Читать книгу Blackmail! - Fred M. White - Страница 5

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The more the Massey tragedy came to be examined, the more mysterious it seemed. Yet there was the letter written in Sir George's own handwriting upon his own notepaper. The feeble brain in the feeble body had given way at last, and he had died by his own hand.

But though the Masseys were not regarded as an intellectual race, they had never been violent people. Nor had they ever displayed any morbid tendencies. Sir George's nearest approach to a passion meant no more than a slight raising of the high-pitched voice, and the mere suggestion of carmine on his cheeks.

What then did it mean? The deceased baronet's financial position had been a splendid one. He was justly proud of his house and his art treasures. He had been working on a play which some day was going to take the world by storm. Then, without the slightest warning, he had destroyed his own life, and had left a letter to say so.

Inspector Lawrence was inclined to think no more of the matter. He had all the evidence he required; there would be a more or less formal inquest, and the verdict of the jury would be temporary insanity. Sir George would rest with his fathers, and Sir Lancelot would reign in his stead. Burlinson shook his head. With Lancelot the doctor was discussing the matter in Lawrence's private room at Swanley.

"No chance of that letter being a forgery?" he suggested.

The letter lay open on the table. Lawrence smiled.

"You don't seem to be satisfied, doctor," he said.

"In strictest confidence, I don't mind saying that I am anything but satisfied," Burlinson replied. "As you know, I am practically out of business; in fact, I only attend a few of my very old patients, like Sir George. But I read a great deal, and I have lectured a great deal on brain diseases. I'll go bail for it that Sir George Massey was mentally sound—at any rate, I never knew a man less susceptible to the homicidal mania."

"And yet there is the letter before you."

Burlinson shook his head doubtfully. There was no getting over that letter. Lance was examining it through a strong magnifying glass.

"This is absolutely genuine," he said. "Forgery is out of the question. Would you mind telling me what you are driving at, Burlinson?"

But the doctor refused to be drawn.

"I'd like to spend an hour or so in Sir George's study," he said. "Can you manage that for me without rousing suspicion?"

"Why not come over with me this afternoon?" Lance said. "I have a long interview with Wallace and Wallace, my uncle's solicitors, after which I drive back to Broadwater. I shall be very pleased to have your company."

Burlinson assented eagerly—indeed Lance had never seen him quite so excited over anything before. He was not given to unnecessary speech as a rule, yet he evidently scented some mystery here, where all things appeared quite plain to others.

Wallace and Wallace were exceedingly pleased to see Sir Lancelot, indeed they had expected him before. The sole surviving partner of the old-established firm bowed him into the inner office. Gerald Wallace looked more like a sporting landed proprietor than anything else. But then he had been upon the friendliest terms with the county people all his life, and no better shot was to be found anywhere. His keen, shrewd face was very grave.

"I suppose you know something of the position of affairs, Sir Lancelot?" he asked.

"Oh, drop that, Wallace," Lance exclaimed, hastily. "At least till the dear old chap is in his grave. I would not have had this happen for anything. You did all Sir George's business. Did you ever detect anything of—of that kind about him?"

"Never!" Wallace said, emphatically. "Once get him interested in business, and he was as clear as crystal. His will shows that."

"I suppose you people made it, Wallace?"

"No, we didn't. But I've got it in my safe. An eminent barrister drew that will up under Sir George's instructions, through Mabey and Leesom, our London agents. It was signed in London by Sir George in the presence of two doctors, and subsequently handed over to us for safe custody. On certain conditions everything comes to you."

It was only human nature that Lance should breathe a little more freely on hearing this. He was no stranger to his late uncle's views on the matter of Lyn Verity, and his own feelings towards her, and he had half-feared some complications.

"What conditions are there?" he asked.

Wallace scraped his chin thoughtfully.

"Well, I am afraid that you will find them a bit irksome," he said. "Without being in the least offensive, I may venture to suggest that you are contemplating matrimony."

"People are so good as to say so," Lance smiled. "Miss Verity and myself."

"Exactly. Poor Verity was a client of mine, and the whole sad story is no secret from me. Well, Sir George left you everything on condition that you contracted no alliance with any family where the slightest trace of insanity had manifested itself. The will mentions no names, it merely contains that one stringent clause, and the executors are bound by it. It therefore follows that if you marry Miss Verity you lose every penny of this money."

It was some little time before Lance spoke again. The blow had fallen, and it had been more severe than he had anticipated. Only he knew how severe it was. He was filled by the burning injustice of the thing.

"You don't mean to say that a document like that would stand?" he cried.

"Indeed, I do, Massey. It has been drawn with the greatest care. Two of the greatest physicians in England witnessed the signature, and will be prepared to swear that the testator was in his right mind at the moment of execution. And the executors are both of them aware of the tragedy in Miss Verity's family."

"Who are the executors, Wallace?" Lance asked.

"Well, I'm one. My co-executor is not precisely the gentleman I should have picked out as a colleague, and had it been almost anybody else I should have declined to act. I'm sorry to say that the other man is Malcolm Stott."

Lance groaned. The idea of that crawling, drunken little wretch being so closely associated with him was repugnant to a degree. It was a bitter pill to swallow. How a refined man like Sir George could ever associate with such a man was a mystery.

"It is intolerable," he cried. "Anyway, I have you. Stott will never be sober enough to do any business. And I can kick him out of Broadwater at any time."

"You can get him out of the house," said Wallace, thoughtfully. "But until you are married into some sound, healthy family he can give you a lot of trouble. You see, till you are married he has a salary of £500 and expenses to investigate family ancestors and the like, so that you shall not bring any taint to Broadwater."

"Oh, I'm dreaming," Lance cried. "Let me get out into the fresh air. I'm in no state to do any business to-day, Wallace. It's Gilbert gone mad. I'll come back in a day or two and try to discuss the situation calmly. Good-bye."

He flung out of the office, and was a mile towards home before it dawned upon him that he had a trap at Swanley, and that he had promised to drive Burlinson to Broadwater.