Chapter XII.

The Hidden Hand

I had been settled in my new home about a month when I received a

letter from Mr. Jackson. It was principally devoted to a report on

business matters concerned with the disposal of my father’s practice

and the sale of the surplus furniture and effects, but it contained

one passage that gave me considerable food for thought. The passage in

question had been added as a postscript, and ran thus:

“You have probably heard that Mr. Otway has left Maidstone. I fancy

things had become rather uncomfortable for him. From what transpired

at the inquest, an impression got abroad that he was, to a great

extent, responsible for your father’s death, and there was

consequently a rather strong feeling against him. I don’t know where

he has gone, but rumour has it that he has migrated to London.”

This was, in more than one respect, somewhat disquieting news. I

turned it over again and again as I sat at my bench and tried to

estimate its significance. The inquest had “gone off quite smoothly,”

as Mr. Jackson had expressed it, but it was clear that some, at least,

of the persons present had read a meaning into the evidence which the

coroner and his jury seemed to have missed. Dr. Thorndyke was one of

these; but, as no rumour could be traceable to him, there were

evidently others. What did this portend? To Mr. Jackson it meant no

more than a local prejudice. To me, conscious of a secret covenant

which I had not dared to confide even to Dr. Thorndyke, it conveyed an

uneasy feeling that suspicion was abroad, that it might become

cumulative, and that, even yet, that covenant might be dragged into

the light of day which it would bear so ill. Ever since my talk with

Dr. Thorndyke, my conscience had been somewhat ill at ease. I felt

that, as a witness giving testimony on oath, I had been at least

uncandid, if not positively untruthful; and the word “collusion” had

acquired an unpleasantly personal quality.

And then, what of Mr. Otway? Had he slipped away out of my life to

hide himself where suspicion would not reach him? Or had he really

migrated to London, and would his sinister shadow presently fall upon

my new life as it had done upon the old? My hopes pictured him driven

by his fears--for he was a timorous man--far afield, perhaps beyond

the seas; but a presentiment whispered that I had not heard or seen

the last of him.

And the presentiment was right. Less than a week after the arrival of

Mr. Jackson’s letter came one from Mr. Otway; and its contents were

even more disquieting than those of the former. It was headed “Lyon’s

Inn Chambers, W.C.,” and its contents were as follows:--

“My dear Helen,

“As you will see by the above address, I have moved to London. You

will, no doubt, easily understand that, after the late distressing

events, the neighbourhood of Maidstone was intolerable to me, and I am

writing this to give you my new address. But, also, I have two other

matters on which I want to speak to you. One is to recommend to you a

dealer to whom I think you may be able to dispose of your work, which

you might otherwise have to sell at a great disadvantage. His name is

Campbell, and his premises are in Wardour Street, near the Oxford

Street end on the west side. Mr. Campbell deals in pictures and works

of ancient and modern art, jewellery, goldsmith’s work, etc.; and, as

he is personally known to me, I have taken the liberty of writing to

him to the effect that you may possibly call on him, and describing

you as a relative of mine without mentioning the nature of the

relationship.

“And now I come to a rather difficult matter, which I hope you will

not misunderstand. I am going to ask you to meet me, either here or in

any other place that you may choose, to talk over something that has

happened recently. I have, in fact, received a letter the contents of

which have greatly disturbed me. I will not go into details now, but

when I say that the matter is of importance to you as well as to me, I

think you will understand what I mean and what the letter refers to. I

beg you very earnestly not to refuse this request. The letter in

question has caused me deep anxiety, and, in fact, some alarm, and I

think you ought to be put into possession of its contents.

“Trusting that you will not withhold your help and support in these

new and harassing circumstances.

“Believe me,

“Your devoted husband,

“Lewis Otway.”

It would have been wiser of Mr. Otway to adopt some other mode of

ending his letter. The disgust and repulsion the phrase “your devoted

husband” occasioned me had nearly determined my refusal. But on

reflection, not only reason, charity and a certain reluctantly

admitted sense of duty, but curiosity, not unmixed with anxiety,

counselled compliance. His letter was vague enough, yet it made pretty

clear to me that trouble of some kind was brewing, and I was not in

the position of a disinterested spectator; that, in short, my

forebodings of the last few days were, perhaps, already receiving some

justification.

Accordingly, I decided to agree to the meeting, and the question

arose, where was it to take place? His own rooms were out of the

question; for the fact of my having visited him there would greatly

weaken my position if I should have to resist a claim to end the

separation. Finally, I selected the Tower Wharf as a place

sufficiently public and yet unfrequented enough to allow of a

confidential talk secure from eavesdroppers. It had, of late, become a

favourite resort of mine, for it was a pleasant place, with the trees

and the old Tower on one side and the broad river on the other, and

was but ten minutes’ walk from Wellclose Square. I wrote by return,

naming six o’clock on the following evening; and at half-past five on

that evening I set forth by way of Ship Alley and Upper East

Smithfield.

Although I had walked slowly, it wanted yet ten minutes to six when I

passed under the side span of the Tower Bridge and came out on to the

gravelled walk overlooking the river. But already Mr. Otway was there,

pacing up and down a sort of bay at the east end, with his hands

behind him grasping a stout cane; and though he made a pretence of

inspecting the old guns that, on their side, make a pretence of

defending the fortress, he was evidently watchful and expectant, for

he saw me almost as soon as I saw him, and quickened his pace to meet

me.

His appearance impressed me deeply, even before we met. When I had

seen him last he had been looking anxious and worried. But now he was

positively haggard, and he had a furtive, hunted look that, little as

I was disposed to be sympathetic, made me glad that I had not refused

to meet him.

“This is really very good of you, Helen,” he exclaimed, with obvious

sincerity. “But I felt sure that you would--er--respond to my appeal.

It is strange,” he added, “considering what our relations are and what

your feelings are towards me, that I seem to look to you, and to you

alone, for support and counsel in this--er--this unexpected trouble.”

“I don’t suppose,” said I, “that any counsel of mine will be of much

value to a man of your experience. But perhaps you had better tell me

what the trouble is--Shall we sit down here? You spoke of having

received a letter.”

“Yes,” he replied, as we sat down on a seat near the bridge. “It is an

anonymous letter, and its purport is--ah--very singular, and

is--ah--to the effect that--er--in fact----”

“Is there any objection to your repeating the actual wording of the

letter?” I asked.

“Well, no. Certainly not. Perhaps it would be better. You are really

remarkably business-like and clear-headed. I suppose it is your

up-bringing and being so much with your father. No, there is no

objection. In fact”--here he produced from his pocket, with evident

reluctance, a leather wallet, from which he extracted a folded

paper--“in fact, you may as well see the letter for yourself.”

I took the paper from him, and opening it found it to be a quite short

letter, typewritten upon ordinary typist’s paper, without any address

or other heading, and undated save for Mr. Otway’s written and signed

endorsement. There was no signature, but in place of one was written

in typed characters, “A Well Wisher”; and this is what it said:

“Mr. Lewis Otway,

“The undersigned is writing to put you on your guard because Somebody

knows something about how Mr. Vardon came by his death, and that

somebody is not a friend, so you had better keep a sharp look out for

your enemy and see what they mean to do. I can’t tell you any more at

present.

“A Well Wisher.”

I read it through twice, noting, the second time, the peculiar

construction, the faulty grammar and punctuation, and especially the

confusion in the pronouns which is so characteristic of the writing of

an uneducated person. Of course, these peculiarities might have been

assumed as a disguise; but they established a probability that the

writer was a person of indifferent education; to which class, indeed,

the bulk of anonymous letter-writers belong.

I handed the document back to Mr. Otway, and asked:

“Does this letter convey anything to you?”

“Nothing,” he replied. “Absolutely nothing. It speaks of somebody

knowing something. But that is impossible. There was no one in the

house but you and I and--er--your father. Besides, there is nothing to

know--excepting what you know.”

“Have you any idea or suspicion as to who the writer of this letter

may be?”

“None whatever. I have not the faintest clue. You see, there is nobody

in the world who has any--er--any special knowledge of the--ah--the

exact circumstances but yourself.” He paused for a few moments, and

then, in a lower tone, asked hesitatingly: “I suppose, Helen, you

cannot--er--guess or--ah--surmise who might have----”

I looked up quickly and caught a furtive glance which was instantly

averted; and in a moment it was borne in on me that he suspected me of

either being the writer or concerned in the writing of this letter.

“Mr. Otway,” said I, speaking slowly and quietly, the better to

command my temper, “if you have any idea that I know anything of this

wretched production, dismiss it. If you have any idea that there lurks

in my mind any suspicion that your account of my father’s death was

untrue, dismiss that, too. If I had known, or even had the smallest

grounds for suspecting, that my father met with foul play, you would

not have had to wait till now to hear from me; nor would my

communication have reached you in this form or through these

channels.”

As I said this, looking at him, I do not doubt, sternly and

forbiddingly enough, he turned horribly pale and seemed to shrink

visibly. He was completely cowed; so much so that, cordially as I

detested him, I felt really sorry for him.

“You mistake me, Helen. You misjudge me,” he protested, huskily; “you

do, indeed. I had no intention--I never, for one moment,

suspected--but why do I say this? Of course, you must know I did not.

I merely thought it possible that you might be able to guess--that you

might know of some person----”

“I do not, Mr. Otway,” said I. “No one connected with me has any

knowledge that is not public knowledge. Nor do I believe that anyone

else has. I should say that this person--apparently a person of the

lower class--is just a common blackmailer, who was present at, or has

read the report of, the inquest, and is trying to make you believe

that some suspicion attaches to you.”

Mr. Otway drew a deep breath and reflected gloomily. Perhaps my

suggestion was not a very comforting one, for a blackmailer is a

rather formidable enemy to a man who is concealing an incriminating

fact.

“Probably you are right, Helen. But you notice that there is no

threat--no direct threat, at least--and that there is no suggestion of

any attempt to obtain money from me.”

“Perhaps that will come later,” said I.

Again he drew a long breath and cast a furtive glance at me. “Perhaps

it will,” he agreed. “This may be the preliminary move, the laying of

ground-bait, so to speak. It’s a harassing business, Helen. What do

you think I had better do? You see, I rely on you for counsel,

although I am so much older. But you have your father’s gift of clear

judgment and perfect coolness in emergencies.”

It was rather a tactless observation, for it recalled vividly my dear

father’s coolness in that last, fatal emergency; his composure and

unruffled cheerfulness when the menace of ruin and disgrace--set up by

Mr. Otway--had seemed poised over his head, ready to fall at any

moment; and the recollection did not tend to increase my present

sympathy.

“For my part,” I said, coldly, “I should do nothing at present. I

should ignore this letter and wait for the writer to show his hand

more clearly. If he should make any threats or demands for hush-money,

I should at once put the matter in the hands of the police.”

I could see that this advice--particularly the latter part of it--did

not greatly commend itself to Mr. Otway. Nor did it to me. But

circumstances offered no choice. Any risk is better than that of

life-long subjection to a blackmailer.

“It would be very unsafe,” said Mr. Otway, “to have any dealings with

the police. They are pretty severe on blackmailers, but they are

naturally ready to listen to anyone who professes to have information

to give them. And a blackmailer may be very dangerous if he is brought

to bay. We couldn’t afford to have any enquiries made that might seem

to establish what they would call collusion to suppress evidence. We

know that the facts that we withheld were not material. Other people

would not.”

I could not but admire the adroitness with which Mr. Otway made me a

participator in his own difficulties and secured me as an ally against

his unseen enemy. And the uncomfortable aspect of the case was that he

was right. We were partners in an unlawful act. That, I had already

recognised; and the different significance of that act in our

respective cases did not so very much affect our position in the

present circumstances. I had nothing further to say, but to repeat

that I should ignore the letter; and for a time we sat silent, looking

out on the river.

“Well,” said Mr. Otway, at length, “so be it. We will wait and see

what happens. And now let us put this miserable affair away and talk

about your future. I have seen some of your work, and I am sure that

you could get good prices for it if it were placed in the proper

quarter. But the ordinary shops would be of no use to you. The common

retailer does not know or care anything about individual work. He just

buys from the wholesaler or the manufacturer, and sells to the public.

He would probably not look at your work, or if he were willing to buy

it, he would pay no more than he pays to the manufacturer who rattles

off his goods by the thousand, with the aid of cheap labour and

machinery. But there are people who know the difference between

artists’ works and manufactured goods, and are willing to pay for the

better things. And there are dealers who supply them. Mr. Campbell is

one. I have known him for many years, and I can assure you that he is

an excellent judge of works of art and very anxious to get the best

for his customers, who are mostly good judges, too. He is well known

in artistic circles, and, as he is able to dispose of things of real

value, he can afford to pay the artist a fair price. I strongly advise

you to give him a trial. Of course, I would infinitely rather that you

accepted an allowance from me, but, if you really----”

“It is very good of you, Mr. Otway, but I assure you that it is out of

the question.”

“Very well, then. If you are quite resolved, I can only advise you to

make the most profitable use of your talents. Go to Mr. Campbell, and

I am sure that you will be treated fairly.”

I thanked him for his advice and promised to act on it; and very

shortly after this I brought the interview to an end.

As I took my way slowly back to Wellclose Square, I reflected on the

new developments that my meeting with Mr. Otway had disclosed. That

some mischief was brewing there could hardly be a doubt. The disguise

of the “Well Wisher” was too thin to create any illusion. As to the

somebody who knew something, he was an obvious myth, for, as Mr. Otway

had said, the circumstances did not admit of anyone knowing even what

was known to me. My own explanation was that some person, who had been

present at the inquest, had observed Mr. Otway’s excessive nervousness

and had marked him as a likely subject for blackmailing operations. It

was a chance shot and nothing more.

But Mr. Otway’s evident alarm was not difficult to account for. He was

a naturally timorous man; he had been subjected to a great and

prolonged strain, and he had an incriminating secret. His position

was, in fact, one of appreciable danger, as he fully realized. If the

details of my father’s death had been fully disclosed at the inquest,

Mr. Otway’s statement and explanation would probably have been

accepted without demur. But the suppression of certain material facts

put a different complexion on the matter. If the inquiry were now

revived, he would have to explain, not only the original

circumstances, but his motives for suppressing them. He had very good

reason for alarm.

And yet his abject terror produced an uncomfortable impression on me.

I could not disguise from myself that the whole tragedy of my father’s

death was due to an error of judgment on my part. The secret marriage

was the outcome of a mistake. Woman-like, I had acted on a strong

conviction; and that conviction had been wrong. What if I had once

again acted on an erroneous belief? I had assumed that Mr. Otway’s

account of my dear father’s death was correct. There had seemed to be

excellent reasons for the assumption. But what if I had been wrong,

after all? If I had actually misled a Court of Justice to shield the

murderer of my dearly loved father? It was undeniably possible. I had

formed my opinion on mere probabilities, backed by a statement that,

however plausible, was manifestly worthless as evidence. And that

opinion might have been utterly wrong. It was a dreadful thought. So

dreadful that, though I tried to put it away and remind myself that I

did not entertain and never had entertained it, it haunted me during

the whole of my walk home, even to the exclusion of the menace to

myself that lurked in this blackmailer’s letter.