“I’ll have to rely on you,” said Arden. If I were ten years younger—Never mind, never mind! I like you, Rollison, trust you. God help me if I’m wrong.”
He stood up to his full height, reached the desk and sat down slowly in a swivel chair. He wrote slowly but in a clear, bold hand. But it was not at the long, thin fingers or the pen held so steadily that Rollison stared; it was at the pale blue note-paper.
CHAPTER TEN
Arden gave his full attention to writing the note. Rollison looked away, telling himself that the paper being the same colour as that of the crumpled note which he’d found in Mellor’s room and left with Jolly to test for prints was sheer coincidence. He reached forward, took a sheet of the note-paper from the desk and scribbled on it, as if making a reminder note. He folded it carefully and slipped it into his wallet. The old man’s pen scratched with its slow, regular movements and the wheezing breath rumbled and rattled loudly. A coal fell into the fender but did not disturb Arden’s concentration.
Rollison glanced about the room. His gaze reached the door, passed it, went back again.
The door was open; and he knew that he had closed it. He stood up, still without distracting Arden’s attention, and mechanically put a cigarette to his lips. He remembered not to light it as he crossed the room silently.
Yes, the door was open—very little: no more than half an inch. But anyone outside could hear anything that was being said inside. When had it been opened? His back had been towards it and he’d heard nothing. Whoever was there might have heard about the cottage and Mrs Begbie.
“Was” there? Or had been?
He opened the door quickly but without a sound—and Clarissa Arden started back, stifling an exclamation.
Arden looked up.
“What’s that?”
“It’s warm in here,” said Rollison without looking round. The woman backed a pace and stared at him. In the half-light of the landing she looked unreal, a figure of ghostly beauty.
“I like it warm. I’ve finished. She’ll—”
“Everything will be all right,” Rollison interrupted and closed the door as Clarissa turned and walked quickly away. He crossed to Arden who was slipping the note into a pale blue envelope. “That’s nice note-paper,” he remarked.
Arden grunted. “Never mind the note-paper. See that Mrs Begbie gets that herself before the boy arrives. Understand me, don’t you? She lives alone. No difficulty—reliable woman. Or I always thought she was reliable, always thought all my servants were.”
“We’ll make sure,” said Rollison.
“Damn the servants! Look after my son.” Arden stood up and peered down on Rollison. There was something pathetic in his gaze, in the way he stretched out a hand and rested it on Rollison’s shoulder. “I know you think I’m a foolish old man. Perhaps I am. But life catches up with you, Rollison. Remember that while you’re still young. Do something wrong, let it fade out of memory for a while, and you’ll think that it’s dead, buried, forgotten; but it isn’t. It’s always there, always ready to haunt you, as this is haunting me. Commit a wrong—and put it right as soon as you can. Do you understand?”
“I know.”
“Yes,” said Arden. “Yes, I really believe you do. Remarkable man, Rollison! I’m glad I asked you to help me. I—Oh, forget it; doesn’t matter. I was going to say something else before I started preaching. What on earth— Oh, yes. Come and sit down—”
“I ought to go.”
“Come and sit down!” Arden went slowly to his chair. Rollison did likewise. “Now listen to me. I sent a cheque for ten thousand pounds to my solicitors today. Kemble, Wright and Kemble, Lincoln’s Inn. They are to cash it at once, place it in a separate account and use it on your instructions if I die before it’s wanted.”
Rollison said slowly: “Why did you do that?”
The man’s voice and his manner were impressive; this was of real importance to him.
“I don’t think I shall live long,” Arden said abruptly. “I shouldn’t be surprised if—Hmm, never mind. The money is to be used for my son’s defence, just for his defence, understand me? That’s if I die before this business is over and he’s not cleared of suspicion. You won’t take any money now, so—well, there it is. Don’t spare any expense, Rollison, and understand that you can use the money for any purpose you like provided it helps the boy.”
“We’ll finish the job while you’re still able to enjoy life,” said Rollison.
“I don’t know—I really don’t know. It’s a safeguard, anyhow. I confess there’s nothing I’d like more than to see him clear of this trouble, happy and settled—nothing! I’ve a dream, Rollison—a silly old man’s dream. I’d like to see the boy married to a good woman before I die. A good woman, like my wife.”
He broke off and gazed dreamily into space.
Rollison murmured: “Your niece?”
The old man started.
“Eh? Clarissa?” he laughed and began to cough, pressed his hand against his chest and breathed wheezily, with great difficulty. Then he regained his breath and his smile twisted his whole face. “I wouldn’t wish any man to marry Clarissa. She’s an empty shell, Rollison. Beautiful, I grant you, but—made of ice. She’s sacrificed her life wantonly to the pursuit of excitement. Mixing my metaphors aren’t I? If she weren’t so well off, I’d say—Never mind, never mind; forget it.”
“Is she wealthy?”
