Читать книгу Blackmail! - Fred M. White - Страница 8

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Stott was puzzled—in a frank, childish kind of way. What was Dr. Burlinson after? What clever idea had he got in that wonderful brain of his? Burlinson drove him out of the room and locked the door of the chamber where the examination took place. But Stott haunted the place all that day and part of the night as well. He hung over the coffin next day, he watched it laid to rest in the family vault as if it had some curious fascination for him. Then the blinds were drawn up at Broadwater, and the blessed sunshine filled the house once more. But there was no news of Burlinson, who had caught the 4.15 express at Swanley Junction to town directly after the funeral. Stott babbled of the doctor to everybody about him.

"And I do hope we shall be a little more cheerful now," he said.

Lance faced round upon him suddenly. The bleating voice, the watery eyes, and the plump features filled Lance with a sudden fury of exasperation.

"I don't think that need concern you," he said. "Under the terms of my uncle's will certain duties are assigned to you. You are appointed as a certain kind of matrimonial guardian to me—as a committee of inspection, in fact. But one does not necessarily have one's lawyer or one's guardian in the house. My uncle leaves you a certain sum under his will, and an income that lasts perhaps for a long time. When are you ready to go?"

"I have no money, Sir Lancelot," Stott bleated. "I thought perhaps I might stay here."

"Nothing of the kind," Lance said, sternly. "If you are in want of £500, I will advance that sum at once with the greatest possible pleasure. You cannot stay here."

"Oh, you want me to go at once? Yes, yes. We shall see, Sir Lancelot—we shall see."

"Confound the man! What are you driving at?"

Stott crept across the room and closed the door. His face was still youthful, his eyes mildly innocent, but his mouth had grown harder. He was trembling from head to foot with a fear that he strove in vain to throw off, but he held a strong card, and he was going to play it. Lance could have kicked the fellow with the greatest possible pleasure.

"Let us have a little friendly chat," he said; "a chat with no feelings on either side. I am sorry that you mean to insist upon the termination of my long association with the house. And I could have been of the greatest possible assistance to you."

"Pardon me if I fail to see it," Lance said, curtly.

"Not at all, Sir Lancelot." Stott rubbed his hands together. "Let me explain. For some little time before your late uncle's death there was a serious difference of opinion between you. 'Cherches la femme.' It is ever thus in matters of this kind. Rightly or wrongly, your uncle formed definite ideas as to your future matrimonial engagements. You also had ideas as strong in another direction. You had made up your mind to marry Miss Verity, and you went so far as to tell your uncle so. You follow me?"

"To the extent that this has nothing to do with you."

"Oh, yes it has. I am the umpire—you forget that. If your uncle had lived and you had persisted in your intentions, he would have disinherited you."

"That was on the cards when the tragedy took place."

Stott smiled. A legion of cunning devils seemed to be dancing in his eyes.

"Which brings me to my point," he went on. "Under the circumstances, the sudden death of your uncle would have been the best thing that could have happened to you. It would leave you the property, and freedom to marry whom you pleased. But how to manage it without arousing suspicion? What is the use of being a dramatist unless you can surmount a little difficulty like that? Happy thought! Get Sir George to write a letter conveying the idea that he had committed suicide."

"What on earth do you mean?" Lance burst out.

"Softly, softly," Stott whispered. He was smiling evilly. "You wrote a play once—the play you are revising now for early production. But you had no name then, and copies of that play lay neglected in more than one theatre both here and in America. I know where two of those copies are. And in that play a man is cajoled to write a letter which, if he died suddenly, would point to his own suicide. Suppose you got Sir George to make a copy of that letter for you, and kept it by you. Suppose you—er—removed him, and left that letter by his side."

"Stop!" Lance thundered. "This is madness. The letter—"

"Appears to be written by Sir George and actually is, Sir Lancelot. I have an excellent memory. You have your revised play in the house now. Go and read Act II., which contains that letter, and what will you find? The letter is word for word absolutely identical with the letter found by Sir George's side after his death!"

Lance opened his mouth to speak, but paused astonished. He had a good memory, too, and it came upon him at once with a blinding flash that what Stott said was absolutely true. How on earth the thing had been worked, how it had all been brought about, he could not see for the moment; indeed he was too confused to think at all.

"You—you couldn't identify me with the maddening mystery," he gasped.

"Could I not?" Stott said mildly, though with just the suggestion of a sneer. "I could recall that play to the minds of managers; I could write a letter which, if he died suddenly, would say that you put your cunning idea into force, and that you were so very cunning that you actually forgot to change the wording of the letter. That, of course, is what people call unconscious cerebration. You were using your own scheme, and unwittingly you used your own letter. Why you should do this thing is palpable. Once your uncle was out of the way, you could marry."

"Stop!" Lance cried. "Stop, or I'll strangle you. As there is a Heaven above us, I swear that I am innocent of this dreadful thing."

"Suppose I agree with you," Stott whispered. "Suppose I say that I am sure you are the victim of some subtle conspiracy. But that won't prevent the world from speaking up, once the truth leaks out. And no man likes being treated like a dog. And this dog has found his kennel a luxurious one."

"I'll not compromise with you," Lance said firmly. "But you—you needn't go to-day. I must have time to get this into my confused brain. Be off."

Stott stalked out, not without dignity. Then he fell headlong upstairs, with his hand upon his bursting heart, and coaxed a full wineglass of brandy between his clinking teeth.