Читать книгу Tempest-Driven: A Romance (Vol. 2 of 3) - Dowling Richard - Страница 3

The documents Jerry O'Brien found in his hand were four in number. He read them all hastily first, and then went over them carefully word by word. When he examined them next day, they proved in substance or text to be as follows:

No. 1. A will dated about eleven years back, by which he left all property of any kind of which he might die possessed to Mrs. Davenport, wife of his good friend Louis Davenport. He explained that he would have left his property to Mr. Davenport himself, but that so well did he know the depth of affection between Mr. Davenport and his wife, that the surest way to make a bequest acceptable to the former, was to leave it to the latter. The bequest was accompanied by no conditions, and the will wound up with a hope that Mr. and Mrs. Davenport might live long and happy lives.

To the will was affixed a piece of paper, on which appeared in the handwriting of O'Hanlon, the solicitor, this comment:

Note. – There being no trace of property or relatives of deceased, nothing could be done. I sent my clerk to Mr. Davenport to make some inquiries, but could learn nothing except that deceased was an eccentric friend of Mr. Davenport, and that as far as he (Davenport) knew, deceased had neither relatives nor property.

This was signed "John O'Hanlon."

No. II. This was half a sheet of note-paper partly covered by writing not nearly so regular or well-formed as the will. To judge by the handwriting of No. III., it was the manuscript of Michael Fahey. It ran thus:

Memorandum. – Rise 15·6 lowest. At lowest minute of lowest forward with all might undaunted. The foregoing refers to skulls. With only one skull any lowest or any last quarter; but great forward pluck required for this. In both cases (of course!) left.

No. III. was a letter of instructions from Fahey to O'Hanlon in the handwriting of Fahey. It was as follows:

"Dear Sir,

"I leave with you my will and three other papers. In case of anything happening to me, please read the will and put it in force. But if between this and then you hear nothing more from me, it will not be worth while taking any trouble in the matter. The 'Memorandum' is to be kept by you for me. In case I should absent myself from the neighbourhood for any length of time do not be uneasy, as I am much abroad. If I am away fifteen years, you may hand all these to my friend, Mr. Davenport, but not till fifteen years have passed without my return to the neighbourhood.

"Yours truly,

"Michael Fahey."

No. IV. was merely a long, narrow, slip of paper, bearing the following:

"Dear Mr. Davenport,

"Time has swallowed me, and everything connected with me. I hope when you receive this you will have forgotten I ever existed. I leave all the documents I own with Mr. O'Hanlon for you.

"Always most faithfully yours,

"Michael Fahey."

These did not throw a great flood of light on the subject. In fact, they did not help him to see an inch further than he had seen before. It was plain on the face of it that there must have been some kind of connection between this Fahey and the Davenports; but what the nature of that connection was there was no clue to. He had no particular interest in the mystery, if it could be said to reach the dignity of a mystery. He was a kind of indifferent centre in the events. He had known the Davenports and O'Hanlon for years, and now by a strange coincidence, or rather a series of coincidences, the Davenports, O'Hanlon, the Paultons, Fahey, and himself had all been drawn together.

He shook himself and tried to argue himself into indifference, but failed. He told himself the whole matter was nothing in the world to him, and that, in fact, there was nothing particular in it to engage attention.

What were the facts?

Mr. Davenport had, under acute mental excitement, committed suicide after an interview with Tom Blake. He had left two documents respecting that act. Both of these documents were written in pencil, and on leaves of his pocket-book. One of these memoranda said he, Davenport, had committed suicide. The other accused Blake of poisoning, murdering him. Every one except Edward Davenport credited the former statement. Blake had formerly been Mrs. Davenport's lover, and might love her even still. Blake had got a thousand pounds years ago from the deceased for giving up his pretensions to that lady's hand. Blake had long been abroad; turned up unexpectedly at Davenport's house in London the first night the latter was in London, and the night of his death. Blake gets a hundred pounds from Davenport, and a promise of a further hundred in a few days.

What was this money given for? Not, of course, with the old object. It did not come out at the inquest or elsewhere that the dead man had been in the least jealous of his wife. She had not seen Blake for a good while before her husband's death. Blake had been some years on the Continent, without visiting the United Kingdom. It was discreditable, but intelligible, that when the dead man was an elderly and unfavoured lover he should buy off his rival; but it would be absurd to suppose that ten or eleven years after marriage any man would continue to pay considerable sums of money to a former rival for absolutely nothing. Such an act would be that of a coward and a fool, and the dead man had been neither.

For what, then, had Davenport given this money to Blake? The latter said the interview between the two had been of a pleasant character. Why? Blake was disreputable, and Davenport eminently respectable. It was absurd to suppose Davenport could have had a liking for Blake. Taking that thousand pounds years ago must have destroyed any good opinion Davenport had of Blake. Why, then, had the latter been received well and been given money? He had not only been received well and given money, but invited to dinner on a later date! It was simply incredible that out of gratitude for that service rendered long ago in Florence, Davenport was going to forget that this man had been his rival, and invite him to his house and a necessary meeting with his beautiful wife.

O'Brien did not for a moment suspect the widow and her former admirer of perjury, of concocting their stories. These stories were not at all calculated to exculpate either of the two. In fact, these stories, uncorroborated by the evidence obtained at the post-mortem examination, would have heightened suspicion rather than allayed it. At first these stories seemed prodigal in daring, but this very excess of apparent improbability made them seem most probable when read by the light of Davenport's written confession. No, there was no reason to suspect perjury.

He could make nothing of it so far. But did those documents of Fahey's aid one towards a solution? He could not see how they bore on the case one way or the other, and yet the coincidences were remarkable. He had seen Blake in London the day of the night on which Davenport died. When Alfred Paulton told him what had happened at Crescent House, he came to the conclusion Blake was in some way or other mixed up in the matter. This conclusion turned out right, although not exactly in the way he had expected. Now upon his coming back to Kilbarry he is met by a still more remarkable story. A man whom O'Hanlon knew ten or eleven years ago, and was then drowned at the hideous Black Rock, appears to O'Hanlon in the same spot and same clothes as he had been last seen alive in. It seemed as if he, O'Brien, were destined to be connected with the Davenport affair whether he would or not. Alfred Paulton was the greatest friend he had in London, and John O'Hanlon was the best friend he had in Kilbarry. He knew Blake by appearance and report, and he was acquainted with the Davenports; and here were all mixed up in the same matter in more or less degree, and all in a disagreeable way. It was the smallest of small worlds. He had no particular reason for being interested in the complication; and, indeed, except for the extraordinary statement made by O'Hanlon, the incident might be said to be closed, were it not that he was not quite sure whether Alfred Paulton-whom he hoped one day to have for a brother-in-law-had got over the fascination exercised on him by that beautiful woman. Any way, he had nothing particular to do now but fight those rascally commissioners; so he'd just glance over these documents again, and see if he could make anything out of them.

With a sigh, he put them away a second time. He might as well look for help to the stars. He would call at O'Hanlon's to-day and ask was there any news.

He found Mr. Gorman, head clerk to O'Hanlon, leaning against his favourite shutter with his hands in his trousers' pockets, placidly regarding through the window a tattered, battered, and wholly miserable-looking man of between sixty and seventy, who was playing "The Young May Moon," atrociously out of tune and out of time, on a penny tin whistle.

"Well," said O'Brien, briskly to Gorman, "any news?"

"Not a blessed word," answered the clerk, resting his back against the shutter instead of his shoulder, and so facing the visitor. "I suppose you came over about your weirs? Deuced bother, Mr. O'Brien!"

"It is an infernal nuisance. Do you know, Mr. Gorman, I think half the people who ought to be hanged are never even brought to trial."

"These Fishery Commissioners don't murder any one but fisheries and the proprietors of fisheries, and there is no precedent for hanging a man merely because he killed a fishery or the proprietor of a fishery. However, Mr. O'Brien, you need not be afraid. Your weirs are as safe as the Rock of Cashel. I often wonder why they call a rock a rock. It's about the last thing that would think of rocking, and the sea, which is the best rocker out, can't stir a rock that's in good wind and form. It would take the Atlantic a month of Sundays to rock the Black Rock, for instance, at Kilcash."

The mention of the Black Rock made O'Brien start slightly, for it was in the rock that famous and treacherous Hole yawned and breathed dismay and destruction. It was odd Gorman should mention the rock which had occupied such a prominent place in his thoughts that forenoon.

"It's strange," said O'Brien, walking over to the window, and placing himself against the shutter opposite Gorman, "that I should have been thinking of the Black Rock a little while ago! What put it into your head now?"

"Well, I tell you, nothing could be simpler or more natural. I knew you arrived from London yesterday. I knew you were acquainted with the Davenports of Kilcash, and a man who once had some connection with the Davenports was last seen on the Black Rock, and drowned himself, to escape the police, in the Hole. You may remember the circumstance?"

"Yes," said O'Brien, instantly interested; "I have a faint recollection of that man's death. Were you with Mr. O'Hanlon then?"

"Oh, yes. I remember all about it. He was a client of ours. We didn't do much for him; in fact, we didn't do anything for him. He left some papers with the governor, and then got into trouble about passing flash notes. The police had their hands just on him, when he leapt into the Hole. You know what that means. The body was never found; but that does not count as anything, for the bodies of persons drowned near that spot are never found."

"And nothing was known of the connection between this unfortunate Fahey and the Davenports?"

"I don't know anything about it, and I don't think the governor does. It was supposed he was an old hanger-on of old Davenport's, since the time Davenport was abroad. Davenport himself, as far as I could find out, never volunteered information about Fahey; and, you know, he wasn't the kind of man you'd care to ask unnecessary questions. He was about the closest man in the county. I never had any business to do with him, but I've kept my ears open."

"He died very rich, I suppose?" – with a laugh. "A friend of mine is already greatly interested in the widow."

"Ah, no wonder! She's a fine woman-the finest woman in these parts. I often saw her. You might do worse than try your luck there yourself, Mr. O'Brien. If he left her the bulk of his fortune she will be very well off. He had no one else in the world but his brother, who is crack-brained, I believe; and the dead man was very rich-made a whole fortune abroad, in various kinds of speculations, both in Europe and America."

"What did he speculate in chiefly?"

"I don't know. All kinds of stocks and shares. They say he had some plan never before adopted, and out of which he made money as fast as he liked, and this plan he never would tell any one. At all events, for more than ten years before he settled down here he had been wandering pretty well over the whole civilized world. Every one who knew of his great business cleverness wondered why he retired before fifty, but he said he had enough for a lifetime, and that his asthma was too bad for him to go on any longer. But somehow it leaked out that he got a great fright about some bank on the Continent in which he had a large sum of money-I think ten thousand pounds-lodged to his credit."

"Do you remember the story, Gorman?"

"I do."

"Well, tell it to me. But, for heaven's sake, first send out the boy and order that man with the tin whistle to go away. Here's sixpence for him."

"Not fond of music! I thought you were." He took the coin, and despatched the boy. "The Bank of England had its own reasons for keeping the thing quiet at the time, and it never came fully before the public, as the criminal was never discovered. Mr. Davenport gave notice to the foreign bank that on a certain day he would require the ten thousand he had lodged there, and that the more Bank of England notes he found in the packet, the better he should be pleased.

"On the day he had named he called and got the money, and that very evening started for London with the cash. This was an unusual mode of proceeding, but most of his ways were unusual, if not odd. On his arrival the Bank declared several of the one hundred pound notes in his packet to be forgeries, and a few tens were also spurious.

"This discovery started an inquiry, and in a little while it was found that one of the largest and most skilful forgeries ever made on the Bank of England had just been committed, and that upwards of two hundred thousand pounds worth of valueless notes had been palmed off on foreign banks of the highest class.

"The forgeries did not stop at the notes. The signatures of some of the greatest banking firms had been imitated and used as introductions to the Continental houses of eminence, and an elaborate scheme of fraud had been based on these bogus introductions. The scheme had been in preparation for a long time. At first a small private account was opened in the regular way in London, the referees-two customers of the bank-being a retired military man and a shopkeeper, I think. I forget what name the account was opened in-false one, of course, say Jenkins.

"Jenkins's account was gradually augmented, and a balance of a couple or three thousand was always kept. Moneys were now and then paid in and drawn out. The account was highly respectable. In the end Jenkins said he was going to live in Paris, and would feel obliged if his banker would give him an introduction to a Paris house. This was done as a matter of course.

"In Paris the balance was still further increased, until it was kept above five thousand pounds. Then Jenkins asked if he might deposit a box containing valuable documents for safety in the bank. He got permission and lodged the box.

"Then he drew out all his balance very gradually, and when it was exhausted, called, asked for his box, opened it in the presence of the manager, and taking from it fifty Bank of England one hundred pound notes, asked that they might be placed to his credit, as he was expecting heavy calls momently. He had been speculating and had lost, he said. In a couple of weeks he drew out the five thousand in one cheque payable to himself.

"Shortly after this he took from the box, and handed the manager ten thousand pounds, saying he was still losing heavily, and should want the money that day, subject, of course, to a fair charge on the part of the bank. The bank accommodated him. He said there was a great deal more than ten ten thousands in the box, and showed the notes to the manager. Next day he came in a great state of excitement. He had a vast fortune within his grasp if he could only get money that day. He took from his pocket one hundred thousand pounds in Bank of England notes, and from his box all that was in it-one hundred and ten thousand more. Would they oblige him? It was neck or nothing with him. If he hadn't the money within three hours, he would be a ruined man; if he got the money, he could make a stupendous fortune. He would leave the odd ten thousand in the hands of the bank against expenses, interest, etc. Would they let him have two hundred thousand in French notes on the security of the Bank of England notes?