ROSABELLE HAS A GRIEVANCE
“You have something of importance to communicate to me, Mr. Lane,” were
Morrice’s first words. “Take a seat, please.”
“Something of the greatest importance, and also, I am very sorry to
say, of a most unpleasant nature. You must be prepared to receive a
great shock, Mr. Morrice.”
A grim smile fleeted across the financier’s gloomy countenance. He had
already received a very startling shock, in time he would get inured to
them.
“It concerns a young man named Archibald Brookes who, I understand, is
a frequent visitor at your house, also a member of your family, the
alleged nephew of your wife and also of Sir George Clayton-Brookes,
supposed to be her brother-in-law by the marriage of his brother
Archibald, who died in Australia, to her sister.”
At the two ominous words “alleged” and “supposed,” Morrice looked
keenly at his visitor, but he made no comment. He knew this was a man
who did not speak at random, who carefully weighed his utterances. What
was he going to hear now? Well, nothing would surprise him after what
he had already discovered for himself. Duplicity came naturally to some
temperaments.
The detective went on in his calm, even voice. “It is one of the
disagreeable duties of our profession to make unpleasant disclosures.
I made certain discoveries after taking up this case for Mr. Richard
Croxton which up to the present I have withheld from you, out of
consideration for your feelings. The time is come when you ought to
know the truth. Sir George’s family consisted of himself and two
brothers, there were no sisters. Both of these brothers died unmarried.
Therefore Sir George can have no nephew. Mrs. Morrice was the only
child of a not very successful artist; her mother lost her life in
giving her birth. Therefore the same remark applies to her, young
Archibald Brookes is no more her nephew than he is Sir George’s. And,
of course, it follows that there was no marriage between her sister and
his brother.”
Morrice’s face went very white. “You have satisfied yourself that there
is no flaw in your evidence—that it is quite reliable?”
“Unquestionably,” was the detective’s answer. “My evidence with regard
to your wife is her father’s statement made frequently in the hearing
of several persons. As to Sir George’s brother, a colleague of mine
in Australia made exhaustive inquiries on my behalf and found that
Archibald Brookes senior had never married. I have also got further
evidence from an old friend of mine at Scotland Yard who has had Sir
George and his supposed nephew under observation for some time; that
the young man was brought up under the charge of a woman named Alma
Buckley, a not very prominent member of the music-hall profession, up
to the period when Sir George adopted him and put about this story.
Further, that at the time of his adoption young Archie Brookes was
occupying an insignificant commercial post in the city of London. Of
course, you know nothing of all this?”
The words were not put in the form of a question, but rather conveyed
the assumption that it was impossible the financier could have any
knowledge of such a gross deception.
But they brought to the surface at once that fiery temper which up to
the present he had kept in check.
“What do you take me for, sir? My greatest enemy can never say of me
that I have been guilty of a mean or dishonourable action. Do you think
for a moment, from any motives whatever, even from a desire to shield
one so closely related to me, I would be a party to such a shameful
fraud?”
Lane hastened to pour oil on the troubled waters. “Pardon me, Mr.
Morrice, I did not hint at such a thing. I said that, as a matter of
course, you knew nothing about it.”
“It was almost unnecessary that you should say even as much as that,”
growled Morrice, only half appeased. His mind was quick enough when
he chose to exercise it. This man had been rendered suspicious and
distrustful of everybody by his calling, and the sinister secrets he
discovered in the pursuit of it. He had half suspected, or at any rate
thought it within the bounds of possibility, that Morrice might have
some inkling of what had been going on, and he had chosen this way of
provoking a definite disclaimer.
“There are other things it is my duty to tell you,” went on the
detective smoothly; he was not going to take any further notice of
that angry outburst. “For some long time past Mrs. Morrice has been in
the habit of supplying the young man with money. I cannot estimate the
amount that has passed into his hands, but judging from his extravagant
habits, I should say it must be a considerable sum, much more than the
lady could afford if she were to maintain her position as the wife of a
wealthy man.”
A lightning inspiration came to the unfortunate financier. “Am I not
right in saying that you sent me an anonymous letter on this very
subject?”
Lane felt it was useless to prevaricate. “I did. I may be wrong, but I
felt it was the best way to set you on the track. I thought it would
be very painful for you to be warned in a more open and direct way. I
trust that the suspicion I threw out was not justified.”
He said this with a very good show of concern, although he was certain
he had not fired that shot at random. Mrs. Morrice’s avowal that she
had been half ruined, and that it could not go on, had convinced him
that her assistance to young Brookes had not been confined to a few
hundreds out of her annual allowance—these would have gone no way with
such a determined prodigal.
For the first time in his life, Rupert Morrice’s proud head drooped
in deep humiliation. It was terribly degrading to him to listen to
the detective’s merciless recital, to know that the treachery of the
woman who bore his name, to whom he had given an honoured and assured
position, was, as it were, the common property of others.
“Alas,” he said, in a voice from which every trace of anger had fled,
which only expressed feelings of the most unutterable sadness. “Your
suspicions have been fully justified. From whence did you get all this
information that enabled you to make such an accurate diagnosis of what
was happening?”
But Lane was very staunch, and as high-minded as a man could be in the
trying circumstances of such a profession. He would certainly not give
Rosabelle away, for if he did Morrice would be sure to think she should
have come to her uncle first and discussed with him the propriety of
going to Lane at all. He had in a manner rather stolen a march upon
her, but she should not suffer.
“You must excuse me, Mr. Morrice, if I am unable to answer that very
natural question. I always like to be as frank as possible with my
clients, but there are times when, from motives perfectly satisfactory
to myself, I am unable to reveal the means by which I obtain our
information.”
Morrice made no reply. He would have dearly loved to know, but he was
fair-minded enough to appreciate the detective’s excuse. Probably he
had obtained his knowledge from some prying servant in the house who
had kept a close watch upon his wife. Lane was not the man to despise
the assistance of any instrument, however humble. Not for one moment
did it occur to Morrice that his niece was implicated in the matter.
“And now, Mr. Morrice, I don’t wish to ask you more than I can help,
for I can fully understand how you must be suffering, and how painful
it must be for you to talk over these things with a stranger. But you
say that my suspicions are confirmed—in short, you have made your
investigations and found what I surmised, that a considerable number
of jewels have been realized, and imitations put in their place. Am I
right in saying that it means a large sum?”
“Several thousands of pounds, even taking into account the depreciated
price which could be obtained for them,” was Morrice’s answer.
“I guessed it. But I doubt if it has all gone into the pockets of young
Brookes. Mind you, I have no actual evidence of what I am going to
say—it is, if you like, absolute theory—but Sir George is in this game
and has engineered it from the beginning. They are in this together,
depend upon it. Which gets the better share I cannot say; I should
fancy the older and more experienced rogue.”
“I daresay you are right,” said Morrice wearily. “We know him to be a
rogue from his being a party to this nephew fraud. And yet he poses as
a rich man, although Mrs. Morrice has more than once dropped a hint
that he is fast dissipating his money at the gaming-table.”
So that was his vice attributed to him by one who knew too well,
thought the detective. That accounted for his being well-off one day
and a pauper the next.
After exacting from Morrice a promise that he would not use the
information in any way, Lane told him what he had picked up from his
friend at Scotland Yard, viz. that Sir George was strongly suspected of
being in league with high-class crooks.
The unhappy financier sat crushed and humbled by all these terrible
revelations. His world seemed falling about his ears—his wife, of
whose integrity he had never entertained the slightest suspicion,
the friend and confidant, the associate in a vile deception, of a
man of good birth and position strongly suspected of being engaged in
criminal enterprises. He had never taken kindly to Sir George; he was
too plausible and artificial for his liking. For the supposed nephew he
had entertained a good-natured contempt. But he had never harboured the
faintest idea that they were a couple of base scoundrels.
Lane rose to go. Later on he would have to say more to Mr. Morrice, but
to-night he had said enough.
“I think you told me over the telephone that your wife was away. I
suppose you have said nothing to her yet?”
“Nothing,” answered Morrice, with a face like granite. “I have not had
time. It was only to-day that I got the full amount of proof I wanted.
If it had only concerned itself with one article of jewellery, or a
couple at the outside, I might have thought she had sold them to defray
some gambling debt, some bills that she was ashamed to tell me about.”
“Quite so, Mr. Morrice. But I take it when your wife returns you will
confront her and extort a confession.”
Nothing could have been grimmer than the husband’s expression as he
answered. It was easy to see he would be as hard as flint when his
righteous wrath was aroused—pitiless, unforgiving.
“Of course. And please, Mr. Lane, do not speak of her as my wife. The
law, I know, will not sever the tie for such a cause as this, but
so far as I am concerned that tie is already severed. She returns
to-morrow, and in another twenty-four hours the same roof will not
shelter us. I shall not leave her to starve; I shall make her a decent
allowance, and she can live out the rest of her shameful life in the
society of friends congenial to her—this scoundrel Clayton-Brookes
and the rascal whose aunt she pretends to be—perhaps the woman Alma
Buckley, of whom I have never heard.”
“And whom she visits secretly,” interposed Lane. “I have had her
watched and know that for a fact.”
“Ah, I am not surprised; in fact, nothing would surprise me now. Mark
you, I shall not publish to the world the story of her treachery. Why
should I fill the mouths of curious fools? It would not undo my wrongs
nor alleviate my bitter humiliation. I shall agree with her to concoct
some tale of incompatibility extending over many years and culminating
in a separation absolutely necessary for the peace of mind of both. The
truth will be known for certain to two people, you and myself, perhaps
a third—my niece Rosabelle Sheldon. You, I am convinced, Mr. Lane, are
a man of discretion and will keep your knowledge to yourself.”
Lane assured him that the secrets of all his clients were sacred to
him. One last question he put before he left.
“You will make her confess who this so-called Archie Brookes really is?”
And Morrice’s voice was as hard as iron as he answered: “You may rely
upon me to do my best. Good-night, sir. What I have learned through
your masterly activities has been inexpressibly painful, but thank
heaven I know at last the foes in my own household. I shall no longer
live in a fool’s paradise.”
Shortly after Lane’s departure he went to his room, but try as he
would, sleep refused her kindly solace. The man had been shaken to the
very foundation of his being.
On his way out Lane found Rosabelle waiting for him in the hall as on a
previous occasion; she had heard of his visit from one of the servants.
“Why are you here to-night?” she whispered. “Has anything of importance
happened?”
“A great deal,” Lane whispered back. “It was not till the last moment I
made up my mind to come, but certain things happened which rendered it
necessary to hasten matters. I have not time to tell you now, it would
take too long. Slip down to my office to-morrow morning as early as you
can.”
Much wondering, the girl promised she would be there as near ten
o’clock as possible.
“And just one last word, Miss Sheldon. I have told your uncle that
young Brookes has been sponging on Mrs. Morrice, and much has been
found out. But your name has not been brought in. Forget all about
that conversation you told me of. Best, if your uncle should question
you to-night or to-morrow, to dismiss it from your mind, to appear
surprised as you would have been if you had never overheard it. I will
explain to-morrow. Good-night. I will not stop a second longer; he
might come out any moment and surprise us.”
Restless and impatient for that to-morrow, the girl’s sleep was little
less broken than her uncle’s. What was Lane going to tell her? Was he
going to be perfectly frank after all?
She was there a little before the time appointed, but Lane was
disengaged and saw her at once. He made a clean breast of it this time,
and told her everything that had happened from the beginning of his
investigations.
“I may as well tell you that I went over to Mr. Croxton the other
day and told him all that I knew. And I am afraid you will never
forgive me, Miss Sheldon, when you know that I made it a condition of
my confidence that he should keep it to himself till I removed the
embargo. But I had my reasons, reasons which I can’t very well explain
and which, I am sure, would be unconvincing to you.”
Rosabelle was very shocked at her aunt’s duplicity and disgusted
when she learned the truth about Archie Brookes. But she was not so
preoccupied with the emotions to which his recital gave rise as not to
be more than a little hurt that Lane had kept her in the dark longer
than anybody else.
“I suppose the truth is you have a contempt for women, and place no
trust in them?” she said resentfully.
The detective made the most diplomatic answer he could in the
circumstances, apparently with a satisfactory result. Anyway, they
parted good friends.