Читать книгу Within That Room! - John Russell Fearn - Страница 6

CHAPTER TWO

CODICIL

“You are quite within your rights, Miss Grantham, and I really must apologise. If it were not so important a matter I—”

“It must be!” Vera interrupted. “You have never stopped chasing me since I left my room in Manchester!”

The little man put his hat down on one of the chairs, and then seated himself beside it.

“Forgive me, Miss Grantham, but this is something which cannot wait—You don’t mind my sitting at your table?”

“I don’t own the train, do I?”

“Hmmm—no, of course not. Er— Here is my card.” Vera took it though she knew what was coming—

Jonathan Thwaite

Morgan, Thwaite & Hendricks

Solicitors

Brazennose St., Manchester

“Very interesting,” Vera said. “But it’s no surprise....”

She looked at him steadily and read puzzlement in his eyes. It was as though he could not understand her distant manner.

“You go to quite a lot of trouble to serve a summons, don’t you?” Vera asked.

“Summons?” Jonathan Thwaite looked as though the word were in a foreign language. “Summons?” he repeated. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

“I can hardly conceive of any other, being up to my neck in debt and with little prospect of paying off—”

“So that’s it!” Thwaite laughed so much the gold in his back teeth became revealed. Then he seemed to remember the sobriety of his calling and became serious again. “No wonder you resented my following you.”

He leaned forward confidentially, but before he could get started the waiter returned with Vera’s lunch.

“I’ll take the same,” Thwaite said, surveying it: then as the waiter hurried off, he added: “I’m here to bring you good news, Miss Grantham, and if it is all the same to you, you can transact the business here instead of returning to Manchester. I can get a train back from Crewe.”

“Good news?” Vera was suspicious. “But you don’t even resemble Santa Claus, Mr. Thwaite.”

He coughed away his inner thoughts and laid his briefcase on the table beside him. Then he leaned forward again and asked a question in a hushed voice.

“Do you remember your Uncle Cyrus? Cyrus Merriforth?”

Vera frowned and tried to remember. It required some effort, too.

“Why, yes, I believe I do,” Vera assented. “Only vaguely, though. I met him once when I was a girl at school. I seem to remember that he was a world traveler, always hopping about collecting butterflies and plants or something, then coming home and writing books about them.”

“Your uncle was a very famous entomologist and botanist, Miss Grantham.”

“Knew his bugs?” Vera suggested calmly.

“Hum! Ha! Yes, indeed!”

Thwaite paused as his lunch was set before him. He looked at it and then cleared his throat.

“We are his solicitors,” he resumed. “He learned during the war of your gallantry in the A.T.S.—of which there was some mention in the newspapers—and decided on that account to add a codicil to his will. Now that he is dead we—”

“Oh, he’s dead!” Vera said.

“Yes, yes, of course.” Thwaite looked irritable. “He died a little while ago and was cremated.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Thwaite, but you hadn’t told me he was dead. He added a codicil, a codicil because of me?” Vera wrestled with the unexpected.

“But—but why me?” she asked blankly. “Didn’t he remember my mother, his own sister? Though she died in the blitz along with my father, my uncle did not know that....”

“The codicil refers entirely to you,” Thwaite stated, brushing away the side issues.

“And he left me a huge fortune, I suppose?” Vera shook her blonde head. “I just don’t believe it! Remote uncles only leave fortunes to half forgotten nieces in novels.”

Thwaite coughed and looked at his lunch.

“No, Miss Grantham,” he admitted, “he did not leave you a fortune.”

Vera sighed, and picked up her knife and fork again. “I knew it! What then? A butterfly net and an old magnifying glass?”

“He left you Sunny Acres and £100. The bulk of his fortune went to the Society for the Preservation of Ancient Flora and Fauna; that is except for an annuity to his two servants, Mr. and Mrs. Falworth.”

Vera smiled sadly. Then her blue eyes began to take on a new light. “What do you mean by Sunny Acres?”

“It is the residence which Mr. Merriforth owned. It is far more than a mere residence. It is a one-time feudal castle. It has extensive grounds, and, should you wish to sell, could probably realize £15,000 for it. Such an offer is indeed already in existence. Do you know Surrey at all? The little hamlet of Waylock Dean?”

“Fifteen thou—Waylock Dean?” Vera shook her head absently. “Fifteen thousand! Great Scott!”

“The residence,” Thwaite proceeded, “has the two servants already installed—Mr. and Mrs. Falworth. They are a middle-aged couple, the woman being housekeeper, cook and so forth; while the man does the gardening and odd jobs. They’ve been at Sunny Acres for the past ten years.”

“And the old boy left it all to me?” Vera asked incredulously. “All because of some trifling act I performed which was considered brave enough to merit mention in the newspapers! Good heavens! I always knew the old chap was a bit eccentric and now I’m sure of it. Incidentally, what is the £100 for?”

“I have not the least idea, Miss Grantham—unless it is intended as incidental expenses. The moment your uncle died and his will had been proved, it became our duty, of course, to trace you. We managed it through the ministry of labor, who had a record of you seeking employment as a commercial artist. I reached your rooming house this morning and was turned away. I felt somehow that things were not quite as they should be, so I decided to wait.”

“And I’m thankful that you did,” Vera declared. “To think that I might have turned my back on Sunny Acres and £100 if you hadn’t been so persistent! I’m sorry if I seemed rude.”

“Considering the circumstances I can quite understand your attitude,” Thwaite said gallantly. Then for a while they continued their lunches as they thought things out. It was Thwaite who finally broke the silence.

“I feel that I should mention one condition,” he said, and Vera gave him a sharp look.

“Condition? So there are strings to it after all.”

“Hardly that, Miss Grantham: it is just a matter of a legend. I have mentioned that Sunny Acres was once a feudal castle. Well, it is considered to be haunted, so much so that no resident of Waylock Dean will go near the place. Your uncle, I believe, had quite a distressing experience with the phantom about a year ago, and the servants swear that haunting does take place.”

“Old-fashioned bogey stories don’t frighten me,” Vera replied. “Thanks for telling me, though.”

“Am I to understand, then, that you will take Sunny Acres and the hundred pounds?”

“I most certainly will! I had decided this morning to try my luck at getting a job in London—but now I have really got something to travel to! What do I have to do?”

Thwaite opened his briefcase with meticulous care and drew forth a number of legal papers.

“I have everything here, Miss Grantham, to make the business legal. All you have to do is sign. Later on the deed will be forwarded to you....”

“I see. And—er—don’t think I’m grasping, Mr. Thwaite, but what about that hundred pounds? I’m extremely short of cash at the moment.”

Thwaite smiled, drew forth a sealed envelope, handed it over. Vera opened it and peered inside at fifty one-pound notes and five ten-pound ones. Then she took her right arm between her left finger and thumb and pinched hard.

“Mmm—must be true! I’m still here!”

“If you will sign here....” Thwaite traced a finger along the bottom of one of the papers and then proffered his fountain pen.

Vera signed, and the scant scattering of diners looked on in polite interest.

She signed the documents that Thwaite replaced in his case. Then he sat back with the air of a man who has done a ticklish job well.

“And you think you will reside at Sunny Acres, Miss Grantham?” he asked.

Vera ate in silence for a while.

“Offhand, I can’t say. I don’t really see what use an old feudal castle and a couple of servants will be to me. I’m only twenty-four, unattached, and anxious to make my mark in the artistic world. I’ll probably sell the place after spending a few days in it as a sort of holiday. I’d sooner have £15,000 than a pile of old bricks and a ghost. Anyway, I’ll see.”

“Until you make up your mind I will address the mail to Sunny Acres,” Thwaite decided. “Mr. and Mrs. Falworth will be informed by telegram of your coming. I’ll send it from Crewe.”

“By telegram? Don’t tell me the moated castle hasn’t even got a telephone?”

“I’m afraid it hasn’t. Your uncle had a decided dislike for modern amenities.”

“I think,” Vera decided, “that my uncle was a queer old duck whichever way you look at it!”