Down To The Abbey (A Jules Poiret Mystery Book 12)

by Frank Howell Evans

  Old Man Davidson paused for a moment and then slowly added, “Such tactics usually succeed unless someone was able to obtain irrefutable proofs of someone’s complicity.”

  The former cook easily understood the threat that was hidden under the words. “They know something,” he thought, “and I must find out what it is.”

  “If a man has a clear conscience,” he said aloud, “he has nothing to fear. You’ve seen my school, what do you think of it?”

  Old Man Davidson nodded. “It is not half a bad trade,” he said.

  Grain thought it best to take no notice of this observation. “The fact is that the profits of our business are tremendously exaggerated.”

  “You manage to make a good living out of it.”

  Grain began to be amazed at his visitor’s calm.

  “To hell with it all,” he said. “If you and Berrick think this business such a profitable one, why don’t you go for it?”

  “Why do you think I’m here?”

  The face of the former cook was convulsed with fury. He was in that mad state of rage in which a man has no control over himself. Mechanically his hand slipped into his pocket, but before he could draw it out again, Old Man Davidson, who had not lost one of his movements, sprang up and took a revolver from his coat pocket.

  “Throw away your knife,” he said sternly.

  In obedience to this order, Grain, threw the weapon into a corner of the room.

  “Good,” said Old Man Davidson. “You’re becoming more reasonable now. What do you think Mr. Berrick would do if I didn’t return safely? If you don’t do all that I want, you will regret it.”

  Grain was deeply mortified. He had been bested in combat and now he was being threatened with death and these things had never happened to him before.

  “Well, I suppose that I must give in,” he answered unhappily.

  “Quite so!”

  “You upset me and made me angry.”

  “Take that chair and let us talk reasonably.”

  Grain obeyed without a word.

  “I came here,” said Old Man Davidson, “because I wanted to prove to you that you are at the mercy of Mr. Berrick. He can crush you to powder whenever he likes.”

  “Your Mr. Berrick is Satan himself,” said the other man.

  “Let us begin at the beginning,” said Old Man Davidson. “One of your ladies has been following a certain Claire Innerleithen. Your lady is not to be trusted. A night or two ago one of my men made her drunk…”

  The former cook said, “Then you too are watching Claire.”

  “Why are you watching her?” asked Old Man Davidson.

  “How can you ask me? You know that my motto is silence and discretion.”

  Old Man Davidson shrugged his shoulders.

  “Why do you talk like that when you know very well what this information is worth?” he said.

  “Are you certain of this statement?” asked the private detective, with a cunning look.

  “This matter was placed in your hands by Mr. Eydon, the lawyer.”

  The expression in Grain’s face changed from surprise to fear.

  “Why, this Mr. Berrick knows everything,” he said.

  “Yes,” replied Old Man Davidson. “My boss wants to know what occurred between Eydon’s client and yourself.”

  Grain sighed.

  “Well, if I must, I must,” he said, looking around. “About three weeks ago, I had just finished with half a dozen clients at my office in Chiswick, when my servant brought me Eydon’s card. After some talk, he asked me if I could find a person that he had lost sight of. Of course I said, yes, I could. On this he asked me to make an appointment for ten the next morning, when someone would call on me. At the appointed time a shabbily dressed man was shown in. I looked him up and down and saw that, in spite of his greasy hat and threadbare coat, his shoes were very expensive. “Aha,” I said to myself, “you thought to fool me, did you!” I gave him a chair and he proceeded to let me into his reasons for coming. “Sir,” he said, “my life has not been a very happy one. Once I was compelled to take a child to King’s Cross Orphanage that I loved very dearly. He was the son of a woman, whom I adored. She is dead now and I’m old and alone. I have a small property and would give half of it to recover the child. Tell me, sir, is there any chance of doing so?” You can imagine, sir,” he continued, after a pause, “that I was very interested in this story. So I agreed to take the commission. I, of course, bragged of my enormous sources of information and the probability of success.”

  Old Man Davidson said impatiently, “I know that.”

  “The old man said, “I only hope that you’re as skilful as Mr. Eydon says you are and you have as much influence and power as you assert, because I have tried everything up to this, but I have failed.” I went first to the orphanage, where the child had been placed and they showed me the register containing the date of his admission, but no one knew what had become of him, because at twelve years of age he had left the place and no one had heard of him since and in spite of every effort, I have been unable to find whether he is alive or dead.”

  “That’s all?” said Old Man Davidson.

  Old Man Davidson’s tone was so decided, that the other man looked quickly at him. A vague suspicion began to rise that the affair had also been placed in Berrick’s hands and that he had worked it with more success than himself.

  “I don’t know whether the old man was smart enough to read in the expression of my face that I had not the smallest hope of success, be that as it may, he declared that he came in only to consult me and that everything must be done in a confidential way. He took a banknote for five hundred shilling, which he gave to me for my time. I refused to take it, though it cost me a struggle to do so, because I thought that I would make more out of him later on. But he insisted on me taking it, saying that he would see me again soon and that Eydon would talk to me.”

  Old Man Davidson felt that Grain was telling the truth.

  “Did you try to find out who the old man was?” he asked.

  Grain hesitated, but feeling convinced that playing with fire would get him burned, he answered, “Hardly had my visitor left, when I slipped on a cap and a workman’s costume and followed him in his track. I saw him enter one of the biggest houses in Lombard Lane. He is the Count of Sissinghurst.”

  “Yes, I know that,” said Old Man Davidson, placidly. “I’m more interested in the connection between the count and Claire Innerleithen. Why did you have your woman watch her?”

  Grain raised his eyebrows.

  “My reasons are simple. The count is a very wealthy man and lives a simple life with his wife. They have no children. I thought that the count, not having a legitimate heir, wanted me to find his son. Don’t you think I’m right?”

  “You haven’t explained your reasons for watching Claire.”

  Grain was no match for Berrick’s right-hand man. Even he could see that Old Man Davidson was asking him questions, which had been prepared in advance.

  “I tried to find out who the mother of the child was, but I failed. I did find out that a woman, who had been in the service of the count twenty-five years ago, received a small allowance from him. This woman was Claire Innerleithen. I easily found out her address and had her watched.”

  “And of what use will she be to you?”

  “It could be that she has knowledge of the birth of this child.”

  “I don’t think much of your idea,” answered Old Man Davidson.

  “Then let me tell you. I have drawn an imaginary circle around London. I will visit every house within this radius. I will say to the inhabitants, “Do any of you remember at any time sheltering a child, dressed in such and such a manner?” giving at the same time a description of him. I’m sure that I would find someone, who would answer in the affirmative. Then I would gain a clue which I could follow.”

  This plan appeared so ingenious to Old Man Davidson, that he involuntarily screamed, “Excellent!”

/>   Grain didn’t know whether Old Man Davidson was praising him or laughing at him. His manner might have meant either.

  “If it proves impossible to lay my hands on the real boy, I may be forced to use a substitute.”

  At this suggestion Old Man Davidson started violently.

  “Greed is how intelligent men end up in prison,” he gasped.

  “You’re afraid, then?” said Grain, delighted at the impact his proposal had made.

  “It seems it is you, who is afraid,” answered Old Man Davidson. “Or you would have done it already.”

  “You don’t know me when you say that,” said Grain. “The count informed me that he could prove the identity of the boy by certain scars.”

  “Scars? What scars?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  On receiving this reply, Old Man Davidson stood up hastily from his chair and thus hid his agitation from his companion.

  “My boss got it into his head that you were after the same game as ourselves. He was mistaken. I apologize. We leave the field clear to you.”

  Before Grain could reply, the old man left the room. On the threshold he paused and said, “Greed is the enemy of the thinking man. Stick to your first plan. A search here, a fake clue there will net you several thousand shilling out of the count’s pockets. The other thing will only bring you a life sentence.” Then he was gone.

  Two hours after Robert had left Kensington, one of Berrick’s most trusted emissaries was at his heels. He watched his actions with the tenacity of a bloodhound. Robert, however, now that he had heard that Felicia was getting better, had entirely recovered his spirits and never noticed that he was being followed. His heart also rejoiced at the friendship of Mr. Ingoldmells and the promise of assistance from Mr. Poiret and with the assistance of the two, he felt that his difficulties would soon end.

  “I must get to work again,” he said, as he left Mr. Ingoldmells’s house. “I have already lost too much time.”

  Robert was busy all night with his plans for his rich patron, Mr. Skegness, who wanted as much ornamental work on the outside of his house as he had decorations within. Having looked for a moment at Felicia’s portrait, he walked to the accommodation of Mr. Skegness, the father of young Belvedere Skegness. The celebrated man lived in an impressive house in Kensington, until his more palatial residence would be completed.

  When Robert presented himself at the door, an old servant, who knew him well, strongly urged him not to go up.

  “Never,” he said, “in all the time that I have been with master, have I seen him in such a rage. Only just listen!”

  It was easy to hear the noise alluded to, mingled with the breaking of glass and the smashing of furniture.

  “The master has been at this for over an hour,” said the servant, “ever since his lawyer, Mr. Eydon, left him.”

  Robert, however, decided not to postpone his visit. “I must see him in spite of everything,” he said.

  With evident reluctance the domestic obeyed and threw open the door of a room superbly furnished and decorated, in the center of which stood Mr. Skegness waving the leg of a chair frantically in his hand. He was a man of sixty years of age, but didn’t look fifty. He was built like a Hercules, with huge hands and muscular limbs under his fashionable garments. He had made his enormous fortune, of which he was considerably proud, by speculation and no one could say that he had not acted fairly throughout his whole career. He was coarse and violent in his manner, but he had a generous heart and never refused help to the deserving and needy. He swore like a trooper and his grammar was faulty, but for all that, his heart was in the right place.

  “What idiot is coming here to annoy me?” he roared, as soon as the door was opened.

  “I have come by appointment,” answered Robert Crawley and the contractor’s brow cleared as he saw, who his visitor was.

  “Ah, it is you, is it? Take a seat, that is, if there is a sound chair left in the room. I like you, because you don’t shirk hard work. If I had a daughter, you would marry her and I would build you a magnificent house.”

  “I thank you,” said Robert.

  “You never knew your parents. I wish I never knew my son,” he said, suddenly turning to Robert.

  These words at once gave Robert the solution of the scene before him. Mr. Skegness was irritated by something his son had done. For a moment Robert hesitated. He didn’t want to say anything that might revive the old man’s feeling of anger and therefore merely replied that he had only met his son Belvedere two or three times.

  “Belvedere?” cried the old man, with a bitter laugh. “Don’t call him that. Do you think it likely that old Skegness would ever have been dumb enough to call his son Belvedere? He was named Tom, after his grandfather, but it wasn’t a good enough name for the young fool. He wanted a swell name and Tom sounded too much like hard work for my fine gentleman. But that isn’t all,” continued the old man. “He now calls himself Lord Skegness. He a lord, indeed!”

  The old man’s wrath was not yet assuaged.

  “The gentleman is absolutely ashamed of his father. He consorts with titled fools and doesn’t see that it is not he that is treated with respect, but the gold pieces of his old father.”

  Robert’s position was now a painful one.

  “He is only twenty-four and yet see what a wreck he is,” resumed Skegness. “I have only myself to blame, because I have been far too lenient. I give him fifteen hundred shilling monthly and he goes about calling me tight. He has already squandered every bit of his poor mother’s fortune.” He stopped, turning pale, because at that moment the door opened and young Belvedere or rather Tom, slouched into the room.

  “It is the common fate of fathers to be disappointed in their sons. He ought to be my honor and glory, instead he is the scourge to punish my worldly aspirations,” screamed the old man.

  “Good!” murmured Belvedere approvingly. “Considering that you’ve not made a special study of elocution.”

  Fortunately for him his father didn’t catch his words and continued in a voice broken by emotion, “That, Mr. Crawley, is my so-called son.”

  “Papa,” protested Belvedere, but his father stopped him.

  “Have at least the courage to acknowledge your faults. You thought me blind, because I said nothing, but your past conduct has opened my eyes. This very morning my solicitor, Mr. Eydon, called on me and with that real courage, which only true friends possess, told me all. I must tell you, Mr. Crawley,” resumed the speculator, “that I was ill. I had a severe attack of the gout. My son heard the news and went straight to a money-lender called Coleshill and raised a hundred thousand shilling assuring the blood-sucker that I had not many hours to live.”

  “It is a lie!” cried Belvedere, his face reddening with shame.

  The old man raised the leg of the chair in his hand and made so threatening a movement that Robert flung himself between father and son. “Great heavens, stop!” he cried. “Think, sir.”

  The old man paused, touched his hand to his brow and flung the weapon into a remote corner of the room. “I thank you,” he said, grasping Robert’s hand. “You saved me. I would have murdered him.”

  Belvedere did not cower.

  “This would have been quite a sight in a theatre,” he said, stifling a yawn. “Here, it bores me so.”

  Robert didn’t allow him to finish the sentence, grasping the young man’s wrist.

  “I had in my hands,” said the old man, addressing Robert and ignoring the presence of his son, “not more than an hour ago the terms for the loan.”

  The old man tore the cravat from his throat and wiped the beads of cold sweat on his forehead.

  “Was it courage you lacked?” asked the old man, turning for the first time to his son. “Did you not know that ten drops instead of one of the medicine I was taking would have freed you from me forever?”

  Belvedere didn’t seem at all overwhelmed. He was wondering how the matter had reached his father’s ears and ho
w Eydon had found the agreement.

  The speculator had imagined that his son would implore forgiveness, but seeing that he stayed unshaken, his violent temper burst forth again. “And do you know what use my son would make of my fortune? He would squander it on a creature he picked up out of the streets, a woman he calls Mrs. Herstmonceux, a fit companion for a noble lord!”

  This dart did reach its goal. Belvedere had up to this displayed only tranquility. “You should not insult Samara,” he said.

  “I will do more than that,” answered his father with a grim laugh. “I will put her in prison. My solicitor has the matter in hand and by nightfall your Samara will be securely caged.”

  This blow was so cruel and unexpected, that the young man could only repeat, “No! I will never forgive you, papa.”

  “Yes! Mr. Eydon told me the very things to be done.”

  “No, papa!” screamed Belvedere. “I will lay siege to the prison. I will go to court. I will marry her. The newspapers will write about us.”

  However great the father’s self-control was, it had its limits. Mr. Skegness had restrained himself, but this threat was more than he could endure and Robert seeing this, stepped forward, opened the door and pushed the foolish youth into the hallway.

  “What have you done?” cried the speculator.

  Robert Crawley tried to restrain him, but the old man, exerting all his muscular strength, pushed him to the side with perfect ease and rushed from the room, calling loudly for his servants.

  Robert was horrified at the scene of which, in spite of himself, he was a witness. He had lived too long in the world of art not to have witnessed many strange scenes or met with many debauched characters.

  He heard a car drive away fast. A few minutes later Mr. Skegness appeared again, out of breath and with a painful expression on his face.

  The speculator sank into a chair and buried his face in his hands.

  “You’re in pain, sir?” asked Robert.