Читать книгу Sydney Cove - J H M Abbott - Страница 8

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THERE was a November fog in Holborn when Lieutenant Patrick Cartwright turned out of the gloom of the busy thoroughfare into the deeper murkiness of Gray's Inn. A day or two after that tragic evening at Magnus Hall, he had received an intimation from the authorities that his first step in rank had been accorded him. It was the only bright incident in a week that was the unhappiest in his short life.

Beneath the archway of the entrance to the Inn, it was as dark as the blackest midnight, and he groped his way with difficulty into the square, on one side of which he sought the offices of his uncle's solicitors, Messrs. Partridge and Cooper, who were now his own, and with whom, if he could hope to find them, he had important business this particular morning. It was damp and chill in the square, and the opaque brown mist, with its slightly acid taste and mouldy smell, hid every wall and window, and muffled all sounds, so that he had not progressed many paces before he recognised the inevitable fact that he was lost.

"——- it!" he muttered to himself. "It has been hard enough to get here from the Golden Cross, and now, it seems, I'm as far away as ever!"

Ten minutes or more he groped his way through the fog, without ever, as it were, reaching any shore. At length he called loudly for assistance, in the hope that some friendly pilot might chance to be at hand. Almost immediately a glow of bright light suffused the turgid vapors on his right-hand side, he became aware that a door had opened in some unseen wall beside him, and in the blurred rectangle he was able dimly to make out the form of a stout being who answered his call.

"Hullo, there, hullo!" Mr. Cartwright thought he had never heard a more welcome sound than the bellow that echoed through the archway—for he recognised that he was back, after all his wanderings, near to the Holborn entrance.

"Hullo yourself," he called back. "Who are you, and have you any notion how I can find my way to Messrs. Partridge and Cooper? Their offices are on the side of the square almost directly opposite to the gateway. Is this the porter's lodge?"

"Aye, master—ye've travelled back to where ye came in. Bide there a moment, an' I'll find the way for ye. 'Tis middlin' bleak, an' no mistake about it."

In a few moments the glow from within the lodge seemed to overflow out into the darkness of the archway, and the burly porter stood beside Mr. Cartwright, with a flaring link in his hand—the only sort of light, even in these electric days, that seems to have any influence with a London fog.

"Come now, master—we shan't be long now. Will ye please to folly me? Take a grip o' my coat tails, else ye'll be adrift again. Partridge an' Cooper, ye said? Ah, that's an easy one. We'll not be long findin' them out."

With some wonderful sense of direction which Patrick envied, the porter steered straight across through the fog. He never hesitated, and in less than a minute pushed open a door and guided his passenger in. Dimly, Patrick could perceive a staircase leading up to a feeble glow of light. In his gratitude for this deliverance from the fog, he presented the porter with half-a-crown, and so earned the esteem of that cheerful individual as to interest him in the problem of Mr. Cartwright's escape from the Inn when he should have concluded his business.

"How long will ye be, master? I'll come back, if ye'll say when ye'll want me. An hour's time? I don't mind a-waitin' a few minutes for sich a free-handed gent as you be, Cap'n. Not by no means!"

Groping his way up the dim staircase, which was faintly lighted by a dim oil lamp on the landing above, Patrick Cartwright found himself outside the offices of Messrs. Partridge and Cooper. Knocking at the door, he was bidden to enter from within, and did so.

The large room at the other side of the door was yellow with the infiltrating fog, and candles gleamed dully on each desk and table occupied by the half-dozen clerks who made up the staff of the firm. He inquired for Mr. Partridge, and a rubicund gentleman who was bending over a ledger at the back of the office turned and looked at him. A jolly-looking fellow he was, in buckskin pantaloons and pumps, and he smiled in a friendly way as he advanced towards the door.

"Hey, hey—what's that?" he said. "Partridge's dead—been dead ten years. Quite dead. No prospect of his coming to life, either. But I'm Cooper, my dear sir—John Cooper, at your service. In fact, I may say, I'm Partridge and Cooper. What can we do for you, sir?"

"My name is Cartwright, sir—Patrick Cartwright. I think you were expecting me to call?"

"Hey, hey! Oh, ah—yes. Mr. Cartwright. Mr. Patrick Cartwright. Lieutenant Cartwright, of the Royal Marines. Like your mother. Indeed, yes—very like. Not so like Captain Dick—but a little, a little. Do come in, Mr. Patrick. This way, if you please—my private room. Hey, hey—delighted to see you. Delighted."

With a great display of natural good humor, the stout little gentleman threw open a door, and signed to the young officer to enter. It was a cosy apartment, with two arm-chairs in front of a blazing fire, a fine carpet upon the floor, a big pedestal desk in the middle of the room, and bright with the light of quite a dozen candles that were disposed on mantelshelf, desk, and various points of vantage.

"Hey, hey—sit down. Make yourself comfortable. Plenty to say to me, I've no doubt. And I've something to say to you. Have they got that villain yet? No! Too bad, too bad—he should be disembowelled. Horrible crime—utter baseness. When did you come to town, Mr. Patrick?"

"Yesterday evening, Mr. Cooper. I am on my way to Portsmouth, but am staying in London for a few days. I have come to see you as early as I possibly could. There was much to attend to at Magnus Hall, as you might suppose."

"Hey, hey—yes, no doubt. Pray sit down in front of the fire, Mr. Patrick. You are extraordinarily like your mother. A dear woman. We will talk matters over. Frightful weather—detestable fog. Hope you are well?"

Patrick seated himself in one of the big chairs before the fire, and Mr. Cooper installed himself in the other. He seemed to be a cheery soul, not in the least like the typical attorney of the time—who was very much the dry-as-dust man of business—but belonged to a class with which our hero had had hitherto little acquaintance. Mr. Cooper might have looked his part better as the host of some cheerful inn, or the chairman of some festive and hilarious gathering, where there was singing, and tobacco smoke, and many bowls of steaming punch. His jovial manner put Patrick at his ease at once, and he formed a notion that whatever business Mr. Cooper might be called upon to transact, it would not be done drearily.

"Well, now," the little lawyer began, "tell me exactly what happened that terrible evening. Hey, hey—never had such a shock in my life as when I had your letter. But you didn't tell me much, you know. Quite natural, indeed. Too upset—too much to do. Fearful calamity. And to think that the villain should have escaped! Had you no chance of laying hands upon him?"

"It seemed to happen in an instant," said Patrick. "My uncle was in the act of telling me of my father and Mrs. Mortimer, and was going on to say something of this fellow, when we heard old Marvel trying to keep someone out who insisted upon seeing my uncle. Of course, he at once recognised the voice of the stranger, and jumped up from his chair in a passion, calling on me to follow him. We went out into the library, and Mortimer immediately demanded money to escape to France. He had had some kind of row with a man at the inn in the village the night before, and the man had died as the result of the fight which ensued. Marvel had heard of the affair—though not that the man was dead—and had told us about it when we came into the study at dusk."

"Hey, hey! Well—and what then?"

"My uncle was furious at his having forced his way in, reminded him that he had allowed him to go to America unmolested, after robbing him and forging his name, said that he would not give him a penny, and commanded him to leave the house."

"Yes?"

"And then it happened. He flashed a pistol, fired at my uncle, and killed him immediately. He dropped dead where he stood. Mortimer made a run for the window, jumped clean through the glass, and escaped to the garden. I sprang after him. As I jumped, he fired a second pistol at me—fortunately missing me and ran off into the darkness. I followed for a little way in the direction I thought he had gone, but it was too dark. I lost him. We traced him in the morning, down the bank of the Medway. I think he must have swum across, and made his way to the coast—possibly to Deal or Dover. At any rate, not a trace of him was found in the neighborhood. I fear he has escaped!"

"And the colonel—he was quite dead? Hey, hey!"

"When I gave up the chase, I hurried back to the house to see to my uncle—but there was nothing to be done—he was quite dead. Shot clean through the heart. I sent Marvel to summon assistance, and, with the aid of the groom and the gardener, we carried the body upstairs, and laid it in his bedroom. Then though it was no use—I sent to the village for Dr. Simmons, who, when he came, could only confirm my uncle's death. It was a fearfully sudden business—I don't suppose the ruffian had been in the house five minutes when the murder was done."

"Hey, hey! Dear me—dreadful! What unspeakable wickedness and ingratitude. To kill that good man, who had done so much for him! Terrible! But he was a bad breed, Dick Mortimer. Had all his father's bad qualities, and none of his good. And every one of his mother's bad one's, too. She had no good qualities, that woman—unless her beauty might count as such—and it was her most fatal snare. Of course, I came in contact with her more than once—and in some respects she was able to get on the soft side of me. But Bob Partridge was always too much for her."

"Your partner?"

"Yes. A sour fellow, Bob. Not a bit like me—a pitiful tale always moves me to some foolishness or other. Bob could listen to anything, and then be as disagreeable as if he had never heard a word. The lovely Sarah found him a thorn in her side more than once, I assure you."

For a little while neither of them spoke. Mr. Cooper lay back in his chair, gazing into the fire with knitted brow, as though he pondered something that was not altogether an agreeable consideration. Patrick looked at the blank, brown oblong of the window framing the darkness of the fog. At length the lawyer asked a question.

"Tell me, Patrick—you do not mind the familiarity, do you? I've known of you since you wore a pinafore, and your dear mother used to call me Johnny boy. Tell me this. Did your uncle show you his new will?"

"Yes. That evening, just before his death. He took it out of his desk to explain to me that he had left me all his property. We were coming up here on the following day, where he was going to sign it."

Mr. Cooper sat up, a startled look on his plump countenance.

"Hey, hey—what's that? Do you mean to tell me that the will is not signed?"

"No. As I've said, he meant to bring it up to your office here, in order to complete it."

With a look of consternation, the little man rose to his feet, and took a couple of turns up and down the room before he spoke.

"Hey, hey—how unfortunate! Good heavens—that he should have been so careless! A will, my dear sir, should be signed as soon as possible after it has been drawn up—no man ever knows what the next half-hour is going to do to him. Your poor uncle is a case in point. Lord—if he had only signed it as soon as he received it!"

Patrick stared at Mr. Cooper, a little astonished at the sudden change that had come over him. All his jollity had disappeared. He was troubled and anxious, and looked sorrowfully at his young client. He took up his stand on the hearth-rug, and stared down compassionately at Patrick.

"Hey, hey—this is bad! Very bad. The worst possible thing that you could have told me."

"How so, Mr. Cooper?"

"Well, it simply means this. You have nothing."

"Nothing?"

Mr. Cooper nodded solemnly. He took a bunch of keys from his pocket, and opened an iron-bound chest that stood in a corner of the room. From it he took a folded document—Patrick recalled his uncle's action on the night of the tragedy—and held it open before him, studying it gravely.

"Hey, hey!" he sighed—Mr. Cooper expressed his feelings completely by the tone of his "hey, heys." "Yes, all in order. Duly signed, witnessed, and fully completed. Unassailable—quite unquestionable. Dear me—what a comedy! What a bitter comedy."

He sat down again, folding up the parchment.

"It is thirty years," he said, "since Colonel Cartwright made this will—nearly twenty since he determined to alter it. And it's never been altered. Time after time—year after year—almost on every occasion when we discussed business, I have begged him to let me take instructions for the new will that he had decided upon making after your father's death, when you came into his charge. But he hated business, and was, I fear, a little prone to procrastination in all things. Somehow, it was always put off, on one excuse or another. Only lately, when I jokingly threatened to wash my hands of his affairs altogether, was I able to prevail upon him to take the matter seriously, and to devote a few days to seeing how his possessions stood. A will was drawn up, which you have seen at Magnus Hall, by which you came into everything he had. It is a terrible misfortune that he did not sign it at once. Hey, hey—terrible! For this old one I have in my hand states unambiguously that all he had—it was not very much then was to go to Richard Cartwright, known as Richard Mortimer. And so this ruffian who has murdered him is his heir. He will never be able to enjoy it—since the very proof of his identity is all that is requisite to ensure his hanging—but no more will you. Indeed, Patrick, I am truly sorry—but there it is! Hey, hey!"