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Read books online » Mystery & Crime » The Talleyrand Maxim by J. S. Fletcher (book reader for pc .TXT) 📖

Book online «The Talleyrand Maxim by J. S. Fletcher (book reader for pc .TXT) đŸ“–Â». Author J. S. Fletcher



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Mr. Bartle,” said Pratt. He was

an essentially practical young man who dined at half-past six every

evening, having lunched on no more than bread-and-cheese and a glass of

ale, and he also had his evenings well mapped out. “I know that already,

sir.”

 

“Aye, aye, but you’ll know more of it later on,” replied Bartle.

“Well—you know, too, no doubt, that the late John Mallathorpe was a

bit—only a bit—of a book-collector; collected books and pamphlets

relating to this district?”

 

“I’ve heard of it,” answered the clerk.

 

“He had that collection in his private room at the mill,” continued the

old bookseller, “and when the new folks took hold, I persuaded them to

sell it to me. There wasn’t such a lot—maybe a hundred volumes

altogether—but I wanted what there was. And as they were of no interest

to them, they sold ‘em. That’s some months ago. I put all the books in a

corner—and I never really examined them until this very afternoon.

Then—by this afternoon’s post—I got a letter from a Barford man who’s

now out in America. He wanted to know if I could supply him with a nice

copy of Hopkinson’s History of Barford. I knew there was one in that

Mallathorpe collection, so I got it out, and examined it. And in the

pocket inside, in which there’s a map, I found—what d’ye think?”

 

“Couldn’t say,” replied Pratt. He was still thinking of his dinner, and

of an important engagement to follow it, and he had not the least idea

that old Antony Bartle was going to tell him anything very important.

“Letters? Banknotes? Something of that sort?”

 

The old bookseller leaned nearer, across the corner of the desk, until

his queer, wrinkled face was almost close to Pratt’s sharp, youthful

one. Again he lifted the claw-like finger: again he tapped the clerk’s

arm.

 

“I found John Mallathorpe’s will!” he whispered. “His—will!”

 

Linford Pratt jumped out of his chair. For a second he stared in

speechless amazement at the old man; then he plunged his hands deep into

his trousers’ pockets, opened his mouth, and let out a sudden

exclamation.

 

“No!” he said. “No! John Mallathorpe’s—will? His—will!”

 

“Made the very day on which he died,” answered Bartle, nodding

emphatically.

 

“Queer, wasn’t it? He might have had some—premonition, eh?”

 

Pratt sat down again.

 

“Where is it?” he asked.

 

“Here in my pocket,” replied the old bookseller, tapping his rusty coat.

“Oh, it’s all right, I assure you. All duly made out, signed, and

witnessed. Everything in order, I know!—because a long, a very long

time ago, I was like you, an attorney’s clerk. I’ve drafted many a will,

and witnessed many a will, in my time. I’ve read this, every word of

it—it’s all right. Nothing can upset it.”

 

“Let’s see it,” said Pratt, eagerly.

 

“Well—I’ve no objection—I know you, of course,” answered Bartle, “but

I’d rather show it first to Mr. Eldrick. Couldn’t you telephone up to

his house and ask him to run back here?”

 

“Certainly,” replied Pratt. “He mayn’t be there, though. But I can try.

You haven’t shown it to anybody else?”

 

“Neither shown it to anybody, nor mentioned it to a soul,” said Bartle.

“I tell you it’s not much more than half an hour since I found it. It’s

not a long document. Do you know how it is that it’s never come out?” he

went on, turning eagerly to Pratt, who had risen again. “It’s easily

explained. The will’s witnessed by those two men who were killed at the

same time as John Mallathorpe! So, of course, there was nobody to say

that it was in evidence. My notion is that he and those two

men—Gaukrodger and Marshall, his manager and cashier—had signed it not

long before the accident, and that Mallathorpe had popped it into the

pocket of that book before going out into the yard. Eh? But see if you

can get Mr. Eldrick down here, and we’ll read it together. And I

say—this office seems uncommonly stuffy—can you open the window a bit

or something?—I feel oppressed, like.”

 

Pratt opened a window which looked out on the street. He glanced at the

old man for a moment and saw that his face, always pallid, was even

paler than usual.

 

“You’ve been talking too much,” he said. “Rest yourself, Mr. Bartle,

while I ring up Mr. Eldrick’s house. If he isn’t there, I’ll try his

club—he often turns in there for an hour before going home.”

 

He went out by a private door to the telephone box, which stood in a

lobby used by various occupants of the building. And when he had rung up

Eldrick’s private house and was waiting for the answer, he asked himself

what this discovery would mean to the present holders of the Mallathorpe

property, and his curiosity—a strongly developed quality in him—became

more and more excited. If Eldrick was not at home, if he could not get

in touch with him, he would persuade old Bartle to let him see his

find—he would cheerfully go late to his dinner if he could only get a

peep at this strangely discovered document. Romance! Why, this indeed

was romance; and it might be—what else? Old Bartle had already chuckled

about topsy-turvydom: did that mean that—

 

The telephone bell rang: Eldrick had not yet reached his house. Pratt

got on to the club: Eldrick had not been there. He rang off, and went

back to the private room.

 

“Can’t get hold of him, Mr. Bartle,” he began, as he closed the door.

“He’s not at home, and he’s not at the club. I say!—you might as well

let me have a look at–-”

 

Pratt suddenly stopped. There was a strange silence in the room: the old

man’s wheezy breathing was no longer heard. And the clerk moved forward

quickly and looked round the high back of the easy chair
.

 

He knew at once what had happened—knew that old Bartle was dead before

he laid a finger on the wasted hand which had dropped helplessly at his

side. He had evidently died without a sound or a movement—died as

quietly as he would have gone to sleep. Indeed, he looked as if he had

just laid his old head against the padding of the chair and dropped

asleep, and Pratt, who had seen death before, knew that he would never

wake again. He waited a moment, listening in the silence. Once he

touched the old man’s hand; once, he bent nearer, still listening. And

then, without hesitation, and with fingers that remained as steady as if

nothing had happened, he unbuttoned Antony Bartle’s coat, and drew a

folded paper from the inner pocket.

CHAPTER II

IN TRUST

 

As quietly and composedly as if he were discharging the most ordinary of

his daily duties, Pratt unfolded the document, and went close to the

solitary gas jet above Eldrick’s desk. What he held in his hand was a

half-sheet of ruled foolscap paper, closely covered with writing, which

he at once recognized as that of the late John Mallathorpe. He was

familiar with that writing—he had often seen it. It was an

old-fashioned writing—clear, distinct, with every letter well and fully

formed.

 

“Made it himself!” muttered Pratt. “Um!—looks as if he wanted to keep

the terms secret. Well–-”

 

He read the will through—rapidly, but with care, murmuring the

phraseology half aloud.

 

“This is the last will of me, John Mallathorpe, of Normandale Grange, in

the parish of Normandale, in the West Riding of the County of York. I

appoint Martin William Charlesworth, manufacturer, of Holly Lodge,

Barford, and Arthur James Wyatt, chartered accountant, of 65, Beck

Street, Barford, executors and trustees of this my will. I give and

devise all my estate and effects real and personal of which I may die

possessed or entitled to unto the said Martin William Charlesworth and

Arthur James Wyatt upon trust for the following purposes to be carried

out by them under the following instructions, namely:—As soon after my

death as is conveniently possible they will sell all my real estate,

either by private treaty or by public auction; they shall sell all my

personal property of any nature whatsoever; they shall sell my business

at Mallathorpe’s mill in Barford as a going concern to any private

purchaser or to any company already in existence or formed for the

purpose of acquiring it; and they shall collect all debts and moneys due

to me. And having sold and disposed of all my property, real and

personal, and brought all the proceeds of such sales and of such

collection of debts and moneys into one common fund they shall first pay

all debts owing by me and all legal duties and expenses arising out of

my death and this disposition of my property and shall then distribute

my estate as follows, namely: to each of themselves, Martin William

Charlesworth and Arthur James Wyatt, they shall pay the sum of five

thousand pounds; to my sister-in-law, Ann Mallathorpe, they shall pay

the sum of ten thousand pounds; to my nephew, Harper John Mallathorpe,

they shall pay the sum of ten thousand pounds; to my niece, Nesta

Mallathorpe, they shall pay the sum of ten thousand pounds. And as to

the whole of the remaining residue they shall pay it in one sum to the

Mayor and Corporation of the borough of Barford in the County of York to

be applied by the said Mayor and Corporation at their own absolute

discretion and in any manner which seems good to them to the

establishment, furtherance and development of technical and commercial

education in the said borough of Barford. Dated this sixteenth day of

November, 1906.

 

Signed by the testator in

the presence of us both

present at the same

time who in his presence } JOHN MALLATHORPE

and in the presence

of each other

have hereunto set our

names as witnesses.

 

HENRY GAUKRODGER, 16, Florence Street,

Barford, Mill Manager.

 

CHARLES WATSON MARSHALL, 56, Laburnum Terrace,

Barford, Cashier.”

 

As the last word left his lips Pratt carefully folded up the will,

slipped it into an inner pocket of his coat, and firmly buttoned the

coat across his chest. Then, without as much as a glance at the dead

man, he left the room, and again visited the telephone box. He was

engaged in it for a few minutes. When he came out he heard steps coming

up the staircase, and looking over the banisters he saw the senior

partner, Eldrick, a middle-aged man. Eldrick looked up, and saw Pratt.

 

“I hear you’ve been ringing me up at the club, Pratt,” he said. “What is

it?”

 

Pratt waited until Eldrick had come up to the landing. Then he pointed

to the door of the private room, and shook his head.

 

“It’s old Mr. Bartle, sir,” he whispered. “He’s in your room

there—dead!”

 

“Dead?” exclaimed Eldrick. “Dead!”

 

Pratt shook his head again.

 

“He came up not so long after you’d gone, sir,” he said. “Everybody had

gone but me—I was just going. Wanted to see you about something I don’t

know what. He was very tottery when he came in—complained of the stairs

and the fog. I took him into your room, to sit down in the easy chair.

And—he died straight off. Just,” concluded Pratt, “just as if he was

going quietly to sleep!”

 

“You’re sure he is dead?—not fainting?” asked Eldrick.

 

“He’s dead, sir—quite dead,” replied Pratt. “I’ve rung up Dr.

Melrose—he’ll be here in a minute or two—and the Town Hall—the

police—as well. Will you look at him, sir?”

 

Eldrick silently motioned his clerk to open the door; together they

walked into the room. And Eldrick looked

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