Anthony Lyveden Part 51

If to be told that the Probate Divorce and Admiralty Division of the High Court of Justice will be prepared to award you a mansion in Town, an estate in Dorsetshire--each of them, as they say, ready to walk into--and nearly three-quarters of a million of money, is to receive a communication to your great financial advantage, then Bulrush & Co. had not overstated their case.

There was no doubt about it, Anthony's ship was signalled. The pilot was going aboard. Very soon the galleon would be in the stream.

If the double journey had proved too much for John Forest, so that the prelate was compelled to rest before returning to England, at least he had sent the will by registered post. This in due season had been produced to the testator's solicitor, a benevolent gentleman of the Old School, who, after an interview with Sir Giles Molehill and Blithe at the Royal Courts of Justice, was entirely satisfied regarding its validity. Indeed, his anxiety to wash his hands of the usurper was almost voluble.

"And I may say, my lord, that I more than once spoke very warmly to my client about that iniquitous proviso which he made me insert. But, as your lordship knows, a testator has always been permitted to indulge his utmost eccentricity, and my words fell upon deaf ears. He was a difficult man, sir, was Jonathan Roach. But when the time came, and I had to break the news to young Lyveden, it was a sorry business. I'm heartily thankful it's going to be put right."

"I hope it is, Mr. Orphan," had replied the Judge. "But we've still got to find our protege. That I must leave to you and Blithe to pull off. I've done my part. But you must keep me informed, for I'm determined to be in at the death."

The two attorneys had promised faithfully, and left the Judge smiling.

Benevolence and shrewdness seldom go hand-in-hand, and his lordship's words had contained a subtle instruction to Blithe to shepherd his elderly brother and not to retire from the case. The flick of an eyelid had disclosed Blithe's reception of the hint.

With what result, we know.

And that is the sum of my arrears, gentlemen. Henceforth, if you please, you shall find the street of narrative straight as a French highway, with hill and dale certainly, but none of your hairpin corners to send you doubling upon your tracks.

It was eleven o'clock of a Sunday morning.

Never was an hour more melodiously announced. The diverse tongues of Oxford insisted upon its arrival for fully five minutes. Indeed, the harmonious argument, which had begun as his lordship's car was nearing Magdalen Bridge, was still in progress when the great grey limousine swung out of St. Giles's and on to the Woodstock road.

All three of its occupants were in a holiday humour. The Judge was radiant; Orphan proved splendid company; while Blithe, a brilliant talker, kept the two bubbling with merriment upon a fire of delicate wit. The miles fairly melted beneath their gaiety. Indeed, it was not until the Judge's eye caught the message of an odd finger-post that any one of the three realized that they had pa.s.sed Blenheim.

"CHIPPING NORTON 8!" cried his lordship. "Gad, gentlemen, we're nearly there. Blithe, you're a stage-manager in a million. The thing's going to pan out like a well-written play. What time did you tell Plowman to expect us?"

"At twelve o'clock," said Blithe. "With any luck we shall just do it nicely."

"Good!" said the Judge. Then: "I think we'd better pick up Plowman and take him with us, don't you, Orphan?"

"I think so. For one thing, he knows Lyveden and can introduce us."

"Quite so." His lordship consulted his watch. "We ought to have landed our fish by a quarter to one. We'd better mark down an hotel and carry him off to lunch. You'd better speak to him first and just make sure he's our man."

"Certainly," said Orphan. "I think if I ask him his mother's maiden name, where he was born, his age, and the name of his uncle's butler, that ought to do."

"Why the name of the butler?" said Blithe. "Is that a catch?"

"Quite right," said Orphan. "Just to make doubly sure. Old Jonathan Roach never would have a man-servant in the house. It was a whim of his. If I get the right answer, I shall be easy for ever. But I don't want to take any risks with the best part of a million at stake."

"I agree," said Sir Giles. "Have you got some cash for him?"

The other nodded and touched his coat.

"One hundred in notes and a cheque-book. I'll take his specimen signature, and put a thousand to his credit to-morrow."

"Good!" said the Judge. "That's the style. I wish poor Forest was here. He'd 've enjoyed it thoroughly. Such a pathetic letter he wrote me when he sent the will. Blames himself out of all reason for keeping the doc.u.ment so long. I sent him a line on Friday to say that we'd found our man. I admit it was rather precipitate, but, all things considered, I think I was justified. By the time the letter reaches him it will be a _fait accompli_--and I wanted to ease his mind."

"If you ask me," said Blithe, "it's all over but the shouting. The talk I had with Plowman over the telephone settled it. In fact, that was when the shouting began. Which reminds me that the trunk line from London to Girdle requires attention. It was not a conversation at all.

It was a joint rhapsody."

"Personally," said the Judge, "I detest the telephone. It's a pomp and a vanity of a wicked world. You can never be sure who you're talking to, nor how many people are listening; there's no record of what you've said and no evidence that you've even said it. The invention is a convenient nuisance, conducive to blasphemy, and should be abated."

The car rolled on.

Presently, though none of them knew it, they slipped past Anthony's cottage and so down Gallowstree Hill to the village they sought.

To say that Mr. Samuel Plowman was ready and waiting in no way describes his condition. The little lawyer was wellnigh beside himself with expectation. The prospect of meeting a Justice of the King's Bench intoxicated. The possibility of entertaining such a one in the flesh and the dining-room of The Nook, Girdle, made tales of Paradise seem tame. A burning discussion with Mrs. Plowman had resulted in a decision not to offer his lordship lunch. That would be attempting too much. Cakes and ale, however, flanked by a dish of sandwiches and a tantalus, made a collation at once independent of service and adaptable to every appet.i.te. Furniture was moved, rugs were transferred, the first floor was spoiled to turn the spare bedroom into Mr. Plowman's conception of a Judge's lavatory. It had been mutually agreed that Mrs. Plowman's presence would be intrusive, but, in the circ.u.mstances, to go soberly to church was more than the good lady could stomach. An O. P. was therefore established in the bathroom beside the geyser, to which point of vantage Mrs. Plowman undertook to repair the moment the car was heard....

The Nook standing close to a corner of the London road, seven times was the O. P. occupied and evacuated between half-past eleven and twelve, and three times did Mr. Plowman actually throw open his door and advance, nervous but beaming, into the drive, only to hear the deceitful engine once more gathering speed. The fourth time, however, the purr of the engine fell to a steady mutter, which was maintained.

The car was not at the gate, but it was not moving. Possibly its occupants were inquiring for The Nook.... Mr. Plowman tried not to run down the drive. With her heart in her mouth, Mrs. Plowman peered past the geyser to where the branches of a monkey-puzzler maddeningly obstructed her view of the front gate....

Two minutes later the little solicitor reappeared, walking most delicately and attending a tall, distinguished-looking man with every circ.u.mstance of veneration. Behind them came two other strangers, who might have been equerries. That, for all his ecstasy, Mr. Plowman remembered to throw a smile up to the bathroom window, literally reduced Mrs. Plowman to tears of joy.

It was no desire for refreshment, but pure kindness of heart that moved Sir Giles Molehill to accept the attorney's invitation. And, as was his way in life, he did the thing handsomely. Did he see beer?

Splendid. He would have a bottle of beer. Yes, and a sandwich.

Excellent. Just the thing after an eighty-mile run. What excellent roads they kept in Oxfordshire! He never remembered better. And the Cotswold air was magnificent. Really, one had to spend one's days in a stuffy Court in Town to appreciate the country as it deserved.

"Yet we thrive on the atmosphere, bad as it is. Look at the time we live, Mr. Plowman. Who ever heard of a Judge dying? Yes. I really must have another sandwich. They're so excellent. And now we want you to come with us in the car and take us to Mr. Lyveden ... _Major_ Lyveden, is he? Right ... D.S.O.? Good fellow. Wonder what he got that for. And then you'll come on to lunch...."

By the time they were back in the car, Mr. Plowman was upon the edge of praying for an occasion of saving his lordship's life at the expense of his own....

At the south-west corner of Gramarye the guide gave the signal, and the car was stopped. Then Plowman and Orphan alighted and pa.s.sed up the wasted track. Except for a wreath of smoke curling from the chimney, the cottage might have been deserted....

"I rather expect," said Plowman, "he'll be having his dinner...."

A second later he was tapping upon the door.

For a moment there was a dead silence. Then a stealthy movement made itself heard....

The two men listened intently.

From the London road the Judge and Blithe were watching them closely.

The door remaining fast shut, Mr. Plowman knocked again.

Instantly the movement ceased. After perhaps twenty seconds it was renewed, but with a difference. The stealth had become hasty.

The two men stared at one another. Then--

"Better go in," said Orphan, with his hand on the latch.

This yielded to pressure, and the next moment the door was open.

The atmosphere prevailing in the little chamber was uninviting. There was a fire glowing upon the hearth, and the room was unpleasantly hot.

From the reek of a pungent tobacco emerged an unsavoury smell of something which was not fuel, burning. Scattered about the red-brick floor were black feathers without number, and here and there amid the plumage appeared the muddy print of feet. Perched upon the logs was a pot bubbling, and by the side of the hearth an old pair of boots emitted wisps of steam. Lyveden himself was nowhere to be seen.