by Ellen Wood
Hurst kept his head down and wrote on in silence, hoping to allay the storm he had inadvertently provoked. In spite of his protestations, he had spoken in reference to that past transaction, and the tone showed the truth to Roland; but still he had spoken thoughtlessly. Roland, as he believed, was no more guilty of this present loss than he himself was; and he felt inclined to clip his tongue out for its haste.
Pushing his hair from his hot face, biting his lips, drawing deep breaths in his anger and emotion, stood Roland. Presently the pen was dashed down on the parchment before him, blotting it and defacing it for use, but of course that went for nothing, and Roland stalked to the desk of Mr. Bede Greatorex.
“I wish to say, sir, that I did not steal the cheque.”
The words took Mr. Bede Greatorex by surprise. But he had by this time become pretty well acquainted with Roland and his impulsive ways; he liked him in spite of his faults as a clerk; otherwise he would never have put up with them. A pleasant smile crossed his lips as he answered; answered in jest.
“You know the old French proverb, I dare say, Mr. Yorke: “Qui s’excuse s’accuse’?”
Roland made nothing of French at the best of times: at such as these, every pulse within him agitated to pain, it was about as intelligible as Hebrew. But, had he understood every word of the joking implication, he could not have responded with more passionate earnestness.
“I did not touch the cheque, sir; I swear it. I never saw it after you took it from this room, or knew where you put it, or anything. It never once came into my thoughts.”
“But why do you trouble yourself to say this?” asked Mr. Bede Greatorex, speaking seriously when he noticed the anxious tone, the emotion accompanying the denial. “No one thought of supposing you had taken it.”
“Hurst did, sir. He accused me.”
Hurst, in his vexation, pushed his work from him in a heap. Of all living mortals, surely Roland was the simplest! he had no more tact than a child. Mr. Bede Greatorex looked from one to the other.
“I did nothing of the kind,” said Hurst, speaking quietly. “The fact is, Roland Yorke can’t take a joke. When he made that remarked about his uncle, Sir Richard, I said to him, ‘Did you take the cheque?’ speaking in jest of course; and he caught up the question as serious.”
“There, go to your place, Mr. Yorke,” said Bede.
“I’d not do such a thing as touch a cheque for the world; or any other money that was not mine: no, not though it did belong to old Dick Yorke,” earnestly reiterated Roland, keeping his ground.
“Of course you would not. Don’t be foolish, Mr. Yorke.”
“You believe me, I hope, sir.”
“Certainly. Do go to your desk. I am busy.”
Roland went back to it now, his face brighter. And Bede Greatorex thought with a smile how like a boy he was, in spite of his eight-and-twenty years, and his travels in Port Natal. These single-minded natures never grow old, or wise in the world’s ways.
Another minute, and a stranger had entered the office. And yet, not quite a stranger; for Bede Greatorex had seen him some few years before, and Hurst and Roland Yorke knew him at once. It was Mr. Butterby; more wiry than he used to be, more observant about the keen eyes. He had come in reference to the loss of the cheque, and saluted Mr. Bede Greatorex: who looked surprised and not best pleased to see him. Jelf, the officer expected, was a man in whom Bede had confidence; of this one’s skill he knew nothing.
“It was Sergeant Jelf whom we desired to see,” said Bede, speaking with curt sharpness.
“It was,” amicably replied Mr. Butterby. “Jelf got a telegram this morning, and had to go off unexpected. I’m taking his place for a bit.”
“Have you changed your abode from Helstonleigh to London?”
“Only temporary. My head-quarters is always at Helstonleigh. And now about this matter, Mr. Bede Greatorex?”
“I think we need not trouble you. It can wait until Sergeant Jelf returns.”
“It might have to wait some time then,” was Mr. Butterby’s answer. “Jelf is off to Rooshia first; St. Petersburgh; and it’s hard to say how long he’ll stay there or where he may have to go to next. It’s all right, sir; I’ve been for this ten minutes with Mr. Greatorex, have learnt the particulars of the case, and got his instructions.”
Bede Greatorex bit his lip. This man, associated in his mind with that past trouble — the death of John Ollivera, who had been so dear to him, who was so bitterly regretted still — was rather distasteful to Bede than otherwise, and for certain other reasons he would have preferred Jelf. There seemed however no help for it, as his father had given the man his instructions.
Mr. Butterby turned his attention on the clerks. As a preliminary step to proceedings, he peered at them one by one under his eyebrows, while apparently studying the maps on the walls. Hurst favoured him with a civil nod.
“How d’ye do, Butterby?” said Roland Yorke. “You don’t get much fatter, Butterby.”
Mr. Butterby’s answer to this was to stare at Roland for a full minute; as if he could not believe his own eyes at seeing him there.
“That looks like Mr. Roland Yorke!”
“And it is him,” said Roland. “He is a clerk here. Now then, Butterby!”
“I beg to state that I have full confidence in all my clerks,” interposed Mr. Bede Greatorex.
“Just so,” acquiesced the detective. “Mr. Greatorex senior thinks the same. But it is requisite that I should put a few questions to them, for all that. I can’t see my way clear until I shall have ascertained the movements of every individual clerk this house employs, from the time the cheque was put into your desk yesterday, sir. And I mean to do it,” he concluded with equable composure.
He was proceeding to examine the clerks, holding a worn note-book in his hand to pencil down any answer that might strike him, when Bede Greatorex again interposed, conscious that this might be looked upon by some of them as an unpardonable indignity.
“I cannot think this necessary, Mr. Butterby. We place every confidence in our clerks; I repeat it emphatically. Mr. Brown and Mr. Jenner have been with me for some years now; Mr. Hurst and Mr. Yorke are gentlemen.”
“I know who they two are; knew them long before you did, sir; and their fathers too. Dr. Yorke, the late prebendary, put some business into my hands once. But now, just leave this matter with me, Mr. Bede Greatorex. Your father has done me the honour to leave it in my hands; and, excuse me for saying it, so must you. All these four, now present to hear you mention their names with respect, understand just as well that what I do is an ordinary matter of form the law’s officers require to be gone through, as if I paid ’em the compliment to say so.”
“Oh, very well,” said Bede, acquiescing more cheerfully. “Step in to my private room with me for a moment first, Mr. Butterby.”
He held the door open as he spoke; but, before the officer could turn to it, Mr. Greatorex came in. Bede shut the door again, and nodded to Mr. Butterby as much as to say, “Never mind now.”
And so the questioning of the clerks began. Mr. Greatorex stayed for a short while to listen to it, and talked to them all in a friendly manner, as if to show that the procedure was not instituted in consequence of any particular suspicion, rather as an investigation in which the house, masters and clerks, were alike interested. The head-clerk went on with his work during the investigation as calmly as if Mr. Butterby had been a simple client; the questions put to him, as to his own movements on the previous day, he answered quietly, calmly, and satisfactorily. Roland never wrote a single line during the whole time; he did nothing but stare; and made comments with his usual freedom. When his turn came to receive the officer’s polite attention, he exploded a little and gave very insolent retorts, out of what Mr. Butterby saw was sheer contrariness.
The inquiry narrowed itself to this side of the house; the rest of the clerks being able to prove, individually, that they had not been near Mr. Bede’s room during the suspicious hours on
the previous day. Whereas it appeared, after some considerable sifting, that each one of these four could have entered it at will, and unseen. What with the intervening dinner-hour, and sundry out-door commissions, every one of them had been left alone in the office separately for a greater or less period of time. It also came out that, with the exception of Jenner, each had been away from the office quite long enough to go to the bank with the cheque, or to send it and secure the money. Roland Yorke, taking French leave, had stayed a good hour and a quarter at his dinner, having departed for it at a quarter past one. Mr. Brown had been out on business for the house from one till half-past two; and Mr. Hurst, who went to the stamp office, was away nearly as long. In point of fact, the chief office-keeper had been little Jenner, who came back from dinner at halfpast one.
“And now,” said the detective, after putting up the pocket-book, in which he had pencilled various of the above items of intelligence, “I should like to get a look at this desk of yours, Mr. Bede Greatorex.”
Bede led the way to his room and shut himself in with the detective. While apparently taking no notice whatever of the questions put to his clerks, keeping his head bent over some papers as if his very life depended on their perusal, he had in reality listened keenly to the answers of all. Handing over the key of his table-desk, he allowed the officer to examine it at will, and waited. He then sat down in his own handsome chair of green patent leather and motioned the other to a seat opposite.
“Mr. Butterby, I do not wish any further stir made in this business.”
Had Mr. Butterby received a cannon-ball on his head he could scarcely have experienced a greater shock of surprise, and for once made no reply. Bede Greatorex calmly repeated his injunction, in answer to the perplexed gaze cast on him. He wished nothing more done in the matter.
“What on earth for?” cried Mr. Butterby.
“I shall have to repose some confidence in you,” pursued Mr. Bede Greatorex. “It will be safe, I presume?”
Butterby quite laughed at the question. Safe! With him! It certainly would be. If the world only knew the secrets he held in his bosom!
“And yet I can but trust you partially,” resumed Bede Greatorex. “Not for my own sake; I have nothing to conceal, and should like things fully investigated; but for the sake of my father and family generally. Up to early post-time this morning I was more anxious for Jelf, that he might take the loss in hand, than ever my father was.”
Bede Greatorex paused. But there came no answering remark from his attentive listener, and he went on again.
“I received a private note by this morning’s post which altered the aspect of things, and gave me a clue to the real taker of the cheque. Only a very faint clue: a suspicion rather; and, that, vague and uncertain: but enough to cause me, in the doubt, to let the matter drop. In fact there is no choice left for me. We must put up with the loss of the money.”
Mr. Butterby sat with his hands on his knees, a favourite attitude of his: his head bent a little forwards, his eyes fixed on the speaker.
“I don’t quite take you, Mr. Greatorex,” said he. “You must speak out more plainly.”
Bede Greatorex paused in hesitation. This communication was distasteful, however necessary he might deem it, and he felt afraid of letting a dangerous word slip inadvertently.
“The letter was obscure,” he slowly said, “but, if I understand it aright, the proceeds of the cheque have found their way into the hands of one whom neither my father nor I would prosecute. To do so would bring great pain upon us both, perhaps injury. The pain to my father would be such that I dare not show him the letter, or tell him I have received it. For his sake, Mr. Butterby, you and I must both hush the matter up.”
Mr. Butterby felt very much at sea. A silent man by nature and habit, he sat still yet, and listened for more. “There will be no difficulty, I presume?”
“Let us understand each other, sir. If I take your meaning correctly, it is this. Somebody is mixed up in the affair whose name it won’t do to bring to light. One of the family, I suppose?”
Mr. Butterby had to wait for an answer. Bede Greatorex paused ere he gave it.
“If not an actual member of the family, it is one so nearly connected with it, that he may almost be called such.”
“It’s a man, then?”
“It is a man. Will you work with me in this, so as to keep suspicion from my father? Tacitly let him think you are doing what you can to investigate the affair. When no result is brought forth, he will suppose you have been unsuccessful.”
“Of course, sir, if you tell me I am not to go on with it, why I won’t, and it is at an end. Law bless me! Lots of things are put into our hands one day; and, the next, the family comes and says, Hush ’em up.”
“So far good, Mr. Butterby. But now, I wish you, for my own satisfaction, to make some private investigation into it. Quite secretly, you understand: and if you can learn anything as to the thief, bring the news quietly to me.”
Mr. Butterby thought this was about as complete a contradiction to what had gone before as it had been ever his lot to hear. He took refuge in his silent gaze and waited. Bede Greatorex put his elbow on the table and his hand to his head as he spoke.
“If I were able to confide to you the whole case, Mr. Butterby, you would see how entirely it is encompassed with doubts and difficulties. I have reason to fancy that the purloiner of the cheque out of this desk must have been one of the clerks in my room. I think this for two reasons; one is, that I don’t see how anybody else could have had access to it.”
“But, sir, you stood it out to their faces just now that you did not suspect them.”
“Because it will not do for them to know that I do. I assure you, Mr. Butterby, this is a most delicate and dangerous affair. I wish to my heart it had never happened.”
“Do you mean that the clerk, in taking it — if he did take it — was acting as the agent of some other parly?”
Bede Greatorex nodded. “Yes, only that.”
“But that’s enough to transport him, you know,” cried Butterby, slightly losing the drift of the argument.
“I we could bring him to book, yes. But that must not be done. I don’t see who else it could have been,” added Bede, communing with himself rather than addressing Mr. Butterby; and his face wore a strangely perplexed look.
“Could any of the household — the maidservants, for instance — get into this here room?” asked Mr. Butterby. —; “There’s not one of them would dare to risk it in the day-time. They are in the other house. No, no; I fear we must look to one of the young men in the next room.”
Mr. Butterby nodded with satisfaction: matters seemed to be taking a more reasonable turn.
“Let’s see; there’s four of them,” he began, beginning to tell the clerks off on his fingers. “The manager, Brown, confidential, you said, I think—”
“I did not say confidential,” interrupted Bede Greatorex. “I said we placed great confidence in him. There’s a distinction, Mr. Butterby.”
“Of course. Then there’s the little man, Jenner; and the others, Hurst and Yorke. Have you any doubt yourself as to any one of them?” quickly asked Mr. Butterby, looking full at the lawyer.
Bede Greatorex hesitated. “I cannot say I have. It would be so wrong, you know, to cast a doubt on either, when there is not sufficient cause; nothing but what may be a passing, foundationless fancy.”
“Speak out, Mr. Bede Greatorex. It’s all in the day’s work. If there is really nothing, it won’t hurt him; if there is, I may be able to follow it up. Perhaps it’s one of the two gentlemen?”
“If it be any one of the four. Mr. Hurst.”
The detective so far forgot his good manners as to break into a low whistle.
“Mr. Hurst! or Mr. Yorke, do you mean?” he cried, in his surprise.
“Not Mr. Yorke, certainly. Why should you think of him?”
“Oh, for nothing,” carelessly answered Butterby. “Hurst seems an upright young
man, sir.”
“It is so trifling a doubt I have of him, the lifting of a straw, as may be said, that I should be sorry to think he is not upright. Still, I have reason for deciding that he is the most likely, of the four, for doubt to attach to.”
At that moment, the gentleman in question interrupted them — Josiah Hurst; bringing a message to Mr. Bede Greatorex. An important client was waiting to see him. Mr. Butterby took a more curious look at the young man’s countenance than he had ever done in the old days at Helstonleigh.
“The lawyer’s wrong,” thought he to himself. “He is no thiever of cheques, he isn’t.”
“I shall be at liberty in one minute, Mr. Hurst.
Shut the door. You understand?” he added in a low tone to the detective, as they stood up together in parting. “All that I have said to you must be kept secret; doubly secret from my father. He must suppose you at work, [investigating; whereas, in point of fact, the thing must drop. Only, if you can gain any private information, bring it to me.”
Mr. Butterby answered by one of his emphatic nods. “You see there’s nothing come up yet about that other thing,” he said.
“What other thing?”
“The death of Mr. Ollivera.”
“And not likely to,” returned Bede Greatorex. “That was over and done with at the time.”.
“Just my opinion,” said the detective. “Jenner was his clerk in chambers.”
“Yes. A faithful little fellow.”
“Looks it. Who’s the other one — Mr. Brown?”
“I can only tell you that he is Mr. Brown; I know nothing of his family. We have had him three or four years.”
“Had a good character with him, I suppose? Knew where he’d been, and all that?
“Undoubtedly. My father is particular. Why do you ask?”
“Only because he is the only one in your room that I don’t know something of. Good morning, Mr. Bede Greatorex.”
Bede shut the door, and Mr. Butterby walked away, observing things indoors and out with a keen eye, while he ruminated on what he had heard. Sundry reports, connected with the domestic life of Bede Greatorex, were familiar to his comprehensive ears.