Читать книгу The Ninth Earl - John Jeffery Farnol - Страница 3

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“A skeleton?” said George, staring into the little lawyer’s rubicund visage. “A skeleton—in a cupboard, sir?”

Mr. John Jackman, plumpish, middle-aged, extremely precise as to person and demeanour, extracted a pinch of snuff from the large silver box on the desk before him, inhaled it with two discreet snorts, dusted himself daintily with snowy handkerchief and replied:

“Precisely! In a cupboard! A skeleton.”

“Astounding!” exclaimed George.

“Not at all, m’ dear boy. For, as you are so very well aware, the family of Vane-Wynter is old as the Castle itself, and all old families have skeletons in cupboards, and this family is so extremely ancient there may be half a dozen other skeletons waiting to be found.”

“Though not dry bones, surely, sir!”

“Hum!” quoth Mr. Jackman, and his rosy face assumed that expression of guileless innocence which divers human sharks had found so very deceptive ere now. “There are certain pages of the Vane-Wynter history reaching back to the bad old days that show unseemly blotches here and there.”

“And when, sir, pray how was this gruesome discovery made?”

“By act of God, in the late storm, George. A thunderbolt toppled down a chimney-stack which in its fall disclosed our skeleton-in-cupboard, which last, to be precise, was one of those secret hiding-places called a priest’s-hole. But surely you and your aunt, living so near, must have heard and seen?”

“We did both, sir, as did everyone in the village, though nobody heard tell of any skeleton.”

“Naturally, for, as the Earl’s steward, I forbade any mention of it until I had sent word to his lordship and notified the legal authorities.”

“It’s fortunate,” said George, “that the family is never in residence at the Castle.”

“Very!” said Mr. Jackman. “You have never yet seen the Earl, eh, George?”

“Never, sir.”

“Which is not surprising, since he is never at Ravenhurst these many years. So next time I visit him in London you will go with me, for meet his lordship you must.”

“Must, sir?”

“Must, George! For—d’ye see, m’ dear fellow—the years have proved my faith in you justified; the hopes I had of you so completely realised that, though you are somewhat young, I have decided to take you into partnership. The firm henceforth shall be Jackman, Son, and Bell.”

“Sir—sir——” gasped George, starting up from his chair. “You—I—indeed you—overwhelm me! Sir—— Oh, Mr. Jackman, how can I thank you—what can I say——?”

“Not a word! Deeds, George, deeds, not written but acted. My only regret is that your long-dead parents—grand folk as I remember them—are not alive to rejoice for their son’s well-merited success.”

“Yes—yes!” said George, his grey eyes shining. “Would indeed they were!”

“However,” said Mr. Jackman, pausing in the act of snuffing, “if there is a heaven—mind, I say ‘if’, George, there being not a jot or tittle of evidence sufficiently convincing to the legal mind that any such place truly exists—yet if it does, then they who so gloriously died are there alive in glory for evermore and will doubtless be aware of—Jackman, Son, and Bell.”

“Sir,” said George, his voice unwontedly gruff and shaken, “though they died too long ago for me to remember, I—thank God—have Aunt Isabel, and for her sake and my own I—I’m trying to thank you for your unfailing goodness to me, my schooling—college—university. Oh, sir, when I think of your kindness and measureless generosity I can only wonder——”

“George, as a boy I—loved your mother, and today I do not exactly hate Isabel, this noble aunt of yours! Ah, well, well—sentiment is out of place in a lawyer’s office, so pray sit down, partner, and let us to business. And egad, our present most pressing business is Jasper Shrig, chief of the Bow Street Office, who should be here shortly to report on this skeleton. You have met Shrig, I think?”

“Once, sir.”

“Well, let me tell you he’s a tremendous fellow, not so much in size but in everything else! Bold as a lion, guileful as a serpent, relentless as a bloodhound, though none would believe it from his looks. What did you think of him, for instance?”

“Frankly, sir, he struck me as a dull, clumsy fellow.”

“Aha!” exclaimed Mr. Jackman, chuckling. “And by George, George, no one can seem more so! Only wait until you see more of him, only wait—no, you won’t have to, for I believe he is here! Come in!” he cried to a gentle tap upon the door, whereupon Mr. Beeby, the grey-haired head clerk, entered—to bow and announce:

“Mr. Jasper Shrig, of Bow Street, sir.”