The Man of Gold (12 page)

What if Inspector Redderman was not there? What if he had callously left Richard to wait in some cell while he went home to the comforts of his own hearth? But as soon as she had thought of it she rejected the notion. If the Inspector was at all the man she had found him to be, brief though her acquaintance with him was, then he was not one to waste time. He would use every minute during which he had Richard at his disposal to question him. He would use each minute to the last second.

Miss Unwin mounted the police station steps, pushed
open its heavy door, presented herself at a mahogany counter where a portly sergeant sat overflowing a high stool.

‘Inspector Redderman?’ he said in answer to her inquiry. ‘And what would you be wanting with the Inspector, my dear? That is, madam. Madam.’

A little belatedly he had realised that the slight upright figure in front of him, despite the plainness of her attire, was not an upper servant or a shopkeeper’s wife to be addressed in the familiar manner but a lady, to whom respect was due and must be paid.

‘It is in connection with his inquiries into the decease of the late Mr Partington,’ Miss Unwin replied sedately.

But her words plainly gave the bulky sergeant cause for alarm.

‘Mr Partington, Mr Partington,’ he said. ‘I think perhaps the Inspector will be very pleased to see you.’

He gave a vigorous thump to the domed handbell on the counter beside him. A constable appeared with a clatter of heavy boots, and Miss Unwin was led speedily to an office deep inside the building.

And there sitting on either side of a plain wooden table were Inspector Redderman and Richard Partington.

Richard, Miss Unwin saw as soon as she set foot in the room, was looking far from his usual self. His round face was lined and almost haggard. His shoulders drooped. The fine new clothes he had bought himself so recently looked somehow less fine.

Oh, that I should notice all this so instantly, Miss Unwin thought. Yes, if I did not know it before, I know it now. There, sitting bedraggled in front of a police inspector and in danger of the gallows, is the man I love.

Inspector Redderman bobbed neatly up in his chair. He, Miss Unwin, saw, did not look a whit different from the person she had met that morning, spare, controlled, within himself.

She wondered suddenly whether she had after all done
the right thing in coming hurrying round to him with her information.

But, she reassured herself firmly, it was information that she had to give him and information that he ought to have.

‘Turner,’ Inspector Redderman said to the constable, ‘take this gentleman downstairs.’

Richard at once pulled himself to his feet. Miss Unwin was aware that he was obeying an order, though the Inspector had said nothing to him directly, and she hated to think that the Richard Partington who had been her employer was now a man who was given orders and obeyed them without a sign of protest. The hours he had been in the police office had taken more out of him than she would have believed possible of the person who had endured his father’s jibes and deprivations so long and so uncomplainingly.

The constable closed the door behind his charge.

‘Miss Unwin?’ Inspector Redderman said.

Miss Unwin swallowed.

‘Inspector, I have brought you certain information which I think may be relevant to your inquiries.’

‘Sit down, Miss.’

Miss Unwin took the chair Richard had just vacated. With a shock of recognition she was aware of the lingering heat of his body on the hard surface of the wood beneath her.

She felt herself lose colour.

But the Inspector did not seem to notice her discomposure.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘tell me.’

So Miss Unwin produced her story of the finding of the gold, of the twins’ silly behaviour, of the extraordinary visit from the plump and assertive Mr Davis and of what she thought Captain Fulcher must know.

The Inspector listened without moving a muscle, without a flicker of his quiet grey eyes.

At last Miss Unwin came to a halt. She was conscious, angrily conscious, that she had told her tale with less than her usual clarity.

‘I see,’ the Inspector said. ‘And you have nothing more you wish to tell me?’

‘No, No, I do not think so. But-But you must see …’

She faltered to a stop. How could she tell this man who seemed to know so well just exactly what he was doing what it was that he ought to infer from the account she had given him?

Inspector Redderman half-rose from his chair on the other side of the table with its squared-off piles of paper, its inkpot with the lid meticulously closed, its blotter neatly aligned.

‘Then I will bid you good evening,’ he said.

‘But – But are you not going to take any action arising from what I have told you? Are you not going to say that Rich – that Mr Partington may return home?’

‘No, Miss.’

For a moment Miss Unwin was ready to accept the two brief words of dismissal. They seemed so definite.

But a dart of rebelliousness leapt up.

‘But why? Why, Inspector?’ she cried.

‘Because you have given me little more than a tangle of suppositions,’ the Inspector answered quietly. ‘Until such facts as there are have been verified I can see no reason for any action.’

It was like a douche of cold water. But Miss Unwin recognised that the water was the plain water of truth. What she had told the Inspector was indeed largely supposition, though she believed it was logical supposition. And the facts that it rested on ought, of course, to be verified before any responsible person acted upon them. But nonetheless the douche was chilling.

‘Very well, Inspector,’ she said, ‘I will return home now, and expect to see you tomorrow if you should wish to talk to the twins.’

‘Yes, I may need to do that.’

And that was her dismissal.

Wearily she trod her way back along the Harrow Road, her steps a great deal slower and heavier than when she had made the journey in the other direction.

It was only as she reached out to the house’s doorbell to summon Vilkins to open for her that she made up her mind.

What she had told Inspector Redderman might be only supposition. But there was a good chance, more than a good chance, that she was right and that it had indeed been Captain Fulcher who had given old Mr Partington arsenic in order to prevent him finding out that some of his gold hoard had gone. Of course, to anyone convinced that the murder must have been the work of the old miser’s direct heir this alternative account might seem flimsy enough. But she herself knew that Richard Partington was not to blame for his father’s death.

She knew it. She knew it.

So it was all the more likely that Captain Fulcher was responsible. However few confirmed facts there were to base that supposition on.

But other facts there must be that supported it. And, waiting in the faint chill of the early May evening for Vilkins to come to the door, Miss Unwin made up her mind that she herself would go and find whatever more facts there were that could be found.

She owed Richard that. She owed that to the man who had in moments of distress called the governess he employed by her forename. Harriet owed that to Richard.

As soon as Vilkins had pulled the heavy front door open she told her what had been the result of her visit to the police office and what she had now determined to do.

‘What you want to get a-hold of,’ said Vilkins, ‘is the feller’s betting book.’

‘Betting book?’ Miss Unwin asked, less worldly-wise in certain matters than her friend.

‘Yer. Don’t you know? Gentlemen in the racing world always has ‘em. Betting books. They writes down what money they’s lost an’ the name o’ the ‘orses what they lost it on. Puts down what they won, too, I s’pose.’

‘Yes, yes, I see. If Captain Fulcher’s betting book shows that he was much in debt and then was able to pay off those sums without having won anything at the races, then I shall have a fact indeed to take back to Inspector Redderman.’

‘Only, ‘ow you going to get ‘old of the book?’ Vilkins said.

‘I shall go to the Captain’s lodgings,’ Miss Unwin answered at once. ‘I know where they are, just off Oxford Street. I heard old Mr Partington abusing him once for having an expensive address and the Captain replying that a fellow must live somewhere where the wretched tradesmen will suppose he has money. So I shall go there tomorrow and trust that I can persuade someone to let me in. I shall choose a time when the Captain is likely to be out, and his sister of course will have gone back to the country now. She dislikes London and its flies and foul air so much.’

Miss Unwin had calculated that she would have to wait until the evening to be sure that Captain Fulcher would not be at his lodgings. She thought with dismay that this would mean that Richard would in all likelihood have to spend all the next day still at the police station. But she had reckoned without Vilkins’ knowledge of the low side of life.

‘He won’t be at ‘ome today,’ she said when early in the morning Miss Unwin told her of her plan. ‘There’s the fight today. He’ll ‘ave been off over Reading way crack o’dawn. Feller like ‘im ain’t going to miss the chance o’ losing a good bet, not when it’s Jem Falkinder against the Black Mauler.’

‘A boxing match, Vilkins? But how do you know about that?’

‘Well, I talks, don’t I? The chap what buys the rabbit skins off of us, that’s who told me.’

‘So if I can give the twins something to do which will keep them occupied this morning, I can go to his lodgings and perhaps be back before midday.’

Miss Unwin’s heart leapt up. Secretly she added to herself,
be back before midday with evidence that even Inspector Redderman must take notice of
.

And then Richard will come home again, she thought. And the nightmare will be no more than that, a dream to be forgotten in the broad daylight.

The hope buoyed her up all the way to the West End respectability of Great Marlborough Street and Captain Fulcher’s lodgings. She was unable in advance to think of how she would penetrate the Captain’s rooms but she had no doubt she would easily enough overcome any obstacle a landlady might constitute.

Her optimism proved altogether justified.

She rang at the bell. Almost at once the door was opened by a slatternly girl of thirteen or fourteen in a dirty apron. A broom was propped against the wall just behind her.

‘There’s no one at ‘ome but me,’ she said without waiting to see what this visitor wanted.

Miss Unwin summed her up at once.

‘That’s perfectly all right,’ she said clearly and loudly. ‘I have come to give something to Captain Fulcher, if you will just show me up to his room I will write a note and explain.’

‘Oh, yes, mum,’ said the girl.

She turned and trailed off along the hall passageway and up the stairs to the first floor.

‘It’s there,’ she said, indicating the nearest door with a jerk of her head.

‘Good. Thank you,’ Miss Unwin said, still vigorously determined.

The wretched girl slouched off back to her broom. Miss
Unwin took the doorknob of the Captain’s rooms firmly in her hand and turned it.

In her mind’s eye she saw the betting book she so much needed as lying immediately before her on some convenient table. She told herself not to be ridiculous. In all likelihood a thorough search would be necessary. Drawers would have to be pried into. Cupboards opened. This was not the sort of behaviour she saw of herself. But the case was urgent and she was not going to be halted now by considerations of what was ladylike and proper.

The sitting room that confronted her was much as she had expected. Its furniture was not really shabby but none of it was of a piece. The sofa was too feminine for a person of Captain Fulcher’s taste and neither of the chairs, though they were good enough, matched it quite in colour. There was a table. But on it no sign of a book, only two or three newspapers evidently at least of the day before, crumpled and carelessly tossed down. There was an escritoire, however, and its topmost drawer was even invitingly half an inch open.

Next to it was an inner door which, Miss Unwin thought, must lead to the Captain’s bedroom. She wondered whether she ought to glance in there before she tackled the likely escritoire.

But she had no time to decide. The door she was looking at abruptly swept open and standing in the doorway wearing a green silk wrapper and with no front of false hair under the cap on her head was none other than Cousin Cornelia.

Miss Unwin’s mind went blank. The appearance so abruptly of someone she had thought safely down in Somerset, here in a place where she herself was about to commit a criminal act, however good her intentions, robbed her of all thought.

She stood staring at the apparition of Cousin Cornelia. And Cousin Cornelia indeed was something to stare at. Never at the best of times with her thin knife of a nose and her stringy neck anything of a beauty, caught now without the elaborate toilettes she affected on her visits of ceremony to the Harrow Road, she looked like nothing so much as a scarecrow. Deprived of her gowns of bottle-green or cherry-red silks, of her lace shawls and her caps of yet more delicate lace, she was revealed as the old-before-her-time creature that she really was.

Miss Unwin, when thought from some far banished place began to roll back into her mind, found herself wondering that she had even recognised this elderly apparition as Captain Fulcher’s devoted sister.

But, if she had almost failed to recognise Miss Fulcher, Miss Fulcher, it now appeared, had completely failed to recognise her.

‘Pray, who are you?’ she demanded. ‘What are you doing in my rooms? I thought you were that servant girl.’

Evidently in her visits to the man she hoped to marry, Cousin Cornelia had taken so little notice of his children’s governess that, bonneted and in a mantle now, she had not remembered her in the least.

Miss Unwin, mistress of herself again, was quick to take
advantage of this piece of unforeseen luck.

‘Madam,’ she said rapidly, ‘my humblest apologies. I must have mistaken the door.’