The Talleyrand Maxim by J. S. Fletcher (book reader for pc .TXT) 📖

THE PREVALENT ATMOSPHERE

Until that afternoon Collingwood had never been in the village to which

he was now bending his steps; on that and his previous visits to the

Grange he had only passed the end of its one street. Now, descending

into it from the slopes of the park, he found it to be little more than

a hamlet—a church, a farmstead or two, a few cottages in their gardens,

all clustering about a narrow stream spanned by a high-arched bridge of

stone. The Normandale Arms, a roomy, old-fashioned place, stood at one

end of the bridge, and from the windows of the room into which

Collingwood was presently shown he could look out on the stream itself

and on the meadows beyond it. A peaceful, pretty, quiet place—but the

gloom which was heavy at the big house or the hill seemed to have spread

to everybody that he encountered.

“Bad job, this, sir!” said the landlord, an elderly, serious-faced man,

to whom Collingwood had made known his wants, and who had quickly formed

the opinion that his guest was of the legal profession. “And a queer

one, too! Odd thing, sir, that our old squire, and now the young one,

should both have met their deaths in what you might term violent

fashion.”

“Accident—in both cases,” remarked Collingwood.

The landlord nodded his head—and then shook it in a manner which seemed

to indicate that while he agreed with this proposition in one respect he

entertained some sort of doubt about it in others.

“Ay, well!” he answered. “Of course, a mill chimney falling, without

notice, as it were, and a bridge giving way—them’s accidents, to be

sure. But it’s a very strange thing about this footbridge, up yonder at

the Grange—very strange indeed! There’s queer talk about it, already.”

“What sort of talk?” asked Collingwood. Ever since the old woodman had

come up to him and Pratt, as they stood looking at the footbridge, he

had been aware of a curious sense of mystery, and the landlord’s remark

tended to deepen it. “What are people talking about?”

“Nay—it’s only one or two,” replied the landlord. “There’s been two men

in here since the affair happened that crossed that bridge Friday

afternoon—and both of ‘em big, heavy men. According to what one can

learn that there bridge wasn’t used much by the Grange people—it led to

nowhere in particular for them. But there is a right of way across that

part of the park, and these two men as I’m speaking of—they made use of

it on Friday—getting towards dark. I know ‘em well—they’d both of ‘em

weigh four times as much—together—as young Squire Mallathorpe, and yet

it didn’t give way under them. And then—only a few hours later, as you

might say, down it goes with him!”

“I don’t think you can form any opinion from that!” said Collingwood.

“These things, these old structures, often give way quite suddenly and

unexpectedly.”

“Ay, well, they did admit, these men too, that it seemed a bit tottery,

like,” remarked the landlord. “Talking it over, between themselves, in

here, they agreed, to be sure, that it felt to give a bit. All the same,

there’s them as says that it’s a queer thing it should ha’ given

altogether when young squire walked on it.”

Collingwood clinched matters with a straight question.

“You don’t mean to say that people are suggesting that the footbridge

had been tampered with?” he asked.

“There is them about as wouldn’t be slow to say as much,” answered the

landlord. “Folks will talk! You see, sir—nobody saw what happened. And

when country folk doesn’t see what takes place, with their own eyes,

then they–-”

“Make mysteries out of it,” interrupted Collingwood, a little

impatiently. “I don’t think there’s any mystery here, landlord—I

understood that this footbridge was in a very unsafe condition. No! I’m

afraid the whole affair was only too simple.”

But he was conscious, as he said this, that he was not precisely voicing

his own sentiments. He himself was mystified. He was still wondering why

Pratt had been so pertinacious in asking the old woodman when,

precisely, he had told Mrs. Mallathorpe about the unsafe condition of

the bridge—still wondering about a certain expression which had come

into Pratt’s face when the old man told them what he did—still

wondering at the queer look which Pratt had given the information as he

went off into the plantation. Was there, then, something—some secret

which was being kept back by—somebody?

He was still pondering over these things when he went back to the

Grange, later in the evening—but he was resolved not to say anything

about them to Nesta. And he saw Nesta only for a few minutes. Her

mother, she said, was very ill indeed—the doctor was with her then, and

she must go back to them. Since her son’s death, Mrs. Mallathorpe had

scarcely spoken, and the doctor, knowing that her heart was not strong,

was somewhat afraid of a collapse.

“If there is anything that I can do,—or if you should want me, during

the night,” said Collingwood, earnestly, “promise me that you’ll send at

once to the inn!”

“Yes,” answered Nesta. “I will. But—I don’t think there will be any

need. We have two nurses here, and the doctor will stop. There is

something I should be glad if you would do tomorrow,” she went on,

looking at him a little wistfully, “You know about—the inquest?”

“Yes,” said Collingwood.

“They say we—that is I, because, of course, my mother couldn’t—that I

need not be present,” she continued. “Mr. Robson—our solicitor—says it

will be a very short, formal affair. He will be there, of

course,—but—would you mind being there, too!—so that you

can—afterwards—tell me all about it?”

“Will you tell me something—straight out?” answered Collingwood,

looking intently at her. “Have you any doubt of any description about

the accepted story of your brother’s death? Be plain with me!”

Nesta hesitated for awhile before answering.

“Not of the actual circumstances,” she replied at last,—“none at all of

what you call the accepted story. The fact is, I’m not a good hand at

explaining anything, and perhaps I can’t convey to you what I mean. But

I’ve a feeling—an impression—that there is—or was some mystery on

Saturday which might have—and might not have—oh, I can’t make it

clear, even to myself.

“If you would be at the inquest tomorrow, and listen carefully to

everything—and then tell me afterwards—do you understand?”

“I understand,” answered Collingwood. “Leave it to me.”

Whether he expected to hear anything unusual at the inquest, whether he

thought any stray word, hint, or suggestion would come up during the

proceedings, Collingwood was no more aware