by Andrew Garve
Mellanby came straight to the point. ‘Roscoe has been staying at my home in Bath for a week or two as my guest’ he said. ‘This morning he showed me a letter he’d just received from you. I gather he owes you seven thousand pounds.’
‘He does, indeed.’
‘Well – I’ve come to settle his debt.’
The old man blinked. ‘You mean – Roscoe has sent the money?’
‘No. I mean that I should like to pay it for him.’
Faulkner stared at him in astonishment. ‘Why on earth should you do that?’
‘It’s very simple, Mr Faulkner … You see, just over two weeks ago Frank Roscoe saved my wife and small son from drowning, at the risk of his own life …’
‘Really?’
‘You’ll appreciate that it’s put me under an enormous obligation to him. Now I feel I have a chance to discharge the debt.’
‘Well, this is most surprising …’ For a moment Faulkner gazed hard at Mellanby, his eyes shrewd behind their glasses. Then he gave a slow, disapproving headshake. ‘I can understand how you feel, of course – but I’m bound to say I think it would be a most quixotic action. You say he showed you my letter, so you must know my view of him … I’m very much afraid the man’s a complete rogue.’
‘Oh, he’s a rogue, all right’ Mellanby said. ‘But in an odd sort of way that’s an additional reason why I’m so anxious to square my account with him. It isn’t at all pleasant to be deeply indebted to a rogue.’
‘No I can imagine that … But believe me, Mr Mellanby, he doesn’t deserve your consideration … He’s a fraud, an utter scoundrel. He’s behaved abominably to me …’
‘How did you come to know him?’ Mellanby asked.
‘Well, as a matter of fact,’ Faulkner said, with a wry look, ‘it was through a kind deed that he got to know me. He sent a very generous contribution to a cause with which I’m closely associated – the welfare of merchant seamen’s dependents.’ He smiled – an old man’s deprecating smile. ‘You might not think it now, Mr Mellanby, but I spent my life in the merchant service, and I was a liner captain when I retired … Anyhow, we put one of our usual appeals in The Times, and Roscoe sent a quite substantial cheque and a most friendly letter. I was very grateful, and asked him to come round for a drink and a chat – and I have to admit that I took to him.’
Mellanby nodded. ‘He can be very charming and persuasive when he feels like it.’
‘That’s what I found. Also, we had some small interests in common. He told me he was in business in the Midlands – running, he said, a fleet of pleasure boats on the less active canals. He was most enthusiastic about canals – he thought they had quite a future, and that people would eventually use them for holidays as they now use the Broads. All that was needed, he said, was more capital to build the boats …’ Faulkner sighed. ‘I suppose I was very foolish, but I had no reason to doubt his good faith. He seemed a very prosperous young man, as well as most likeable. I asked him to stay with me while he was in London – I’m an old bachelor, living quite alone, and I was glad to have him. I trusted him completely. Actually, it was I who suggested that I should invest some money in his business. I’m not a rich man, but I’d saved a fair amount and I was interested. Damn it, I even pressed him! In the end he accepted a cheque for seven thousand pounds, and shortly afterwards he left for the West Country to buy, as he said, some additional craft.’
‘And nothing else happened, I suppose,’ Mellanby said.
‘Not for some time – he did write to me once from Stourport, but after that there was a long silence. I began to get worried – he’d promised to send me share certificates in his company, but nothing came. Then I had some other financial troubles – the bottom suddenly fell out of some shares I owned in a company with Middle East connections, because of a political upset there – and I badly needed that seven thousand pounds or its equivalent … I was about to start making inquiries when I got another letter from him, from Bath, saying he hoped to send me the certificates soon … But it was a very vague letter.’
‘He was playing for time, of course.’
‘That was what I decided … By now – very reluctantly – I’d begun to doubt his genuineness. I wrote back, rather stiffly, telling him I’d been forced to change my plans and asking him if he would be good enough to return the money, or some negotiable equivalent, at once …’
Mellanby nodded. ‘It was a letter that worried him a great deal.’
‘I can well believe it …’ Faulkner sighed again. ‘Well, I didn’t do anything more about it during the next day or two – I was visiting some friends in Brighton. I hoped the cheque would be here when I got back. But it wasn’t – there was nothing. Not even an acknowledgement or an explanation. Not even an excuse. So then I wrote the letter which you saw. I don’t know what your own experience has been, Mr Mellanby, but I’ve no longer any doubts at all about Roscoe – and I think it would be much better if I put the matter in the hands of the police. Roscoe is not only a fraud – in my opinion he is not a redeemable character.’
‘I agree with you about that,’ Mellanby said. ‘I’m certainly not expecting to redeem him. When he showed me your letter this morning, and asked me to help him, he had the effrontery practically to admit that he was a confidence man – trading, of course, on the fact that I owed him such a deep debt of gratitude. So I’ve no illusions about him at all. He’s told me a pack of lies about himself, just as he did you – a different story, but for the same end. He’s obviously quite unscrupulous … But the fact remains that he did me the greatest service one man can do for another – risking, as I say, his own life – and it seems to me the only way I can repay him is to save him – on this occasion, at least – from going to jail. Indeed, I’m committed – I promised him, before he left, that I’d settle his account for him.’
‘He’s gone, has he?’
‘Yes, I made it a condition that he should leave at once, and he cleared off after breakfast. I don’t know where he’s gone to, and frankly I don’t care. It’s all been a most distressing business … What I do know, Mr Faulkner, is that you’ll be doing me a service by accepting my cheque and not pressing any charge against him. Then I can forget all about it.’
‘Well, I’m very reluctant’ Faulkner said slowly. ‘Mind you, I need the money, I’m not pretending I don’t and I certainly shan’t get it any other way … But I’m very reluctant indeed.’
‘You feel he should be punished?’
‘I think the scoundrel should be keel-hauled, Mr Mellanby!’
‘Yet in your letter,’ Mellanby said, ‘you seemed to indicate that if he paid the money back you wouldn’t pursue the matter.’
‘If he’d paid it back of his own accord – or even a part of it – that at least would have been some sign of grace.’
‘Try to see it from my point of view,’ Mellanby said. ‘Whatever his faults, he’s an unusually brave man. Heroism like his must count for a lot. Particularly, I would think, with you … A mitigating factor, surely?’
‘Well, yes … But leaving that aside, it seems to me most unjust that you should have to pay this large amount … Forgive me for asking, Mr Mellanby, but can you really afford it?’
‘I can well afford it,’ Mellanby said.
‘I see … Well, you put me in a quandary. As I say, I need the money – but to accept such a large sum from a complete stranger …’
‘I’m asking it as a favour,’ Mellanby said.
‘Well, of course, if you put it like that … It will certainly be a very great refief to me.’
Mellanby took out his cheque book with an inward sigh of thankfulness. Faulkner’s relief would be nothing to his! ‘It’s all a question of what one’s prepared to pay for peace of mind, Mr Faulkner,’ he said. ‘I know very well that if you brought a charge against Roscoe, and he was jailed – however much he deserves it – I should lie awake at night thinking how he’d pulled my wife and boy out of the sea, and how I could have
saved him from prison if I’d tried a bit harder … So here’s the cheque, and I’m grateful to you for taking it.’
‘Well – thank you,’ the old man said. ‘It lifts a great weight from my mind … If you’ll permit me to say so, I think your action is a most generous one …’ – he gave a wintry smile – ‘… even if it is quite misguided!’ He held out his knuckly hand. ‘Let us hope that neither of us is troubled by Frank Roscoe again.’
Mellanby’s smile was even more wintry. He had never disliked himself more than he did at that moment. ‘Somehow,’ he said, ‘I don’t think we shall be.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
With the settlement of Roscoe’s debt, the danger of police inquiries seemed finally to have passed. Even Mellanby could see no further cause for anxiety on that score. A brief note of reiterated thanks and good wishes which arrived from Charles Faulkner the following afternoon was clearly intended to close the episode. It was possible, of course, that the old man would tell his friends about Mellanby’s remarkable gesture – just possible. But even if he did, it wouldn’t matter. The gesture, though extravagant, had been natural enough in the circumstances, and on its own it certainly wouldn’t arouse the slightest suspicion. It was a pity, Mellanby thought, that he’d had to tell Faulkner that Roscoe had left after breakfast rather than the evening before, since that statement clashed with what he and Sally had put about in Bath – but as the contents of the morning letter had been the cause of his visit to London, he’d had no choice, In any case, the discrepancy wasn’t likely to be found out. It was an untidiness, that was all.
Sally’s relief was immeasurable. She felt a deep and almost humble gratitude to her husband, who had played a part he must have detested. She was secretly a little surprised at the resourceful, man-of-action way in which he’d handled the situation. Danger seemed to be bringing out new and unexpected qualities in him. It wasn’t until the crisis was plainly over that she referred to the financial aspect – and then only tentatively. In strict fairness, she said, ought not George to pay a share of the seven thousand pounds? – especially as he could well afford it … Probably he’d be glad to. But Mellanby was strongly against asking him, even if the chance occurred. No doubt he’d tell him what had happened, he said, if they ever met again, but the last thing he wanted at the moment was the transfer of a large sum of money from George to himself, which would be a difficult thing to account for if anyone started asking questions. Much better, he said, to leave well alone – particularly as they weren’t in need of the money … Sally was easily persuaded.
For a day or two, Mellanby continued to feel a slight uneasiness when he picked up the daily post. There was always the chance that Roscoe had left some unpaid bills in the town, or involved himself in some way that Mellanby didn’t know about. Anything like that would mean more explanations, more subterfuge. But his fears proved groundless. No more letters came, and there were no more telephone inquiries. No one even mentioned Roscoe any more. In Bath, he was a forgotten man – and soon the trail would be cold.
Chapter Twenty-Three
There was still a reckoning, though, as Mellanby had always known there would be in the end – the reckoning in his own mind. He had been too numbed with shock at first, too busy grappling with deadly dangers later, to allow of much brooding. Now the shock was past the dangers over, and there was no longer any escape from himself and his memories … From the real truth …
He did his best to curb his thoughts. He argued the case through with himself, over and over, stressing everything he could find in his favour. Determinedly, he tried to take a sensible and balanced view of his deception. On every practical ground, he told himself, Sally and Sherston had been right. He’d done the best, the only rational thing, by agreeing to keep quiet. The proof was all around him. The family was safe. The children were happy – they would never know. Sense and logic approved of what he’d done. In the daytime, sense and logic almost prevailed. Sitting in his study, with his work before him, and Sally close at hand, and an air of security all around him, he could, with a great effort of will, put Roscoe from his mind. Busying himself in town with societies and causes, talking with his friends and colleagues, he could force himself to concentrate .… But sense and logic couldn’t give him tranquil nights. Will power applied in the wakeful early hours merely left him drained. As the days passed, he found it more and more difficult to get any real rest. The moment he lay down, thoughts of the quarry filled his mind – morbid, ghastly thoughts. The picture of Roscoe’s body rotting in its grave obsessed him. His handiwork! For the first time in his life he began to take sleeping tablets – but his brain fought them, so that they always worked too late to do him any good. He began to lose weight that he could ill spare; his face became gaunt. It was as though his inner struggle were consuming him.
Sally watched him with growing distress and alarm. She had always known that it would be hard for him to forget, but she had never foreseen anything like this. Desperately, achingly, she tried to think of some new way to help him. Everything that devoted love could do, she had already done. Discussion seemed to have reached a dead end. She had tried several times to go over things with him again, to lift him out of his morbidity, but she seemed to have lost all power of persuasion. Sometimes she felt that she had even lost contact with him. It was something new in their married life, and it added sharply to her unhappiness. Perhaps, she thought things would be better if they could get away together. A holiday might do him good – a complete change, a cruise, perhaps, after the children were back at school. Evelyn would probably take care of them for a week or two … Yet Mellanby seemed so tortured and hag-ridden that she doubted if anything but time would make much difference.
One afternoon – it was nearly a fortnight after Roscoe’s death – she went into the study with a letter for him. He was leaning on the desk with his head in his hands, motionless. At the sound of her entry he jerked upright and guiltily turned the page of the book that lay open in front of him. Sally put the letter down, then drew up a chair beside him.
‘Darling – we can’t go on like this.’
‘We’ve no choice,’ he said.
‘But, John, you’re going to make yourself really ill.’
‘Well, you don’t imagine I’m doing it on purpose …?’ He saw the look of distress in her face, and put a hand on hers in swift contrition. ‘I’m sorry … I’m ashamed of myself, Sally. I’m a damned weakling, I know that. I despise myself for not being able to forget it. But I can’t – I can’t!’
‘Darling! – oh, if only I could help you. If only I could understand why it preys on your mind so – why you can’t forget … Why should it be so much worse for you than for me? – after all, I urged you on. Or for George? – I’m quite certain he’s not making himself ill over it.’
‘People are made differently.’
‘I wouldn’t have said I was made so differently – I’d have thought I had a normal amount of conscience. But I certainly don’t see this as you do … Look, darling, I know we’ve been over it again and again, but I have to keep on saying it – all you did was hit a man twice your size who was wrecking your home and threatening your children – and actually beating George into a pulp …’
‘And I killed him.’
‘It was an accident. You didn’t even hit him very hard – and anyway I’m not at all sure it was the chair that hit his head. It didn’t look like it to me – he dodged and I think it was his shoulder that you hit. I think he fell and banged his head on the fireplace and that was sheer bad luck. Why blame yourself? Heavens, it’s not as though you meant to kill him.’
‘I wanted to kill him,’ Mellanby said.
Sally gave him a startled look. ‘Darling, that’s nonsense … You probably hated him at that moment – who wouldn’t have done? – but not in that way … You, of all people …!’
‘I tell you I wanted to kill him,’ Mellanby repeated. ‘And not out of hate. You don’t understand, Sally. I was fr
ightened of him. Terrified! When I picked up that chair and went for him it wasn’t just in anger, or to help George, as it would have been with most men. I did it out of fear – sheer, naked, uncontrolled fear. Fear of his strength and his viciousness, and his razor threats, and of all the things he might do. I’d only one thought in my mind at that moment and it was to smash him down, crush him, get rid of him, finish him – just as though he’d been a dangerous snake. God knows it was a pretty puny effort and with ordinary luck he’d scarcely have felt it – but that’s beside the point. If ever a man had murder in his heart, I had at that moment …’
‘At that moment, perhaps – it’s not surprising …’ Sally was pale.
‘If you hit a man with murder in your heart, and he dies, that is murder …’
‘It was he who made you afraid.’
‘It was I who hadn’t the guts to keep control of myself … I know what I felt, Sally, and I know what I did. I dare say there are lots of people who wouldn’t worry about it at all, who’d think it was all justified. I wish to God I were one of them – but I’m not. I’m ashamed. I’ve got a damned conscience gnawing at me day and night, tearing me to shreds … Oh, Sally!’
She put her arms round him. ‘Darling, you’ve nothing to be ashamed of – nothing at all … You’re not being fair to yourself. You’ve got more real courage than anyone I ever met … John, whatever you felt at the time, he brought it all on himself – every bit of it … It was all his fault …’
‘He started it, I know. I can argue the case as well as you. But it doesn’t alter the fact that I’m going to be haunted for the rest of my life by a feeling of guilt and a squalid secret.’