Читать книгу The Secret of the Barbican and Other Stories - J. S. Fletcher - Страница 18

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From that evening onward the sub-dean of Wyechester watched the senior verger with close observation and a curiosity which was almost whimsical. It seemed to him that Linkwater became graver, more serious, more solemn. He went about his duties with an added dignity. Visitors to the cathedral said that one of the most impressive things to be met with in the course of a tour around England was to be conducted over Wyechester and its cloister by Linkwater. Everybody who attended the cathedral services said that it did one’s heart good to see Linkwater and his silver mace head the procession of choristers and clergy—not even the bishop himself was more stately. Linkwater indeed was an ornament to his profession. He was the fine ideal of vergers and a great institution.

The sub-dean had wondered if Linkwater’s legacy would lead to his retirement. But Linkwater soon let him know otherwise. He had always been confidential with his sub-dean; recent events made him more so. And one day, meeting the sub-dean in the Close, he stopped him with a quiet smile.

“I did very well with the four thousand, sir,” he said. “I had a chance of buying very good house property in the city, sir—those six houses known as Acacia Terrace, sir; you know them. The rentals come to two hundred and forty a year, sir. I hope you approve?”

The sub-dean approved cordially, and he became more interested than ever in Linkwater. He knew what the verger’s salary was and he had a shrewd idea that he received handsome sums in the annual aggregate from tips—why, Linkwater must be quite well off! And he began to wonder if the deceased Nelson Linkwater, mariner, and the solemn verger had any nieces and nephews.

Next summer the sub-dean went to Switzerland for a holiday. He had been away a month when going into the Schweitzerhof Hotel at Lucerne one night, he found a bundle of letters awaiting him. And, turning them over, he at once recognized the handwriting of a Wyechester friend—Mr. Parkinstowe, the solicitor. He laid all the other letters aside and tore that open.

“Dear Sub-Dean,” he read, “you will be sorry to hear that the senior verger, Linkwater, is dead. The poor man developed pneumonia and died within forty-eight hours. He was interred this afternoon in the precincts, in the corner reserved for cathedral officials.

“I am writing this to let you know that Linkwater, who had no living relatives, has left his entire property to you. I made the will for him immediately he was taken ill. There is no occasion for you to cut short your holiday on this account. I will attend to everything until your return. Hoping you are enjoying yourself amongst the Swiss hills and valleys, yours truly,

John Parkinstowe.

“P.S.—Linkwater’s estate, real and personal, amounts, roughly speaking, to about £6,000.”

The sub-dean read this letter twice before he slowly folded it up and put it in his pocket. He put his other letters with it, unread, and went in to table d’hôte. And by the time he had taken a couple of glasses of very good burgundy he had come to a resolution. He would sell the jewels, add what they fetched to Linkwater’s legacy, and devote the whole amount to restoring the west front of the cathedral. Perhaps Linkwater’s ghost would come and look on and admire and approve. It was a comfortable thought, anyway. So the sub-dean settled himself down to dinner.