The Talleyrand Maxim, J. S. Fletcher [books to read fiction TXT] 📗
- Author: J. S. Fletcher
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“Have you any idea to what that refers?” he asked.
“Well, I think I have—perhaps,” answered Mrs. Mallathorpe. “Mr. Bartle
persuaded us to sell him some books—local books—which my late
brother-in-law had at his office in the mill. And since then he has been
very anxious to buy more local books and pamphlets about this
neighbourhood, and he had some which Mr. Bartle was very anxious indeed
to get hold of. I suppose he wanted to see me about that.” Collingwood
made no remarks for the moment. He was wondering whether or not to tell
what Jabey Naylor had told him about this paper taken from the linen
pocket inside the History of Barford. But Mrs. Mallathorpe’s ready
explanation had given him a new idea, and he rose from his chair.
“Thank you,” he said. “I suppose that’s it. You may think it odd that I
wanted to know what he’d written about, but as it was certainly the last
letter he wrote–-”
“Oh, I’m quite sure it must have been that!” exclaimed Mrs. Mallathorpe.
“And as I am going into Barford this afternoon, in any case, I meant to
call at Mr. Bartle’s. I’m sorry to hear of his death, poor old
gentleman! But he was very old indeed, wasn’t he?”
“He was well over eighty,” replied Collingwood. “Well, thank you
again—and good-bye—I have a motorcar waiting outside there, and I have
much to do in Barford when I get back.”
The two young people accompanied Collingwood into the hall. And Harper
suddenly brightened.
“I say!” he said. “Have a drink before you go. It’s a long way in and
out. Come into the dining-room.”
But Collingwood caught Nesta’s eye, and he was quick to read a signal in
it.
“No, thanks awfully!” he answered. “I won’t really—I must get
back—I’ve such a lot of things to attend to. This is a very beautiful
place of yours,” he went on, as Harper, whose face had fallen at the
visitor’s refusal, followed with his sister to where the motorcar
waited. “It might be a hundred miles from anywhere.”
“It’s a thousand miles from anywhere!” muttered Harper. “Nothing to do
here!”
“No hunting, shooting, fishing?” asked Collingwood. “Get tired of ‘em?
Well, why not make a private golf-links in your park? You’d get a fine
sporting course round there.”
“That’s a good notion, Harper,” observed Nesta, with some eagerness.
“You could have it laid out this winter.”
Harper suddenly looked at Collingwood.
“Going to stop in Barford?” he asked.
“Till I settle my grandfather’s affairs—yes,” answered Collingwood.
“Come and see us again,” said Harper. “Come for the night—we’ve got a
jolly good billiard table.”
“Do!” added Nesta heartily.
“Since you’re so kind, I will, then,” replied Collingwood. “But not for
a few days.”
He drove off—to wonder why he had visited Normandale Grange at all. For
Mrs. Mallathorpe’s explanation of the letter was doubtless the right
one: Collingwood, little as he had seen of Antony Bartle, knew what a
veritable sleuth-hound the old man was where rare books or engravings
were concerned. Yet—why the sudden exclamation on finding that paper?
Why the immediate writing of the letter to Mrs. Mallathorpe? Why the
setting off to Eldrick & Pascoe’s office as soon as the letter was
written? It all looked as if the old man had found some document, the
contents of which related to the Mallathorpe family, and was anxious to
communicate its nature to Mrs. Mallathorpe, and to his own solicitor, as
soon as possible.
“But that’s probably only my fancy,” he mused, as he sped back to
Barford; “the real explanation is doubtless that suggested by Mrs.
Mallathorpe. Something made the old man think of the collection of local
books at Normandale Grange—and he immediately wrote off to ask her to
see him, with the idea of persuading her to let him have them. That’s
all there is in it—what a suspicious sort of party I must be getting!
And suspicious of whom—and of what? Anyhow, I’m glad I went out
there—and I’ll certainly go again.”
On his way back to Barford he thought a good deal of the two young
people he had just left. There was something of the irony of fate about
their situation. There they were, in possession of money and luxury and
youth—and already bored because they had nothing to do. He felt what
closely approached a contemptuous pity for Harper—why didn’t he turn to
some occupation? There was their own business—why didn’t he put in so
many hours a day there, instead of leaving it to managers? Why didn’t he
interest himself in local affairs?—work at something? Already he had
all the appearance of a man who is inclined to slackness—and in that
case, mused Collingwood, his money would do him positive harm. But he
had no thoughts of that sort about Nesta Mallathorpe: he had seen that
she was of a different temperament.
“She’ll not stick there—idling,” he said. “She’ll break out and do
something or other. What did she say? ‘Suffering from lack of
occupation’? A bad thing to suffer from, too—glad I’m not similarly
afflicted!”
There was immediate occupation for Collingwood himself when he reached
the town. He had already made up his mind as to his future plans. He
would sell his grandfather’s business as soon as he could find a
buyer—the old man had left a provision in his will, the gist of which
Eldrick had already communicated to Collingwood, to the effect that his
grandson could either carry on the business with the help of a competent
manager until the stock was sold out, or could dispose of it as a going
concern—Collingwood decided to sell it outright, and at once. But first
it was necessary for him to look round the collection of valuable books
and prints, and get an idea of what it was that he was about to sell.
And when he had reached Barford again, and had lunched at his hotel, he
went to Quagg Alley, and shut himself in the shop, and made a careful
inspection of the treasures which old Bartle had raked up from many
quarters.
Within ten minutes of beginning his task Collingwood knew that he had
gone out to Normandale Grange about a mere nothing. Picking up the
History of Barford which Jabey Naylor had spoken of, and turning over
its leaves, two papers dropped out; one a half sheet of foolscap,
folded; the other, a letter from some correspondent in the United
States. Collingwood read the letter first—it was evidently that which
Naylor had referred to as having been delivered the previous afternoon.
It asked for a good, clear copy of Hopkinson’s History of Barford—and
then it went on, “If you should come across a copy of what is, I
believe, a very rare tract or pamphlet, _Customs of the Court Leet of
the Manor of Barford_, published, I think, about 1720, I should be glad
to pay you any price you like to ask for it—in reason.” So much for the
letter—Collingwood turned from it to the folded paper. It was headed
“List of Barford Tracts and Pamphlets in my box marked B.P. in the
library at N Grange,” and it was initialled at the foot J.M. Then
followed the titles of some twenty-five or thirty works—amongst them
was the very tract for which the American correspondent had inquired.
And now Collingwood had what he believed to be a clear vision of what
had puzzled him—his grandfather having just read the American buyer’s
request had found the list of these pamphlets inside the _History of
Barford_, and in it the entry of the particular one he wanted, and at
once he had written to Mrs. Mallathorpe in the hope of persuading her to
sell what his American correspondent desired to buy. It was all quite
plain—and the old man’s visit to Eldrick & Pascoe’s had nothing to do
with the letter to Mrs. Mallathorpe. Nor had he carried the folded paper
in his pocket to Eldrick’s—when Jabey Naylor went out to post the
letter, Antony had placed the folded paper and the American letter
together in the book and left them there. Quite, quite simple!—he had
had his run to Normandale Grange and back all about nothing, and for
nothing—except that he had met Nesta Mallathorpe, whom he was already
sufficiently interested in to desire to see again. But having arrived at
an explanation of what had puzzled him and made him suspicious, he
dismissed that matter from his mind and thought no more of it.
But across the street, all unknown to Collingwood, Linford Pratt was
thinking a good deal. Collingwood had taken his car from a rank
immediately opposite Eldrick & Pascoe’s windows; Pratt, whose desk
looked on to the street, had seen him drive away soon after ten o’clock
and return about half-past twelve. Pratt, who knew everybody in the
business centre of the town, knew the man who had driven Collingwood,
and when he went out to his lunch he asked him where he had been that
morning. The man, who knew no reason for secrecy, told him—and Pratt
went off to eat his bread and cheese and drink his one glass of ale and
to wonder why young Collingwood had been to Normandale Grange. He became
slightly anxious and uneasy. He knew that Collingwood must have made
some slight examination of old Bartle’s papers. Was it—could it be
possible that the old man, before going to Eldrick’s, had left some
memorandum of his discovery in his desk—or in a diary? He had said that
he had not shown the will, nor mentioned the will, to a soul—but he
might;—old men were so fussy about things—he might have set down in
his diary that he had found it on such a day, and under such-and-such
circumstances.
However, there was one person who could definitely inform him of the
reason of Collingwood’s visit to Normandale Grange—Mrs. Mallathorpe. He
would see her at once, and learn if he had any grounds for fear. And so
it came about that at nine o’clock that evening, Mrs. Mallathorpe, for
the second time that day, found herself asked to see a limb of the law.
POINT-BLANK
Mrs. Mallathorpe was alone when Pratt’s card was taken to her. Harper
and Nesta were playing billiards in a distant part of the big house.
Dinner had been over for an hour; Mrs. Mallathorpe, who had known what
hard work and plenty of it was, in her time, was trifling over the
newspapers—rest, comfort, and luxury were by no means boring to her.
She looked at the card doubtfully—Pratt had pencilled a word or two on
it: “Private and important business.” Then she glanced at the butler—an
elderly man who had been with John Mallathorpe many years before the
catastrophe occurred.
“Who is he, Dickenson?” she asked. “Do you know him?”
“Clerk at Eldrick & Pascoe’s, in the town, ma’am,” replied the butler.
“I know the young man by sight.”
“Where is he?” inquired Mrs. Mallathorpe.
“In the little morning room, at present, ma’am,” said Dickenson.
“Take him into the study,” commanded Mrs. Mallathorpe. “I’ll come to him
presently.” She was utterly at a loss to understand Pratt’s presence
there. Eldrick & Pascoe were not her solicitors, and she had no business
of a legal nature in which they could be in any way concerned. But it
suddenly struck her that that was the second time she had heard
Eldrick’s name mentioned that day—young Mr. Collingwood had said that
his grandfather’s death had taken place at Eldrick & Pascoe’s office.
Had this clerk come to see her about that?—and if so, what had she to
do with
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