Читать книгу The Mystery Of Crocksands - Fred M. White - Страница 5

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Ellen stared at Peter Gabb in blank amazement. The sordid, mean street and the weight of trouble on her mind lifted now as she began to grasp the possibility of what the old man was saying.

"What does it mean, Peter?" Ellen asked breathlessly.

"Ah! that we have to find out," Gabb grinned. "There's a vile conspiracy somewhere, and we have got to get to the bottom of it. And what does it prove in the first place?"

Gabb leant eagerly forward and placed his face close to that of his companion.

"If it has any meaning at all, it proves that my father was alive three days after he was supposed to have made away with himself."

"You have hit it exactly, miss," Peter muttered. "And this particular letter isn't one of those written to your mother, but one sent long after her death. Look and you will see that it is addressed to the firm of Melrose and Clapstone. That was at the time when Mr. Melrose was very ill, and the matter must have been attended to by Clapstone. He put this letter away with the rest of the packet, and lost sight of it—probably did not require them again. We have a long way to go yet, but one thing we know now—your father was alive three days after his body was alleged to have been taken out of the Mediterranean. That's something, isn't it?"

"It frightens me," Ellen confessed. "But possibly my dear father made a mistake in the date. It was just the careless sort of thing that he would do. If we had further proof——"

"And we've got it," Gabb hissed. "That letter, like the rest, is in its original envelope. Look at the postmark."

"You are right again, Peter," Ellen said, after a brief inspection of the cover. "What do you make of it?"

"I don't make anything of it yet," Peter said, cautiously. "We are only groping our way at present. Now let us go over the ground. Your father was next in succession to the family title and the estates called Crocksands Abbey that went with it. If he had lived, to-day he would be Sir Gordon Bland, and the owner of one of the finest properties in Devonshire. If he had had a son instead of only one daughter—yourself—all this trouble would never have happened. You have been long enough in the employ of Mr. Melrose to know something about the law of entail, and Crocksands is entailed property. Do you know what that means, miss?"

"I—think so," Ellen said. "Property that descends in regular succession and cannot be left to anybody outside the family."

"Well, yes, in a manner of speaking. But entail can be broken and the property disposed of, provided that the owner of the property and the next heir, if he is of age, agree on that course and sign a deed to that effect. And I happen to know that some sort of arrangement was on foot between the late Sir George Bland-Merton and his heir, your father. And why? Because your father had no son and, as you were nineteen at the time, did not look like having one. The next in succession to your father was Christopher Wrath, and the old gentleman hated him like poison. Of course, if your father died without a son nothing could prevent Wrath from succeeding to the title, but if the entail was broken then your father could leave Crocksands to you, and Wrath could only have the barren honour, with nothing to keep it up on. I know that deed was actually drafted, because I once had it in my hand, and if it was ever executed then you are mistress of Crocksands to-day."

"What are you saying?" Ellen asked wildly. "I cannot possibly grasp it."

"And yet it might be," Gabb went on. "If that deed was ever executed, Sir Christopher Wrath is now living in your house and spending your income. And mind, the deed was drafted by Mr. Clapstone during the two years Mr. Melrose was getting over his bad motor accident. And I am pretty sure the old baronet put his signature to it. Probably the document was sent out to your father to sign when he was in the Mediterranean, which would be soon after Sir George Bland-Merton died. I can find that out at the office to-morrow by looking up the old letter books. And now, miss, I am going to ask you a few impertinent questions. You have met Sir Christopher, and——"

"There you are wrong," Ellen said. "I have never seen the present head of the family. He was smuggled out to Australia in disgrace about the time I was born, and so we never met. His name was taboo at Crocksands, you understand."

"I had forgotten that," Gabb muttered. "Not that it matters very much either way. I want you to remember what sort of a character Sir Christopher enjoys. The man is a thorough scoundrel. And he was the friend of another scoundrel, Walter Clapstone. I found out that Sir Christopher and Clapstone were up to some game at the time the former was supposed to be in Australia when all the time he was hanging about the city under an alias. What the game was I didn't know, but I do know that Clapstone was in it. This was at the time when Mr. Melrose was in hospital nearly two years over that motor accident of his, and Clapstone was making ducks and drakes of the old business. Then all of a sudden it was announced that Wrath had come back from Australia with a fortune, and he swaggered about the place giving himself no end of airs. This happened just about the time the old baronet died. Wrath and Clapstone were as thick as thieves, and they were always together in the office before Wrath got hold of his so-called yacht, and the next thing I heard was that your father was off to Monte Carlo with him. Lord only knows what evil spirit persuaded Mr. Gordon Bland to place himself in the hands of that ruffian, who wanted to get him out of the way, because he was not only at his wits' end for money, but also because if anything happened to your father the whole of the family property went to the black sheep of the flock, to say nothing of the title. Now, miss, do you begin to see the risk your father was running?"

"It is like a nightmare." Ellen shuddered. "But if you thought there might be trouble, why didn't you——"

"I didn't realise it at the moment," Peter said. "Besides, I had the office on my mind. Everything had been kept from Mr. Melrose during his illness, and at last I went to the nursing home where he was recuperating and told him everything. Ill as he was, he came back and kicked Clapstone into the street, and for nearly two years he fought for the good name of the firm. Luckily, he was a bachelor and had saved money, or he never could have pulled round. By that time your father was long since dead, and not until I found out who you were, miss, did I give another thought to Wrath. And I had nothing to go on until I found those letters."

For the moment there was nothing to be said or done. It was a restless night that Ellen passed, and she was pale and tired and listless over her work the next day. In her honest way she did her best to put this whirlwind of revelation out of her mind, and she was sitting in the private office busy over some correspondence when the announcement of Sir Christopher Wrath's name, followed by that individual himself, brought it all back again.

He came, big and black and swaggering in, a fine figure of a man, with more than his share of the family good looks, and his frank glance of admiration brought the blood flaming to the girl's cheeks. Chris. Wrath, as he called himself, was a popular figure with a certain type of woman, and he was quite sure of his ground where the sex was concerned.

"I beg your pardon," he smiled. "I had no idea Melrose had a lady here. It is not all business in the City, I see."

"I am Mr. Melrose's private secretary and typist," Ellen said, coldly. "I will tell him that you are here."

Sir Christopher Wrath bowed and smiled, not in the least rebuffed by Ellen's manner. He was not that sort of man. He lounged in a chair until Melrose came in and over-civilly received him.

"Egad, Melrose," he said, offensively, "but you know a pretty girl when you see one. Quite the angel unawares, what? Looked like a real thoroughbred to me, you sly dog."

"I suppose you are alluding to Miss Marchant," Melrose replied, frostily. "She is a lady, and perhaps when I tell that you will be good enough to stop and come to business."

"Oh, you need not get on your hind legs like that," Wrath said. "I know you city men are not all you pretend to be. Still, she is a devilish pretty girl, and—oh, all right. Now, look here, Melrose, I came to see you over that Crocksands business. The fact is I am infernally hard up, though I told you that when I called the other day. I want you to raise me, say, twenty thousand pounds on the property."

Melrose looked up at his visitor sourly. He was a fine figure of a man, was Sir Christopher Wrath, in his beautiful town clothes, but it seemed to Melrose that the pirate was hidden away behind the perfect morning coat and immaculate tie.

"Oh, indeed," he said, drily. "It is no business of mine, of course, but for a man who has comparatively recently returned from Australia with a fortune——"

"You can cut all that out," Wrath said. "Things are devilish bad in Australia just now, and I don't want to realise. If I do, it will be at a big loss, and I prefer to mortgage Crocksands Abbey for the money I need."

"Well, you can't do it," Melrose said, with an air of satisfaction that he took no pains to conceal.

"The devil!" Wrath exclaimed. "And why?"

"Because you are merely the tenant for life. Oh, I know you are Sir Christopher Wrath and all that, but don't forget that the property is strictly entailed. You have no more right to mortgage it than I have. Of course, if you were a married man with a son of age, then between you the two of you could cut off the entail and sell the place, if you liked. But until that happens you can only enjoy the income. Of course, you might borrow money from the Jews by insuring your life for a large sum and securing the payment of the policies on the revenue. But that would be a very costly affair. Oh, you need not swear—any lawyer in the city will tell you exactly the same thing."

"But it seems ridiculous," Wrath cried. "Of course, I shall marry some day, and in all probability have a son. But suppose anything happens to me, who takes my place?"

"Miss Bland," Melrose explained. "I mean the daughter of the late Gordon Bland, the man who committed suicide on your yacht in the Mediterranean. It's rather a strange thing, Wrath, that your predecessor, Sir George Bland-Merton, had made arrangements with his heir, Gordon Bland, to cut off the entail not long before the younger man took his life. And, to be quite plain, that was being done so that Crocksands Abbey might go to Miss Ellen Bland. The old gentleman couldn't prevent you coming into the title of course, but he could prevent you coming into the family estates."

"The old blighter always hated me," Wrath growled.

"Well, hadn't he good reason?" Melrose retorted. "Let us be quite candid, Wrath. You robbed him and forged his name, though he had helped you a score of times; and after you were more or less deported to Australia on the understanding that you didn't come back, Sir George made up his mind what to do."

"But the deed was never signed," Wrath exclaimed.

"Ah, that I cannot say. I know it was drawn up, and I have every reason to believe that Sir George's signature was appended to it. Very possibly it was sent out to the Mediterranean for Gordon Bland to sign. But, unfortunately, this happened just at the time when I was at death's door over that motor accident of mine. For two years I lay in a hospital, during which time my late partner, Walter Clapstone, was ruining the business. But you know all about that. I came back just in time to save the honour of the old firm, and it cost me every penny I had to do it. Then I kicked Clapstone out into the street——"

"By the way, what became of him?" Wrath interrupted.

"I neither know nor care. The man was an utter scoundrel, and I was glad to see the end of him. I told him if he showed his face in London again I would have him struck off the rolls, and all I know is that he didn't take out his certificate again, so that he is no longer entitled to call himself a solicitor."

"And Cousin Ellen Bland, where is she?"

Melrose looked up into the face of his companion.

"I can't tell you," he said. "She felt her father's disgrace terribly. She refused to see or receive help from friends who would have done anything for her. I suppose she is getting her living somewhere. And besides, if I knew where she was, I certainly would not tell you."