‘Now for the fraud – for fraud it clearly was – to be brought off, two things were required: a specimen of the authorized signature, and a number of blank cheques. It was surmised by the police that the necessary signature might have been obtained from the receipt sent to this Mr Verdant, or even from the cheque paid to Mr Pettingale for the amount owed to him. It was recalled that Mr Pettingale had especially requested a cheque, rather than cash, and the police were also informed by the solicitors that no other cheques had been authorized since this one had been issued. The coincidence was obvious, and so both Mr Verdant and Mr Pettingale fell under suspicion. As far as Mr Pettingale was concerned, he could not deny, of course, that he had sought payment of the original debt from Mr Verdant, but he vehemently denied all knowledge of the subsequent forgeries, and, indeed, there was not a shred of evidence to connect him to them. When asked by the inspector why the money was owed to him, he replied that he had lent the money to this Verdant, whom he said he had met several times at the Newmarket races, for the settlement of a debt.’
‘And was there any reason to doubt his account?’ I asked.
Dr Maunder gave me a somewhat sceptical smile.
‘None that the police, or I, could uncover. Mr Pettingale was required to go with the officers to London, and was called as a witness at the subsequent trial; but he could not be identified by the man Hensby, who claimed that he had been casually employed by a gentleman – not Mr Pettingale – whom he had met in a coffee-house in Change-alley, to run various errands, one of which was to present the forged cheques at Dimsdale & Co. and to bring the proceeds back, at a pre-arranged time, to the coffee-house.’
‘This gentleman: was Hensby able to identify him?’
‘Unfortunately, no. He provided only a rather indistinct description, which rendered identification of this person by the police virtually impossible. As for Mr Verdant, when the police called at his address in the Minories he had vanished, and was of course never seen again. The poor dupe Hensby, for such I deem him to have been, was prosecuted, found guilty, and transported for life. A travesty of justice, of course. The fellow could hardly write his name, let alone demonstrate the skill to carry out what were, by all accounts, most convincing forgeries of the authorized signature.’
He ceased, and looked at me as if in expectation of further questioning.
‘From your most informative account, Dr Maunder, it certainly seems clear that the perpetrator was the mysterious Mr Verdant, perhaps working with others. Mr Pettingale appears to have been a perfectly innocent party in the business.’
‘You might say so,’ he replied, smiling. ‘I questioned Mr Pettingale myself, of course, on behalf of the University authorities, and could only conclude, with the police, that he had played no part in the conspiracy – or, rather, that there was no substantive evidence that he had played any part.’
He smiled again, and I took my cue.
‘May I ask, then, whether you entertained any personal doubts on the matter?’
‘Well now, Mr Glyver, it would not be right, not right at all, you know, to bring my personal feelings into this. As I say, what I have told you is a matter of public record. Beyond that – well, I am sure you understand. It does not signify in the least, of course, that I am by nature of a rather doubting turn of mind. And besides, the affair did not lay too deep a stain on Mr Pettingale’s character. After going down from here, I believe he was called to the Bar by Gray’s-Inn.’
‘And Mr Pettingale’s friend, Mr Phoebus Daunt?’
‘There is no reason at all to believe that he was implicated in the crime in any way. He was certainly not asked to account for himself by the police, or, indeed, by the University. The only connexion I could establish, in the course of questioning Mr Pettingale, was that he had accompanied his friend to Newmarket on several occasions.’
I thought for a moment.
‘Regarding the blank cheques, is it known how they were obtained? Was there, perhaps, an earlier break-in?’
‘You are right,’ said Dr Maunder. ‘There had been a break-in, some days before Mr Pettingale sought legal help on the matter of the outstanding debt. One must presume that the cheques were stolen then. Again, suspicion fell on the mysterious Verdant. But as it proved impossible to find this gentleman, well, there the matter rested. And now, Mr Glyver, if you will excuse me, I have an appointment with the Master.’
I thanked him for his time, we shook hands, and he showed me to the door.
Leaving Trinity College, I took an omnibus from the Market-square back to the station, and had only a few minutes to wait before the next train to London. As we rattled southwards, I felt a curious elation of spirits, as though a door – be it ever so small – had opened an inch or so, and let in a little gleam of precious light on the darkness through which I had been wandering.
Of Mr Lewis Pettingale’s guilt in the clever conspiracy described to me by Dr Maunder, I had not the least doubt; but it was clear that he had not worked alone. This Leonard Verdant, now: he had been a co-conspirator I was sure, a conclusion indicated, I thought, by his possession of a most unlikely name, concealing – whom? I had my suspicions, but they could not yet be tested. And then there was Mr Phoebus Daunt. Ah, Phoebus, the radiant one, unsullied and incorrupt! There he stood, as ever, whistling innocently in the shadows. Was he as guilty as his friend Pettingale and the elusive Mr Verdant? If so, what other iniquities did he have to his credit? At last, I began to sense that I was gaining ground on my enemy; that I had been given something that might, perhaps, give me the means I needed to destroy him.
Yet with regard to more pressing matters, all this was of scant comfort. I was returning to London with no more knowledge of why Mr Carteret had written his letter to Mr Tredgold than when I had started out; and the expectations that I had cherished that the secretary might be in possession of information to support my cause had also been shattered by his death. The only certainty I had brought back was that what Mr Carteret knew concerning the Tansor succession had led, directly or indirectly, to this catastrophe. As for me, what a change had been wrought in the matter of a few days! I had left London believing that I might be falling in love with Bella. I returned the helpless slave of another, in whose presence I constantly burned to be, and for love of whom I must turn my back on the certainty of happiness.
Do not ask me why I loved Miss Carteret. How can such an instantaneous passion be explained? She seemed beautiful to my eyes, certainly, more beautiful than anyone I had known in my life. Though I knew little of her character and disposition, she seemed to possess a discerning, well-stocked mind, and I knew from direct experience that she could claim musical ability well above the common. These accomplishments – and no doubt others of which I was yet unaware – were worthy of admiration and respect, of course; but I did not love her for them. I loved her because – because I loved her; because I could not help succumbing to this irresistible contagion of the heart. I loved her because choice was denied me by some greater force. I loved her because it was my fate to do so.
*[‘Let us be judged by our actions’. Ed.]
†[King’s is the neighbouring College to St Catharine’s. Ed.]
‡[The Magus (1801) by Francis Barrett, born between 1770 and 1780, is a seminal work on the subject of magic and occult philosophy. The Preface states that it was written ‘chiefly for the information of those who are curious and indefatigable in their enquiries into occult knowledge; we have, at a vast labour and expense, both of time and charges, collected whatsoever can be deemed curious and rare, in regard to the subject of our speculations in Natural Magic – the Cabala – Celestial and Ceremonial Magic – Alchymy – and Magnetism’. Ed.]