Richard Blake made a few mysterious signs in the margin of his ledger.
“On the seventeenth of this month Countess Burgh le Marsh gave us an order, a plain dress for her daughter. Her account is very heavy and the count has warned us that he will not pay it.”
“Never mind that. Go on with the order, but press her for payment.”
“On the nineteenth a new customer came in, Miss Rhiannon, the daughter of Walter Pitstone, the banker.”
When Will heard this name, he could not repress a look of surprise, of which Berrick affected to take no notice.
“My good friend,” he said, turning to Richard Blake, “I confide this young lady to you. Give her your whole stock if she asks for it.”
By the look of surprise which appeared on the tailor’s face, Will could see that Berrick was not generous with such recommendations.
“You will be obeyed,” said Richard Blake with a bow.
“On the twenty-first a young gentleman of the name of Belvedere Skegness was introduced by Stokenchurch, the jeweler. His father is, I hear, very wealthy and junior will come into money after he dies, which is near at hand. He brought with him a lady,” continued the tailor, “and he said her name was Mrs. Samara Herstmonceux, a very pretty young woman.”
“That young man is always in my way,” said Berrick. “I would give something to get rid of him.”
Richard Blake thought for a moment. “I don’t think that would be difficult,” he said. “The young gentleman is capable of any act of folly for that fair young woman.”
“I think so too.”
“Then the matter is easy. I will open an account with him, then, after a little while, I will fake my doubts as to his solvency and ask for a bill and we will then place our young friend in the hands of Scotland Fidelity Assurance. Mr. Bostall will easily persuade him to write his name across the bottom of a piece of stamped paper. He will bring it to me, I will accept it and then we will have him hard and fast.”
He suddenly stopped, because a loud noise was heard in the hallway.
“I would like to know,” said Richard Blake, rising to his feet, “who the impudent scoundrel is who comes here kicking up a row. I expect that it is some fool of a husband.”
The noise stopped.
Berrick said, “Let us return to our own affairs. Under the circumstances, your proposal appears to be a good one. How about writing in another name? A little forgery would make our hands stronger.” He stood up, took the tailor to the window and whispered to him.
During breakfast Berrick had partially disclosed some strange secrets to Will. It was evident to him that his benefactor was engaged in some dark and insidious affairs. There was some mysterious link between Mrs. Innerleithen, who was so carefully watched and Sir Alfred Yelvertoft, so haughty and yet on such intimate terms with the owner of the registry office. Then there were Countess Burgh le Marsh, Rhiannon, the rich heiress and Belvedere Skegness, who was to be led into a crime the result of which would be prison. Was he, Will a tool in their hands? Berrick and Richard Blake were not friends, as he had at first supposed, but confederates in villainy. He slowly began to see the ties between Berrick and Old Man Davidson, which had resulted in him being accused of theft. But the web had been woven securely around him. He could fight, but not win.
Little did Will know that every fleeting expression on his face was seen by the wily Berrick. He had intentionally allowed Will to listen to the compromising conversation between him and Richard Blake. He had decided that very morning that if Will was to be a useful tool, his loyalty had to be tested.
“Now,” he said. “How do we stand with regard to Mr. Poiret?”
Richard Blake gave his shoulders a shrug as he answered, “He is all right.”
“How much does he owe you?”
“Say twenty-five thousand shilling. He has owed us more than that before.”
“Really?” said Berrick, “For two weeks I have been prying into his life, but I can’t hit on anything in it to give us a pull over him. The debt may help us, however.”
“But, my good sir,” urged Richard Blake, “it was only last week that he paid us a heavy sum on account. He has extravagant tastes for a retired policeman, but the French tend to live like there is no tomorrow.”
“The more reason to press him, because he must be hard up after that.”
Richard Blake would have argued further, but an imperious sign from Berrick reduced him to silence.
“Listen to me,” said Berrick. “At three o’clock, the day after tomorrow, call on him. His manservant will say that his master has a visitor with him.”
“I will say I will wait.”
“Not at all. You must force your way in and you will find him talking to Sir Alfred Yelvertoft. You know him, I suppose?”
“By sight, yes.”
“That is sufficient. Take no notice of him, but at once present your bill and insist on immediate payment.”
“He will have me kicked out of the door.”
“Quite likely, but you must threaten to take the bill to court. Sit down doggedly and declare that you will not move until you get your money.”
“But that is not how I do business.”
“Don’t worry. Sir Alfred Yelvertoft will interfere. He will throw a wallet in your face, shouting, “There is your money, you impudent scoundrel!”
“Then I’m to slink away?”
“Yes, but before doing so, you will give a receipt in this form, “Received from Sir Alfred Yelvertoft, the sum of so many shilling, in settlement of the account of Mr. Jules Poiret.”
“If I could only understand the game,” said the puzzled Richard Blake.
Again the same angry sounds were heard in the hallway.
“This is scandalous,” cried a voice. “I’ve been waiting an hour. I say! Richard Blake is engaged, is he? I must see him at once.”
The two accomplices exchanged looks as though they recognized the shrill, squeaky voice.
“That is our man,” whispered Berrick, as the door was violently flung open and Belvedere Skegness burst in. He was dressed even more extravagantly than usual and his face was inflamed with rage.
“Here I am,” he cried.
The tailor was furious at this intrusion, but as Berrick was present and he felt that he had to respect his orders, he controlled himself.
“Had I only known, sir,” he said unhappily.
These few words mollified the youth.
“I accept your apologies,” he cried. “Samara is in the other room. Quick!”
With these words he rushed into the hallway and shouted, “Samara, Miss Herstmonceux, my dear one, come here.”
Will could not but pity him in his heart. He went across the room to Berrick.
“Is there no way,” he whispered, “of saving this poor young gentleman?”
Berrick smiled one of those smiles, which chilled the hearts of those, who knew him thoroughly.
“In fifteen minutes,” he said, “tell me what you think I should do to him!”
Then she came in. Will froze. Samara stood there, clothed in what to Will’s furious eyes seemed a dazzling dress. Selma seemed a little timid as Skegness almost dragged her into the room.
“How silly you are!” he said. “What is there to be frightened at?”
Samara sank into an easy chair and the young man addressed the great Richard Blake.
“Have you invented a dress that will be worthy of the lady’s charms?”
For a few moments Richard Blake appeared to be buried in profound meditation.
“Ah,” he said, raising his hand with a theatrical gesture, “I have it! I can see it all in my mind’s eye.”
Samara caught sight of Will and in spite of all her audacity, she nearly fainted. Berrick saw Will’s temper boiling over.
“Well, Mr. Blake, I will say farewell,” he said. “Good morning, lady, good morning, sir,” and taking Will by the arm, he led him away out of the room. It was not until they were
in the street that Berrick breathed freely.
“Well, what do you say, now?” he asked.
Will’s vanity had been deeply hurt. His legs bent under him and he staggered. Berrick caught him and pushed him against the wall for support.
“Five minutes ago I promised you that I would ask you to decide in regards to our plans for Mr. Skegness.”
“That is enough,” interjected Will, violently.
Berrick put on his most benevolent smile.
“You see,” he said, “how circumstances change things. Now you’re getting reasonable.”
“Yes, I’m willing to do whatever you say. I will never again endure humiliation like that I have gone through today.”
Victory was on the side of Berrick and he was jubilant.
“Good,” he said. “Then Dr. Willoughby will introduce you to Walter Pitstone, the father of Miss Rhiannon and one week after your marriage I’ll make the both of you aristocrats.”
When Felicia Burgh le Marsh told Georgette that she would appeal to the generosity of Mr. Ingoldmells, she had listened to the dictates of her heart. What was she going to say to Mr. Ingoldmells, who had asked for her hand in marriage? She thought of nothing else on her way home, where she arrived just in time to take her place at the dinner table. Her own miseries occupied Felicia and her father and mother were suffering from their conversations with Berrick and Dr. Willoughby. What did the servants, who waited at the table, care for the sorrows of their master or mistress? They were well fed and cared about nothing except for their wages. She felt that she was in the way and that the day of her marriage would be one of liberation to her parents from their cares and responsibilities. All this played terribly on her mind and it seemed to her that it would be less painful to flee from her father’s house than to have this conversation with Mr. Ingoldmells. Frail as she looked, though, she possessed an indomitable will and this carried her through most of her difficulties.
After dinner Felicia heard the clang of the opening of the main gate. Peeping from her window, she saw a car drive up and to her inexpressible delight Mr. Ingoldmells stepped out from it.
“Heaven has heard my prayer and sent him to me,” she murmured.
“What do you intend to do, Miss?” asked the devoted Georgette. “Will you speak to him now?”
“Yes, I will.”
Calling up all her courage, she left her room on her errand. Mr. Ingoldmells was not yet thirty. Although of an extremely aristocratic appearance, he possessed no title and his skin indicated one who had spent a lot of time outdoors. He was highly educated and in addition one of the largest landholders in South-America. There was a mystery about his sudden appearance in London some ten years before, which led to some gossip. As soon as he caught sight of Felicia he bowed.
The young woman went straight up to him.
“Sir,” she said in a voice broken by conflicting emotions, “may I request the pleasure of a short private conversation with you?”
“Miss,” answered Ingoldmells, hiding his surprise beneath another bow, “I’m at your disposal.”
One of the footmen, at a word from Felicia, threw open the door of a salon. Felicia didn’t ask her visitor to be seated, but leaning her elbow on the marble mantel-piece, she said gathering all her strength, “My reason, sir, is to ask, nay, to beg you, to release me from my engagement to you and to take the whole responsibility of the break-up on yourself.”
Mr. Ingoldmells could not hide his surprise, in which a certain amount of hurt self-love was mingled.
“Miss!” he began.
Felicia interrupted him.
“I’m asking a great favor, but I know that you know scarcely anything of me and therefore you can only feel indifference toward me.”
“You’re mistaken,” replied the young man gravely. “I always consider a step before I take it and if I asked for your hand it was because I had learned to appreciate both your heart and intellect and knew we could be very happy together.”
The young woman seemed about to speak, but Ingoldmells continued, “It seems, however, that I have in some way displeased you. Believe me, it will be a source of sorrow to me for the rest of my life.”
Ingoldmells’s sincerity was so evident, that Miss Burgh le Marsh was deeply touched.
“You’ve not displeased me in any way,” she answered softly, “and are far too good for me.”
Here she stopped, almost choked by her tears, but Mr. Ingoldmells wanted to understand this mystery.
“Why then this resolve?” he asked.
“Because,” replied Felicia faintly, as she hid her face, “I love another.”
The young man said an exclamation full of angry surprise. The poisonous teeth of jealousy were gnawing at his heart. He had not told Felicia the entire truth, because his love for her had grown firm and strong. Many a man in his position would have shrugged his shoulders and coldly sneered at the words, “I love another,” but he didn’t, because his nature was sufficiently noble to sympathize with hers. Actually he admired her courage and frankness.
“But this man,” he said after a long pause, “how did you meet him?”
“I meet him out walking,” she replied, “and I sometimes go to his studio.”
“To his studio? He is not like us?”
“No, he’s a painter. I have sat for him several times for my portrait, but I have never done anything that I need blush to own.”
Only those, who have heard a woman, whom they loved say, “I don’t love you,” can understand Mr. Ingoldmells’s feelings. Had anyone else than Felicia told him to withdraw, he would have not done so, but would have contested the prize with his more fortunate rival. But now that Miss Burgh le Marsh had thrown herself on his mercy, he could not bring himself to go against her wishes.
“It will be as you desire,” he said with a faint tinge of bitterness in his tone. “Tonight I will write to your father and withdraw my demand for your hand.”
Felicia’s strength had now entirely deserted her. “From the depth of my soul, sir, I thank you,” she said.
The phrase sounded like a dismissal, but Ingoldmells, man of the world as he was, didn’t accept it.
“May I allow myself to offer you a word of advice?”
“Do so, sir.”
“Very well, then, why not allow matters to stay as they now are? So long as our break-up was not public, so long will you be left in peace. It would be the simplest thing in the world to postpone all decisive steps for a year and I would withdraw as soon as you notified me that it was time.”
Felicia slowly nodded.
“Might I be allowed,” he asked, “now that you’ve placed confidence in me, to make the acquaintance of the man, whom you’ve honored with your love?”
Felicia colored deeply. “I have no reason to hide anything from you. His name is Robert Crawley. He lives in New Burlington Street.”
As she spoke Felicia rang the bell to show her visitor that the conversation was at an end.
He bowed gravely to Felicia and left the room.
“Ah!” sighed Felicia, “that man is worthy of some good and true woman’s affection.”
As she was about to leave the room, she heard someone insisting on seeing Count Burgh le Marsh. Not being desirous of meeting strangers, she stayed where she was. The servant persisted in saying that his master could receive no one.
“What do I care for your orders?” cried the visitor. “Your master would never refuse to see his friend, the Earl of Reigate,” and thrusting the servant on one side, he entered the salon and his agitation was so great that he hardly noticed the presence of the young woman.
Mr. Reigate was a thoroughly common looking personage in face, figure and dress, neither tall nor short, handsome nor bad-looking. The only noticeable point in his clothes was that he wore a gold hand on his watch chain, because the earl was a firm believer in the evil eye.
“What a fearful blow!” he murmured.
Just then Mr. Burgh le Marsh entere
d the room and the agitated man ran up to him, shouting, “For Heaven’s sake, Bernard, save us both by cancelling your daughter’s engagement with…”
The count put his hand on his friend’s lips.
“Are you mad?” he said. “My daughter is here.”
In obedience to the count’s warning gesture, Felicia left the room. It was deep anxiety that she felt, not mere curiosity and while these thoughts passed through her mind, she remembered that she could hear all from the card-room, the doorway of which was only separated from the salon by a curtain. With a soft, gliding step she reached her hiding place and listened intently. The earl was still pouring out his lamentations.
“What a fearful day this has been!” groaned the unhappy man. “I ate much too heavy a breakfast, more than sufficient to cause a serious illness at my age.”
But the count, who was usually most considerate of his friend’s eccentricities, was not in the mood to listen to him.
“Come, let us talk sense,” he said quickly. “Tell me what has occurred.”
“Occurred!” groaned Reigate. “Oh, nothing, except what took place in the woods so many years back. I received an anonymous letter this morning, threatening me with all sorts of terrible consequences if I don’t hinder you from marrying your daughter to Ingoldmells. The rogues say that they can prove everything.”
“Did you bring the letter with you?”
Reigate took the letter from his pocket. It was as threatening as he had said, but Mr. Burgh le Marsh knew all its contents beforehand.
“Have you examined your diary and are the three pages really missing?”
“They are.”
The count swore a deep oath. “The rogues are very wily, but my dear gentleman if you’re ready, we will defy the storm together.”
Reigate felt a cold tremor pass through his whole body at this proposal.
“Not I,” he said. “Don’t try and persuade me. If you’ve come to this decision, let me know at once and I will go home and finish it all with a bullet.”
He was just the sort of nervous man to do exactly as he said.
“Very well,” answered his friend with sullen resignation, “then I will give in.”
Reigate sighed in relief, because he had expected to have a much more difficult task in persuading his friend.
Down To The Abbey (A Jules Poiret Mystery Book 12) Page 8
