The Amazing Chance

by Patricia Wentworth

  Sir Cotterell swung round in his chair, glaring. Mr Gregory interposed:

  “I have said, Mr Abbott, that no recognition has taken place. I think you would do well to ask your questions. And, in your own interests, I would beg you to remember that this is a friendly meeting.”

  Evelyn was looking down again at the polished table. It was like looking into still, brown water. She saw her own reflection very dimly, and the men’s voices seemed to come from a long way off. She began to get a grip of herself, to hold on to her vaguely flowing thoughts and order them. The misty sense of isolation began to pass; she found herself an integral part of this family circle, listening and intent. Cotty was asking his questions, and Laydon had given the names of his head-master, his house-master, and of half a dozen boys who had been in the same house. Now it was:

  “Your birthday?” very quick and sharp.

  And Laydon’s drawled answer:

  “Afraid that’s one of the things I can’t give you, Cotty.”

  “Jim Laydon’s birthday then?”

  “May the fifteenth.”

  “And Jack’s?”

  “The twenty-second.”

  The questions went on. Evelyn heard Laydon give his grandmother’s maiden name, the names of the servants at Laydon Manor in 1914, the names of the village carpenter and the man who kept the general shop in Laydon Sudbury. There Cotty Abbott paused.

  “These, of course, are just the questions which anyone would expect,” he said—“anyone who was making a claim of this sort.”

  Anthony Laydon smiled pleasantly.

  “That’s because I knew the answers. It’s quite easy, of course, if you do. Why don’t you go on and ask some more?”

  As he spoke, Manning looked at him sharply, opened his mouth as if to speak, and then appeared to think better of it.

  Evelyn sat back in her chair and let her eyes travel slowly down the table. The faces were faces now, not whiter blurrs in the general mist. She could even be stirred to faint, inward laughter at Monkey’s bitten lip and really terrifying scowl. She found herself looking at Laydon quite steadily. There was a little smile on his lips, but his eyes were angry, with a cold, still anger that frightened her. He was looking across at Cotty and saying:

  “Anything else you’d like to ask me?”

  “I’d like you to sign your name,” said Cotty Abbott in the stiff voice of a man who thinks he is being laughed at.

  Laydon’s smile became a little more pronounced.

  “And what name do you suggest that I should sign?”

  “I should like you to sign ‘J. Laydon.’”

  Sir Henry Prothero nodded.

  “A handwriting test, Cotty?—is that what you’re thinking of? If so——” He paused, looking at Gregory, and Laydon broke in:

  “I’ll write anything you like. But I’d like just to point out that neither Jack nor Jim ever signed ’emselves ‘J. Laydon’ in their lives.”

  “Yes, that’s true, that’s perfectly true,” said Sir Cotterell.

  Laydon took the pen that was passed to him. He held it clumsily, fidgeting with it. Then he dipped it much too deeply, made a heavy blot, smudged it, and wrote ‘J. Laydon.’

  Cotty surveyed the large, awkward characters with an air of importance.

  “Now write ‘Jim Laydon,’ and under that ‘Jack Laydon,’” he commanded—and again the pen travelled laboriously.

  Cotty stretched across the table and picked up the sheet of paper with the three signatures.

  “Not much like anything I remember,” he said, and passed the paper up the table to Gregory.

  Evelyn kept it for a moment before she passed it on. Sophy Abbott, at her elbow, craned forward, darting sharp glances, first at Evelyn’s face, then at the paper, and then back again at Evelyn.

  “Well?” she said. “What do you make of it? Do you recognize the writing?”

  All at once Evelyn became aware that Laydon was watching her too—they were all watching her. She became aware also that what she did or said just now would matter immensely. She steadied that something in her which quivered and shrank under all those eyes; and she said in a low, natural voice,

  “No—not exactly. It’s—well, it’s like both of them in a way. But it’s bigger.”

  Gregory leaned towards her, looking over the paper.

  “Could you show us what you mean, Mrs Laydon? I have both their signatures here on separate letters.” He laid them on the table as he spoke.

  “Don’t you see?” said Evelyn quickly. “The ‘J’—that’s like Jack’s writing—the long tail. But the ‘L’ isn’t like Jack’s. And neither of them made a ‘d’ quite like that.”

  “Yes, I see. Well, we’ll get an expert opinion about it—that’ll be best.”

  “No!” said Sir Cotterell. He struck the table with his fist and spoke with a good deal of violence. “None of your experts for me, Gregory! Swear themselves black in the face, they will, and give each other the lie direct in court. The fellow that said there were three degrees in lying—lies, damned lies, and statistics, might just as well have left statistics out of it and put in expert evidence instead. I’ve always said so, and I’ll go on saying so. And I’m hanged if I’ll have any of ’em mixed up in my private family affairs. I’m the person who has to be convinced one way or another; and that’s not the sort of thing that’s going to help me to make up my mind. There’s a photograph album behind you there, Manning. Will you give it to me.”

  When he had it in front of him he went through it slowly, pausing at every page, and looking first at this or that faded group or blurred snapshot, and then at the man beside him.

  And now it was Sir Cotterell whom everybody watched. There was something tragic and piteous in the tremor with which he passed from page to page. Evelyn saw that momentarily he was losing hope; and she saw a gleam of pity and comprehension change the set lines of Laydon’s face. The Abbotts wore an air of triumph when the book was shut and pushed away with a groan.

  It was Laydon who broke the silence.

  “I’m afraid I’m not like any of those old photos now.”

  “No,” said Sir Cotterell; the word was another groan. “No, that doesn’t help—that doesn’t help at all.”

  “Perhaps someone else,” said Cotty—he made a gesture that took in the whole circle, one of those exaggerated gestures that went so oddly with his stiff carriage—“Perhaps someone else would like to ask some questions—you, Manning, for instance.”

  “No, thanks, Cotty.”

  “Sir Henry then?”

  Sir Henry smoothed his chin.

  “Well, I don’t know that I can be very helpful. No, I don’t think that I could ask anything that would clear matters up at all. But—well, let me see.” He turned to Laydon and smiled a little, his mind chiefly occupied with the desire to ease the sense of strain that had fallen upon all except the Abbotts. “Let me see—I wonder if you can tell me when and where I saw you last. I’m afraid my own recollection is rather hazy; but it might clear up if you could remind me.”

  Quite visibly Laydon relaxed.

  “That sounds a bit like the blind leading the blind, sir,” he said. “But as a matter of fact I remember quite well. You were just going off to India, and you came out of this room with my grandfather into the garden out there. I can’t remember how old I was—about twelve I think; but I remember you tipped us, and we started our stamp collections on the strength of it.”

  Sir Cotterell looked up sharply.

  “Eh?” he said. “Eh? If that’s so—by Jove, if that’s so—Henry!”

  “If,” said Cotty Abbott. “It’s for Sir Henry to say whether all this is within his recollection.” His little bleak eyes dwelt on Sir Henry’s puzzled frown. “Do you remember all this, Sir Henry? Could you swear to it?”

  There was a pause. Sir Henry, still frowning, shook his head.

  “I’m not clear,” he said.

  Cotty Abbott gave a short laugh.

  “P
erhaps there’s something else you could ask. Or perhaps Mr. Gregory would like to put some questions.”

  “Or Evelyn,” said Sophy Abbott. She sat forward, clinking and rustling, then turned so that she could look at Evelyn full. “After all, my dear Evelyn, you are really more concerned than anyone, and the questions you could ask if you chose would naturally be most valuable. Of course, if you’d rather not——”

  The slight sneer in the Mendip-ffollinton voice, the inquisitive bulge of the Mendip-ffollinton eyes, produced an unexpected reaction in Evelyn. Faintness was gone. The feeling of being a pinned specimen under the microscope was gone. The desperate, wounded quiver at her heart was gone. The colour came into her face until her cheeks were like burning roses. But inwardly she was cool and balanced, very well able to hold her own with Sophy Abbott; able even to meet Laydon’s eyes and be pleased because they were hot with anger.

  “That’s very kind of you, Sophy. But I don’t mind at all—why should I?” She smiled, let the smile flash across the table to Laydon, and went on, her voice on its own pretty level. “Here’s my question—and I think it’s quite a good one. Uncle Henry wanted to know when you saw him last. Well, perhaps you can tell us when you saw me first.”

  The anger went out of Laydon’s eyes. Something else took its place—admiration—relief—no one who watched him could be sure. He looked back at Evelyn, laughing, and said,

  “You were up a tree.” There was no pause between question and answer.

  Sir Cotterell stared; Manning broke into a sudden laugh; and the Abbotts stiffened as Mr Gregory inquired blandly:

  “Is that so, Mrs Laydon?”

  Evelyn found it a relief to turn to him.

  “Yes, I was up a tree, Mr Gregory—I really was. I think I was fourteen. I was staying with Lacy for the holidays.”

  “Yes?” said Gregory.

  Sir Cotterell got up, leaning on the table.

  “Evelyn!” Then as she looked round at him: “Evelyn—Evelyn, my dear.”

  “What is it?” There was a tinge of distress in her tone.

  “My dear, if you remember this—this incident, you must know which—which——” His voice failed. He stood there, all his weight on his hands.

  “Oh, Sir Cotterell, I’m so sorry! It—it doesn’t help that way, I’m afraid, for the boys were together, all three of them; and they all helped me down.”

  “Three?” said Sir Henry Prothero. “Who was the third?”

  “Jim Field——Jack and Jim Laydon, and Jim Field. I met them all together. Jim Field was always about with them that year and the next.”

  “Then I don’t think that Evelyn’s question has thrown very much light on things—does anyone?” Mrs Cotty sneered a little more openly this time, and more openly still as she added, “Can’t you think of anything better than that, Evelyn dear?”

  Sir Cotterell took his hands from the table and stood erect.

  “I want a proof,” he said. “I want a proof.”

  Laydon stood up too.

  “I think—I believe I can give you one.”

  Cotty Abbott, who had been whispering to his wife, swung about. Everyone turned. Laydon looked only at Sir Cotterell, and spoke in a voice pitched for Sir Cotterell’s ear:

  “You asked me just now whether I remembered having a conversation with you in this room the night before—I went back to France; and I told you that I couldn’t say at all what had passed at that particular interview. But I do remember another conversation——”

  “What conversation?”

  “It was in 1914. We had our last leave before going over to France—I think it was November. You called us in here, and we sat round the fire. You talked to us both very seriously about getting married. You said you had a very special reason for wishing to see the succession secured. I remember you told us what that reason was. You said we were both very young—too young in the ordinary way, but the war made all the difference. And you asked whether either of us had an attachment. I remember that Jack said ‘Yes,’ and Jim——”

  Sir Cotterell had a hand on his arm, gripping him hard.

  “And Jim?”

  “And Jim said nothing.”

  “And then?”

  “I’m afraid my recollection stops there.”

  “It can’t! You must go on!”

  Laydon shook his head, falling back a pace, and Cotty Abbott broke in:

  “You said my uncle gave a special reason for pressing marriage on two boys of twenty-one. But you didn’t tell us what it was. Is that another of the things you’ve forgotten?”

  Laydon laughed.

  “Oh, no. I could give you the reason, but I think I won’t. I don’t mind writing it down though, for Mr Gregory and my grandfather to see. Can anyone let me have a pencil and paper?”

  Manning picked a sheet of paper off the table, and handed it across behind Sir Henry Prothero together with a pencil fished out of his trouser pocket. Laydon said “Thanks, Monkey,” bent over the table and wrote, still standing. He folded the paper and passed it to Mr Gregory. As Gregory opened it, Sir Cotterell came round the table and stood behind him.

  There was only one word, scrawled boldly across the sheet—“Cotty.”

  Sir Cotterell slapped his thigh and broke into unsteady laughter.

  “Yes, by gum!” he said. “Reason? You don’t want a better reason than that, eh, Gregory? Reason enough and to spare! Eh, Gregory, eh?”

  There was something painful in this laughter, and no one joined in it. Mr Gregory raised his eyebrows very slightly and appeared to be about to address Laydon, when all at once a complete change came over him. The words he had been about to speak were not spoken. Instead, he pushed back his chair, sprang up, and taking Sir Cotterell by the arm, he bent close and spoke quickly with dropped voice:

  “Look, Sir Cotterell! Look! Mr Laydon—your father’s portrait! Look!”

  “Eh?” said Sir Cotterell with a catch in his breath. “Eh?”

  Mr Gregory’s grip tightened.

  “Look!” he said.

  And in a moment everyone was looking.

  Laydon stood as he had been standing ever since he had passed the folded paper to Gregory; his right hand and part of the arm rested on the tall back of the chair in which he had been sitting. He was leaning forward a little, his eyes turned on Sir Cotterell, his face heavy, controlled and stern. Behind him on the dark panelling hung the portrait which masked the safe—the portrait of Sir James Laydon, eighth baronet, standing against a black curtain, his arm across the back of a tall carved chair, his head slightly bent, his expression stern and gloomy. The face was heavier than Laydon faces were wont to be, and set in rigid lines. The grey light from the window behind Gregory fell directly on the portrait and on the man who stood below it. The likeness between the living face and the painted one was startling in the extreme—the same pose; the same dark look; the same control.

  Sir Cottrell pulled himself away from Gregory’s hold and squared his shoulders. His excitement was gone; he spoke in a quiet, level voice.

  “Yes—there’s my proof. That’s good enough for me.”

  As the words left his lips, the likeness was gone, broken by a look of astonishment. Cotty Abbott said,

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” said Sir Cotterell—he broke off, came round the table, and put a steady hand on Laydon’s shoulder—“I mean that this is my grandson, one of my boys come back. And I say ‘Thank God for it.’” His voice changed sharply. “Gregory, I take you to witness—I take you all to witness—that I am satisfied that this is one of my grandsons.”

  XIII

  Evelyn had no very clear idea of how she came into the hall. Her one overwhelming desire was to get away. She had neither part nor lot in what was happening in the library now. Neither the Abbotts’ indignant protests nor Sir Cotterell’s triumphant relief concerned her at all. She wanted to get away.

  Manning found her already in her rain-coat, cramming on a damp bl
ack felt hat with shaking hands. He said, “Hullo, old girl—you off?”

  She nodded, biting her lip.

  “Well, will you give me a lift? He’ll stay here now; but I must get back to town.”

  “I must get away—I’m through,” said Evelyn in a dry whisper.

  Manning gave her a little push towards the door.

  “Got your car there? All right, go and get in. I won’t be a moment.”

  She turned, catching at him.

  “You won’t let anyone come. I can’t——”

  “Good Lord, no. What do you take me for? You go and get in. I must just let them know I’m off—that’s all.”

  Evelyn went out to the car and put the hood down. She wanted to feel the rain and the wind. She had just buckled the last strap, when Manning ran down the steps.

  “Shall I drive?” he said, coming round to her. “My dear girl, we’ll get sopped.”

  “I don’t mind. Yes, you can drive.”

  “I simply hate getting wet,” said Monkey. He made his crossest face and took the wheel.

  The car was started. He took a look at Evelyn.

  “Want to talk?”

  “No.”

  After that they drove for thirty miles in a blessed silence whilst Evelyn let the tears come as they would and felt the rain drive cold against her burning face.

  The rain had thinned to a drizzle and the grey day was dimming into dusk, when Manning said suddenly and cheerfully:

  “There’s a clean handkerchief in my coat pocket on your side if you’d like it.”

  He heard Evelyn’s shaky laugh:

  “Monkey, you are an angel!”

  “Yes, I know I am.”

  “You really are.”

  “My dear, Lacy has me trained. If there’s a man in Europe, Asia, Africa, or America who knows the exact moment when a woman wants a clean pocket handkerchief better than I do, just you point him out, and I’ll assassinate him quietly. As a matter of fact, I’m frightfully glad you didn’t bottle up and do the hard, stony woman all the way back to town.”

  “It’s such a lovely large handkerchief,” said Evelyn. “I’ve got one—in fact two, but——”

  “No woman’s handkerchief will stay the course of a real good cry. They’re all right just to dab your eyes with when you want to look pretty and pathetic, but when it comes to business they’re absolutely no earthly.”