The Lost Clue - Abridged Edition

by Mrs. O. F. Walton

  "And did he let her?"

  "He wouldn't at first, but Carrie cried, my dear. And at last he gave in, and said she was to follow him the next day. Well, we went to bed, Carrie and me, dearie, and when she was lying beside me that night I told her I did not much like having charge of that tin box, because folks might rob an old woman like me. And I asked her did she think it was jewels, or what was it?"

  "What did she say?"

  "She said it was naught but paper -- some letter, she said -- and then she began to cry. So I asked her what was the matter, dear. And she said she didn't like it at all, but they wouldn't listen to what she said."

  "Who wouldn't?"

  "Him and his sister. They'd stole this 'ere letter from someone as his sister lived with. She stole it, I believe, and then he took it and raised money on it."

  "How could he do that?" asked Marjorie, mystified.

  "I don't know, my dear. I can't understand these things. She called it hush money, or some such name. There was somebody as didn't want what was in that letter to be known. And Josiah Makepeace -- that's my daughter's husband, dearie -- kept on threatening him that he would tell, and then making him pay money to get him to hold his tongue. Carrie said that some day Josiah would sell this man the letter, and get hundreds of pounds for it. But he wanted first to see how much he could get out of him by threatening him, without parting with the letter."

  "I wonder what it was about," said Marjorie.

  "I don't know, my dear. Carrie didn't know either, for he wouldn't let her read it. And I've never opened the tin, and I couldn't read it if I did."

  "Then your daughter did not like what her husband was doing?"

  "No, she was frightened, my dear. Mr. Forty Screws was in a great way about losing the letter, see. And Josiah was afraid he would put the 'tectives on them, so that's why they was going out of the country. His sister was going with them -- his half-sister she was. She was the one that stole it from Mr. Forty Screws, and they didn't want to take the letter with them, lest the 'tectives should search them and find it in their boxes. When once they got over to Ameriky they thought they was safe. See? Carrie did cry about it, though, my dear, and she said if she had her way she would give it back to Mr. Forty Screws, and have done with it all."

  "What a curious name. Are you sure that it was Forty Screws?"

  "Well, something like it, my dear.'

  "Where is the tin now?"

  "In the cupboard below. One of those little cupboards by the fire."

  "Then they never sent for it?"

  "Never, dearie, and I haven't heard a word from them. It's more than six months now since they sailed. There was a ship went down in them parts soon after they went -- at least Enoch told me so. He saw it in the papers, and sometimes I think they all went down in it. I'm sure Carrie would have written to me if she'd been alive. Well, now I've told you, my dear. Have I done right, do you think?"

  "Quite right, Mrs. Hotchkiss, and I think you ought to do more. You ought to send that letter back to the man from whom it was stolen."

  "I don't know where he lives nor nothing about him, my dear. And then it seems mean, after taking Josiah's money, to go and tell of him."

  "How can Josiah be drowned if he still sends you the money?"

  "He doesn't send it now, my dear. He left enough to last for a year with Tom Noakes at the public house here, and he pays it to me reg'lar, Tom does. Then Josiah said that he would send more when the year was up. See?"

  "That letter ought certainly to go back to the man to whom it belongs," said Marjorie. "I am sure of that."

  "But how can I tell who it is?"

  "May I look at the letter? Perhaps his address is on it."

  "Yes, my dear, you may if you like. Will you go and get it?"

  Marjorie took the candle and went down the rickety stairs. A cold wind blew up from the vault-like dairy as she passed the flight of stone steps leading down to it. She felt almost like a thief herself as she crossed the kitchen and made her way to the ancient fireplace. There was the old oak cupboard, the door of which had often attracted her attention by its quaint appearance.

  The small cupboard was locked, but the key was in it. She turned it in the lock, and the carved door came open. She hunted among the rubbish with which it was filled, but she found no tin. Odds and ends of all descriptions were there, but nowhere could she discover the one thing she had come to seek.

  Perhaps the letter was in the other cupboard. There was no key in that, but she found that she could open it with the key from the first one. She unlocked it, and at first she thought that this second cupboard was empty, for she could see nothing whatever in it.

  However, as she felt along the shelf she discovered in one corner of it, tightly jammed into the wall and well out of sight, a small biscuit tin. It took her some minutes to get it out, and then by the light of her candle she looked at it. It was tied up tightly with string, and the string was sealed in several places. She carried it upstairs and put it in the old woman's hands.

  "Is that it?" she asked.

  "Yes, my dear, that's it. Will you open it?"

  "I hardly like to do it, and yet . . . Did you say the name was Forty Screws?" asked Marjorie, suddenly remembering that Captain Fortescue had said something about a stolen letter when they first met. "Do you think it possible, Mother Hotchkiss, that it could have been Fortescue?"

  "Very likely, my dear. I never can remember names, only I thought of the screws in a tin my old man used to keep 'em in. They're there yet, dear. And then I thought of forty of them. See? And I remembered it that way. But maybe I didn't hear her quite right, my dear."

  Again Marjorie hesitated. But if it should be -- if it was possible that it could be the letter that had been stolen and that he wanted -- the letter that he would be glad to have once more in his hands. . . Yes, she would open it. It could not be wrong -- it surely could not be wrong.

  She broke the seals and unfastened the string. Then it was easy to take off the lid of the tin. Inside was a sheet of foolscap paper, closely covered with writing

  She glanced at the beginning, "My dear Ken,"

  She looked at the end, "Your loving father, Joseph Fortescue."

  Yes, it was the same. Even the handwriting was familiar to her. She had often seen it when old Mr. Fortescue had written a letter with the checks which he sent to her mother.

  Hastily she put the letter back in the tin, closed the lid and tied the string tightly round it. Not a word of it should be seen by anyone. She was trembling with agitation as she did so, and the old woman noticed it.

  "You know him, my dear?"

  "Yes, I know him," she said, but her teeth chattered as she spoke.

  "You're cold, my dear."

  "No, not cold, only so glad."

  "Has he wanted it, my dear?"

  "It may be everything to him just now if it's good news. I hope it is."

  "Will you take it to him, dear? "

  "Is that all right?"

  "Yes do, dear. Don't tell anybody else, will you?"

  "No, I won't. No one else shall know."

  "Promise you'll take it to him yourself?"

  "I promise."

  "Now, my dear, I can say my prayer. I think He'll forgive me now."

  "Yes," said Marjorie, as her tears fell fast. "Dear Mother Hotchkiss, I know He will. The promise is in the Bible. 'If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins.' He is faithful, because He has promised to forgive us, and so you see He can't say no when we ask Him. And He is just, because the Lord Jesus has been punished instead of us. So God cannot punish us too for the same sins. Do you see?"

  "Yes, my dear, thank you. It all makes sense to me now. I shall die happy."

  Soon after this, steps were heard on the stairs and the old woman signalled to her to hide the tin. Marjorie slipped it under her coat just as Peggy Jones came into the room.

  "You'll let me come now, miss," the neighbour said to Marjorie. "You m
ust be so tired. You ought to go home and get a bit of sleep."

  Marjorie stooped down and kissed the poor old face lying on the pillow, and then she crept downstairs and went out into the darkness. But she did not mind even that tonight. She felt as if she cared for nothing. Not only was the tin safe, but old Mother Hotchkiss was safe for eternity.

  When she got to the house the door had been left on the latch, so she let herself in and crept up to bed, carrying the precious tin with her.

  Chapter 16

  156, Lime Street

  MARJORIE was wakened the next morning by hearing someone moving about in her room. She looked up and saw Patty standing near her bed, with a small tray in her hand.

  "Miss Douglas, I've brought you your breakfast," she said. "Shall I draw up the blind?"

  "Oh dear," said Marjorie, jumping up, "I had no idea it was so late. Why did nobody wake me?"

  "Mother wouldn't let us. She told us you had been up half the night."

  "Yes, poor old Mother Hotchkiss sent for me."

  "Miss Douglas, old Enoch has just been here, and he said we were to tell you she is dead. She went to sleep soon after you left her, and when Peggy Jones looked at her about an hour afterwards she found that she was dead."

  "Only just in time," said Marjorie to herself when Patty had gone, as she felt for the tin which she had put under the bolster the night before. Yes, it was safe.

  She wondered what information the letter contained. The captain must have it at once, without even a single day's delay. She would never be happy until it was safely in his hands. What if the old woman's son-in-law should return and demand that what he considered to be his property should be returned to him? Perhaps, after all, he had never gone to America. Perhaps he had deceived the old woman, to put the police off the scent in case they came in search of him.

  Marjorie was tired and depressed after her wakeful night, and fears of all kinds crowded into her mind. In her nervous haste she longed to run to the railway station at once, to catch the first train to Birmingham carrying the precious tin with her, and find the address Captain Fortescue had given her on his card. Then she could rid herself of the heavy responsibility which she felt rested on her, so long as that letter was in her charge.

  But Marjorie could not go off thus hurriedly without giving a sufficient reason to Mrs. Holtby, and she knew that the busy morning's work was already waiting for her.

  She dressed quickly and hurried downstairs. Never did she work so hard as on that morning. Never did she try so earnestly to get ahead of time, or to cram the work of two hours into one. When dinnertime came she had not only done the work of the morning, but she had finished the darning and the mending which she usually did on Friday afternoon, and had put by all the clean clothes from the weekly wash.

  Mrs. Holtby came down just before dinner and Marjorie went to make her request. Would it be possible, she asked, for her to be spared for half a day? There was a friend in Birmingham whom she particularly wished to see.

  "But won't you be too tired to go today, Miss Douglas? You look white, after your bad night."

  "Oh no, I am not at all tired. I should like to go if you can spare me. I have got on well this morning, and have done all the mending."

  "You never neglect anything, dear."

  It was the first time Mrs. Holtby had called her "dear," and the word had a home-like sound that went warm to Marjorie's heart.

  Then Mrs. Holtby brought out the timetable and looked out her train. There was one that left Deepfields at 2.30, and she told her to get her dinner at once and not to wait till the others came in, so that she would be off in time to catch it.

  "Don't hurry back, Miss Douglas," Mrs. Holtby said, when Marjorie looked in to say goodbye. "Stay as long as ever you like."

  So with the tin wrapped in paper and tightly held in her hand, and with the card which Captain Fortescue had given her slipped inside her glove, Marjorie set off on the mile walk to Deepfields Station.

  It was a pouring wet day, and the mud was, if possible, worse than usual, but she hardly noticed it. She would have gone through a perfect flood without minding it, so intense was her eagerness to get to her journey's end. How glad he would be to get that letter. How thankful he would feel that it was found at last.

  But would he be glad and thankful? As she sat in the train, a horrible fear crossed her mind. What if she was bringing him bad tidings? What if she was indeed what he had called himself -- a bird of ill omen? She hoped not, she prayed not, but how could she tell?

  Arriving at Birmingham, she found herself in New Street Station at one of its most crowded moments. She took out the card, and looked at it once more -- 156, Lime Street. How could she find it? She asked a porter who was wheeling a barrow of luggage, but he said he had never heard of it. Then she went up the steps to the bridge, and felt in a perfect whirl as the busy crowds rushed past her. Hundreds of strange faces -- all of them intent on their own business, and none of them having a moment to spare for hers: all these she saw as if she was in a dream. Which way should she turn at the top of the bridge? There seemed to be two exits to the station. Which should she take?

  She went to the one to which most people seemed to be going. It took her out into Corporation Street. All looked strange to her. She had no eyes for the beautiful shops; the Arcade failed to tempt her as she passed it. All she wanted was to get to her journey's end.

  At last she met a policeman, and found from him that she was walking in the wrong direction. He sent her back almost to the station and told her to take a turning to the left and walk on until she saw a large church, and then she must ask for further directions.

  The rain was now coming down in torrents, and a strong wind was blowing in her face, but she struggled on bravely against it. She found the church at last, and went into a small shop to ask her way. Again she set forth, and walked on for another mile, and after getting wrong once or twice, and stopping to inquire many times of the passers-by, she at last reached the street which she was seeking.

  Lime Street was long and dismal-looking, with two rows of houses facing each other, all exactly alike, and all standing close to the pavement, with not even a pretence to a front garden. The street surely looked, if possible, more gloomy than usual that afternoon. In the merciless rain everything was wet, dirty and uninviting.

  Now for No. 156. It was at the other end of that long street, and she hurried on to find it. But as she got near, the thought of seeing him again, the doubt as to the news which she was bringing him, the strange feeling of responsibility which rested on her in thus doing the bidding of one who had so lately passed away from earth -- all these made her pause as she stood on the doorstep.

  When she had steadied herself for a few moments she rang the bell, and a stout elderly woman came to the door.

  "Is Captain Fortescue at home?" she asked.

  "Mr. Fortescue lodges here. He isn't a captain, miss, but he's out just now."

  "When will he be home?"

  "Oh, not for long enough yet. He mostly comes in about six or half-past."

  Marjorie looked at her watch; it was a quarter to four. Her heart died within her. Two hours and a quarter, or perhaps longer still. Where could she go, and what could she do till six o'clock? Where in those wet and dirty streets could she find a shelter?

  The landlady was closing the door, but as she did so she noticed the look of dismay on Marjorie's face.

  "Have you come far, miss?" she asked.

  "Yes, a long way," said Marjorie. "From near Bilston in Staffordshire, and I know nobody in Birmingham."

  "Is it very particular that you see the gentleman?"

  "Very. I must see Mr. Fortescue tonight."

  "Come your ways in, then," said the woman, kindly. "There's a bit of fire in his sitting-room, if you would like to wait there."

  Marjorie thanked her gratefully, and she led the way into a small room at the back of the house. After putting some coal on the fire she told her to sit by it
and warm herself after her cold, wet walk. Then as she was going out she noticed how drenched Marjorie's coat was, and made her take it off so she could dry it at her kitchen fire.

  When the landlady was gone, Marjorie looked round the room. It was plainly and even shabbily furnished. A worn horsehair sofa stood against the wall, the deal table was covered with American cloth, and the carpet was patched in several places.

  Marjorie walked to the window and looked out. No wonder the room was dark. High buildings backed onto the house and shut out nearly all the light. Only a strip of cloudy sky could be seen above, while below was a small courtyard filled with clothes which had evidently been put out to dry before the rain commenced, but which were now more soaked than they had been before, hanging dismally from the line stretched across from wall to wall of the small backyard.

  How depressing it was. Marjorie remembered Kenneth Fortescue's words to her mother. "I will not allow myself a single indulgence of any kind until the full amount is in your hands."

  How faithfully he was keeping that promise! How bare of all luxury was the room to which he came home after his long tiring day. But what was that over the chimney-piece? A photo in a frame. It carried her miles away in thought as she looked at it, and a great feeling of home sickness came over her.

  It was a picture of Honister Crag.

  Chapter 17

  The Blotted Word

  TIME SEEMED to Marjorie to be standing still as she sat in the dingy back parlour on that wet afternoon. She felt sometimes as if six o'clock would never come. As it grew darker, the stout landlady came in and lit the gas. There was only one burner, and it gave but a dim light. Then, later still, she came again to lay the cloth for tea. Such a poor scanty meal, the loaf and a small pat of butter -- that was all.

  There were no flowers on the table. Nothing to relieve the bareness and austere simplicity of it all. Marjorie's heart ached for him as she looked at it. What an utter contrast to the luxury in which she knew that he had lived before.

  Mrs. Hall, the landlady, lingered when she had laid the table, and seemed inclined to talk. "You'll excuse me, miss," she said," but are you Mr. Fortescue's sister?"

  "No, not his sister."

  "Well," she said, "I'm sorry you're not, because if he has a sister I should like to have a bit of a talk with her. Somebody ought to come and look after him!"