The Middle of Things by J. S. Fletcher (the giving tree read aloud .TXT) 📖

no other. You saw—quite well—that he was all for money. I will engage that we could have settled with him for one half of what he asked. But—who is he?"

"The middle finger of his right hand is gone!" said Mr. Pawle, who had been very quiet and thoughtful during the recent proceedings. "Remember that, Carless!"

"A most extraordinary coincidence!" exclaimed Mr. Carless excitedly. "I don't care twopence what anybody says—we all know that the most surprising coincidences do occur. Nothing but a coincidence! I assert—what is it, Portlethwaite?"

The elderly clerk had been manifesting a strong desire to get in a word, and he now rapped his senior employer's elbow.

"Mr. Carless," he said earnestly, "you know that before I came to you, now nearly forty years ago, I was a medical student: you know, too, you and Mr. Driver, why I gave up medicine for the law. But—I haven't forgotten all of that I learned in the medical schools and the hospitals."

"Well, Portlethwaite," demanded Mr. Carless, "what is it? You've some idea?"

"Gentlemen," answered the elderly clerk. "I was always particularly interested in anatomy in my medical student days. I've been looking attentively at what I could see of that man's injured finger since he sat down at that desk. And I'll lay all I have that he lost the two joints of that finger within the last three months! The scar over the stump had not long been healed. That's a fact!"

Mr. Carless looked round with a triumphant smile.

"There!" he exclaimed. "What did I tell you? Coincidence—nothing but coincidence!"

But Portlethwaite shook his head.

"Why not say design, Mr. Carless?" he said meaningly. "Why not say design? If this man, or the people who are behind him, knew that the real Lord Marketstoke had a finger missing, what easier—in view of the stake they're playing for—than to remove one of this man's fingers? Design, sir, design. All part of the scheme!"

The elderly clerk's listeners looked at each other.

"I'll tell you what it is!" exclaimed Mr. Pawle with sudden emphasis. "The more we see and hear of this affair, the more I'm convinced that it is, as Portlethwaite says, a conspiracy. You know, that fellow who has just been here was distinctly taken aback when you, Carless, informed him that it was going to be a case of all or nothing. He—or the folk behind him—evidently expected that they'd be able to effect a money settlement. Now, I should say that the real reason of his somewhat hasty retirement was that he wanted to consult his principal or principals. Did you notice that he was not really affronted by your remark? Not he! His personal dignity wasn't ruffled a bit. He was taken aback! He's gone off to consult. Carless, you ought to have that man carefully shadowed, to see where and to whom he goes."

"Good idea!" muttered Mr. Driver. "We might see to that."

"I can put a splendid man on to him, at once, Mr. Carless," remarked
Portlethwaite. "If you could furnish me with his address—"

"Methley and Woodlesford know it," said Mr. Carless. "Um—yes, that might be very useful. Ring Methley's up, Portlethwaite, and ask if they would oblige us with the name of Mr. Cave's hotel—some residential hotel in Lancaster Gate, I believe."

Mr. Pawle and Viner went away, ruminating over the recent events, and walked to the old lawyer's offices in Bedford Row. Mr. Pawle's own particular clerk met them as they entered.

"There's Mr. Roland Perkwite, of the Middle Temple, in your room, sir," he said, addressing his master. "You may remember him, sir—we've briefed him once or twice in some small cases. Mr. Perkwite wants to see you about this Ashton affair—he says he's something to tell you."

Mr. Pawle looked at Viner and beckoned him to follow.

"Here a little, and there a little!" he whispered. "What are we going to hear this time?"

CHAPTER XXI THE MARSEILLES MEETING

The man who was waiting in Mr. Pawle's room, and who rose from his chair with alacrity as the old lawyer entered with Viner at his heels, was an alert, sharp-eyed person of something under middle-age, whose clean-shaven countenance and general air immediately suggested the Law Courts. And he went straight to business before he had released the hand which Mr. Pawle extended to him.

"Your clerk has no doubt already told you what I came about, Mr. Pawle?" he said. "This Ashton affair."

"Just so," answered Mr. Pawle. "You know something about it? This gentleman is Mr. Richard Viner, who is interested in it—considerably."

"To be sure," said the barrister. "One of the witnesses, of course. I read the whole thing up last night. I have been on the Continent—the French Riviera, Italy, the Austrian Tyrol—for some time, Mr. Pawle, and only returned to town yesterday. I saw something, in an English newspaper, in Paris, the other day, about this Ashton business, and as my clerk keeps the Times for me when I am absent, last night I read over the proceedings before the magistrate and before the coroner. And of course I saw your request for information about Ashton and his recent movements."

"And you've some to give?" asked Mr. Pawle.

"I have some to give," assented Mr. Perkwite, as the three men sat down by Mr. Pawle's desk. "Certainly—and I should say it's of considerable importance. The fact is I met Ashton at Marseilles, and spent the better part of the week in his company at the Hotel de Louvre there."

"When was that?" asked Mr. Pawle.

"About three months ago," replied the barrister. "I had gone straight to Marseilles from London; he had come there from Italy by way of Monte Carlo and Nice. We happened to get into conversation on the night of my arrival, and we afterwards spent most of our time together. And finding out that I was a barrister, he confided certain things to me and asked my advice."

"Aye—and on what, now?" enquired the old lawyer.

"It was the last night we were together," replied Mr. Perkwite. "We had by that time become very friendly, and I had promised to renew our acquaintance on my return to London, where, Ashton told me, he intended to settle down for the rest of his life. Now on that last evening at Marseilles I had been telling him, after dinner, of some curious legal cases, and he suddenly remarked that he would like to tell me of a matter which might come within the law, and on which he should be glad of advice. He then asked me if I had ever heard of the strange disappearance of Lord Marketstoke, heir to the seventh Earl of Ellingham. I replied that I had at the time when application was made to the courts for leave to presume Lord Marketstoke's death.

"Thereupon, pledging me to secrecy for the time being, Ashton went on to tell me that Lord Marketstoke was well known to him and that he alone knew all the facts of the matter, though a certain amount of them was known to another man, now living in London. He said that Marketstoke, after a final quarrel with his father, left England in such a fashion that no one could trace him, taking with him the fortune which he had inherited from his mother, and eventually settled in Australia, where he henceforth lived under the name of Wickham. According to Ashton, he and Marketstoke became friends, close friends, at a very early period of Marketstoke's career in Australia, and the friendship deepened and existed until Marketstoke's death some twelve or thirteen years ago. But Ashton never had the slightest notion of Marketstoke's real identity until his friend's last days. Then Marketstoke told him the plain truth; and the fact who he really was at the same time was confided to another man—who, however, was not told all the details which were given to Ashton.

"Now, Marketstoke had married in Australia. His wife was dead. But he had a daughter who was about six years of age at the time of her father's death. Marketstoke confided her to Ashton, with a wish that she should be sent home to England to be educated. He also handed over to Ashton a considerable sum of money for this child. Further, he gave him a quantity of papers, letters, family documents, and so on. He had a purpose. He left it to Ashton—in whom he evidently had the most absolute confidence—as to whether this girl's claim to the title and estates should be set up. And when Ashton had finished telling me all this, I found that one of his principal reasons in coming to England to settle down, was the wish to find out how things were with the present holder of the title: if, he said, he discovered that he was a worthy sort of young fellow, he, Ashton, should be inclined to let the secret die with him. He told me that the girl already had some twelve thousand pounds of her own, and that it was his intention to leave her the whole of his own fortune, and as she was absolutely ignorant of her real position, he might perhaps leave her so. But in view of the possibility of his setting up her claim, he asked me some questions on legal points, and of course I asked him to let me see the papers of which he had spoken."

"Ah!" exclaimed Mr. Pawle, with a sigh of relieved satisfaction. "Then you saw them?"

"Yes—he showed me the whole lot," replied Mr. Perkwite. "Not so many, after all—those that were really pertinent, at any rate. He carried those in a pocketbook; had so carried them, he told me, ever since Marketstoke had handed them to him; they had never, he added, been out of his possession, day or night, since Marketstoke's death. Now, on examining the papers, I at once discovered two highly important facts. Although Marketstoke went to and lived in Australia under the name of Wickham, he had taken good care to get married in his own proper name, and there, amongst the documents, was the marriage certificate, in which he was correctly described. Further, his daughter had been correctly designated in the register of her birth; there was a copy, properly attested, of the entry."

Mr. Pawle glanced at Viner, and Viner knew what he was thinking of. The two documents just described by Mr. Perkwite had not been among the papers which Methley and Woodlesford had exhibited at Carless & Driver's office.

"A moment," said Mr. Pawle, lifting an arresting finger. "Did you happen to notice where this marriage took place?"

"It was not in Melbourne," replied Mr. Perkwite.

"My recollection is that it was at some place of a curious name. Ashton told me that Marketstoke's wife had been a governess in the family of some well-to-do-sheep-farmer—she was an English girl, and an orphan. The child, however, was certainly born in Melbourne and registered in Melbourne."

"Now, that's odd!" remarked Mr. Pawle. "You'd have thought that when Lord Marketstoke was so extensively advertised for some years ago, on the death of his father, some of these officials—"

"Ah! I put that point to Ashton," interrupted Mr. Perkwite. "He said that Marketstoke, though he had taken good care to be married in his own name and had exercised equal precaution about his daughter, had pledged everybody connected with his marriage and the child's birth to secrecy."

"Aye!" muttered Mr. Pawle. "He would do that, of course. But continue."

"Well," said the barrister, "after seeing these papers, I had no doubt whatever that the case as presented by Ashton was quite clear, and that his ward Miss Avice Wickham is without doubt Countess of Ellingham (the title, I understand, going in the female as well as the male line) and rightful owner of the estates. And I told him that his best plan, on reaching England, was to put the whole matter before the family solicitors. However, he said that before doing that, there were two things he wanted to do. One was to find out for himself how things were—if the young earl was a satisfactory landlord and so on, and likely to be a credit to the family; the other was that he wanted to consult the man who shared with him the bare knowledge that the man who had been known in Melbourne as Wickham was really the missing Lord Marketstoke. And he added that he had already telegraphed to this man to meet him in Paris."

"Ah!" exclaimed Mr. Pawle with a look in Viner's direction. "Now we are indeed coming to something! He was to meet him in Paris! Viner, I'll wager the world against a China orange