Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 25, No. 2, August 13, 1927

“No, my dear, they didn’t. Vivian never went out of his way to inform them. Nor did I. I’d no use for that sort of folk, having been stung quite bad enough already. No, my marriage with Vivian wasn’t even as fashionable as his wedding with the second lady he made a fool of at York. Him and me had been hitched at a registrar’s office. It’s quiet and cheap, but it can do you in just as thoroughly as a ceremony at St. Margaret’s, Westminster, with a carpet laid across the sidewalk, and a lot of other fools throwin’ rice and confetti.

“To finish off the story, for you don’t want a family history in three volumes, Vivian was dead, and I took care that he stayed dead. He knew he was all right as long as he kept quiet.

“It made a model husband of him, so far as you could make anything at all of Vivian. I’d took him away from his friends and all his other bad habits, and I should say he owed me his life.

“Later on we thought it was safe to come back to England. We dropped the ‘Vivian,’ which I never had used, anyway; my pet name for him was Moppet, and occasionally any others that came handy. We was known as Mr. and Mrs. John Harding, which is a common name enough.

“And that lasted till he died at Stukely only three years ago, quite quiet and peaceful. His funeral cost me forty-seven pounds and ten shillings. I missed Moppet, for though no doubt he was a bad lot, I’d got used to him. The wound has healed all right. I’m always one for making the best of things.

“Still, seeing he was dead, I gave him his right name. No good comes of putting lies on a grave-stone or a register, so he was buried as Vivian Harding. They couldn’t do him any harm once they’d buried him. After which I went into retirement in London, carrying on as usual, and keeping myself to myself, as has always been my custom.

“That’s my story, Mr. McKellar. I’ve told it you because I feel you’d like to know that your mother’s marriage, which has upset you so much, was never a real marriage in any sense of the word, legal or illegal. Though, of course, if Vivian hadn’t been my husband, it would have been legal enough to hold her I suppose. Even if she never set eyes on him after leaving the church.”

She turned to Delia.

“And I’d like to say this, miss, if you or Mr. McKellar feel sore against me for rot tracking up the other lady and telling her all the facts as maybe I should have done by rights — I ask you to put yourself in my place. If you was married to a man and fond of him, however foolish it might be — would you feel bound to go out of your way to get him sent to prison for the sake of somebody you didn’t know?”

Delia was at a loss for a reply. But Tommy broke in:

“Mrs. Harding, don’t think I’m blaming you for anything you did! You’ve done me one mighty good turn anyway: it’s the greatest relief of my life to hear what you’ve told me. And you’ve made me the happiest man in Scotland.”

“I’m pleased to hear it,” said Susan. “It seems to me the sort of country that could do with any happiness it gets; though I suppose there’s some that likes all this heather and rocks and water. And, of course, you’ve got the wireless. Anything else I can tell you?”

“Yes. I want to know if you’ve heard of a lady by the name of Renée McKellar. Have you come across her?”

Mrs. Harding shook her head.

“No, sir. Have I missed anything?”

“Nor of a man called Laurence Drumont?”

“Name’s new to me.”

“Then you can’t say if either of these people were likely to have known of your marriage to Vivian Harding, or the date?”

“It would surprise me very much if they did — whoever they may be. Moppet and I took a lot of trouble to cover it up, and I should think it could only have been found out more or less by accident. Nobody knew who Moppet was. It beats me now to guess how Mr. Gillespie found out about it — especially as he isn’t a policeman.”

“All right — let that go,” said Tommy. “Mrs. Harding, what you’ve told us makes just the difference of a fortune to me — and I’d like to see that you don’t lose by it.

“And in the meantime, as we’re all starving and yonder’s the gong being banged by Gillespie, come along and have lunch.”

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d be much more comfortable in the steward’s room,” said Susan Harding. “I can’t enjoy my food with a lot of servants fussing round. Vivian liked that sort of thing, but I’ve no use for it. I hope you will let me have my dinner along with Mr. Drumcleugh and Mr. Gillespie, for I want to have a talk with them.”

“Do you? I want to have a talk with Gillespie myself,” exclaimed Tommy, “and it can’t wait — I want it quick! Where is he?”

He left the room hurriedly, and Delia went with him, for she, too, felt that the settlement with Gillespie could no longer be delayed.

To their astonishment, he was nowhere to be found. It was the first time on record that Gillespie was not on hand when wanted. The household staff had seen nothing of him for an hour past: not only had he faded out of sight and hearing, but Drumcleugh also was missing.