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

it? Before she reached the room in which Pratt was waiting for

her, Mrs. Mallathorpe was filled with curiosity. But in that curiosity

there was not a trace of apprehension; nothing suggested to her that her

visitor had called on any matter actually relating to herself or her

family.

 

The room into which Pratt had been taken was a small apartment opening

out of the library—John Mallathorpe, when he bought Normandale Grange,

had it altered and fitted to suit his own tastes, and Pratt, as soon as

he entered it, saw that it was a place in which privacy and silence

could be ensured. He noticed that it had double doors, and that there

were heavy curtains before the window. And during the few minutes which

elapsed between his entrance and Mrs. Mallathorpe’s, he took the

precaution to look behind those curtains, and to survey his

surroundings—what he had to say was not to be overheard, if he could

help it.

 

Mrs. Mallathorpe looked her curiosity as soon as she came in. She did

not remember that she had ever seen this young man before, but she

recognized at once that he was a shrewd and sharp person, and she knew

from his manner that he had news of importance to give her. She quietly

acknowledged Pratt’s somewhat elaborate bow, and motioned him to take a

chair at the side of the big desk which stood before the fireplace—she

herself sat down at the desk itself, in John Mallathorpe’s old

elbow-chair. And Pratt thought to himself that however much young Harper

John Mallathorpe might be nominal master of Normandale Grange, the real

master was there, in the self-evident, quiet-looking woman who turned to

him in business-like fashion.

 

“You want to see me?” said Mrs. Mallathorpe. “What is it?”

 

“Business, Mrs. Mallathorpe,” replied Pratt. “As I said on my card—of a

private and important sort.”

 

“To do with me?” she asked.

 

“With you—and with your family,” said Pratt. “And before we go any

further, not a soul knows of it but—me.”

 

Mrs. Mallathorpe took another searching look at her visitor. Pratt was

leaning over the corner of the desk, towards her; already he had lowered

his tones to the mysterious and confidential note.

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. “Go on.”

 

Pratt bent a little nearer.

 

“A question or two first, if you please, Mrs. Mallathorpe. And—answer

them! They’re for your own good. Young Mr. Collingwood called on you

today.”

 

“Well—and what of it?”

 

“What did he want?”

 

Mrs. Mallathorpe hesitated and frowned a little. And Pratt hastened to

reassure her. “I’m using no idle words, Mrs. Mallathorpe, when I say

it’s for your own good. It is! What did he come for?”

 

“He came to ask what there was in a letter which his grandfather wrote

to me yesterday afternoon.”

 

“Antony Bartle had written to you, had he? And what did he say, Mrs.

Mallathorpe? For that is important!”

 

“No more than that he wanted me to call on him today, if I happened to

be in Barford.”

 

“Nothing more?”

 

“Nothing more—not a word.”

 

“Nothing as to—why he wanted to see you?”

 

“No! I thought that he probably wanted to see me about buying some books

of the late Mr. Mallathorpe’s.”

 

“Did you tell Collingwood that?” asked Pratt, eagerly.

 

“Yes—of course.”

 

“Did it satisfy him?”

 

Mrs. Mallathorpe frowned again.

 

“Why shouldn’t I?” she demanded. “It was the only explanation I could

possibly give him. How do I know what the old man really wanted?”

 

Pratt drew his chair still nearer to the desk. His voice dropped to a

whisper and his eyes were full of meaning.

 

“I’ll tell you what he wanted!” he said speaking very slowly. “It’s what

I’ve come for. Listen! Antony Bartle came to our office soon after five

yesterday afternoon. I was alone—everybody else had gone. I took him

into Eldrick’s room. He told me that in turning over one of the books

which he had bought from Mallathorpe Mill, some short time ago, he had

found—what do you think?”

 

Mrs. Mallathorpe’s cheek had flushed at the mention of the books from

the Mill. Now, at Pratt’s question, and under his searching eye, she

turned very pale, and the clerk saw her fingers tighten on the arms of

her chair.

 

“What?” she asked. “What?”

 

“John Mallathorpe’s will!” he answered. “Do you understand? His—will!”

 

The woman glanced quickly about her—at the doors, the uncurtained

window.

 

“Safe enough here,” whispered Pratt. “I made sure of that. Don’t be

afraid—no one knows—but me.”

 

But Mrs. Mallathorpe seemed to find some difficulty in speaking, and

when she at last got out a word her voice sounded hoarse.

 

“Impossible!”

 

“It’s a fact!” said Pratt. “Nothing was ever more a fact as you’ll see.

But let me finish my story. The old man told me how he’d found the

will—only half an hour before—and he asked me to ring up Eldrick, so

that we might all read it together. I went to the telephone—when I came

back, Bartle was dead—just dead. And—I took the will out of his

pocket.”

 

Mrs. Mallathorpe made an involuntary gesture with her right hand. And

Pratt smiled, craftily, and shook his head.

 

“Much too valuable to carry about, Mrs. Mallathorpe,” he said. “I’ve got

it—all safe—under lock and key. But as I’ve said—nobody knows of it

but myself. Not a living soul. No one has any idea! No one can have any

idea. I was a bit alarmed when I heard that young Collingwood had been

to you, for I thought that the old man, though he didn’t tell me of any

such thing, might have dropped you a line saying what he’d found. But as

he didn’t—well, not one living soul knows that the will’s in

existence, except me—and you!”

 

Mrs. Mallathorpe was regaining her self-possession. She had had a great

shock, but the worst of it was over. Already she knew, from Pratt’s

manner, insidious and suggesting, that the will was of a nature that

would dispossess her and hers of this recently acquired wealth—the

clerk had made that evident by look and tone. So—there was nothing but

to face things.

 

“What—what does it—say?” she asked, with an effort.

 

Pratt unbuttoned his overcoat, plunged a hand into the inner pocket,

drew out a sheet of paper, unfolded it and laid it on the desk.

 

“An exact copy,” he said tersely. “Read it for yourself.”

 

In spite of the determined effort which she made to be calm, Mrs.

Mallathorpe’s fingers still trembled as she took up the sheet on which

Pratt had made a fair copy of the will. The clerk watched her narrowly

as she read. He knew that presently there would be a tussle between

them: he knew, too, that she was a woman who would fight hard in defence

of her own interest, and for the interests of her children.

 

Always keeping his ears open to local gossip, especially where money was

concerned, Pratt had long since heard that Mrs. Mallathorpe was a keen

and sharp business woman. And now he was not surprised when, having

slowly and carefully read the copy of the will from beginning to end,

she laid it down, and turned to him with a business-like question.

 

“The effect of that?” she asked. “What would it be—curtly?”

 

“Precisely what it says,” answered Pratt. “Couldn’t be clearer!”

 

“We—should lose all?” she demanded, almost angrily. “All?”

 

“All—except what he says—there,” agreed Pratt.

 

“And that,” she went on, drumming her fingers on the paper, “that—would

stand?”

 

“What it’s a copy of would stand,” said Pratt. “Oh, yes, don’t you make

any mistake about it, Mrs. Mallathorpe! Nothing can upset that will. It

is plain as a pikestaff how it came to be made. Your late brother-in-law

evidently wrote his will out—it’s all in his own handwriting—and took

it down to the Mill with him the very day of the chimney accident. Just

as evidently he signed it in the presence of his manager, Gaukrodger,

and his cashier, Marshall—they signed at the same time, as it says,

there. Now I take it that very soon after that, Mr. Mallathorpe went out

into his mill yard to have a look at the chimney—Gaukrodger and

Marshall went with him. Before he went, he popped the will into the

book, where old Bartle found it yesterday—such things are easily done.

Perhaps he was reading the book—perhaps it lay handy—he slipped the

will inside, anyway. And then—he was killed—and, what’s more the two

witnesses were killed with him. So there wasn’t a man left who could

tell of that will! But—there’s half Barford could testify to these

three signatures! Mrs. Mallathorpe, there’s not a chance for you if I

put that will into the hands of the two trustees!”

 

He leaned back in his chair after that—nodding confidently, watching

keenly. And now he saw that the trembling fingers were interlacing each

other, twisting the rings on each other, and that Mrs. Mallathorpe was

thinking as she had most likely never thought in her life. After a

moment’s pause Pratt went on. “Perhaps you didn’t understand,” he said.

“I mean, you don’t know the effect. Those two trustees—Charlesworth &

Wyatt—could turn you all clean out of this—tomorrow, in a way of

speaking. Everything’s theirs! They can demand an account of every penny

that you’ve all had out of the estate and the business—from the time

you all took hold. If anything’s been saved, put aside, they can demand

that. You’re entitled to nothing but the three amounts of ten thousand

each. Of course, thirty thousand is thirty thousand—it means, at five

per cent., fifteen hundred a year—if you could get five per cent.

safely. But—I should say your son and daughter are getting a few

thousand a year each, aren’t they, Mrs. Mallathorpe? It would be a nice

come-down! Five hundred a year apiece—at the outside. A small house

instead of Normandale Grange. Genteel poverty—comparatively

speaking—instead of riches. That is—if I hand over the will to

Charlesworth & Wyatt.”

 

Mrs. Mallathorpe slowly turned her eyes on Pratt. And Pratt suddenly

felt a little afraid—there was anger in those eyes; anger of a curious

sort. It might be against fate—against circumstance: it might not—why

should it?—be against him personally, but it was there, and it was

malign and almost evil, and it made him uncomfortable.

 

“Where is the will!” she asked.

 

“Safe! In my keeping,” answered Pratt.

 

She looked him all over—surmisingly.

 

“You’ll sell it to me?” she suggested. “You’ll hand it over—and let me

burn it—destroy it?”

 

“No!” answered Pratt. “I shall not!”

 

He saw that his answer produced personal anger at last. Mrs. Mallathorpe

gave him a look which would have warned a much less observant man than

Pratt. But he gave her back a look that was just as resolute.

 

“I say no—and I mean no!” he continued. “I won’t sell—but I’ll

bargain. Let’s be plain with each other. You don’t want that will to be

handed over to the trustees named in it, Charlesworth & Wyatt?”

 

“Do you think I’m a fool—man!” she flashed out.

 

“I should be a fool myself if I did,” replied Pratt calmly. “And I’m not

a fool. Very well—then you’ll square me. You’ll buy me. Come to terms

with me, and nobody shall ever know. I repeat to you what I’ve said

before—not a soul knows now, no nor suspects! It’s utterly impossible

for anybody to find out. The testator’s dead. The attesting witnesses

are dead. The man who found this will is dead. No one but you and myself

ever need know a word about all