CHAPTER XVIII MRS. MORRICE’S DRESS

When Rupert Morrice received that anonymous letter, which arrived by the last post of the day on which it had been dropped in a City pillar box, and was brought to him in his study, his first impulse was to throw it in the fire. Like all men in prominent positions, whose success in life is bound to raise up enemies, he had in his time received many of these waspish and stinging epistles.

But on second thoughts he resolved that he would reflect a little before he finally dismissed it from his mind. It was a very brief epistle, but it contained a most definite suggestion. And something in the exceedingly positive wording of it conveyed the impression that the anonymous writer knew a good deal of what was going on in the financier’s household.

“Sir,—You are a man of such scrupulous integrity yourself, that you are apt to believe all those associated with you are possessed of similar high-mindedness. The last thing a prudent man should do is to put a blind trust in those of his own household, for it will be in these that he will most often be bitterly disappointed. I have reason to know that Mrs. Morrice has for a long time past been spending large sums of money in a certain direction, which could not possibly be defrayed out of your allowance to her, generous as it is. I would advise you to make an inspection of the costly jewels you have given her, and satisfy yourself that they have not been tampered with. If my suspicions turn out to be wrong, I shall much regret having disturbed you and suspected an innocent woman. But I think it my duty to tell you what I know.

“A Well-Wisher.”

There was, of course, no clue to the identity of the writer, the ingenious author of this very plain-spoken epistle had seen to that. The envelope was one of a common make and pattern, it bore a certain City postmark, like thousands of other letters posted at the same time in the same neighbourhood; the paper was a sheet torn from one of the thousands of letter-pads in common use. It did not even possess the slight clue of a water-mark.

Morrice thought that even the astute Lane himself would never be able to trace it to its sender, if he were to take it to him. But, of course, he had no intention of doing this. He was a very reticent man in all things appertaining to his private affairs, and a slur cast upon the woman who bore his name was an affront to himself.

It is possible that in ordinary circumstances he would have dismissed the matter from his mind, deeming it the work of some hidden enemy who, in his desire to annoy him, had chosen this way of wounding him in his tenderest relations; for if he was not deeply in love with his wife, as he had been with Richard Croxton’s mother, he was fond of her in a calm, steadfast way, he was proud of her social qualities, he was grateful to her for her ready obedience to all his wishes.

But recent events had rendered him very distrustful and suspicious; and the wording of the letter was very positive. One of the sentences in it was strangely significant: “I have reason to know that Mrs. Morrice has for a long time past been spending large sums of money in a certain direction.” He was advised to examine the costly jewels he had given her with a view to seeing that they had not been tampered with.

It would seem, assuming that there was any truth in the innuendos it contained, that it must be written by somebody who had an intimate knowledge of Mrs. Morrice. For a moment it flashed across him that from motives of revenge Richard Croxton had written it to stir up strife between the husband and wife. It could not be Rosabelle, she was too fond of her aunt, and besides, if she wanted to do her an injury, he was certain the girl was too high-minded to make use of such a shameful weapon as an anonymous letter. Probably it might have come from a discharged servant who chose this method of wreaking his or her spite.

But Morrice could not remember that any servant had been discharged for several years past. It was such a comfortable service that those who entered it stayed till natural circumstances brought about a severance of the relations.

Ought he not to show it to his wife, and accept the denial of the accusation which she would be sure to make? Had he not been rendered doubting and embittered by these recent happenings, that is just what he would have done. But the discovery of Richard Croxton’s unworthiness, for he still believed in his guilt, in spite of the doubting attitude of Lane, had rendered him morbidly suspicious of everybody, with perhaps the single exception of Rosabelle.

And yet, and yet, it could not be true. It would be absurd to pretend that their marriage had been one of ardent or romantic affection; neither of them had made any pretence of such to the other. He was tired of celibacy, he wanted somebody to be the mistress of his home, possibly to give him an heir. She, on her side, was quite naturally attracted by his wealth, by the position he could give her. But because a woman is swayed in her choice by worldly advantages, it does not follow that she is a person of dishonourable impulses.

After a good deal of rather perturbing reflection, he came to the conclusion with regard to this letter that, while he would not attach undue importance to it, he would not definitely ignore it. And certainly he would not follow what a few months ago would have seemed a natural impulse, go to her and show her the letter, and say in his blunt, straightforward way: “You see what it suggests. Is it a lie or a truth?”

He happened at this time to be very busy on one of those big financial schemes which had made his house so famous, and although at no particular moment was the incident entirely removed from his mind, it was greatly overshadowed by the almost incessant calls upon his time and thoughts in connection with this huge foreign loan. He thought of it, as it were, only to put it aside to a more convenient season.

A trifling incident brought it back to his recollection in full force. They were attending a big function at a certain ducal house to which all the élite of London had been invited. At such an important gathering every woman would naturally wish to appear her best, to wear her smartest clothes, to don her most valuable jewellery. Mrs. Morrice was as proud of her appearance as most women, she would certainly not wish to be outshone by her neighbours.

For some days past the two women had talked of this function, had discussed who was likely to be invited and as likely excluded, and settled what they were going to wear. Rosabelle had ordered a new frock for the occasion and was much surprised that her aunt had not done the same, but was going in one that had already done her good service.

This entertainment was fixed to take place a few days after she had overheard that suspicious conversation in the boudoir. The girl thought she understood now the reason of her aunt’s economy, not only on this particular occasion but for a long time past. The money which would have gone to her dressmaker in the ordinary course had been diverted in the direction of Archie Brookes, to pay his pressing debts, to enable him to avert disgrace for the time being.

Rosabelle thought it rather a pity her aunt should not have made some special effort for such a unique affair; she thought she owed it to her husband to maintain her position in a proper manner. Still, if she was not going to assume any striking raiment, she would certainly put on the most magnificent of her jewels, and these, no doubt, would carry her through.

There was one very valuable pearl necklace which she was wont to assume at magnificent functions like the present ducal reception, and in a conversation the day before it took place, Rosabelle carelessly remarked to her aunt that she supposed she would wear it when the evening arrived.

Mrs. Morrice had appeared to hesitate before she answered. When she did, she spoke in an indifferent tone, and, to the girl’s quick ears, it seemed that the indifference was assumed.

“I suppose I shall, my dear, but I haven’t really made up my mind, probably shan’t do so till the last minute. I might put on something a bit newer. I have worn it so often, everybody who knows me has seen it dozens of times.”

A painful thought crossed Rosabelle’s mind and gave her an inward shiver, but on reflection she dismissed it. Her aunt’s fondness for her nephew might lead her to stint herself in many ways to enable her to minister to his extravagances, but surely she would not go to any desperate lengths.

But that hesitation, the assumed indifference of her manner, were very strange. This particular necklace was far and away the most exquisite and costly thing in her collection, which was pretty extensive. She had other necklaces of varying value, but nothing that was so suitable to such an important occasion.

Mrs. Morrice was the last to come down, the other two had been ready for some little time and were waiting for her in the hall. To the girl’s surprise, she wore a necklace of considerable value, but only about half that of the gem of the collection. Again Rosabelle felt that curious sensation that there was some hidden significance in the fact.

Morrice was not, as a rule, very observant of woman’s dress. But to-night, for some reason or another, he seemed to scrutinize his wife very keenly. His eyes travelled over her frock till they reached the comparatively modest article of jewellery. Then he spoke:

“This is not a new dress for the occasion, is it?”

Mrs. Morrice answered in a low voice that it was not, that she had worn it once before and that she thought it suited her extremely well. This was a falsehood, for Rosabelle had seen her aunt in it half a dozen times.

“I thought I recognized it,” was her uncle’s comment, and the girl thought there was a rather hard inflexion in his voice, as if he were not too well pleased. He touched the necklace lightly with his finger.

“This doesn’t seem quite good enough for such a grand occasion. Why didn’t you put on the big birthday one?” He always called it this because it had been one of his birthday presents to her.

His wife gave much the same answer that she had given to Rosabelle. She had worn it so often, everybody knew it. She was getting just a little bit tired of it herself, and would give it a rest for a little time.

Rosabelle, watching her uncle keenly, saw a hard look come over his face, a look which she knew denoted displeasure not unmixed with suspicion. What could have caused it? Was it possible he suspected anything? Of course, she knew nothing of the anonymous letter. He said no more, however, and the small party trooped out to the waiting car.

But something in his wife’s manner had not satisfied him, and he was now on the watch. Two days after, husband and wife were to attend a big dinner-party. In the afternoon when he came home he went into Mrs. Morrice’s boudoir, where she and Rosabelle were sitting together.

“Oh, Lettice, I only just wanted to say I wish you particularly to wear the ‘birthday’ pearls to-night.”

Rosabelle looked up, just a little startled. His tone was not quite so hard as it had been the other night, but it was certainly not his ordinary one.

She turned her glance rather anxiously to her aunt. But Mrs. Morrice seemed perfectly at her ease, as she answered: “Certainly, Rupert, if you wish it, although I think they are just a little overpowering for to-night.”

So she came down in the “birthday” pearls when it was time to start and Rosabelle, who did not accompany them, was very relieved. Whatever suspicions her uncle had formed, he would be free of them now.

But that was just what Morrice was not. Subtly influenced by the anonymous letter, he thought he had noticed an evasiveness in his wife’s manner on the night of the ducal entertainment when she had given her reasons for not wearing her most valuable necklace.

There was only one way in which he could be satisfied, and that way he was going to take as soon as he could find an opportunity. When he once took a thing in hand, he never rested till he got to the bottom of it, being of a determined, not to say a dogged nature.

The opportunity came one morning when Mrs. Morrice started early to lunch with an old friend, living some forty miles out of London. Her maid had been given a holiday till five o’clock, the hour at which her mistress proposed to return, for she was a very kind and considerate employer and frequently showed these small kindnesses to her servants. The coast was clear.

He went upstairs to her dressing-room. The more valuable articles were kept in a safe which had once been used by him, and of which he possessed a duplicate key, unknown to his wife.

Quickly he took the pearl necklace in its case, and put it in a small bag which he had brought up with him for the purpose, then went downstairs, feeling in his honest and upright heart, rather like a thief himself. But, as a matter of fact, he could not rest till he had convincingly tested the truth of that anonymous letter.

He hailed a taxi and drove to a shop, a high-class jeweller and gem-merchant in the neighbourhood of St. James’s to whom he was not known personally as he was at so many Bond Street establishments. He asked to see the proprietor in his private room and asked him his fee for giving him his opinion on what was supposed to be a very fine pearl necklace.

In a very short time he was in possession of the information he sought. The pearls were pronounced to be splendid imitations, likely to deceive anybody except an expert, but worth as many shillings as the original necklace had cost pounds.

His face set like a grim mask, he returned to Deanery Street and replaced the sham gems in the safe. The anonymous letter had told the truth, the writer of it had evidently known what had been going on in his household.