Читать книгу The Mystery Of Crocksands - Fred M. White - Страница 6

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Wrath laughed unpleasantly. It seemed to him that he could see exactly what was passing in the mind of James Melrose.

"Ah, you think, perhaps, I should make some sort of arrangement with her, I suppose?" he said.

"You could not do that," Melrose retorted. "Miss Bland would only come into the Crocksands property if anything happened to you, and not then if you were married and had a son. But if that deed cutting off the entail has been signed by both parties, then, Sir Christopher—then you are no more the master of Crocksands than I am. If Gordon Bland had signed it on the very day of his sudden suicide, and the deed can be found, then Miss Bland is the owner of the property. It would come to her as her father's representative. In that case you would merely be Sir Christopher Wrath, without a penny from the family estates, and you would have to fall back upon that property of yours in Australia. But surely Clapstone warned you that this might happen? I know you used to correspond with him, and I know that you were both at Rugby together. Didn't Clapstone write and tell you that there was every chance of the entail being barred?"

"Certainly he didn't," Wrath said, and Melrose knew by instinct that the man was lying. "Why should he? Until that unfortunate affair in the Mediterranean which nobody regrets more than I do, I never had the slightest suspicion that I should come into the title and the property. Gordon Bland was a young man with a young wife, and, though his only child was a girl, there was no reason why he shouldn't have half a dozen sons. Why, when I came home three years ago I never gave the Crocksands succession a single thought. Bland and myself were fairly friendly, and as to his wife, I might say——"

"You might say nothing," Melrose interrupted, sourly. "I may be your family solicitor, or I may not. You are a damned scoundrel, and you were the cause of all the trouble that led up to Gordon Bland's domestic unhappiness, and, indirectly, that poor woman's death lies at your door."

In spite of his bravado, Wrath winced.

"Well, that is pretty plain speaking," he said, with a forced laugh. "If you know so much, probably you can tell me what it was that caused Gordon Bland to take his own life."

"Perhaps I can," Melrose retorted. "At any rate, I may have my own suspicions. They are only suspicions, and I am too busy a man to follow them up. But I can tell you this—there was a good deal of talk in the clubs at the time, and there are several of Bland's old friends who do not scruple to say that Sir Christopher Wrath could throw a light on that tragic Monte Carlo story if he chose. But I am not going to waste my time arguing the point. I am delighted to be able to tell you that you cannot raise any money on the Crocksands property. There is not a solicitor in London who would lend you a penny on it, and, what's more, I don't believe it belongs to you at all. I feel convinced that if Miss Bland had her rights she would be mistress of that fine old place in Devon. If you don't believe me, find where Clapstone is hiding himself, and he will tell you the same thing. However, I can't help you, and there is an end of the matter."

With this somewhat contemptuous dismissal Wrath turned on his heel and left the office. Outwardly he appeared to be the easy, prosperous man about town, with not a single trouble in the world; but, inwardly, he was boiling with rage, and full of murderous feelings against the man who had used him so despitefully. He had come there that morning perfectly sure of his ground, and certain that the next few days would see him in possession of the money that he so sorely needed. He posed amongst his friends and acquaintances as a reformed character, who had made a huge fortune in Australia, which he had come home to enjoy when once he had settled himself down to the life of a country gentleman. But when old Peter Gabb had told Ellen that Wrath had crept back furtively from Australia years ago with hardly a rag to his back, he had stated no more than the truth. By some dark means, or it might be by pure good fortune, Wrath had become Sir Christopher and the owner of one of the finest estates in North Devon; but beyond that he was without a penny in the world. Moreover, he was deeply in debt in connection with one or two sinister speculations of his, and, unless he could find a large sum of money within a comparatively short time, then the situation was ugly indeed.

Therefore, he had come in his swaggering fashion that morning to James Melrose with the intention of raising a mortgage on the family property, and what the lawyer had told him had been something in the nature of a knockout blow. Not that he doubted the truth of Melrose's statement for a moment. The statement of the case was much too plain for that. It was clear enough, therefore, that he had nothing to expect so far as the revenue of Crocksands Abbey was concerned.

And then, again, there was the disturbing information with regard to Gordon Bland's daughter Ellen. Wrath had never seen her; he had no idea what she was like; and, moreover, she seemed to have vanished. No doubt she was getting her own living somewhere in some obscure capacity, perhaps as a governess, or possibly in some business office. Girls were very independent nowadays, and most of them capable of getting their own living. If this girl could be found then possibly something might be done with her. That deed cutting off the entail might be in existence, as Melrose had suggested, and, if so, Ellen Bland might know where to put her hand upon it. It was more than probable that she had no idea of its value, and if Wrath could get it into his own hands then he would know how to deal with an ignorant girl.

As he walked moodily along the streets in the direction of his town flat in Merton-gardens he was going over the series of events which three years ago had ended in the disgrace and suicide of Gordon Bland in the yacht off Monte Carlo. Ostensibly, it was Wrath's own yacht, which he had hired in one of his fleeting periods of prosperity, with the idea of impressing certain simple rich people with whom he had scraped acquaintance and robbing them at his leisure. This he had duly accomplished, about the same time that he persuaded his cousin Gordon Bland to join him soon after the death of the latter's wife, and what happened afterwards Wrath did not care to dwell upon. He was an utterly abandoned scoundrel, but there were things that even the vilest criminal does not care to remember, even in his most reckless moments.

He sat in the luxuriously appointed dining-room of his flat late that evening after he had dined at home. It would take all his cunning and cleverness to get himself out of his present mess, and no one realised it better than he did. On the table in front of him was a pile of documents, mostly bills, and all of them pressing for immediate attention. And yet a few hours ago, he had regarded these as mere trifles. He would raise a large sum of money by a mortgage on Crocksands Abbey, and with this in his possession would discharge his pressing need, and launch out into a speculation which promised a wonderful return. Your criminal is always sanguine, and Wrath was no exception to the rule.

If he could only get hold of that girl! He was a man usually successful where the fair sex was concerned, and, besides, with that intimate inner knowledge of his he could persuade her to do almost anything, especially if she in the least resembled her mother. For there had been a time when the late Mrs. Bland and he had been on more than friendly terms, and if there had been a woman in his selfish life for whom he cared more than himself, that woman had been Ellen's mother. But the family had interfered. Wrath had been packed off in disgrace to Australia, and Mary Mallory had married Wrath's rival. All that was many years ago, but it rose clearly enough before Wrath's mind as he sat there late into the night moodily drinking and smoking. And presently it seemed to him that he could hear a bell ringing somewhere in the remote part of the flat. The servants had long gone to bed, and with a muttered oath, Wrath rose to answer the call himself. He did not want to see anyone at that time of the evening, and if the man at the front door proved to be one of his own associates, then he would make short work of the late caller.

He threw open the door and looked out into the lighted corridor. A man was standing there, tall and gaunt and haggard, pale of feature, and ragged as to his hair, with a once well-made suit of clothes, which now hung about him in greasy rags. But there was a sort of uneasy, jaunty impudence about him, stamped on the pinched features, and a smile at once insolent and fawning.

"Well, Chris, how goes it?" the nomad asked. "For God's sake let me come inside and give me a drink."

"Good Lord!" Wrath cried. "Good Lord, it's Wal Clapstone! The very man I wanted to see! Come inside, and I will give you as much to drink as you want. Never did I think I should be as glad to see anybody as I am to see you."