THE TALLEYRAND MAXIM
BY J. S. FLETCHER
1920
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I DEATH BRINGS OPPORTUNITY
II IN TRUST
III THE SHOP-BOY
IV THE FORTUNATE POSSESSORS
V POINT-BLANK
VI THE UNEXPECTED
VII THE SUPREME INDUCEMENT
VIII TERMS
IX UNTIL NEXT SPRING
X THE FOOT-BRIDGE
XI THE PREVALENT ATMOSPHERE
XII THE POWER OF ATTORNEY
XIII THE FIRST TRICK
XIV CARDS ON THE TABLE
XV PRATT OFFERS A HAND
XVI A HEADQUARTERS CONFERENCE
XVII ADVERTISEMENT
XVIII THE CONFIDING LANDLORD
XIX THE EYE-WITNESS
XX THE _Green Man_
XXI THE DIRECT CHARGE
XXII THE CAT'SPAW
XXIII SMOOTH FACE AND ANXIOUS BRAIN
XXIV THE BETTER HALF
XXV DRY SHERRY
XXVI THE TELEPHONE MESSAGE
XXVII RESTORED TO ENERGY
XXVIII THE WOMAN IN BLACK
THE TALLEYRAND MAXIM
CHAPTER I
DEATH BRINGS OPPORTUNITY
Linford Pratt, senior clerk to Eldrick & Pascoe, solicitors, of Barford,
a young man who earnestly desired to get on in life, by hook or by
crook, with no objection whatever to crookedness, so long as it could be
performed in safety and secrecy, had once during one of his periodical
visits to the town Reference Library, lighted on a maxim of that other
unscrupulous person, Prince Talleyrand, which had pleased him greatly.
"With time and patience," said Talleyrand, "the mulberry leaf is turned
into satin." This seemed to Linford Pratt one of the finest and soundest
pieces of wisdom which he had ever known put into words.
A mulberry leaf is a very insignificant thing, but a piece of satin is a
highly marketable commodity, with money in it. Henceforth, he regarded
himself as a mulberry leaf which his own wit and skill must transform
into satin: at the same time he knew that there is another thing, in
addition to time and patience, which is valuable to young men of his
peculiar qualities, a thing also much beloved by Talleyrand - opportunity.
He could find the patience, and he had the time - but it would give him
great happiness if opportunity came along to help in the work. In
everyday language, Linford Pratt wanted a chance - he waited the arrival
of the tide in his affairs which would lead him on to fortune.
Leave him alone - he said to himself - to be sure to take it at the flood.
If Pratt had only known it, as he stood in the outer office of Eldrick &
Pascoe at the end of a certain winter afternoon, opportunity was slowly
climbing the staircase outside - not only opportunity, but temptation,
both assisted by the Devil. They came at the right moment, for Pratt was
alone; the partners had gone: the other clerks had gone: the office-boy
had gone: in another minute Pratt would have gone, too: he was only
looking round before locking up for the night. Then these things
came - combined in the person of an old man, Antony Bartle, who opened
the door, pushed in a queer, wrinkled face, and asked in a quavering
voice if anybody was in.
"I'm in, Mr. Bartle," answered Pratt, turning up a gas jet which he had
just lowered. "Come in, sir. What can I do for you?"
Antony Bartle came in, wheezing and coughing. He was a very, very old
man, feeble and bent, with little that looked alive about him but his
light, alert eyes. Everybody knew him - he was one of the institutions of
Barford - as well known as the Town Hall or the Parish Church. For fifty
years he had kept a second-hand bookshop in Quagg Alley, the narrow
passage-way which connected Market Street with Beck Street. It was not
by any means a common or ordinary second-hand bookshop: its proprietor
styled himself an "antiquarian bookseller"; and he had a reputation in
two Continents, and dealt with millionaire buyers and virtuosos in both.
Barford people sometimes marvelled at the news that Mr. Antony Bartle
had given two thousand guineas for a Book of Hours, and had sold a
Missal for twice that amount to some American collector; and they got a
hazy notion that the old man must be well-to-do - despite his snuffiness
and shabbiness, and that his queer old shop, in the window of which
there was rarely anything to be seen but a few ancient tomes, and two or
three rare engravings, contained much that he could turn at an hour's
notice into gold. All that was surmise - but Eldrick & Pascoe - which term
included Linford Pratt - knew all about Antony Bartle, being his
solicitors: his will was safely deposited in their keeping, and Pratt
had been one of the attesting witnesses.
The old man, having slowly walked into the outer office, leaned against
a table, panting a little. Pratt hastened to open an inner door.
"Come into Mr. Eldrick's room, Mr. Bartle," he said. "There's a nice
easy chair there - come and sit down in it. Those stairs are a bit
trying, aren't they? I often wish we were on the ground floor."
He lighted the gas in the senior partner's room, and turning back, took
hold of the visitor's arm, and helped him to the easy chair. Then,
having closed the doors, he sat down at Eldrick's desk, put his fingers
together and waited. Pratt knew from experience that old Antony Bartle
would not have come there except on business: he knew also, having been
at Eldrick & Pascoe's for many years, that the old man would confide in
him as readily as in either of his principals.
"There's a nasty fog coming on outside," said Bartle, after a fit of
coughing. "It gets on my lungs, and then it makes my heart bad. Mr.
Eldrick in?"
"Gone," replied Pratt. "All gone, Mr. Bartle - only me here."
"You'll do," answered the old bookseller. "You're as good as they are."
He leaned forward from the easy chair, and tapped the clerk's arm with a
long, claw-like finger. "I say," he continued, with a smile that was
something between a wink and a leer, and suggestive of a pleased
satisfaction. "I've had a find!"
"Oh!" responded Pratt. "One of your rare books, Mr. Bartle? Got
something for twopence that you'll sell for ten guineas? You're one of
the lucky ones, you know, you are!"
"Nothing of the sort!" chuckled Bartle. "And I had to pay for my
knowledge, young man, before I got it - we all have. No - but I've found
something: not half an hour ago. Came straight here with it. Matters for
lawyers, of course."
"Yes?" said Pratt inquiringly. "And - what may it be?" He was expecting
the visitor to produce something, but the old man again leaned forward,
and dug his finger once more into the clerk's sleeve.
"I say!" he whispered. "You remember John Mallathorpe and the affair
of - how long is it since?"
"Two years," answered Pratt promptly. "Of course I do. Couldn't very
well forget it, or him."
He let his mind go back for the moment to an affair which had provided
Barford and the neighbourhood with a nine days' sensation. One winter
morning, just two years previously, Mr. John Mallathorpe, one of the
best-known manufacturers and richest men of the town, had been killed by
the falling of his own mill-chimney. The condition of the chimney had
been doubtful for some little time; experts had been examining it for
several days: at the moment of the catastrophe, Mallathorpe himself,
some of his principal managers, and a couple of professional
steeple-jacks, were gathered at its base, consulting on a report. The
great hundred-foot structure above them had collapsed without the
slightest warning: Mallathorpe, his principal manager, and his cashier,
had been killed on the spot: two other bystanders had subsequently died
from injuries received. No such accident had occurred in Barford, nor in
the surrounding manufacturing district, for many years, and there had
been much interest in it, for according to the expert's conclusions the
chimney was in no immediate danger.
Other mill-owners then began to examine their chimneys, and for many
weeks Barford folk had talked of little else than the danger of living
in the shadows of these great masses of masonry.
But there had soon been something else to talk of. It sprang out of the
accident - and it was of particular interest to persons who, like Linford
Pratt, were of the legal profession. John Mallathorpe, so far as anybody
knew or could ascertain, had died intestate. No solicitor in the town
had ever made a will for him. No solicitor elsewhere had ever made a
will for him. No one had ever heard that he had made a will for himself.
There was no will. Drastic search of his safes, his desks, his drawers
revealed nothing - not even a memorandum. No friend of his had ever heard
him mention a will. He had always been something of a queer man. He was
a confirmed bachelor. The only relation he had in the world was his
sister-in-law, the widow of his deceased younger brother, and her two
children - a son and a daughter. And as soon as he was dead, and it was
plain that he had died intestate, they put in their claim to his
property.
John Mallathorpe had left a handsome property. He had been making money
all his life. His business was a considerable one - he employed two
thousand workpeople. His average annual profit from his mills was
reckoned in thousands - four or five thousands at least. And some years
before his death, he had bought one of the finest estates in the
neighbourhood, Normandale Grange, a beautiful old house, set amidst
charming and romantic scenery in a valley, which, though within twelve
miles of Barford, might have been in the heart of the Highlands.
Therefore, it was no small thing that Mrs. Richard Mallathorpe and her
two children laid claim to. Up to the time of John Mallathorpe's death,
they had lived in very humble fashion - lived, indeed, on an allowance
from their well-to-do kinsman - for Richard Mallathorpe had been as much
of a waster as his brother had been of a money-getter. And there was no
withstanding their claim when it was finally decided that John
Mallathorpe had died intestate - no withstanding that, at any rate, of
the nephew and niece. The nephew had taken all the real estate: he and
his sister had shared the personal property. And for some months they
and their mother had been safely installed at Normandale Grange, and in
full possession of the dead man's wealth and business.
All this flashed through Linford Pratt's mind in a few seconds - he knew
all the story: he had often thought of the extraordinary good fortune of
those young people. To be living on charity one week - and the next to be
legal possessors of thousands a year! - oh, if only such luck would come
his way!
"Of course!" he repeated, looking thoughtfully at the old bookseller.
"Not the sort of thing one does forget in a hurry, Mr. Bartle. What of
it?"
Antony Bartle leaned back in his easy chair and chuckled - something,
some idea, seemed to be affording him amusement.
"I'm eighty years old," he remarked. "No, I'm more, to be exact. I shall
be eighty-two come February. When you've lived as long as that, young
Mr. Pratt, you'll know that this life is a game of topsy-turvy - to some
folks, at any rate. Just so!"
"You didn't come here to tell me that, Mr. Bartle," said Pratt. He was
an essentially practical young man who dined at half-past six every
evening, having lunched on no more than bread-and-cheese and a glass of
ale, and he also had his evenings well mapped out. "I know that already,
sir."
"Aye, aye, but you'll know more of it later on," replied Bartle.
"Well - you know, too, no doubt, that the late John Mallathorpe was a
bit - only a bit - of a book-collector; collected books and pamphlets
relating to this district?"
"I've heard of it," answered the clerk.
"He had that collection in his private room at the mill," continued the
old bookseller, "and when the new folks took hold, I persuaded them to
sell it to me. There wasn't such a lot - maybe a hundred volumes
altogether - but I wanted what there was. And as they were of no interest
to them, they sold 'em. That's some months ago. I put all the books in a
corner - and I never really examined them until this very afternoon.
Then - by this afternoon's post - I got a letter from a Barford man who's
now out in America. He wanted to know if I could supply him with a nice
copy of Hopkinson's _History of Barford_. I knew there was one in that
Mallathorpe collection, so I got it out, and examined it. And in the
pocket inside, in which there's a map, I found - what d'ye think?"
"Couldn't say," replied Pratt. He was still thinking of his dinner, and
of an important engagement to follow it, and he had not the least idea
that old Antony Bartle was going to tell him anything very important.
"Letters? Bank-notes? Something of that sort?"
The old bookseller leaned nearer, across the corner of the desk, until
his queer, wrinkled face was almost close to Pratt's sharp, youthful
one. Again he lifted the claw-like finger: again he tapped the clerk's
arm.
"I found John Mallathorpe's will!" he whispered. "His - will!"
Linford Pratt jumped out of his chair. For a second he stared in
speechless amazement at the old man; then he plunged his hands deep into
his trousers' pockets, opened his mouth, and let out a sudden
exclamation.
"No!" he said. "No! John Mallathorpe's - will? His - will!"
"Made the very day on which he died," answered Bartle, nodding
emphatically.
"Queer, wasn't it? He might have had some - premonition, eh?"
Pratt sat down again.
"Where is it?" he asked.
"Here in my pocket," replied the old bookseller, tapping his rusty coat.
"Oh, it's all right, I assure you. All duly made out, signed, and
witnessed. Everything in order, I know! - because a long, a very long
time ago, I was like you, an attorney's clerk. I've drafted many a will,
and witnessed many a will, in my time. I've read this, every word of
it - it's all right. Nothing can upset it."
"Let's see it," said Pratt, eagerly.
"Well - I've no objection - I know you, of course," answered Bartle, "but
I'd rather show it first to Mr. Eldrick. Couldn't you telephone up to
his house and ask him to run back here?"
"Certainly," replied Pratt. "He mayn't be there, though. But I can try.
You haven't shown it to anybody else?"
"Neither shown it to anybody, nor mentioned it to a soul," said Bartle.
"I tell you it's not much more than half an hour since I found it. It's
not a long document. Do you know how it is that it's never come out?" he
went on, turning eagerly to Pratt, who had risen again. "It's easily
explained. The will's witnessed by those two men who were killed at the
same time as John Mallathorpe! So, of course, there was nobody to say
that it was in evidence. My notion is that he and those two
men - Gaukrodger and Marshall, his manager and cashier - had signed it not
long before the accident, and that Mallathorpe had popped it into the
pocket of that book before going out into the yard. Eh? But see if you
can get Mr. Eldrick down here, and we'll read it together. And I
say - this office seems uncommonly stuffy - can you open the window a bit
or something? - I feel oppressed, like."
Pratt opened a window which looked out on the street. He glanced at the
old man for a moment and saw that his face, always pallid, was even
paler than usual.
"You've been talking too much," he said. "Rest yourself, Mr. Bartle,
while I ring up Mr. Eldrick's house. If he isn't there, I'll try his
club - he often turns in there for an hour before going home."
He went out by a private door to the telephone box, which stood in a
lobby used by various occupants of the building. And when he had rung up
Eldrick's private house and was waiting for the answer, he asked himself
what this discovery would mean to the present holders of the Mallathorpe
property, and his curiosity - a strongly developed quality in him - became
more and more excited. If Eldrick was not at home, if he could not get
in touch with him, he would persuade old Bartle to let him see his
find - he would cheerfully go late to his dinner if he could only get a
peep at this strangely discovered document. Romance! Why, this indeed
was romance; and it might be - what else? Old Bartle had already chuckled
about topsy-turvydom: did that mean that -
The telephone bell rang: Eldrick had not yet reached his house. Pratt
got on to the club: Eldrick had not been there. He rang off, and went
back to the private room.
"Can't get hold of him, Mr. Bartle," he began, as he closed the door.
"He's not at home, and he's not at the club. I say! - you might as well
let me have a look at - - "
Pratt suddenly stopped. There was a strange silence in the room: the old
man's wheezy breathing was no longer heard. And the clerk moved forward
quickly and looked round the high back of the easy chair....
He knew at once what had happened - knew that old Bartle was dead before
he laid a finger on the wasted hand which had dropped helplessly at his
side. He had evidently died without a sound or a movement - died as
quietly as he would have gone to sleep. Indeed, he looked as if he had
just laid his old head against the padding of the chair and dropped
asleep, and Pratt, who had seen death before, knew that he would never
wake again. He waited a moment, listening in the silence. Once he
touched the old man's hand; once, he bent nearer, still listening. And
then, without hesitation, and with fingers that remained as steady as if
nothing had happened, he unbuttoned Antony Bartle's coat, and drew a
folded paper from the inner pocket.
CHAPTER II
IN TRUST
As quietly and composedly as if he were discharging the most ordinary of
his daily duties, Pratt unfolded the document, and went close to the
solitary gas jet above Eldrick's desk. What he held in his hand was a
half-sheet of ruled foolscap paper, closely covered with writing, which
he at once recognized as that of the late John Mallathorpe. He was
familiar with that writing - he had often seen it. It was an
old-fashioned writing - clear, distinct, with every letter well and fully
formed.
"Made it himself!" muttered Pratt. "Um! - looks as if he wanted to keep
the terms secret. Well - - "
He read the will through - rapidly, but with care, murmuring the
phraseology half aloud.
"This is the last will of me, John Mallathorpe, of Normandale Grange, in
the parish of Normandale, in the West Riding of the County of York. I
appoint Martin William Charlesworth, manufacturer, of Holly Lodge,
Barford, and Arthur James Wyatt, chartered accountant, of 65, Beck
Street, Barford, executors and trustees of this my will. I give and
devise all my estate and effects real and personal of which I may die
possessed or entitled to unto the said Martin William Charlesworth and
Arthur James Wyatt upon trust for the following purposes to be carried
out by them under the following instructions, namely: - As soon after my
death as is conveniently possible they will sell all my real estate,
either by private treaty or by public auction; they shall sell all my
personal property of any nature whatsoever; they shall sell my business
at Mallathorpe's mill in Barford as a going concern to any private
purchaser or to any company already in existence or formed for the
purpose of acquiring it; and they shall collect all debts and moneys due
to me. And having sold and disposed of all my property, real and
personal, and brought all the proceeds of such sales and of such
collection of debts and moneys into one common fund they shall first pay
all debts owing by me and all legal duties and expenses arising out of
my death and this disposition of my property and shall then distribute
my estate as follows, namely: to each of themselves, Martin William
Charlesworth and Arthur James Wyatt, they shall pay the sum of five
thousand pounds; to my sister-in-law, Ann Mallathorpe, they shall pay
the sum of ten thousand pounds; to my nephew, Harper John Mallathorpe,
they shall pay the sum of ten thousand pounds; to my niece, Nesta
Mallathorpe, they shall pay the sum of ten thousand pounds. And as to
the whole of the remaining residue they shall pay it in one sum to the
Mayor and Corporation of the borough of Barford in the County of York to
be applied by the said Mayor and Corporation at their own absolute
discretion and in any manner which seems good to them to the
establishment, furtherance and development of technical and commercial
education in the said borough of Barford. Dated this sixteenth day of
November, 1906.
Signed by the testator in
the presence of us both
present at the same
time who in his presence } JOHN MALLATHORPE
and in the presence
of each other
have hereunto set our
names as witnesses.
HENRY GAUKRODGER, 16, Florence Street,
Barford, Mill Manager.
CHARLES WATSON MARSHALL, 56, Laburnum Terrace,
Barford, Cashier."
As the last word left his lips Pratt carefully folded up the will,
slipped it into an inner pocket of his coat, and firmly buttoned the
coat across his chest. Then, without as much as a glance at the dead
man, he left the room, and again visited the telephone box. He was
engaged in it for a few minutes. When he came out he heard steps coming
up the staircase, and looking over the banisters he saw the senior
partner, Eldrick, a middle-aged man. Eldrick looked up, and saw Pratt.
"I hear you've been ringing me up at the club, Pratt," he said. "What is
it?"
Pratt waited until Eldrick had come up to the landing. Then he pointed
to the door of the private room, and shook his head.
"It's old Mr. Bartle, sir," he whispered. "He's in your room
there - dead!"
"Dead?" exclaimed Eldrick. "Dead!"
Pratt shook his head again.
"He came up not so long after you'd gone, sir," he said. "Everybody had
gone but me - I was just going. Wanted to see you about something I don't
know what. He was very tottery when he came in - complained of the stairs
and the fog. I took him into your room, to sit down in the easy chair.
And - he died straight off. Just," concluded Pratt, "just as if he was
going quietly to sleep!"
"You're sure he is dead? - not fainting?" asked Eldrick.
"He's dead, sir - quite dead," replied Pratt. "I've rung up Dr.
Melrose - he'll be here in a minute or two - and the Town Hall - the
police - as well. Will you look at him, sir?"
Eldrick silently motioned his clerk to open the door; together they
walked into the room. And Eldrick looked at his quiet figure and wan
face, and knew that Pratt was right.
"Poor old chap!" he murmured, touching one of the thin hands. "He was a
fine man in his time, Pratt; clever man! And he was very, very old - one
of the oldest men in Barford. Well, we must wire to his grandson, Mr.
Bartle Collingwood. You'll find his address in the book. He's the only
relation the old fellow had."
"Come in for everything, doesn't he, sir?" asked Pratt, as he took an
address book from the desk, and picked up a sheaf of telegram forms.
"Every penny!" murmured Eldrick. "Nice little fortune, too - a fine thing
for a young fellow who's just been called to the Bar. As a matter of
fact, he'll be fairly well independent, even if he never sees a brief in
his life."
"He has been called, has he, sir?" asked Pratt, laying a telegram form
on Eldrick's writing pad and handing him a pen. "I wasn't aware of
that."
"Called this term - quite recently - at Gray's Inn," replied Eldrick, as
he sat down. "Very promising, clever young man. Look here! - we'd better
send two wires, one to his private address, and one to his chambers.
They're both in that book. It's six o'clock, isn't it? - he might be at
his chambers yet, but he may have gone home. I'll write both
messages - you put the addresses on, and get the wire off - we must have
him down here as soon as possible."
"One address is 53x, Pump Court; the other's 96, Cloburn Square,"
remarked Pratt consulting the book. "There's an express from King's
Cross at 8.15 which gets here midnight."
"Oh, it would do if he came down first thing in the morning - leave it to
him," said Eldrick. "I say, Pratt, do you think an inquest will be
necessary?"
Pratt had not thought of that - he began to think. And while he was
thinking, the doctor whom he had summoned came in. He looked at the dead
man, asked the clerk a few questions, and was apparently satisfied. "I
don't think there's any need for an inquest," he said in reply to
Eldrick. "I knew the old man very well - he was much feebler than he
would admit. The exertion of coming up these stairs of yours, and the
coughing brought on by the fog outside - that was quite enough. Of
course, the death will have to be reported in the usual way, but I have
no hesitation in giving a certificate. You've let the Town Hall people
know? Well, the body had better be removed to his rooms - we must send
over and tell his housekeeper. He'd no relations in the town, had he?"
"Only one in the world that he ever mentioned - his grandson - a young
barrister in London," answered Eldrick. "We've just been wiring to him.
Here, Pratt, you take these messages now, and get them off. Then we'll
see about making all arrangements. By-the-by," he added, as Pratt moved
towards the door, "you don't know what - what he came to see me about?"
"Haven't the remotest idea, sir," answered Pratt, readily and glibly.
"He died - just as I've told you - before he could tell me anything."
He went downstairs, and out into the street, and away to the General
Post Office, only conscious of one thing, only concerned about one
thing - that he was now the sole possessor of a great secret. The
opportunity which he had so often longed for had come. And as he hurried
along through the gathering fog he repeated and repeated a fragment of
the recent conversation between the man who was now dead, and
himself - who remained very much alive.
"You haven't shown it to anybody else?" Pratt had asked.
"Neither shown it to anybody, nor mentioned it to a soul," Antony Bartle
had answered. So, in all that great town of Barford, he, Linford Pratt,
he, alone out of a quarter of a million people, knew - what? The
magnitude of what he knew not only amazed but exhilarated him. There
were such possibilities for himself in that knowledge. He wanted to be
alone, to think out those possibilities; to reckon up what they came to.
Of one thing he was already certain - they should be, must be, turned to
his own advantage.
It was past eight o'clock before Pratt was able to go home to his
lodgings. His landlady, meeting him in the hall, hoped that his dinner
would not be spoiled: Pratt, who relied greatly on his dinner as his one
great meal of the day, replied that he fervently hoped it wasn't, but
that if it was it couldn't be helped, this time. For once he was
thinking of something else than his dinner - as for his engagement for
that evening, he had already thrown it over: he wanted to give all his
energies and thoughts and time to his secret. Nevertheless, it was
characteristic of him that he washed, changed his clothes, ate his
dinner, and even glanced over the evening newspaper before he turned to
the real business which was already deep in his brain. But at last, when
the maid had cleared away the dinner things, and he was alone in his
sitting-room, and had lighted his pipe, and mixed himself a drop of
whisky-and-water - the only indulgence in such things that he allowed
himself within the twenty-four hours - he drew John Mallathorpe's will
from his pocket, and read it carefully three times. And then he began to
think, closely and steadily.
First of all, the will was a good will. Nothing could upset it. It was
absolutely valid. It was not couched in the terms which a solicitor
would have employed, but it clearly and plainly expressed John
Mallathorpe's intentions and meanings in respect to the disposal of his
property. Nothing could be clearer. The properly appointed trustees were
to realize his estate. They were to distribute it according to his
specified instructions. It was all as plain as a pikestaff. Pratt, who
was a good lawyer, knew what the Probate Court would say to that will if
it were ever brought up before it, as he did, a quite satisfactory will.
And it was validly executed. Hundreds of people, competent to do so,
could swear to John Mallathorpe's signature; hundreds to Gaukrodger's;
thousands to Marshall's - who as cashier was always sending his signature
broadcast. No, there was nothing to do but to put that into the hands of
the trustees named in it, and then....
Pratt thought next of the two trustees. They were well-known men in the
town. They were comparatively young men - about forty. They were men of
great energy. Their chief interests were in educational matters - that,
no doubt, was why John Mallathorpe had appointed them trustees. Wyatt
had been plaguing the town for two years to start commercial schools:
Charlesworth was a devoted champion of technical schools. Pratt knew how
the hearts of both would leap, if he suddenly told them that enormous
funds were at their disposal for the furtherance of their schemes. And
he also knew something else - that neither Charlesworth nor Wyatt had the
faintest, remotest notion or suspicion that John Mallathorpe had ever
made such a will, or they would have moved heaven and earth, pulled down
Normandale Grange and Mallathorpe's Mill, in their efforts to find it.
But the effect - the effect of producing the will - now? Pratt, like
everybody else, had been deeply interested in the Mallathorpe affair.
There was so little doubt that John Mallathorpe had died intestate, such
absolute certainty that his only living relations were his deceased
brother's two children and their mother, that the necessary proceedings
for putting Harper Mallathorpe and his sister Nesta in possession of the
property, real and personal, had been comparatively simple and speedy.
But - what was it worth? What would the two trustees have been able to
hand over to the Mayor and Corporation of Barford, if the will had been
found as soon as John Mallathorpe died? Pratt, from what he remembered
of the bulk and calculations at the time, made a rapid estimate. As near
as he could reckon, the Mayor and Corporation would have got about
L300,000.
That, then - and this was what he wanted to get at - was what these young
people would lose if he produced the will. Nay! - on second thoughts, it
would be much more, very much more in some time; for the manufacturing
business was being carried on by them, and was apparently doing as well
as ever. It was really an enormous amount which they would lose - and
they would get - what? Ten thousand apiece and their mother a like sum.
Thirty thousand pounds in all - in comparison with hundreds of thousands.
But they would have no choice in the matter. Nothing could upset that
will.
He began to think of the three people whom the production of this will
would dispossess. He knew little of them beyond what common gossip had
related at the time of John Mallathorpe's sudden death. They had lived
in very quiet fashion, somewhere on the outskirts of the town, until
this change in their fortunes. Once or twice Pratt had seen Mrs.
Mallathorpe in her carriage in the Barford streets - somebody had pointed
her out to him, and had observed sneeringly that folk can soon adapt
themselves to circumstances, and that Mrs. Mallathorpe now gave herself
all the airs of a duchess, though she had been no more than a hospital
nurse before she married Richard Mallathorpe. And Pratt had also seen
young Harper Mallathorpe now and then in the town - since the good
fortune arrived - and had envied him: he had also thought what a strange
thing it was that money went to young fellows who seemed to have no
particular endowments of brain or energy. Harper was a very ordinary
young man, not over intelligent in appearance, who, Pratt had heard, was
often seen lounging about the one or two fashionable hotels of the
place. As for the daughter, Pratt did not remember having ever set eyes
on her - but he had heard that up to the time of John Mallathorpe's death
she had earned her own living as a governess, or a nurse, or something
of that sort.
He turned from thinking of these three people to thoughts about himself.
Pratt often thought about himself, and always in one direction - the
direction of self-advancement. He was always wanting to get on. He had
nobody to help him. He had kept himself since he was seventeen. His
father and mother were dead; he had no brothers or sisters - the only
relations he had, uncles and aunts, lived - some in London, some in
Canada. He was now twenty-eight, and earning four pounds a week. He had
immense confidence in himself, but he had never seen much chance of
escaping from drudgery. He had often thought of asking Eldrick & Pascoe
to give him his articles - but he had a shrewd idea that his request
would be refused. No - it was difficult to get out of a rut. And yet - he
was a clever fellow, a good-looking fellow, a sharp, shrewd, able - and
here was a chance, such a chance as scarcely ever comes to a man. He
would be a fool if he did not take it, and use it to his own best and
lasting advantage.
And so he locked up the will in a safe place, and went to bed, resolved
to take a bold step towards fortune on the morrow.
CHAPTER III
THE SHOP-BOY
When Pratt arrived at Eldrick & Pascoe's office at his usual hour of
nine next morning, he found the senior partner already there. And with
him was a young man whom the clerk at once set down as Mr. Bartle
Collingwood, and looked at with considerable interest and curiosity. He
had often heard of Mr. Bartle Collingwood, but had never seen him. He
knew that he was the only son of old Antony Bartle's only child - a
daughter who had married a London man; he knew, too, that Collingwood's
parents were both dead, and that the old bookseller had left their son
everything he possessed - a very nice little fortune, as Eldrick had
observed last night. And since last night he had known that Collingwood
had just been called to the Bar, and was on the threshold of what
Eldrick, who evidently knew all about it, believed to be a promising
career. Well, there he was in the flesh; and Pratt, who was a born
observer of men and events, took a good look at him as he stood just
within the private room, talking to Eldrick.
A good-looking fellow; what most folk would call handsome; dark,
clean-shaven, tall, with a certain air of reserve about his well-cut
features, firm lips, and steady eyes that suggested strength and
determination. He would look very well in wig and gown, decided Pratt,
viewing matters from a professional standpoint; he was just the sort
that clients would feel a natural confidence in, and that juries would
listen to. Another of the lucky ones, too; for Pratt knew the contents
of Antony Bartle's will, and that the young man at whom he was looking
had succeeded to a cool five-and-twenty thousand pounds, at least,
through his grandfather's death.
"Here is Pratt," said Eldrick, glancing into the outer office as the
clerk entered it. "Pratt, come in here - here is Mr. Bartle Collingwood,
He would like you to tell him the facts about Mr. Bartle's death."
Pratt walked in - armed and prepared. He was a clever hand at foreseeing
things, and he had known all along that he would have to answer
questions about the event of the previous night.
"There's very little to tell, sir," he said, with a polite
acknowledgment of Collingwood's greeting. "Mr. Bartle came up here just
as I was leaving - everybody else had left. He wanted to see Mr. Eldrick.
Why, he didn't say. He was coughing a good deal when he came in, and he
complained of the fog outside, and of the stairs. He said
something - just a mere mention - about his heart being bad. I lighted the
gas in here, and helped him into the chair. He just sat down, laid his
head back, and died."
"Without saying anything further?" asked Collingwood.
"Not a word more, Mr. Collingwood," answered Pratt. "He - well, it was
just as if he had dropped off to sleep. Of course, at first I thought
he'd fainted, but I soon saw what it was - it so happens that I've seen a
death just as sudden as that, once before - my landlady's husband died in
a very similar fashion, in my presence. There was nothing I could do,
Mr. Collingwood - except ring up Mr. Eldrick, and the doctor, and the
police."
"Mr. Pratt made himself very useful last night in making arrangements,"
remarked Eldrick, looking at Collingwood. "As it is, there is very
little to do. There will be no need for any inquest; Melrose has given
his certificate. So - there are only the funeral arrangements. We can
help you with that matter, of course. But first you'd no doubt like to
go to your grandfather's place and look through his papers? We have his
will here, you know - and I've already told you its effect."
"I'm much obliged to you, Mr. Pratt," said Collingwood, turning to the
clerk. He turned again to Eldrick. "All right," he went on. "I'll go
over to Quagg Alley. Bye-the-bye, Mr. Pratt - my grandfather didn't tell
you anything of the reason of his call here?"
"Not a word, sir," replied Pratt. "Merely said he wanted Mr. Eldrick."
"Had he any legal business in process?" asked Collingwood.
Eldrick and his clerk both shook their heads. No, Mr. Bartle had no
business of that sort that they knew of. Nothing - but there again Pratt
was prepared.
"It might have been about the lease of that property in Horsebridge
Land, sir," he said, glancing at his principal. "He did mention that,
you know, when he was in here a few weeks ago."
"Just so," agreed Eldrick. "Well, you'll let me know if we can be of
use," he went on, as Collingwood turned away. "Pratt can be at your
disposal, any time."
Collingwood thanked him and went off. He had travelled down from London
by the earliest morning train, and leaving his portmanteau at the hotel
of the Barford terminus, had gone straight to Eldrick & Pascoe's office;
accordingly this was his first visit to the shop in Quagg Alley. But he
knew the shop and its surroundings well enough, though he had not been
in Barford for some time; he also knew Antony Bartle's old housekeeper,
Mrs. Clough, a rough and ready Yorkshirewoman, who had looked after the
old man as long as he, Collingwood, could remember. She received him as
calmly as if he had merely stepped across the street to inquire after
his grandfather's health.
"I thowt ye'd be down here first thing, Mestur Collingwood," she said,
as he walked into the parlor at the back of the shop. "Of course,
there's naught to be done except to see after yer grandfather's burying.
I don't know if ye were surprised or no when t' lawyers tellygraphed to
yer last night? I weren't surprised to hear what had happened. I'd been
expecting summat o' that sort this last month or two."
"You mean - he was failing?" asked Collingwood.
"He were gettin' feebler and feebler every day," said the housekeeper.
"But nobody dare say so to him, and he wouldn't admit it his-self. He
were that theer high-spirited 'at he did things same as if he were a
young man. But I knew how it 'ud be in the end - and so it has been - I
knew he'd go off all of a sudden. And of course I had all in
readiness - when they brought him back last night there was naught to do
but lay him out. Me and Mrs. Thompson next door, did it, i' no time.
Wheer will you be for buryin' him, Mestur Collingwood?"
"We must think that over," answered Collingwood.
"Well, an' theer's all ready for that, too," responded Mrs. Clough.
"He's had his grave all ready i' the cemetery this three year - I
remember when he bowt it - it's under a yew-tree, and he told me 'at he'd