Let's Choose Executors, page 17
“It’s a right of way,” said Hugo shortly. The encounter did not seem to afford him any pleasure. He stood scowling at Antony for a moment before he added: “I suppose it isn’t just chance, our meeting like this.”
“I was on my way to Ravenscroft,” Maitland admitted. He was quite clear in his own mind that he had to talk to Hugo, and equally clear that it would have been worse than useless to attempt it with Davenant in tow.
“Does that mean . . . more questions?”
“I’m afraid it does.”
“Oh, God!” said Hugo unemotionally. He turned and began to walk down the track, and Antony fell into step beside him. After a moment he added reluctantly: “I’ve been thinking since I saw you. But I don’t know what to do.”
“If you’d only tell me―”
“About my quarrel with Granny?”
“That’s the main thing, certainly.” Hugo didn’t reply, and Maitland was content to let the silence lengthen. They skirted the plough-land and crossed another stile into a field where ewes were grazing; Floss gave them a knowledgeable look and pressed closer to her master’s heels.
“Fran knew,” said Hugo abruptly. “Why didn’t she tell you?”
“She told me a number of lies,” said Antony casually.
“It made me wonder—” That was another sentence that was never destined to be completed. He stopped, and swung round to his companion, and asked urgently: “Did she do it? That’s what matters really. Do you think she’s guilty?”
Maitland looked at him. He had an uncomfortable feeling that the question was sincere. “No, I don’t,” he said, emphasizing the words.
Hugo was frowning still, but he didn’t seem angry now, only bewildered. “You said, ‘a number of lies.’ But why . . . if she’s innocent?”
“I can only guess, Mr. Randall. Perhaps to protect someone else.”
“Who—?” He had talked glibly enough about “some man” the other day; now his lips tightened at the suggestion. Maitland said deliberately:
“You tell me she knew why Mrs. Randall cut you out of her will. Who else but you could have been harmed by that knowledge?”
“I see. I’ve been afraid of that, since you were here on Wednesday.” His voice was very low now, but he spoke carefully, as though each word was important.
“Not before that?”
“No.” He stared at Maitland a moment longer, and then turned abruptly and began to move across the field again. “I thought I understood . . . when she said she’d fight if I disputed the will . . . I thought there was someone else.”
“But you backed her story that she didn’t know about the new codicil until New Year’s Eve.”
“What else could I do? I couldn’t call her a liar. Whatever she’d done—” He paused, and then added dispassionately: “That was a trick, wasn’t it? You didn’t know.”
“It wasn’t a very difficult deduction.”
“She told me on Monday night,” said Hugo. “She said that was why she wasn’t going to the dance . . . it would give her chance to ask Grandmother to put things right. I told her I didn’t want that, I begged her not to say anything. But I wasn’t angry with her then . . . not really.”
“Did you say anything to Mrs. Randall?”
“No . . . no, how could I?” They had reached the side of the field, and he paused with his hand on the gate. “As for Fran,” he said, with a sudden violence that more nearly matched his previous mood, “it was a fool’s trick, wasn’t it, not to tell the truth?”
“Not very sensible, certainly.” Hugo swung the gate open and the three dogs went through ahead of them. “I wish you’d trust me, said Maitland, following; and remembered as he spoke that he had made the same demand of Fran Gifford, which was all very well if their interests happened to lie together . . .
“I don’t seem to have much choice. I’ve got to know . . I’ve got to understand.” He closed the gate carefully and signalled to the dogs with a jerk of his hand. Floss trotted away with the proud, purposeful gait of the well-trained sheep dog, the others frisked off together, momentarily intoxicated by their freedom. They were on a broad expanse of turf now, that stretched away in both directions between hedges of hawthorn. “One of the old ‘green lanes’,” said Hugo. He wasn’t looking at his companion now. “It isn’t the quickest way home.”
“That suits me.” The grass was springy underfoot, but Maitland hardly noticed his surroundings any longer. His mind was as deeply concentrated on the other man as ever upon a witness in court.
“All right then. About Fran . . . can you get her acquitted?” Hugo asked, and moved away in the direction the dogs had taken.
“I don’t think I can, unless I know the truth.”
“And you want me to help you?” The words were softly spoken, but his mouth had a bitter twist.
“I think you must.”
“One way out would be to provide the court with a scapegoat.” He gave a sidelong glance at his companion. “Me, for instance,” he suggested. “Is that the idea?”
“Not unless it’s true that you killed her.”
“It isn’t,” said Hugo, still watching him.
“I’m relieved to hear it,” Antony told him tartly. And suddenly Randall laughed.
“I don’t expect you to believe me,” he asserted. “But I’ll tell you . . . about that, anyway. About the quarrel.” He walked on in silence for some time before he added: “If you could call it that.”
“It takes two—” said Maitland, at his vaguest.
“That’s right. I didn’t really have very much to say.” He was frowning heavily now, choosing his words. “There was a girl in Chedcombe who’d had a baby. Someone told Granny I was the father. I was paying her maintenance, I expect that’s how they knew.”
Antony’s first reaction was one of pure astonishment. He said: “Good God, Randall, is that what you’ve been jibbing at?”
“It isn’t quite so simple.” Hugo took the interruption calmly enough. “For one thing she was only a schoolgirl; when the child was born, I mean. For another, there was my grandmother’s outlook on these things. You asked me the other day what particular sin she hated; I thought then that you knew.”
“I just had an idea she looked . . . a fanatic,” said Maitland. For some reason he sounded apologetic. “So I wondered—”
“Well, now you know.”
“When did all this happen?”
“If you mean the child, it was born last May.”
“And you’ve been paying the mother ever since, without your grandmother’s knowledge?”
“Yes. That’s why I thought perhaps Walter had found out and told her . . . I mean, through being curious about the cash withdrawals from my account.”
“You don’t think the girl herself—?”
“It hadn’t occurred to me. But she might have, at that. You see, I’d had to tell her . . . I was doing what I could but I’d pretty well used up my reserves.”
“Did Miss Randall know?”
“She’s never said so. And if you’re thinking Nell might have told Granny, she wouldn’t.”
“It seemed to me she knew something that made her unhappy,” Maitland told him.
“Then I expect Granny told her. That’s much more likely.”
“I see. Well, what matters for the moment is that Mrs. Randall did find out. On Christmas Day?”
“That might just have been the first chance she had of—of taxing me with it,” said Hugo.
“What did she say?”
“She asked me if it was true. Well, I couldn’t deny it. So then she said I’d have to marry the girl.”
“You didn’t want that?”
“That little tramp!” Hugo laughed shortly. “Anyway, Granny changed her mind after that. Said she supposed I’d no more moral sense than my father had, and was the relationship continuing? I told her it wasn’t, but I ought to have known then that she took the whole thing even more seriously than I supposed.”
“How could you have known?”
“For one thing because she started talking about my responsibility in the matter, for setting the girl on the downward path, you know. And because she mentioned my father; she never forgave him for his divorce.” They had been climbing steadily for some time now; the two young dogs were running ahead, in the happy certainty that they were clearing the path of any possible danger, but Floss had come back to her master’s side, and as he spoke more freely, her brown eyes seemed to become more watchful. “Grandmother could never see past events to the people concerned in them.” He was speaking earnestly now, trying to explain. “Happiness was only a word, and didn’t matter; it didn’t matter, either, if you got to the stage where you just couldn’t take any more. That way out was sinful . . . scandalous. I don’t know which was worse. I always knew she felt like that, of course, but I never realised quite how deep it went.”
“Did she tell you she was going to change her will?”
“Not a word. I didn’t know until Fran told me.”
“I don’t see why she should disinherit your brother and sister too.”
“To punish me . . . can’t you see that? I could always manage, but I wouldn’t get very far keeping those two on a farm labourer’s pay.”
“But you love Ravenscroft, don’t you?” His gesture was expansive enough to embrace the whole property, not just the fields between which they were walking.
“Is it so obvious?” Hugo asked after a moment.
“I think it is.”
“She didn’t understand that, you see.” There was a gate on their left; he moved toward it as though he couldn’t help himself, and stood looking out across the valley. Antony came up beside him and saw the orderly progression of fields, sloping steeply at first and then more gently down to the road and the river beyond. “Ravensburn,” said Hugo, as though he were answering a question. And then: “You can see the house quite well from here.”
The green lane had passed behind Ravenscroft as it climbed the hill. The farmstead lay below them now, a little to the left; they could see the square of buildings that formed the yard, and the depth of the house itself, much bigger than it appeared from the front. And its fields lay all about it, quiet in the afternoon sun. Antony wanted to ask, “What will you do now?” but the question would be too cruel. So he said the first thing that came into his mind: “What acreage have you?”
“Just over three hundred; and common rights, of course. That’s where I’d been when we met, to see the shepherd. We’ve some black-faces up there, tougher stock than the gently bred ladies you saw just now.” His tone was gently mocking, but he grinned as he spoke; as though for the moment he saw in Maitland no more than a companion upon whose understanding he could rely. “There isn’t much top soil up here, you know, but it’s good grazing for them. And the lower fields are fertile enough.”
“What other stock—?”
“Half a dozen Jerseys in milk, three heifers, nine breeding sows. We could feed more, off the land, but we’ve nowhere to house them; and building costs money.” He broke off there, and then said slowly: “I keep forgetting.”
It was easy to see that to Hugo at least the shock of dispossession must have been very great. Maitland turned from the view and looked again at him directly. “Why did she choose Fran Gifford?” he asked, and saw Randall’s expression close and guarded. When there was no answer he added, in a resigned voice: “Then tell me the rest of the story.”
“That’s all.” Hugo’s voice was bitter again. “If you think I’m going to try to excuse myself—”
“I shouldn’t be interested. But I should like to know why you lied about it.”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“Not to me.”
“I was afraid I’d be suspected of killing her,” said Hugo savagely. “It seems that Fran thought I might have been angry enough to do so, even if it didn’t occur to anyone else. Or else I was embarrassed. Take your pick!”
“I’m sorry, neither appeals to me.” He watched Hugo’s expression darken. “You forgot one perfectly good reason, “ he added helpfully. “You didn’t want your sister to know.”
“I’ll remember that,” said Hugo, tight-lipped, “next time someone asks me.”
“Well, if you won’t tell me the reason . . . who was the girl?”
“Does it matter?”
“Not really. I suppose it was Nancy Selkirk.”
“How the hell did you know that?”
“She spoke to me last night as I was leaving court. At the time I couldn’t think why.”
“She didn’t tell you—?” He broke off, and to Antony it seemed that he had drawn back a little, as though afraid of the results of a too-impetuous question.
“She seemed very anxious about Fran Gifford.”
“Did she, though? A lot of use that is.”
“I can’t be sure—” began Maitland, watching him.
“Look here!” Hugo sounded desperate now. “I’ll tell any tale you like in court . . . anything! Just leave Nancy out of this.”
“Can’t you get it into your head,” said Antony irritably, “that if we call you at all I want you to tell the truth.”
“Well, I will . . . but how will that help Fran?”
“There’s the question of motive. If we can persuade the jury Alice Randall wasn’t likely to change her mind—”
“She wasn’t,” said Hugo positively.
Maitland looked at him curiously. “Are you still trying to protect Fran in some way?”
“I never did that exactly. Only to back her up about not knowing what Granny had done about her will.”
“I see. Well, if you’ll take a little advice, Mr. Randall, you’ll tell me the rest of it.”
“There’s nothing else.” He didn’t even try to sound convincing.
“You seem very anxious I shouldn’t talk to Nancy Selkirk. Is that where you were on New Year’s Eve. New Year’s morning, I should say . . . while your grandmother was dying?”
“No!”
“Oh, well, it isn’t where you were that matters so much as where Miss Randall thought you were.”
“You don’t wrap things up, do you? I really was with Lesser.”
“One of the cows?” said Antony doubtfully.
“A joke of Marian’s. I suppose”—he seemed to be considering the matter—“not a very good one. But I particularly wanted a heifer calf out of Celandine, so when she dropped one—”
“Yes, I see. And she was with you, no doubt”—he nodded toward Floss, who was lying down now with her chin on her paws—“and I wouldn’t accept her evidence where you were concerned, even if she could give it.”
“I daresay you’re right, at that.” Hugo was looking down at the dog, and his expression was hard to read. “She’s mine, anyway . . . not part of the estate.”
“Which brings us back to the question, why did your grandmother decide to make Fran Gifford one of her legatees?”
Hugo moistened his lips. “I don’t know,” he said. His eyes met Maitland’s for a moment, and then he was looking away again, out across the valley.
“If you can’t make a very good guess, you must be a bigger fool than I take you for,” said Antony tartly.
“What do you mean?”
“If you don’t know, I’ll tell you . . . and here’s something else I won’t wrap up. I think your grandmother acted as she did because she knew very well you’re in love with Fran Gifford, and this way she was quite sure you’d never marry her.”
There was a silence. After a while Hugo twisted round, still with one elbow leaning on top of the gate, so that he could look at his companion. “Damn you, it isn’t true,” he said. In spite of the words, his voice was oddly devoid of feeling.
“I can’t think of any other reason,” said Maitland thoughtfully, “for her to act exactly in that way. But you’d known Fran a long time; why had you never told her?” And suddenly Hugo’s defences were down; he didn’t make any attempt to hide the fact, except that when he found his hands were shaking he thrust them into his pockets. He kept his eyes fixed on Antony’s face and said in a quick, shaken voice:
“I couldn’t ask her to live at Ravenscroft, could I? It wasn’t—it wasn’t a happy place. I had to wait—”
“And so you were caught.”
“That’s just how it was. When I knew what Granny had done . . . Fran was so worried about it, I couldn’t tell her why it was so dreadful. And afterward, even if I’d pocketed my pride . . . she knew about Nancy by then. And I couldn’t tell her—”
“What couldn’t you tell her?” Maitland prompted after a moment.
“I must have been mad, I think. I never realised that might be why she said she’d fight to keep the legacy . . . just because she was so angry. And she had a right to be. When we knew how Granny died I never thought Fran could have done it; but then it seemed there was no one else, and I knew she wasn’t telling the truth . . . I knew she wouldn’t have done it on her own, but I thought if she was in love she might have been persuaded.”
“And now?”
“I’ll do anything . . . anything at all!”
“You’ve already offered to lie for her, but you won’t tell me all the truth.”
