CRONIES
That evening Dr. Twelves dined with a fellow Scot, J. Andrew
McTavish, of McTavish & Brown. Mr. McTavish lived in Mecklenberg
Square. Although a bachelor he liked plenty of house room, and
in Mecklenberg Square he had it. His house was perhaps the
largest in the Square, and certainly not the least comfortable.
Comfort was to Mr. McTavish a sort of fetish: excepting money he
set it above everything. He looked as if he did. Of medium
height, he was of more than average size, his waist measurement
was approaching a significant figure; his neck loved a generous
collar, his chin overlapped; he had slight side whiskers, dark
gray in hue, and the top of his head was so completely bald that
one wondered if it could ever have been anything else. He and
his guest presented an amazing contrast: three or four replicas
of Dr. Twelves could have been contained in Mr. McTavish.
They dined _tete-a-tete_ at a small round table which stood in
the centre of a big room. Mr. McTavish liked big rooms; he was
never comfortable in a small one. During the meal the
conversation was of a desultory character, principally hovering
around Pitmuir, where Mr. McTavish had lived till he came to
London. Questions were asked and answered touching every soul in
the parish Mr. McTavish could think of, and his memory was
extensive. There was hardly a man, woman or child about Pitmuir
whose name had not been mentioned before dinner was finished. If
the inquiries were slightly acid, so were the replies. It seemed
as if these two gentlemen had made it a point of honour to say
nothing nice of any one. According to them the folk about
Pitmuir were a very human lot--at least they had most of
humanity's failings.
After dinner they retired to the study, another fine apartment.
There they had a cup of coffee, a liqueur, and a cigar apiece.
The doctor seemed lost in the huge chair which he had been
invited to fill. His host regarded him with twinkling eyes.
"Have you had a good dinner, David?"
"You feed yourself too well; you're a hundred years behind the
age."
"How do you show it?"
"Our great-grandfathers pampered their bellies. We know better;
we have learnt that it is the part of wisdom to starve them.
You're still where our grandsires were."
"And where are you?"
"I'm on the high road to as fine an attack of indigestion as a
man need have, and live."
"I can give you the name of one of the greatest authorities on
indigestion."
"I dare swear you can give me the names of one or two. I
shouldn't be surprised if that sucking-pig proves to be the
death of me, beyond the skill of all your authorities."
"It was cooked to a turn."
"I ought to know how it was cooked, considering the way that I
behaved to it. It's wicked to set such meat before a man. And
now, I've something which I wish to say to you."
"You've said one or two things already--what's the other?"
The doctor, taking the cigar out of his mouth, regarded the ash
on the tip.
"You remember Wallace's daughter?"
"Cuthbert Grahame's girl?"
The doctor nodded.
"I've seen her this afternoon."
"No? I wondered what had become of her, more than once. I've
seen and heard nothing of her since he turned her out."
"He didn't turn her out, she turned herself out. I had the story
from his own lips."
"So had I. To all intents and purposes he turned her out,
however he may have put it to himself or to you."
"He asked her to marry him, and she wouldn't."
"He asked her not once or twice, but again and again, until he
made it plain that his house was no place for her unless she
meant to be his wife. So, as she didn't, there was nothing for
her but to go."
"It was a fool business."
"On both sides. Why he wanted to marry her I don't know. I never
do know why a man wants to marry. I'd sooner have a buzz saw in
every room in the house than a wife in one. Why she wouldn't
marry him, I know still less."
"There was the difference in their years. Then he was already
threatening to be what he afterwards became--physically, I
mean."
"Well, what of it? If a girl in her position has to marry, I
should say that there are two things which she ought to look for
first of all--money, and a sick husband; if possible, one who is
already sick unto death. In Grahame she'd have had both."
There was silence, as if both parties were giving to Mr.
McTavish's words the consideration due to a profound aphorism.
It was the doctor who spoke next.
"He always believed that she would come back again, saying yes."
"I'd no patience with the man, he was all kinds of a fool. If he
wanted her to be his wife, he didn't go the right way to get
her. When she said no, instead of thanking God for his
undeserved escape, he stormed and raved, fretted and fumed,
until he became only fit to be exhibited in a booth at a fair."
"When he heard that she was in love with some one else, it was
that that was the death of him."
"A good thing too. It'd have been a good thing if it had been
the death of both of them. I've no bowels for such tomfoolery.
Where is she? What's she doing? Is she married to the other
fool? If she is, don't they both wish that they were dead?"
"You've a sharp tongue, Andrew--if your wits were like it! Not
all married folks wish that they were dead; there's just as much
desire to live among the married as among the single--maybe
more. To hear you talk one would suppose that one had only to
remain single to be happy. You and I know better than that."
"Speak for yourself, David, speak for yourself--I'm happy
enough."
"Then your looks belie you."
"What's the matter with my looks, you old croaker?"
"I'm a doctor of medicine, Andrew McTavish; I've learned to turn
the smoothest side to a patient; so you must excuse me if to
your inquiry I return no answer."
"After the dinner I've given him!"
"It's the ill-assorted food you have caused me to cram down my
throat that I'm beginning to fancy has given me a touch of the
spleen."
"Something has. The next time you dine in this house it will be
off porridge."
"We'll leave the next time till it comes. To return to Margaret
Wallace. She's not married yet, and, so far as I can judge,
she's not likely to be. It's want of pence, both with him and
with her. If she had some of Cuthbert Grahame's money, as she
ought to have, it'd make all the difference."
"It's in part your fault that she hasn't."
"I'm not denying it, and I'm not forgetting it. If I've been
guilty of the unforgivable sin, it was when I brought that woman
to Cuthbert Grahame's bedside. I sometimes think that I'll see
it chalked up against me in letters of fire when I'm brought up
before the throne."
"Stuff!"
"Maybe--to you. You're devoid of decent feeling, Andrew
McTavish; to you all's stuff. What's become of the woman?"
"What woman?"
"She who calls herself Mrs. Grahame?"
"She calls herself Mrs. Grahame no longer."
"How's that?"
"She's married again."
"The creature! The poor fool she's married! What is his name?"
"Gregory Lamb."
Dr. Twelves rose from his chair as if impelled by a spring.
Opening his mouth in apparent forgetfulness of what was between
his lips, his cigar fell to the floor, where it remained
apparently unnoticed.
"What's that?"
"What's what?"
"What name was that you said?"
"Why, man, what's the matter now? I'm wondering whether the
sucking-pig's mounted to your head instead of descending to your
stomach. David, you're easily upset these days. Pick up your
cigar, it's burning a hole in my floor covering."
"Damn the cigar!"
"And welcome! It's not that I mind. What I object to is your
cigar damning my carpet. Pick it up at once, sir."
"You're fussy about your old carpet."
"Old carpet! it cost me a guinea a yard not twelve months
since."
"You're wasteful with your money."
"I am, when I spend it entertaining such as you."
"What's the name of the man you say that woman married?"
"Gregory Lamb."
"It's past believing!"
"Is it? I haven't found it so."
"That's because you're walking in darkness. Do you know that the
youngster Margaret's plighted to is private secretary to Mrs.
Gregory Lamb?"
"Is he? Then I should say that that's presumptive evidence that
he's not bad looking. She has an eye for a good-looking man."
"Gregory Lamb was staying at Pitmuir when she was at
Cuthbert Grahame's, calling herself his wife. A half-bred,
ill-conditioned young scamp he was."
"I should imagine that Mr. Lamb was not born in the caste of
Vere de Vere."
"Were they acquainted then? What was there between them? How
come they to be married now?--he without a penny, to my
knowledge, she with all that money. She'd not marry such a
creature as he was--for love, that I'll swear. They were birds
of a feather, only he was more fool than knave, and she more
knave than fool."
"That about describes them now--if a lawyer may say as
much--under privilege."
"Andrew, can you keep a still tongue?"
"If I couldn't I shouldn't be sitting here."
"I've always had a suspicion that there was something wrong
about that will."
"Do you mean the one under which she inherits? You needn't
confine yourself to suspicion upon that point--it's about as
wrong as it could be. If there had been substantial opposition
she'd have found it hard to bring it in."
"I'm not meaning it in your sense. I know that Grahame signed it
in the presence of those two daft lassies; but I don't believe
that he knew what he was signing, although the evidence is all
the other way. I've kept my doubts to myself until this moment,
and even now I can't tell you just why I don't believe it--but I
don't."
"Quite possibly you're right, but you can't prove it."
"I know I can't, and there's something else that I can't prove."
"What's that?"
"I believe she murdered him."
"David!"
"She was equal to it; and I'm beginning to see more clearly how
she brought herself to the sticking point. The day before his
death Margaret Wallace called----"
"Margaret Wallace? you don't say!"
"She told me so herself this afternoon. She was refused
admission as she supposed by Nannie Foreshaw. I happen to know
that Nannie couldn't have got out of bed and gone downstairs to
save her life--that woman had taken care of that. Before I came
to you I wrote to Nannie asking if she did, to make sure. I
believe that woman played at being Nannie, imitating her voice.
She may have known Margaret's story, probably Grahame had told
her, and was aware that if she returned and saw him her reign
was at an end. So she precipitated matters. She juggled that
will into existence, and, directly she had done so, killed him."
"It's a weighty charge you're making, David; be careful how you
make it."
"Do you think I don't know that it's a weighty charge? I'm not
making it. I'm only telling you what's in my mind, as between
friends. I'll not breathe a word of the matter to any one but
you till I can bring it into court, and prove it. At present, in
your lawyer's sense, I've not proof enough to cover a pin's
point. But, Andrew, though the mills of God grind slowly, they
grind surely, and exceeding fine. Maybe one day God's finger
will press her in between the stones, then you'll know that the
conviction which is implanted in my breast is of the nature of
the prophetic vision. God has shown me, though I cannot tell you
how."
There was silence. The doctor, still standing, bent over the
table on which stood the coffee and liqueurs, pointing with one
skinny finger upwards. He continued in that attitude for a
perceptible period after he had ceased to speak. Then Mr.
McTavish's voice broke the spell which he seemed to have cast
upon the air.
"David, you use big words. I don't--it's not my way. But
confidence begets confidence. I'll tell you something in
return--and that without insulting you by asking if you can keep
a still tongue--because I know you can."
The doctor returned to a more normal attitude, seeming to do so
with an effort, as if he were shaking something from him. He
spoke in his ordinary tones.
"Let me light another cigar before you begin. This sort of
talk's disquieting, especially after such a dinner as I've had.
I think a tonic might not be amiss." He sipped his liqueur.
"Andrew, this is not bad brandy."
"A hogshead wouldn't hurt you."
"Wouldn't it? Is it your custom to drink brandy by the hogshead?
I thought you didn't use big words."
"It's a figure of speech, David--a figure of speech. If you have
that cigar properly lighted, and will sit down like a decent
creature, I'll have my say--that is, if you have not had enough
of the matter under discussion."
"You're not more ready to talk than I am to listen. Now, Andrew,
I'm at your service."
"Well, you suspect this lady of something more than
misdemeanour. I may tell you that I doubt if she would have done
what she did do--if she did it!--if she had known what she knows
now."
"You speak in parables."
"I'll be plain enough. Did you know anything about Cuthbert
Grahame's affairs?--his financial affairs, I mean."
"Something."
"Had you any idea how much he was worth?"
"He told me himself, not once but frequently, that he was worth
nearer three hundred thousand pounds than two hundred thousand.
He said, moreover, that his investments brought him in an
average interest of over ten per cent. He had made several lucky
hits."
"That's what he told us; it seems that that's what he told her.
Did you see on what amount probate duty was paid?"
"Not I; I took no interest in the matter then. I was too
disgusted with myself and everything. My one desire was to get
the whole business out of my head; the trouble is that I haven't
been able to do it."
"Under forty thousand pounds; and I may tell you that it was
well under forty thousand pounds."
"What's become of the rest?"
"That's the mystery which we should like to solve--which she
especially would like to solve; and what she's subjected us to
in her efforts to arrive at a solution no language at my command
is adequate to describe. She's a remarkable woman--a very
remarkable woman. Because she has long since passed the limits
of our endurance is one reason why I am rounding on her to you.
It is not often that I am conscious of such a yearning, but we
have arrived at a position in which I should actually like to
have your advice. That's why I asked you here tonight."
"Then it wasn't just for old friendship's sake."
The doctor glowered from the recesses of the huge chair,
expelling the smoke of his cigar from his lips and nostrils. Mr.
McTavish laughed.
"Well--in a measure. Did you ever think he was romancing when he
talked about his moneys?"
"I did not--and I don't. He was in earnest. I never knew him
tell a lie when he was in earnest. I'd match his veracity
against my own."
"Then it's queer--it's queer. At the time of his death we held
securities for him representing some ten thousand pounds lent on
mortgage; the bankers held about as much more. His widow turned
into cash everything that there was to turn, with the exception
of the house, which she will neither sell nor let."
"I know. It's going to rack and ruin; they say no one's set foot
in it since the day he was buried."
"I daresay--it's one of her notions--she'll let no one even talk
of it; it's her bogey. Altogether she's had scarcely thirty
thousand pounds."
"It's in the house."
"Not it. It's been thoroughly searched by competent hands; she
herself has overhauled it more than once."
"The money must be somewhere; I'm convinced he had it."
"Have you any notion where it is? Can you give me any sort of
clue as to its possible whereabouts?"
"Not I. I know no more about it than--this cigar. Is it likely?
I wasn't his man of business--you were."
"She says we have it."
"No!"
"Yes. She says we have it, or that we know where it is, and are
joined in a conspiracy to keep it out of her possession. The way
she's talked--and treated us! David, she's a remarkable woman."
"She is that. Don't I know it?--to my cost!"
"We've had to change the lock on our office door. She let
herself into it with a pass-key--my own, I fear, for I lost it,
though I don't know how; I've never seen it since. She ransacked
everything the place contained. Got into the safe. By some
extraordinary mischance, in which it is quite possible she had a
hand, that night it wasn't locked. She went right through it.
She saw a good deal we had rather she hadn't seen, but she saw
nothing of Grahame's money."
"Did you catch her in the act?"
"Catch her! We've never been able to prove it against her yet,
but the presumption's as strong as Hercules. She went to
Brown's, and made him swear by all his gods that he knew nothing
about it; then she made him open his safe, and went through all
his private papers."
"Brown must be a fine sort of a man."
"She's a fine sort of a woman. She drugged me in my own house."
"No?"
"I say yes! She came here one night. I offered her a little
something to drink--I was having something to drink, and I
couldn't see her sitting dry. I've no doubt that when my back
was turned she put something into my glass which took away my
senses in a flash. When I came to it was early morning; the
daylight was streaming through the blinds; she was gone; the
whole place was upside down."
"You're a lawyer: didn't you give her a taste of the law?"
"What was the use? She'd pose as an injured woman--her grievance
is real enough. We'd get no good; it might do us harm. The
mischief is that she's got what she chooses to regard as some
sort of groundwork for her suspicions. It's this way. She met
the secretary of the Hardwood Company. The Hardwood Company's
paid dividends averaging thirty per cent, ever since it started.
The fellow got friendly with her--as plenty of men do get within
five minutes of their meeting her. He told her that only one
original shareholder remained on their lists, and, since the
shares rushed to a premium directly the issue was made, that
therefore he was the only person who received the full benefit
of the thirty per cent. He added that the shareholder's name was
Grahame--Cuthbert Grahame (you may see her pricking her ears at
that!)--and (she always leading him by the nose!) that the
dividends had not been paid to him direct, but to his
solicitors, Messrs. McTavish & Brown, of Southampton Row. He was
a talkable body, that secretary man--men are apt to be talkative
when she gets them alone with her in a corner. He told her
something else: that the queerest part of the business was that
while the shares still stood in Grahame's name, the dividends
had remained unclaimed for quite a while, so that a considerable
sum was waiting for some one to take it. The next morning she
came to us running over with the story. Now I remembered those
shares--an investment which returns thirty per cent, these hard
times one has to remember. He had ten thousand of them; they
were in our charge; we did collect the dividends. But one day he
wrote asking us to send them to him, which we did do. My lady of
course wanted proof. Do you know we couldn't give it her."
"I don't see why."
"Under ordinary circumstances nothing could have been simpler.
Such a thing has never before happened in the whole course of my
experience, but by some infernal accident we couldn't lay our
hands on either his letter of instructions, or his
acknowledgment of receipt."
"There was still the letter advising their despatch."
"David, ever since that woman appeared on the scene we have been
persecuted by a malignant fate."
"Big words, Andrew, big words."
"She moves me to them. On the day Grahame's letter came I
happened to be going abroad. Brown sent a clerk here with his
letter and the shares, so that I might check them and see that
they were right. I packed the clerk back, and sent the shares
myself; but in my haste--I was running the boat train pretty
close!--I was idiot enough not to take a copy of my own letter,
and what I did with Grahame's I have not the dimmest
recollection."
"Very unbusiness-like."
"Don't I know it, man! Of course she declined to credit a word
of the story; said that she believed it was a fabrication from
beginning to end; and that she was more than ever convinced that
she was dealing with a set of rogues. The climax is to come! The
day after she had drugged me she came to my office, and produced
a Hardwood Company's share, which she had the assurance to
assert that she had taken out of my own safe when I was in a
state of unconsciousness!--think of it! She had taken it round
to the Company's offices, and it had there been identified as
one of the shares which were standing in Cuthbert Grahame's
name."
"Was it one of his shares?"
"It was, beyond a doubt."
"And had she taken it out of your safe?"
"David, I can only tell you that she swore she had; and I'm
bound to admit that if she hadn't, I don't know where she got it
from. On the other hand, if she did I have not the vaguest
notion how it got there. Plague take the thing!"
Mr. McTavish, emptying his liqueur glass, immediately refilled
it.
"Don't you know what's in your own safe?"
"Do you take me for a feather-brain? I knew every trifle it
contained, or thought I did. She says that she took up a bundle
of papers, and that the share dropped out of one of them. If it
did, no one knows less than I do who put it there. The only
conclusion at which I can arrive is that, in returning the
shares to Grahame, I overlooked one of them, and that, in my
hurry, it got mixed up with some of the papers which I keep in
my safe, and which were lying on my table at the time. Of all
the evil chances that ever befel a man!"
"And what was the inference she drew?"
"The inference she drew! What do you suppose? Why, of course,
that the other nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine shares
were hidden somewhere in my house, exactly as that one had been.
She had brought a solicitor with her to the office--think of it,
David!--a pettifogging rascal of the name of Luker, who'd do
anything for six-and-eightpence; and in his presence--picture
it, David!--she told me that if I didn't permit her to subject
my private premises to a thorough examination she should
immediately commence proceedings for the recovery of the missing
shares. And the creature Luker had the audacity to advise me to
accede to her reasonable request--he called it her reasonable
request! And I complied!--I complied! She, the wretched Luker,
Brown, and myself, we went through every nook and cranny in the
house, all of us together. The humiliation of it!--the maddening
humiliation!"
With his handkerchief Mr. McTavish wiped his capacious brow,
which was moist with indignant sweat.
"And did they find the missing shares?"
"David! Do you want me to make an end of you? The reptile Luker
wrote that if restitution of the shares was not made at once he
was instructed to immediately commence proceedings for their
recovery. And that's only the beginning! If something isn't done
to stop her it's very possible that she'll try to jockey us, by
legal process, out of all the money that she supposes Cuthbert
Grahame to have had. The law on such matters is in such a
state--when twisted by such as Luker!--that there's no knowing
what may be the issue; the one thing certain being that she may
be the occasion to us of the gravest injury." The doctor emitted
a sound which forced a startled inquiry from the other. "What's
the matter with you, man?"
"I was laughing, to think that a couple of lawyers should be so
mishandled by one of the laity! It's the funniest thing that
ever I heard."
"It's no laughing matter, David, I can tell you that. Think of
the scandal--that at the age to which I'm come I should be used
as if I were a misbegotten rogue! She's a devil of a woman! And
what's driving her is that she's come to the end of her tether."
"Do you mean that she's spent all her cash?"
"I've reason to know she has, or nearly all. She lives in a
great house, has an expensive establishment, spends money like a
queen. She took it for granted that long before this the bulk of
Grahame's money would turn up. Now that it hasn't she's
desperate. She means to get it out of somebody, somehow--or as
much of it as she can--if it's only out of such poor creatures
as McTavish and Brown."
"You're a pair of weans, you and Brown."
"So you see, David, how it is I have come to you for help--to
you, my oldest friend. Why it is that I ask you to search your
brain and see if you can give us no clue as to what Cuthbert
Grahame did with his money. No one was more intimate with him
than you, and on such a point there is no one who is more likely
to be able to give us help."
"If that's so then you'll get help from no one, for it's certain
you'll get none from me. I tell you I know nothing of the
matter."
"Do you think Miss Wallace could help us? She had an intimate
knowledge of Grahame and of his peculiarities. She might be able
to tell us something which would prove to be of assistance."
"I'll ask her, if you wish it. But I doubt if you'll gain."
"Do, David, do. And"--Mr. McTavish tapped his forefinger on the
arm of his chair--"the sooner the better. As to advice, David,
you know this woman; you've had dealings with her before; in a
sense, so far as we're concerned, you're responsible for her
existence. You see the dilemma we are in. What advice have you
to offer?"
"None--not a ha'porth. I'm not advising."
"David!"
"I tell you I'm not, and it's just because I've had dealings
with the woman already. I've tried one fall with her, and I'm
suffering from it still."
"She's an awful creature!--awful!"
"There's only one thing I can say to you, Andrew, and that I've
said already, and then you sort of sniggered. But to my mind
it's a comfortable thought when we come to deal with persons
like Mrs. Cuthbert Grahame, or Mrs. Gregory Lamb, or whatever
she calls herself, and it's this, that if the mills of God do
grind slowly, they also do grind surely, and they grind
exceeding small."