by Ellen Wood
“And mark you this,” he added to Hanborough, with whom the colloquy was taking place, “some past matters will come out that Preen wants kept in. He’ll wish he had paid me, then.”
Now, old Paul overheard this, for the door was partly open. Rugged in look, and in manner too when he chose to be, he was not rugged at heart. He was saying to himself that if this money had really been lost out of his office, stolen possibly by one of his clerks, he might replace it from his own pocket, to ward off further damage to Preen. Preen had not at present a second ten-pound note to give, could not find one anyway; Preen wished he could. Ten pounds would not affect the lawyer’s pocket at all: and his resolution was taken. Ringing his bell, which was answered by Batley, he bade him show Derrick to his room.
The man came in with a subdued face. He supposed he had been overheard, and he did not care to offend Mr. Paul.
“I cannot have you coming here to disturb my clerks, Derrick,” said the lawyer, with authority. “If you write out a receipt, I will pay you.”
“And sure enough that’s all I want, sir,” returned Derrick, who was Irish. “But I can’t let the thing go on longer — and it’s Preen I’d like to disturb, Lawyer Paul, not you.”
“Sit down yonder and write the receipt,” said the lawyer, shortly. “You know how to word it.”
So Derrick wrote the receipt and went off with the ten pounds. And Gervais Preen said a few words of real thanks to Mr. Paul in a low tone, when he heard of it.
On Tuesday morning, the thirteenth of July, exactly four weeks to the day since the bank-note left Mr. Preen’s hands, he had news of it. The Old Bank at Worcester wrote to him to say that the missing note had been paid in the previous day, Monday, by a well-known firm of linen-drapers in High Street. Upon which the bank made inquiry of this firm as to whence they received the note, and the answer, readily given, was that they had had it from a neighbour opposite — the silversmith. The silversmith, questioned in his turn, replied with equal readiness that it had been given him in payment of a purchase by young Mr. Todhetley.
Preen, hardly believing his eyes, went off with all speed to Islip, and laid the letter before Lawyer Paul.
“What does it all mean?” he asked. “How can young Todhetley have had the note in his possession? I am going on to Crabb Cot to show the Squire the letter.”
“Stop, stop,” said the far-seeing lawyer, “it won’t do to take this letter to Todhetley. Let us consider, first of all, how we stand. There must be some mistake. The bank and the silversmith have muddled matters between them; they may have put young Todhetley’s name into it through seeing his father’s on the bank-note. I will write at once to Worcester and get it privately inquired into. You had better leave it altogether in my hands, Preen, for the present.” A proposal Preen was glad to agree to.
Lawyer Paul wrote to another lawyer in Worcester with whom he was on friendly terms, Mr. Corles; stating the particulars of the case. That gentleman lost no time in the matter; he made the inquiries himself, and speedily wrote back to Islip.
There had been no mistake, as Mr. Paul had surmised. The linen-drapers, a long-established and respectable firm, as Paul knew, had paid the note into the Old Bank, with other monies, in the ordinary course of business; and the firm repeated to Mr. Corles that they had received it from their neighbour, the silversmith.
The silversmith himself was from home at this time; he was staying at Malvern for his health, going to Worcester on the market days only, Saturdays and Wednesdays, when the shop expected to be busy. He had one shopman only, a Mr. Stephenson, who took charge in his master’s absence. Stephenson assured Mr. Corles that he had most positively taken the note from Squire Todhetley’s son. Young Mr. Todhetley had gone into the shop, purchased some trifling article, giving the note in payment, and received the change in gold. Upon referring to his day-book, Stephenson found that the purchase was made and the note paid to him during the morning of Thursday, the seventeenth of June.
When this communication from Mr. Corles reached Islip, it very much astonished old Paul. “Absurd!” he exclaimed, flinging it upon his table when he had read it; then he took it up and read it again.
“Here, Chandler,” said he, calling his new partner to him, “what do you make of this?”
Tom Chandler read it twice over in his turn. “If Joseph Todhetley did change the note,” he observed, “he must have done it as a practical joke, and be keeping up the joke.”
“It is hardly likely,” returned Mr. Paul. “If he has, he will have a bad quarter of an hour when the Squire hears of it.”
On this same morning, Thursday, we were preparing for Worcester; the Squire was going to drive us in — that is, myself and Tod. The phaeton was actually being brought round to the gate and we were getting our hats, when Tom Chandler walked in, saying he had come upon a little matter of business.
“No time to attend to it now, Tom,” said the Squire, all in a bustle; “just starting for Worcester. You look hot.”
“I am hot, for I came along at a trotting pace,” said Tom; “the matter I have come upon makes me hot also. Mr. Todhetley, I must explain it, short as your time may be; it is very important, and — and peculiar. Mr. Paul charged me to say that he would have come himself, but he is obliged to stay at home to keep an appointment.”
“Sit down, then,” said the Squire, “and make it as brief as you can. Johnny, lad, tell Giles to drive the horses slowly about.”
When I got back, after telling Giles, Tom Chandler had two letters in his hand; and was apologising to the Squire and to Tod for what he was obliged to enter upon. Then he added, in a few words, that the lost bank-note had come to light; it had been changed at Worcester, at the silversmith’s in High Street, by, it was asserted, young Mr. Todhetley.
“Why, what d’ye mean?” cried the Squire sharply.
To explain what he meant, Tom Chandler read aloud the two letters he held; the short one, which had been first addressed to Mr. Preen by the Old Bank, and then the longer one written by Mr. Corles.
“Edward Corles must be a fool to write that!” exclaimed the Squire in his hot fashion.
“Well, he is not that, you know,” said Tom Chandler. “The question is, Squire, what the grounds can be upon which they so positively state it. According to their assertion, young Mr. Todhetley changed the note at the silversmith’s on the morning of Thursday, the seventeenth of June.”
“Young Mr. Todhetley” in a general way was just as hot as his father, apt to fly out for nothing. I expected to see him do so now. Instead of which, he had a broad smile on his face, evidently regarding the accusation as a jest. He had perched himself on the arm of the sofa, and sat there grinning.
This struck Tom Chandler. “Did you do it for a joke?” he asked promptly.
“Do what?” rejoined Tod.
“Change the note.”
“Not I.”
“The only conclusion Mr. Paul and I could come to was, that — if you had done it — you did it to play a practical joke upon Preen, and were keeping it up still.”
The Squire struck his hand in anger upon the table by which he sat.
“What is the meaning of this, Joe? A practical joke? Did you do the thing, or didn’t you? Speak out seriously. Don’t sit there, grinning like a Chinese image.”
“Why of course I did not do it, father. How should Preen’s bank-note get into my hands? Perhaps Johnny there got it and did it. He is sometimes honoured by being put down as your son, you know.”
He was jesting still. The Squire was not in a mood for jesting; Tom Chandler either. A thought struck me.
“Did you say the note was changed on Thursday, the seventeenth of June?” I asked him.
“They say so,” answered Tom Chandler.
“Then that was the day of the picnic at Mrs. Cramp’s. Neither I nor Tod left the house at all until we went there.”
“Why bless me, so it was! the seventeenth,” cried the Squire. “I can prove that they were at home
till four o’clock: the Beeles were spending the day here from Pigeon Green. Now, Chandler, how has this false report arisen?”
“I am as much at sea as you can be, sir,” said Tom Chandler. “Neither I nor Paul can, or do, believe it — or understand why the other people stick to it so positively. You are going into Worcester, Squire; make your own inquiries.”
“That I will,” said the Squire. “You had better drive in with us, Chandler, if you can. Giles can stay at home.”
It was thus decided, and we started for Worcester, Chandler sitting beside the Squire. And the way the Squire touched up Bob and Blister, and the pace we flew along at, was a sight for the road to see.
III
Thursday morning, the seventeenth of June — for we have to go back to that day. High Street was basking in the rays of the hot sun; foot passengers, meeting each other on the scorching pavement, lifted their hats for a moment’s air, and said what a day it was going to be. The clean, bright shops faced each other from opposite sides. None of their wares looked more attractive than those displayed in the two windows of the silversmith.
Mr. Stephenson — a trustworthy, civil little man of thirty, with a plain face and sandy hair that stood upright on his head — was keeping guard over his master’s goods, some of them being very valuable. The shop was a long one and he was far down in it, behind the left-hand counter. Before him lay a tray of small articles of jewellery, some of which he was touching up with a piece of wash-leather. He did not expect to be busy that day; the previous day, Wednesday, had been a busy one, so many country people came into town for the market.
While thus engaged a gentleman, young, good looking, and well dressed, entered the shop. Mr. Stephenson went forward.
“I have called for Mrs. Todhetley’s brooch,” said the stranger. “Is it ready?”
“What brooch, sir?” returned Stephenson.
“The one she left with you to be mended.”
The shopman felt a little puzzled. He said he did not remember that any brooch had been left by that lady to be mended.
“Mrs. Todhetley of Crabb Cot,” explained the applicant, perhaps thinking the man was at fault that way.
“Oh, yes, sir, I know who you mean; I know Mrs. Todhetley. But she has not left any brooch here.”
“Yes, she has; she left it to be mended. I was to call to-day and ask for it.”
Stephenson turned to reach the book in which articles left to be mended were entered, with their owners’ names. Perhaps his master might have taken in the brooch and omitted to tell him. But no such entry was recorded in it.
“I am afraid it is a mistake, sir,” he said. “Had Mrs. Todhetley left a brooch, or anything else, for repair, it would be entered here. She may have taken it to some other shop.”
“No, no; it is yours I was to call at. She bought it here a few months ago,” added the young man. “She came in to ask you about the polishing-up of an old silver cake-basket, and you showed her the brooches, some you had just had down from London, and she bought one of them and gave four guineas for it.”
Stephenson remembered the transaction perfectly. He had stood by while his principal showed and sold the brooch to Mrs. Todhetley. Four only of these brooches had been sent to them on approval by their London agent, they were something quite new. Mrs. Todhetley admired them greatly; said she wanted to make a wedding present to a young lady about to be married, but had not meant to give as much as four guineas. However, the beauty of the brooch tempted her; she bought it, and took it home.
Stephenson’s silence, while he was recalling this to his memory, caused the gentleman to think his word was doubted, and he entered into further particulars.
“It was last March, I think,” he said. “The brooch is a rather large one; a white cornelian stone, or something of that sort, with a raised spray of flowers upon it, pink and gold; the whole surrounded by a border of gold filagree work. I never saw a nicer brooch.”
“Yes, yes, sir, it was just as you say; I recollect it all quite well. Mrs. Todhetley bought it to give away as a wedding present.”
“And the wedding never came off,” said the young man, with ease. “Before she had time to despatch the brooch, news came to her of the rupture. — So she had to keep it herself: and the best thing too, the Squire said. Well, it is that brooch I have come for.”
“But I assure you it has not been left with us, Mr. Todhetley,” said Stephenson, presuming he was speaking to the Squire’s son.
“The little pink flower got broken off last week as Mrs. Todhetley was undoing her shawl; she brought it in at once to be mended,” persisted the young man.
“But not here indeed, sir,” reiterated Stephenson. “I’m sorry to hear it is broken.”
“She wouldn’t take it anywhere but to the place it was bought at, would she? I’m sure it was here I had to come for it.”
Stephenson felt all abroad. He did not think it likely the brooch would be taken elsewhere, and began to wonder whether his master had taken it in, and forgotten all about it. Opening a shallow drawer or two in the counter, in one of which articles for repair were put, in the other the repaired articles when finished, he searched both, but could not see the brooch. This took him some little time, as most of the things were in paper and he had to undo it.
Meanwhile the applicant amused himself by looking at the articles displayed under the glass frame on the counter. He seemed to be rather struck with some very pretty pencils.
“Are those pencils gold?” he inquired of Stephenson, when the latter came forward with the news that the brooch was certainly not in the shop.
“No, sir; they are silver gilt.”
Lifting the glass lid, Stephenson took out the tray on which the pencils and other things lay, and put it right under the young man’s nose, in the persuasive manner peculiar to shopmen. The pencils were chased richly enough for gold, and had each a handsome stone at the end, which might or might not be real.
“What is the price?”
“Twelve shillings each, sir. We bought them a bargain; from a bankrupt’s stock in fact; and can afford to sell them as such.”
“I should like to take this one, I think,” said the young man, choosing out one with a pink topaz. “Wait a bit, though: I must see if I’ve enough change to pay for it.”
“Oh, sir, don’t trouble about that; we will put it down to you.”
“No, no, that won’t do. One, two, four, six. Six shillings; all I have in the world,” he added laughing, as he counted the coin in his porte-monnaie, “and that I want. You can change me a ten-pound note, perhaps?”
“Yes, sir, if you wish it.”
The purchaser extracted the note from a secret pocket of his porte-monnaie, and handed it to the shopman.
“The Squire’s name is on it,” he remarked.
Which caused Stephenson to look at the back. Sure enough, there it was— “J. Todhetley,” in the Squire’s own handwriting.
“Give me gold, if you can.”
Stephenson handed over nine pounds in gold and eight shillings in silver. He then wrapped the pencil in soft white paper, and handed over that.
Wishing the civil shopman good morning, the young man left. He stood outside the door for a minute, looking about him, and then walked briskly up the street. While Stephenson locked up the ten-pound note in the cash-box.
There it lay, snug and safe, for two or three weeks. One day Stephenson, finding he had not enough change for a customer who came in to pay a bill, ran over to the draper’s opposite and got change for it there. These were the particulars which Stephenson had furnished, and furnished readily, upon inquiries being made of him.
Squire Todhetley drove like the wind, and we soon reached Worcester, alighting as usual at the Star-and-Garter. The Squire’s commotion had been growing all the way; that goes without telling. He wanted to take the bank first; Tom Chandler recommended that it should be the silversmith’s.
“The bank comes first in the way,” snapped the
Squire.
“I know that, sir; but we can soon come back to it when we have heard what the others say.”
Yet I think he would have gone into the bank head-foremost, as we passed it, but chance had it that we met Corles, the lawyer, at the top of Broad Street. Turning quickly into High Street, on his way from his office, he came right upon us. The Squire pinned him by the button-hole.
“The very man I wanted to see,” cried he. “And now you’ll be good enough to tell me, Edward Corles, what you meant by that rigmarole you wrote to Paul yesterday about my son.”
“I cannot tell what was meant, Squire, any more than you can; I only wrote in accordance with my information,” said Mr. Corles, shaking hands with the rest of us. “You have done well to come over; and I will accompany you now, if you like, to see Stephenson.”
The Squire put his arm within the younger man’s, and marched on down High Street to the silversmith’s, never so much as looking at the bank door. Stephenson was in the shop alone: such a lot of us, it seemed, turning in!
The Squire, hot and impulsive, attacked him as he had attacked Edward Corles. What did Stephenson mean by making that infamous accusation about his son?
It took Stephenson aback, as might be seen; his eyes opened and his hair stood on end straighter than ever. Looking from one to the other of us, he last looked at Mr. Corles, as if seeking an explanation.
“The best thing you can do, to begin with, Stephenson, is to relate to Squire Todhetley and these gentlemen the particulars you gave me yesterday morning,” said Mr. Corles. “I mean when you took the bank-note, a month ago.”
Without more ado, Stephenson quietly followed the advice; he seemed of as calm a temperament as the Squire was the contrary, and recited the particulars just given. The Squire’s will was good to interrupt at every second word, but Mr. Corles begged him to listen to the end.
“Oh, that’s all very well,” cried he at last, “all true, I dare say; what I want to know is, how you came to pitch upon that customer as being my son.”