The Documents in the Case (21 page)

She greeted me with a condescending nod, and the youth withdrew.

‘Well, now,’ I said, ‘Mrs Cutts, you have asked me to come and see you, and I hope you are not wasting my time, because I am a very busy man.’

This forlorn effort to establish my dignity made no impression on her.

‘That’s for you to say, sir,’ said she. ‘I wasn’t for intrudin’ on you. I am a respectable woman, thank God, and can maintain myself in my station by ’ard work, and never ’ad no complaints. Not but wot I’d be willin’ to oblige a gentleman if ’e was requirin’ my services, not bein’ too proud to do a favour.’

‘Quite so,’ said I, ‘and if you can do the work I want, I will see that it is made worth your while.’

‘Wot sort of work was you thinkin’ of, sir?’

‘I gathered from what you said to me,’ I answered, ‘that you thought you might be able to throw some light on the circumstances of my father’s death.’

‘That’s as may be. There’s ways and ways of dyin’. Some is took, and some takes French leave, and others is ’elped out of life, ain’t they, sir?’

‘Have you got any information to show that my father was helped out of life?’

‘Well, there, sir. I wouldn’t go for to say sech a thing — nor yet for to deny it, ’uman nature bein’ that wicked as you can see for yourself any Sunday in the News of the World. But wot I says is, w’en persons is wicked enough to ’ave goin’s on be’ind a gentleman’s back, there’s no knowin’ wot may come of it, is there?’

‘You said you had letters to show me.’

‘Ah!’ she nodded. ‘There’s good readin’ in letters sometimes, sir. There’s letters as would be worth ’undreds of pounds in a court of law, to some people as one might name.’

‘Come, come, Mrs Cutts,’ said I, ‘very few letters are worth anything like that.’

‘That’s not for me to judge, sir. If letters should turn out not to be worth nothin’, why, they’re easy destroyed, ain’t they, sir? There’s many a person I daresay wishes that ’e or it might be she, sir, ’ad destroyed the letters wot they ’ad written. I was never one for writin’ letters myself. A word’s as good, and leaves nothin’ but air be’ind it, that’s wot I say. And them as leaves letters about casual-like, might often be grateful for a word of warnin’ from them as is wiser’n themselves.’

Her screwed-up eyes twinkled with consciousness of power.

‘A word of warnin’ is soon given, and may be worth ’undreds. I ain’t got no call to press you, sir. I ain’t dependent on anybody, thank God.’

‘Look here,’ I said briskly, ‘it’s no use beating about the bush. I must see these letters before I know what they’re worth to me. For all I know they’re not worth twopence.’

‘Well, I ain’t unreasonable,’ said the hag. ‘Fair and square is my motter. Ef I was to show you dockyments ter prove as your pa’s missis was sweet on my young gentleman there, would that be worth anything to you, sir?’

‘That’s rather vague,’ I fenced. ‘People may be fond of one another and no great harm done.’

‘Wot may seem no ’arm to some may be great ’arm to a right-thinking person,’ said Mrs Cutts, unctuously. ‘You can ask all about this neighhour’ood, sir, and they’ll tell you Mrs Cutts is a lawful maried woman, as works ’ard and keeps ’erself to ’erself as the sayin’ is. Not but wot there’s a-many things as a ’ard-workin’ woman in these parts ’as to shet her eyes to, and can’t be blamed for wot is not ’er business. But there is limits, and w’en people is writin’ to people as isn’t their own lawful ’usbands about bein’ in the fambly way and about others as is their lawful ’usbands not ’avin’ the right to exist, and w’en them lawful ’usbands dies sudden not so very long arter, then wot I ses is, it might be worth while for them as is right-thinkin’ and ’ose place it is to interfere, to ’ave them there dockyments kep’ in a safe place.’

I tried not to let her see how deeply I was interested in these hints.

‘This is all talk,’ I said. ‘Show me the letters, and then we can get down to brass tacks.’

‘Ah!’ said Mrs Cutts. ‘And supposin’ my young gentleman should come ’ome and look for them letters, as it might be tonight, wot a peck of trouble I might be in. Do right and shame the devil is my motter, but motters won’t feed a fambly o’ children when a ’ard-workin’ woman loses ’er job — now, will they, sir?’

I thought the time had come to lend an air of business to the bargain. I drew a five-pound note from my pocket, and let it crackle pleasantly between my fingers. Her eyelids twitched, but she said nothing.

‘Before we go any further,’ I said, ‘I must look at the letters and see that they are actually from the person you mention, and that they are of genuine interest to me. In the meanwhile, since I have put you to some trouble—’

I pushed the note towards her, but held my hand over it.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘I don’t mind lettin’ you ’ave a look. Looks breaks no bones, as the sayin’ is.’ She fumbled in a remote pocket beneath her skirt and produced a small packet of papers.

‘My eyes ain’t so good as they was,’ she added, with sudden caution. ‘ ’Ere, Archie!’

The ferrety youth (who must have been listening at the door) answered the summons with suspicious promptness. I noticed that he had provided himself with a formidable-looking stick and immediately pushed my chair back against the wall. Mrs Cutts slowly detached one letter from the bundle, and spread it out flat on the table, disengaging it from its folds with a well-licked thumb.

‘W’ich one is this, Archie?’

The youth glanced sideways at the letter and replied:

‘That’s the do-something-quick one, Mother.’

‘Ah! and wi’ch is the one about the pore gentleman as was done in in a play?’

‘ ’Ere you are, Mother.’

She slid the letters across to meet my hand. I released the note; she released the letters and the exchange was effected.

These were the letters numbered 43 and 44, and dated August 2nd and October 5th respectively, as above. If you will glance back to them, you will see that they offered valuable evidence.

I at once recognised them for genuine documents in my stepmother’s handwriting.

‘How many letters have you?’

‘Well there’s more than I ’ave ’ere. But them as I ’old in my ’and w’ich makes eight, countin’ them two, is the ones as ’ud interest anybody as wanted to know w’y a gentleman might die sudden.’

‘Are there any that say definitely how he died or what he died of?’

‘No,’ said Mrs Cutts. ‘I wouldn’t deceive a gentleman like you, sir. Tell the truth, likewise fair and square. Them eight letters, sir, is wot they calls excitements to murder, and would be so considered by any party as might ’appen to receive them. But as for saying in so many words “weed-killer” or “prussic acid”, I will not say as you will find them words in black and white.’

‘That, of course, detracts from their value,’ I said carelessly. ‘These letters are evidence of sad immorality, no doubt, Mrs Cutts, but it’s one thing to wish a person dead and another to kill him.’

‘There ain’t sech a great difference,’ said Mrs Cutts, a little shaken. ‘It says in the Bible — “ ’E that ’ateth ’is brother is a murderer,” now, don’t it, sir? And there’s some as sits on juries ’as the same way of thinkin’.’

‘Maybe,’ said I, ‘but all the same, it’s not proof.’

‘Very good, sir,’ said Mrs Cutts with dignity. ‘I wouldn’t contradict a gentleman. You ’and me them letters back, Archie. The gentleman don’t want ’em. Ef Mr Lathom ’ad any sense ’e’d burn the rubbishin’ stuff, and so I’ll tell ’im, clutterin’ up the place.’

‘I don’t say that, Mrs Cutts,’ said I, holding on to the letters. ‘They are of interest, but not of as much interest as I thought they might be. What value did you think of placing on them?’

‘To them as knew ’ow to use ’em’ — here Mrs Cutts appeared to size me up from head to toe — ‘letters like them might be worth a ’undred pounds apiece.’

‘Rubbish,’ said I. ‘I’ll give you fifty pounds for the lot, and that’s more than they’re worth.’

I put the two letters back on the table and flicked at them disdainfully.

‘Fifty pound!’ shrieked Mrs Cutts, ‘fifty pound! And me riskin’ losin’ a job as is worth more than that any day in recommendations and perks, not countin’ my money regular every week!’

She gathered the letters together and began to tie the packet up again.

‘Mr Lathom ’ud give five times that much to know as they wos safe,’ she added.

‘Not he,’ said I. ‘I doubt if he has as much as a hundred pounds in the world. Whereas, if your son likes to come round with me to my hotel, I can give him cash on the nail.’

‘No,’ said Mrs Cutts. ‘I can’t let them letters go. Supposin’ Mr Lathom wanted to read ’em and they wasn’t there.’

‘That’s your affair,’ said I. ‘If you don’t want to sell them, you can keep them. If I were you I’d put them back quickly where you found them, and say nothing to Mr Lathom about it. There’s such a thing as blackmail, you know, Mrs Cutts, and judges are pretty strict about it.’

Mrs Cutts laughed scornfully.

‘Blackmail! Nobody ain’t goin’ to charge theirselves with murder, and don’t you think it.’

‘There’s no murder there,’ said I. ‘Good-night.’

I rose to go. The woman let me get as far as the door and then came after me.

‘See ’ere, sir. You’re a gentleman, and I don’t want to be ’ard on a gentleman wot’s pore father ’as died sudden. Give me two ’undred pound, and I’ll let yer take copies of ’em and Archie shall go with you and bring ’em back.’

‘Copies don’t count so well in a court of law as originals,’ I said.

‘They could be swore to,’ said Mrs Cutts.

‘Not at this time of night,’ said I.

The youth Archie leaned across and whispered to his mother. She nodded and smiled her unpleasant smile.

‘See ’ere, sir, I’ll risk it. Archie shall bring you them letters to your ’otel in the mornin’ and you shall take copies and ’ave them swore to afore a lawyer. I dursn’t let you ’ave them, really I dursn’t, sir. I’m takin’ a sad risk as it is for a respectable woman.’

‘Very well,’ I replied. ‘But copies are only worth a hundred pounds to me at the very outside.’

‘You’re makin’ a very ’ard bargain, sir.’

‘It’s that or nothing,’ said I.

‘Well, sir, if you say so. I’ll send Archie round at ten o’clock, sir.’

I agreed to this and walked away, glad to get out. I lay awake all night, fancying that Mrs Cutts would go to Lathom in the interval and make better terms with him.

However, Archie was there with the letters in the morning as agreed, and I took him and them round to a solicitor’s where typed copies were made and sworn. I also made an affidavit that I recognised the writing of the originals as being in my stepmother’s handwriting. I then paid the lad the agreed hundred pounds in Treasury notes, and dismissed him.

I have entered into all these details in order that there should be no doubt as to the genuineness of these copies, and to make quite clear why I am unable at the moment to forward the originals.

It is true that I could probably have forced Archie into handing the letters over, since he had no right to them. But several reasons urged me to take the other course. First, I had no legal right to them either, and was not clear how my action might be looked upon by the police. Secondly, and this was more important, I could hardly hope that Lathom would not discover their absence, and, if he did, he might take fright and leave the country and thus add great difficulties to my task. It would take some weeks, perhaps, to collect all the evidence I needed, and by the time I was ready to set the law in action, he might hide himself very effectually. Thirdly, I did not wish to alienate Mrs Cutts. I foresaw that she might be very useful, not only in bringing me fresh letters, if any arrived that threw further light on the business, but also in keeping watch on Lathom’s movements. I suggested to Archie that there might be possibilities of further reward in the future, and cautioned him against alarming Lathom.

It is conceivable, however, that Mrs Cutts may consider it more advantageous to blackmail Lathom than to assist me. Up to the moment of writing, he is still living in Chelsea, and apparently feels himself safe. But for all I know, Mrs Cutts may have retained the letters and be blackmailing him on her own account. Or she may have delivered her warning, and he may have destroyed the letters and made himself (as he imagines) secure. In the latter case it will, of course, be impossible to produce the original documents in court, and then the certified copies will justify their existence.

22

Having obtained the evidence of the adultery, I now felt myself in a position to put pressure on Munting, and accordingly went round to see him again.

‘I perfectly appreciate,’ I said, ‘the reasons for your silence at our last interview. But if I tell you that I have in my hands independent proof that Lathom was Margaret Harrison’s lover, perhaps you will feel justified in assisting my inquiries.’

He shrugged his shoulders.

‘My dear man,’ he said, ‘if you have proof already, I don’t see what assistance you require. May I ask what you call proof? After all, one doesn’t make these accusations without sufficient grounds.’

‘I have got the letters written to Lathom by my stepmother,’ I said, ‘and they leave the matter in no doubt whatever.’

‘lndeed?’ said he. ‘Well, I won’t ask you where you got them from. Private detective work is not in my line. If you really believe that your father was driven to do away with himself, I am extremely sorry — but what can one do about it?’

‘I do not think so,’ I said. ‘I believe, and these letters afford strong evidence to my mind, that my father was cruelly and deliberately murdered by Lathom at Margaret Harrison’s instigation. And I mean to prove it.’

‘Murdered?’ he cried. ‘Good God, you can’t mean that! That’s absolutely impossible. Lathom may be a bit of a rotter in some ways, but he’s not a murderer. I’ll swear he isn’t that. You’re absolutely mistaken.’

‘Will you read the letters?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Look here. You’re a man of the world. If things have got to this point, I don’t mind admitting that Lathom did have some sort of an affair with Mrs Harrison. I did what I could to make him drop it, but, after all, these things will sometimes happen. I told him it was a poor sort of game to play, and when I got the opportunity — over that Milsom affair — I told him I’d shut up about it on condition he cleared out. He assured me afterwards, in the most solemn way, that it was all finished with. Why, damn it, I asked him about it the very day we went down to Manaton, and he repeated that the whole affair was absolutely over and done with.’