Читать книгу The 12.30 from Croydon - Freeman Wills Crofts - Страница 7

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Charles’s statement to his uncle that he had a lunch in York on the following day was the truth, and shortly after midday he took out his car and drove to the historic city. It was a fine summer’s day and the sun brought out vividly the rich colouring of the landscape. A breeze, blowing gently from the north, prevented it being too hot and cleared the atmosphere, making the various objects, far and near, stand out distinct and sharp cut as a series of superimposed cameos. Charles, lost in thought, drove slowly. For once he missed the charm of the outlook, but the purr of his tyres on the asphalted road sounded pleasant and companionable in his ears.

Thoughts of the Chamber of Commerce lunch, at which he was to be a guest, did not enter his mind. He was accustomed to speaking in public, and though he had made no preparation, he was sure that when the time came he would think of something adequate to say. It was to more personal matters that he gave his attention. When his mind was not filled with Una, it was occupied with his coming interview with his uncle. This interview would doubtless prove momentous and he must be careful not to bungle it.

How wretched, he thought, that there should be this need for tact in dealing with the old man. How much pleasanter it would be if he could go to Andrew and put his cards on the table and ask directly for what he wanted! But to do so would be disastrous. Andrew’s illness had warped his mind. He was now living in a sort of inner world, cut off from actualities, and he had failed, or had been unable, to keep in touch with recent world changes.

The lunch passed off as Charles had expected it would, and by three o’clock he had taken the road once again. Forty minutes later he drew up at the door of his uncle’s house.

The Moat was a building of character. It was old, but not so old as its title suggested. For about a hundred years it had looked out over the same rolling prospect as did Charles’s house, though Charles’s, being higher, had the better view. The Moat showed a sturdy square front to the world. It had no graces of moulding or cornice or mullioned window, but it had proportion and line and dignity and its stone had weathered to a mellow shade which blended with the foliage of the trees by which it was surrounded. It was a restful-looking house, suggesting a retreat from the world. Why it had been called The Moat, no one knew. It did not possess and never had possessed any such appendage. But one name is as good as another, and when Andrew Crowther took it over he made no change in this respect. In front, between the house and the road, was a fair expanse of well-cut lawn with some great beeches standing singly like magnificent sentinels on a placid guard. Behind, hidden from the approach, were the market gardens with which Andrew amused himself.

The chief glory of the little estate was, however, its lake, or rather its half-lake, because the other half belonged to Andrew’s neighbour. It was a fairly large sheet of water, about fifty acres in extent, and its particular charm was the timbering on its shores and its half-dozen well-wooded islands. Beech, oak, and elm surrounded it, fully grown trees, with their lower branches dipping to the water. It was supposed to be well stocked, and though no one at The Moat fished, there was a boat-house and a couple of boats.

Charles’s ring was answered by Weatherup.

‘Ah, Weatherup,’ Charles said, gazing on the man’s unsmiling countenance. ‘A beautiful afternoon.’

Weatherup admitted the fact, though with an evident mental reservation.

‘And how’s Mr Crowther to-day?’ went on Charles.

‘Pretty well, sir. He’s been lying down, but has just now got up.’

Charles followed the man into the hall. It was a good hall, generous in size and well proportioned, and the staircase which led up from it was simple and dignified. Andrew had furnished it with restraint and the effect was pleasing.

Andrew’s study was on the first floor, and Weatherup led the way upstairs. He had a silent, cat-like way of walking which irritated Charles. As an unconscious protest Charles stamped heavily and talked in a loud and cheery voice. But Weatherup had no ‘come back’. Charles’s conversational efforts were still-born even as he uttered them.

The study into which he was presently shown was a small room, panelled in black oak. In one of its two windows stood a table desk, for though Andrew had long since given up the attempt to work, he liked to pretend he had not. Otherwise the furniture was homely and comfortable. The carpet was thick and mossy, the leather-covered chairs were deep and well sprung, and the few prints on the walls were treasures.

In one of the arm-chairs sat the master of the house. He seemed to Charles even more fragile than the last time he had seen him, now several weeks past. Certainly Andrew was ageing very rapidly. Like most semi-invalids, he had ups and downs. Sometimes he was able to be about and enjoyed a drive into Cold Pickerby or even a journey to Town, at others he would sit moping in his room, neither going out nor seeing callers. To-day unfortunately seemed one of his bad days.

‘Well, Nephew Charles,’ he said, in his thin, reedy voice, holding up his hand flabbily to be shaken, ‘this is an unexpected honour to an old man, but I’m sure there’s a good reason for it.’

‘I hope it’s not so bad as all that, uncle,’ Charles said cheerily, shaking the hand. ‘How are you keeping to-day?’

‘It wasn’t to ask me that that you came out all this way this afternoon,’ the old man returned in his somewhat complaining tone. ‘You don’t claim it, I’m sure?’

‘I don’t,’ Charles admitted, smiling broadly. ‘I told you I wanted to see you on a little matter of business, and so I do. But that doesn’t say that I’m not interested to know how you are.’

‘I don’t suppose it does. It’s always a pleasure to meet with disinterested kindness. Well, Charles, what’s it all about?’

‘You haven’t told me how you are yet,’ Charles persisted with his ready smile.

‘That’s true, that’s true. Didn’t you ask Weatherup?’

Charles laughed outright. ‘Weatherup’s a good man for whom I’ve a lot of respect, but even you wouldn’t call him informative. I could get more out of an oyster.’

‘Well, well, well; I’m very well, if you must know. And while we’re on this matter of health, how are you yourself?’

‘Oh, me? Fine, thank you! I’ve just come from York; the Chamber of Commerce lunch. A lot of the men were asking about you.’

‘I hope you relieved their heartfelt anxiety.’

‘I said I was calling in on my way home, and they told me to remember them to you: Digby and Holt and Grainger and some others.’

‘I’m deeply touched: almost as much as they must have been.’

‘The old boy from Bathwick was there. Took too much and made a hell of a fool of himself as usual,’ and Charles went on to describe the function.

Andrew was interested, as Charles had hoped he would be. He knew the older members of the chamber and had attended many a lunch with them himself. As Charles also had hoped, he forgot his suspicions and chatted about old times in a maudlin way. But soon he came back to the present.

‘But you haven’t told me what you came for, Nephew Charles,’ he went on. ‘It wasn’t to talk about your lunch in York, now was it?’

‘No,’ Charles admitted. ‘You’re right; it wasn’t. It was something a good deal more personal and less pleasant. It’s about the business, uncle, and I’m sorry that it’s bad news.’

Andrew was now listening carefully. He made no reply, but sat waiting with an expression half sly, half silly.

‘I’m sorry to say,’ went on Charles, ‘that I’ve got into the same boat as nearly all my neighbours. Expenses are up and profits down with the lot of us. You heard about Bender & Truesett’s dividend, I suppose?’

‘Yes. Bender’s no fool. What have they been playing at?’

Charles decided to make the most of this. ‘Bender’s certainly no fool, as you say,’ he agreed. ‘But neither Bender nor Truesett nor anyone else in the concern could help themselves. It’s the slump, the slump only, and nothing but the slump.’

‘Have you got this slump idea on the brain, too?’ Andrew quavered. ‘I can tell you, my boy, that hard work on the right lines put into a business means prosperity, and slackness means failure. That has always been so and it always will. I suppose Bender is playing tennis and golf instead of minding his business.’

‘No, I really think that you’re wrong there, uncle. Bender and Truesett are a hard-working pair. Practically every firm is in the same boat. Look down your paper and you’ll see how receipts have shrunk in every direction.’

The old man chuckled childishly. ‘It’s only because nobody works now,’ he persisted. ‘Turning up in the middle of the day and weekends and all the rest of it. Why, when I went into business I was down at the works at six o’clock every morning and seldom went home before seven or eight at night. Do you do that, Nephew Charles?’

‘I’m afraid not, uncle,’ Charles returned good-humouredly. ‘As you say, nobody works those hours now. But we do work hard while we’re at it.’

‘Playing games,’ Andrew went on as if in a dream. ‘That’s all that seems to matter these days. Going off to Australia and the Lord knows where to play games instead of staying at home and minding their work. And then surprised if dividends are down.’

Charles made the best reply he could, but the old man had ridden off on his hobby and was not to be stopped. Presently Charles once more got command of the situation and explained his difficulties in detail.

‘Now, as you can see from all this, uncle,’ he went on, ‘I’ve put a lot of my own money into the business. Most people believe that the slump is passing and that if firms can hold on for a little longer they’ll be all right. That’s what I’m trying to do. Those men I have are a good crowd; I don’t want to get rid of any of them if I can help it. And so I’ve put in my own capital to keep things going. And now I want to do more,’ and he told of the new machines. ‘I want to put in these machines so as to have everything up to date with just the object that you recommended, to get whatever’s going.’

‘A most creditable desire, most creditable indeed,’ the old man muttered. ‘But surely a little belated? Would it not have been better to put in the machines before spending the money that was required to do it?’ The story had aroused Andrew and he had got sharp and suspicious.

‘It might have been wiser,’ Charles admitted, ‘though I’m afraid nothing would have made any difference. It comes to this really, that if I can’t get some more cash to keep things going, I’ll have to shut down.’

The old man seemed deeply pained. ‘Never,’ he declared, ‘have I had such a disappointment. I put my whole life into those works, and now you come and tell me that you’ve let them down. It’s a blow. Well, nephew, the least said’s the soonest mended. At least it was good of you to come and give me this disinterested information.’

Charles swore mentally. This was just what he had been afraid of. If Andrew refused him he was down and out. He gave a wry laugh.

‘I’m afraid, uncle,’ he said, ‘it’s not so disinterested as you seem to imagine. In fact, in these very special and unusual circumstances, I’ve come to ask your help.’

The expression of sly suspicion grew on Andrew Crowther’s countenance. ‘My advice, I suppose?’ he quavered. ‘I’m afraid it hasn’t been asked for a long time. The old man has been put on the shelf for a long time.’

‘I want your advice, uncle,’ Charles said good-humouredly, ‘but I hope you will let me have something else as well. I hoped indeed that you would see your way to advance me a little money.’

The old man nodded childishly. ‘A good idea. A good idea, indeed. You bungle your business and you want me to pay for your mistakes. A clever idea, Nephew Charles. You deserve to succeed.’

Charles with difficulty restrained his temper. ‘It’s not quite as bad as that,’ he returned pleasantly. ‘I don’t want a penny that you have not already promised me. Let me explain.’

The old man chuckled spitefully. ‘You want to get something for nothing, don’t you? We all want that. Nephew Charles; we all want that. But we don’t often get it.’

Charles forced himself to laugh. Patiently he explained his proposal.

‘You’re a great business man, Nephew Charles; you’ve shown that. And so you want the old man out of the way, do you?’ He leered with a sort of sly cunning. ‘If only the old dodderer were out of the way, you’d get it all.’

Charles was really annoyed. ‘Now, uncle, I don’t think that’s fair,’ he protested. ‘Not a single word that I’ve said could suggest such a thing, and you know it’s not true.’

Andrew seemed surprised. ‘Perhaps not; perhaps not,’ he admitted. ‘But why should I pay your expenses? Can you tell me that?’

‘I don’t suggest that, uncle, or at least only with the money you’ve already promised me. The small amount I want couldn’t make any difference to you.’

‘Very true, no doubt, but not an answer to my question. Is it now?’

‘No,’ Charles returned frankly, ‘I’m afraid it’s not. There’s no reason of course why you should, except that I’m your nephew and that as my uncle you might be willing to help me in a way that you would not do to an outsider.’

Andrew shook his head. ‘Sentiment and business, Nephew Charles. They won’t mix.’

‘Then there is the works; your works that you built up and made so successful. You would do a little to prevent them going down?’

‘I did prevent them going down—when they were mine. They’re not mine now.’

‘But what about the men? They’re good fellows. You know most of them yourself. You would do a little to prevent them losing their jobs? Come now, uncle. It’s a very small thing that I ask.’

To his intense disappointment Charles realized that the old man was getting tired. The unwonted discussion had upset him. He suddenly seemed exhausted. His whole body sagged and he lay back helplessly in his chair. For a moment he tried to speak, while a sharp spasm of dismay passed over Charles. Then he murmured ‘Weatherup!’

Charles rang the bell. Suspiciously soon the door was opened and the saturnine face of the attendant appeared.

‘Mr Crowther,’ said Charles quickly. ‘I’m afraid he’s not well. See to him, will you?’

Weatherup glanced at his employer, then, crossing to a table near the old man’s chair, poured some medicine into a glass and held it to his lips. Andrew drank and in a moment recovered.

‘Did you think you were going to get your money?’ he sneered at Charles. ‘Not this time. There’s some life in the old dodderer still.’

‘I admit you gave me a fright,’ Charles returned. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve tired you with my talk.’

‘Oh, not at all, not at all. I’m always grateful for a disinterested visit. That’ll do, Weatherup, Mr Charles wants to talk business.’

‘No,’ said Charles, rising, while Weatherup silently disappeared. ‘I’ve said all I have to say. You’ll think over the matter, uncle? It’s the first time I have ever asked a favour, and if you can see your way to help me, it will be the last. For the sake of the men and the works, if not for my own, I ask you.’

The old man shrugged. The medicine seemed to have given him an artificial stimulus and he seemed stronger than before, while his pallid face had taken a more healthy colour.

‘Sentiment, Nephew Charles; all sentiment. I know all about it. I’ve been stuck, not once, but many times, for money. Did I depend on my friends? I depended on myself, and that’s what you must do. It wouldn’t be helping you to pay that money. I won through by hard work. You do the same and you’ll live to bless me.’

The stimulus of the medicine now seemed to be passing off and Andrew sank back into his chair as if exhausted again.

‘Come and let me hear how you get on,’ he murmured, touching the bell on the arm of his chair. Weatherup silently appeared and he went on: ‘I’m tired. I’ll have a little sleep, I think. Get tea for Mr Charles and tell Mrs Pollifex.’ Once again he pushed out his claw-like hand. ‘Good-bye, Nephew Charles; and let me know how you get on.’

Charles’s disappointment was bitter as he followed Weatherup from the room. The ready way of escape from his troubles, to which he had been so hopefully looking forward, had failed him. The old man had taken up just the attitude which he had feared he would. Charles could not exactly blame him. It was old age and illness that were really at fault.

But though his disappointment was so keen, Charles did not entirely lose heart. The idea of making an unaccustomed move had come too quickly for his uncle. Andrew’s natural reaction would be to oppose anything new. But there was a reasonable chance that as he thought over the situation his opposition would decrease.

It would, Charles saw immediately, be a capital mistake to show any signs of annoyance. He therefore controlled himself and told Weatherup he would be glad of tea and that he hoped Mrs Pollifex could see him.

Penelope Pollifex was Andrew’s sister, the widow of a not very successful London stockbroker. When her husband had died, leaving her badly off, Andrew had offered her and her daughter Margot a home in return for running his house. The arrangement had worked well. Mrs Pollifex had carried out her part of the bargain efficiently. Andrew inhabited his own suite of rooms and was not troubled by matters domestic, while otherwise the house was to all intents and purposes Mrs Pollifex’s. With the housekeeping allowance Andrew made her and her own money she was comfortably off, and entertained her friends as if Andrew no longer existed.

Weatherup led the way downstairs and threw open a door. ‘Mr Charles Swinburn,’ he intoned in melancholy accents. Charles passed into the room.

Like the hall, it was spacious and well proportioned, lit by three windows reaching almost from ceiling to floor, and panelled and floored in oak. In an easy chair reclined a well-preserved and elegantly dressed woman of between fifty and sixty. Though her appearance formed a striking contrast to that of the venerable wreck upstairs, there was something in the grey eyes and the set of the features which proclaimed their relationship. Mrs Pollifex suggested what Andrew might have been before his illness, looking, as she did, a woman of the world, hard-headed, resourceful, and suavely competent. As Charles entered she looked up from her book.

‘Hello, Aunt Penelope,’ said Charles. ‘I’ve not seen you for a month of Sundays.’

‘Not my fault, I think, Charles,’ she answered with a smile. ‘How are you?’ Without getting up, she extended a well-manicured hand. Charles shook it dutifully.

‘No, I’m afraid it’s mine,’ he admitted as he dropped into a chair. ‘Been pretty busy lately. Things are difficult at present.’

‘I suppose you’re feeling it like everyone else?’

‘I am rather. Can’t hope to escape, you know. Everyone’s in the same boat.’

‘I know my dividends have dropped badly enough.’ She shrugged daintily. ‘However, if we go bankrupt we’ll have the satisfaction of all doing it together. You were up with your uncle?’

‘I was. I hadn’t seen him for some time.’

‘How did you think he was?’

Charles hesitated momentarily. ‘Not too well, I’m afraid. In fact, he gave me quite a fright. Got some kind of attack; I thought he was going to collapse altogether. He was just able to call for Weatherup. Weatherup gave him some medicine which pulled him round.’

‘He’s getting those attacks more frequently. I notice a change in him. He’s certainly weaker than he was in the winter; weaker both in mind and body.’

‘I thought so, too. He seemed less able to grasp things.’

‘He’s been very depressed lately. I think it’s his indigestion.’

Charles made a grimace. ‘A beastly thing,’ he declared. ‘Enough to depress anyone. I know what it’s like.’

‘You, Charles? You’re too young to be troubled with indigestion. What’s happened to you?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Not enough exercise, I expect. Uncle usen’t to be troubled with it, surely? I don’t seem to remember.’

‘Yes, he’s had it for years, but it’s only lately that it’s got so bad. Then someone put him on to some pills which have helped him.’

‘I must find out what they are.’

‘They’re one of those patent medicines that are advertised everywhere. The doctor doesn’t know he’s got them or he’d probably be annoyed. Your uncle takes them regularly, one after every meal. Says they do him a lot of good.’

‘Those patent things often do for a time, but you generally pay for it afterwards. Where’s Margot?’

‘Gone to play tennis. She’ll be sorry to have missed you.’

Margot Pollifex was Charles’s cousin, Mrs Pollifex’s only daughter. She was a pretty young woman of some four and twenty, with luxurious tastes. Hating Cold Pickerby, she looked down on its inhabitants and its society. She wanted to live in London, and it rankled as a grievance that she had never been presented. As a result, popularity was not her strong suit locally, but the young woman had a certain caustic wit which was calculated to make a party ‘go’, and hostesses were therefore glad to have her at their functions.

Charles did not stay long at The Moat. With what he had on his mind small talk was an effort to him. As he started up his car the load of care which for the last half-hour he had so resolutely banished from his thoughts, descended once more upon him. With this new and bitter disappointment he felt he was becoming desperate. He did not know where to turn. Nowhere upon his horizon did there seem a ray of light.