“How like like to recognise like, Rolly! I’ll be in touch.”
“Soon, please. Just as soon as you can. I’ll be very grateful.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Almost The End
For two weeks Rollison waited.
He was not inactive. Letters still came in by the sackful, some enclosing a shilling or two, one a cheque for a hundred guineas, and the total of contributions rose by startling amounts daily. Every newspaper ran the story, and Rollison and Jolly were under almost constant siege.
“How much more for Madam M.?” asked the Daily Globe. “Already over thirty-one thousand pounds have been subscribed, an unsolicited tribute to the great faith that so many have in Madam Melinska and the mysteries of the influence of the stars.”
“How great a folly!” demanded the solemn Guard. “It is almost unbelievable that in this day and age, some twenty thousand people should contribute to the defence of such a woman.”
“Can the Toff save Madam M.?” cried the Daily Record.
And so the headlines ran, from day to day.
The Webbs, both charged with kidnapping, were remanded in custody. Rollison went to see them twice, but they did not change a word of their story.
Michael Fraser and Ted Jackson, of Space Age Publishing, sent Rollison the reports for which he had asked, but neither contained any information other than that which they had already given him.
Any faint hope of saving the company had now vanished. “The money just isn’t there,” said Michael Fraser.
A letter reached Rollison two days late because of the diversion of his post to The Day.
It was from Bill Ebbutt.
“There’s no more hard feelings down this way, Mr R., but if you ask me, it would be better if you stayed away until this fortune-telling case is over. About two to one against Madam M. in these parts, I’d say.”
Despite the many thousands of letters Rollison had received, this was probably representative of a good cross-section of the public.
“Oh, they’re crazy,” Olivia Cordman said. “You don’t want any more proof that the woman’s genuine, surely.” She was working all day and most of the night making sure that every letter was answered individually.
“Rolly,” said Roger over the telephone, “if you want counsel to appear for Madam Melinska at the Magistrates Court, he’ll need briefing today. Normally counsel wouldn’t appear at this stage, but Sir David Bartolph is interested—very interested. He’s a bit of a clairvoyant himself, you know. A lot of queer rumours circulate about him. Madam Melinska couldn’t do better and she could do a lot worse if she lets him go.”
* * *
“If you really believe I should, Mr Rollison, I will certainly see this legal gentleman,” said Madam Melinska.
* * *
At the time Rollison was telephoning Roger Kemp to tell him that Madam Melinska had agreed to see Sir David Bartolph, Chief Inspector Clay was in the small hospital ward where Lucifer Stride had just been taken off the danger list. Stride’s face and hands were white as chalk, and he looked a sick man. Clay sat by his side, like a watching bulldog.
“Someone nearly killed you, Stride. This is their second attempt, isn’t it? And if you let them get away with it, there may be a third. Third time lucky, so they say.”
Stride moistened his lips, but said nothing.
“Who was it?” demanded Clay. “You won’t help yourself by keeping quiet, you know.” After a pause he went on: “Tell us the truth, there’s a good chap, and we’ll see that there isn’t a third attempt—but it’s got to be the whole truth,” he added warningly.
Stride’s eyes flickered towards him.
“Will you help Mona?” he whispered hoarsely. “It’s not her fault, I—I made her do it. I wish to God I hadn’t.”
“We’ll help her all we can,” said Clay reassuringly. “Now, who attacked you?—and why?”
Slowly, hesitatingly, Lucifer Stride began to talk. And the more he talked, the happier Clay looked.
* * *
Sir David Bartolph was a tall, distinguished-looking man, solid rather than fat, with iron-grey hair brushed straight back from his forehead, powerful shoulders, and a deep, pleasing voice. Rollison had seen him in Court, where he could be terrifying, but had never actually met him. He shook hands, but was obviously much more interested in Madam Melinska. Roger Kemp, short, alert, immaculately dressed, watched her fascinatedly.
They sat in a semicircle in front of Bartolph’s desk.
“Madam Melinska, let me say at once that I have read all the information available, including a most lucid statement from Mr Rollison—” he glanced approvingly at Rollison. “There is, of course, one somewhat damning factor—your own reluctance to admit that you recall what happened on any of these occasions.”
Madam Melinska, wearing a wine-red gown, a purple and gold scarf hiding her black hair, sat in an easy chair. Now and again she moved a sandal-clad foot; apart from that she appeared to make no movement at all.
“Do you understand me?” Bartolph asked.
“Perfectly, Sir David, although I do not agree.”
This man was a leading Queen’s Counsel.
“Indeed?”
“I am not at all reluctant to admit anything—I simply have no recollection of what I say during these readings.”
“You still persist in that contention.”
“I always persist in the truth, Sir David.”
Bartolph stared at her fixedly.
“Then can you give me your solemn assurance that your readings are genuine? Can you give me your solemn assurance that your knowledge of your clients, their lives, their families, knowledge which they take to be an example of your powers of clairvoyance, second sight, call it what you will—” Bartolph waved an impatient hand— “and by which they are so impressed that they are subsequently prepared to follow your advice regarding the disposal of, in some instances, very large sums of money—” Bartolph paused, as if to add weight to his words— “Madam Melinska, I repeat, can you give me your solemn assurance that this knowledge is the result of your powers of clairvoyance and that it has not been previously acquired with a view to winning the confidence of your clients?”
Madam Melinska met his gaze unflinchingly. “You have my solemn assurance, Sir David.”
Bartolph looked unblinkingly into the dark, gypsy-like face of the woman sitting before him, noting, with dispassionate appraisal, the beautiful bones, the proud carriage.
“Madam Melinska,” he said at last, “I have an important decision to make in the near future. It is a personal decision, and nothing to do with investing money or any problem arising from my profession. I would be grateful for any guidance you can give me.”
Roger Kemp pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. Rollison stirred.
“I will gladly help if I can.”
“May I know your fee in advance?”
“I charge no fee, Sir David. I do not believe it right to charge for an ability for which I am not responsible.”
“That is very unusual, Madam Melinska. One usually exploits one’s abilities to make a living.”
“It is not my way,” said Madam Melinska.
“How do you make your living?” asked Bartolph quietly.
“I live on gifts,” Madam Melinska replied.
“Gifts given out of gratitude.”
“Sometimes. And out of kindness.”
“Some would say that you place the onus of the size of your fee on others—that it would be fairer if you did make a charge.”
“That has often been said,” agreed Madam Melinska calmly. “It has also often been said of priests and holy men that they place the responsibility of keeping themselves on others whereas it should be their own responsibility.”
“Do you agree with that?”
“No,” answered Madam Melinska. “They— like myself—have certain powers. The practising of these powers requires deep concentration. They cannot switch this concentration on and off as if they were machines. It is not easy to acquire or to maintain a calm mind, Sir David. It is not easy for a man to be holy if he must always harass himself over the things he needs for living.”
“I think I understand,” said Bartolph. After a pause, he went on: “Do you think you can help me?”
Madam Melinska stared at him for a long time, then said very quietly, “I will try.”
“May we all be present?”
“As you wish. I shall close my eyes and clasp my hands. I may ask you questions from time to time. If I do, please answer very simply.”
“Very well.”
Rollison glanced across at Roger, almost uneasily. The woman sat motionless for several minutes—gradually her head drooped forward until her chin was almost at her breast. She seemed to be breathing more deeply, as if she were already sleeping. Suddenly she began to speak.
“I see young people, many young people, and one of them is a boy, almost on the threshold of manhood, a boy who is very like you. He is laughing and appears gay, as do all the others, but he is not truly happy and his gaze keeps straying to one of three young women across the room from him. This young woman is beautiful, very beautiful. She is tall and very dark. I do not believe she is English—she has a look of the Southern European, and yet . . .” Madam Melinska paused, and her hands seemed to press together more tightly. “There is an unusual mixture of ethnic groups in this room; some are Spanish—some are Mexican— some are Negro. The young man is in considerable emotional distress. He is facing an issue of great importance to him.”
She stopped; and began to rub her hands together very swiftly, almost wringing them. When she spoke again, it was slowly, and with even greater concentration than before.
“This—young—man—is—your—son. He is in South America—and he is undecided whether to return to England or whether to stay. His decision is dependent on the girl. No, not only on the girl, he has to make a choice. A choice between loyalty to his father—to you— and love for this young woman.”
Bartolph was studying her intently, his eyes narrowed to slits. He hardly seemed to be breathing.
“You wish to know whether you should, in his own best interests, compel your son to come home. You must not do this. You must allow him to choose for himself. There is no way you can be sure that your decision would be the right one. It must be his decision.”
She stopped speaking, the movement of her hands ceased; soon she was breathing more freely. It was several minutes before she opened her eyes, and then it was as if she had awoken from a long, deep sleep.
“I hope I was able to help you,” she said diffidently.
Bartolph was gazing into space, a far-away look in his eyes. “It—it’s uncanny,” he muttered. There was a moment’s silence, then, as if making an almost physical effort, he answered her question.
“Madam—” he hesitated— “Madam Melinska, no one—no one—apart from myself and my son could have known what you have just told me. And you will never realise how great your help has been.”
Rollison and Roger Kemp exchanged almost imperceptible glances. Roger let out a long, slow, almost painful breath.
Madam Melinska looked gravely across the desk at Bartolph, but said nothing.
Bartolph squared his shoulders.
“Madam Melinska, I will be glad to undertake your defence, although I must warn you that it will not be easy to persuade the jury that you are innocent of the charges.” The barrister taking over from the man, thought Rollison. “But I will endeavour—” continued Bartolph, placing the fingertips of each hand meticulously together— “to convince them that any advice you gave was advice given without your conscious awareness. Now we have a very difficult problem.” He looked at Rollison.
“Whether to use this defence in the Magistrates Court, or whether to allow Madam Melinska to be committed for trial at the Assizes so that I can plead to a jury. If we fail to convince the magistrate at this hearing, I doubt whether we should find it easy to convince a jury later.”
“What do you advise, sir?” asked Roger Kemp.
“On the whole—to allow committal, so that we have more time to prepare the defence.”
“Please,” interrupted Madam Melinska. “I think it would be much better if you were not to wait. If it is possible, I would like to return to Rhodesia next month.”
“If you’re committed for trial, it won’t be.”
“I am fully aware of the risk,” Madam
Melinska said quietly.
* * *
“That was incredible—absolutely incredible,” Roger said to Rollison. “Could she have already known about this son in South America, do you think?”
Rollison shrugged his shoulders helplessly.
Madam Melinska had gone back to the Marigold Club by taxi, and Roger and Rollison had taken their leave of Bartolph and were now at Roger’s office. Roger had a baffled, almost a dazed look, which told of the measure of his bewilderment.
Rollison frowned. “Bartolph knows that he hasn’t an earthly, of course. He’s sticking his neck out simply because she hit the nail on the head as regards his son. She certainly made a big impression there—I’ve never known a Q.C. plead in a Magistrates Court before.” He stood up. “Oh well, if you can think up some new angle I’ll be damned grateful. I’ll leave you to it, I can see myself out.”
As he moved towards the door, the telephone bell rang.
Roger lifted the receiver. “Who? Yes, he’s here.” He beckoned to Rollison. “Rolly, it’s for you.”
“Nice timing,” said Rollison, and stepped back to take the receiver. “Hallo . . . Oh yes, Jolly . . . Has it, then!” He stiffened—Jolly had reported that an airmail letter had just arrived from his banking friend in Rhodesia. “Open it, will you, and read it out to me.”
There was silence for a few moments. When Rollison spoke, his voice sounded heavy. “I see. Thanks.” He rang off.
Roger sensed his concern. “What is it, Rolly? Bad news?”
“Mona Lister has had the money. The money that the Webbs said was paid to Madam Melinska. It’s been paid into Mona Lister’s account—every penny of it.” Rollison paused for a moment, then looked at Roger very straightly as he added. “And Mona Lister is Madam Melinska’s partner.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Second Hearing
Rollison walked from the sunlit Temple Gardens, heavy-hearted, then towards the Strand. It was only a step out of his way to visit the Space Age Publishing offices, and he turned towards them, remembering vividly what had followed his first visit here. He was almost surprised when Jane did not come out of the door, stand and stare at him, and then run back inside. As he reached it, however, it opened—and he waited for events to repeat themselves.
