Chapter Thirty Seven.
How Hawkesbury and I spent a Morning in the Partners’ Room.
“Fetch a policeman!” The truth flashed across me as I heard the words. Instead of standing here an accuser, I stood the accused. Hawkesbury had been before me with a vengeance!
The very shock of the discovery called back the presence of mind, which, on my first summons, I had almost lost. I was determined at least that nothing I should do or say would lend colour to the false charge against me.
“Batchelor,” said Mr Merrett, after Hawkesbury had gone and the door was locked—“Batchelor, we have sent for you here under very painful circumstances. You doubtless know why.”
“I must ask you to tell me, sir,” I replied, respectfully, but with a tremble in my voice which I would have given anything to conceal.
“I will tell you,” said Mr Merrett, “when you have first told Mr Barnacle and me what you have been doing since eight o’clock this morning.”
“And let me advise you,” said Mr Barnacle, looking up, “to tell the truth.”
“I certainly will tell the truth,” I began.
What possessed that unlucky voice of mine to quaver in the way it did? Those few words, I was convinced, would tell more against me than the most circumstantial narrative. I clutched hold of the back of a chair near me, and made a desperate effort to steady myself as I proceeded. I gave an exact account of everything that had happened since I entered the office that morning, omitting nothing, glossing over nothing, shirking nothing. They both listened attentively, eyeing me keenly all the time, and betraying no sign in their faces whether they believed me or not.
“Then you mean to say,” said Mr Merrett, when it was done, “that you were not in this room at all?”
“Yes, I never entered it.”
“Were you ever in this room without our knowledge?”
“Yes, a fortnight ago. Smith and I were here early, and hearing a noise inside, we opened the door and came in to see what it was.”
“What did you find?”
“Hawkesbury, working at the table where Mr Barnacle is now sitting.”
“What occurred?”
I related precisely what had occurred, repeating as nearly as I could the very words that had been used.
There was a silence, and then Mr Merrett, in his most solemn tones, said, “Now, Batchelor, answer this question. You say you were here before any one else arrived this morning?”
“Yes, sir. I had been here about five minutes before Hawkesbury came.”
“What were you doing during that time?”
“I was working at my desk.”
“You are quite sure?”
“Perfectly,” said I, my cheeks burning and my heart swelling within me to be thus spoken to by those whom, with all my faults, I had never once so much as dreamt of deceiving.
“You did not enter this room?”
“No.”
Mr Merrett touched his bell, and Hawkesbury appeared. I scarcely wondered he should try to avoid my eye as he stood at the table waiting.
“Hawkesbury, repeat once more, in Batchelor’s hearing, what you have already told us.”
He kept his head down and his face averted from me as he said, “I arrived here at a quarter to nine this morning, and noticed the door of this room open, and when I came to see who was there I saw Batchelor in the act of shutting the safe. He did not notice me at first, not until he was coming out of the room. I asked him what he was doing here. He seemed very much disconcerted, and said he had been looking for some papers he had left on Mr Barnacle’s table the day before. I asked him what he had been doing with the safe, and where he had got the key to open it. He got into a great state, and begged me to say nothing about it. I said I was bound to tell you what I had seen. Then he flew into a rage, and told me he’d serve me out. I told him that wouldn’t prevent me doing what was right. Then he left the office, and didn’t come back till a quarter to ten.”
All this Hawkesbury repeated glibly and hurriedly in a low voice. To me, who stood by and heard it, it was a cowardly lie from beginning to end. But to my employers, I felt, it must sound both businesslike and straightforward; quite as straightforward, I feared, as my own equally exact but tremblingly-spoken story.
“You hear what Hawkesbury says?” said Mr Merrett, turning to me.
I roused myself with an effort, and answered quietly, “Yes, sir.”
“What have you to say to it?”
“That it is false from beginning to end.”
“You deny, in fact, ever having been at this safe, or in this room?”
“Most certainly.”
They all looked grave, and Mr Merrett said, solemnly, “I am sorry to hear you deny it, Batchelor. If you had made a full confession we should have been disposed to deal more leniently with you.”
“I never did it—it’s all false!” I cried, suddenly losing all self-control. “You know it’s false; it’s a plot to ruin me and Jack.”
“Silence, sir!” said Mr Merrett, sternly.
“I won’t be silent,” I shouted; “I never deceived you, and yet you go and believe what this miserable—”
Mr Merrett touched his bell angrily; but before any one answered it Mr Barnacle had looked up.
The junior partner had been silent all this time, an attentive but impassive listener to all that had passed. Once or twice during Hawkesbury’s story he had darted a quick glance at the speaker, and once or twice during my indignant protest his brows had knit, as it seemed, in anger. Mr Barnacle had always had the reputation of being the sterner of the two partners, and now, as he abruptly joined in the conversation, I felt as if it boded very little good for me.
“One moment,” said he to Mr Merrett; “there are a few more questions we should ask, I think. Batchelor, you are doing yourself no good by this noise,” he added, turning to me.
He was right, and I saw it. I quieted down with an effort, and wondered what was coming next.
Wallop appeared at the door in answer to the bell, and was told he was not wanted. Then Mr Barnacle turned to Hawkesbury and asked, “What brought you here so early as a quarter to nine, Hawkesbury?”
This question surprised Hawkesbury as much as it delighted me. I hardly expected to have a cross-examination in my favour conducted by Mr Barnacle.
“I came to do some work,” said Hawkesbury.
“What work?”
“I had several things to catch up.”
“What? Invoices, or letters, or accounts, or what?”
“I had the petty-cash to balance.”
“That is supposed to be done every day, is it not?”
“Yes; but I had got rather behind.”
“How many days behind?” said Mr Barnacle.
“Really I can’t quite say,” said Hawkesbury, who did not seem used to being driven into a corner. “My journey North threw me out of it.”
“Then you have not balanced the petty-cash since before you went North, nearly three weeks ago? Am I to understand that?”
“Yes,” said Hawkesbury.
“Is this the first morning you have come here early?”
“No. I have been once or twice.”
“This is the only time you found Batchelor here?”
“No; about a fortnight ago he was here with Smith. I found them both in this room.”
“What were they doing?”
“They were writing something at the table. They were in a great rage with me when I came in.”
“Was the safe open at the time?”
Hawkesbury had got past the stage of sticking at trifles.
“Yes,” he said; “when I came in it was. But they made a rush and turned me out of the room and locked the door. And then when I came in again it was shut.”
“And did you mention this to anybody?”
“No.”
“And why, pray?”
Hawkesbury was taken aback by the sudden question. It was evident he could not make his story square at all four corners.
“I—I—hoped I might be mistaken,” said he, uncomfortably. “In fact, I meant to mention the affair, but—but I forgot.”
“Oh,” said Mr Barnacle, in a way that made the witness writhe.
“I hope you don’t doubt my word,” said Hawkesbury, attempting to assume a lofty air of virtuous indignation.
Mr Barnacle vouchsafed no reply.
“What we desire,” said Mr Merrett, “is to come at the truth of the matter, and I can only say that it would be much better if the culprit were to make a full confession here now.”
He looked hard at me as he spoke, and I did my best to stand the look as an innocent man should.
“A cheque for eight pounds has been missed,” continued Mr Merrett, “which was only drawn yesterday, and left in the safe. I ask you, Batchelor, do you know anything of it?”
“No, sir,” I replied.
“Do you?” said Mr Barnacle to Hawkesbury.
Hawkesbury flushed as he replied, “I never expected to be asked such a question, Mr Barnacle. I know nothing about it.”
Mr Merrett evidently disliked his partner’s persistency in putting to Hawkesbury the same questions as had been put to me, but he could hardly complain. He turned to his nephew and said, “Did you fetch a policeman, Hawkesbury?”
“No; I was just going when you called me in here.”
Mr Merrett touched his bell, and Crow appeared.
“Is Doubleday in?” asked the senior partner.
“No, sir.”
“As soon as he comes in, tell him he is wanted.”
Crow took an eyeful of us as we stood there, evidently dying of curiosity to know what it all meant, and then retired.
“You two had better go to your work for the present,” said Mr Barnacle; “but understand that you are neither of you at liberty to leave the office. Merrett, I will go down to the bank.”
“Do,” said Mr Merrett.
And so this first painful interview ended. My feelings on finding myself once more at my desk among my fellow-clerks may be more easily imagined than described.
My indignation and sense of injury would scarcely allow me to think calmly on my position. That my employers should be ready, on the testimony of such a fellow as Hawkesbury, to believe a charge like this against me, was simply unbearable, and my own helplessness to prove my innocence only added tenfold to my trouble. Oh! if Jack were only here, I might get some light.
I hurriedly dashed off a note to him, telling him all, and begging him to come. Yet what was the use of writing when I was not allowed to leave the office to post the letter?
I only wished Mr Barnacle would come back from the bank, and that I might know the worst.
As for Hawkesbury, he had shut himself up in his glass box, and was invisible.
Presently, not a little to my comfort, Doubleday returned. Fortunately, Crow was in another part of the office at the time, so that before he delivered his message I had time for a hurried consultation.
“Doubleday,” said I, in a whisper, “I am accused of stealing a cheque; can you help me out?”
“Guilty, or not guilty?” inquired Doubleday, taking a practical view of the case at once. This was pleasant, but it was no time to be particular.
“It is a lie from beginning to end, invented by Hawkesbury to shield himself from a similar charge.”
“Oh, that’s it? He’s been coming out in that line has he?”
I hurriedly narrated the morning’s adventures, greatly to his astonishment and wrath. He took in the situation at once.
“Jolly awkward fix,” said he. “Seen the cheque?”
“No; Mr Barnacle is down at the bank now.”
“Doubleday,” said Crow, entering at this moment, “the governors want you—sharp.”
“They are going to send you for a policeman,” I said. “If anything happens, Doubleday, will you please telegraph to Smith, at Mrs Shield’s, Packworth, and tell him to come to me, and also find out Billy, the shoeblack, and say I want to see him.”
Doubleday looked at me with something like amazement as I made this request, which, however, he promised to fulfil, and then waited on Mr Merrett in the partners’ room.
However, he returned almost immediately, and said he was to wait until Mr Barnacle came back.
It seemed ages before that event happened. Meanwhile Doubleday advised me not to be seen talking to him, or anybody, but to go to my desk and keep my own counsel. It was good advice, and I took it. Mr Barnacle returned presently, accompanied by a man who I fancied must be connected with the bank. The two partners and this stranger were closeted together for some time in the inner-room, and then Doubleday was summoned.
After what seemed a century he emerged and beckoned to me to go in. “You’re wanted,” he said.
I could gather neither comfort nor hope from his face as he stood to let me pass.
“Come when I ring,” said Mr Merrett to him.
Once more I stood before my employers. The stranger was still in the room, and eyed me as I entered in a manner which made me feel as if, whatever I was, I ought to be the guilty person.
“This matter, Batchelor,” began Mr Merrett, solemnly, “is more serious than we imagined. Not only has a cheque been stolen, but it has been tampered with. Look here!”
So saying he held out the cheque. It was dated the previous day, and payable to bearer. But the amount, instead of being eight pounds, was eighty. The alteration had been neatly made, and no one who did not know the original amount drawn for would have suspected that £80 was not the proper sum.
“This cheque,” said Mr Merrett, “was presented at the bank this morning at ten o’clock and cashed.”
I made no reply, being determined to say as little as I could.
“You were here at this hour, I believe,” continued Mr Merrett, “but you had left the office between 9 and 9:45.”
“No, sir. I have not left the office since I arrived at half-past eight.”
Mr Merrett touched the bell.
“Send Hawkesbury here,” he said to Doubleday.
Hawkesbury appeared, and at Mr Merrett’s bidding, after being shown the cheque, repeated once more his story in the hearing of the stranger.
It did not vary from the former version, and included the statement that I had quitted the office at the time alleged.
“Did you leave the office at all?” inquired Mr Barnacle.
“No,” said Hawkesbury.
“Not at all?”
“No, I said so,” replied he.
“And no one came to see you here?”
“No.”
“Your friend Masham did not?”
Hawkesbury, much offended to be thus catechised, made no reply.
Mr Barnacle coolly repeated the question.
“No—he did not!”
“What were you doing all the time?”
“I was working.”
“Yes, what particular work were you engaged in?”
“I told you—I was balancing the petty-cash.”
“Did you finish it?”
“Nearly.”
Mr Barnacle touched the bell, and Doubleday appeared.
“Doubleday, go to Hawkesbury’s desk and bring me the petty-cash book and box.”
Hawkesbury turned pale and broke out into a rage.
“What is this for, Mr Barnacle? I am not going to stand it! What right have you to suspect me?”
“Give Doubleday the key,” repeated Mr Barnacle.
“No,” exclaimed Hawkesbury, in a white heat. “I will not, I will fetch the book myself. He doesn’t know where to find it. He has no business to go to my desk.”
“Remain where you are, Hawkesbury,” said Mr Barnacle.
“What right have you to search my desk? I have private things in it. Uncle Merrett, are you going to allow this?”
“Mr Barnacle has a perfect right to see the petty-cash account,” said Mr Merrett, looking, however, by no means pleased.
“Why don’t you examine his desk?” said Hawkesbury, pointing to me; “he is the one to suspect, not me. Why don’t you search his desk?”
“I have no objection to my desk being searched,” said I, feeling a good deal concerned, however, at the thought of the mess that receptacle was in.
“It is only fair,” said Mr Barnacle. “This gentleman will search both, I dare say. Doubleday, show this gentleman both desks.”
It was a long, uncomfortable interval which ensued, Hawkesbury breaking out in periodical protests against his desk being examined, and I wondering where and how to look for help. The partners meanwhile stood and talked together in a whisper at the window.
At length the gentleman, who, it had dawned on me, was not a bank official, but a detective, returned with Doubleday, who carried in his hands a few books and papers.
The petty-cash book and box were first delivered over, and without examination consigned to the safe.
“These letters were in the same desk,” said the detective, laying down the papers on the table. They appeared to be letters, and in the address of the top one I instantly recognised the handwriting of the letter sent to Mary Smith, which I still had in my pocket.
Hawkesbury made an angry grasp at the papers. “They are private letters,” he exclaimed, “give them up! What right have you to touch them?”
“Hawkesbury,” said Mr Barnacle, “in a case like this it is better for you to submit quietly to what has been done. Nothing in these papers that does not concern the matter in hand is likely to tell against you. Is that all, officer?”
“That’s all in that desk,” said the detective. “In the other young gentleman’s desk the only thing besides business papers and litter was this key.”
A key? What key could it be? It was the first I had seen of it!
“Let me look at it,” said Mr Merrett, suddenly, as the detective laid it on the table.
It was handed to him, and his face changed as he took it. He turned for a moment to show it to Mr Barnacle and whisper something. Then he said, “This is my key of the safe, which I left last night in the pocket of my office coat in this room!”