The Sleuth of St. James's Square by Melville Davisson Post (black authors fiction txt) 📕

“Now, what could bring Gaeki here?” said Lewes.

“It was the horse that Gosford overheated in his race to you,” replied my father. “I saw him stop in the road where the negro boy was leading the horse about, and then call young Marshall.”

“It was no fault of young Marshall, Pendleton,” said the lawyer. “But, also, he is no match for Gosford. He is a dilettante. He paints little pictures after the fashion he learned in Paris, and he has no force or vigor in him. His father was a dreamer, a wanderer, one who loved the world and its frivolities, and the son takes that temperament, softened by his mother. He ought to have a guardian.”

“He has one,” replied my father.

“A guardian!” repeated Lewis. “What court has appointed a guardian for young Marshall?”

“A court,” replied my father, “that does not sit under the authority of Virginia. The helpless, Lewis, in their youth and inexperience, are not wholly given over to the spoiler.”

The boy they talked about was very young—under twenty, one would say. He was blue-eyed and fair-haired, with thin, delicate features, which showed good blood long inbred to the loss of vigor. He had the fine, open, generous face of one who takes the world as in a fairy story. But now there was care and anxiety in it, and a furtive shadow, as though the lad's dream of life had got some rude awakening.

At this moment the door behind my father and Lewis was thrown violently open, and a man entered. He was a person with the manner of a barrister, precise and dapper; he had a long, pink face, pale eyes, and a close-cropped beard that brought out the hard lines of his mouth. He bustled to the table, put down a sort of portfolio that held an inkpot, a writing-pad and pens, and drew up a chair like one about to take the minutes of a meeting. And all the while he apologized for his delay. He had important letters to get off in the post, and to make sure, had carried them to the tavern himself.

“And now, sirs, let us get about this business,” he finished, like one who calls his assistants to a labor:

My father turned about and looked at the man.

“Is your name Gosford?” he said in his cold, level voice.

“It is, sir,” replied the Englishman, “—Anthony Gosford.”

“Well, Mr. Anthony Gosford,” replied my father, “kindly close the door that you have opened.”

Lewis plucked out his snuffbox and trumpeted in his many-colored handkerchief to hide his laughter.

The Englishman, thrown off his patronizing manner, hesitated, closed the door as he was bidden—and could not regain his fine air.

“Now, Mr. Gosford,” my father went on, “why was this room violated as we see it?”

“It was searched for Peyton Marshall's will, sir,” replied the man.

“How did you know that Marshall had a will?” said my father.

“I saw him write it,” returned the Englishman, “here in this very room, on the eighteenth day of October, 1854.”

“That was two years ago,” said my father. “Was the will here at Marshall's death?”

“It was. He told me on his deathbed.”

“And it is gone now?”

“It is,” replied the Englishman.

“And now, Mr. Gosford,” said my father, “how do you know this will is gone unless you also know precisely where it was?”

“I do know precisely where it was, sir,” returned the man. “It was in the row of drawers on the right of the window where you stand—the second drawer from the top. Mr. Marshall put it there when he wrote it, and he told me on his deathbed that it remained there. You can see, sir, that the drawer has been rifled.”

My father looked casually at the row of mahogany drawers rising along the end of the bookcase. The second one and the one above were open; the others below were closed.

“Mr. Gosford,” he said, “you would have some interest in this will, to know about it so precisely.”

“And so I have,” replied the man, “it left me a sum of money.”

“A large sum?”

“A very large sum, sir.”

“Mr. Anthony Gosford,” said my father, “for what purpose did Peyton Marshall bequeath you a large sum of money? You are no kin; nor was he in your debt.”

The Englishman sat down and put his fingers together with a judicial air.

“Sir,” he began, “I am not advised that the purpose of a bequest is relevant, when the bequest is direct and unencumbered by the testator with any indicatory words of trust or uses. This will bequeathes me a sum of money. I am not required by any provision of the law to show the reasons moving the testator. Doubtless, Mr. Peyton Marshall had reasons which he deemed excellent for this course, but they are, sir, entombed in the grave with him.”

My father looked steadily at the man, but he did not seem to consider his explanation, nor to go any further on that line.

“Is there another who would know about this will?” he said.

“This effeminate son would know,” replied Gosford, a sneer in the epithet, “but no other. Marshall wrote the testament in his own hand, without witnesses, as he had the legal right to do under the laws of Virginia. The lawyer,” he added, “Mr. Lewis, will confirm me in the legality of that.”

“It is the law,” said Lewis. “One may draw up a holograph will if he likes, in his own hand, and it is valid without a witness in this State, although the law does not so run in every commonwealth.”

“And now, sir,” continued the Englishman, turning to my father, “we will inquire into the theft of this testament.”

But my father did not appear to notice Mr. Gosford. He seemed perplexed and in some concern.

“Lewis,” he said, “what is your definition of a crime?”

“It is a violation of the law,” replied the lawyer.

“I do not accept your definition,” said my father. “It is, rather, I think, a violation of justice—a violation of something behind the law that makes an act a crime. I think,” he went on, “that God must take a broader view than Mr. Blackstone and Lord Coke. I have seen a murder in the law that was, in fact, only a kind of awful accident, and I have seen your catalogue of crimes gone about by feeble men with no intent except an adjustment of their rights. Their crimes, Lewis, were merely errors of their impractical judgment.”

Then he seemed