with the greatest
promptitude. That letter is a gross and callous insult to his wife.”
Thorndyke nodded. “That seems to be a fair statement of the position,”
said he. “And I gather that you consider it possible to take some
action?”
“My position is this,” said Rodney. “Purcell has deserted his wife. He
has shaken off all his responsibilities as a husband. But he has left
her with all the responsibilities and disabilities of a wife. He has
taken to himself the privileges of a bachelor; but she remains a
married woman. That is an intolerable position. My contention is that,
since he has gone for good, the tow-rope ought to be cut. He should be
set adrift finally and completely and she should be liberated.”
“I agree with you entirely and emphatically,” said Thorndyke. “A woman
whose husband has left her, should, if she wishes it, revert to the
status of a spinster.”
“And she does wish it,” interposed Margaret.
“Naturally,” said Thorndyke. “The difficulty is in respect of ways and
means. Have you considered the question of procedure, Rodney?”
“It seems to me,” was the reply, “that the ways and means are provided
by the letter itself. I suggest that the terms of that letter and the
circumstances in which it was written, afford evidence of desertion,
or at least good grounds for action.”
“You may be right,” said Thorndyke, “but I doubt if it would be
accepted as evidence of an intention not to return. It seems to me
that a court would require something more definite. I suppose an
action for restitution, as a preliminary, would not be practicable?”
Rodney shook his head emphatically, and Margaret pronounced a most
decided refusal. “I don’t want restitution,” she exclaimed, “and I
would not agree to it. I would not receive him back on any terms.”
“He wouldn’t be likely to come back,” said Thorndyke; “and if he did
not, his failure to comply with the order of the court would furnish
definite grounds for further action.”
“But he might come back, at least temporarily,” objected Margaret, “if
only by way of retaliation.”
“Yes,” agreed Rodney, “it is perfectly possible; in, fact, it is
rather the sort of thing that Purcell would do—come back, make himself
unpleasant and then go off again. No; I am afraid that cat won’t
jump.”
“Then,” said Thorndyke, “we are in difficulties. We want the marriage
dissolved, but we haven’t as much evidence as the court would
require.”
“Probably more evidence could be obtained,” suggested Rodney, “and of
a different kind. Didn’t Penfield say something about an associate or
companion? Well, that is where our knowledge of Purcell’s whereabouts
should help us. If it were possible to locate him exactly and keep him
under observation, evidence of the existence of that companion might
be forthcoming, and then the case would be all plain sailing.”
Thorndyke had been expecting this suggestion and considering how he
should deal with it. He could not undertake to search the Eastern
Counties for a man who was not there; nor could he give his reasons
for not undertaking that search. Until his case against Varney was
complete he would make no confidences to anybody. And as he reflected,
he watched Varney (who had been a keenly interested listener to the
discussion), wondering what he was thinking about it all, and noting
idly how neatly and quickly he rolled his cigarettes and how little he
was inconvenienced by his contracted finger—the third finger of his
left hand.
“I think, Rodney,” he said, “that you overestimate the ease with which
we could locate Purcell. The Eastern Counties offer a large area in
which to search for a man—who may not be there, after all. The
post-mark on the letter tells us nothing of his permanent
abiding-place, if he has one. Varney suggests that he may be afloat,
and if he is, he will be very mobile and difficult to trace. And it
would be possible for him to change his appearance—by growing a beard,
for instance—sufficiently to make a circulated description useless.”
Rodney listened to these objections with hardly veiled impatience. He
had supposed that Thorndyke’s special practice involved the capacity
to trace missing persons; yet, as soon as a case calling for this
special knowledge arose, he raised difficulties. That was always the
way with these confounded experts. Now, to him—though, to be sure, it
was out of his line—the thing presented no difficulties at all. To no
man does a difficult thing look so easy as to one who is totally
unable to do it.
Meanwhile Thorndyke continued to observe Varney, who was evidently
reflecting profoundly on the impasse that had arisen. He of course
could see the futility of Rodney’s scheme. He, moreover, since he was
in love with Margaret, would be at least as keen on the dissolution of
this marriage as Rodney. Thorndyke, watching his eager face, began to
hope that he might make some useful suggestion. Nor was he
disappointed. Suddenly Varney looked up, and, addressing himself to
Rodney, said:
“I’ve got an idea. You may think it bosh, but it is really worth
considering. It is this. There is no doubt that Dan has cleared out
for good and it is rather probable that he has made some domestic
arrangements of a temporary kind. You know what I mean. And he might
be willing to have the chance of making them permanent; because he is
not free in that respect any more than his wife is. Now what I propose
is that we put in an advertisement asking him to write to his wife, or
to Penfield, stating what his intentions are. It is quite possible
that he might, in his own interests, send a letter that would enable
you to get a divorce without any other evidence. It is really worth
trying.”
Rodney laughed scornfully. “You’ve missed your vocation, Varney,” said
he. “You oughtn’t to be tinkering about with etchings. You ought to be
in the law. But I’m afraid the mackerel wouldn’t rise to your sprat.”
Thorndyke could have laughed aloud. But he did not. On the contrary,
he made a show of giving earnest consideration to Varney’s suggestion
and finally said: “I am not sure that I agree with you, Rodney. It
doesn’t seem such a bad plan.”
In this he spoke quite sincerely. But then he knew, which Rodney did
not, that if the advertisement were issued there would certainly be a
reply from Purcell; and, moreover, that the reply would be of
precisely the kind that would be most suitable for their purpose.
“Well,” said Rodney, “it seems to me rather a wild-cat scheme. You are
proposing to ask Purcell to give himself away completely. If you knew
him as well as I do, you would know that no man could be less likely
to comply. Purcell is one of the most secretive men I have ever known,
and you can see for yourself that he has been pretty secret over this
business.”
“Still,” Thorndyke persisted, “it is possible, as Varney suggests,
that it might suit him to have the tow-rope cut, as you express it.
What do you think, Mrs. Purcell?”
“I am afraid I agree with Mr. Rodney. Dan is as secret as an oyster,
and he hasn’t shown himself at all well-disposed. He wouldn’t make a
statement for my benefit. As to the question of another woman, I have
no doubt that there is one, but my feeling is that Dan would prefer to
have a pretext for not marrying her.”
“That is exactly my view,” said Rodney. “Purcell is the sort of man
who will get as much as he can and give as little in exchange.”
“I don’t deny that,” said Varney, “but I still think that it would be
worth trying. If nothing came of it we should be no worse off.”
“Exactly,” agreed Thorndyke. “It is quite a simple proceeding. It
commits us to nothing and it is very little trouble; and if, by any
chance it succeeded, see how it would simplify matters. In place of a
crowd of witnesses collected at immense trouble and cost, you would
have a letter which could be put in evidence and which would settle
the whole case in a few minutes.”
Rodney shrugged his shoulders and secretly marvelled how Thorndyke had
got his great reputation.
“There is no answering a determined optimist,” said he. “Of course
Purcell may rise to your bait. He may even volunteer to go into the
witness-box and make a full confession and offer to pay our costs. But
I don’t think he will.”
“Neither do I,” said Thorndyke. “But it is bad practice to reject a
plan because you think it probably will not succeed, when it is
possible and easy to give it a trial. Have you any objection to our
carrying out Mr. Varney’s suggestion?”
“I have no objection to _your_ carrying it out,” replied Rodney, “and
I don’t suppose Mrs. Purcell has; but I don’t feel inclined to act on
it myself.”
Thorndyke looked interrogatively at Margaret. “What do you say, Mrs.
Purcell?” he asked.
“I am entirely in your hands,” she replied. “It is very good of you to
take so much trouble, but I fear you will have your trouble for
nothing.”
“We shan’t lose much on the transaction even then,” Thorndyke
rejoined, “so we will leave it that I insert the advertisement in the
most alluring terms that I can devise. If anything comes of it, you
will hear before I shall.”
This brought the discussion to an end. If Rodney had any further ideas
on the subject, he reserved them for the benefit of Margaret or Mr.
Penfield, having reached the conclusion that Thorndyke was a pure
specialist—and probably overrated at that—whose opinions and judgment
on general law were not worth having. The conversation thus drifted
into other channels, but with no great vivacity, for each of the four
persons was occupied inwardly with the subject that had been outwardly
dismissed.
Presently Varney, who had been showing signs of restlessness, began to
collect his etchings in preparation for departure. Thereupon,
Thorndyke also rose to make his farewell.
“I have had a most enjoyable evening, Mrs. Purcell,” he said as he
shook his hostess’s hand. And he spoke quite sincerely. He had had an
extremely enjoyable evening, and he hoped that the entertainment was
even now not quite at an end. “May we hope that our plottings and
schemings may not be entirely unfruitful?”
“You can hope as much as you like,” said Rodney, “if hopefulness is
your specialty, but if anything comes of this plan of Varney’s, I
shall be the most surprised man in London.”
“And I hope you will give the author of the plan all the credit he
deserves,” said Thorndyke.
“He has got that now,” Rodney replied, with a grin.
“I doubt if he has,” retorted Thorndyke. “But we shall see. Are we
walking the same way, Varney?”
“I think so,” replied Varney, who had already decided, for his own
special reasons, that they were; in which he was in complete, though
unconscious, agreement with Thorndyke.
“Rodney seems a bit cocksure,” the former remarked as they made their
way towards the Brompton Road, “but it is no use taking things for
granted. I think it quite possible that Purcell may be willing to cut
his cable. At any rate it is reasonable to give him the chance.”
“Undoubtedly,” agreed Thorndyke. “There is no greater folly than to
take failure for granted and reject an opportunity. Now, if this plan
of yours should by any chance succeed, Mrs. Purcell’s emancipation is
as good as accomplished.”
“Is it really?” Varney exclaimed, eagerly.
“Certainly,” replied Thorndyke. “That is, if Purcell should send a
letter the contents of which should disclose a state of affairs which
would entitle his wife to a divorce. But that is too much to hope for
unless Purcell also would like to have the marriage dissolved.”
“I think it quite possible that he would, you know,” said Varney. “He
must have had strong reasons for going off in this way, and we know
what those strong reasons usually amount to. But would a simple
letter, without any witnesses, be sufficient to satisfy the court?”
“Undoubtedly,” replied Thorndyke. “A properly attested letter is good
evidence enough. It is just a question of what it contains. Let us
suppose that we have a suitable letter. Then our procedure is
perfectly simple. We produce it in court and it is read and put in
evidence. We say to the judge: Here is a letter from the respondent to
the petitioner—or her solicitor, as the case may be. It is in answer
to an advertisement also read and put in evidence; the handwriting has
been examined by the petitioner, by her solicitor and by the
respondent’s banker and each of them swears that the writing and the
signature are those of the respondent. In that letter the respondent
clearly and definitely states that he has left his wife for good; that
under no circumstances will he ever return to her; that he refuses
hereafter to contribute to her support, and that he has transferred
his affections to another woman who is now living with him as his
wife. On that evidence I think we should have no difficulty in
obtaining a decree.”
Varney listened eagerly. He would have liked to make a few notes, but
that would hardly do, though Thorndyke seemed to be a singularly
simple-minded and confiding man. And he was amazingly easy to pump.
“I don’t suppose Purcell would give himself away to that extent,” he
remarked, “unless he was really keen on a divorce.”
“It is extremely unlikely in any case,” Thorndyke agreed. “But we have
to bear in mind that if he writes at all, it will be with the object
of stating his intentions as to the future and making his position
clear. I shall draft the advertisement in such a way as to elicit this
information, if possible. If he is not prepared to furnish the
information, he will not reply. If he replies it will be because, for
his own purposes, he is willing to furnish the information.”
“Yes, that is true. So that he may really give more information than
one might expect. I wonder if he will write. What do you think?”
“It is mere speculation,” replied Thorndyke. “But if I hadn’t some
hopes of his writing, I shouldn’t be at the trouble of putting in the
advertisement. But perhaps Rodney is right; I may be unreasonably
optimistic.”
At Piccadilly Circus they parted and went their respective ways, each
greatly pleased with the other and both highly amused. As soon as
Thorndyke was out of sight, Varney whipped out his note-book, and, by
the light of a street lamp made a careful _précis_ of the necessary
points of the required letter. That letter also occupied Thorndyke’s
mind, and he only hoped that the corresponding agent of Daniel
Purcell, deceased, would not allow his enthusiasm to carry him to the
extent of producing a letter the contents of which would stamp the
case as one of rank collusion. For in this letter Thorndyke saw a way,
and the only way, out for Margaret Purcell. He knew—or at least was
fully convinced—that her husband was dead. But he had no evidence that
he could take into court, nor did he expect that he ever would have.
It would be years before it would be possible to apply to presume
Purcell’s death; and throughout those years Margaret’s life would be
spoiled. This letter was a fiction. The erring husband was a fiction.
But it would be better that Margaret should be liberated by a fiction
than that she should drag out a ruined life shackled to a husband who
was himself a fiction.