Читать книгу The Mystery Of Crocksands - Fred M. White - Страница 4

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The City office of a respectable family solicitor is hardly the place to find mystery and romance, and Ellen Bland went back to her own room with her head in a whirl. No doubt Peter would explain all in good time; meanwhile the mystery remained. Why had he been so madly keen on retaining those letters, and why had he spoken so strangely when Sir Christopher Wrath's name was mentioned. The man who more or less had ousted Ellen from the succession of Crocksands Abbey was a client of her employer's, though she had never known him to come to the office before. Not that it was any business of hers so long as Wrath knew nothing of her identity. But why did Peter Gabb hate him so, and what did he mean, by his allusion to what might happen in God's good time? Why had the placid air of Martin's Inn so suddenly become charged with electricity?

All this was still uppermost in Ellen's mind as she put on her hat presently and went out to lunch. As she turned into the quiet place just off Carey-street where she usually ate her modest meal, she was conscious of a young man coming in her direction. He smiled something more than a welcome as he swept off his hat and showed a set of even white teeth in a face singularly open and honest, and tanned with the brown of a hard, open-air life. He was beautifully turned out, and his grey tweeds fitted him to perfection. He looked just a little out of place in the City.

"Now this is really jolly, Miss Marchant," he smiled. "Backed a winner this morning, don't you know, what?"

If Rollo Bly was under the impression that he had conveyed to his companion that a chance meeting had materialised he was pleasantly deceiving himself, for this sort of thing happened too often for that. Still, Ellen had not encountered Bly for over a month now, so that her greeting was a little more cordial than usual. Rollo Bly was one of the fortunate youths blessed with a more than sufficiency of this world's goods, and James Melrose had at one time been his trustee, so that he came occasionally to the office in Martin's Inn, hence his acquaintance with Ellen. She liked him well enough for his transparent honesty and his charming manners, but she rather despised his idle, butterfly life, and regarded him as a modern product not particularly gifted in the way of brains. Still, it was good to see some one connected with her old world again.

"Just going to peck a bit," Bly explained in his breezy way. "Had to trickle into the good old City on business—what? So, as we are both going the same way home, and all that, I thought perhaps we might sit at the same table, what?"

There was almost a plea behind the casual suggestion, and an entreaty in Bly's blue eyes that Ellen could not resist. And the magic of spring was in the air. That he would not offer to pay for her lunch Ellen knew—he had done that once before, and the lesson had not been wasted. That this young man with the fine connections and ample fortune was deeply in love with her Ellen did not realise—he was merely a nice young man with the instincts of his class making himself agreeable to a typist in the City. She had a good deal to learn yet, had Ellen.

Still, it was good to be there with one of her own class, and read the frank admiration in his eyes, and note the air of deference he paid her. They sat talking for quite a long time over their coffee until Ellen realised with a start that her hour was up.

"You are not living in London now?" she asked, as they walked out together. "Somehow you look like the country."

"Right on the target," Bly cried. "Fact is, I am spending the summer with a friend in Devonshire. Chap gassed in the jolly old war, and only just pulling round. With me on the French front over three years, and one of the best. He's got a sort of summer house-bungalow affair in the grounds of a place called Crocksands Abbey that he got hold of before the war, and the new landlord, Sir Christopher Wrath, can't rout him out. Awful bounder, Wrath, but one of these days, if I'm not altogether a fool—but that's another story, as good old Kipling says. Regular paradise of a place the bungalow, in the most glorious scenery. I suppose you don't happen to know that part of North Devon, Miss Marchant?"

Ellen stammered something by way of reply. The whole world seemed to be shouting about her beloved Devon this bright spring morning. Those letters, the visit of Sir Christopher Wrath to Martin's Inn, and now here was Bly actually living under the shadow of the lovely old house where she had spent some of the happiest days of her life, when her grandfather was alive, and her parents were on one of their long trips around the world before the trouble had arisen and the sinister misunderstanding shown itself.

There was a mist before Ellen's eyes as Rollo Bly talked on in his simple way of the glories of Crocksands and the bungalow on the wooded headland overlooking the sea. She could see every inch it as he spoke—the sloping park trending down to the bay, the green banks where the primroses made a carpet in the Spring. There were times when she positively ached for Crocksands, that fair domain that was to have been hers, and would have been had her father lived, for Crocksands, though entail property, was to have been barred of its entail, and Gordon Bland could have done what he liked with it. But then he had died before that happened, disgraced, and now the man called Sir Christopher Wrath reigned in his stead.

Her mind was full of that fair picture as she wended her way back to Martin's Inn presently, and she had said good-bye to Bly. He had held her hand a little longer than necessary, and had wondered, sentimentally, when he would see her again. It made Ellen smile, but, all the same, there was a little warm glow about her heart and a nice feeling that she had a friend there.

She was still dreaming about Crocksands and the wonderful afterglow of the sunsets over the western ocean as she arrived at Dalston that evening with Peter Gabb by her side. The little mean street, with its shabby houses all exactly alike, looked more depressing and sordid than ever in the evening mist. Then there was the frugal meal and the putting to bed of Peter Gabb's more or less bedridden wife. It was only when she was safely bestowed away for the night that Peter lighted his pipe and laid the packet of letters on the sitting room table under the shaded lamp.

"Now we can talk," he said. "I didn't mean to speak yet, Miss Ellen, not yet. But I have known ever since you came into the office. No mistaking your father's daughter—no, no. And a good friend to me and my dear wife he was in the old days. And when they told me as Mr. Gordon Bland had gone and disgraced his name I laughed. And why? Because I knew something. Ay, there's few secrets in the firm of Melrose and Clapstone as I don't know. Been a faithful servant, too. That's why they let me hang about the office, so as not to hurt my feelings and make me delude myself as I am earning my money. But I don't do anybody any harm, and I look for a thing as Mr. Melrose says don't exist. And I know better. A good man, Mr. Melrose, and a gentleman. Nearly ruined by his rascally partner, Clapstone, he was, but he pulled through and saved the old firm, and nobody any the wiser but me. And Christopher Wrath—Sir Christopher he is now—was at the bottom of it all. When his friends and relations thought he was safe in Australia he was in the city under an assumed name, and wanted by the police. I know, I know. And one night, three years ago, when I fell asleep and was locked in the office after they had all gone, I saw Mr. Clapstone and Wrath——"

Gabb had been maundering on with his head sunk on his breast and his fingers in his sparse, grey hair before he sat up suddenly and regarded Ellen with a sudden shrewdness in his eyes.

"But we'll come to that presently," he said. "I shall get to the bottom of the damned conspiracy before I die. I believe that's what Providence is keeping me alive for, Miss Ellen. And just as I found what I have been looking for all these years you stumble on it, too, and find it where I had placed it for safe keeping only this very morning. And so you forced my hand, as it were."

"But those are my father's letters to my mother, Peter," Ellen protested. "How they got into the office——"

"Well I can tell you that, anyway," Peter mumbled. "It was Christopher Wrath who made all the mischief between your father and mother. Your lady mother came near to marrying that scamp at one time. Very fond of him she was, surely. But her mother stopped that, and Wrath went away to Australia in disgrace. I'll tell you the whole story some time. Then Wrath comes back from Australia, as he said, with money and his own yacht, though it was only hired, and your father goes in it on a voyage to the South of France. That was not long after your mother died. She and your father were parted then, and I believe that Wrath was at the bottom of it. He knew how pure and good your mother was, and he could do nothing in that way, if you will pardon me, miss, but he was always a revengeful devil, and he preyed on your father's quick temper and easily aroused jealousy. We shall find it all in those letters which came into the hands of Melrose and Clapstone, who had to settle the deed of separation and pay over your mother's allowance."

Ellen sighed a little impatiently. The night was hot and stuffy, and the sordid atmosphere of the mean little house was more than usually trying to the girl.

"Clapstone had the business in hand," Peter went on. "It was at the time when Mr. Melrose was so ill—ah, well I remember it. And your mother had sent on those letters to the office. Clapstone was under the impression that he had destroyed them, but I took care of that. Then somehow they were lost for years, till we both found them, simultaneous like. We shall see daylight yet."

Ellen was hardly listening. A little group of factory hands went noisily past the house, a drunken man, cheerfully vocal, roared his way along. And down in Devonshire at Crocksands the spring breezes were whispering to the primroses in the park. Ellen could feel the call of it, and her heart grew heavy and restless.

"Those two, Wrath and Clapstone, were conspiring together to ruin your father and separate him from your mother, and nobody knew it but poor old Peter Gabb. And the owner of Crocksands—that's your late grandfather, my dear—was arranging with your father to cut off the entail, so that, there being no son to succeed, your father could leave Crocksands to you. I know that was so, because I managed to have a read of the draft deed before it was engrossed. And Clapstone sent it to be engrossed outside the office so that none of the staff should see it. Oh, it was all right, because your grandfather was on his death-bed, and Mr. Melrose so ill that he knew nothing of what was going on between those two rascals. God only knows what price Sir Christopher Wrath paid Clapstone for his share of the plot. And now he's dead, too, and Wrath thinks he is safe."

"But how does this benefit me?" Ellen asked.

"We shall come to that presently," Gabb chuckled. "Wait till we have gone over those letters. Then just at that critical time your father must needs go yachting with Wrath, who professed to have just come back from Australia with a fortune, and him hiding in London all the time under an assumed name, and borrowing money from his accomplice, Clapstone. Then came all that business of the forged cheques on Lord Maberley and your father's supposed suicide. Off Monte Carlo, that was. Do you remember the date, miss?"

"Of course I do," Ellen said, brokenly. "How could I forget it, Peter? It was a dreadful business, and Lord Maberley was most kind. He told me afterwards that if he had only known the world would never have been any the wiser."

"What was the date?" Peter whispered. There was a strangeness in his manner that set Ellen's heart beating faster. "When was it that your father disappeared off the yacht Starshine and his body picked up next day. Try and think."

"Three years ago on the third of next September," Ellen said, under her breath. "The date is burnt into my mind."

"That's right," chuckled Peter, horribly. "Now look at the last letter of the packet—the last one written by your father to your mother—and tell me what is the date of it."

"The fifth of September," Ellen gasped "Peter! And on that day my father was supposed to be buried out there! What does it all mean? What strange mystery is here?"

"That," Peter whispered, "that, my dear young lady, is what we have got to find out. Ah, I thought I should interest you."