“You don’t understand at all!” cried Olivia. “Tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands of women believe in Madam Melinska. Unhappy women, aging women, women with no hope, no purpose, no will to go on living. And she’s given them that hope, that purpose, that will. What do you think will happen to them if she’s found guilty? Oh yes, I know—”
A car behind them hooted impatiently.
“The light’s green!” ejaculated Rollison, and started off. The car behind roared past.
“—I know you think it’s a lot of poppycock, but whether it is or it isn’t—and it isn’t, actually—doesn’t matter. What matters is that all these people have faith in it. Most of them are simple, unsophisticated, decent people leading drab and dreary lives—they need this faith. You and that stuffy old establishment policeman think it’s merely a question of whether one woman goes to prison for a few years, but it’s much more than that. You don’t even begin to understand.”
Rollison pulled into the side of the road, which ran through Regent’s Park, took a handkerchief from his pocket, and dabbed Olivia’s cheeks. She took the handkerchief, dabbed more vigorously, and added:
“But don’t think I’m not grateful for what you’ve done.”
Rollison smiled gently.
“You’re quite a person, Olivia,” he said. “I’d no idea. I’ll take you home, and in the morning we’ll size up the situation and see what we can do.”
“So long as you’ll do something,” she said gruffly. “I have to admit, I am tired.” She smiled up through the drying tears, and added: “You’re quite a person, too.”
Half an hour later, he left her at Chelsea.
A quarter of an hour after that he reached Gresham Terrace, to find Jolly up and in a dressing-gown, but everyone else gone. Jolly looked more than his age, but seemed very relaxed and was obviously pleased to see Rollison.
“. . . Lady Hurst felt it wiser that they should all go back to the Marigold Club, sir, and of course they had police protection. I am sure there is no cause at all for alarm. Coffee, sir? Or tea? Or something stronger?”
Tea,” said Rollison, “and we’ll talk in the morning.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Jolly.”
“Yes, sir?”
“What happened tonight?”
“Lucifer Stride called, sir, to ask your opinion of Madam Melinska’s chances of being proved innocent. While we were talking I heard the prisoner stirring in the spare room, and went to investigate—and as I went through the door I was attacked from behind. But not by Stride, sir.”
“Can you be sure?”
“He uses a quite unmistakable perfume, sir. I feel quite certain I would have noticed it.”
“So you don’t know the attacker. Jolly, what do you think of Madam Melinska?”
Jolly looked upon him earnestly, obviously weighing his words with great care.
“If I may say so, sir, I think she is harbouring a viper in her bosom. I would not trust the young woman an inch, despite her quite remarkable gifts. Apart from that—we did agree that we might be aptly described as anachronisms, didn’t we, sir?”
“We did.”
“At the risk of appearing to be old-fashioned, sir—my impression is that Madam Melinska is a very good person, quite incapable of deceit or trickery, fraud or dishonesty of any kind. It is an opinion which your aunt shares fully. In fact, sir, Lady Hurst will be deeply distressed and—ah—displeased if you are not able to establish Madam Melinska’s innocence.”
Rollison lifted his brows quizzically.
“Even if she is guilty?”
“I don’t think Lady Hurst or I consider it a possibility that she is guilty, sir.” After a pause, Jolly asked: “Will you have your tea here, sir, or in your room?”
“In my room,” said Rollison, faintly.
* * *
Rollison woke to an unusual sound at this hour; men’s voices. First Jolly’s then the voices of strangers, one deep and somehow not English, the other native Cockney. Police? wondered Rollison. Ebbutt’s men? Then he heard the man with the deep voice saying:
“I think that’s the lot, sir.”
“I certainly hope so.” Jolly sounded unbelieving. Five sacks, did you say?”
“S’right,” the Cockney said. “Full to blinking overflowing, mate. S’long.”
Heavy footsteps followed, and the front door closed. There was silence. Five sacks? What would come in sacks and astonish Jolly? Rollison got out of bed and pulled on a blue dressing-gown, then went to the door and peered out.
Jolly was saying in a baffled voice: There must be a thousand in each.”
A thousand what?
Rollison reached the door of the living-room and saw five postal sacks dumped near the desk. Letters, thought Rollison, startled. Jolly, in his shirt-sleeves, stood and stared gloomily at the sacks.
“Someone’s written to us,” Rollison remarked.
Jolly started and turned round.
“Good morning, sir. I didn’t hear you. Yes, they have indeed.”
“I wonder if these could be letters of encouragement from strangers rooting for Madam Melinska,” mused Rollison. He untied one of the sacks and took out a handful of letters. “London, W.l—London, S.E.7— Guildford, Surrey—Amersham, Bucks— Isleworth, Middx. You try a few, Jolly.” He sat at his desk and slit open the five letters, then unfolded the first; a cheque fell out, for three guineas. The letter read:
“With very best wishes for your success in defending Madam Melinska—a small contribution to the cost of her defence.”
Rollison opened the next letter; it contained a postal order for five shillings. The attached note read:
“In defence of the truth.”
Jolly said: “A cheque for two pounds, sir, from someone who signs himself “Well-Wisher,” and a money order for thirteen shillings and sixpence, with a long letter on writing-paper inscribed with the signs of the Zodiac.”
“Open a few more,” Rollison told him.
Ten minutes later he picked up a pile of cheques and money orders, and made a rough calculation. Jolly watched him intently.
“Fifty-seven in all, and a total not far short of a hundred pounds,” Rollison announced. “And there are at least five thousand.”
“Ten thousand, I would say, sir.”
“Say two hundred times our hundred pounds,” Rollison said. “Jolly, it can’t be!”
“If the average remains the same, there are twenty thousand pounds in those sacks.” Jolly drew a hand across his forehead and went on in an unsteady voice: “I think I will go and make your tea, sir.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Only The Beginning
“Why, it’s absolutely marvellous!” cried Olivia, as she stared at the enormous piles of letters on Rollison’s desk. Her eyes were radiant, her cheeks glowing. It was half past ten, and she had just arrived. Except for a dozen telephone calls, two abusive, the others from people promising support, there had been no new developments. Rollison was dressed and had breakfasted, Jolly had regained his composure but was a little subdued. “It’s wonderful!” Olivia went on. “Look at them. How much so far?”
“Three hundred and one letters opened, and a total of five hundred and seventeen pounds, ten shillings and sixpence,” answered Rollison. “We shall soon hear remarks about fools and their money.”
“Not from you, I hope,” Olivia said. “These people aren’t fools, they’re simply—well, believers. But Rolly, you and Jolly can’t possibly deal with all of these.” She motioned to the unopened sacks and then opened one which was still three-quarters full. “And it’s only the beginning.”
“Beginning?” echoed Rollison, startled.
“Of course!” Olivia’s eyes danced. “Whenever we have a special competition or a mail-order special, we get a post like this on the first day, but the main post comes in during the next two or three days.”