The Talleyrand Maxim by J. S. Fletcher (fiction books to read TXT) 📕

Clever as Pratt was at concealing his feelings, she was cleverer in seeing small signs, and she saw that this was no ordinary visit.

"Anything wrong?" she asked at once.

"Bit of bother—nothing much—it'll blow over," answered Pratt, who knew that a certain amount of candour was necessary in dealing with this woman. "But—I shall have to be away for a bit—week or two, perhaps."

"You want to see her?" inquired Esther.

"Of course! I've some papers for her to sign," replied Pratt. "How do things stand? Coast clear?"

"Miss Mallathorpe's going into Barford after lunch," answered Esther. "She'll be driving in about half-past two. I can manage it then. How long shall you want to be with her?"

"Oh, a quarter of an hour'll do," said Pratt. "Ten minutes, if it comes to that."

"And after that?" asked Esther.

"Then I want to get a train at Scaleby," replied Pratt, mentioning a railway junction which lay ten miles across country in another direction. "So make it as soon after two-thirty as you can."

"You can see her as soon as Miss Mallathorpe's gone," said Esther. "You'd better come into the house—I've got the key of the turret door, and all's clear—the servants are all at dinner."

"I could do with something myself," observed Pratt, who, in his anxiety, had only made a light breakfast that morning. "Can it be managed?"

"I'll manage it," she answered. "Come on—now."

Behind the summer-house in which they had met a narrow path led through the shrubberies to an old part of the Grange which was never used, and was, in fact, partly ruinous. Esther Mawson led the way along this until she and Pratt came to a turret in the grey walls, in the lower story of which a massive oaken door, heavily clamped with iron, gave entrance to a winding stair, locked it from inside when she and Pratt had entered, and preceded her companion up the stair, and across one or two empty and dust-covered chambers to a small room in which a few pieces of ancient furniture were slowly dropping to decay. Pratt had taken refuge in this room before, and he sat down in one of the old chairs and mopped his forehead.

"I want something to drink, above everything," he remarked. "What can you get?"

"Nothing but wine," answered Esther Mawson. "As much as you like of that, because I've a stock that's kept up in Mrs. Mallathorpe's room. I couldn't get any ale without going to the butler. I can get wine and sandwiches without anybody knowing."

"That'll do," said Pratt. "What sort of wine?"

"Port, sherry, claret," she replied. "Whichever you like."

"Sherry, then," answered Pratt. "Bring a bottle if you can get it—I want a good drink."

The woman went away—through the disused part of the old house into the modern portion. She went straight to a certain store closet and took from it a bottle of old dry sherry which had been brought there from a bin in the cellars—it was part of a quantity of fine wine laid down by John Mallathorpe, years before, and its original owner would have been disgusted to think that it should ever be used for the mere purpose of quenching thirst. But Esther Mawson had another purpose in view, with respect to that bottle. Carrying it to her own sitting-room, she carefully cut off the thick mass of sealing-wax at its neck, drew the cork, and poured a little of the wine away. And that done, she unlocked a small box which stood on a corner of her dressing table, and took from it a glass phial, half full of a colourless liquid. With steady hands and sure fingers, she dropped some of that liquid into the wine, carefully counting the drops. Then she restored the phial to its hiding-place and re-locked the box—after which, taking up a spoon which lay on her table, she poured out a little of the sherry and smelled and tasted it. No smell—other than that which ought to be there; no taste—other than was proper. Pratt would suspect nothing even if he drunk the whole bottle.

Esther Mawson had anticipated Pratt's desires in the way of refreshment, and she now went to a cupboard and took from it a plate of sandwiches, carefully swathed in a napkin. Carrying these in one hand, and the bottle of sherry and a glass in the other, she stole quietly back to the disused part of the house, and set her provender before its expectant consumer. Pratt poured out a glassful of the sherry, and drank it eagerly.

"Good stuff that!" he remarked, smacking his lips. "Some of old John
Mallathorpe's—no doubt."

"It was here when we came, anyhow," replied Esther. "Well—I shall have to go. You'll be all right until I come back."

"What time do you think it'll be?" asked Pratt. "Make it as soon as the coast's clear—I want to be off."

"As soon as ever she's gone," agreed Esther. "I heard her order the carriage for half-past two."

"And no fear of anybody else being about?" asked Pratt. "That butler man, for instance? Or servants?"

"I'll see to it," replied Esther reassuringly. "I'll lock this door and take the key until I come back—make yourself comfortable."

She locked Pratt in the old room and went off, and the willing prisoner ate his sandwiches and drank his sherry, and looked out of a mullioned window on the wide stretches of park and coppice and the breezy moorlands beyond. He indulged in some reflections—not wholly devoid of sentiment. He had cherished dreams of becoming the virtual owner of Normandale. Always confident in his own powers, he had believed that with time and patience he could have persuaded Nesta Mallathorpe to marry him—why not? Now—all owing to that cursed and unfortunate contretemps with Parrawhite, that seemed utterly impossible—all he could do now was to save himself—and to take as much as he could get. More than once that morning, as he made his way across country, he had remembered Parrawhite's advice to take cash and be done with it—perhaps, he reflected, it might have been better. Still—when he presently began his final retreat, he would carry away with him a lot of the Mallathorpe money.

But before long Pratt indulged in no more reflections—sentiment or practical. He had eaten all his sandwiches; he had drunk three-quarters of the bottle of sherry. And suddenly he felt unusually drowsy, and he laid his head back in his big chair, and fell soundly asleep.

CHAPTER XXVI THE TELEPHONE MESSAGE

If Pratt had only known what was going on in the old quarries at Whitcliffe, about the very time that he was riding slowly out to Barford on his bicycle, he would not only have accelerated his pace, but would have taken good care to have chosen another route: he would also have made haste to exchange bicycle for railway train as quickly as possible, and to have got himself far away before anybody could begin looking for him in his usual haunts, or at places wherein there was a possibility of his being found. But Pratt knew nothing of what Byner had done. He was conscious of Byner's visit to the Green Man. He did not know what Pickard had been told by Bill Thomson. He was unaware of anything which Pickard had told to Byner. If he had known that Byner, guided by Pickard, had been to the old quarries, had fixed his inquiring eye on the shaft which was filled to its brim with water, and had got certain ideas from the mere sight of it, Pratt would have hastened to put hundreds of miles between himself and Barford as quickly as possible. But all that Pratt knew was that there was a possibility of suspicion—which might materialize eventually, but not immediately.

On the previous evening, Pratt—had he but known it—made a great mistake. Instead of going into Murgatroyd's shop after he had watched Byner and Prydale away from it—he should have followed those two astute and crafty persons, and have ascertained something of their movements. Had he done so, he would certainly not have troubled to return to Peel Row, nor to remain in Barford an hour longer than was absolutely necessary. For Pratt was sharp-witted enough when it came to a question of putting one and two together, and if he had tracked Prydale and the unknown man who was with him to a certain house whereto they repaired as soon as they quitted Murgatroyd's shop, he would have drawn an inference from the mere fact of their visit which would have thrown him into a cold sweat of fear. But Pratt, after all, was only one man, one brain, one body, and could not be in two places, nor go in two ways, at the same time. He took his own way—ignorant of his destruction.

Byner also took a way of his own. As soon as he and Prydale left Murgatroyd's shop, they chartered the first cab they met with, and ordered its driver to go to Whitcliffe Moor.

"It's the quickest thing to do—if my theory's correct," observed Byner, as they drove along, "Of course, it is all theory—mere theory! But I've grounds for it. The place—the time—mere lonely situation—that scrap iron lying about, which would be so useful in weighting a dead body!—I tell you, I shall be surprised if we don't find Parrawhite at the bottom of that water!"

"I shouldn't wonder," agreed Prydale. "One thing's very certain, as we shall prove before we're through with it—Pratt's put that poor devil Murgatroyd up to this passage-to-America business. And a bit clumsily, too—fancy Murgatroyd being no better posted up than to tell me that Parrawhite called on him at a certain hour that night!"

"But you've got to remember that Pratt didn't know of Parrawhite's affairs with Pickard, nor that he was at the Green Man at that hour," rejoined Byner. "My belief is that Pratt thinks himself safe—that he fancies he's provided for all contingencies. If things turn out as I think they will, I believe we shall find Pratt calmly seated at his desk tomorrow morning."

"Well—if things do turn out as you expect, we'll lose no time in seeking him there!" observed Prydale dryly. "We'd better arrange to get the job done first thing."

"This Mr. Shepherd'll make no objection, I suppose?" asked Byner.

"Objection! Lor' bless you—he'll love it!" exclaimed Prydale. "It'll be a bit of welcome diversion to a man like him that's naught to do. He'll object none, not he!"

Shepherd, a retired quarry-owner, who lived in a picturesque old stone house in the middle of Whitcliffe Moor, with nothing to occupy his attention but the growing of roses and vegetables, and an occasional glance at the local newspapers, listened to Prydale's request with gradually rising curiosity. Byner had at once seen that this call was welcome to this bluff and hearty Yorkshireman, who, without any question as to their business, had immediately welcomed them to his hearth and pressed liquor and cigars on them: he sized up Shepherd as a man to whom any sort of break in the placid course of retired life was a delightful event.

"A dead man i' that old shaft i' one o' my worked out quarries!" he exclaimed. "Ye don't mean to say so! An' how long d'yer think he might ha' been there, now, Prydale?"

"Some months, Mr. Shepherd," replied the detective.

"Why, then it's high time he were taken out," said Shepherd. "When might you be thinkin' o' doin' t' job, like?"

"As soon as possible," said Prydale. "Tomorrow morning, early, if that's convenient to you."

"I'll tell you what I'll do," observed the retired quarry-owner. "You leave t' job to me. I'll get two or three men first thing tomorrow morning, and we'll do it reight. You be up there by half-past eight o'clock, and we'll soon satisfy you as to whether there's owt i' t' shape of a dead man or not i' t' pit. You hev' grounds for believin' 'at theer is——what?"

"Strong grounds!" replied the detective, "and equally strong ones for believing the man came there by foul play, too."

"Say no more!" said Shepherd. "T' mystery shall be cleared up. Deary me! An' to think 'at I've walked past yon theer pit many a dozen times within this last few o' months, and nivver dreamed 'at theer wor owt in it but watter! Howivver, gentlemen, ye can put yer minds at ease—we'll investigate the circumstances, as the sayin' goes, before noon tomorrow."

"One other matter," remarked Prydale. "We want things kept quiet. We don't want all the folk of the neighbourhood round about, you know."

"Leave it to me," answered Shepherd. "There'll