CHAPTER XXI. Final Solution of the Problem
It was an extraordinary story that Ezra Grice had to tell. Briefly, the first part of it amounted to this. Twenty years ago he had been clerk in Francis Norwood’s office. Norwood, at that time, had a partner, a young married man named Forbes. Forbes was tried on a charge of embezzlement, and Grice was a witness for the prosecution. But Grice was deeply involved himself. Addicted to betting, he had helped himself to the firm’s money—falsifying accounts.
Just before the trial commenced he made a discovery—a discovery that would have proved Forbes an innocent man. And the discovery he made was that Norwood himself, who had been speculating heavily, had embezzled the money from two clients—and not Forbes at all. Knowing this, he went into Norwood’s private office and accused him of the crime.
But Norwood turned the tables on him. To Grice’s horror, he calmly produced proofs of the clerk’s defalcations, and threatened to give him in charge instantly.
“And who is going to believe you then?” he asked calmly. “Do you think they’ll take the word of a thief against mine?”
Grice, who had no proofs in his possession at the time, but had only arrived at his conclusions by a study of accounts and documents passing through his hands, was staggered. He felt he had matched himself unwisely against the astute lawyer—who was quick to see this.
“Very well,” Norwood had said, “you can take your choice. Either I send for a policeman at once, or you withdraw what you say, and give your evidence to-morrow. Which is it to be? I give you five minutes to decide.”
Ezra Grice decided before the five minutes were up. He caved in, abjectly. As soon as the trial was over, and Forbes was sentenced, Norwood coolly told him that unless he left Frattenbury at once and never returned, he would prosecute him for theft.
“And if I say what I know?” asked Grice.
“They won’t believe you if you do; and if they do believe you, then you’ll be prosecuted for perjury as well.”
Again the wretched clerk gave in. But before he left the office that very day he made a fresh discovery—a paper which Norwood had left out of his safe that absolutely incriminated him. He was half inclined to make use of this paper and have his revenge on the wily lawyer, but fear got the better of him. However, when he left Frattenbury the next day he took this paper with him and kept it carefully.
He went out to South Africa and led a roving life for years keeping honest all the time. He had had one great fright, and that was enough for him. He always kept the incriminating paper; he was in dread that perhaps one day his crime might follow him, and he looked upon it as a weapon of defence in case he ever met Norwood again. Finally, as Sir James Perrivale had said, he joined Reginald Templeton in an exploration in the interior.
“It was a long time,” he went on to the Canon, “before I told Mr. Templeton my story—and he was the only man to whom I ever told it before the police took it down here. I happened to mention Frattenbury one day, and he questioned me, but I didn’t let him know anything then. However, I saw he knew something about the Forbes case and was interested in it.
“Then he saved my life. I got to like him. He was a queer man, but very kind to me always. I shall never forget how he stood by me on that awful journey before we struck Sir James Perrivale’s camp. My arm was broken and I was down with fever. He’d help to carry the stretcher himself—miles at a time.
“I asked him point-blank one day if he was interested in Forbes. He only answered ‘Yes.’ Then I said, ‘Would it be any use to you to know he was innocent of that charge?’ I shan’t forget what he said. He questioned me eagerly and I told him all about it. Then he said, ‘Thank God for this, Grice. Forbes died long ago; but he’s left a daughter—and, by God, that scoundrel Norwood shall make it up to her!’
“He made me promise I’d go back to England with him—if we ever came through—and help him expose Norwood—or, rather, he said he was not going to expose him—he’d got a better card to play than that. But it seemed that I wasn’t going to get back to England. They all thought me dying when we got to the camp. Mr. Templeton had to go on, but before he left he wrote down my statement which I signed before witnesses, and asked me to give him that paper I had on me. Of course I did, and then he told me what he was going to do. I can hear him saying it now.
“ ‘You’ll have your revenge on Norwood,’ he said. ‘And it’s a revenge that will touch him to the quick on his sorest point. Forbes is dead, and we can’t help him. And his wife is dead. But there’s her daughter. If I were to give Norwood into the hands of the law there’d be no recompense for her. But, by God, there shall be! As soon as I get back to the old country I shall write to Norwood, tell him what I know, and offer him choice between exposure and ten thousand pounds.’ ”
“That is where the blackmail comes in, sir,” interposed Colson quietly. “And I don’t know that I wouldn’t justify it—but the law wouldn’t.”
“Go on, please,” said the Canon to Grice.
“Well, sir, he went on to say that if he got this sum out of Norwood he should settle it on Forbes’s daughter—not telling her where it came from, and not letting her know about her father. He said she was only a child at the time—well, I knew that; I’ve often seen her here—and that she had been brought up in ignorance of her father’s crime.”
“I think I know who she was,” murmured the Canon. “That accounts for those strange impressions of having been here before—and recognising Norwood. Yes?”
Ezra Grice finished the story, and the detective took up the threads.
“Now do you see, sir?” he asked. “Mr. Templeton evidently carried out his threat and wrote to Norwood on his return. Then he made an appointment with him. He wrote saying he was prepared to hand over Grice’s confession and proofs in exchange for the money. Norwood must have been in a terrible dilemma. He must get those proofs in any case; it would mean utter ruin to him if he was once exposed. But he hadn’t the money to buy them. Whether or not he meant to bluff your cousin remains to be seen. Anyhow, he made the appointment, and sent his domestics to the performance at the Town Hall that night—I’ve found out that—in order to be alone when Templeton called.”
“But why go back to Marsh Quay with him?” asked the Canon.
“Don’t you see, sir? I think we can guess. Templeton hadn’t got the confession and proofs on him. He made a mistake by being too careful. You told us he said he was very likely going to spend a few nights here. Very well. That particular night he wasn’t prepared to hand them over. The coroner had probably not committed himself, even by a typewritten, unsigned letter. And he knew he hadn’t the money.”
“What did he do, then?” asked the Canon.
“Probably pretended that he had got it, and induced Templeton to give him the proofs that night. By this time he had made up his mind that he must have them—in any case. And I think he took that dagger, or whatever it was, with him—ready to take the biggest risk of all. Which we know he did!”
Canon Fittleworth sat for a few minutes in silence. Then he said:
“Thank you, Sergeant Colson, and thank you also, Mr. Grice. The whole affair has been terrible—very terrible. I want time to think it over. I must say, however, Colson, that you are a very clever man to have found out all this.”
“Thank you, sir. I did my best. And someone helped me very much. Good night, sir. I’m very sorry all this has happened.”
Colson and Ezra Grice went out, leaving the Canon seated in his chair gazing at the fire, his mind greatly agitated.
At the police station that night Norwood asked to be provided with writing materials. They did so.
He smiled sardonically while they searched him and took away a penknife and a pair of pocket nail-scissors.
But in the morning they found him hanging to the bar of the window—they have out-of-date cells in Frattenbury—his braces substituted for the rope that he would have eventually earned. And on the table was a characteristic document:
I am anxious to assist my successor, though I fancy he will have no trouble in persuading the jury as to the verdict. I am a ruined man, with no more use for the world. Sergeant Colson’s “imagination” is fairly correct. I will only add that I persuaded Templeton I had the money. He had demanded cash. I showed him what appeared to be a roll of notes—tissue-paper with some genuine ones at the top. I also told him that unless he gave me what Ezra Grice has probably described that night, I should abscond—with the ten thousand pounds on me. He made a mistake in not bringing what he had for sale—he was too cautious. It was the dagger hanging in my hall when I put my coat on that suggested I might have to take a desperate step. I took it with me. Templeton produced what I wanted from the locker. Then he was fool enough to examine the roll of notes I had laid on the table. That was the end of it. I took the contents of his pockets to make sure in case he had anything with my name on it. I desire to say that I regret what I did, but I was desperate that night. That is all.
“Mr. Crosby,” said the Canon the following day—the lawyer had come down to Frattenbury on receipt of a wire from the police— “I want to ask you something.”
“What is it?”
“This girl, Winifred Cotterill—or Forbes, as we must call her now. If there had been a trial, I suppose everything would have come out?”
“About her father? Certainly. Ezra Grice would have given evidence, and the girl must have guessed.”
“I thought so. As it is, however, she has never heard about her father’s sufferings. Poor fellow, what he must have gone through! The matter, you tell me, rests in your hands. What are you going to do about it? Shall you tell her the whole story?”
The lawyer thought for a minute or two, and replied shortly:
“I don’t know, Canon Fittleworth. That is a question I shall have to consider. I haven’t made up my mind yet.”
The End