The Lost Clue - Abridged Edition

by Mrs. O. F. Walton

  "Do you mean to say, father, that all Mrs. Douglas's money is lost?"

  "Every farthing of it, worse luck."

  "And are they badly off?"

  "I'm afraid they are, Ken. I'm very much afraid they are. I'm awfully sorry about it."

  There was silence for some minutes, and then the old man said feebly, "Ken, I've been a good father to you."

  "Yes, indeed you have."

  "Now, I want you to make me a promise."

  "What is it, father?"

  "I want you to promise that you'll go and see Mrs. Douglas when I'm dead, and tell her about it."

  "Can't I write to her?"

  "No, I want you to see her and break it gentle-like to her, and tell her I was sorry. Be sure and tell her that, Ken."

  "I could write all that, father?"

  The old man's natural impatience returned. "Can't you do what I tell you?" he demanded.

  "It won't be pleasant to tell her, father -- most unpleasant, I should say."

  "Never mind about that. I've done lots of unpleasant things for you, as you'll know some day. Promise me, Ken."

  "Well, father, if it will be any comfort to you I'll promise, but I would much rather not go on such an errand."

  But Mr. Fortescue eventually got the promise that he wanted, and he knew that the captain was a man whose word could be depended upon.

  "Ring for Watson now, Ken."

  The woman came in and began to bustle about the room, putting things straight for the night.

  "Are you going to sit here with my father, Watson?" the captain asked.

  "Yes, of course," she said shortly. "The master can't be left."

  The captain noticed that she omitted the usual "sir" in speaking to him, but Watson's bad temper was well known to him, and he was not surprised.

  "Call me if I can be of any use, Watson."

  But Watson pretended not to hear, and began putting coal on the fire, noisily rattling the fire irons as she did so. The old man had closed his eyes and was apparently fast asleep. So Captain Fortescue crept out of the room and softly closed the door behind him.

  On the landing outside he found the old butler.

  "How is the master, sir?"

  "No worse, I think, Elkington. He seems to be sleeping now. My old room, I suppose?"

  "Yes, sir, your bag is there."

  "Good night, Elkington."

  "Good night, sir. I hope you'll find all comfortable."

  Kenneth Fortescue retired to his room.

  Chapter 4

  A Troubled Night

  IT WAS NOT, however, a good night as far as Captain Kenneth Fortescue was concerned, for he found it utterly impossible to sleep. The startling summons here, the suspense during the journey, the unexpected meeting with the beautiful Lady Violet in Birmingham, the sad news on arriving home of his father's illness -- the remembrance of all these kept sleep far away from him. And then there was the cause of that illness -- the ruin at the goldmine in Brazil which had befallen all his hopes and prospects.

  How could he continue in the army if his father was correct in saying that all his money was lost? It would be impossible. He was not an extravagant man, but he knew that even with the greatest care and economy he could not live on his captain's pay. What, then, could he do? What would become of him? What future could possibly be in front of him?

  Then his thoughts travelled to the mysterious envelope which lay in the safe in the next room. What would he find when he opened it? What revelation did it contain?

  His father had said something about money for him which had been lost with the rest. He had never known that he possessed any. Could it be money settled on his mother, which reverted to him at her death? If so, why was he never told of this? Why was it not handed over to him when he came of age? Could there be wrongdoing on his father's part of which he as yet knew nothing?

  Then even more troubled thoughts distracted him and kept him long awake. He thought of poor Mrs. Douglas -- a parson's widow with a family dependent on her -- and then of the awful news which he had to break to her in person -- news which made him ashamed of his own father. What business had his father to put trust money -- for surely that insurance money was exactly that in reality -- into such a risky concern as a South American goldmine?

  How could his father have been so foolish -- he had almost let himself think the word wicked -- but because all the old man's own money was invested in the same concern he gladly altered the word to foolish. But how could he ever tell Mrs. Douglas? How could he possibly soften down so hard and terrible a blow? What could he say to let her know how much he felt for her? He would always look on the four thousand pounds as a debt that he owed to her and to her family. If not legally bound to repay her, he felt that morally he was responsible. Yet how could he possibly do it? He knew not how to provide for his own wants in the future, much less how to be able to save so large a sum.

  Then he thought of his father dying in the next room; that he was dying he had little doubt. There was a look in his face which he had never seen there before, and he knew what that look meant -- the soul was striving to escape from the worn-out body. And where was that soul going? Was his father ready for the great change so close upon him?

  It was only lately that Captain Fortescue had felt the all-importance of knowing that the soul was safe for eternity. His regiment had been ordered out to war, and on the eve of a great battle he was resting in his tent when three officers rode past. They pulled up close to where he was, and stood looking at the sunset, which was a glorious one that evening. One of the officers, a major and the oldest of the three, said as he looked across the valley at the long lines of the enemy, "I wonder where we three will be when the sun sets tomorrow evening?"

  The man next him laughed, and said lightly, "Well, who cares? A short life and a merry one for me."

  "What do you say?" asked the senior officer, turning to the young lieutenant who was riding on the other side of him.

  As Fortescue lay in his tent, with the door open to the west, he could see the young officer, whom he had known at Sandhurst, looking steadfastly at the fast-setting sun; and he could hear him say softly, almost as if he was speaking to himself, the words of a hymn:

  "Peace, perfect peace, my future all unknown?

  Jesus I know, and He is on the Throne."

  The next evening came, and the sunset was as fine as the night before, but the golden rays streamed down on a blood-soaked battlefield covered with the dead and dying. The major who had asked that question of his companions was riding across the valley, but he was riding alone. His two friends lay among the dead, cold and still. Fortescue saw him, and he knew that he alone of the three was left to see the sun go down. And as he looked, he envied the young lieutenant who had met death with such calm confidence. Perhaps the next battlefield might be his own last resting place. Who knew? As he knelt in his tent that night to say his prayers, he asked that that perfect peace might be his also. And now he, too, could say, "Jesus I know, and He is on the Throne." And the effect of the realization of God's forgiveness had been profound.

  But could his father say that? He was afraid not. He felt that he ought to speak to him, but it would be difficult.

  The captain was a reserved man, a fact that he readily recognized. He would have found it extremely difficult to speak to anyone on such a subject, but to say anything of the kind to his father seemed to him a task which he dared not undertake. Perhaps he could persuade him to see a clergyman tomorrow. He could, at any rate, venture to suggest that he should do so.

  And so at last morning dawned, and thoroughly wearied by the many troubled thoughts of the night, Captain Fortescue got up and dressed. But before he went downstairs he crept into his father's room and stood by his bed. Watson had gone to the kitchen for something she wanted, and he found no one in the room. The old man's eyes were closed, and he thought he was asleep. But he opened his eyes after a time, and looked at his son.

  "Kenneth," he
said.

  "Yes, father. I came to see how you are."

  "Remember your promise to see Mrs. Douglas."

  "I won't forget."

  "I'm very ill, Kenneth."

  "I'm afraid you are, father. Won't you let me send for the clergyman to come and see you?"

  "No, Kenneth, no. I don't know him. He's only just come here. He did call once, but I was out."

  There were a few minutes' silence after this, and then his father said, "Couldn't you talk to me a bit, Ken? You know more of these things than I do. I want . . . I want. . ."

  "You want to know where you are going, father. That's it, isn't it?"

  "Yes, that's it, Ken. It's all dark-like, and I've not been what I ought to ha' been."

  Captain Fortescue repeated words they both knew from the Prayer Book. "We have erred and strayed from Thy ways like lost sheep. We have left undone what we ought to have done, and have done that which we ought not to have done, and there is no health in us."

  "That's it, Ken," said the old man. "That's just it."

  "But the Lord Jesus came to save the lost sheep, father. He will save you, if you ask Him. He died for sinners, you know."

  "Yes, Kenneth, yes, but I don't know how to ask Him. What shall I say?"

  "Say the words of this hymn, father: 'Just as I am without one plea, But that Thy Blood was shed for me, And that Thou bidd'st me come to Thee, O Lamb of God, I come.'"

  The old man repeated the words of the hymn after his son, and many and many a time during the day, as Kenneth Fortescue sat beside him, he heard him saying softly,

  "O Lamb of God, I come."

  Kenneth Fortescue never went to bed that night. He sat holding his dying father's hand.

  Watson did her best to get rid of him, but in vain. He insisted on remaining where he was. The old butler Elkington crept into the room and sat watching his master from the foot of the bed.

  And, just as the first morning light came streaming through the window, the captain heard the old man say for the last time, "O Lamb of God, I come."

  And the next minute all was still, and their long watch was ended.

  Chapter 5

  The Safe Opened

  BEFORE Captain Fortescue left his father's room that morning, he took up the bunch of keys on which the old man's eyes had rested with such anxious care, and which were still lying on a small table near his bed. He slipped them at once into his pocket, for he did not know who might come into that room, and he wished to feel assured that the safe would not be tampered with.

  But, eager though he was to discover what secret the letter addressed to him contained, it was not until late in the day that he went into the room where his father lay at peace at last, to open the safe and find the envelope which his father had described to him.

  He had been much moved by his father's death, and he shrank from too quickly bringing to light that which might possibly reveal to him something in his father's past life -- something which would bring discredit on his memory and might cause him to think less kindly and tenderly of the dead.

  It was his father's intense anxiety that the paper should not be read in his lifetime, which led Captain Fortescue to surmise that the contents were in some way not creditable to him.

  But in the evening, when all arrangements for the funeral were made, and the servants were below at their supper, he crept in with a candle in his hand. He felt almost as if he was a thief as he crossed the floor and passed the silent form on the bed.

  His father had never allowed anyone to open that safe. In the days of his childhood he had been accustomed to look at it with awe and wonder as he speculated on the mysteries it might contain. Now he was going to open it, and the hand that had so carefully guarded its contents lay cold and lifeless on the bed. He felt almost as if he would hear his father's protesting voice as he fitted the key in the lock. He even glanced back at the bed, as if to assure himself that there was no movement there.

  The key turned easily, and the massive iron door swung slowly open. As he looked inside he saw several packets of deeds tied up with red tape, a pile of account books and countless old check books. But he did not stop to look in detail at what the safe contained. His eyes sought eagerly for the will, for had not his father told him that, underneath the will he would find the secret information that he wished him to receive?

  Yes, the will was there. He saw the large envelope on which was written, in clear legal copperplate characters, Last Will and Testament of Joseph Fortescue. But the will had little interest for him now. Of what use was it to be told that so many thousands had been bequeathed to him, when he knew that those thousands did not exist, but had been swamped in the ruinous flooding of that distant mine? As his old father had said, the will was not worth the paper on which it was written. He lifted it with beating heart, and looked underneath it.

  Yes, there was the letter. He could see his father's writing on it -- he could read the words, For my son. To be opened after my death.

  He was just slipping it into his pocket when he heard a movement in the room. He turned round and saw Watson standing behind him. How she had crept into the room without his hearing her he could not imagine.

  "What do you want, Watson?"

  "I was passing the door, sir, and saw a light, so came in to see that all was right. You've soon found your way to the safe, sir."

  Captain Fortescue took no notice of this insolent remark. He was not going to give vent to his feeling of anger here. So, without deigning to reply, he locked the safe, and taking the will and the keys in his hand he went out of the room.

  Crossing the landing, he entered his own bedroom and closed and locked the door. Now he was safe from intrusion and from Watson's prying gaze. He put his candle on the table, drew a chair near it, and sat down to open the letter. He had a nervous dread of the revelation he was about to receive, and at the last moment he was afraid to look on that which before he had been so anxious to see.

  He tore open the long envelope, which was securely fastened at one end, and drew out a sheet of foolscap paper folded into four.

  He spread it before him. He turned over the page. He looked at the back of it.

  He could see nothing -- not a single word appeared to be written on it. So far as he could tell, it was simply a blank sheet, unused, unsoiled, utterly void of any information on any subject whatever. He held it up to the light. He tried to imagine that he saw secret marks on it. He turned the page over and over, but he could find nothing but emptiness -- a plain white surface that seemed to mock his scrutiny.

  Surely he had brought the wrong envelope. But no, there were the words on the outside in his father's childish handwriting, For my son. To be opened after my death. Could the old man have made a mistake and placed the wrong document in the cover?

  He went back to his father's room, carefully locking the door this time, and made a thorough investigation of the contents of the safe. But he found nothing whatever to repay his search: no other envelope, no other letter -- nothing at all but old accounts and a few business papers.

  He stood by the bed and looked at his dead father, and longed to ask him what he had done with the information which he had so much wished him to receive.

  Kenneth Fortescue went to his bedroom again, and once more examined the sheet of paper. Then a bright thought seized him. Could it be that his father, fearing lest the document should fall into other hands, had written it in invisible ink? Was it possible that, if he only knew how to deal with it, be might be able to fill that blank page with words of weight and importance? He remembered, when he was a boy, having a bottle of ink which made no mark on the paper unless heat was brought to bear on it. Perhaps his father had remembered it also, and recollecting the fact that his son had known the secret as a boy, he had adopted this means of making his letter even more private, and had thus considerably lessened the liability of its being read by anyone else.

  Kenneth Fortescue went to the library and carefully held the fools
cap sheet to the fire. But beyond a slight mark of scorching on the page, it remained unchanged and exactly as he had found it.

  Then it crossed his mind that possibly there might be chemicals, which if applied to paper that had been prepared in a certain way, would bring to light hidden writing and make it legible. He had read of something of the kind being used in time of war, in the place of the ordinary cipher. Possibly this was the explanation which he was seeking. He rang the bell, and Elkington answered it.

  "What time do the shops close, Elkington?"

  "Eight o'clock, sir."

  The captain looked at his watch. "A quarter past nine. Too late, then."

  "What am I thinking of?" said the old butler. "Of course, it's Saturday night. They won't close till ten, or eleven, maybe."

  "That's right. Can you send for a cab for me, Elkington?"

  "Is it anything I can do, sir?"

  "No, Elkington, thank you. I'm afraid not."

  "Do you want the cab at once, sir?"

  "Yes, at once. The sooner the better."

  The old man hurried off to do his young master's bidding, and Kenneth, after placing the precious sheet of folded paper carefully in the breast pocket of his coat, stood waiting in the hall until the cab arrived. He saw Watson come to the top of the stairs and look down, as if she was watching his movements. Then she came into the hall.

  "Are you going out, sir? So late, too," she added.

  The cab drove up at this moment, so that he did not deem it necessary to answer, but he saw her craning her neck forward to catch the direction that he gave to the cabman. Consequently he altered what he had intended to say, merely naming the part of the town to which he wished to be driven.

  The streets of Sheffield were brilliantly lit as he drove through them. Crowds of working people were thronging the main thoroughfares and filling the various shops. But the large chemist's, at which he told the cabman to stop, was practically empty, and the assistants were preparing to close for the night.