Читать книгу The Mystery Of Crocksands - Fred M. White - Страница 3

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The spirit of Spring was in the air. Out in the parks the lilac hung in fringed tassels of pallid mauve and feathery white, and filled the air with its fragrance. Even there, in the dusty desolation of Martin's Inn, with its dreary old houses given over to the law and a monotony all its own, the sun was shining through the dusty windows and mocking the clerks and typists chained there with no thought beyond the task of the hour. In the square a dingy sycamore, with blackened, smoke-grimed trunk, was struggling into leaf; a warm wind drifted languidly from the west; and the girl in the small office behind that of her employer, Mr. James Melrose, the eminent head and only partner in the firm of Melrose and Clapstone, had allowed her thoughts to wander for moment.

Very good to look at was Miss Ellen Marchant, confidential clerk and typist to James Melrose. Certain clients outside the dull routine of city conventions would glance at her and wonder what so dainty and refined a girl was doing there. For she was quite young, not more than twenty-three at the outside, with a complexion of ivory and delicate rose, and a throat like milk, rising from a neck like a tall lily in the morning mist.

She had stumbled upon those letters quite by accident when looking for something else. And the sight of her dead father's handwriting after all these years had strangely affected her. Of course, she knew that in the days of Gordon Bland's prosperity he had occasionally enlisted the services of James Melrose in his professional capacity—indeed, Melrose and Clapstone had represented the family of Bland for generations; but here was a suggestion of a matter that had all the flavour of a sacred confidence about it. How, then, had these private papers found their way into an ancient deed-box pushed away into a dusty, almost forgotten cupboard?

In the office beyond James Melrose was closeted with a client of importance, and Ellen could hear the drone of their voices. A door opened and closed presently, and Ellen knew that her employer was alone. With her head held slightly high she walked into the sacred precincts and laid her packet on the table.

"I have just found these, Mr. Melrose," she said. "They were with a pile of papers of no consequence. They appear to be letters written by my father to my mother at a time when—I mean when they were not on very good terms, private letters, which——"

"Quite so, Miss Bland—I mean Miss Marchant," Melrose murmured. "Criminal carelessness on the part of somebody, no doubt. I will lock them up in my private safe."

Ellen was always 'Miss Marchant' to the client and the office staff, and nobody in the establishment had the least idea of her real identity. None guessed that she was the only daughter of the late Gordon Bland, of Belgrave-square, and at one time, next in succession to the historic estate called Crocksands Abbey, in North Devon.

There were plenty of folk ready to smile cynically at the idea of that brilliant rascal Chris. Wrath, making a fortune in Australia, or anywhere else for that matter, and who hinted pretty broadly that he could say a good deal about the tragic and mysterious death of Gordon Bland, which had occurred on Wrath's yacht in the Mediterranean off Monte Carlo; but, of course, this was so much scandal, and only spoken of in clubs and such places where Bland's own intimates foregathered and spoke regretfully of the fine fellow who was nobody's enemy but his own. Still, there was no getting away from the fact that Gordon Bland committed suicide, or was drowned, as Wrath said, in the nick of time to save himself from a disgraceful prosecution for fraud and forgery, and, therefore, Wrath came into the title and family property, a circumstance which would have caused old Sir George Bland-Merton to turn in his grave had he only known it.

All this had happened two years ago, and now Ellen Bland, in the name of Marchant, was a typist to James Melrose, the solicitor to the family. She had practically no relations. Her father had been the last of the line; and Crocksands Abbey could only come to her by will, and only then if her father had lived. But he was long since dead, and Christopher Wrath reigned in his stead. So she had decided to put her pride in her pocket and get her own living. When she had mastered shorthand and typewriting she had gone to Melrose and asked for employment in his office on her merits, merely stipulating that the old name should be dropped, and after some hesitation Melrose had consented. Whereby he secured the best secretary he had ever had, and the secret was faithfully kept.

There was one man who knew, and he was the last in the world to betray his knowledge. This was old Peter Gabb, an aged clerk long past work, and honestly entitled to his pension which Melrose practically gave him, though he came to the office still under the impression that the business of the firm could not do without him, a delusion that James Melrose did nothing to dispel, for Gabb had been a faithful clerk in his day, and he did no harm in Martin's Inn. He was a queer, dry old man, a deep repository of office secrets; and he had his own reasons for his affection for Ellen. From the first she had lodged with Peter and his wife at Dalston, and as a rule he and she went home together at nights. But never yet had he hinted at any knowledge of the girl's secret, and it was sure that Mrs. Gabb had never been taken into his confidence. At the very moment that Ellen was discussing the matter of those letters, Peter Gabb was making frantic search for them. But this Ellen was not destined to learn for some time to come.

"I am so sorry to trouble you, Mr. Melrose," Ellen said. "I mentioned it on the spur of the moment. But if you don't mind, as these letters refer to no particular business, and are from my father to my mother, I should like to keep them."

"Um! rather unusual, perhaps," Melrose said, "I remember. Still, you can keep the letters if you like, Miss Ellen."

Melrose spoke abruptly, as he generally did when alluding to his deceased partner Clapstone, for there had been much that was bad and wrong in Clapstone, and after his death it had taken Melrose all his time and the greater part of his fortune to put the old firm on its high footing again. Even now queer things were constantly cropping up, in the way of shady clients who levied something like blackmail on Melrose, and they came from all parts of the country.

"Thank you very much," Ellen said. "It is only a matter of silly sentiment, perhaps, but I should like to keep those letters. I think you knew my mother well, Mr. Melrose?"

"From childhood," Melrose said, a little gruffly. "By all means keep the letters. You might tell Gabb that I am ready to see those conditions of sale from Minter and Sons."

It was the man of business speaking now, and Ellen hastened away, quite the confidential clerk again. In the outer office Gabb was pottering about, after his way, with an assumption of energy that always amused Ellen. He was a little, spare man, with bent shoulders and features like a dried walnut, and his faded, tired eyes still had a certain shrewdness of their own. He seemed somewhat alert as Ellen delivered her message, then his whole aspect changed as he noted the parcel of letters in the girl's hand.

"Where did you get those from?" he asked, angrily. "If papers are wanted from the stock-room it is my work to hunt them up. I have been looking for those myself. Hand them over."

"I think not," Ellen said, coldly, for she had never heard the old man speak like that before. "I found them quite by accident, and Mr. Melrose knows it. Besides, in a way they belong to me. I—I can't explain, Peter, but I assure you——"

Peter Gabb looked furtively around, it was as if he had something on his mind that he did not want any one to share. The office was empty, save for him and his companion, but he dropped his voice to a thrilling whisper.

"Let me have them, dearie," he coaxed, "Let old Peter have them. They will only trouble you and make you unhappy; but I understand, yes, I understand, and in time, old as I am—look here, miss, I'll be quite candid. I know those are letters from your mother, and when I found them——"

"Then you know," Ellen exclaimed. "My secret is no secret so far as you are concerned. How long since, and how many more——"

"Only myself and Mr. Melrose," the old man went on; "and I guessed it from the likeness to your father. Ah, a rare good friend he was to me in the old days when he came here on business and before he ran through all his money. But the Blands were always like that. And the first time you came into this office I knew. And I was an honoured man when you came under my roof. I wouldn't tell you this now if you hadn't found the papers I laid aside for a moment after only coming on them myself an hour ago. Like fate it was. But as you value your future happiness, Miss Ellen, leave those to me for the present. They shall go to Dalston with us this evening, and when the proper time comes you shall come into your own again. If——"

Acting on an impulse wholly illogical, Ellen held out the papers to Gabb, and as he hastily stuffed them into his pocket a junior clerk bustled into the room. He held a card in his hand.

"Sir Christopher Wrath wants to see the governor," he said.

"Ask him to sit down," Gabb mumbled, with a strange light in his eyes. "Give him something to read, give him prussic acid, give him any deadly poison. What am I talking about? Sometimes my poor head gets that queer I don't know what I am saying. Tell Sir Christopher that he shall see Mr. Melrose immediately."

The clerk, with a wink at Ellen, disappeared from the room, and Gabb collapsed into a chair.

"The hand of Providence," he murmured. "All in God's time."