The Talleyrand Maxim, J. S. Fletcher [books to read fiction TXT] 📗
- Author: J. S. Fletcher
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Mallathorpe.”
“What do you want?” she asked sullenly. “You forget—I’ve nothing of my
own. I didn’t come into anything.”
“I’ve a pretty good notion who’s real master here—and at Mallathorpe
Mill, too,” retorted Pratt. “I should say you’re still in full control
of your children, Mrs. Mallathorpe, and that you can do pretty well what
you like with them.”
“With one of them perhaps,” she said, still angry and sullen. “But—I
tell you, for you may as well know—if my daughter knew of what you’ve
told me, she’d go straight to these trustees and tell! That’s a fact
that you’d better realize. I can’t control her.”
“Oh!” remarked Pratt. “Um!—then we must take care that she doesn’t
know. But we don’t intend that anybody should know but you and me, Mrs.
Mallathorpe. You needn’t tell a soul—not even your son. You mustn’t
tell! Listen, now—I’ve thought out a good scheme which’ll profit me,
and make you safe. Do you know what you want on this estate?”
She stared at him as if wondering what this question had to do with the
matter which was of such infinite importance. And Pratt smiled, and
hastened to enlighten her.
“You want—a steward,” he said. “A steward and estate agent. John
Mallathorpe managed everything for himself, but your son can’t, and
pardon me if I say that you can’t—properly. You need a man—you need
me. You can persuade your son to that effect. Give me the job of steward
here. I’ll suggest to you how to do it in such a fashion that it’ll
arouse no suspicion, and look just like an ordinary—very
ordinary—business job—at a salary and on conditions to be arranged,
and—you’re safe! Safe, Mrs. Mallathorpe—you know what that means!”
Mrs. Mallathorpe suddenly rose from her chair.
“I know this!” she said. “I’ll discuss nothing, and do nothing, till
I’ve seen that will!”
Pratt rose, too, nodding his head as if quite satisfied. He took up the
copy, tore it in two pieces, and carefully dropped them into the glowing
fire.
“I shall be at my lodgings at any time after five-thirty tomorrow
evening,” he answered quietly. “Call there. You have the address. And
you can then read the will with your own eyes. I shan’t bring it here.
The game’s in my hands, Mrs. Mallathorpe.”
Within a few minutes he was out in the park again, and making his way to
the little railway station in the valley below. He felt triumphant—he
knew that the woman he had just left was at his mercy and would accede
to his terms. And all the way back to town, and through the town to his
lodgings, he considered and perfected the scheme he was going to suggest
to Mrs. Mallathorpe on the morrow.
Pratt lived in a little hamlet of old houses on the very outskirts of
Barford—on the edge of a stretch of Country honeycombed by
stone-quarries, some in use, some already worked out. It was a lonely
neighbourhood, approached from the nearest tramway route by a narrow,
high-walled lane. He was halfway along that lane when a stealthy foot
stole to his side, and a hand was laid on his arm—just as stealthily
came the voice of one of his fellow-clerks at Eldrick & Pascoe’s.
“A moment, Pratt! I’ve been waiting for you. I want—a word or two—in
private!”
THE UNEXPECTED
Pratt started when he heard that voice and felt the arresting hand. He
knew well enough to whom they belonged—they were those of one James
Parrawhite, a little, weedy, dissolute chap who had been in Eldrick &
Pascoe’s employ for about a year. It had always been a mystery to him
and the other clerks that Parrawhite had been there at all, and that
being there he was allowed to stop. He was not a Barford man. Nobody
knew anything whatever about him, though his occasional references to it
seemed to indicate that he knew London pretty thoroughly. Pratt shrewdly
suspected that he was a man whom Eldrick had known in other days,
possibly a solicitor who had been struck off the rolls, and to whom
Eldrick, for old times’ sake, was disposed to extend a helping hand.
All that any of them knew was that one morning some fifteen months
previously, Parrawhite, a complete stranger, had walked into the office,
asked to see Eldrick, had remained closeted with him half an hour, and
had been given a job at two pounds a week, there and then. That he was a
clever and useful clerk no one denied, but no one liked him.
He was always borrowing half-crowns. He smelt of rum. He was altogether
undesirable. It was plain to the clerks that Pascoe disliked him. But he
was evidently under Eldrick’s protection, and he did his work and did it
well, and there was no doubt that he knew more law than either of the
partners, and was better up in practice than Pratt himself. But—he was
not desirable … and Pratt never desired him less than on this
occasion.
“What are you after—coming on a man like that!” growled Pratt.
“You,” replied Parrawhite. “I knew you’d got to come up this lane, so I
waited for you. I’ve something to say.”
“Get it said, then!” retorted Pratt.
“Not here,” answered Parrawhite. “Come down by the quarry—nobody about
there.”
“And suppose I don’t?” asked Pratt.
“Then you’ll be very sorry for yourself—tomorrow,” replied Parrawhite.
“That’s all!”
Pratt had already realized that this fellow knew something. Parrawhite’s
manner was not only threatening but confident. He spoke as a man speaks
who has got the whip hand. And so, still growling, and inwardly raging
and anxious, he turned off with his companion into a track which lay
amongst the stone quarries. It was a desolate, lonely place; no house
was near; they were as much alone as if they had been in the middle of
one of the great moors outside the town, the lights of which they could
see in the valley below them. In the grey sky above, a waning moon gave
them just sufficient light to see their immediate surroundings—a
grass-covered track, no longer used, and the yawning mouths of the old
quarries, no longer worked, the edges of which were thick with gorse and
bramble. It was the very place for secret work, and Pratt was certain
that secret work was at hand.
“Now then!” he said, when they had walked well into the wilderness.
“What is it? And no nonsense!”
“You’ll get no nonsense from me,” sneered Parrawhite. “I’m not that
sort. This is what I want to say. I was in Eldrick’s office last night
all the time you were there with old Bartle.”
This swift answer went straight through Pratt’s defences. He was
prepared to hear something unpleasant and disconcerting, but not that.
And he voiced the first thought that occurred to him.
“That’s a lie!” he exclaimed. “There was nobody there!”
“No lie,” replied Parrawhite. “I was there. I was behind the curtain of
that recess—you know. And since I know what you did, I don’t mind
telling you—we’re in the same boat, my lad!—what I was going to do.
You thought I’d gone—with the others. But I hadn’t. I’d merely done
what I’ve done several times without being found out—slipped in
there—to wait until you’d gone. Why? Because friend Eldrick, as you
know, is culpably careless about leaving loose cash in the unlocked
drawer of his desk, culpably careless, too, about never counting it.
And—a stray sovereign or half-sovereign is useful to a man who only
gets two quid a week. Understand?”
“So you’re a thief?” said Pratt bitterly.
“I’m precisely what you are—a thief!” retorted Parrawhite. “You stole
John Mallathorpe’s will last night. I heard everything, I tell you!—and
saw everything. I heard the whole business—what the old man said—what
you, later, said to Eldrick. I saw old Bartle die—I saw you take the
will from his pocket, read it, and put it in your pocket. I know
all!—except the terms of the will. But—I’ve a pretty good idea of what
those terms are. Do you know why? Because I watched you set off to
Normandale by the eight-twenty train tonight!”
“Hang you for a dirty sneak!” growled Pratt.
Parrawhite laughed, and flourished a heavy stick which he carried.
“Not a bit of it!” he said, almost pleasantly. “I thought you were more
of a philosopher—I fancied I’d seen gleams—mere gleams—of philosophy
in you at times. Fortunes of war, my boy! Come now—you’ve seen enough
of me to know I’m an adventurer. This is an adventure of the sort I
love. Go into it heart and soul, man! Own up!—you’ve found out that the
will leaves the property away from the present holders, and you’ve been
to Normandale to—bargain? Come, now!”
“What then!” demanded Pratt.
“Then, of course, I come in at the bargaining,” answered Parrawhite.
“I’m going to have my share. That’s a certainty. You’d better take my
advice. Because you’re absolutely in my power. I’ve nothing to do but to
tell Eldrick tomorrow morning.”
“Suppose I tell Eldrick tomorrow morning of what you’ve told me?”
interjected Pratt.
“Eldrick will believe me before you,” retorted Parrawhite,
imperturbably. “I’m a much cleverer, more plausible man than you are, my
friend—I’ve had an experience of the world which you haven’t, I can
easily invent a fine excuse for being in that room. For two pins I’ll
incriminate you! See? Be reasonable—for if it comes to a contest of
brains, you haven’t a rabbit’s chance against a fox. Tell me all about
the will—and what you’ve done. You’ve got to—for, by the Lord
Harry!—I’m going to have my share. Come, now!”
Pratt stood, in a little hollow wherein they had paused, and thought,
rapidly and angrily. There was no doubt about it—he was trapped. This
fearful scoundrel at his side, who boasted of his cleverness, would
stick to him like a leach—he would have to share. All his own smart
schemes for exploiting Mrs. Mallathorpe, for ensuring himself a
competence for life, were knocked on the head. There was no helping
it—he would have to tell—and to share. And so, sullenly, resentfully,
he told.
Parrawhite listened in silence, taking in every point. Pratt, knowing
that concealment was useless, told the truth about everything,
concisely, but omitting nothing.
“All right!” remarked Parrawhite at the end, “Now, then, what terms do
you mean to insist on?”
“What’s the good of going into that?” growled Pratt. “Now that you’ve
stuck your foot in it, what do my terms matter?”
“Quite right,” agreed Parrawhite, “They don’t. What matter is—our
terms. Now let me suggest—no, insist on—what they must be. Cash! Do
you know why I insist on that? No? Then I’ll tell you. Because this
young barrister chap, Collingwood, has evidently got some suspicion
of—something.”
“I can’t see it,” said Pratt uneasily. “He was only curious to know what
that letter was about.”
“Never mind,” continued Parrawhite. “He had some suspicion—or he
wouldn’t have gone out there almost as soon as he reached Barford after
his grandfather’s death. And even if suspicion is put to sleep for
awhile, it can easily be reawakened, so—cash! We must profit at
once—before any future risk arises. But—what terms were you thinking
of?”
“Stewardship of this estate for life,” muttered Pratt gloomily.
“With the risk of some discovery being made, some time, any time!”
sneered Parrawhite. “Where are your brains, man? The old fellow, John
Mallathorpe, probably made a draft or two of that will before he did his
fair copy—he may have left those drafts among his papers.”
“If he did,
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