“I am not so sure of that,” he replied. “If my brother is dead, it is pretty certain that he is not buried in St. George’s or any of the other places mentioned, and the fact can easily be proved by production of the registers. So that a permission to presume death would result in the handing over to Hurst of almost the entire estate.”
“Who is the executor?” I asked.
“Ah!” he exclaimed, “there is another muddle. There are two executors; Jellicoe is one, and the other is the principal beneficiary—Hurst or myself, as the case may be. But, you see, neither of us can become an executor until the Court has decided which of us is the principal beneficiary.”
“But who is to apply to the Court? I thought that was the business of the executors.”
“Exactly. That is Hurst’s difficulty. We were discussing it when you called the other day, and a very animated discussion it was,” he added, with a grim smile. “You see, Jellicoe naturally refuses to move in the matter alone. He says he must have the support of the other executor. But Hurst is not at present the other executor; neither am I. But the two of us together are the co-executor, since the duty devolves upon one or other of us, in any case.”
“It’s a complicated position,” I said.
“It is; and the complication has elicited a very curious proposal from Hurst. He points out—quite correctly, I am afraid—that as the conditions as to burial have not been complied with, the property must come to him, and he proposes a very neat little arrangement, which is this: That I shall support him and Jellicoe in their application for permission to presume death and administer the will, and that he shall pay me four hundred a year for life; the arrangement to hold good in all eventualities.”
“What does he mean by that?”
“He means,” said Bellingham, fixing me with a ferocious scowl, “that if the body should turn up at any future time, so that the conditions as to burial should be able to be carried out, he should still retain the property and pay me the four hundred a year.”
“The deuce!” said I. “He seems to know how to drive a bargain.”
“His position is that he stands to lose four hundred a year for the term of my life if the body is never found, and he ought to stand to win if it is.”
“And I gather that you have refused his offer?”
“Yes; very emphatically, and my daughter agrees with me; but I am not sure that I have done the right thing. A man should think twice, I suppose, before he burns his boats.”
“Have you spoken to Mr. Jellicoe about the matter?”
“Yes, I have been to see him today. He is a cautious man, and he doesn’t advise me one way or the other. But I think he disapproves of my refusal; in fact, he remarked that a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, especially when the whereabouts of the bush is unknown.”
“Do you think he will apply to the Court without your sanction?”
“He doesn’t want to; but I suppose, if Hurst puts pressure on him, he will have to. Besides, Hurst, as an interested party, could apply on his own account, and after my refusal he probably will; at least, that is Jellicoe’s opinion.”
“The whole thing is a most astonishing muddle,” I said, “especially when one remembers that your brother had a lawyer to advise him. Didn’t Mr. Jellicoe point out to him how absurd the provisions were?”
“Yes, he did. He tells me that he implored my brother to let him draw up a will embodying the matter in a reasonable form. But John wouldn’t listen to him. Poor old fellow! He could be very pig-headed when he chose.”
“And is Hurst’s proposal still open?”
“No, thanks to my peppery temper. I refused it very definitely, and sent him off with a flea in his ear. I hope I have not made a false step; I was quite taken by surprise when Hurst made the proposal and got rather angry. You remember, my brother was last seen alive at Hurst’s house—but there, I oughtn’t to talk like that, and I oughtn’t to pester you with my confounded affairs when you have come in for a friendly chat, though I gave you fair warning, you remember.”
“Oh, but you have been highly entertaining. You don’t realise what an interest I take in your case.”
Mr. Bellingham laughed somewhat grimly. “My case!” he repeated. “You speak as if I were some rare and curious sort of criminal lunatic. However, I’m glad you find me amusing. It’s more than I find myself.”
“I didn’t say amusing; I said interesting. I view you with deep respect as the central figure of a stirring drama. And I am not the only person who regards you in that light. Do you remember my speaking to you of Doctor Thorndyke?”
“Yes, of course I do.”
“Well, oddly enough, I met him this afternoon and we had a long talk at his chambers. I took the liberty of mentioning that I had made your acquaintance. Did I do wrong?”
“No. Certainly not. Why shouldn’t you tell him? Did he remember my infernal case, as you call it?”
“Perfectly, in all its details. He is quite an enthusiast, you know, and uncommonly keen to hear how the case develops.”
“So am I, for that matter,” said Mr. Bellingham.
“I wonder,” said I, “if you would mind my telling him what you have told me tonight. It would interest him enormously.”
Mr. Bellingham reflected awhile with his eyes fixed on the empty grate. Presently he looked up, and said slowly:
“I don’t know why I should. It’s no secret; and if it were, I hold no monopoly in it. No; tell him, if you think he’d care to hear about it.”
“You needn’t be afraid of his talking,” I said. “He is as close as an oyster; and the facts may mean more to him than to us. He may be able to give a useful hint or two.”
“Oh, I’m not going to pick his brains,” Mr. Bellingham said quickly and with some wrath. “I’m not the sort of man who goes round cadging for free professional advice. Understand that clearly, Doctor.”
“I do,” I answered hastily. “That wasn’t what I meant at all. Is that Miss Bellingham coming in? I heard the front door shut.”
“Yes, that will be my girl, I expect; but don’t run away. You’re not afraid of her, are you?” he added as I hurriedly picked up my hat.
“I’m not sure that I’m not,” I answered. “She is a rather majestic young lady.”
Mr. Bellingham chuckled and smothered a yawn, and at that moment his daughter entered the room; and, in spite of her shabby black dress and a shabbier handbag that she carried, I thought her appearance and manner fully justified my description.
“You come in, Miss Bellingham,” I said as she shook my hand with cool civility, “to find your father yawning and me taking my departure. So I have my uses, you see. My conversation is the infallible cure for insomnia.”
Miss Bellingham smiled. “I believe I am driving you away,” she said.
“Not at all,” I replied hastily. “My mission was accomplished, that was all.”
“Sit down for a few minutes, Doctor,” urged Mr. Bellingham, “and let Ruth sample the remedy. She will be affronted if you run away as soon as she comes in.”
“Well, you mustn’t let me keep you up,” I said.
“Oh, I’ll let you know when I fall asleep,” he replied, with a chuckle; and with this understanding I sat down again—not at all unwillingly.
At this moment Miss Oman entered with a small tray and a smile of which I should not have supposed her to be capable.
“You’ll take your toast and cocoa while they’re hot, dear, won’t you?” she said coaxingly.
“Yes, I will, Phyllis, thank you,” Miss Bellingham answered. “I am only just going to take off my hat,” and she left the room, followed by the astonishingly transfigured spinster.
She returned almost immediately as Mr. Bellingham was in the midst of a profound yawn, and sat down to her frugal meal, when her father mystified me considerably by remarking:
“You’re late tonight, chick. Have the Shepherd Kings been giving trouble?”
“No,” she replied; “but I th
ought I might as well get them done. So I dropped in at the Ormond Street library on my way home and finished them.”
“Then they are ready for stuffing now?”
“Yes.” As she answered she caught my astonished eye (for a stuffed Shepherd King is undoubtedly a somewhat surprising phenomenon) and laughed softly.
“We mustn’t talk in riddles like this,” she said, “before Doctor Berkeley, or he will turn us both into pillars of salt. My father is referring to my work,” she explained to me.
“Are you a taxidermist, then?” I asked.
She hastily set down the cup that she was raising to her lips and broke into a ripple of quiet laughter.
“I am afraid my father has misled you with his irreverent expressions. He will have to atone by explaining.”
“You see, Doctor,” said Mr. Bellingham, “Ruth is a literary searcher—”
“Oh, don’t call me a ‘searcher’!” Miss Bellingham protested. “It suggests the female searcher at a police-station. Say investigator.”
“Very well, investigator or investigatrix, if you like. She hunts up references and bibliographies at the Museum for people who are writing books. She looks up everything that has been written on a given subject, and then, when she has crammed herself to bursting-point with facts, she goes to her client and disgorges and crams him or her, and he or she finally disgorges into the Press.”
“What a disgusting way to put it!” said his daughter. “However, that is what it amounts to. I am a literary jackal, a collector of provender for the literary lions. Is that quite clear?”
“Perfectly. But I don’t think that, even now, I quite understand about the stuffed Shepherd Kings.”
“Oh, it was not the Shepherd Kings who were to be stuffed. It was the author! That was mere obscurity of speech on the part of my father. The position is this: A venerable archdeacon wrote an article on the patriarch Joseph—”
“And didn’t know anything about him,” interrupted Mr. Bellingham, “and got tripped up by a specialist who did, and then got shirty—”
“Nothing of the kind,” said Miss Bellingham. “He knew as much as venerable archdeacons ought to know; but the expert knew more. So the archdeacon commissioned me to collect the literature on the state of Egypt at the end of the seventeenth dynasty, which I have done; and tomorrow I shall go and stuff him, as my father expresses it, and then—”
“And then,” Mr. Bellingham interrupted, “the archdeacon will rush forth and pelt that expert with Shepherd Kings and Seqenen-Ra and the whole tag-rag and bobtail of the seventeenth dynasty. Oh, there’ll be wigs on the green, I can tell you.”
“Yes, I expect there will be quite a lively little skirmish,” said Miss Bellingham. And thus dismissing the subject, she made an energetic attack on the toast while her father refreshed himself with a colossal yawn.
I watched her with furtive admiration and deep and growing interest. In spite of her pallor, her weary eyes, and her drawn and almost haggard face, she was an exceedingly handsome girl; and there was in her aspect a suggestion of purpose, of strength and character that marked her off from the rank and file of womanhood. I noted this as I stole an occasional glance at her or turned to answer some remark addressed to me; and I noted, too, that her speech, despite a general undertone of depression, was yet not without a certain caustic, ironical humour. She was certainly a rather enigmatical young person, but very decidedly interesting.
When she had finished her repast she put aside the tray and, opening the shabby handbag, asked:
“Do you take any interest in Egyptian history? We are as mad as hatters on the subject. It seems to be a family complaint.”
“I don’t know much about it,” I answered. “Medical studies are rather engrossing and don’t leave much time for general reading.”
“Naturally,” she said. “You can’t specialise in everything. But if you would care to see how the business of a literary jackal is conducted, I will show you my notes.”
I accepted the offer eagerly (not, I fear, from pure enthusiasm for the subject), and she brought forth from the bag four blue-covered, quarto notebooks, each dealing with one of the four dynasties from the fourteenth to the seventeenth. As I glanced through the neat and orderly extracts with which they were filled we discussed the intricacies of the peculiarly difficult and confused period that they covered, gradually lowering our voices as Mr. Bellingham’s eyes closed and his head fell against the back of his chair. We had just reached the critical reign of Apepa II when a resounding snore broke in upon the studious quiet of the room and sent us both into a fit of silent laughter.
“Your conversation has done its work,” she whispered as I stealthily picked up my hat, and together we stole on tiptoe to the door, which she opened without a sound. Once outside, she suddenly dropped her bantering manner and said quite earnestly:
“How kind it was of you to come and see him tonight! You have done him a world of good, and I am most grateful. Good night!”
She shook hands with me really cordially, and I took my way down the creaking stairs in a whirl of happiness that I was quite at a loss to account for.
CHAPTER V
THE WATERCRESS-BED
Barnard’s practice, like most others, was subject to those fluctuations that fill the struggling practitioner alternately with hope and despair. The work came in paroxysms with intervals of almost complete stagnation. One of these intermissions occurred on the day after my visit to Nevill’s Court, with the result that by half-past eleven I found myself wondering what I should do with the remainder of the day. The better to consider this weighty problem, I strolled down to the Embankment, and, leaning on the parapet, contemplated the view across the river; the grey stone bridge with its perspective of arches, the picturesque pile of the shot-towers, and beyond, the shadowy shapes of the Abbey and St. Stephen’s.
It was a pleasant scene, restful and quiet, with a touch of life and a hint of sober romance, when a barge swept down through the middle arch of the bridge with a lugsail hoisted to a jury mast and a white-aproned woman at the tiller. Dreamily I watched the craft creep by upon the moving tide, noted the low freeboard, almost awash, the careful helmswoman, and the dog on the forecastle yapping at the distant shore—and thought of Ruth Bellingham.
What was there about this strange girl that had made so deep an impression on me? That was the question that I propounded to myself, and not for the first time. Of the fact itself there was no doubt. But what was the explanation? Was it her unusual surroundings? Her occupation and rather recondite learning? Her striking personality and exceptional good looks? Or her connection with the dramatic mystery of her lost uncle?
I concluded that it was all of these. Everything connected with her was unusual and arresting; but over and above these circumstances there was a certain sympathy and personal affinity of which I was strongly conscious and of which I dimly hoped that she, perhaps, was a little conscious, too. At any rate, I was deeply interested in her; of that there was no doubt whatever. Short as our acquaintance had been, she held a place in my thoughts that had never been held by any other woman.
From Ruth Bellingham my reflections passed by a natural transition to the curious story that her father had told me. It was a queer affair, that ill-drawn will, with the baffled lawyer protesting in the background. It almost seemed as if there must be something behind it all, especially when I remembered Mr. Hurst’s very singular proposal. But it was out of my depth; it was a case for a lawyer, and to a lawyer it should go. This very night, I resolved, I would go to Thorndyke and give him the whole story as it had been told to me.
And then there happened one of those coincidences at which we all wonder when they occur, but which are so frequent as to have become enshrined in a proverb. For, even as I formed the resolution, I observed two men approaching from the direction of Blackfriars, and recognised in them my quondam teacher and his junior.
“I was just thinking about you,” I said as they came up.
“Perhaps,” suggested Thorndyke, “he was talking to himself. But why were you thinking of us, and what was the nature of your thoughts?”
“My thoughts had reference to the Bellingham case. I spent the whole of last evening at Nevill’s Court.”
“Ha! And are there any fresh developments?”
“Yes, by Jove! There are. Bellingham gave me a full and detailed description of the will; and a pretty document it seems to be.”
“Did he give you permission to repeat the details to me?”
“Yes. I asked specifically if I might and he had no objection whatever.”
“Good. We are lunching at Soho today as Polton has his hands full. Come with us and share our table and tell us your story as we go. Will that suit you?”
It suited me admirably in the present state of the practice, and I accepted the invitation with undissembled glee.
“Very well,” said Thorndyke; “then let us walk slowly and finish with matters confidential before we plunge into the madding crowd.”
We set forth at a leisurely pace along the broad pavement and I commenced my narration. As well as I could remember, I related the circumstances that had led up to the present disposition of the property and then proceeded to the actual provisions of the will; to all of which my two friends listened with rapt interest, Thorndyke occasionally stopping me to jot down a memorandum in his pocket-book.
“Why, the fellow must have been a stark lunatic!” Jervis exclaimed, when I had finished. “He seems to have laid himself out with the most devilish ingenuity to defeat his own ends.”
“That is not an uncommon peculiarity with testators,” Thorndyke remarked. “A direct and perfectly intelligible will is rather the exception. But we can hardly judge until we have seen the actual document. I suppose Bellingham hasn’t a copy?”
“I don’t know,” said I; “but I will ask him.”
“If he has one, I should like to look through it,” said Thorndyke. “The provisions are very peculiar, and, as Jervis says, admirably calculated to defeat the testator’s wishes if they have been correctly reported. And, apart from that, they have a remarkable bearing on the circumstances of the disappearance. I daresay you noticed that.”
The First R. Austin Freeman Megapack: 27 Mystery Tales of Dr. Thorndyke & Others Page 51
