Let's Choose Executors, page 9
“Well, there is, but I’m not telling you that.”
“You think, after all, Fran Gifford cheated you in some way?”
“I don’t know! How can I know?” He was in earnest suddenly, desperately and unmistakably in earnest; and for the first time he spoke, Antony thought, without any consideration for the consequences of what he said. “I only know she turned on me like a tiger-cat and said she’d fight any action that was brought, every inch of the way.”
Maitland glanced at Davenant, and met a look as startled as his own. “When was this?” he asked.
“The day after Grandmother died.”
So much then for the girl’s protests that Alice Randall’s action hadn’t been fair, that she had asked her to restore the position as it had been before. If Hugo was to be believed . . . but, “wait till you see him,” Vera Langhorne had said. Revenge was an ugly word, he wasn’t quite sure whether it was too ugly. “Why do you suppose she did that?” he asked.
Hugo shrugged. “Some man, of course.” His tone was carefully casual.
“Can you suggest—?”
“How should I know? But what else can I think? There must be someone.” His lack of interest didn’t quite ring true. “Fran would never—”
“You think she isn’t interested in money?”
“I didn’t say that.” The statement had an air of finality. “That brings us back, then, to the quarrel you had with your grandmother,” Antony said.
“That’s queer, “said Randall. “That’s damned queer, when you come to think of it.” He spoke slowly, as though he was thinking something out.
“What is?”
“Oh . . . the row we had?” He seemed to recall the question with difficulty. “If you want to know what I think, Walter’d been making mischief.”
“Your uncle?”
“That’s right. He wouldn’t have been sorry to have stirred up trouble. But that doesn’t explain—” He was still thoughtful. The sentence trailed off, uncompleted.
“Something you’d done, then, that your uncle knew about,” Antony prompted after a while; and saw Hugo return to reality with what was obviously a sense of shock.
“I’ve said too much already.” The sulky look was back again, his voice was bitter. “You’ve a damned insinuating way with you,” he added, disagreeably. Davenant clicked his tongue in a reproving way, but Maitland met Hugo’s belligerent stare serenely.
“It’s really awfully easy to tell the truth,” he said. “You must try it some time.”
Randall ignored this, unless the angry gleam in his eye could be regarded as an answer. He said, much more quietly: “Why do you want my evidence?”
“I’m trying to prove Fran Gifford’s innocence. Why else?” He chose his words deliberately, and thought for a moment he was going to get a reaction. But Hugo only said: “I don’t see how I can help you.”
“Perhaps you will, when you think it over.” Maitland got to his feet as he spoke. “I mustn’t keep you any longer from that sow of yours,” he said, “but there’s one thing I wish you’d tell me. What was Mrs. Randall really like?”
Hugo frowned. “She had her own ideas,” he said shortly.
“Yes, I’ve gathered that. But I expect, like most of us, she was more tolerant on some points than on others. If there was one particular sin she abominated, for instance, what would you say it was?”
There followed a silence. Hugo’s face was completely expressionless now. He sat looking up at Maitland and for a moment there wasn’t even anger in his eyes, just a sort of flat despair; then he got up with one of his sudden movements.
“I have to go,” he said. And without any further word of farewell marched out of the room with Floss at his heels, leaving the door wide open behind him.
Antony looked at Tommy Davenant, who was still seated and had rather a stupefied look on his face. “I can’t help feeling that’s a hint,” he remarked. “We seem to have outstayed our welcome.”
6
Very little was said between them until they were back in Davenant’s office, and Elsie Barber had brought them tea. Antony pulled his chair away from the desk and nearer the fire, and left his companion to look through the various papers that had accumulated in his absence. He was perfectly well aware that Tommy would have been glad to be rid of him, and he was willing to allow him a reasonable degree of latitude. But certain questions were going to be asked—and answered—before they parted company.
Perhaps Davenant realised this, perhaps he was merely unnerved by the other man’s apparent calm. He pushed the papers aside at last, picked up his teacup, and asked fretfully: “Do you think all that was helpful?”
“Who lives may learn,” said Maitland, and wasn’t in a hurry with his next remark. “I didn’t realise how well you knew the family at Ravenscroft.”
“Well, you see, it’s Nell,” Davenant told him, as though that explained everything. “I told you the situation was awkward, but as things were, Byron felt we could hardly let Fran down.”
“No, I see that. But perhaps you can tell me what Hugo meant when he said Miss Randall only stayed at Ravenscroft because of the twins.”
“Just what he said. The old lady was difficult; I doubt if Nell would have stayed purely out of affection for her.”
“A sense of duty, perhaps?”
“That didn’t enter into it. It was convenient for Alice to have her at home, but Nell wasn’t in any way necessary to her.”
“I see.” He was thinking that there might have been other factors, of which the solicitor knew nothing; that perhaps Hugo might have said, with greater truth, “she meant to stay at Ravenscroft until the old lady died.” Perhaps something of this was reflected in the dryness of his tone. Davenant said quickly:
“It wasn’t that she had no chance to get away. I happen to know—” He caught Maitland’s eye and grinned sheepishly.
“An offer of a job . . . an offer of marriage?” Antony suggested, watching the other man’s expression.
“Well, I do know what I’m talking about as a matter of fact,” said Tommy, suddenly becoming voluble; though whether he felt a genuine urge to confide in his companion or merely despaired of the success of his evasive tactics, Antony couldn’t decide. “She always said she couldn’t consider getting married, not until the children left school. At least, I hope that’s what she said. Because if she meant ‘finish their education’ it’s all up. Young Mark looks to me like the sort of chap who’ll spend so much time learning things he’ll never have time to do anything at all.”
For some reason, Maitland had put the solicitor down as a family man of long standing. “Is your partner a bachelor, too?” he asked, deliberately tactless; it seemed too good an opportunity to miss, to get a little information about Frederick Byron, whose character so far remained an enigma.
“He is,” said Davenant. “My wife died five years ago . . . cancer, poor girl.” But his mind was still on the question. “He’s a good-looking chap, mind you,” he added, with an obvious desire to be fair, “but fifty-five if he’s a day. A woman Nell’s age doesn’t need an older man.” He paused, brooding. “I think that wretched girl was just trying to get a rise out of me, don’t you?”
“I’m quite sure she was,” Antony told him soothingly; which was true, but the teasing remarks might still have had some substance. He did not think, however, that his companion was in any real doubt as to Miss Randall’s feelings, and this was confirmed when Davenant said ingenuously:
“Lately I’ve rather thought Nell was weakening. About waiting, you know. I haven’t much time for all this self-sacrifice myself.”
“A sad mistake. Do you agree with our client’s estimate of Marian’s character, by the way?”
“She’s flighty, but I don’t know any real harm in her,” said Tommy grudgingly. “And she seems a good friend to Fran.”
“Is Mark like his sister?”
“Same type, a little taller. And if you’re going to say next that everyone seems to have taken his part in all this without turning a hair, I can only tell you it’s nothing to be surprised at. He’s always messing about with chemicals, doesn’t seem to be interested in anything else.”
In that case his likeness to Marian could be no more than skin-deep. The girl was at a restless age, ready for any mischief; and from what he had heard of Nell Randall and the little he had seen of her, Maitland wondered if she had any idea at all of the explosive nature of the material she was handling. Hugo knew all right; he wished suddenly he could have come to grips with Hugo. If he had got an answer, for instance, to the last question he had asked.
“Do you think Randall was telling us the truth?” he said abruptly.
“I can’t see what reason he had to lie.”
“No, but . . . forget to be discreet for a moment and tell me, do you think him capable of murdering his grandmother for revenge?”
Davenant seemed to be regarding the query from all angles. “In the ordinary way I’d have said he wouldn’t have poisoned her,” he said at last. “But I have to say, yes, I do think he might have killed her for that reason; and the two seem to go together, don’t they? Or am I being illogical?”
“I don’t think so.”
“But unless he knew about the will—”
“I think he did. I think Fran Gifford told him.”
“Then why the hell do they both deny it?” asked Davenant, with unaccustomed heat, and looked affronted when Maitland laughed.
“That’s one of the things that make this job so interesting,” he said. “You never know what’s going to happen next.”
“And a good time was had by all,” Tommy agreed sourly.
“Let’s change the subject, then. You say you witnessed Mrs. Randall’s signature to the codicil.”
“Yes. Elsie Barber and I.” He paused, and then added as though reluctantly: “She was in a rare temper, I can tell you that. Alice, I mean.”
“She didn’t give any reason for the change she was making?”
“Not a word.”
“I see. One more question, and I’ll leave you in peace.”
“Till tomorrow,” said Davenant, uncomforted.
“Whose fault is that? But supposing I asked you to describe Mrs. Randall—?”
“I couldn’t do any better than the things you’ve heard already . . . self-righteous . . . overbearing—”
“I see.” Suddenly he was anxious to be gone. “I’ll get back to Miss Langhorne’s notes, then, and see what I can make of the medical evidence.” He put his cup down carefully on the tray that Elsie had left on a table near the door. “Do you know the difference between digitalis and digitoxin?” he asked.
7
After a couple of hours spent in earnest consideration of a hastily assembled brief, with the accompanying proofs and appendices and Vera Langhorne’s commendably legible comments on the whole, it was a relief to go down to the small dining room allocated to the Bar Mess during the period of the Assize, and find his friend Wellesley waiting for him, and his drink already ordered.
“How did you know I’d still be here?” Maitland inquired as the waiter retired again.
“The penalty of fame, my lad. Haven’t you seen the evening paper?” Wellesley was plump and jovial, with very bright blue eyes that could, on occasion, be uncomfortably piercing.
“Oh, lord . . . no!”
“Well, I admit I was looking for the paragraph. I wanted to know if our Vera got her way. And you can’t blame the local newshound; we haven’t had a murder trial here since 1872.”
“What do you know about my dealings with Miss Langhorne? Cheers,” he added, and raised his glass. “That’s much better,” he went on a moment later. “I can probably bear the truth now.
Wellesley was happy to enlighten him. “We all knew she was after Davenant to get hold of you, once she knew you were down here on that smash-and-grab.” Antony grimaced; the case had been one he resented, and he hadn’t quite forgiven his clerk yet for accepting the brief. “As a matter of fact, there were a few bets laid . . . whether she’d get her way, you know.”
“Were there, indeed? I gather you won,” said Maitland. gesturing with his glass.
“I thought,” said his friend smugly, “you’d probably be in need of some refreshment.”
“To tell you the truth, I’m frightened to death of her,” Antony complained. “And what with being continually told both by my instructing solicitor and my learned junior that life is real and earnest, just in case I might forget the fact―” He broke off, and stood looking down at his glass, and said in an altered tone: “I don’t quite understand why she wanted me; I’m damned sure she thinks I’m irresponsible.”
Wellesley’s thoughts apparently gave him some pleasure. “I can tell you that, all right. She likes the results you get, but she’s scared of your methods.”
“I don’t quite see—”
“Don’t you? She feels as if she’s conjured up the devil, and she isn’t quite sure what the harvest will be.”
Maitland took a moment to consider this; then he smiled. “How salutary it is to have a candid friend,” he remarked.
“If you want to show your appreciation, there are two things I want to know. Why did you agree? And what do you think you can do at this short notice?”
“To answer the second question first, I don’t know. As for why—” He hesitated. “They take it so seriously, Davenant and Miss Langhorne, but I don’t think either of them has the least idea . . . well, I like the girl, you see,” he concluded lamely.
“I don’t see,” said Wellesley, in a dissatisfied tone. “They’re a good firm, mind you, Byron and Davenant, but no experience in this kind of thing.”
“How could they have?”
“How, indeed? And the local gossip may amuse you; they’re both said to be courting Nell Randall.” Maitland stared at him. “Everybody knows everything in Chedcombe,” Wellesley added blandly.
“So it seems. It’s queer she never married,” said Maitland in a thoughtful tone.
“Is it? I don’t know the lady.” He glanced inquiringly at his friend, and smiled at his serious look. “Opinion is divided as to which of the two she’ll accept.”
“I thought you said the old cats knew everything.”
“It’s a tricky point, apparently. Byron has all the advantages of an assured position in the community—”
“How nice for him!”
“—and is, besides, a handsome chap. Something of a ladies’ man, from what I hear. Davenant, however, has a more romantic background, being a widower; and Miss Randall is reputed to be a kind-hearted creature.
“She’d hardly marry him just because he lost his wife,” Maitland objected.
“After a long and painful illness. Of course she’d sympathise,” said Wellesley firmly. He saw the waiter in the doorway, and waved to him in a peremptory way. “Same again?” he asked.
“Since you’re in such a generous mood . . . it must have been a profitable bet.” He turned and surveyed the room, which was far emptier than it had been the previous evening. “Is Appleton here?” he asked.
“Don’t you know him? No, he isn’t here.” He was grinning to himself as he spoke.
“What’s so funny?” Wellesley shook his head. “Well, then, what’s he like?”
“Excitable,” said Wellesley, thoughtfully; and saw a considering gleam in his companion’s eye. “Make the most of the information,” he invited generously.
“I shall. Indeed, I shall,” said Antony irrepressibly. He turned as the waiter came up to his elbow. “Halford, of course, I know,” he added a moment later. “The most sedate of Her Majesty’s judges, Uncle Nick once called him. But I don’t think I’ve seen him since he was at the Bar himself.”
“That must be a good time ago.”
“It is. There are advantages in being bred to the law, but the disadvantage is that you meet too many eminent men too soon.”
“Is that a disadvantage?”
“Oh, yes. So many chaps who are on the bench now, so many senior members of my own and other Inns, have known me since I was at school. It takes a good deal of living down,” he went on sadly.
Soon after that, dinner was served, and around the table the talk became general. Maitland was aware of the interest his presence aroused, an increased interest since he had undertaken this new commitment; there was amusement, too, that he had fallen for Vera’s blandishments. She was something of a celebrity, he gathered, and her fellow members of the West Midland Circuit took a perverse pride in her eccentricities. But they were curious—some of them nearly as openly curious as Wellesley had been—about his own motives. He began to wish, rather wryly, that he understood them himself.
He went up to his room soon after eleven, and thought perhaps he would ring Jenny before he settled down to Fran Gifford’s affairs again. Wellesley had followed him up the stairs. “I’ll see you at breakfast, I expect,” he was saying as they reached the door of Antony’s room. “After that . . . I say, it’s like a hothouse in here.”
An overzealous chambermaid had turned on the heat to its fullest extent. Antony crossed to the window, pulled back the curtains, and began to struggle rather angrily with the cock of the radiator. Seeing him using his left hand, Wellesley remembered for the first time that evening that his friend had only a limited use of his right arm. He also remembered that, for one reason or another, Maitland resented any reference to this, and would be extremely unlikely to ask for help. “What you really need,” he said, crossing the room in his turn, “is a breath of fresh air.”
This was only too obviously true. Antony controlled his annoyance and stepped aside; he knew already that the window was far from smooth-running. He watched Wellesley put up a hand to the catch, and thought idly that the George obviously hadn’t had sashes all its life. Then there was the sharp sound of breaking glass, Wellesley gave a grunt of pain and staggered back with a hand to his shoulder, and something heavy fell to the floor, its impact deadened by the thick pile of the old-fashioned Turkey carpet.
