Читать книгу The Grey Woman - Fred M. White - Страница 10

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"I am intrigued," Phasy cried. "I have never tried my hand yet at blackmail, but, as your admirable proverb says, 'adversity makes us acquainted with strange bedfellows.' Proceed, my honest and honourable friend, proceed."

"Well, it's like this," Beaucaire went on. "About three years ago, before we met, or rather before we went into a sort of partnership, I was looking for a handy man to do a little job for me—the sort of dirty work that one in my position could not undertake personally. In the course of my inquiries I came across a middle-aged sailor, whose name was Dutton. I never knew his Christian name, but when I tell you he was called Ratty you can understand the class of individual he was."

"Oh, yes," Phasy cried. "The man with the snuff-box."

"Yes, that's right. A hard thick-skinned sailor who has been all over the world and known what it is to find himself inside a gaol. Ready for anything at all times and prepared to commit any crime from pitch and toss to manslaughter, if you only paid him for it. No brains, of course, but any amount of pluck and bulldog courage. He had done what I wanted him to do and I was paying him in this very room when, quite by chance, he happened to mention a certain name. That name was Heronspey. Then it came out that Dutton had been born on the Heronspey estate. By a strange coincidence I first saw the light within 20 miles of Heronspey Castle. Of course, I knew a good deal about the history of the Heronspeys, so what Dutton said to me was not without interest. One thing led to another until Dutton reminded me that nearly fifty years ago old Ian Heronspey had a grown-up daughter. She was possessed of all the elegance and pride of her race, with a will almost as resolute as her father's. She resented her confined life and her cast-iron surroundings. More than that, she had a really remarkable gift for painting. Her idea was that she should go out in the world and make a name for herself as a great artist. Probably she would have done so, but the old man would not hear of it. The mere suggestion that a Heronspey should get her own living was unthinkable. Well, to make a long story short, this girl made a bolt for it with a handsome young gamekeeper, and was never heard of again. The scandal was hushed up, and everybody was led to believe that the daughter had gone abroad with friends and that she had died in Florence or some place like that. The family servants were reliable, and the real history of the case never came out."

"You will pardon me, my dear friend," Phasy said, "but that does not sound very convincing. Besides, there is nothing artistic in the scheme you are working out, and I do love to have something of artistry about my little schemes. You cannot go to that venerable old gentleman and bluntly tell him you know all about the family scandals, and demand a large sum of money for keeping your mouth shut. He might kick you out of the house."

"He might," Beaucaire muttered. "But he wouldn't. Now, my dear chap, you know me pretty well by this time. You can't see me doing a crude thing like that. Oh, no. We shall have to move on entirely different lines."

"Pardon," Phasy murmured, "I interrupt you. Go on."

"Well, Dutton knew all about it. Not that he learnt it at the time, because he was only a child when the scandal took place, but the handsome young gatekeeper was known to him by repute, at any rate, and five or six years ago he and Dutton met in San Francisco. It was a chance meeting, but one word led to another, and the old story was told. Now Wallace, the gamekeeper in question, was a dying man at the time. He was suffering from a malignant disease from which he knew that he could never recover, and he told Dutton the whole story of his early love-making, and how the heiress to the Heronspey fortune had thrown herself into his arms. They had gone off together without any heed of the future and hidden themselves in London. It was an unhappy business from the first, it was bound to be. There was nothing in common between the highborn girl with her share of family pride, and the son of the soil, despite his good looks. So, after a few months, the man Wallace abandoned the girl, Elinor, to her fate and went abroad. He discovered by accident, later on, that she was not the disowned, penniless creature he imagined, because shortly afterwards she came into quite a considerable fortune owing to the death of a distant relative, and the only person who knew where she was was an old lawyer called Hartley Horne. Now this Horne had been for years the solicitor to the Heronspey family, and might be so still if he hadn't had a bitter quarrel with a client who was as old as himself. So, when Elinor came into the money, Hartley Horne lay low, like Brer Fox, and said nothing. He is a queer dry stick of a man who lives over his offices in Lincoln's Inn and is occasionally seen dining at The Marathon Club, of which he is a member."

"Aren't you a member too?" Phasy asked.

"Oh, yes," Beaucaire said with a bitter grin. "I have been a member for years. So is Musgrave for the matter of that, and Primrose. By the way, some of these days Jimmy Primrose will have all the Heronspey money. He is next of kin to the old man who, I believe, makes him a handsome allowance on condition that he abstains from gambling in all forms. Rather a peculiar condition for an old swell who keeps a racing stable."

"What, Ian Heronspey?" Phasy asked.

"Yes, the same. That is part of the family tradition, don't you know. Because they have always had a racing stable, they always must. But Heronspey takes no interest in it, except two or three times a year when he happens to have a horse running in one of the classic races. Then he comes down south to see his horse run, after which he bolts back to the family stronghold, and is seen no more for months."

"Aren't you getting a bit off the track?" Phasy asked.

"Well, perhaps I am. But still, I can't properly explain my scheme without going into these family details. So we will get back to San Francisco to the meeting between Dutton and Wallace. Dutton was rather vague about it, but he told me that just before Wallace died he handed him that particular gold snuff-box we are after. He said that if Dutton would search it carefully he would find something connected with it which might be turned into a veritable treasure house. He didn't explain, because he hadn't the opportunity. When Dutton went round to see him the next day he was dead. So that all Dutton had for his pains was a valuable snuff-box and the half-finished story. He told me that story and, naturally enough, I asked him where the snuff-box was. Dutton replied that he had left it in San Francisco with the owner of some sailors' boarding house as security for a bill. I asked him if he could get it back again, and he said he could. He felt quite sure that the next time he was in San Francisco with a few pounds to spare he could redeem the box. It was a bit of a long shot, but I gave Dutton a ten-pound note and he promised, when he returned to England, to bring me the box."

"And you saw nothing more of him, yes?"

"Quite right. I don't think I ever really expected to. But on the principle of throwing a sprat to catch a whale, I risked the money. As I told you just now, that was about two years or more ago. Then, within the present week, Dutton turned up again and offered me the box. But he wouldn't part with it unless I gave him another ten pounds. He said he had got into trouble on landing, and had been robbed of a whole year's pay almost before he left the docks. I told him that if he left the box with me he could have the money in the morning, but he said he was broke to the world, and must have some cash there and then. Well, my dear boy, you know what a disastrous week I had. I didn't know where to turn for a five-pound note, and you were somewhere in Paris without leaving your address behind. I told Dutton if he would come back in the morning I could oblige him. As I had a lucky evening at cards, I was in a position to carry out my promise when Dutton came along. He told me that he had sold the box to a dealer in a little shop off Wardour-street, and that if I liked to give him a few pounds he would tell me the name of the place, and I could go round and get the box for myself. So I parted with that few pounds, and raced off to Wardour-street without losing a minute. Just before I entered the shop, I saw Musgrave come out of it. You can imagine what happened. By the sheerest ill-luck, he happened to see that box in the window, and went in and bought it. Had I been five minutes earlier it would have been mine. Now you know why I wanted that snuff-box so badly. My idea is that there is a false top or a false bottom to it, and, concealed underneath, is some document of importance. Of course, I may be utterly wrong, but I don't think so, my friend, I don't think so. We have got to get that box back. I don't say that you will have to do it. But somebody will. Now, look here. There is a race meeting at Sandown next week and Musgrave and his lot are pretty certain to be there. They attend most of the racing fixtures near London, and Primrose almost invariably accompanies his friend. You must get some of the boys to follow them. There is Grimstock and Bosley and one or two more of that kin in our play who can hang about and try and pick Musgrave's pocket. You may be pretty certain he will value that snuff-box more than ever and will show it to his friends and tell them the story of the attack on him. That is, if he doesn't want to get any scandal attached to Miss Dacre's name. What we have to do is to get up some sort of dispute near a bookmaker's stand when Musgrave is close by. A row, a dispute over some bet—you know the sort of thing. Then, in the melee, the boys can crowd round Musgrave and surely amongst them they can lay their hands on that precious box."

"And after that?" Phasy asked.

"After that, my story will be continued."