Norton, Andre - Novel 39 (4 page)

 
          
 
The solicitor met his gaze without flinching
but his voice, when he replied, lacked resolution. "I don't have that
information," he said. "The change had been made before the will was
placed in my possession." He gestured quickly. "Again, if you
compare, there's no doubt that the change has been written in
his own
hand."

 
          
 
"Voluntarily?"

           
 
"As I told you, the substitution occurred
prior to my receiving the document. You have my word on it."

 
          
 
"I'd take more comfort in Dr. Jekyll's
word," the inspector said.

 
          
 
"It's true, I swear it!" Utterson
exclaimed.

 
          
 
"Very well, sir." The police
officer's tone softened; he could afford to be charitable in this instance
since the answer to the next question he proposed would be of considerably
greater importance. "But can you also swear that Dr. Jekyll is still
alive?"

 
          
 
"I tell you I do not know—"

 
          
 
Ignoring the attempt to answer, Newcomen
assailed the solicitor once again. "Have you reason to believe him dead or
are you merely trying to convince the authorities so you can inherit his
estate?"

 
          
 
Utterson shook his head. "Do you take me
for a fool? If this was my intention, I would have found some excuse for not
showing you the will. And now that you have seen it I refer you to the stipulation
that I could take full possession of the property three months after Dr.
Jekyll's disappearance, should his absence continue. As we both know, I have
made no move to do so. Let me repeat, Henry Jekyll and I have been close
friends for many years and I want no part of his money or possessions."

 
          
 
The waiting game.
Inspector Newcomen nodded, more in response to his own thought than to
Utterson's protestations. A cunning man of law—and wasn't this a description of
the entire breed?—would do just that. He'd wait it out until all suspicions
were quieted and the investigation itself was filed and forgotten. Then he
could safely claim his lawful or unlawful inheritance, whichever the case might
be.

 
          
 
"You doubt my assurance?" Utterson
said.
"Very well.
I am prepared to offer
proof."

 
          
 
"Of what nature, might I ask?"

 
          
 
"Some while ago I recalled a conversation
with
Poole
, Dr. Jekyll's butler. In the course of our
exchange he stated in passing that his master had once referred to his family
connections, mentioning that he had distant relatives in
Canada
."

 
          
 
"Did he mention any names?"

 
          
 
"He did not. But indeed if such relatives
exist, then it is my honest intention to see to it that they, rather than
myself, become the inheritors of the estate. To that end I placed this
advertisement in a number of Canadian newspapers." As he spoke, the lawyer
opened the drawer of the desk before him and withdrew two items, which he
placed on the desktop for Newcomen's inspection. One was a large sheet of
foolscap on which was a list of a dozen Canadian newspapers, together with
their addresses. The other was a clipping of the actual advertising notice
reproduced in print.

 
          
 
"This is from the
Toronto
press, I believe," Utterson said.
"I can furnish you with copies from other sources, together with
correspondence dealing with their placement."

 
          
 
The inspector nodded but did not break his
silence as he scanned the printed item. He rioted how cleverly it was worded;
nothing was said that could lead a reader to believe Dr. Jekyll dead, but the
implication was there. A Canadian relative, however distant, might well reckon
it worthwhile to respond. No doubt about it, Utterson was a clever man— clever
even to the point of withholding his own involvement in the matter and
soliciting that replies be dispatched to Robert Guest, his clerk.

 
          
 
As he finished reading, Newcomen glanced up.
"Any answers?" he asked.

 
          
 
"Not as yet," Utterson said.
"But I still have hope, and should I be in receipt of any reply, I assure
you—"

 
          
 
"Of course."
The inspector gestured quickly. There was no further need to continue badgering
Mr. Utterson, at least not at this moment. For the present he was more than
satisfied.

 
          
 
He took his departure quickly, leaving
Utterson reassured. As for himself he wanted only to be alone with his
thoughts. Utterson's disclosures required a bit of mulling over, and it had
best be done at once.

 
          
 
Canadian relatives.
The placing of that advertising notice opened up a whole new area of
speculation.

 
          
 
Should such Canadian family members exist,
they might have knowledge of Dr. JekylPs wealth. If so, it was even possible
that someone could have made a trip to
London
in secret with the purpose of doing away
with him in order to gain so sizable an inheritance.
In which
case it might be expected that the perpetrator of such a deed would now
reappear again in the guise of an heir.

 
          
 
No doubt about it, the advertising notice
could serve as bait, and if someone answered and appeared, Inspector Newcomen
would be waiting.

 
          
 
All that remained was to set the proper trap.

 
          
 
Did it ever do anything but rain in
London
? The lash of a quite severe storm struck
against the grimy windowpane, washing soot down in tracks. Hester had come to
believe that this sprawling city was the dirtiest she had ever had the
misfortune to see. Down on the street, carts and, here and there, a genteel
barouche or cab, sent liquid black mud flying, much of it at those condemned by
some misfortune to plod two-footed through the gloom. She had been excited
earlier by the wonder of the new electric lights that gave sparks of radiance
along some streets. But now even those miracles of men's ingenuity were no
longer novelties.

 
          
 
Dreary as the outside world seemed from her
window in Mrs. Carruthers's boarding house, it was better to stay gazing into
that murk than to look behind her into the barren, musty-smelling, chilly room.
Her worn purse lay upon the bed and she knew just how much was in it and how
far that could stretch even by most heroic efforts at semi-starvation. At least
in the past she had never had to scant on meals, even though the dishes served
had been of the plainest kinds. What did one do when there was no more money?

 
          
 
Appeal to Lady Ames? She recoiled from that
idea, which struck at her again and again. Surely there was some honest way of
earning her living instead of groveling—there must be! Cold as it was there was
a bright flush of color on Hester's cheeks.

 
          
 
No—she refused to let the darkness of the day
dim her hopes. Not when she had this! She swept away from the window and picked
up the letter that had come by second post. A letter from an editor!

 
          
 
She read the letter again. Miss Agatha
Scrimshaw would see her at ten precisely this morning. While she had been with
Lady Ames she had seen, and then got Kitty to smuggle to her, the current copy
of The British Lady, Though that publication was considered
"advanced" and sometimes very close to the line of being unacceptable
in polite drawing rooms. Lady Ames dearly loved a lord, as the old saying went,
and the fact that the editor, Miss Scrimshaw, was of an old family, being
granddaughter to an earl, and having her own lines of information running into
court circles no less, made it a publication that could be mined for some
tidbits of news which never touched real scandal, of course, but allowed the
reader the feeling of moving among the elect. Those articles written by Miss
Scrimshaw herself, dealing with such questionable ideas as the higher education
of women, the need for considering the unhappy state of females beneath the
notice of anyone truly well
born,
could be easily
skipped.

 
          
 
It had been those articles and not the light
chitchat that had attracted Hester, and she had thought several times that in a
different sort of a world, she might have been able to use her own education,
acquired privately though it was, for some justifiable purpose.

 
          
 
She dressed carefully. Though with only the
well-worn waterproof cape to abet her umbrella, she could hardly present a
figure to rival the fashionable ladies portrayed in the pages of the
publication whose outer gate she was about to storm.

 
          
 
As she pulled wet-weather boots over her feet
she thought that at least she had made a good usage of her time as governess.
Even Lady Ames could not scorn or consider unnecessary to the education of
young ladies visits to places of historic note as recommended by the most
discreet books of travel knowledge. Thus almost at once on her arrival Hester
had set herself to the memorization of routes to such parts of London as she
thought would be important in her own future plans.

 
          
 
Of course, it was true that there was much of
the city into which a lady did not venture at all. Probably she should use some
form of transportation, but a cab fare was too crippling to be considered now.
The startling new electric omnibus did not carry passengers from this part of
the city. Luckily she considered herself a good walker and she had seen quite
respectable-looking females trudging under umbrellas, striving to remain clear
of the showers of sludge that carriage wheels dislodged.

 
          
 
She gave one last lingering critical look into
the dim mirror. Her hair was sternly pinned into complete obedience under the
brim of the plain weather-resistant hat that had faced the storms of
Canada
for more than one season, and she was
smoothly buttoned into the basque of her shabby black dress. The skirt had no
ruffles and was almost too scant. All in all, she decided, she did not look
even as smart as an upper housemaid on her afternoon off. Would the all-seeing
Miss Scrimshaw think the worse of her because the package she was offering was
wrapped so shabbily? High-mindedness often allied itself purposefully with
dowdiness— as if there were some rule that one could not have both a useful
mind and a pleasing outward appearance. She could only hope that Miss Scrimshaw
was a convert to that way of thinking.

 
          
 
By the time she reached the street the drive
of rain had ceased its first fury and settled into a steady downpour. Damp
chill reached through her cumbersome weather coat and, in spite of all her
efforts, there were streaks of mud about the hem of her skirt. She huddled in
the doorway of the building she had sought, and made two futile attempts to
erase the worst of the streaks with one of her father's large square
handkerchiefs that she had kept for such usage.

 
          
 
There were stairs to be climbed, the drip of
her umbrella pattering on each as she went. Then she was facing an open door of
what was plainly an office. There was no one at the desk within so she
hesitated for a moment or two before she entered. She seated herself on the
hard cushionless settle on the outer side of a railing that appeared to divide
the world from the inner workings of The British Lady,

 
          
 
It was not until she was seated that she
became aware that the inner door beyond the rail stood ajar and she could hear
voices—both of them
raised
in argument.

 
          
 
The low, almost growling voice appeared to be
in command; the second was even lower in tone, as if its owner fought for a
temper-keeping modulation.

 
          
 
". . .
of
the
lowest sort." The lower voice was climbing higher.

 
          
 
"You're not being asked to live with
them, gel. You will have an introduction to Captain Ellison and she will tell
you to go where you can observe."

 
          
 
"Everyone knows they are thieves and
murderers, drunkards, and—and worse! This so-called army is interested only in
such. No lady would even read about them, let alone become an actual witness to
report some degrading scene!"

 
          
 
There followed a rustling of paper and the
more forceful voice sounded as if it were now engaged in reading aloud.

 
          
 
"'Her Grace was most charmingly dressed
in a muted melody of lavender and voilet shades. The well-known splendor of the
Evedor pearls shone softly, like precious dewdrops, about her throat, on the
bosom of her gown, about her fragile wrists. The tiara that is the crowning
piece of this famous jewel collection found a perfect setting in her sable
ringlets. She was the center of a gay party from the Evedor Towers, and it is
well known that this coming season will see Evedor House once more opened to
the polite world when Her Grace introduces her eldest daughter, Lady Maude
Evedor, into society.' Pish!"

 
          
 
"But Miss
Scrimshaw!"
There was outrage in that interruption. "The
Evedors are one of the oldest families in— “

 
          
 
"Old? And has being longtime masters of a
strip of ground ever made a family worthy of being really counted? Do you know,
gel, that living on the duke's own estate are a gamekeeper and a groom whose
families date back at least five generations before the time old Sir Simon
Evedor diddled the first manor out of James—and in not a particularly pleasant
way, either! The Evedors started marrying wealth about the same time they
achieved landed status and have been noted for their luck in the matter of
snaffling at least one wealthy bride in a generation. For the rest, what do
they really do? The present duke sits in the House of Lords, ready with a firm
no in answer to the least sign of any progressive thinking. He never opens his
mouth otherwise.

 
          
 
"No, it is not the duke, the duchess, and
their ilk that are important now. Rather it is what is going on below, a good
couple of flights below their airy perch."

            
"But,"—the second voice
had now regained some courage—"our readers want to hear about the
duchesses and the gowns and the parties. There were at least twenty write-ins
in response to the account of the Howe-Ainsworthys' marriage."

 
          
 
"Very true," conceded the other.
"Oh, we'll continue to supply the pap. Mainly because we can always hope
that one or two of those avid readers will turn a page and find some more
forceful meat. And meat has to be hunted, Dale."

 
          
 
"I can't! I just can't go to one of those
meetings!" What little courage that voice had held earlier was gone now.
"No lady would do it. If I did, and it
were
known, I never could get within the gates of a decent house again!"

 
          
 
"But do you, Dale?" There was a braying
sound that Hester could not accept as a laugh. "I think most of your
'facts' come out of the mouths of ladies' maids and sometimes at a rather stiff
rate. No, it's time you got out in the real world—think about it, gel."

 
          
 
The door swung from its partly open position
with such force that it near slammed back against the wall. A young woman
darted out. Her face was deeply flushed and tears were gathering in her eyes.

 
          
 
She had taken two strides beyond the railing,
her eyes straight ahead with no glance at Hester, and she already had a hand at
the outer door when it opened so abruptly that she stumbled forward straight
against the young man who had been about to enter.

 
          
 
Giving an exclamation that was half a hiccup,
she twisted by him, the drumming of her boots sounding from the hall. The man
glanced at the desk behind the railing, frowned slightly, and went toward the
door of the inner office. Perhaps she had somehow become invisible, Hester
thought. She was sure that neither of them had seen her. The man was already
into the inner office. He had closed the door behind him. Again it did not
latch but swung open far enough for Hester once more to hear.

 
          
 
"Well, Aunt Agatha, and what have you
done now? Here is Maud Dale apparently racing from some major danger. Who put
the fox into the henhouse this morning?"

 
          
 
He spoke lightly in a voice that Hester
recognized—for it was much like her father's accent. She had only caught a
glimpse of him as he passed but what she frankly observed had not particularly
impressed her. This was just another young "gentleman" who did not
have to depend on work to keep bread and butter on the tea table nor an
unleaking roof over his head. Doubtless such mundane needs never occurred to
him at all.

 
          
 
He was clean shaven, which was not quite the
norm in a city where elaborate hirsute adornments—or disguises— were the
general rule. He wore no dashing guardsman's mustache, no fluff of sideburns,
nor
beard. His hair was dark, so much she had seen when he
tugged off an all-weather tweed hat before he entered the inner office.

 
          
 
For the rest, he was slender, his caped
mackintosh did not hide that, and the hand with which he held his hat was well
kempt. Surely he was a stray from a
more lofty
world
and so not in her experience at all. He would have to be about forty years
older, with a scholar's slightly bemused look, for her to place him properly.
Young men had played no part in
Miss Lane
's past.