The Talleyrand Maxim, J. S. Fletcher [books to read fiction TXT] 📗
- Author: J. S. Fletcher
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there has been any forcing? I know one person who won’t say so—and
that’s your mother herself!”
Nesta felt unable to answer that assertion. And Pratt smiled
triumphantly and went on.
“She’ll tell you—Mrs. Mallathorpe’ll tell you—that she’s very pleased
indeed to have my poor services,” he said. “She knows that I shall serve
her well. She’s glad to do a kind service to a poor relation. And since
I am your mother’s relation, Miss Mallathorpe, I’m yours, too. I’m some
degree of cousin to you. You might think rather better, rather more
kindly, of me!”
“Are you going to tell me anything more than that?” asked Nesta
steadily. Pratt shrugged his shoulders and waved his hands.
“What more can I tell?” he asked. “The fact is, there’s a business
arrangement between me and your mother—and you object to it. Well—I’m
sorry, but I’ve my own interests to consider.”
“Are you going to tell me what it was that induced my mother to sign
that paper you got from her the other day?” asked Nesta.
“Can I say more than that it was—a business arrangement?” pleaded
Pratt. “There’s nothing unusual in one party in a business arrangement
giving a power of attorney to another party. Nothing!”
“Very well!” said Nesta, rising from the straight-backed chair, and
looking very rigid herself as she stood up. “You won’t tell me anything!
So—I am now going to the police. I don’t know what they’ll do. I don’t
know what they can do. But—I can tell them what I think and feel about
this, at any rate. For as sure as I am that I see you, there’s something
wrong! And I’ll know what it is.”
Pratt recognized that she had passed beyond the stage of mere anger to
one of calm determination. And as she marched towards the door he called
her back—as the result of a second’s swift thought on his part.
“Miss Mallathorpe,” he said. “Oblige me by sitting down again. I’m not
in the least afraid of your going to the police. But my experience is
that if one goes to them on errands of this sort, it sets all sorts of
things going—scandal, and suspicion, and I don’t know what! You don’t
want any scandal. Sit down, if you please, and let us think for a
moment. And I’ll see if I can tell you—what you want to know.”
Nesta already had a hand on the door. But after looking at him for a
second or two, she turned back, and sat down in her old position. And
Pratt, still seated at his desk, plunged his hands in his trousers
pockets, tilted back his chair, and for five minutes stared with knitted
brows at his blotting pad. A queer silence fell on the room. The windows
were double-sashed; no sound came up from the busy street below. But on
the mantelpiece a cheap Geneva clock ticked and ticked, and Nesta felt
at last that if it went on much longer, without the accompaniment of a
human voice, she should suddenly snatch it up, and hurl it—anywhere.
Pratt was in the position of the card-player, who, confronted by a
certain turn in the course of a game which he himself feels sure he is
bound to win, wonders whether he had better not expedite matters by
laying his cards on the table, and asking his opponent if he can
possibly beat their values and combination. He had carefully reckoned up
his own position more than once during the progress of recent events,
and the more carefully he calculated it the more he felt convinced that
he had nothing to fear. He had had to alter his ground in consequence of
the death of Harper Mallathorpe, and he had known that he would have to
fight Nesta. But he had not anticipated that hostilities would come so
soon, or begin with such evident determination on her part. How would it
be, then, at this first stage to make such a demonstration in force that
she would recognize his strength?
He looked up at last and saw Nesta regarding him sternly. But Pratt
smiled—the quiet smile which made her uneasy.
“Miss Mallathorpe!” he said. “I was thinking of two things just then—a
game at cards—and the science of warfare. In both it’s a good thing
sometimes to let your adversary see what a strong hand you’ve got. Now,
then, a question, if you please—are you and I adversaries?”
“Yes!” answered Nesta unflinchingly. “You’re acting like an enemy—you
are an enemy!”
“I’ve hoped that you and I would be friends—good friends,” said Pratt,
with something like a sigh. “And if I may say so, I’ve no feeling of
enmity towards you. When I speak of us being adversaries, I mean it
in—well, let’s say a sort of legal sense. But now I’ll show you my
hand—that is, as far as I please. Will you listen quietly to me?”
“I’ve no choice,” replied Nesta bluntly. “And I came here to know what
you’ve got to say for yourself. Say it!”
Pratt moved his chair a little nearer to his visitor.
“Now,” he said, speaking very quietly and deliberately, “I’ll go through
what I have to say to you carefully, point by point. I shall ask you to
go back a little way. It is now some time since I discovered a secret
about your mother, Mrs. Mallathorpe. Ah, you start!—it may be with
indignation, but I assure you I’m telling you, and am going to tell you,
the absolute truth. I say—a secret! No one knows it but myself—not one
living soul! Except, of course, your mother. I shall not reveal it to
you—under any consideration, or in any circumstances—but I can tell
you this—if that secret were revealed, your mother would be ruined for
life—and you yourself would suffer in more ways than one.”
Nesta looked at him incredulously—and yet she began to feel he was
telling some truth. And Pratt shook his head at the incredulous
expression.
“It’s quite so!” he said. “You’ll begin to believe it–from other
things. Now, it was in connection with this that I paid a visit to
Normandale Grange one evening some months ago. Perhaps you never heard
of that? I was alone with your mother for some time in the study.”
“I have heard of it,” she answered.
“Very good,” said Pratt. “But you haven’t heard that your mother came to
see me at my rooms here in Barford—my lodgings—the very next night! On
the same business, of course. But she did—I know how she came, too.
Secretly—heavily veiled—naturally, she didn’t want anybody to know.
Are you beginning to see something in it, Miss Mallathorpe?”
“Go on with your—story,” answered Nesta.
“I go on, then, to the day before your brother’s death,” continued
Pratt. “Namely, a certain Friday. Now, if you please, I’ll invite you to
listen carefully to certain facts—which are indisputable, which I can
prove, easily. On that Friday, the day before your brother’s death, Mrs.
Mallathorpe was in the shrubbery at Normandale Grange which is near the
north end of the old footbridge. She was approached by Hoskins, an old
woodman, who has been on the estate a great many years—you know him
well enough. Hoskins told Mrs. Mallathorpe that the footbridge between
the north and south shrubberies, spanning the cut which was made there a
long time since so that a nearer road could be made to the stables, was
in an extremely dangerous condition—so dangerous, in fact, that in his
opinion, it would collapse under even a moderate weight. I impress this
fact upon you strongly.”
“Well?” said Nesta.
“Hoskins,” Pratt went on, “urged upon Mrs. Mallathorpe the necessity of
having the bridge closed at once, or barricaded. He pointed out to her
from where they stood certain places in the bridge, and in the railing
on one side of it, which already sagged in such a fashion, that he, as a
man of experience, knew that planks and railings were literally rotten
with damp. Now what did Mrs. Mallathorpe do? She said nothing to
Hoskins, except that she’d have the thing seen to. But she immediately
went to the estate carpenter’s shop, and there she procured two short
lengths of chain, and two padlocks, and she herself went back to the
footbridge and secured its wicket gates at both ends. I beg you will
bear that in mind, too, Miss Mallathorpe.”
“I am bearing everything in mind,” said Nesta resolutely. “Don’t be
afraid that I shall forget one word that you say.”
“I hear that sneer in your voice,” answered Pratt, as he turned,
unlocked a drawer, and drew out some papers. “But I think you will soon
learn that the sneer at what I’m telling you is foolish. Mrs.
Mallathorpe had a set purpose in locking up those gates—as you will see
presently. You will see it from what I am now going to tell you. Oblige
me, if you please, by looking at that letter. Do you recognize your
mother’s handwriting?”
“Yes!” admitted Nesta, with a sudden feeling of apprehension. “That is
her writing.”
“Very good,” said Pratt. “Then before I read it to you, I’ll just tell
you what this letter is. It formed, when it was written, an invitation
from Mrs. Mallathorpe to me—an invitation to walk, innocently, into
what she knew—knew, mind you!—to be a death-trap! She meant me to
fall through the bridge!”
PRATT OFFERS A HAND
For a full moment of tense silence Nesta and Pratt looked at each other
across the letter which he held in his outstretched hand—looked
steadily and with a certain amount of stern inquiry. And it was Nesta’s
eyes which first gave way—beaten by the certainty in Pratt’s. She
looked aside; her cheeks flamed; she felt as if something were rising in
her throat—to choke her.
“I can’t believe that!” she muttered. “You’re—mistaken! Oh—utterly
mistaken!”
“No mistake!” said Pratt confidently. “I tell you your mother meant
me—me!—to meet my death at that bridge. Here’s the proof in this
letter! I’ll tell you, first, when I received it: then I’ll read you
what’s in it, and if you doubt my reading of it, you shall read it
yourself—but it won’t go out of my hands! And first as to my getting
it, for that’s important. It reached me, by registered post, mind you,
on the Saturday morning on which your brother met his death. It was
handed in at Normandale village post-office for registration late on the
Friday afternoon. And—by whom do you think?”
“I—don’t know!” replied Nesta faintly. This merciless piling up of
details was beginning to frighten her—already she felt as if she
herself were some criminal, forced to listen from the dock to the
opening address of a prosecuting counsel. “How should I know?—how can I
think?”
“It was handed in for registration by your mother’s maid, Esther
Mawson,” said Pratt with a dark look. “I’ve got her evidence, anyway!
And that was all part of a plan—just as a certain something that was
enclosed was a part of the same plan—a plot. And now I’ll read you the
letter—and you’ll bear it in mind that I got it by first post that
Saturday morning. This is what it—what your mother—says:—
“I particularly wish to see you again, at once, about the matter
between us and to have another look at that document. Can you
come here, bringing it with you, tomorrow, Saturday afternoon,
by the train which leaves soon after two o’clock? As I am most
anxious that your visit should be private and unknown to any one
here, do not come to the house. Take the path across
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