Collected works of j s f.., p.358
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 358
So Burchill had gone, and Barthorpe had heard no more of him until now. But what he had heard now was a revelation. Burchill had witnessed a will of Jacob Herapath’s, which, if good and valid and the only will in existence, would leave him, Barthorpe, a ruined man. Burchill had written a letter to Jacob Herapath asking for some favour, reward, compensation, as the price of his silence about a secret. What secret? Barthorpe could not even guess at it — but Burchill had said, evidently knowing what he was talking about, that Jacob Herapath had taken vast pains to keep it for fifteen years.
By the time Barthorpe had finished his lunch he had come to the conclusion that there was only one thing for him to do. He must go straight to Calengrove Mansions and interview Mr. Frank Burchill. In one way or another he must make sure of him, or, rather — though it was really the same thing — sure of what he could tell. And on the way there he would make sure of something else — in order to do which he presently commissioned a taxi-cab and bade its driver go first to 331, Upper Seymour Street.
The domestic who answered Barthorpe’s double knock at that house shook her head when he designedly asked for Mr. Frank Burchill. Nobody of that name, she said. But on being assured that there once had been a lodger of that name in residence there, she observed that she would fetch her mistress, and disappeared to return with an elderly lady who also shook her head at sight of the caller.
“Mr. Burchill left here some time ago,” she said. “Nearly six months. I don’t know where he is.”
“Did he leave no address to which his letters were to be sent?” asked Barthorpe, affecting surprise.
“He said there’d be no letters coming — and there haven’t been,” answered the landlady. “And I’ve neither seen nor heard of him since he went.”
Something in her manner suggested to Barthorpe that she had no desire to renew acquaintance with her former lodger. This sent Barthorpe away well satisfied. It was precisely what he wanted. The three people whom he had left in Portman Square in all probability knew no other address than this at which to seek for Burchill when he was wanted; they would seek him there eventually and get no news. Luckily for himself, Barthorpe knew where he was to be found, and he went straight off up Edgware Road to find him.
Calengrove Mansions proved to be a new block of flats in the dip of Maida Vale; 35c was a top flat in a wing which up to that stage of its existence did not appear to be much sought after by would-be tenants. It was some time before Barthorpe succeeded in getting an answer to his ring and knock; when at last the door was opened Burchill himself looked out upon him, yawning, and in a dressing-gown. And narrowly and searchingly as Barthorpe glanced at Burchill he could not see a trace of unusual surprise or embarrassment in his face. He looked just as any man might look who receives an unexpected caller.
“Oh!” he said. “Mr. Barthorpe Herapath! Come in — do. I’m a bit late — a good bit late, in fact. You see, I’m doing dramatic criticism now, and there was an important première last night at the Hyperion, and I had to do a full column, and so — but that doesn’t interest you. Come in, pray.”
He led the way into a small sitting-room, drew forward an easy-chair, and reaching down a box of cigarettes from the mantelpiece offered its contents to his visitor. Barthorpe, secretly wondering if all this unconcerned behaviour was natural or merely a bit of acting, took a cigarette and dropped into the chair.
“I don’t suppose you thought of seeing me when you opened your door, Burchill?” he remarked good-humouredly, as he took the match which his host had struck for him. “Last man in the world you thought of seeing, eh?”
Burchill calmly lighted a cigarette for himself before he answered.
“Well,” he said at last, “I don’t know — you never know who’s going to turn up. But to be candid, I didn’t expect to see you, and I don’t know why you’ve come.”
Barthorpe slowly produced the letter-case from his pocket, took Burchill’s letter from it, and held it before him.
“That’s what brought me here,” he said significantly. “That! Of course, you recognize it.”
Burchill glanced at the letter without turning a hair. If he was merely acting, thought Barthorpe, he was doing it splendidly, and instead of writing dramatic criticism he ought to put on the sock and buskins himself. But somehow he began to believe that Burchill was not acting. And he was presently sure of it when Burchill laughed — contemptuously.
“Oh!” said Burchill. “Ah! So Mr. Jacob Herapath employs legal assistance — your assistance — in answering me? Foolish — foolish! Or, since that is, perhaps, too strong a word — indiscreet. Indiscreet — and unnecessary. Say so, pray, to Mr. Jacob Herapath.”
Barthorpe remained silent a moment; then he put the letter back in the case and gave Burchill a sharp steady look.
“Good gracious, man!” he said quietly. “Are you pretending? Or — haven’t you heard? Say — that — to Jacob Herapath? Jacob Herapath is dead!”
Burchill certainly started at that. What was more he dropped his cigarette, and when he straightened himself from picking it up his face was flushed a little.
“Upon my honour!” he exclaimed. “I didn’t know. Dead! When? It must have been sudden.”
“Sudden!” said Barthorpe. “Sudden? He was murdered!”
There was no doubt that this surprised Burchill. At any rate, he showed all the genuine signs of surprise. He stood staring at Barthorpe for a full minute of silence, and when he spoke his voice had lost something of its usual affectation.
“Murdered?” he said. “Murdered! Are you sure of that? You are? Good heavens! — no, I’ve heard nothing. But I’ve not been out since two o’clock this morning, so how could I hear? Murdered — —” he broke off sharply and stared at his visitor. “And you came to me — why?”
“I came to ask you if you remember witnessing my uncle’s will,” replied Barthorpe promptly. “Give me a plain answer. Do you remember?”
CHAPTER IX
GREEK AGAINST GREEK
AT THIS DIRECT question, Burchill, who had been standing on the hearthrug since Barthorpe entered the room, turned away and took a seat in the corner of a lounge opposite his visitor. He gave Barthorpe a peculiarly searching look before he spoke, and as soon as he replied Barthorpe knew that here was a man who was not readily to be drawn.
“Oh,” said Burchill, “so I am supposed to have witnessed a will made by Mr. Jacob Herapath, am I?”
Barthorpe made a gesture of impatience.
“Don’t talk rot!” he said testily. “A man either knows that he witnessed a will or knows that he didn’t witness a will.”
“Excuse me,” returned Burchill, “I don’t agree with that proposition. I can imagine it quite possible that a man may think he has witnessed a will when he has done nothing of the sort. I can also imagine it just as possible that a man may have really witnessed a will when he thought he was signing some much less important document. Of course, you’re a lawyer, and I’m not. But I believe that what I have just said is much more in accordance with what we may call the truth of life than what you’ve said.”
“If a man sees another man sign a document and witnesses the signature together with a third man who had been present throughout, what would you say was being done?” asked Barthorpe, sneeringly. “Come, now?”
“I quite apprehend your meaning,” replied Burchill. “You put it very cleverly.”
“Then why don’t you answer my question?” demanded Barthorpe.
Burchill laughed softly.
“Why not answer mine?” he said. “However, I’ll ask it in another and more direct form. Have you seen my signature as witness to a will made by Jacob Herapath?”
“Yes,” replied Barthorpe.
“Are you sure it was my signature?” asked Burchill.
Barthorpe lifted his eyes and looked searchingly at his questioner. But Burchill’s face told him nothing. What was more, he was beginning to feel that he was not going to get anything out of Burchill that Burchill did not want to tell. He remained silent, and again Burchill laughed.
“You see,” he said, “I can suppose all sorts of things. I can suppose, for example, that there’s such a thing as forging a signature — two signatures — three signatures to a will — or, indeed, to any other document. Don’t you think that instead of asking me a direct question like this that you’d better wait until this will comes before the — is it the Probate Court? — and then let some of the legal gentlemen ask me if that — that! — is my signature? I’m only putting it to you, you know. But perhaps you’d like to tell me — all about it?” He paused, looking carefully at Barthorpe, and as Barthorpe made no immediate answer, he went on speaking in a lower, softer tone. “All about it,” he repeated insinuatingly. “Ah!”
Barthorpe suddenly flung his cigarette in the hearth with a gesture that implied decision.
“I will!” he exclaimed. “It may be the shortest way out. Very well — listen, then. I tell you my uncle was murdered at his office about — well, somewhere between twelve and three o’clock this morning. Naturally, after the preliminaries were over, I wanted to find out if he’d made a will — naturally, I say.”
“Naturally, you would,” murmured Burchill.
“I didn’t believe he had,” continued Barthorpe. “But I examined his safe at the office, and I was going to examine that in his study at Portman Square when Tertius said in the presence of my cousin, myself, and Selwood, your successor, that there was a will, and produced one from a secret drawer in an old bureau — —”
“A secret drawer in an old bureau!” murmured Burchill. “How deeply interesting for all of you! — quite dramatic. Yes?”
“Which, on being inspected,” continued Barthorpe, “proved to be a holograph — —”
“Pardon,” interrupted Burchill, “a holograph? Now, I am very ignorant. What is a holograph?”
“A holograph will is a will entirely written in the handwriting of the person who makes it,” replied Barthorpe.
“I see. So this was written out by Mr. Jacob Herapath, and witnessed by — whom?” asked Burchill.
“Tertius as first witness, and you as second,” answered Barthorpe. “Now then, I’ve told you all about it. What are you going to tell me? Come — did you witness this will or not? Good gracious, man! — don’t you see what a serious thing it is?”
“How can I when I don’t know the contents of the will?” asked Burchill. “You haven’t told me that — yet.”
Barthorpe swallowed an exclamation of rage.
“Contents!” he exclaimed. “He left everything — everything! — to my cousin! Everything to her.”
“And nothing to you,” said Burchill, accentuating his habitual drawl. “Really, how infernally inconsiderate! Yes — now I see that it is serious. But — only for you.”
Barthorpe glared angrily at him and began to growl, almost threateningly. And Burchill spoke, soothingly and quietly.
“Don’t,” he said. “It does no good, you know. Serious — yes. Most serious — for you, as I said. But remember — only serious for you if the will is — good. Eh?”
Barthorpe jumped to his feet and thrust his hands in his pockets. He began to pace the room.
“Hang me if I know what you mean, Burchill!” he said. “Is that your signature on that will or not?”
“How can I say until I see it?” asked Burchill, with seeming innocence. “Let’s postpone matters until then. By the by, did Mr. Tertius say that it was my signature?”
“What do you mean!” exclaimed Barthorpe. “Why, of course, he said that he and you witnessed the will!”
“Ah, to be sure, he would say so,” assented Burchill. “Of course. Foolish of me to ask. It’s quite evident that we must postpone matters until this will is — what do you call it? — presented, propounded — what is it? — for probate. Let’s turn to something else. My letter to your uncle, for instance. Of course, as you’ve got it, you’ve read it.”
Barthorpe sat down again and stared.
“You’re a cool customer, Master Burchill!” he said. “By Jove, you are! You’re playing some game. What is it?”
Burchill smiled deprecatingly.
“What’s your own?” he asked. “Or, if that’s too pointed a question at present, suppose we go back to — my letter? Want to ask me anything about it?”
Barthorpe again drew the letter from the case. He affected to re-read it, while Burchill narrowly watched him.
“What,” asked Barthorpe at last, “what was it that you wanted my uncle to oblige you with? A loan?”
“If it’s necessary to call it anything,” replied Burchill suavely, “you can call it a — well, say a donation. That sounds better — it’s more dignified.”
“I don’t suppose it matters much what it’s called,” said Barthorpe drily. “I should say, from the tone of your letter, that most people would call it — —”
“Yes, but not polite people,” interrupted Burchill, “and you and I are — or must be — polite. So we’ll say donation. The fact is, I want to start a newspaper — weekly — devoted to the arts. I thought your uncle — now, unfortunately, deceased — would finance it. I didn’t want much, you know.”
“How much?” asked Barthorpe. “The amount isn’t stated in this letter.”
“It was stated in the two previous letters,” replied Burchill. “Oh, not much. Ten thousand.”
“The price of your silence, eh?” suggested Barthorpe.
“Dirt cheap!” answered Burchill.
Barthorpe folded up the letter once more and put it away. He helped himself to another cigarette and lighted it before he spoke again. Then he leaned forward confidentially.
“What is the secret?” he asked.
Burchill stated and assumed an air of virtuous surprise.
“My dear fellow!” he said. “That’s against all the rules — all the rules of — —”
“Of shady society,” sneered Barthorpe. “Confound it, man, what do you beat about the bush so much for? Hang it, I’ve a pretty good notion of you, and I daresay you’ve your own of me. Why can’t you tell me?”
“You forget that I offered not to tell for — ten thousand pounds,” said Burchill. “Therefore I should want quite as much for telling. If you carry ten thousand in cash on you — —”
“Is there a secret?” asked Barthorpe. “Sober earnest, now?”
“I have no objection to answering that question,” replied Burchill. “There is!”
“And you want ten thousand pounds for it?” suggested Barthorpe.
“Pardon me — I want a good deal more for it, under the present much altered circumstances,” said Burchill quietly. “There is an old saying that circumstances alter cases. It’s true — they do. I would have taken ten thousand pounds from your uncle to hold my tongue — true. But — the case is altered by his death.”
Barthorpe pondered over this definite declaration for a minute or two. Then, lowering his voice, he said:
“Looks uncommonly like — blackmail! And that — —”
“Pardon me again,” interrupted Burchill. “No blackmail at all — in my view. I happen to possess information of a certain nature, and — —”
Barthorpe interrupted in his turn.
“The thing is,” he said, “the only thing is — how long are you and I going to beat about the bush? Are you going to tell me if you signed that will I told you of?”
“Certainly not before I’ve seen it,” answered Burchill promptly.
“Will you tell me then?”
“That entirely depends.”
“On — what?”
“Circumstances!”
“Have the circumstances got anything to do with this secret?”
“Everything! More than anything — now.”
“Now — what?”
“Now that Jacob Herapath is dead. Look here!” continued Burchill, leaning forward and speaking impressively. “Take my counsel. Leave this for the moment and come to see me — now, when? Tonight. Come tonight. I’ve nothing to do. Come at ten o’clock. Then — I’ll be in a position to say a good deal more. How will that do?”
“That’ll do,” answered Barthorpe after a moment’s consideration. “Tonight, here, at ten o ‘clock.”
He got up and made for the door. Burchill got up too, and for a moment both men glanced at each other. Then Burchill spoke.
“I suppose you’ve no idea who murdered your uncle?” he said.
“Not the slightest!” exclaimed Barthorpe. “Have you?”
“None! Of course — the police are on the go?”
“Oh, of course!”
“All right,” said Burchill. “Tonight, then.”
He opened the door for his visitor, nodded to him, as he passed out, and when he had gone sat down in the easy chair which Barthorpe had vacated and for half an hour sat immobile, thinking. At the end of that half-hour he rose, went into his bedroom, made an elaborate toilet, went out, found a taxi-cab, and drove off to Portman Square.
CHAPTER X
MR. BENJAMIN HALFPENNY
WHEN BARTHORPE HERAPATH left his cousin, Mr. Tertius, and Selwood in company with the newly discovered will, and walked swiftly out of the house and away from Portman Square, he passed without seeing it a quiet, yet smartly appointed coupé brougham which came round the corner from Portman Street and pulled up at the door which Barthorpe had just quitted. From it at once descended an elderly gentleman, short, stout, and rosy, who bustled up the steps of the Herapath mansion and appeared to fume and fret until his summons was responded to. When the door was opened to him he bustled inside at the same rate, rapped out the inquiry, “Miss Wynne at home? — Miss Wynne at home?” several times without waiting for a reply, and never ceased in his advance to the door of the study, into which he precipitated himself panting and blowing, as if he had run hard all the way from his original starting-point. The three people standing on the hearthrug turned sharply and two of them uttered cries which betokened pleasure mixed with relief.
“Mr. Halfpenny!” exclaimed Peggie, almost joyfully. “How good of you to come!”
