The Talleyrand Maxim, J. S. Fletcher [books to read fiction TXT] 📗

>began the final preparations for his departure to India on the following

Thursday. He was looking forward to his journey and his stay in India

with keen expectation. He would have the society of a particularly

clever and brilliant man; they were to break their journey in Italy and

in Egypt; he would enjoy exceptional facilities for seeing the native

life of India; he would gain valuable experience. It was a chance at

which any young man would have jumped, and Collingwood had been greatly

envied when it was known that Sir John Standridge had offered it to him.

And yet he was conscious that if he could have done precisely what he

desired, he would have stayed longer at Barford, in order to see more of

Nesta Mallathorpe. Already it seemed a long time to the coming spring,

when he would be back—and free to go North again.

 

But Collingwood was fated to go North once more much sooner than he had

dreamed of. As he sat at breakfast in his rooms on the Monday morning

after his departure from Barford, turning over his newspaper with no

particular aim or interest, his attention was suddenly and sharply

arrested by a headline. Even that headline might not have led him to

read what lay beneath. But in the same instant in which he saw it he

also saw a name—Mallathorpe. In the next he knew that heavy trouble had

fallen on Normandale Grange, the very day after he had left it.

 

This is what Collingwood read as he sat, coffee-cup in one hand,

newspaper in the other—staring at the lines of unleaded type:

 

TRAGIC FATE OF YOUNG YORKSHIRE SQUIRE

 

“A fatal accident, of a particularly sad and disturbing nature,

occurred near Barford, Yorkshire, on Saturday. About four

o’clock on Saturday afternoon, Mr. Linford Pratt, managing clerk

to Messrs. Eldrick & Pascoe, Solicitors, of Barford, who was

crossing the grounds of Normandale Grange on his way to a

business appointment, discovered the dead body of Mr. H. J.

Mallathorpe, the owner of the Normandale Estate, lying in a

roadway which at that point is spanned, forty feet above, by a

narrow footbridge. The latter is an ancient construction of

wood, and there is no doubt that it was in extremely bad repair,

and had given way when the unfortunate young gentleman, who was

out shooting in his park, stepped upon it. Mr. Mallathorpe, who

was only twenty-four years of age, succeeded to the Normandale

estates, one of the finest properties in the neighbourhood of

Barford, about two years ago, under somewhat romantic—and also

tragic—circumstances, their previous owner, his uncle, Mr. John

Mallathorpe, a well-known Barford manufacturer, meeting a sudden

death by the falling of his mill chimney—a catastrophe which

also caused the deaths of several of his employees. Mr. John

Mallathorpe died intestate, and the estate at Normandale passed

to the young gentleman who met such a sad fate on Saturday

afternoon. Mr. H.J. Mallathorpe was unmarried, and it is

understood that Normandale (which includes the village of that

name, the advowson of the living, and about four thousand acres

of land) now becomes the property of his sister, Miss Nesta

Mallathorpe.”

 

Collingwood set down his cup, and dropped the newspaper. He was but half

way through his breakfast, but all his appetite had vanished. All that

he was conscious of was that here was trouble and grief for a girl in

whom—it was useless to deny it—he had already begun to take a warm

interest. And suddenly he started from his chair and snatched up a

railway guide. As he turned over its pages, he thought rapidly. The

preparations for his journey to India were almost finished—what was not

done he could do in a few hours. He had no further appointment with Sir

John Standridge until nine o’clock on Thursday morning, when he was to

meet him at the train for Dover and Paris. Monday—Tuesday—Wednesday—he

had three days—ample time to hurry down to Normandale, to do what he

could to help there, and to get back in time to make his own last

arrangements. He glanced at his watch—he had forty minutes in which to

catch an express from King’s Cross to Barford. Without further delay he

picked up a suit-case which was already packed and set out for the

station.

 

He was in Barford soon after two o’clock—in Eldrick’s office by

half-past two. Eldrick shook his head at sight of him.

 

“I can guess what’s brought you down, Collingwood,” he said. “Good of

you, of course—I don’t think they’ve many friends out there.”

 

“I can scarcely call myself that—yet,” answered Collingwood. “But—I

thought I might be of some use. I’ll drive out there presently. But

first—how was it?”

 

Eldrick shook his head.

 

“Don’t know much more than what the papers say,” he answered. “There’s

an old footbridge there that spans a road in the park—road cut through

a ravine. They say it was absolutely rotten, and the poor chap’s weight

was evidently too much for it. And there was a drop of forty feet into a

hard road. Extraordinary thing that nobody on the estate seems to have

known of the dangerous condition of that bridge!—but they say it was

little used—simply a link between one plantation and another.

However;—it’s done, now. Our clerk—Pratt, you know—found the body.

Hadn’t been dead five minutes, Pratt says.”

 

“What was Pratt doing there?” asked Collingwood.

 

“Oh, business of his own,” replied Eldrick. “Not ours. There was an

advertisement in Saturday’s papers which set out that a steward was

wanted for the Normandale estate, and Pratt mentioned it to me in the

morning that he thought of applying for the job if we’d give him a good

testimonial. I suppose he’d gone out there to see about the

preliminaries. Anyway, he was walking through the park when he found

young Mallathorpe’s body. I understand he made himself very useful, too,

and I’ve sent him out there again today, to do anything he can—smart

chap, Pratt!”

 

“Possibly, then, there is nothing I can do,” remarked Collingwood.

 

“I should say you’ll do a lot by merely going there,” answered Eldrick.

“As I said just now, they’ve few friends, and no relations, and I hear

that Mrs. Mallathorpe is absolutely knocked over. Go, by all means—a

bit of sympathy goes a long way on these occasions. I say!—what a

regular transformation an affair of this sort produces. Do you know,

that young fellow, just like his uncle, had not made any will! Fact!—I

had it from Robson, their solicitor, this very morning. The whole of the

estate comes to the sister, of course—she and the mother will share the

personal property. By that lad’s death, Nesta Mallathorpe becomes one of

the wealthiest young women in Yorkshire!”

 

Collingwood made no reply to this communication. But as he drove off to

Normandale Grange, it was fresh in his mind. And it was not very

pleasant to him. One of the wealthiest young women in Yorkshire!—and he

was already realizing that he would like to make Nesta Mallathorpe his

wife: it was because he felt what he did for her that he had rushed down

to do anything he could that would be of help. Supposing—only

supposing—that people—anybody—said that he was fortune-hunting!

Somewhat unduly sensitive, proud, almost to a fault, he felt his cheek

redden at the thought, and for a moment he wished that old John

Mallathorpe’s wealth had never passed to his niece. But then he sneered

at himself for his presumption.

 

“Ass!” he said. “She’s never even thought of me—in that way, most

likely! Anyway, I’m a stupid fool for thinking of these things at

present.”

 

But he knew, within a few minutes of entering the big, desolate-looking

house, that Nesta had been thinking of him. She came to him in the room

where they had first met, and quietly gave him her hand.

 

“I was not surprised when they told me you were here,” she said. “I was

thinking about you—or, rather, expecting to hear from you.”

 

“I came at once,” answered Collingwood, who had kept her hand in his.

“I—well, I couldn’t stop away. I thought, perhaps, I could do

something—be of some use.”

 

“It’s a great deal of use to have just—come,” she said. “Thank you!

But—I suppose you’ll have to go?”

 

“Not for two days, anyway,” he replied. “What can I do?”

 

“I don’t know that you can actually do anything,” she answered.

“Everything is being done. Mr. Eldrick sent his clerk, Mr. Pratt—who

found Harper—he’s been most kind and useful. He—and our own

solicitor—are making all arrangements. There’s got to be an inquest.

No—I don’t know that you can do actual things. But—while you’re

here—you can look in when you like. My mother is very ill—she has

scarcely spoken since Saturday.”

 

“I’ll tell you what I will do,” said Collingwood determinedly. “I

noticed in coming through the village just now that there’s quite a

decent inn there. I’ll go down and arrange to stay there until Wednesday

evening—then I shall be close by—if you should need me.”

 

He saw by her look of quick appreciation and relief that this suggestion

pleased her. She pressed his hand and withdrew her own. “Thank you

again!” she said. “Do you know—I can’t quite explain—I should be glad

if you were close at hand? Everybody has been very kind—but I do feel

that there is nobody I can talk to. If you arrange this, will you come

in again this evening?”

 

“I shall arrange it,” answered Collingwood. “I’ll see to it now. Tell

your people I am to be brought in whenever I call. And—I’ll be close by

whenever you want me.”

 

It seemed little to say, little to do, but he left her feeling that he

was being of some use. And as he went off to make his arrangements at

the inn he encountered Pratt, who was talking to the butler in the outer

hall.

 

The clerk looked at Collingwood with an unconcern and a composure which

he was able to assume because he had already heard of his presence in

the house. Inwardly, he was malignantly angry that the young barrister

was there, but his voice was suave, and polite enough when he spoke.

 

“Good afternoon, Mr. Collingwood,” he said quietly. “Very sad occasion

on which we meet again, sir. Come to offer your sympathy, Mr.

Collingwood, of course—very kind of you.”

 

“I came,” answered Collingwood, who was not inclined to bandy phrases

with Pratt, “to see if I could be of any practical use.”

 

“Just so, sir,” said Pratt. “Mr. Eldrick sent me here for the same

purpose. There’s really not much to do—beyond the necessary

arrangements, which are already pretty forward. Going back to town,

sir?” he went on, following Collingwood out to his motorcar, which

stood waiting in the drive.

 

“No!” replied Collingwood. “I’m going to send this man to Barford to

fetch my bag to the inn down there in the village, where I’m going to

stay for a few days. Did you hear that?” he continued, turning to the

driver. “Go back to Barford—get my bag from the Station Hotel

there—bring it to the Normandale Arms—I’ll meet you there on your

return.”

 

The car went off, and Collingwood, with a nod to Pratt, was about to

turn down a side path towards the village. But Pratt stopped him.

 

“Would you care to see the place where the accident happened, Mr.

Collingwood?” he said. “It’s close by—won’t take five minutes.”

 

Collingwood hesitated a moment; then he turned back. It might be well,

he reflected, if he made himself acquainted with all the circumstances

of this case, simple as they seemed.

 

“Thank you,” he said. “If it’s so near.”

 

“This