Beck Center English Dept. University Libraries Emory University
Emory Women Writers Resource Project Collections:
Women's Genre Fiction Project

The Adventures of Tyler Tatlock, an electronic edition

by Dick Donovan [Muddock, J.E. (Joyce Emmerson), 1843-1934]

date: 1900
source publisher: Chatto & Windus
collection: Genre Fiction

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| | 81

THE FORGED CHEQUE

IN one of Glasgow's best suburbs dwelt Mr. Leslie Muir-head, on a charming little estate of which he was the happy possessor. He had made a fortune, and was still nominally in business at the time of the incidents about to be narrated. His warehouse was in Glasgow, and for nearly half a century he had given close and untiring attention to his business, although his personal inclinations were for a studious and scientific life. He had two hobbies to which he devoted all his spare time. One was botany, the other astronomy. When his position was assured, and he purchased the property alluded to, he devoted himself less and less to his business, and more and more to his favourite pursuits. He turned his charming home into a little paradise. The grounds were magnificently laid out, and were, so to speak, a shrine to which botanical devotees made pilgrimages, and were always warmly welcomed by the owner.

Mr. Muirhead did not marry until he was a good deal over thirty, and, much to the disappointment of himself and his life partner, it remained a childless union. The result was he ultimately adopted a niece and nephew, the children of his deceased sister—his only sister, who made an unfortunate marriage. Her husband was a member of a good family, but of dissolute, abandoned habits, with an unconquerable passion for gambling and horse-racing. His name was Crossley, and his wife—who led a very unhappy life—bore him two children, Mary and Ernest, the girl being the firstborn. When they were in their early teens their father was killed by being thrown while riding in a | | 82 steeplechase. His widow, who was suffering from cancer, survived him only six months. Mary was then about sixteen, Ernest fourteen, and, as their father had left nothing but an evil reputation behind him, their uncle, Leslie Muirhead, took them. The education of both had been neglected, so Mr. Muirhead engaged a first-class resident governess for the girl and sent Ernest to a good school near Edinburgh for a couple of years, and then to France, that he might learn French. It was his uncle's intention to take him into his business, and, as he had a considerable trade connection with France, he thought it would be a good thing for the young man to have a knowledge of the French language. Ernest completed his studies abroad, returned home, and took up a position at once in the Glasgow business, the management of which to a large extent was left in the hands of David Guthrie, who had been in Muirhead's employ for a great many years; indeed, ever since he was a boy.

Long after Muirhead had settled in his new home, and given himself up almost entirely to his favourite pursuits, an incident occurred which caused him the greatest amount of concern and unhappiness. One day, quite early in a new year, when looking over his bank pass-book, he was surprised to find on the debit side the following entry:

September 25th, cheque, 500l.,' and this cheque had been payable to bearer.

He taxed his memory, but could not recall any transaction in which he had paid away five hundred pounds. Besides, it wasn't in the least likely he would have drawn a cheque for so considerable an amount payable to bearer. He referred to the counterfoil of his cheque-book. There it was, sure enough: 'Sept. 25th, bearer, 500l.' The cancelled cheque—which, being payable to bearer, required no endorsement—was the same. It was his handwriting, his signature.

He was puzzled as well as concerned. Surely, he thought, he could never have been so absent-minded as to have done such a thing as that. If so, then it was pretty clear that his hobbies were exercising such an influence over | | 83 his mental powers that his will and his reasoning were subordinated, and that meant mania. To a hitherto clear-headed, straight-dealing man such a thought as this was not pleasant, and let it be stated at once that he was honourable and fair-dealing, sensitive to a fault, singularly punctilious, and entirely free from suspicion, which is generally the result of a grasping, ill-balanced mind.

The discovery was startling in more ways than one. He had been giving an immense amount of attention to his hobbies of late. Not only had he engaged himself in a singularly abstruse astronomical problem, but he had been working at an experiment whereby he hoped ultimately to succeed in producing a crimson lily, which had long been the dream of floriculturists. What he now feared was that his mental health had suffered to some extent, but he resolved to learn more about that five hundred pound cheque, for he could not recall a single incident in connection with it, and he was greatly troubled.

A few days later he went up to Glasgow, and called at his banker's. Though not wishing to make a feature of that cheque, he said incidentally to the manager, after discussing other things—

'Oh, by the way, I seem to have drawn a cheque to bearer for five hundred pounds on the 25th of September last. I suppose you don't happen to know who presented it?'

'Well, Mr. Muirhead, it was so unlike you to draw a cheque like that that when it was presented the cashier brought it to me. But as there was not the slightest reason to doubt your handwriting or signature, the cheque was of course paid, but I told the clerk to take note of the person who presented it. The presentee was a well-dressed woman.'

'A woman!'

'Yes. I hope the transaction was all right,' remarked the manager anxiously.

'Oh, yes; well, as far as I know.'

'As far as you know,' exclaimed the manager, as he | | 84 looked at his customer in surprise, for this was so unlike Mr. Muirhead.

'Yes. The fact is, I suppose I drew the cheque, but upon my word, for the life of me I can't recall having done so, and haven't the remotest idea what it was for.'

'Really, Mr. Muirhead, excuse me, but—but don't you think you are allowing your hobbies to run away with you a bit?'

The manager was sufficiently well acquainted with Mr. Muirhead to venture this remark.

'That is precisely what I do think,' answered Muirhead, then having an aversion to any further discussion on the subject he passed on to something else.

A few days later, acting on the advice of his wife, who, however, knew nothing of the cheque incident, he was in London with his niece, Mary Crossley, on his way to the Continent for a holiday. He intended to go to Florence, thence to Rome for Easter.

His niece was also needing change, although she had not said so. But she had been looking careworn of late, and unusually pale. He wanted her to consult a doctor, but she had resolutely declined, and as she was a young woman with a will he did not press the subject.

Mr. Muirhead and his niece enjoyed their trip. They spent three pleasant weeks in Florence, then went on to Rome and witnessed the Easter carnival, and from there the programme included a visit to Naples; but Muirhead received a letter from his manager in Glasgow, David Guthrie, that startled him in a way that the mystery about the five hundred pound cheque had quite failed to do. It was a long letter, and after dealing with many business matters it proceeded as follows:

It is my painful duty to inform you now that I have brought to light some very serious discrepancies in the accounts, and various sums, aggregating something like four thousand pounds, cannot be satisfactorily accounted for. I have not made a critical investigation yet, but it is certain there is something wrong, and while I am reluctant to | | 85 worry you while you are on your holiday I should have been wanting in duty had I failed to bring the matter under your notice. I await your instructions.'

This letter was like the bursting of a bomb-shell at his feet, and it seemed to throw some light on the affair of the cheque. For long years he had carried on business smoothly and pleasantly, and had prided himself on the honesty and uprightness of everyone in his employ. Now there was a traitor in the camp, and it was not altogether unnatural that his suspicions should dwell upon his own nephew. He tried to persuade himself that this was a preposterous thought, but it was no use. He remembered the career of the young man's father, and he felt it was like father like son.

He did not say anything to Mary about the letter he had received, but wrote off immediately to his manager, marked the letter 'strictly private and confidential,' and gave Guthrie peremptory orders to take no steps until he returned, and under no circumstances breathe a syllable to living soul. Mr. Muirhead was a proud man, and if perchance his suspicions were well founded the loss of the money would be as nothing compared with the blow to his pride if it became known that his sister's son was a thief. That son lived with his uncle. He was accorded perfect freedom in the house. He used his uncle's library, and it seemed a perfectly justifiable suspicion that he had got hold of the cheque-book and forged that cheque for five hundred pounds, for Mr. Muirhead felt perfectly certain now that he himself had never drawn the cheque.

On arriving back in Glasgow, Mr. Muirhead lost no time in investigating the discrepancies of the books, and he found that his manager's estimate was understated rather than exaggerated. It was a terribly serious matter, and it affected him as nothing else in the whole course of his life had done, with the exception of his sister's unhappy marriage. It was true that there was no proof that his nephew was the guilty person, but from the position he held the opportunity was afforded him of robbing his uncle. The defalcations were spread over a considerable period, beginning about six months | | 86 after Ernest Crossley had entered the business, and the frauds had been carried out so ingeniously that the risk of discovery—for a time, at any rate—was reduced to a minimum.

Mr. Muirhead recognised the facts, and he braced him-self up for an ordeal. He told his nephew one evening after dinner that he had something to say to him, and they adjourned to the library. If Ernest had any forethought of what was coming he conducted himself with wonderful composure. He lit his post-prandial cigar, and remarked cheerily:

'Well, uncle, what's the business? Nothing serious, I hope?'

Mr. Muirhead was astonished at his nephew's coolness and composure, for he himself was terribly upset, and betrayed it.

'Yes, I'm grieved to say it is very serious.'

'Oh! I am sorry to hear that.'

'Do you know anything of this cheque?' asked his uncle, as he placed the five hundred pound cancelled cheque before him and scanned his face narrowly.

Still smoking composedly, Ernest took the cheque up, and turned it round about. Then, as he put it on the table again, said with perfect self-possession—Nothing whatever. What about it?'

Mr. Muirhead was dumbfounded. If this young man was guilty, then his power of self-control was absolutely marvellous.

'Well, there is this about it,' said Mr. Muirhead, stumbling in his speech, and painfully betraying his agitation, 'I don't think I drew that cheque myself.'

'But it's your signature,' exclaimed the young man, showing more animation as he examined the cheque again.

'It looks like it,' faltered Muirhead, 'but—but I don't think it is.'

'Don't think it is!' echoed the nephew, now displaying astonishment and keen interest. Then, after a pause, he | | 87 added, with significance: 'Uncle, don't you think it would be advisable to take a longer holiday?'

Mr. Muirhead felt as if a knife had gone through him, and he really began to think that his mental faculties had become impaired.

He made some excuse to his nephew, said he thought he would go away again soon, and got rid of Ernest, who was going to the house of a neighbour to play a game of billiards.

Muirhead passed a very wretched night. He breathed no word of his distress to his wife, who regarded Ernest as her own son, and loved him as such, and her husband, who was not only just but generous, was willing to bear any amount of suffering himself rather than pain his wife. The more he dwelt upon the matter, however, the clearer it became to him that an investigation was necessary, and he resolved at all hazards to get at the bottom of the mystery. For several reasons he did not feel competent to do this himself, and so he sent for Tyler Tatlock, whom he knew through a friend of his who had availed himself of the detective's services.

At their first interview Mr. Muirhead, in substance, detailed the foregoing particulars to Tatlock. 'As it is certain, Mr. Tatlock,' he went on, 'that a guilty hand and brain have been at work, the necessity for discovering the hand and brain is imperative. For my nephew to rest under suspicion, if that suspicion is not well founded, would be intolerable. But if the lad is innocent, then we are confronted, I venture to think, with a more serious aspect of the case.'

Tatlock saw clearly the lights and shades of the peculiar matter he was called upon to investigate. While family scruples had to be respected, he was asked to unravel a complicated case of crime--crime of a magnitude that seemed to indicate the brain of a practised criminal. And yet there was one point that struck him as peculiar, inasmuch as it was clumsily amateurish in one sense, while in another it was suggestive of deep cunning. The point was the drawing | | 88 of the cheque for five hundred pounds payable to bearer. It was clumsily amateurish, because it might so very, very easily have led to detection. If the manager at the bank, for instance, whose suspicions seemed to have been slightly aroused, had only allowed them to so far take shape as to put a question or two to the presentee, the whole fraud would probably have been at once exposed. It was artfully cunning, because whoever drew the cheque relied upon the probability, if sufficient time elapsed, of Mr. Muirhead not being able to determine whether he did or did not sign the cheque. This argued, of course, a thorough knowledge of Mr. Muirhead's peculiar temperament, and of his absorption in his hobbies. It was necessarily a rotten reed to bear upon, but the forger's cunning told him that the reed might prove equal to the occasion. He chanced, and temporarily triumphed. On the face of it, every circumstance seemed to fix the guilt on Ernest Crossley. He had access to his uncle's cheque-book. He knew his uncle's affairs, and knew that his uncle's standing at the bank, and his reputation for enthusiasm for his botany and astronomy, would reduce the probability of his eccentric act in drawing a cheque in such a way arousing suspicion. And yet in spite of this very strong circumstantial evidence—many a man has been hanged on evidence no stronger—Tatlock thought that Ernest Crossley did not draw that cheque.

Tatlock's first effort in the task of unravelling was not so much to determine if any one else was implicated as to prove conclusively Ernest Crossley's guilt or innocence. That was necessary to his uncle's peace of mind. If guilty, the sooner the truth was known and the wearying suspense ended the better. If innocent, not a moment should be lost in establishing his innocence. In broad principle, that was the line upon which Mr. Muirhead was anxious Tatlock should proceed.

In the initial stage of this inquiry in the Muirhead affair, Tatlock subjected the forged cheque to a crucial examination, and he compared the writing on it with various specimens of Crossley's handwriting. He maintained, and no | | 89 doubt correctly so, that a person who forged another person's handwriting, however cleverly it was done, must betray his own handwriting by some minute signs.

This examination enabled him to determine to his own satisfaction that Crossley did not forge that cheque. It need scarcely be said that young Crossley hadn't the remotest idea he was being shadowed, yet for a period of nearly three weeks his movements were closely watched. The places he frequented, the companions whom he associated with, his goings and comings, were all noted, and known to the man with the small eyes, for Tatlock's small eyes were almost able to look into or read the thoughts passing through a person's brain.

Those weeks were weary ones to Mr. Muirhead. He possessed himself with such patience as he could; but it was terribly trying to know that one in whom he had reposed trust and confidence, and upon whom he had lavished affection and tender solicitude, was lying under the suspicion of being a traitor, a forger, a thief.

Let it not be supposed that, while Tatlock was watching a certain thing, he had not an eye to possibilities elsewhere. Your trained hunter does not keep his gaze fixed on one spot, for he knows that if his prey be not in front it may be behind, and so it came to pass that Tatlock struck a trail that seemed to promise a startling development.

Adjoining the grounds in which Mr. Muirhead's house stood was a miniature glen, through which a tiny stream babbled its way to the Clyde. Sometimes on summer evenings young couples, to whom the world was very beautiful, and love an ecstatic dream, lingered there, and talked the soft nonsense which has been talked since the human story began. One evening a man and woman stood beneath a tree in the glen. They were engaged in deep and earnest conversation, and certain movements on the part of the woman seemed to indicate that she was much distressed, her distress arising, as indicated by the man's movement, by some argument on his part urged with a not too tender regard for her feelings. They were not exactly | | 90 quarrelling, but were agitated rather by difference of opinion. This difference, however, was strong enough to bring the tears to the woman's eyes, as evidenced by her pressing her handkerchief to her face. And the man grew impatient. He thrust his hands into his pockets, and walked away a few yards irritably, only to return almost immediately, and resume the argument, until suddenly the woman threw her arms about his neck, as if in passionate appeal, and he held her and kissed her, and she sobbed audibly. Presently they separated. The woman moved rapidly up the glen, turning occasionally to wave her handkerchief to the man, who lingered and gazed after her, until she was lost in the darkness.

Then he lit a cigar, and by the light of the match revealed his face, and in a few moments he strolled away in a direction opposite to that taken by the woman.

That same night, but later, a well-dressed man sat in a private room of a fashionable restaurant in Glasgow, together with several other men, and a similar number of women, some of them elegantly dressed. The party had been indulging in oysters and champagne. The man referred to was evidently the entertainer—the host. He was addressed by his companions as 'Alec.' He was probably a little under thirty. His face was not altogether pleasant to look upon. It was sensual, and bore unmistakable signs of late hours, and of burning the candle at both ends. His eyes, which were brown, were restless, and he had a habit of glancing furtively about him. His lips were overhung by a well-trimmed moustache, and he had good teeth. His face in repose was harsh; it was the face of a selfish, vain, and cruel man. But he had a strongly fascinating voice. It was soft and silvery. He was called upon for a song, and he rendered a Scottish ballad sweetly, tenderly, and with feeling. He was evidently a force in that little circle. His companions were deferential to him. The women seemed to vie with each other for his attention. Without exception, the women were actresses. One or two of the men were actors, one was a popular music-hall singer, the others were not so easily classed. Alec, the | | 91 host, if one judged him by his clothes, his rings, his heavy watch-chain, might have been taken for a well-to-do man about town. This Alec was the man who that same evening had talked to the woman in the glen. Tatlock had watched him in the glen, and was watching him now.

Adjoining the room in which the party were assembled was another and smaller room. At the top of the partition that separated the two was a window. That window afforded the watcher a post of observation.

Now, Alec—or, to give him his full name, Mr. Alexander Finlayson—was the lessee and manager of a certain music-hall which made up for in popularity what it lacked in respectability. This Finlayson was a mystery. He had entered into the music-hall business only a year previous to this period, and he conducted it with such lavish expenditure that in spite of its popularity people wondered how it paid. He had a passion for the company of actors and actresses, and music-hall people generally, and to them he was a most liberal entertainer. Although a bachelor, he occupied a swell house in the West End, and kept half a dozen servants. Moreover, he had a yacht on the Clyde, and a house at the coast, to which he was in the habit of taking his friends on Sundays and holidays. He was essentially a night-bird, and those he associated with were night-birds, and little was known of his doings in the day, though it was vaguely rumoured amongst his circle that he had a profitable engagement to attend to during the hours of daylight.

At last the time came when Tyler Tatlock, having faithfully and cleverly carried out his mission, felt he could present a reliable report to Mr. Muirhead, and one day he and Muirhead sat together in the latter's library. Tatlock was grave, Muirhead anxious and excited. The detective had already led up to the main point by some preliminary conversation, and Mr. Muirhead, allowing his impatience to overcome him, exclaimed:

'Well, well, but what about my nephew?'

'Your nephew is absolutely innocent.'

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'Thank God! thank God!' cried Muirhead with a fervency which clearly indicated the depth of his feelings, though, alas! the little ray of sunshine was soon to be blotted out by a heavier cloud. Tatlock would fain have spared his patron, but the truth had to be told.

'I am sorry,' he went on, 'that while I am able to exonerate your nephew, I have some very startling information to give you.'

'What is it? Don't keep me in suspense. Let me know the worst.'

'Very well, sir. Although your nephew is innocent your niece is not, for it was she who forged that cheque for five hundred pounds.'

'My niece!' gasped Muirhead, as if he were choking. Then he covered his face with his hands and sobbed. To a man of his high-strung nervous organisation, his artistic temperament, his uprightness, and gentleness of disposition, the revelation was a shock that stunned him.

His niece a thief, a forger! It seemed impossible, and yet it was true, and what Tatlock had learnt may be epitomised in the following particulars:

Reference has been made to his comparison of the writing on the cheque with young Crossley's handwriting, and his conclusion that Crossley was not the forger. Now, there were two persons in Muirhead's house besides himself who had access to his private room. It is not necessary to take Mrs. Muirhead into the calculation. The two persons were Mary and Ernest Crossley; therefore, Ernest being innocent, he turned his attention to Mary. Mr. Muirhead was very much attached to his niece, and, having the most perfect faith in her, he not only accorded her perfect liberty, but she did a good deal of secretarial work for him. She was exceedingly clever with the pen, and a close study of her writing led Tatlock to believe that she had committed the forgery. But, if so, why did she do it? The cheque was presented by, and the money paid to, a woman—that woman was not Mary Crossley, for she was well known at the bank, having transacted a good deal of business there | | 93 for her uncle. It was impossible, therefore, to avoid the deduction that a second person was implicated; and this led to another question. Was there any connection between the forged cheque and the defalcations at Mr. Muirhead's warehouse? To the solving of this part of the problem Tatlock brought all his energies and ability to bear, and as a consequence he ascertained that Mary had a secret lover, a man named Alexander Finlayson. As soon as Tatlock gained this knowledge he saw that the key was in his possession.

Finlayson was a ledger clerk in Mr. Muirhead's employ. He had been in the service for over fifteen years, and full confidence was placed in him. He was exceedingly clever at figures, and in his own particular department he had supreme control. His salary was four pounds a week. Nevertheless, he was the proprietor of a music-hall, had a swell west-end house, a house at the coast, a yacht on the Clyde, and kept several servants. How was it done? Not, surely, on his salary of four pounds a week. And, despite the fact that he was leading a fast and shameless life, he was meeting Mary Crossley secretly in the little glen adjoining her uncle's property, and Tatlock had seen them meet.

In view of the double life he was leading, and the large income required to keep up his false position as 'a man about town,' and a wealthy one, his books at the warehouse were subjected to expert examination, which brought to light a most ingenious and complicated system of fraud, whereby he had robbed his employer of thousands.

When the truth was revealed and the wickedness exposed, Mary Muirhead was taken to task by her uncle in the presence of Tatlock, and, though at first sullen and defiant, she broke down and confessed the part she had played. She had known Finlayson for more than a year. Mr. Muirhead had given a garden party in his grounds to the people in his employ. At that party Mary and Finlay-son became acquainted. He paid much attention to her, and she fell entirely under his influence.

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They corresponded; occasionally she met him in Glasgow, and more frequently at night in the glen adjoining her uncle's place. So completely was she fascinated that when one day he pleaded to her to get him ten pounds, she did it by manipulating her uncle's accounts. That was the beginning. After that he was constantly asking her to obtain money for him. As she had control of her uncle's accounts, she was enabled to do this by presenting him with duplicate bills and by other means. Finlayson also induced her to practise her uncle's handwriting and signature, so that she could copy them. And with what success she did this was proved by the cheque for five hundred pounds which she gave to Finlayson, and he sent one of his actress friends to cash it at the bank.

On the night when Tatlock saw him meet Mary in the glen he endeavoured to persuade his dupe to forge a cheque in her uncle's name for a thousand pounds. At first she refused; but he overcame her scruples, and she consented to do it, but was unable to carry the forgery out, as she found that her uncle now kept his cheque-book locked up in his safe, and she was sure he had become suspicious, and this frightened her.

It was a very sad story of a weak woman, who had inherited some of her father's evil ways, falling into the hands of an unscrupulous villain, who, discerning the flaw in her nature, preyed upon it.

It need scarcely be said that Mr. Muirhead was very greatly affected. The hopes he had built upon his niece were destroyed, his faith broken, and he bowed like a reed in a storm of wind. Nor did he ever entirely recover. He was never the same man again. He sent his niece to Melbourne, where she had a cousin married to a clergyman, but a very short time afterwards she disappeared, and went, as was believed, to America. What became of her is not known.

Much against his will, but from a sense that it was a duty he owed to society, Mr. Muirhead determined to prosecute his fraudulent clerk, Alexander Finlayson, for falsifying | | 95 the accounts at the warehouse; but the fellow, when he found the game was up, had the grace to put an end to his shameless career by poisoning himself as soon as he learnt that his infamy was known.

Mr. and Mrs. Muirhead have long been in their graves, and Ernest Crossley died of consumption about ten years ago; there is, therefore, no longer any reason for concealing the facts of this little drama of fraud and frailty and misplaced affection.

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