Читать книгу The Mill House Murder: Being the Last of the Adventures of Ronald Camberwell - J. S. Fletcher - Страница 8

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A mere glance at the faces of my two companions was sufficient to show me that neither approved Mrs. Martenroyde’s assurance (to use no stronger expression) in thus taking possession of a dead man’s hearth before he was even laid in his coffin. Mr. Halstead, whom I had set down as a very quiet, reserved man, gave a start of unfeigned surprise at what he saw; Mr. Eddison’s upper lip stiffened and his manner became starchy and professional. But Mrs. John Martenroyde saw nothing of this; she was too much occupied with her present enjoyment and her own affairs. As if Todmanhawe Grange had belonged to her from the time of its building, she waved us forward to the fire.

“Come your ways in, gentlemen,” she said, cheerfully. “I’m just having a cup of tea and I’m sure I needed it after all we’ve been through, me and Ramsden. But we’ve got all done now; I sent for Mrs. Catherall and Mrs. Spence from the village; they’re experienced hands, and they’ve laid poor James out beautiful, as you’ll see if you go up to his chamber. But perhaps you’d take a cup of tea first? This tea has been made a bit, but if one of you’ll ring yon bell, Sarah Haines’ll make a fresh brew for you, and no doubt you could do with it after such a trying night as we’ve had.”

She pointed to a bell-pull which hung down the wall on one side of the big fireplace. Mr. Eddison was now standing there facing Mrs. John and her tea-table, but his hands remained in the pockets of his overcoat.

“Thank you; not at present,” he said. “Where is your son Ramsden?”

There was a distinct iciness in his tone which anyone but a self-absorbed woman would have noticed; Mrs. John, at any rate, showed no sign of noticing it. She gulped down a mouthful of toast and tea.

“Ramsden,” she replied, “has gone down to the postoffice. Of course, they aren’t supposed to send any telegrams off before eight o’clock, but Ramsden thought that as this was a special occasion he could maybe persuade Watkinson to send one a bit earlier—you see, Mr. Eddison, we must have Sugden here as quick as possible. If Ramsden can get a wire off early this morning, Sugden will be able to catch the ten o’clock train from London—I forget which of them stations it is; I always get mixed up with London stations; but I know there is a train at ten o’clock which’ll get him here by the middle of the afternoon. And of course we want Sugden here—now that Ramsden and him have come into their uncle’s property there’ll be a deal to see to, especially down at yon mill. I said to Ramsden just now, before he went out, ‘Ramsden, my lad,’ I said, ‘now that you and Sugden are masters’—”

She paused suddenly, catching Mr. Eddison’s eye and seeing something there which reduced her to instant silence. Mr. Eddison lifted a hand.

“Stop there!” he said. “Mrs. Martenroyde, you’re under a very serious misapprehension. Your sons are not masters of the mill, nor have they come into their uncle’s property. You’ll know all the particulars in due time, but so that you mayn’t cherish any false hopes, I may as well tell you that everything that your brother-in-law possessed—everything—has been left in trust. And the two trustees are Mr. Halstead and myself. In plain words—words you’ll understand—we are the masters!”

As Mr. Eddison went on speaking, the colour on Mrs. John’s cheeks, naturally high, rose to a deep crimson. Slowly, as if fascinated by what the solicitor said, she rose to her feet. A plate on the edge of her tea-tray, caught by her action, slipped off the table and, crashing against the fender, shivered into small pieces. Mrs. John paid no attention to it. Planting her hands on her hips, she faced Mr. Eddison and spoke—sharply.

“Do you mean to tell me that James Martenroyde has left yon mill away from my sons?” she demanded. “That they’re not—”

“You will hear all particulars later, Mrs. Martenroyde, at the proper time,” replied the solicitor. “This is not the time—”

“And do you mean to say, too, that this house isn’t ours?” she went on. “That he’s left—”

“This house is certainly not yours, Mrs. Martenroyde,” interrupted Mr. Eddison, who was showing signs of impatience. “That I can tell you at once.”

“Then damn and blast James Martenroyde for a mean-hearted hound!” Mrs. John burst out. “I hope he’s roasting in hell this minute! Not ours? Not my lads’? He’d no kith nor kin the world over but them. But I’ll not take your word for it, Eddison—you lawyers are all liars and thieves. There’s others than you, and cleverer than what you are, and we’ll set them on your track. Leave Todmanhawe Mill and this house away from us—”

“My good lady!” said Mr. Halstead. “Mr. Eddison mentioned a trust. Calm yourself, now—”

“Damn you and your trusts!” cried Mrs. John. “You’re in it with him—I trust you no more than what I trust him. Trust indeed!—where are my two lads going to be with you and your blasted trusts, I should like to know? It’s naught but another way of robbing us of what we’ve a right to. But—”

The door opened and Ramsden Martenroyde walked in, to stare at what he saw. His mother turned on him, still furious, still declamatory.

“Ramsden!” she shouted. “Ramsden! What do you think Eddison says? He says that naught of what James has left comes to you and Sugden, neither mill nor house nor business nor aught—it’s all left to him and Halstead there, a couple of blasted mischief-makers! They’re the masters, it seems, and we’re—”

“Ramsden,” said Mr. Eddison, “your mother is wrong—she neither understands nor will understand. Your uncle has left his property in trust, and Mr. Halstead and myself are the trustees. You’ll know everything when the will is produced—and you’ll have no cause to complain. Take your mother away and get her to be sensible.”

“Sensible!” exclaimed Mrs. John. “I’ll let you see whether I’m sensible or no! You answer me in plain words, if such as you can use plain words. Is yon mill ours?”

“No!” replied Mr. Eddison.

“Is this here house and what’s in it ours?” she demanded.

“No—certainly not,” said Mr. Eddison. “Most certainly not.”

For a moment Mrs. John glared at him almost maniacally. Then she suddenly caught sight of the tea-tray lying before her on the table. With a sharp sweep of her hand she dashed tray and table into the fireplace, and amidst the clatter of crashing crockery turned to her son.

“Come away, lad,” she said. “We’ll go and find lawyers of our own. I’ll show you!” she went on, turning on the two men and shaking her fist. “You’ve led James Martenroyde to this, to feather your own nests! Trustees indeed! Thieves—bloody thieves!”

“Come away, Mother,” said Ramsden. “It’s no use—”

“Get her away, Ramsden,” urged Mr. Eddison. “She’s beyond herself—and she’s no reason for it, as you’ll find out before long. Get her to go home.”

Mrs. John suddenly calmed down—and looked more vindictive than ever.

“I’m going,” she said. “But you mark my words, Eddison. You try to rob my lads, and I’ll hound you down till you’d be glad to find a corner in hell! And I hope James Martenroyde is there now—blast him!”

Ramsden pushed her towards the door and through it. I had been watching him since his entrance, wanting to know what sort of man he was. I took him now for a quiet, stolid, unimaginative sort—a man who would do anything for a quiet life. That he was not easily upset was proved the next minute by his putting his head into the room.

“I’ll take her down home,” he said, nodding at us. “She’s got upset, one thing and another. You mustn’t think aught of what she said, Mr. Eddison. She has a bit of a temper, you know, at any time.”

“All right, Ramsden, my lad,” replied Mr. Eddison. “But—have you managed to wire to your brother?”

“Watkinson’ll send a wire off at eight o’clock sharp,” answered Ramsden. “I’ve sent it to Sugden’s lodgings, so he’ll be able to catch the ten o’clock.” He stood hesitating for a moment. “I’d best be off with her,” he said, jerking his head towards the hall, where I heard Mrs. John’s voice, still lifted up, though in quieter tones. “If you should want me, send down. There’s women upstairs—looking after—you know.”

He gave us another nod and withdrew, and Mr. Eddison looked down at the broken crockery and sighed.

“A dreadful woman!” he said. “Her father was like that at the last. We shall have more trouble with her, Halstead.”

More indications of possible trouble arrived before Mr. Halstead could make any response. Mrs. Haines, obviously much disturbed and trembling with indignation, put her head into the room. Seeing it clear of Mrs. John Martenroyde, she came in altogether. But before she had advanced many steps she caught sight of the wreckage in the fireplace and let out a shocked exclamation.

“A slight accident, Mrs. Haines,” said Mr. Eddison. “I hope the china is not very valuable.”

Mrs. Haines threw up her hands.

“Our best, sir—she would have it,” she answered. “Oh dear, oh dear—half of it in pieces, Mr. Eddison. I came in, sir, to ask you a question. Is Mrs. John Martenroyde become mistress of this house? She came in here, Mr. Eddison, when they brought my poor master in—her and Ramsden—and she’s been ordering us all about—nay, I’ll say no more! But if she’s mistress here, then I’m going. And so will the two girls, and Orris. Mrs. John Martenroyde we will not stand—not for an hour—her that’s old John Skad’s daughter!”

“Be easy, Mrs. Haines,” replied Mr. Eddison. “Mrs. John Martenroyde is not only not mistress here, but has no right to enter unless she’s invited to do so. If she comes here giving you any annoyance, send for me, at once. If you want to know who’s master here, I am—for the present. I put you in charge of the house for the time being, so you’re mistress. Now, my good soul, have that mess cleared away, and don’t distress yourself.”

Mrs. Haines, mollified, went off. The parlour-maid came with brush and pan and cleaned up the hearth. When she had gone, Mr. Eddison turned to me.

“Mr. Camberwell,” he said, “what are you going to do?”

I was wondering about that myself.

“I suppose my commission is ended,” I replied. “My employer’s dead. I’d better return to town.”

“Nothing of the sort!” he answered. “You can’t, either. You’ll be wanted at the inquest—you found James Martenroyde’s body. No—I want you to stop here. I’ll commission you. I want you to see this thing through—I’m beginning to suspect a lot, and I can see that you and Beverley will have your hands full. No—when I asked what you were going to do, I meant where are you going? You can’t stay in this house now; it wouldn’t be comfortable for you. Come and stay with me—I’m an old bachelor, but I’ll see that you’re all right.”

“He’s a good host,” said Mr. Halstead. “He’ll look well after you.”

“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Eddison,” I replied. “I’ll come—on condition that you turn me out when you’ve had enough of me.”

“I’ll do that,” he answered, smiling. “Now then, let that young fellow Orris pack your things and bring them down to my house. Halstead, come with us and we’ll have an early breakfast and consider what’s to be done. I’ll just see those women again and give them some orders, and then we’ll walk down.”

I was relieved when we got out of that house. The morning had worn on to daylight as we took the road to the valley, and the storm of the previous night had died down to a calm. But there was no calm in the atmosphere of the village. People were at their doors or standing in groups about the bridge and near the mill, and the mill itself was silent—for the first time for many a long year, said somebody, the machinery had not been set to work that morning.

Near Mr. Eddison’s house we met Beverley; Mr. Eddison asked him to breakfast with us. During breakfast we discussed matters. Beverley, since our leaving him at the mill, had been making inquiries of various sorts. Of one thing he had satisfied himself. Nowhere could he hear of any enmity against the dead man. According to the men and women who worked at the mill, James Martenroyde had been not merely popular, but held in high esteem. If there ever had been dissension between him and his workpeople, it had been on economic points which had needed little settlement. In all the history of the business there had never been a strike or a lock-out.

“In short,” concluded Beverley, giving us an account of what he had learned, “I’ve heard nothing—except what Outwin and Guest told us. And, between ourselves, I’m going to know if Sugden Martenroyde, when these two men saw him last night, was on his way to the Mill House or to the mill—or to lay in wait for his uncle at the weir bridge. It’s no use denying it—everything points to him! He’d some reason for silencing his uncle.”

“Where is he?—that’s the present question,” remarked Mr. Eddison. “I’m convinced—with you, Beverley—that Outwin and Guest did see him last night. But where is he this morning?”

We were soon to have some information on that point. As we were still talking, after breakfast, a boy brought Mr. Eddison a telegram, stating that Mr. Ramsden had just received it and now sent it on for Mr. Eddison to read. And Mr. Eddison read it and passed it round. It was from Sugden Martenroyde, sent off from London at a quarter to nine o’clock. And it merely said that Sugden was returning home at once and would be at Todmanhawe early in the afternoon.

Mr. Halstead voiced what three, at any rate, of us were thinking.

“If Sugden was in London so early this morning,” he said, “it’s impossible that he should have been at Todmanhawe at ten o’clock last night—the time at which James was killed. Impossible!”

But Beverley shook his head.

“No, it isn’t!” he exclaimed. “He could have caught the Scotch express at Shipton at 2.36.”