COLD STEEL
The two men who formed what one may call the alien and impartial audience
at that table were mutually and similarly impressed by a certain feature
of Barthorpe Herapath's speech--its exceeding malevolence. As he went on
from sentence to sentence, his eyes continually turned to Mr. Tertius,
who sat, composed and impassive, listening, and in them was a gleam
which could not be mistaken--the gleam of bitter, personal dislike. Mr.
Halfpenny and Professor Cox-Raythwaite both saw that look and drew their
own conclusions, and when Barthorpe spat out his last words, the man of
science turned to the man of law and muttered a sharp sentence in Latin
which no one else caught. And Mr. Halfpenny nodded and muttered a word
or two back before he turned to Barthorpe.
"Even supposing--mind, I only say supposing--even supposing you are
correct in all you say--and I don't know that you are," he said, "what you
have put before us does nothing to prove that the will which we have just
inspected is not what we believe it to be--we, at any rate--the valid will
of Jacob Herapath. You know as well as I do that you'd have to give
stronger grounds than that before a judge and jury."
"I'll give you my grounds," answered Barthorpe eagerly. He bent over the
table in his eagerness, and the old lawyer suddenly realized that
Barthorpe genuinely believed himself to be in the right. "I'll give you
my grounds without reserve. Consider them--I'll check them off, point by
point--you can follow them:
"First. It was well known--to me, at any rate, that my uncle Jacob
Herapath, had never made a will.
"Second. Is it not probable that if he wanted to make a will he would
have employed me, who had acted as his solicitor for fifteen years?
"Third. I had a conversation with him about making a will just under a
year ago, and he then said he'd have it done, and he mentioned that he
should divide his estate equally between me and my cousin there.
"Fourth. Mr. Burchill here absolutely denies all knowledge of this
alleged will.
"Fifth. My uncle's handwriting, as you all know, was exceedingly plain
and very easy to imitate. Burchill's handwriting is similarly plain--of
the copperplate sort--and just as easy to imitate.
"Sixth. That man across there is an expert forger! I have the account of
his trial at Lancaster Assizes--the evidence shows that his work was most
expert. Is it likely that his hand should have lost its cunning--even
after several years?
"Seventh. That man there had every opportunity of forging this will.
With his experience and knowledge it would be a simple matter to him. He
did it with the idea of getting everything into the hands of his own
daughter, of defrauding me of my just rights. Since my uncle's death he
has made two attempts to see Burchill privately--why? To square him, of
course! And----"
Mr. Tertius, who had been gazing at the table while Barthorpe went
through these points, suddenly lifted his head and looked at Mr.
Halfpenny. His usual nervousness seemed to have left him, and there was
something very like a smile of contempt about his lips when he spoke.
"I think, Halfpenny," he said quietly, "I really think it is time all
this extraordinary farce--for it is nothing less!--came to an end. May I
be permitted to ask Mr. Barthorpe Herapath a few questions?"
"So far as I am concerned, as many as you please, Tertius," replied Mr.
Halfpenny. "Whether he'll answer them or not is another matter. He ought
to."
"I shall answer them if I please, and I shall not answer them if I don't
want to," said Barthorpe sullenly. "You can put them, anyway. But
they'll make no difference--I know what I'm talking about."
"So do I," said Mr. Tertius. "And really, as we come here to get at the
truth, it will be all the better for everybody concerned if you do
answer my questions. Now--you say I am in reality Arthur Wynne, the
father of your cousin, the brother-in-law of Jacob Herapath. What you
have said about Arthur John Wynne is unfortunately only too true. It is
true that he erred and was punished--severely. In due course he went to
Portland. I want to ask you what became of him afterwards?--you say you
have full knowledge."
"You mean, what became of you afterwards," sneered Barthorpe. "I know
when you left Portland. You left it for London--and you came to London
to be sheltered, under your assumed name, by Jacob Herapath."
"No more than that?" asked Mr. Tertius.
"That's enough," answered Barthorpe. "You left Portland in April, 1897;
you came to London when you were discharged; in June of that year you'd
taken up your residence under Jacob Herapath's roof. And it's no use
your trying to bluff me--I've traced your movements!"
"With the aid, no doubt, of Mr. Burchill there," observed Mr. Tertius,
dryly. "But----"
Burchill drew himself up.
"Sir!" he exclaimed. "That is an unwarrantable assumption, and----"
"Unwarrantable assumptions, Mr. Burchill, appear to be present in great
quantity," interrupted Mr. Tertius, with an air of defiance which
surprised everybody. "Don't you interrupt me, sir!--I'll deal with you
before long in a way that will astonish you. Now, Mr. Barthorpe
Herapath," he went on, turning to that person with determination, "I
will astonish you somewhat, for I honestly believe you really have some
belief in what you say. I am not Arthur John Wynne. I am what I have
always been--John Christopher Tertius, as a considerable number of
people in this town can prove. But I knew Arthur John Wynne. When he
left Portland he came to me here in London--at the suggestion of Jacob
Herapath. I then lived in Bloomsbury--I had recently lost my wife. I
took Wynne to live with me. But he had not long to live. If you had
searched into matters more deeply, you would have found that he got his
discharge earlier than he would have done in the usual course, because
of his health. As a matter of fact, he was very ill when he came to me,
and he died six weeks after his arrival at my house. He is buried in the
churchyard of the village from which he originally came--in Wales--and
you can inspect all the documents relating to his death, and see his
grave if you care to. After his death, for reasons into which I need not
go, I went to live with Jacob Herapath. It was his great desire--and
mine--that Wynne's daughter, your cousin, should never know her father's
sad history. But for you she never would have known it! And--that is a
plain answer to what you have had to allege against me. Now, sir, let me
ask you a plain question. Who invented this cock-and-bull story? You
don't reply--readily? Shall I assist you by a suggestion? Was it that
man who sits by you--Burchill? For Burchill knows that he has lied
vilely and shamelessly this morning--Burchill knows that he did see
Jacob Herapath sign that will--Burchill knows that that will was duly
witnessed by himself and by me in the presence of each other and of the
testator! God bless my soul!" exclaimed Mr. Tertius, thumping the table
vehemently. "Why, man alive, your cousin Margaret has a document here
which proves that that will is all right--a document written by Jacob
Herapath himself! Bring it out, my dear--confound these men with an
indisputable proof!"
But before Peggie could draw the packet from her muff, Burchill had
risen and was showing signs of retreat. And Barthorpe, now pale with
anger and perplexity, had risen too--and he was looking at Burchill.
Mr. Halfpenny looked at both men. Then he pointed to their chairs.
"Hadn't you better sit down again?" he said. "It seems to me that we're
just arriving at the most interesting stage of these proceedings."
Burchill stepped towards the door.
"I do not propose to stay in company in which I am ruthlessly insulted,"
he said. "It is, of course, a question of my word against Mr. Tertius's.
We shall see. As for the present, I do."
"Stop!" said Barthorpe. He moved towards Burchill, motioning him towards
the window in which Peggie and Mr. Tertius had spoken together. "Here--a
word with you!"
But Burchill made for the door, and Mr. Halfpenny nudged Professor
Cox-Raythwaite.
"I say--stop!" exclaimed Barthorpe. "There's some explanation----"
He was about to lay a hand on the door when Mr. Halfpenny touched a
bell which stood in front of him on the table. And at its sharp sound
the door opened from without, and Burchill fell back at what he
saw--fell back upon Barthorpe, who looked past him, and started in his
turn.
"Great Scot!" said Barthorpe. "Police!"
Davidge came quickly and quietly in--three other men with him. And in
the room from which they emerged Barthorpe saw more men, many more men,
and with them an eager, excited face which he somehow recognized--the
face of the little _Argus_ reporter who had asked him and Selwood for
news on the morning after Jacob Herapath's murder.
But Barthorpe had no time to waste thoughts on Triffitt. He suddenly
became alive to the fact that two exceedingly strong men had seized his
arms; that two others had similarly seized Burchill. The pallor died out
of his face and gave place to a dull glow of anger.
"Now, then?" he growled. "What's all this!"
"The same for both of you, Mr. Herapath," answered Davidge, cheerfully
and in business-like fashion. "I'll charge both you and Mr. Burchill
formally when we've got you to the station. You're both under arrest,
you know. And I may as well warn you----"
"Nonsense!" exclaimed Barthorpe. "Arrest!--on what charge?"
"Charge will be the same for both," answered Davidge coolly. "The murder
of Jacob Herapath."
A dead silence fell on the room. Then Peggie Wynne cried out, and
Barthorpe suddenly made a spring at Burchill.
"You villain!" he said in a low concentrated voice. "You've done me, you
devil! Let me get my hands on----"
The other men, Triffitt on their heels, came bustling into the room,
obedient to Davidge's lifted finger.
"Put the handcuffs on both of 'em," commanded Davidge. "Can't take any
chances, Mr. Herapath, if you lose your temper--the other gentleman----"
It was at that moment that the other gentleman took his chance. While
Barthorpe Herapath had foolishly allowed himself to become warm and
excited, Burchill had remained cool and watchful and calculating. And now
in the slight diversion made by the entrance of the other detectives, he
suddenly and adroitly threw off the grasp of the men who held him, darted
through the open door on to the stairs, and had vanished before Davidge
could cry out. Davidge darted too, the other police darted, Mr. Halfpenny
smote his bell and shouted to his clerks. But the clerks were downstairs,
out of hearing, and the police were fleshy men, slow of movement, while
Burchill was slippery as an eel and agile as an athlete. Moreover,
Burchill, during his secretaryship to Jacob Herapath, had constantly
visited Mr. Halfpenny's office, and was as well acquainted with its ins
and outs as its tenant; he knew where, in those dark stairs there was
a side stair which led to a private door in a neighbouring alley. And
while the pursuers blundered this way and that, he calmly slipped out to
freedom, and, in a couple of minutes was mingling with the crowds in a
busy thoroughfare, safe for that time.
Then Davidge, cursing his men and his luck, took Barthorpe Herapath away,
and Triffitt rushed headlong to Fleet Street, seething with excitement and
brimming with news.