Michael Cox - The Meaning of Night

‘This is a little irregular, Mr …’

‘Glyver.’ I felt no qualms about using the name by which Dr Shakeshaft knew me.

‘Quite. I see here that Dr Shakeshaft speaks very highly of you. Were you up at the University yourself?’

I told him that I had done my studying in Germany, at which he looked up from his perusal of Shakeshaft’s note.

‘Heidelberg? Why, then, you will know Professor Pfannenschmidt, I dare say.’

Of course I knew Johannes Pfannenschmidt, with whom I had spent many a wonderful hour in deep conversation concerning the religious mysteries of the Ancients. This acknowledgement of an acquaintance with the Herr Professor produced a visible mitigation of Dr Maunder’s raptorial demeanour, and appeared to remove any lingering scruples that he had concerning the propriety of answering my enquiry.

‘Pettingale. Yes, I recollect that gentleman. And his friend.’

‘Mr Phoebus Daunt?’

‘The same. My old friend’s son.’

‘Dr Shakeshaft mentioned some trouble concerning Mr Pettingale. It would assist me greatly, in the prosecution of a highly confidential matter, if you were able to inform me, in a little more detail, of its nature and consequences.’

‘Nicely put, Mr Glyver,’ he said. ‘I will not enquire further into your reasons for seeking this information. But insofar as the matter, in its general outline, is one of public record, I am willing to give you some account of the business.

‘I first came across Mr Lewis Pettingale when I apprehended him in a house of ill-fame – a not uncommon occurrence, I am afraid to say, amongst the undergraduate population of this University. Youth can be a little lax in point of moral resolve.’ He smiled. ‘He was disciplined, of course, and put on notice that, if it happened again, he would be rusticated. *But the affair that Dr Shakeshaft has in mind was altogether more serious, though its conclusion appeared to exonerate Mr Pettingale of any taint of guilt or censure.

‘It began, from my point of view, when I was called upon, in my capacity as Senior Proctor, by a police inspector from London who wished to question Mr Pettingale in connexion with a serious case of forgery. It appears that the young man had gone to a firm of London solicitors – Pentecost & Vizard, as I recall – for assistance in the matter of an outstanding debt. He had taken with him a promissory note for the amount of one hundred pounds, signed by a Mr Leonard Verdant. The solicitors undertook to write to this Mr Verdant forthwith, and demand payment of the sum in question, on pain of legal proceedings immediately being taken out against him. Within twenty-four hours, a messenger had appeared at the solicitors’ office with the outstanding debt in cash, and a request from Mr Verdant for a signed receipt.

‘On being informed that the debt had been paid, Mr Pettingale went again to the solicitors to receive his money, which was paid to him, at his request, with a cheque drawn on the firm’s bankers – also my own, as it so happened, Dimsdale & Co., Cornhill. Well, the cheque was duly presented, and the matter was concluded to the satisfaction of all parties.

‘But then, a week or so later, a clerk in the solicitors’ office noticed that three cheques, to a total of eight hundred pounds, had been drawn on the firm’s account without, it appeared, any record of the transactions having been made. The alarm was duly raised and the police were called in. A few days later, a man by the name of Hensby was apprehended on the premises of the firm’s bank, attempting to present a further forged cheque, this time for seven hundred pounds.

‘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?’