The Talleyrand Maxim by J. S. Fletcher

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"Where have you seen me?" he asked, smiling back at her.

"Have you forgotten the mock-trial--year before last?" she asked.

Collingwood remembered what she was alluding to. He had taken part, in
company with various other law students, in a mock-trial, a breach of
promise case, for the benefit of a certain London hospital, to him had
fallen one of the principal parts, that of counsel for the plaintiff.
"When I saw your name, I remembered it at once," she went on. "I was
there--I was a probationer at St. Chad's Hospital at that time."

"Dear me!" said Collingwood, "I should have thought our histrionic
efforts would have been forgotten. I'm afraid I don't remember much
about them, except that we had a lot of fun out of the affair. So you
were at St. Chad's?" he continued, with a reminiscence of the
surroundings of the institution they were talking of. "Very different to
Normandale!"

"Yes," she replied. "Very--very different to Normandale. But when I was
at St. Chad's, I didn't know that I--that we should ever come to
Normandale."

"And now that you are here?" he asked.

The girl looked out through the big window on the valley which lay in
front of the old house, and she shook her head a little.

"It's very beautiful," she answered, "but I sometimes wish I was back at
St. Chad's--with something to do. Here--there's nothing to do but to do
nothing." Collingwood realized that this was not the complaint of the
well-to-do young woman who finds time hang heavy--it was rather
indicative of a desire for action.

"I understand!" he said. "I think I should feel like that. One wants--I
suppose--is it action, movement, what is it?"

"Better call it occupation--that's a plain term," she answered. "We're
both suffering from lack of occupation here, my brother and I. And it's
bad for us--especially for him."

Before Collingwood could think of any suitable reply to this remarkably
fresh and candid statement, the door opened, and Mrs. Mallathorpe came
in, followed by her son. And the visitor suddenly and immediately
noticed the force and meaning of Nesta Mallathorpe's last remark. Harper
Mallathorpe, a good-looking, but not remarkably intelligent appearing
young man, of about Collingwood's own age, gave him the instant
impression of being bored to death; the lack-lustre eye, the aimless
lounge, the hands thrust into the pockets of his Norfolk jacket as if
they took refuge there from sheer idleness--all these things told their
tale. Here, thought Collingwood, was a fine example of how riches can be
a curse--relieved of the necessity of having to earn his daily bread by
labour, Harper Mallathorpe was finding life itself laborious.

But there was nothing of aimlessness, idleness, or lack of vigour in
Mrs. Mallathorpe. She was a woman of character, energy, of
brains--Collingwood saw all that at one glance. A little, neat-figured,
compact sort of woman, still very good-looking, still on the right side
of fifty, with quick movements and sharp glances out of a pair of shrewd
eyes: this, he thought, was one of those women who will readily
undertake the control and management of big affairs. He felt, as Mrs.
Mallathorpe turned inquiring looks on him, that as long as she was in
charge of them the Mallathorpe family fortunes would be safe.

"Mother," said Nesta, handing Collingwood's card to Mrs. Mallathorpe,
"this gentleman is Mr. Bartle Collingwood. He's--aren't you?--yes, a
barrister. He wants to see you. Why, I don't know. I have seen Mr.
Collingwood before--but he didn't remember me. Now he'll tell you what
he wants to see you about."

"If you'll allow me to explain why I called on you, Mrs. Mallathorpe,"
said Collingwood, "I don't suppose you ever heard of me--but you know,
at any rate, the name of my grandfather, Mr. Antony Bartle, the
bookseller, of Barford? My grandfather is dead--he died very suddenly
last night."

Mrs. Mallathorpe and Nesta murmured words of polite sympathy. Harper
suddenly spoke--as if mere words were some relief to his obvious
boredom.

"I heard that, this morning," he said, turning to his mother. "Hopkins
told me--he was in town last night. I meant to tell you."

"Dear me!" exclaimed Mrs. Mallathorpe, glancing at some letters which
stood on a rack above the mantelpiece. "Why--I had a letter from Mr.
Bartle this very morning!"

"It is that letter that I have come to see you about," said Collingwood.
"I only got down here from London at half-past eight this morning, and
of course, I have made some inquiries about the circumstances of my
grandfather's sudden death. He died very suddenly indeed at Mr.
Eldrick's office. He had gone there on some business about which nobody
knows nothing--he died before he could mention it. And according to his
shop-boy, Jabey Naylor, the last thing he did was to write a letter to
you. Now--I have reason for asking--would you mind telling me, Mrs.
Mallathorpe, what that letter was about?" Mrs. Mallathorpe moved over to
the hearth, and took an envelope from the rack. She handed it to
Collingwood, indicating that he could open it. And Collingwood drew out
one of old Bartle's memorandum forms, and saw a couple of lines in the
familiar crabbed handwriting:

"MRS. MALLATHORPE, Normandale Grange.

"Madam,--If you should drive into town tomorrow, will you kindly
give me a call? I want to see you particularly.

"Respectfully, A. BARTLE."

Collingwood handed back the letter.

"Have you any idea to what that refers?" he asked.

"Well, I think I have--perhaps," answered Mrs. Mallathorpe. "Mr. Bartle
persuaded us to sell him some books--local books--which my late
brother-in-law had at his office in the mill. And since then he has been
very anxious to buy more local books and pamphlets about this
neighbourhood, and he had some which Mr. Bartle was very anxious indeed
to get hold of. I suppose he wanted to see me about that." Collingwood
made no remarks for the moment. He was wondering whether or not to tell
what Jabey Naylor had told him about this paper taken from the linen
pocket inside the _History of Barford_. But Mrs. Mallathorpe's ready
explanation had given him a new idea, and he rose from his chair.

"Thank you," he said. "I suppose that's it. You may think it odd that I
wanted to know what he'd written about, but as it was certainly the last
letter he wrote----"

"Oh, I'm quite sure it must have been that!" exclaimed Mrs. Mallathorpe.
"And as I am going into Barford this afternoon, in any case, I meant to
call at Mr. Bartle's. I'm sorry to hear of his death, poor old
gentleman! But he was very old indeed, wasn't he?"

"He was well over eighty," replied Collingwood. "Well, thank you
again--and good-bye--I have a motorcar waiting outside there, and I have
much to do in Barford when I get back."

The two young people accompanied Collingwood into the hall. And Harper
suddenly brightened.

"I say!" he said. "Have a drink before you go. It's a long way in and
out. Come into the dining-room."

But Collingwood caught Nesta's eye, and he was quick to read a signal in
it.

"No, thanks awfully!" he answered. "I won't really--I must get
back--I've such a lot of things to attend to. This is a very beautiful
place of yours," he went on, as Harper, whose face had fallen at the
visitor's refusal, followed with his sister to where the motor-car
waited. "It might be a hundred miles from anywhere."

"It's a thousand miles from anywhere!" muttered Harper. "Nothing to do
here!"

"No hunting, shooting, fishing?" asked Collingwood. "Get tired of 'em?
Well, why not make a private golf-links in your park? You'd get a fine
sporting course round there."

"That's a good notion, Harper," observed Nesta, with some eagerness.
"You could have it laid out this winter."

Harper suddenly looked at Collingwood.

"Going to stop in Barford?" he asked.

"Till I settle my grandfather's affairs--yes," answered Collingwood.

"Come and see us again," said Harper. "Come for the night--we've got a
jolly good billiard table."

"Do!" added Nesta heartily.

"Since you're so kind, I will, then," replied Collingwood. "But not for
a few days."

He drove off--to wonder why he had visited Normandale Grange at all. For
Mrs. Mallathorpe's explanation of the letter was doubtless the right
one: Collingwood, little as he had seen of Antony Bartle, knew what a
veritable sleuth-hound the old man was where rare books or engravings
were concerned. Yet--why the sudden exclamation on finding that paper?
Why the immediate writing of the letter to Mrs. Mallathorpe? Why the
setting off to Eldrick & Pascoe's office as soon as the letter was
written? It all looked as if the old man had found some document, the
contents of which related to the Mallathorpe family, and was anxious to
communicate its nature to Mrs. Mallathorpe, and to his own solicitor, as
soon as possible.

"But that's probably only my fancy," he mused, as he sped back to
Barford; "the real explanation is doubtless that suggested by Mrs.
Mallathorpe. Something made the old man think of the collection of local
books at Normandale Grange--and he immediately wrote off to ask her to
see him, with the idea of persuading her to let him have them. That's
all there is in it--what a suspicious sort of party I must be getting!
And suspicious of whom--and of what? Anyhow, I'm glad I went out
there--and I'll certainly go again."

On his way back to Barford he thought a good deal of the two young
people he had just left. There was something of the irony of fate about
their situation. There they were, in possession of money and luxury and
youth--and already bored because they had nothing to do. He felt what
closely approached a contemptuous pity for Harper--why didn't he turn to
some occupation? There was their own business--why didn't he put in so
many hours a day there, instead of leaving it to managers? Why didn't he
interest himself in local affairs?--work at something? Already he had
all the appearance of a man who is inclined to slackness--and in that
case, mused Collingwood, his money would do him positive harm. But he
had no thoughts of that sort about Nesta Mallathorpe: he had seen that
she was of a different temperament.

"She'll not stick there--idling," he said. "She'll break out and do
something or other. What did she say? 'Suffering from lack of
occupation'? A bad thing to suffer from, too--glad I'm not similarly
afflicted!"

There was immediate occupation for Collingwood himself when he reached
the town. He had already made up his mind as to his future plans. He
would sell his grandfather's business as soon as he could find a
buyer--the old man had left a provision in his will, the gist of which
Eldrick had already communicated to Collingwood, to the effect that his
grandson could either carry on the business with the help of a competent
manager until the stock was sold out, or could dispose of it as a going
concern--Collingwood decided to sell it outright, and at once. But first
it was necessary for him to look round the collection of valuable books
and prints, and get an idea of what it was that he was about to sell.
And when he had reached Barford again, and had lunched at his hotel, he
went to Quagg Alley, and shut himself in the shop, and made a careful
inspection of the treasures which old Bartle had raked up from many
quarters.

Within ten minutes of beginning his task Collingwood knew that he had
gone out to Normandale Grange about a mere nothing. Picking up the
_History of Barford_ which Jabey Naylor had spoken of, and turning over
its leaves, two papers dropped out; one a half sheet of foolscap,
folded; the other, a letter from some correspondent in the United
States. Collingwood read the letter first--it was evidently that which
Naylor had referred to as having been delivered the previous afternoon.
It asked for a good, clear copy of Hopkinson's _History of Barford_--and
then it went on, "If you should come across a copy of what is, I
believe, a very rare tract or pamphlet, _Customs of the Court Leet of
the Manor of Barford_, published, I think, about 1720, I should be glad
to pay you any price you like to ask for it--in reason." So much for the
letter--Collingwood turned from it to the folded paper. It was headed
"List of Barford Tracts and Pamphlets in my box marked B.P. in the
library at N Grange," and it was initialled at the foot J.M. Then
followed the titles of some twenty-five or thirty works--amongst them
was the very tract for which the American correspondent had inquired.
And now Collingwood had what he believed to be a clear vision of what
had puzzled him--his grandfather having just read the American buyer's
request had found the list of these pamphlets inside the _History of
Barford_, and in it the entry of the particular one he wanted, and at
once he had written to Mrs. Mallathorpe in the hope of persuading her to
sell what his American correspondent desired to buy. It was all quite
plain--and the old man's visit to Eldrick & Pascoe's had nothing to do
with the letter to Mrs. Mallathorpe. Nor had he carried the folded paper
in his pocket to Eldrick's--when Jabey Naylor went out to post the
letter, Antony had placed the folded paper and the American letter
together in the book and left them there. Quite, quite simple!--he had
had his run to Normandale Grange and back all about nothing, and for
nothing--except that he had met Nesta Mallathorpe, whom he was already
sufficiently interested in to desire to see again. But having arrived at
an explanation of what had puzzled him and made him suspicious, he
dismissed that matter from his mind and thought no more of it.

But across the street, all unknown to Collingwood, Linford Pratt was
thinking a good deal. Collingwood had taken his car from a rank
immediately opposite Eldrick & Pascoe's windows; Pratt, whose desk
looked on to the street, had seen him drive away soon after ten o'clock
and return about half-past twelve. Pratt, who knew everybody in the
business centre of the town, knew the man who had driven Collingwood,
and when he went out to his lunch he asked him where he had been that
morning. The man, who knew no reason for secrecy, told him--and Pratt
went off to eat his bread and cheese and drink his one glass of ale and
to wonder why young Collingwood had been to Normandale Grange. He became
slightly anxious and uneasy. He knew that Collingwood must have made
some slight examination of old Bartle's papers. Was it--could it be
possible that the old man, before going to Eldrick's, had left some
memorandum of his discovery in his desk--or in a diary? He had said that
he had not shown the will, nor mentioned the will, to a soul--but he
might;--old men were so fussy about things--he might have set down in
his diary that he had found it on such a day, and under such-and-such
circumstances.

However, there was one person who could definitely inform him of the
reason of Collingwood's visit to Normandale Grange--Mrs. Mallathorpe. He
would see her at once, and learn if he had any grounds for fear. And so
it came about that at nine o'clock that evening, Mrs. Mallathorpe, for
the second time that day, found herself asked to see a limb of the law.

CHAPTER V

POINT-BLANK

Mrs. Mallathorpe was alone when Pratt's card was taken to her. Harper
and Nesta were playing billiards in a distant part of the big house.
Dinner had been over for an hour; Mrs. Mallathorpe, who had known what
hard work and plenty of it was, in her time, was trifling over the
newspapers--rest, comfort, and luxury were by no means boring to her.
She looked at the card doubtfully--Pratt had pencilled a word or two on
it: "Private and important business." Then she glanced at the butler--an
elderly man who had been with John Mallathorpe many years before the
catastrophe occurred.

"Who is he, Dickenson?" she asked. "Do you know him?"

"Clerk at Eldrick & Pascoe's, in the town, ma'am," replied the butler.
"I know the young man by sight."

"Where is he?" inquired Mrs. Mallathorpe.

"In the little morning room, at present, ma'am," said Dickenson.

"Take him into the study," commanded Mrs. Mallathorpe. "I'll come to him
presently." She was utterly at a loss to understand Pratt's presence
there. Eldrick & Pascoe were not her solicitors, and she had no business
of a legal nature in which they could be in any way concerned. But it
suddenly struck her that that was the second time she had heard
Eldrick's name mentioned that day--young Mr. Collingwood had said that
his grandfather's death had taken place at Eldrick & Pascoe's office.
Had this clerk come to see her about that?--and if so, what had she to
do with it? Before she reached the room in which Pratt was waiting for
her, Mrs. Mallathorpe was filled with curiosity. But in that curiosity
there was not a trace of apprehension; nothing suggested to her that her
visitor had called on any matter actually relating to herself or her
family.

The room into which Pratt had been taken was a small apartment opening
out of the library--John Mallathorpe, when he bought Normandale Grange,
had it altered and fitted to suit his own tastes, and Pratt, as soon as
he entered it, saw that it was a place in which privacy and silence
could be ensured. He noticed that it had double doors, and that there
were heavy curtains before the window. And during the few minutes which
elapsed between his entrance and Mrs. Mallathorpe's, he took the
precaution to look behind those curtains, and to survey his
surroundings--what he had to say was not to be overheard, if he could
help it.

Mrs. Mallathorpe looked her curiosity as soon as she came in. She did
not remember that she had ever seen this young man before, but she
recognized at once that he was a shrewd and sharp person, and she knew
from his manner that he had news of importance to give her. She quietly
acknowledged Pratt's somewhat elaborate bow, and motioned him to take a
chair at the side of the big desk which stood before the fireplace--she
herself sat down at the desk itself, in John Mallathorpe's old
elbow-chair. And Pratt thought to himself that however much young Harper
John Mallathorpe might be nominal master of Normandale Grange, the real
master was there, in the self-evident, quiet-looking woman who turned to
him in business-like fashion.

"You want to see me?" said Mrs. Mallathorpe. "What is it?"

"Business, Mrs. Mallathorpe," replied Pratt. "As I said on my card--of a
private and important sort."

"To do with me?" she asked.

"With you--and with your family," said Pratt. "And before we go any
further, not a soul knows of it but--me."

Mrs. Mallathorpe took another searching look at her visitor. Pratt was
leaning over the corner of the desk, towards her; already he had lowered
his tones to the mysterious and confidential note.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said. "Go on."

Pratt bent a little nearer.

"A question or two first, if you please, Mrs. Mallathorpe. And--answer
them! They're for your own good. Young Mr. Collingwood called on you
today."

"Well--and what of it?"

"What did he want?"

Mrs. Mallathorpe hesitated and frowned a little. And Pratt hastened to
reassure her. "I'm using no idle words, Mrs. Mallathorpe, when I say
it's for your own good. It is! What did he come for?"

"He came to ask what there was in a letter which his grandfather wrote
to me yesterday afternoon."

"Antony Bartle had written to you, had he? And what did he say, Mrs.
Mallathorpe? For that is important!"

"No more than that he wanted me to call on him today, if I happened to
be in Barford."

"Nothing more?"

"Nothing more--not a word."

"Nothing as to--why he wanted to see you?"

"No! I thought that he probably wanted to see me about buying some books
of the late Mr. Mallathorpe's."

"Did you tell Collingwood that?" asked Pratt, eagerly.

"Yes--of course."

"Did it satisfy him?"

Mrs. Mallathorpe frowned again.

"Why shouldn't I?" she demanded. "It was the only explanation I could
possibly give him. How do I know what the old man really wanted?"

Pratt drew his chair still nearer to the desk. His voice dropped to a
whisper and his eyes were full of meaning.

"I'll tell you what he wanted!" he said speaking very slowly. "It's what
I've come for. Listen! Antony Bartle came to our office soon after five
yesterday afternoon. I was alone--everybody else had gone. I took him
into Eldrick's room. He told me that in turning over one of the books
which he had bought from Mallathorpe Mill, some short time ago, he had
found--what do you think?"

Mrs. Mallathorpe's cheek had flushed at the mention of the books from
the Mill. Now, at Pratt's question, and under his searching eye, she
turned very pale, and the clerk saw her fingers tighten on the arms of
her chair.

"What?" she asked. "What?"

"John Mallathorpe's will!" he answered. "Do you understand? His--will!"

The woman glanced quickly about her--at the doors, the uncurtained
window.

"Safe enough here," whispered Pratt. "I made sure of that. Don't be
afraid--no one knows--but me."

But Mrs. Mallathorpe seemed to find some difficulty in speaking, and
when she at last got out a word her voice sounded hoarse.

"Impossible!"

"It's a fact!" said Pratt. "Nothing was ever more a fact as you'll see.
But let me finish my story. The old man told me how he'd found the
will--only half an hour before--and he asked me to ring up Eldrick, so
that we might all read it together. I went to the telephone--when I came
back, Bartle was dead--just dead. And--I took the will out of his
pocket."

Mrs. Mallathorpe made an involuntary gesture with her right hand. And
Pratt smiled, craftily, and shook his head.

"Much too valuable to carry about, Mrs. Mallathorpe," he said. "I've got
it--all safe--under lock and key. But as I've said--nobody knows of it
but myself. Not a living soul. No one has any idea! No one can have any
idea. I was a bit alarmed when I heard that young Collingwood had been
to you, for I thought that the old man, though he didn't tell me of any
such thing, might have dropped you a line saying what he'd found. But as
he didn't--well, not one living soul knows that the will's in
existence, except me--and you!"

Mrs. Mallathorpe was regaining her self-possession. She had had a great
shock, but the worst of it was over. Already she knew, from Pratt's
manner, insidious and suggesting, that the will was of a nature that
would dispossess her and hers of this recently acquired wealth--the
clerk had made that evident by look and tone. So--there was nothing but
to face things.

"What--what does it--say?" she asked, with an effort.

Pratt unbuttoned his overcoat, plunged a hand into the inner pocket,
drew out a sheet of paper, unfolded it and laid it on the desk.

"An exact copy," he said tersely. "Read it for yourself."

In spite of the determined effort which she made to be calm, Mrs.
Mallathorpe's fingers still trembled as she took up the sheet on which
Pratt had made a fair copy of the will. The clerk watched her narrowly
as she read. He knew that presently there would be a tussle between
them: he knew, too, that she was a woman who would fight hard in defence
of her own interest, and for the interests of her children.

Always keeping his ears open to local gossip, especially where money was
concerned, Pratt had long since heard that Mrs. Mallathorpe was a keen
and sharp business woman. And now he was not surprised when, having
slowly and carefully read the copy of the will from beginning to end,
she laid it down, and turned to him with a business-like question.

"The effect of that?" she asked. "What would it be--curtly?"

"Precisely what it says," answered Pratt. "Couldn't be clearer!"

"We--should lose all?" she demanded, almost angrily. "All?"

"All--except what he says--there," agreed Pratt.

"And that," she went on, drumming her fingers on the paper, "that--would
stand?"

"What it's a copy of would stand," said Pratt. "Oh, yes, don't you make
any mistake about it, Mrs. Mallathorpe! Nothing can upset that will. It
is plain as a pikestaff how it came to be made. Your late brother-in-law
evidently wrote his will out--it's all in his own handwriting--and took
it down to the Mill with him the very day of the chimney accident. Just
as evidently he signed it in the presence of his manager, Gaukrodger,
and his cashier, Marshall--they signed at the same time, as it says,
there. Now I take it that very soon after that, Mr. Mallathorpe went out
into his mill yard to have a look at the chimney--Gaukrodger and
Marshall went with him. Before he went, he popped the will into the
book, where old Bartle found it yesterday--such things are easily done.
Perhaps he was reading the book--perhaps it lay handy--he slipped the
will inside, anyway. And then--he was killed--and, what's more the two
witnesses were killed with him. So there wasn't a man left who could
tell of that will! But--there's half Barford could testify to these
three signatures! Mrs. Mallathorpe, there's not a chance for you if I
put that will into the hands of the two trustees!"

He leaned back in his chair after that--nodding confidently, watching
keenly. And now he saw that the trembling fingers were interlacing each
other, twisting the rings on each other, and that Mrs. Mallathorpe was
thinking as she had most likely never thought in her life. After a
moment's pause Pratt went on. "Perhaps you didn't understand," he said.
"I mean, you don't know the effect. Those two trustees--Charlesworth &
Wyatt--could turn you all clean out of this--tomorrow, in a way of
speaking. Everything's theirs! They can demand an account of every penny
that you've all had out of the estate and the business--from the time
you all took hold. If anything's been saved, put aside, they can demand
that. You're entitled to nothing but the three amounts of ten thousand
each. Of course, thirty thousand is thirty thousand--it means, at five
per cent., fifteen hundred a year--if you could get five per cent.
safely. But--I should say your son and daughter are getting a few
thousand a year each, aren't they, Mrs. Mallathorpe? It would be a nice
come-down! Five hundred a year apiece--at the outside. A small house
instead of Normandale Grange. Genteel poverty--comparatively
speaking--instead of riches. That is--if I hand over the will to
Charlesworth & Wyatt."

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