The Talleyrand Maxim by J. S. Fletcher (important of reading books TXT) 📕

DRY SHERRY

Pratt wasted no time in cursing Mrs. Murgatroyd. There would be plenty

of opportunity for such relief to his feelings later on. Just then he

had other matters to occupy him—fully. He tore the indignant letter to

shreds; he hastily thrust the banknotes into one pocket and drew his

keys from another. Within five minutes he had taken from his safe a

sealed packet, which he placed in an inside pocket of his coat, and had

left his office—for the last time, as he knew very well. That part of

the game was up—and it was necessary to be smart in entering on another

phase of it.

Since Eldrick’s visit of the previous day, Pratt had been prepared for

all eventuality. He had made ready for flight. And he was not going

empty-handed. He had a considerable amount of Mrs. Mallathorpe’s money

in his possession; by obtaining her signature to one or two documents he

could easily obtain much more in London, at an hour’s notice. Those

documents were all ready, and in the sealed packet which he had just

taken from the safe; in it, too, were some other documents—John

Mallathorpe’s will; the letter which Mrs. Mallathorpe had written to him

on the evening previous to her son’s fatal accident; and the power of

attorney which Pratt had obtained from her at his first interview after

that occurrence. All was ready—and now there was nothing to do but to

get to Normandale Grange, see Mrs. Mallathorpe, and—vanish. He had

planned it all out, carefully, when he perceived the first danger

signals, and knew that his other plans and schemes were doomed to

failure. Half an hour at Normandale Grange—a journey to London—a

couple of hours in the City—and then the next train to the Continent,

on his way to regions much further off. Here, things had turned out

badly, unexpectedly badly—but he would carry away considerable, easily

transported wealth, to a new career in a new country.

Pratt began his flight in methodical fashion. He locked up his office,

and left the building by a back entrance which took him into a network

of courts and alleys at the rear of the business part of Barford. He

made his way in and out of these places until he reached a

bicycle-dealer’s shop in an obscure street, whereat he had left a

machine of his own on the previous evening under the excuse of having it

thoroughly cleaned and oiled. It was all ready for him on his arrival,

and he presently mounted it and rode away through the outskirts of the

town, carefully choosing the less frequented streets and roads. He rode

on until he was clear of Barford: until, in fact, he was some miles from

it, and had reached a village which was certainly not on the way to

Normandale. And then, at the post-office he dismounted, and going

inside, wrote out and dispatched a telegram. It was a brief message

containing but three words—“One as usual”—and it was addressed Esther

Mawson, The Grange, Normandale. This done, he remounted his bicycle,

rode out of the village, and turned across country in quite a different

direction. It was not yet ten o’clock—he had three hours to spare

before the time came for keeping the appointment which he had just made.

At an early stage of his operations, Pratt had found that even the

cleverest of schemers cannot work unaided. It had been absolutely

necessary to have some tool close at hand to Normandale Grange and its

inhabitants; to have some person there upon whom he could depend for

news. He had found that person, that tool, in Esther Mawson, who, as

Mrs. Mallathorpe’s maid, had opportunities which he at once recognized

as being likely to be of the greatest value to him. The circumstances of

Harper Mallathorpe’s death had thrown Pratt and the maid together, and

he had quickly discovered that she was to be bought, and would do

anything for money. He had soon come to an understanding with her; soon

bargained with her, and made her a willing accomplice in certain of his

schemes, without letting her know their full meaning and extent: all,

indeed, that she had learned from Pratt was that he had some

considerable hold on her mistress.

But it is dangerous work to play with edged tools, and if Pratt had only

known it, he was running great risks in using Esther Mawson as a

semi-accomplice. Esther Mawson was in constant touch with her mistress,

and Mrs. Mallathorpe, afraid of her daughter, and not greatly in

sympathy with her, badly needed a confidante. Little by little the

mistress began to confide in the maid, and before long Esther Mawson

knew the secret—and thenceforward she played a double game. Pratt found

her useful in arranging meetings with Mrs. Mallathorpe unknown to Nesta,

and he believed her to be devoted to him. But the truth was that Esther

Mawson had only one object of devotion—herself—and she was waiting and

watching for an opportunity to benefit that object—at Pratt’s expense.

Pratt knew nothing of this as he slowly made his way to Normandale that

morning. Having plenty of time he went by devious and lonely roads and

by-lanes. Eventually he came to the boundary of Normandale Park at a

point far away from the Grange. There he dismounted, hid his bicycle in

a coppice wherein he had often left it before, and went on towards the

house through the woods and plantations. He knew every yard of the

ground he traversed, and was skilled in taking cover if he saw any sign

of woodman or gamekeeper. And in the end, just as one o’clock chimed

from the clock over the stables, he came to a quiet spot in the

shrubberies behind the Grange, and found Esther Mawson waiting for him

in an old summer-house in which they had met on previous and similar

occasions.

Esther Mawson immediately realized that something unusual was in the

air. 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