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

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 hisself. 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

ordered his monnyment an’ all. So yer an’ t’ lawyers’ll have no great

trouble about them matters. Mestur Eldrick, he gev’ orders for t’ coffin

last night.”

 

Collingwood left these gruesome details—highly pleasing to their

narrator—and went up to look at his dead grandfather. He had never seen

much of him, but they had kept up a regular correspondence, and always

been on terms of affection, and he was sorry that he had not been with

the old man at the last. He remained looking at the queer, quiet, old

face for a while; when he went down again, Mrs. Clough was talking to a

sharp-looking lad, of apparently sixteen or seventeen years, who stood

at the door leading into the shop, and who glanced at Collingwood with

keen interest and speculation.

 

“Here’s Jabey Naylor wants to know if he’s to do aught, Mestur,” said

the housekeeper. “Of course, I’ve telled him ‘at we can’t have the shop

open till the burying’s over—so I don’t know what theer is that he can

do.”

 

“Oh, well, let him come into the shop with me,” answered Collingwood. He

motioned the lad to follow him out of the parlour. “So you were Mr.

Bartle’s assistant, eh?” he asked. “Had he anybody else?”

 

“Nobody but me, sir,” replied the lad. “I’ve been with him a year.”

 

“And your name’s what?” inquired Collingwood.

 

“Jabez Naylor, sir, but everybody call me Jabey.”

 

“I see—Jabey for short, eh?” said Collingwood good-humouredly. He

walked into the shop, followed by the boy, and closed the door. The

outer door into Quagg Alley was locked: a light blind was drawn over the

one window; the books and engravings on the shelves and in the presses

were veiled in a half-gloom. “Well, as Mrs. Clough says, we can’t do any

business for a few days, Jabey—after that we must see what can be done.

You shall have your wages just the same, of course, and you may look in

every day to see if there’s anything you can do. You were here

yesterday, of course? Were you in the shop when Mr. Bartle went out?”

 

“Yes, sir,” replied the lad. “I’d been in with him all the afternoon. I

was here when he went out—and here when they came to say he’d died at

Mr. Eldrick’s.”

 

Collingwood sat down in his grandfather’s chair, at a big table, piled

high with books and papers, which stood in the middle of the floor.

 

“Did my grandfather seem at all unwell when he went out?” he asked.

 

“No, sir. He had been coughing a bit more than usual—that was all.

There was a fog came on about five o’clock, and he said it bothered

him.”

 

“What had he been doing during the afternoon? Anything particular?”

 

“Nothing at all particular before half-past four or so, sir.”

 

Collingwood took a closer look at Jabez Naylor. He saw that he was an

observant lad, evidently of superior intelligence—a good specimen of

the sharp town lad, well trained in a modern elementary school.

 

“Oh?” he said. “Nothing particular before half-past four, eh? Did he do

something particular after half-past four?”

 

“There was a post came in just about then, sir,” answered Jabey. “There

was an American letter—that’s it, sir—just in front of you. Mr. Bartle

read it, and asked me if we’d got a good clear copy of Hopkinson’s

History of Barford. I reminded him that there was a copy amongst the

books that had been bought from Mallathorpe’s Mill some time ago.”

 

“Books that had belonged to Mr. John Mallathorpe, who was killed?” asked

Collingwood, who was fully acquainted with the chimney accident.

 

“Yes, sir, Mr. Bartle bought a lot of books that Mr. Mallathorpe had at

the Mill—local books. They’re there in that corner: they were put there

when I fetched them, and he’d never looked over them since,

particularly.”

 

“Well—and this History of Barford? You reminded him of it?”

 

“I got it out for him, sir. He sat down—where you’re sitting—and began

to examine it. He said something about it being a nice copy, and he’d

get it off that night—that’s it, sir: I didn’t read it, of course. And

then he took some papers out of a pocket that’s inside it, and I heard

him say ‘Bless my soul—who’d have thought it!’”

 

Collingwood picked up the book which the boy indicated—a thick,

substantially bound volume, inside one cover of which was a linen

pocket, wherein were some loose maps and plans of Barford.

 

“These what he took out?” he asked, holding them up.

 

“Yes, sir, but there was another paper, with writing on it—a biggish

sheet of paper—written all over.”

 

“Did you see what the writing was? Did you see any of it?”

 

“No, sir—only that it was writing, I was dusting those shelves out,

over there; when I heard Mr. Bartle say what he did. I just looked

round, over my shoulder—that was all.”

 

“Was he reading this paper that you speak of?”

 

“Yes, sir—he was holding it up to the gas, reading it.”

 

“Do you know what he did with it?”

 

“Yes, sir—he folded it up and put it in his pocket.”

 

“Did he say any more—make any remark?”

 

“No, sir. He wrote a letter then.”

 

“At once?”

 

“Yes, sir—straight off. But he wasn’t more than a minute writing it.

Then he sent me to post it at the pillar-box, at the end of the Alley.”

 

“Did you