Читать книгу The Temptress - William Le Queux - Страница 10

The office was small, dingy, and undusted, with a threadbare carpet that had once been green, long rows of pigeon-holes filled with faded legal papers, and windows so dirt-begrimed that they only admitted a yellow light, which added to the characteristic gloom.

Before a large writing-table sat Mr. Bernard Graham, solicitor and commissioner for oaths, interestedly reading some documents which had apparently been taken from a black tin box that was standing open near him. He was a clean-shaven, wizened man of sixty, with scanty white hair, a forehead denoting considerable self-esteem, a pair of small, cold grey eyes, and an aquiline nose, surmounted by pince-nez with tortoiseshell frames. Attired in broadcloth of an antiquated cut, he looked exactly what his clients believed him to be—a respectable family solicitor, the surviving partner of the once popular firm of Graham and Ratcliff.

“Hum! the dates correspond,” he was murmuring aloud, as he jotted down some memoranda, after glancing through an affidavit yellow with age. “There can be no doubt that my surmise is correct; yet the whole affair is the most extraordinary within my experience. I wonder whether there are any minor points that will require clearing up?”

Selecting another document, somewhat larger than the former, he opened it, and readjusting his glasses, read it through slowly and carefully, breaking off several times to make notes of dates and names therein set forth.

“No,” he exclaimed at last, as he laid the paper aside; “we must first establish the identity, then everything will be straightforward. It all seems remarkably dear.”

Leaning back in his writing chair, his features relaxed into a self-satisfied smile.

“Some one must benefit,” he observed aloud, his face again assuming a thoughtful look. “There is such a thing as murder through revenge. Now, I wonder how I should fare if—”

The door suddenly opened, and a clerk appeared bearing a card.

“Show him in,” commanded the solicitor, after glancing at it.

A moment later Hugh Trethowen entered.

Dressed fashionably, with a flower in his coat, he looked spruce and gay. The settled look of despair had given place to a pleasant smile, and as he advanced with elastic tread and greeted the old gentleman in his usual easy, familiar manner, it would have been hard to believe that twelve hours ago he had been on the point of taking his life.

“Well, Graham,” he began, as he put down his hat, and took the chair opposite the solicitor; “now, what is it you want with me? I’ve been breathing an atmosphere of debts and duns lately, so, if any of my creditors have been so misguided as to put their claim into your hands, I may as well give you the tip at once that I’m not worth sixpence.”

“Creditors are out of the question, Mr. Hugh,” the old solicitor replied, smiling, and leaning back in his chair.

“I wish they were,” said Hugh fervently. “Give me a recipe to get rid of them, and I’ll try the experiment at all hazards.”

“You have no need, my dear sir—no need whatever.”

“No need!” repeated the younger man in astonishment, for the words seemed like an insinuation that he knew the secret means by which he intended to evade his difficulties. “Why, what do you mean?” he asked seriously. “I tell you, it is pay or smash with me.”

“I regret to hear that, but you will adopt the former course,” Graham replied mysteriously.

Hugh laughed sarcastically.

“That’s very likely, when I have no money. But, look here, what do you want with me?”

“To impart some news.”

“News!” exclaimed Trethowen, suddenly interested. “Good or bad?”

“Both.”

“What is it? Tell me quickly,” he demanded, with an impatient gesture.

“Simply this. I wish to congratulate you upon your inheritance.”

“What inheritance?”

“Well, the information it is my pleasure to communicate will undoubtedly cause you mingled pain and satisfaction. Briefly, your brother, Douglas Trethowen, is dead, and—”

“What!” cried Hugh, starting to his feet in amazement. “You’re humbugging me!”

“I repeat, your brother is dead,” resumed the old solicitor calmly, looking intently into the face of the man before him. “In consequence of that event you inherit the whole of the estate.”

“Good heavens, is this true, Graham?” he asked breathlessly.

“It is. Therefore I don’t think you need trouble yourself over creditors any longer. You can now pay, and wipe them out.”

The old man laughed at the effect his words had produced, for Hugh Trethowen was standing in mute astonishment.

“But how do you know Douglas is dead?” he asked.

“There is little doubt of it,” answered Mr. Graham coolly. “Read this,” and he handed him a newspaper cutting.

Hugh scanned it eagerly, with an expression of abject amazement. The statement was to the effect that it had just transpired that the man found murdered in an omnibus at Charing Cross had been identified as Mr. Douglas Trethowen, of Coombe Hall, Cornwall. Upon the body some cards and letters had been found, which, for some unaccountable reason, had at first been kept secret by the police.

“I can scarcely believe it,” Hugh ejaculated at length. “Besides, after all, it is not absolutely certain that it is he.”

“Not at all,” admitted Graham, with a puzzled look. “Of course, you, as his brother, must identify him.”

“Yes,” said the other, very thoughtfully; for it had suddenly occurred to him that he had not recognised the features when he saw the body taken from the omnibus.

“No time must be lost,” observed the solicitor. “The identity must be established at once. The inquest will, I believe, be held to-morrow.”

Hugh hesitated, and for some moments remained silent.

“You see, I’ve not met my brother for six years, therefore I might be unable to recognise him. He has been abroad during the greater part of that period, and his appearance may have altered considerably.”

“Nonsense, my dear sir—nonsense. You would surely know your own brother, even if a dozen years had elapsed,” he answered decisively.

“And suppose he really is Douglas?”

“The will is explicit enough,” the elder man said, pointing to an open document before him. “This is a copy of it, and no codicil has been added. In the same manner as your late respected father, Mr. Douglas left the whole of his affairs in my hands. Fortunately for you, he never married, and the property is yours.”

He felt bewildered. Such agreeable news was sufficient to animate with immoderate joy a ruined man who, a few hours previously, had contemplated suicide.

“Now, speaking candidly, Graham, have you any doubt that it is Douglas?”

“None.”

“Why?”

“Well—for the simple reason that I believe he is dead.”

“That’s an evasive answer. Tell me the reason.”

“Unfortunately, I cannot divulge secrets entrusted to me, Mr. Hugh. You may, however, at once rest assured that I am absolutely ignorant both of the motive of the terrible crime and the existence of any one likely to commit it. If I possessed any such knowledge, of course, I should communicate with the police without delay,” the old gentleman said calmly.

“Then you refuse to state your reasons?” exclaimed Trethowen, a trifle annoyed.

“I do, most decidedly. All I can tell you is that I knew your brother had returned from abroad; and, as a matter of fact, he wrote making an appointment to meet me yesterday, but did not keep it.”

“From that you conclude he is dead?”

“Combined with various other circumstances.”

“Well, Graham, it’s hardly satisfactory, you’ll admit,” observed Hugh. And then he added: “Of course, if you refuse to tell me anything else, I can do nothing.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Hugh,” answered the solicitor blandly. “You can go to the mortuary at once and identify the body.”

“If I fail, what then?”

“I don’t think you will fail,” replied Graham, with a meaning smile.

“You’ll come and assist me?”

“I shall be very pleased to accompany you, but must claim your indulgence for a few moments while I put away these papers;” and he commenced gathering up the scattered documents and replacing them in the box.

When he had finished he locked it carefully, and then, struggling into his overcoat, and putting on his hat, he followed Hugh Trethowen out.

An hour later they returned and reseated themselves. “The whole affair is so enshrouded in mystery that I doubt very much whether the murderer will ever be discovered,” Graham remarked, taking up some letters that had been placed upon his table during his absence.

“I agree with you. It’s a most remarkable crime.”

“But, after all, what’s the use of puzzling one’s brain?” the solicitor asked. “You inherit the estate, with an income that should keep you in luxury for the remainder of your days, therefore why trouble about it?”

“That is so; but supposing Douglas is still alive—I only say supposing—now what would be the result?” Graham shrugged his shoulders, and his visage elongated.

“It’s no use apprehending such a dénouement. You are absolutely certain that the body is his, are you not?” he asked.

“I’m positive of it. The curious deformity of the ear I remember quite distinctly.”

“Then you will swear before the coroner to-morrow that he is your brother?” he observed, regarding the young man keenly.

“I shall.”

“In that case no more need be said. We shall immediately proceed to prove the will, and you will be master of Coombe.”

“Indeed,” exclaimed Hugh, with a light laugh, as he rose to depart. “I’m in luck’s way to-day. A few hours ago I little thought myself so near being a wealthy man.”

“No; it must be a very pleasant surprise,” the old gentleman said, rising and grasping his new client’s hand. “I heartily congratulate you on your good fortune, Mr. Hugh. I shall call upon you at noon to-morrow, and we will attend the inquest together. Your interests will be safe in my hands, so for the present good-bye.”

“Good-day, Graham. I’ll expect you to-morrow,” Hugh replied, and, lighting a cigar, he went out.