Chapter Twenty Five.
The Heir of Maxfield comes of Age.
It wanted but a month to Roger’s majority, that important day on which the fate of so many persons was to be decided, when a letter was delivered to the heir of Maxfield as he sat at breakfast.
The weeks that had passed since Captain Oliphant’s sudden death had been uneventful. To Rosalind and Roger the discovery that they loved one another went far to lighten the sorrow which had befallen both—one in the death of a father, the other in what appeared to be the hopeless loss of a brother.
Roger had by no means yet abandoned his search. Twice already had he and Armstrong been up to London to make inquiries, but without avail. The billiard-marker of “L’Hôtel Soult” had vanished as completely as—well, as Mr Ratman.
“You know, of course,” said the tutor once, with the rather unsympathetic drawl in which he was wont to allude to the lost Ingleton—“you know, of course, that if the man you want is Ratman, you are having the assistance of the police in your search. A warrant is out against him, and heaven and earth is being moved to capture him.”
Roger sighed.
“I am looking for no one but my brother,” said he, “Even if he turns out to be this miscreant, I cannot help it.”
“Quite so. Only it is right to remember that to find Ratman means to hang him. That at least is the object the police have in view. But you need not disturb yourself on that score. Roger Ingleton, major, if we find him, may be a villain, but he won’t be the murderer of Miss Oliphant’s father.”
They returned presently, baffled, to Maxfield. No one at the depots, or recruiting head-quarters, or pension offices could tell them a word of a soldier or a sailor named Callot who might have enlisted or gone to sea about twelve years ago. How could they expect it? Nor did the most careful search among the old Squire’s papers lead to the discovery of any record of the supposed report of the lad’s death.
As a matter of fact, if the billiard-marker at “L’Hôtel Soult” was the man, they had already traced him down to a date long subsequent to that of his rumoured death.
Together they ransacked the memories of Dr Brandram, the Vicar, old Hodder, and one or two other inhabitants who might be supposed to know something of the matter. Very few there were who had seen the boy at all. He had spent most of his time at school, and during his occasional holidays had usually found all the amusement he needed in the ample confines of the park.
No one had seen in black and white an announcement of his death. The Squire had told the Doctor that news of it had arrived from abroad; where and when and under what circumstances he never said. Old Hodder remembered the story of the quarrel between father and son, and identified the portrait as that of the missing lad. But, despite his boasted “threescore years and ten,” the old man was absolutely useless in the present inquiry.
And so, thwarted at every turn, not knowing what to hope for, too proud to own himself beaten, Roger abandoned the search, and awaited his majority very much as a debtor awaits his bankruptcy.
Mr Armstrong, who chanced to look up at the moment when Raffles delivered the letter, concluded at once from the startled look on the lad’s face that it was a missive of no common importance.
It was from Ratman, and bore on its envelope the London post-mark:—
“Dear Brother,—For the last time I claim your help. I know quite well that I am being hunted to death by you and those you employ. Without a shred of evidence you are willing to believe me a murderer. I suppose I have no right to complain. It would be convenient to you to have me out of the way, and the best way of getting rid of me is to get up this cry against me. A nice brotherly act, and worthy of an Ingleton! It is no use my telling you that I am innocent—that till I had been two days here I never so much as heard of Oliphant’s death. You would not believe it. Nor, I fancy, is it much use telling you that the scoundrel owed me money, that I was shielding him from the consequences of an old felony for which he might have had penal servitude, and that the little he did pay me was stolen from your property. Of course you wouldn’t believe it. It is only about your brother, who has been a slung stone all his life, who never had a friend, never knew a kind look from any one, that you are ready to believe evil. I am nearly at the end of my tether here. In a day or two you will probably hear that I am arrested, and then you will have your revenge on me for daring to be your flesh and blood; and you will have no difficulty in convincing a judge and jury that I have committed any crime you and your saintly tutor choose to concoct between you. Pleasant to be rich and influential! I could escape if I had money. Fifty pounds would rid you of me almost as effectively as the gallows. But it would cost you something; therefore it is absurd to imagine it possible. When, three days hence, I make my last call at the General Post Office, and hear once more that there is nothing for me, not even a message of brotherly pity (which costs nothing), I shall know my last hope is gone. And you, in the lap of luxury, counting your thousands, and monarch of all you survey, will be able to breathe again. Either you will hear of my arrest, or, if my courage befriends me, you may read in an obscure corner of the paper of a wretch, hounded to death, who escaped his pursuers after all, and preferred to die by his own hand rather than that of his brother. Good-bye till then.
“Your brother,—
“Roger Ingleton.
“P.S.—The Post Office know me, or my messenger, as ‘Richard Redfern.’ No doubt you will show this letter to your tutor, who should have no difficulty in using the information I am obliged to give as to my whereabouts to run me down.”
The flush on Roger’s face had died down into pallor by the time he reached the end of this savage yet dismal letter. Till he came to the postscript he had reckoned on demanding Armstrong’s advice as to its contents. Now, somehow, his hands seemed tied. Here was a man, claiming to be his brother, practically placing his life in his hands. Whether the story were true or false, the writer had calculated astutely on the quixotic temper of his correspondent. The appeal, insultingly as it was made, was one which Roger Ingleton, minor, could not resist.
“I have had a letter from Ratman,” said he when the two friends were alone together.
“I am not surprised,” said the tutor. “He wants money, of course?”
“I can’t show you the letter, simply because it contains a vague clue as to his whereabouts, which you would feel bound to follow up.”
“I undoubtedly should,” said Mr Armstrong. “Shall not you?”
“No. He gives it in confidence, in the hope I shall send him money. I don’t intend to do that, but it would hardly be fair to use this letter against him.”
“He is Captain Oliphant’s murderer.”
“He denies it, and once more calls himself my brother.”
The tutor shrugged his shoulders.
“As you please. Burn the letter. It probably does not tell more than the police know already.”
Roger dismally obeyed. Had he felt sure that this man was his brother, he would have, at all risk and in spite of all, tried to help him. Even so, to help him with one hand would mean to ruin him with the other. If he found him, it would be to hand him over to the police. If he procured his escape, it would be to oust him irrevocably from his inheritance.
There seemed nothing for it but to do nothing and wait.
In other quarters the policy of inaction found little favour. Mr Headland called up the same evening at Maxfield and demanded an interview with the tutor.
“Wal, young man,” said he, “I calculate those two hundred-pound notes of mine didn’t travel so far astray after all.”
“You have traced them, then?”
“I’ve been three weeks doing it, but I have so.”
“And with what conclusion?”
“Just this, that Captain E. Oliphant fell over that cliff just about the right time, sir. Yes, sir, my notes are lying snug at the English Bank at this present moment, and I know their pedigree. Number 90,356 came there from a bank in Fleet Street. The bank in Fleet Street received it from a hotel. The hotel received it from a gentleman who slept in bedroom Number 36, and that gentleman’s name was Ratman. Number 90,357 came to the bank later from Amsterdam. Amsterdam had it from an English diamond merchant, the diamond merchant had it from a stock jobber, and the stock jobber had it from a sporting club, who had it from a temporary member in December last in payment of a gambling debt, and that temporary member’s name was Ratman. That’s not all, sir. My letter was posted in America, November 9. On November 17 the post-master at Yeld, an intelligent man, sir, received a letter with an American stamp, sir, addressed to Roger Ingleton, senior, at Maxfield. A Yankee stamp was a novelty to your intelligent post-master, and he took a note of date, and sent it up here for delivery. It was delivered here November 17, and your footman remembers giving it to your colleague. Three days after, Mr Ratman visited his friend Captain E. Oliphant here. Two days later he reached the hotel in London with a Yeld label on his trunk. A week after that he passed note Number 90,356 to settle his bill. There, sir; the Americans are born explorers. I flatter myself there’s not much more to know about my two notes.”
“Quite so,” said the tutor. “You have done a great deal in three weeks. What reparation can be made you?”
“Sir, you are an honest young man. You believe in shielding the memory of a dead enemy. You are right. Continue on that tack and you’ll do yourself credit. As executor of my late kinsman, I will trouble you to place this cheque for £200 to the credit of the estate, and never to say a word about the sum that was lost. Notes get lost every day; at least they do in America.”
Mr Armstrong’s gratitude was beyond words. He had set his heart, for the sake of the children of his late colleague, and even for Roger’s sake, on covering with a cloak of oblivion the crime of which chance had made him the detector. This American had it in his power to aid or thwart him, and had chosen the former course; and a great weight was lifted off the tutor’s mind in consequence.
On the following day he was calling at the Yeld bank to transact some business (part of which was to pay in Mr Headland’s cheque), when the manager invited him into his parlour. This functionary was a respectable, middle-aged person, who had held his appointment for five or six years, keeping pretty much to himself, and, as is the lot of bank managers, being made a great deal of by clients who chanced to be, or desired to be, under obligations to his bank.
“Mr Armstrong,” said he, “you will pardon me, but there’s a little matter—”
“Hullo!” thought the tutor, “has the bank stopped payment, or the Maxfield securities been robbed?”
“Well, sir?”
“It’s a private matter, and I should not mention it if it were not for the talk which is going to and fro about young Mr Ingleton’s lost brother. I understand there’s a claimant for the title, and not a very eligible one.”
“On the contrary, most ineligible,” said the tutor. “And it seems likely that he will, under present circumstances, keep far enough away from these parts?”
“Naturally. The coroner’s jury have given him a pressing invitation, which he feels compelled to decline.”
“Well, about this lost boy. You’ll think me impertinent, but I think I can tell you something about him.”
The tutor started, and looked hard at the speaker. “Yes,” said the latter mildly. “As you know, I’ve not been here long. My predecessor, Mr Morris, was a friend of the family. I remember his once mentioning an elder son of the Squire who had been reported dead, and that was all I ever heard of the matter from him or anybody else. But only last week, in a bundle of documents relating to Mr Morris’s own affairs, which, as his executor, it was my duty to examine, I came upon a letter which, though evidently private at the time, seems as if it ought at least to be seen by you and your ward now. It proves that ten years ago the elder son was alive, and being in his handwriting, it may be important evidence if you have to deal with the claim of an impostor.”
The tutor expressed considerable discomfort at this new complication, and regarded the document in the banker’s hand as if it were an infernal machine.
“It’s private, you say. Would it not be better to regard it as such?”
“I think it should be seen. If you prefer I will submit it to Mr Pottinger.”
This settled the business. The tutor stretched out his hand for the letter. It was dated from on board the ship “Cyclops,” off Havana, ten years ago, and, by the unsteady character of the handwriting, which rendered some words almost illegible, had evidently been written in a high sea. Mr Armstrong could scarcely help smiling at the banker’s naïve suggestion as to the use of the document as evidence of handwriting.
The note was as follows:—
“Dear Mr Morris,—I write to you in strictest confidence. My father probably has given me up for dead. I hope so. On no account must he know that I have written to you. My object is to enclose a twenty-five dollar note which I owe him. Once, before we quarrelled, he lent me five pounds. I want to pay it back without any one knowing of it, because I’m determined not to owe anything to anybody, especially to one who has told me I’m not honest. Please put it into his bank account. He probably will never notice it; anyhow, please, whatever you do, don’t tell him or any one alive where it came from, or that you ever heard a word from me or of me. I trust you as a gentleman.
“Yours truly,—
“Roger Ingleton.”
“Well, sir,” said the banker, who had watched the reading curiously, “does it not seem an important letter?”
“I think so. It appears to be genuine, too, on the face of it. If you will allow me I should like my ward to see it. It will interest him.”
The tutor was not wrong. With this strange missive in his hand all Roger’s yearnings towards his lost brother returned in full force. The object of his search seemed suddenly to stand within measurable reach. Ten years appeared nothing beside the twenty which only a few months back had divided them. If he could but postpone his majority another year! Then came the miserable doubt about Ratman. If, after all, his unlikely, discredited story should prove to have a grain of truth at the bottom of it! But he dismissed the doubt for the hope.
“Armstrong, I must go to town to find out about the ‘Cyclops.’ Come with me, there’s a good fellow. In three weeks it will be too late.”
The tutor was prepared for this decision.
“By all means,” said he. “We will go to-morrow to inquire after a passenger or sailor who was on board a sailing-vessel, nationality unknown, which happened to be off Havana in a heavy sea on October 20, ten years ago.”
“I know it’s absurd,” said Roger, “but I can’t help it. I never seemed so near my brother before. I should despise myself if I sat idle here.”
So it happened that, just when Maxfield was preparing in a quiet way to celebrate the coming of age of the heir; just as the gloom which had followed on Captain Oliphant’s tragic death was beginning to lift a little and allow Tom and Jill decorously to think of football; just as Rosalind was beginning to make up her mind that she was not destined for ever to teach the elements of art and science to the Vicarage children; just when everything seemed to be settling down for the last scene of the drama, Roger and his tutor vanished once more on their familiar wild-goose chase.
Dr Brandram grumbled; the county gentry shook their heads; Mr Pottinger breathed again. No one thought well of the expedition; some went so far as to make a jest of it.
Roger cared nothing for what people thought. With Armstrong to back him, with Rosalind to bid him a brave God-speed, with his own stout heart to buoy him up, and with his lost brother only ten years distant, he could afford to start in good cheer, and let the world think what it liked.
But the cheer was destined to failure. They heard of one or two vessels called the “Cyclops,” but respecting the crew or passengers, of none of them was it possible to glean a word of news. The vessel in question might have been ship, schooner, or barque; she might have been English, American, Indian, or Australian; she might have foundered, or changed her name, or been broken up for lumber. Lloyds knew her not. West India merchants had never heard of her. Of all their quests, this seemed the most vague and hopeless.
Up to the last, Roger stuck doggedly to it. Even if he spent his majority in the London docks he would not turn tail. The tutor backed up loyally, did most of the work, made most of the inquiries, never grumbled or gibed or protested. When Roger looked most like giving in, it was the tutor who put fresh heart into him.
“To-morrow,” said Roger on the eve of his birthday, “I will give it up. But there is a day yet.”
And sure enough, on the last day, a vague ray of light came in the shape of a telegram from the port-master at Havana, to whom, at the tutor’s suggestion, a message of inquiry had been sent:—
“Cyclops known. Writing.”
Writing! A letter would take weeks to come, and they had but a day! They hurried to the telegraph-office and sent an urgent message begging particulars by wire whatever the cost. Late that day, indeed it was nearly midnight, the reply came:—
“Sailed Ceylon, West Indies. Name Ingleton unknown. Ship now here.”
Roger staggered from the office a beaten man. Through the deserted City streets the clocks were booming the hour of midnight and ushering in his majority. His brother! All along he had persuaded himself this quest was to end in victory, that before now he should have met his brother face to face and given him what was his. To-day it was no longer his to give. The race was already over, and the clock had won. His brother was not there.
“Take my arm, dear old fellow,” said Mr Armstrong, “and cheer up.”