THE INVESTIGATIONS OF MR. SLOTMAN
“And who the dickens,” said Lady Linden, “is Mister—Philip
what’s-his-name? I can’t see it—what’s his name, Marjorie?” Lady Linden
held out the card to the girl.
“It—it is—Slotman, auntie,” Marjorie said.
“Don’t sniff, child. You’ve got a cold; go up to my room, and in the
medical—”
“I haven’t a cold, auntie.”
“Don’t talk to me. Go and get a dose of ammoniated tincture of quinine.
As for this Mr. Slotman—unpleasant name—what the dickens does he want
of me?”
Marjorie did not answer.
Slotman was being shewn into the drawing-room a few moments later. He
was wearing his best clothes and best manner. This Lady Linden was an
aristocratic dame, and Mr. Slotman had come for the express purpose of
making himself very agreeable.
“Oily-looking wretch!” her ladyship thought. “Well?” she asked aloud.
“I am grateful to your ladyship for permitting me to see you.”
“Well, you can see me if that’s all you have come for.”
“No!” he said. “If—if I—” He paused.
“Oh, sit down!” said Lady Linden. “Well, now what is it you want? Have
you something to sell? Books, sewing machines?”
“No, no!” He waved a deprecating hand. “I am come on a matter that
interests me greatly. I am a financier, I have offices in London. Until
lately I was employing a young lady on my staff.”
“Well?”
“Her name was Meredyth, Miss Joan Meredyth.”
“I don’t want to hear anything at all about her,” said Lady Linden.
“Why you come to me, goodness only knows. If you’ve come for
information I haven’t got any. If you want information, the right
person to go to is her husband!”
“Her—her husband!” Mr. Slotman seemed to be choking.
“You seem surprised,” said Lady Linden. “Well, so was I, but it is the
truth. If you are interested in Miss Meredyth, the proper person to
make enquiries of is Mr. Hugh Alston, of Hurst Dormer, Sussex. Now you
know. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
Slotman passed his hand across his forehead. This was unexpected, a
blow that staggered him.
“You—you mean, your ladyship means that Miss Meredyth is recently
married.”
“Her ladyship means nothing of the kind,” said Lady Linden tartly. “I
mean that Miss Meredyth has for some very considerable time been Mrs.
Hugh Alston. They were married, if you want to know—and I don’t see why
it should any longer be kept a secret—three years ago, in June,
nineteen eighteen at Marlbury, Dorset, where my niece was at school
with Miss Meredyth. Now you know all I know, and if you want any
further information, apply to the husband.”
“But—but,” Slotman said, “I—” He was thinking. He was trying to
reconcile what he had heard in his own office when he had spied on Hugh
Alston and Joan, when on that occasion he had heard Hugh offer marriage
to the girl as an act of atonement. How could he offer marriage if they
were already married? There was something wrong, some mistake!
“But what?” snapped her ladyship, who had taken an exceeding dislike to
the perspiring Mr. Slotman.
“Is your ladyship certain that they were married? I mean—” he fumbled
and stammered.
Lady Linden pointed to the door. “Good afternoon!” she said. “I don’t
know what business it is of yours, and I don’t care. All I know is that
if Hugh Alston is a fool, he is not a knave, so you have my permission
to retire.”
Mr. Slotman retired, but it was not till some hours had passed that he
finally left the neighbourhood of Cornbridge. He had been making
discreet enquiries, and he found on every side that her ladyship’s
story was corroborated.
For Lady Linden talked, and it was asking too much of any lady who was
fond of a chat to expect her to keep silent on a matter of such
interest. Lady Linden had discussed Hugh Alston’s marriage with Mrs.
Pontifex, the Rector’s wife, who in turn had discussed it with others.
So, little by little, the story had leaked out, and all Cornbridge knew
it, and Mr. Slotman found ample corroboration of Lady Linden’s story.
Not till he was in the train did Mr. Slotman begin to gather together
all the threads of evidence. “I should not describe Lady Linden as a
pleasant person,” he decided, “still, her information will prove of the
utmost value to me. On the whole I am glad I went.” He felt satisfied;
he had discovered all that was discoverable, so far as Cornbridge was
concerned.
“Married in eighteen, June of eighteen,” he muttered, “at Marlbury,
Dorset. I’ll bet she wasn’t! She may have said she was, but she
wasn’t!” He chuckled grimly. He was beginning to see through it. “I
suppose she told that tale, and then it got about, and then the fellow
came and offered her marriage as the only possible way out. I’d like to
choke the brute!”
Slotman slept that night in London, and early the following morning he
was on his way to Marlbury. He found it a little quiet country town,
where information was to be had readily enough. It took him but a few
minutes to discover that there was a school for young ladies, a school
of repute, kept by a Miss Skinner. It was the only ladies’ school in or
near the town, and so Mr. Slotman made his way in that direction, and
in a little time was ushered into the presence of the headmistress.
“I must apologise,” he said, “for this intrusion.”
Miss Skinner bowed. She was tall and thin, angular and severe, a
typical headmistress, stern and unyielding.
“I am,” Slotman lied, “a solicitor from London, and I am interested in
a young lady who a matter of three years ago was, I believe, a pupil in
this school.”
“Indeed?”
“Miss Joan Meredyth,” said Slotman.
“Miss Meredyth was a pupil here at the time you mention, three years
ago. It was three years ago that she left.”
“In June?” Slotman asked.
“I think so. Is it important that you know?”
“Very!”
“I will go and look up my books.” In a few minutes Miss Skinner was
back.
“Miss Meredyth left us in the June of nineteen hundred and eighteen,”
she said.
“Suddenly?”
“Somewhat—yes, suddenly. Her father was dead; she was leaving us to go
to Australia.”
“So that was the story,” Slotman thought, “to go to Australia.”
“During the time she was here, may I ask, did she have any visitors?
Did, for instance, a Mr. Hugh Alston call on her?”
“Mr. Alston, I remember the name. Certainly he called here, but not to
see Miss Meredyth. He came to see Miss Marjorie Linden, who was, I
fancy, distantly related to him. I am not sure, Mr. Alston certainly
called several times.”
“And saw Miss Meredyth?”
“I think not. I have no reason to believe that he did. Miss Linden and
Miss Meredyth were close friends, and of course Miss Linden may have
introduced him. It is quite possible.”
“Thank you!” said Slotman. He had found out all that he wanted to know,
yet not quite.
For the next few hours Philip Slotman was a busy man. He went to the
church and looked up the register. No marriage such as he looked for
had taken place between Hugh Alston and Joan Meredyth in June, nineteen
eighteen, nor any other month immediately before or after. No marriage
had taken place at the local Registrar’s office. But he was not done
yet. Six miles from Marlbury was Morchester, a far larger and more
important town. Thither went Philip Slotman and pursued his enquiries
with a like result.
Neither at Marlbury, nor at Morchester had any marriage been registered
in the name of Hugh Alston and Joan Meredyth in the year nineteen
eighteen; and having discovered that fact beyond doubt, Philip Slotman
took train for London.