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

thinking of an interesting discovery which he had made. It was one

which might have no significance in relation to the present

perplexities—on the other hand, out of it might come a good deal of

illumination. Briefly, it was that on the evening before this

consultation with Eldrick & Byner, he had found out that he was living

in the house of a man who had actually witnessed the famous catastrophe

at Mallathorpe’s Mill, whereby John Mallathorpe, his manager, and his

cashier, together with some other bystanders, had lost their lives.

 

On settling down in Barford, Collingwood had spent a couple of weeks in

looking about him for comfortable rooms of a sort that appealed to his

love of quiet and retirement. He had found them at last in an old house

on the outskirts of the town—a fine old stone house, once a farmstead,

set in a large garden, and tenanted by a middle-aged couple, who having

far more room than they needed for themselves, had no objection to

letting part of it to a business gentleman. Collingwood fell in love

with this place as soon as he saw it. The rooms were large and full of

delightful nooks and corners; the garden was rich in old trees; from it

there were fine views of the valley beneath, and the heather-clad hills

in the distance; within two miles of the town and easily approached by a

convenient tram-route, it was yet quite out in the country.

 

He was just as much set up by his landlady—a comfortable, middle-aged

woman, who fostered true Yorkshire notions about breakfast, and knew how

to cook a good dinner at night. With her Collingwood had soon come to

terms, and to his new abode had transferred a quantity of books and

pictures from London. He soon became acquainted with the domestic

menage. There was the landlady herself, Mrs. Cobcroft, who, having no

children of her own, had adopted a niece, now grown up, and a teacher in

an adjacent elementary school: there was a strapping, rosy-cheeked

servant-maid, whose dialect was too broad for the lodger to understand

more than a few words of it; finally there was Mr. Cobcroft, a

mild-mannered, quiet man who disappeared early in the morning, and was

sometimes seen by Collingwood returning home in the evening.

 

Lately, with the advancing spring, this unobtrusive individual was seen

about the garden at the end of the day: Collingwood had so seen him on

the evening before the talk with Eldrick and Byner, busied in setting

seeds in the flower-beds. And he had asked Mrs. Cobcroft, just then in

his sitting-room, if her husband was fond of gardening.

 

“It’s a nice change for him, sir,” answered the landlady. “He’s kept

pretty close at it all day in the office yonder at Mallathorpe’s Mill,

and it does him good to get a bit o’ fresh air at nights, now that the

fine weather’s coming on. That was one reason why we took this old

place—it’s a deal better air here nor what it is in the town.”

 

“So your husband is at Mallathorpe’s Mill, eh?” asked Collingwood.

 

“Been there—in the counting-house—boy and man, over thirty years,

sir,” replied Mrs. Cobcroft.

 

“Did he see that terrible affair then—was it two years ago?”

 

The landlady shook her head and let out a weighty sigh.

 

“Aye, I should think he did!” she answered. “And a nice shock it gave

him, too!—he actually saw that chimney fall—him and another clerk were

looking out o’ the counting-house window when it gave way.”

 

Collingwood said no more then—except to remark that such a sight must

indeed have been trying to the nerves. But for purposes of his own he

determined to have a talk with Cobcroft, and the next evening, seeing

him in his garden again, he went out to him and got into conversation,

and eventually led up to the subject of Mallathorpe’s Mill, the new

chimney of which could be seen from a corner of the garden.

 

“Your wife tells me,” observed Collingwood, “that you were present when

the old chimney fell at the mill yonder?”

 

Cobcroft, a quiet, unassuming man, usually of few words, looked along

the hillside at the new chimney, and nodded his head. A curious,

far-away look came into his eyes.

 

“I was, sir!” he said. “And I hope I may never see aught o’ that sort

again, as long as ever I live. It was one o’ those things a man can

never forget!”

 

“Don’t talk about it if you don’t want to,” remarked Collingwood. “But

I’ve heard so much about that affair that–-”

 

“Oh, I don’t mind talking about it,” replied Cobcroft. He leaned over

the fence of his garden, still gazing at the mill in the distance.

“There were others that saw it, of course: lots of ‘em. But I was close

at hand—our office was filled with the dust in a few seconds.”

 

“It was a sudden affair?” asked Collingwood.

 

“It was one of those affairs,” answered Cobcroft slowly, “that some folk

had been expecting for a long time—only nobody had the sense to see

that it might happen at some unexpected minute. It was a very old

chimney. It looked all right—stood plumb, and all that. But Mr.

Mallathorpe—my old master, Mr. John Mallathorpe, I’m talking of—he got

an idea from two or three little things, d’ye see, that it wasn’t as

safe as it ought to be. And he got a couple of these professional

steeplejacks to examine it. They made a thorough examination, too—so

far as one could tell by what they did. They’d been at the job several

days when the accident happened. One of ‘em had only just come down when

the chimney fell. Mr. Mallathorpe, himself, and his manager, and his

cashier, had just stepped out of the counting-house and crossed the yard

to hear what this man had got to say when—down it came! Not the

slightest warning at the time. It just—collapsed!”

 

“You saw the actual collapse?” asked Collingwood.

 

“Aye—didn’t I?” exclaimed Cobcroft. “Another man and myself were

looking out of the office window, right opposite. It fell in the

queerest way—like this,” he went on, holding up his garden-rake.

“Supposing this shaft was the chimney—standing straight up. As we

looked we saw it suddenly bulge out, on all sides—it was a square

chimney, same size all the way up till you got to the cornice at the

top—bulge out, d’ye see, just about halfway up—simultaneous, like.

Then—down it came with a roar that they heard over half the town! O’

course, there were some two or three thousands of tons of stuff in that

chimney—and when the dust was cleared a bit there it was in one great

heap, right across the yard. And it was a good job,” concluded Cobcroft,

reflectively, “that it fell straight—collapsed in itself, as you might

say—for if it had fallen slanting either way, it ‘ud ha’ smashed right

through some of the sheds, and there’d ha’ been a terrible loss of

life.”

 

“Mr. John Mallathorpe was killed on the spot, I believe?” suggested

Collingwood.

 

“Aye—and Gaukrodger, and Marshall, and the steeplejack that had just

come down, and another or two,” said Cobcroft. “They’d no chance—they

were standing in a group at the very foot, talking. They were all killed

there and then—instantaneous. Some others were struck and injured—one

or two died. Yes, sir,—I’m not very like to forget that!”

 

“A terrible experience!” agreed Collingwood. “It would naturally fix

itself on your memory.”

 

“Aye—my memory’s very keen about it,” said Cobcroft. “I remember every

detail of that morning. And,” he continued, showing a desire to become

reminiscent, “there was something happened that morning, before the

accident, that I’ve oft thought over and has oft puzzled me. I’ve never

said aught to anybody about it, because we Yorkshiremen we’re not given

to talking about affairs that don’t concern us, and after all, it was

none o’ mine! But you’re a law gentleman, and I dare say you get things

told to you in confidence now and then, and, of course, this is between

you and me. I’ll not deny that I have oft thought that I would like to

tell it to a lawyer of some sort, and find out how it struck him.”

 

“Anything that you like to tell me, Mr. Cobcroft, I shall treat as a

matter of confidence—until you tell me it’s no longer a secret,”

answered Collingwood.

 

“Why,” continued Cobcroft, “it isn’t what you rightly would call a

secret—though I don’t think anybody knows aught about it but myself! It

was just this—and it may be there’s naught in it but a mere fancy o’

mine. That morning, before the accident happened, I was in and out of

the private office a good deal—carrying in and out letters, and account

books, and so on. Mr. John Mallathorpe’s private office, ye’ll

understand, sir, opened out of our counting-house—as it does still—the

present manager, Mr. Horsfall, has it, just as it was. Well, now, on one

occasion, when I went in there, to take a ledger back to the safe, Mr.

Mallathorpe had his manager and cashier, Gaukrodger and Marshall in with

him. Mr. Mallathorpe, he always used a stand-up desk to write at—never

wrote sitting down, though he had a big desk in the middle of the room

that he used to sit at to look over accounts or talk to people. Now when

I went in, he and Gaukrodger and Marshall were all at this stand-up

desk—in the window-place—and they were signing some papers. At least

Gaukrodger had just signed a paper, and Marshall was taking the pen from

him. ‘Sign there, Marshall,’ says Mr. Mallathorpe. And then he went on,

‘Now we’ll sign this other—it’s well to have these things in duplicate,

in case one gets lost.’ And then—well, then, I went out, and—why, that

was all.”

 

“You’ve some idea in your mind about that,” said Collingwood, who had

watched Cobcroft closely as he talked. “What is it?”

 

Cobcroft smiled—and looked round as if to ascertain that they were

alone. “Why!” he answered in a low voice. “I’ll tell you what I did

wonder—some time afterwards. I dare say you’re aware—it was all in the

papers—that Mr. John Mallathorpe died intestate?”

 

“Yes,” asserted Collingwood. “I know that.”

 

“I’ve oft wondered,” continued Cobcroft, “if that could ha’ been his

will that they were signing! But then I reflected a bit on matters. And

there were two or three things that made me say naught at all—not a

word. First of all, I considered it a very unlikely thing that a rich

man like Mr. John Mallathorpe would make a will for himself. Second—I

remembered that very soon after I’d been in his private office Marshall

came out into the counting-house and gave the office lad a lot of

letters and documents to take to the post—some of ‘em big

envelopes—and I thought that what I’d seen signed was some agreement or

other that was in one of them. And third—and most important—no will

was ever found in any of Mr. John Mallathorpe’s drawers or safes or

anywhere, though they turned things upside down at the office, and, I

heard, at his house as well. Of course, you see, sir, supposing that to

have been a will—why, the only two men who could possibly have proved

it was were dead and gone! They were killed with him. And of course, the

young people, the nephew and niece, they came in for everything—so

there was an end of it. But—I’ve oft wondered what those papers were.

One thing is certain, anyway!” concluded Cobcroft, with a grim laugh,

“when those three signed ‘em, they were picking up their pens for the

last time!”

 

“How long was