Helen Vardon's confession
And, as we have finished with this room for the present, I had better
begin to get my workshop in going order.”
“And you’ll let me help you with that, too, won’t you?” said Miss
Finch, with a wheedling air; and as I gladly accepted her help, she
linked her arm in mine and we descended together to the scene of my
future labours.
My experience of various workers has led me to observe that manual
skill is a much more generalized quality than is commonly realized.
The old saw of the “Jack of all trades and master of none” is entirely
misleading; for manual skill acquired in the practice of one art is
largely transferable to others. The acquirement of a particular kind
of skill results in the establishment of a generally increased manual
faculty, so that a person who has completely learned one handicraft is
already more than half-way towards the attainment of skill in any
other. This fact was impressed upon me as I watched little Miss Finch
and noted her extraordinary handiness with probably unfamiliar
appliances and her instant comprehension of the uses of things that
she had probably never seen before. My two benches--the jeweller’s and
the general bench--had fortunately been made in a portable form, and
now had to be joined up with their screw-bolts. But my little
assistant took this in at a glance, and, before I had half finished
unpacking the tool cases, she had the bench-tops up-ended, had sorted
out the legs, struts and the appropriate bolts, and was hard at work
with the spanner. Yet, as she worked, she kept an alert and interested
eye on the tools and appliances that came forth from the cases.
“What a jolly little muffie!” she exclaimed, as I deposited the small
enamel furnace on the floor, pending the erection of its stand; “but
won’t it eat up the gas. You’ll have to have your own meter--and watch
it, too, to see that your earnings don’t all go to the gas company.
And what a little duck of an anvil! But what on earth are those
things?” pointing to a bundle of body-tools and snarling-irons.
I explained the use of these mysterious appliances and of sundry
others; and so, with a good deal of gossip, partly personal and partly
technical, we worked on until the sound of the first supper-bell sent
us to our rooms to make ourselves presentable; by which time the
fitting out of the workshop was so far advanced as to make it possible
for me to begin work on the morrow.
The great social function of supper introduced me to the rest of my
comrades; Phyllis Barton, who turned out, to my surprise, to be a
tiny, frail-looking middle-aged woman of meek aspect--I had pictured
her as a large, muscular, boisterous young woman; Joan Allen, who
really corresponded somewhat to this description, and whom I detected
more than once in the act of inspecting me with one eye closed; and a
tall, rather shy girl, by name Edith Palgrave, a scrivener and
calligrapher, who, I learned from Miss Finch, wrote, by choice, Church
service books and illuminated addresses, but, by necessity, gained her
principal livelihood by writing shop-tickets.
It was a pleasant genial gathering: homely, informal, and yet quite
regardful of the indispensable social amenities. What the social class
of my companions might have been I could hardly guess. They were all
educated women, of good intelligence and pleasant manners, all keenly
interested in one another’s doings, but each fully occupied with her
own activities. The agreeable impression was conveyed that, in this
little human hive, the companionship arising from the community of
domestic life tended in no way to hinder a self-contained person like
myself from living her own life and pursuing her own interests and
satisfactions.
And so, when, somewhat early, I retired to my room to spend an hour
with my books before going to bed, my thoughts turned gratefully to
Dr. Thorndyke, and I congratulated myself not a little on having found
this quiet anchorage in which to rest after the stormy passages of my
troubled life.
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