THE MISSING WILL.
Mr. Brightman was buried on the Thursday, and Mr. Serjeant Stillingfar
came up from circuit for the funeral. Three or four other gentlemen
attended, and myself. It was all done very quietly. After that the
will was read.
He had not left as much money as might have been expected. I suppose
the rate at which they lived had absorbed it. Nearly the whole of it
was vested in trustees, who would pay the interest to Mrs. Brightman
until her death, when it would all descend unconditionally to Annabel.
If she married again, one half the yearly income at once went to
Annabel. To my surprise, I was left executor. Mr. Brightman had never
told me so. Of the two executors originally appointed--for the will
had been made many years--one had recently died, and Mr. Brightman had
inserted my name in his place. That all the work would fall upon my
shoulders I knew, for the other executor had become a confirmed
invalid.
With regard to our own articles of partnership, provided for by a
recent codicil, they were very favourable to me, though somewhat
peculiar. If Mr. Brightman died before I was thirty years of age,
two-thirds of the net profits of the business were to be paid to Mrs.
Brightman for three years; but if I had passed my thirtieth year when
he died, only half the profits would go to her. After the first three
years, one-third of the profits would be hers for three years more;
and then all would revert to me absolutely.
I wanted some years yet of thirty. But it was an excellent and
lucrative practice. Few men fall into so good a thing when they are
still young.
"So there you are, Charles, the head of one of the best professional
houses in London," remarked my uncle Stillingfar, as he took my arm
when we were leaving the house. "Rather different from what your fate
might have been, had you carried out your wish of going to the Bar. My
boy, you may be thankful that you know nothing of the struggles I had
to go through."
"Do you still feel quite well and strong, uncle?" I asked, after a
bit.
"Yes, I do, Charles. I suppose you think I am growing old. But I
believe I am more capable of work than are many of my juniors who are
now on circuit with me. With a sound constitution, never played with,
and a temperate way of life, we retain our energies, by God's
blessing, to an older age than mine."
That was no doubt true. True also that he must be making heaps of
money. I wondered what he meant to do with it. He had been very
liberal to me as long as I needed help, but that time was over.
The sad week passed away. On the following Monday I set to
professional business in earnest: the previous week had been much
given to matters not professional. One of the first things to be
attended to was to prove the will of Sir Ralph Clavering, and, in the
course of the morning, I unlocked the iron safe in the front room to
get it. Nothing was ever placed in that safe but wills and
title-deeds, and these were never placed anywhere else. But where this
particular will was hiding itself, I could not tell, for I turned over
every paper the place contained without coming to it. "More haste less
speed," cried I to myself, for I had been doing it in a hurry. "I must
have overlooked it."
So I began again and went through the papers carefully, paper by
paper. I had not overlooked it, for Sir Ralph's will was certainly not
there.
Now, was I awake or dreaming? Was there a fairy in the walls to remove
things, or was the house bewitched?--or what was it? I went and
examined the Clavering papers, which were in Mr. Brightman's desk in
the adjoining room--my room, which had been cleaned and put straight
again. But the will was not amongst them. I searched other drawers and
desks in vain. Then I called up Lennard.
"Do you know anything of Sir Ralph Clavering's will? I cannot find
it."
"It must be in the safe," he replied.
"It is not in the safe. Lennard, this is very strange: first that bag
of money, and now the will."
"Oh, but it cannot be," returned Lennard, after a pause. "That the
gold went, appears to be too plain, but who would take a will? Money
might be a temptation, if any stranger did enter Mr. Brightman's room
that night, but----"
"It has been proved almost beyond doubt that no one entered, and yet
the money went. Lennard, there's something not canny at work in the
house, as the Scotch say."
"Do not think it, Mr. Strange," he replied warmly. "The gold appears
to have gone in some mysterious manner, but the will cannot be gone.
Depend upon it, it is in the safe."
I had a great respect for Lennard's judgment, but I had as great
confidence in my own eyesight. I unlocked the safe again, and, taking
out the parchments, one by one, handed them to Lennard that he might
read their titles. "There," said I, when we had reached the last; "is
the will amongst them?"
Lennard's face had turned grave. "This is very extraordinary!" he
exclaimed. "Mr. Brightman would not put it anywhere else."
"He never put a will up in any other place than this since I have been
with him, Lennard; and I myself saw him put it in; held the light for
him: it was in the evening of last Tuesday week, after he came back
from Sir Ralph's funeral. It has gone after the gold."
"No, no," he cried, almost in agitation; "it has not, it has not: I
will never believe it."
One very slight hope came to me. Mr. Brightman might have given it
into the custody of Sir Edmund Clavering. But then Sir Edmund would
surely have said so when he spoke to me about proving the will. The
loss of the money was nothing to this, for that had been easily
replaced, and there was an end of the matter; but this loss could not
be replaced, and there was no knowing what the end would be. It might
be little short of ruin to Sir Edmund Clavering, and nothing short of
ruin to me: for who would continue to employ a firm liable to lose
wills?
I was greatly occupied that day, but the missing will lay upon me as a
nightmare, and I forced time for a dash up to Sir Edmund Clavering's
hotel in the afternoon, bribing the cabman to double speed. By good
luck, I found Sir Edmund in, and inquired if he held possession of the
will.
"Mr. Brightman holds the will," he replied. "Held, I should say: I
cannot yet speak of him in the past tense, you see. He took it home
with him after Sir Ralph's funeral."
"I know he brought it home, Sir Edmund; but I thought it possible he
might since then have given it into your possession. I hoped he had,
for I cannot find the will. I have searched for it everywhere."
"Not find the will!" he echoed. "Perhaps you have looked in every
place but the right one," he added, with a slight laugh. "I can tell
you where it is."
"Where?"
"In the iron safe in Mr. Brightman's room."
"It was placed there--we never put wills anywhere else; never--but it
is not there now. May I ask how you knew it was there, Sir Edmund?"
"Because on the day but one following the funeral I came to town and
had an interview with Mr. Brightman in his room. It was on the
Thursday. Perhaps you remember that I was with him that day?"
"Quite well."
"During our consultation we differed in opinion as to a certain clause
in the will, and Mr. Brightman took it out of the safe to convince me.
He was right, and I was wrong; as, indeed, I might have known,
considering that he had made the will. He put it back into the safe at
once and locked it up. When are you going to prove the will? It ought
to be done now."
"I was going to set about it this very day; but, as I say, I cannot
find the will."
"It must be easy enough to find a big parchment like that. If not in
the safe, Mr. Brightman must have put it elsewhere. Look in all his
pigeon-holes and places."
"I have looked: I have looked everywhere.---- Just as I looked some
days before for the bag of sovereigns," I mentally added.
But Sir Edmund Clavering was determined to treat the matter lightly:
he evidently attached no importance to it whatever, believing that
Mr. Brightman had only changed its place.
I went home again, feeling as uncomfortable as I had ever felt in my
life. An undefined idea, a doubt, had flashed into my mind whilst I
had been talking to Lennard. Imagination is quicker with me, I know,
than with many people; and the moment a thing puzzles me, I must dive
into its why and wherefore: its various bearings and phases, probable
and improbable, natural and unnatural. This doubt--which I had driven
away at the time, had been driving away during my gallop to Sir
Edmund's, and whilst I was conversing with him--now grew into
suspicion.
Let me explain how I arrived at this suspicion. When I found the will
had disappeared from the safe--when I searched and searched in vain--I
could only come to the conclusion that it had been stolen. But why was
it taken? From what motive? Why should that one particular parchment
be abstracted, and the others left? Obviously, it could only have
been from interested motives. Now, who had an interest in getting
possession of the will--so that it might not be proved and acted upon?
Only one person in the whole world--Lady Clavering. And Lady Clavering
had been alone in the room where the safe was for nearly half an hour.
If she had obtained possession of the will, there was farewell to our
ever getting it again. I saw through her character at that first
interview: she was a woman absolutely without scruple.
But how could she have got at it? Even supposing she knew the will was
in the iron safe, she could not have opened it without the key; and
how could she have obtained the key?
Again--if Lady Clavering were the guilty party, what became of my very
natural suspicions that the will and the gold were both taken by the
same hand? And with the gold Lady Clavering could have had nothing to
do. Look at it as I would, perplexities arose; points difficult, if
not impossible, to reconcile.
Lennard met me in the passage on my return. "Is it all right? Has Sir
Edmund got it, sir?"
"No, no; I told you it was a forlorn hope. Come upstairs, Lennard. Sir
Edmund has not the will," I continued, as we entered the front room.
"He says that when he was here last Thursday week, Mr. Brightman had
occasion to refer to the will, took it from the safe, and put it back
again. Therefore it is since that period that the theft has taken
place."
"Can you really look upon it as _stolen_?" Lennard uttered, with
emphasis. "Who would steal so valueless a thing as a will?"
"Not valueless to everyone."
"No one in the house would do such a thing. You have a suspicion?" he
added.
"Yes, I have, Lennard."
He began to pace the room. Lennard was, in truth, completely upset by
this loss. "Of whom?" he presently jerked out. "Surely not of Leah!"
"Of Leah! Oh no!"
"I fancied you suspected her in the matter of the money. I feel sure
she was innocent."
"So do I. Leah no more took the money than you or I did, Lennard. And
what should she want with the will? If I made her a present of all the
wills in the safe, she would only light her fires with them as useless
lumber. Try again."
But he only shook his head. "I cannot catch your drift, sir."
"To all persons, two excepted, the will would be as useless as to
Leah. One of those two is Sir Edmund; and he has it not: the other is
Lady Clavering."
"But surely you cannot suspect her!" exclaimed Lennard. "You cannot
suspect Lady Clavering!"
"To say that I suspect her would perhaps be too strong a word,
Lennard. If my doubts rest upon her at all, it is because she is the
only person who could have an interest in getting possession of the
will; and she is the only stranger, as far as I can recollect, who has
been alone in this room sufficiently long to take it from the safe."
Lennard was incredulous. "But she had not the key of the safe. She
could not have opened it without it."
"I know--I see the improbabilities that encompass my doubts; but I can
think of nothing else."
"Where was the key of the safe?" asked Lennard.
"In that back room; and in Mr. Brightman's deep drawer--the drawer
from which the gold was taken," was my grave answer. "And she could
not have got at it without--without passing him."
Lennard's face grew hot.
"And the key of that drawer was here, in my own pocket, on the bunch."
I took out the bunch of keys as I spoke--Mr. Brightman's bunch until
within a few days--and shook it before him.
"What mystery has come over the house, about keys, and locks, and
things disappearing?" Lennard murmured, as a man bewildered.
"Lennard, it is the question I am asking myself."
"She could never have gone in there and passed him; and stood there
while she got the key. A young and beautiful woman like Lady
Clavering! Sir, it would be unnatural."
"No more unnatural for beauty than for ugliness, Lennard. Unnatural
for most women, though, whether pretty or plain."
"But how could she have divined that the key of the safe was in that
drawer, or in that room?" urged Lennard. "For the matter of that, how
could she have known that the will was in the safe?"
Truly the affair presented grave perplexities. "One curious part of it
is that she should have called you up with her screams, Lennard," I
remarked. "If she had only that moment opened the door, and
seen--what frightened her, she could not have been already in the
room hunting for the key. Were the screams assumed? Was it all a piece
of acting?"
"It would take a subtle actress to counterfeit her terror," replied
Lennard; "and the best actress breathing could not have assumed her
ghastly look. No, Mr. Strange, I believe what she said was the fact:
that, weary of waiting for her carriage, she had walked about the
room, then opened the door, and passed into the other without any
thought except that of distracting her ennui."
"She must have looked about for the key of the door, mind you,
Lennard."
A man has rarely been placed in a more disagreeable predicament than I
felt to be in then. It was of no use temporising with the matter: I
could only meet it boldly, and I sent that evening for Sir Edmund
Clavering, and laid it before him. I told him of Lady Clavering's
visit, and hinted at the doubt which had forced itself on my mind.
Sir Edmund jumped to the conclusion (and into a passion at the same
time) that she was the culprit, and declared he would apply for a
warrant at Bow Street on the morrow, to take her into custody. With
extreme difficulty I got him to hear reason against anything of the
sort.
Lennard, who had remained, came round to Sir Edmund's opinion that it
must inevitably have been Lady Clavering. Failing her, no shadow of
suspicion could attach itself to anyone, sift and search into the
matter as we would.
"But neither was there as to the gold," was my rejoinder.
Then after they were gone, and I sat by the fire in the front room,
and went over the details dispassionately and carefully, and lay awake
the best part of the night, going over them still, my suspicions of
Lady Clavering lessened, and I arrived at the conclusion that they
were too improbable to be well founded.
Nevertheless, I intended to pursue the course I had decided on: and
that was to call upon her. She, like Sir Edmund, was now staying in
London, at an hotel. Not to accuse her, but to see if I could not,
indirectly, make out something that would confirm or dissipate my
suspicion.
I went up in the course of the morning. Lady Clavering was sitting
alone, her widow's cap on the sofa beside her. She hurried it on to
her head, when the waiter announced me.
"It is so hot and ugly," she exclaimed, in tones of excuse. "I sit
without it when I am alone. So you have condescended to return my
visit, Mr. Strange. I thought you gentlemen of the law took refuge in
your plea of occupation to ignore etiquette."
"Indeed it is not out of deference to etiquette that I have called
upon you to-day, Lady Clavering, but----"
"You have thought better of your refusal: you have come to say you
will undertake my business!" she interrupted, eyes and looks full of
eagerness.
"Nor yet that," I was forced to reply, though, in truth, I should
have been glad to conciliate her. "I am sure you will find many an
advocate quite as efficient as I should be. The day you were at our
house, did you happen to see----"
"Mr. Strange, I must beg you, as a gentleman, not to allude to what I
saw," she interposed, in tones of alarm. "I think it was inexcusable
on your part not to have informed me what was in the next room."
"Pardon me, Lady Clavering; it would have been an unnecessary and
unpleasant piece of information to volunteer: for how could I possibly
foresee that you would be likely to enter that room?" I might have
added--look for the key, unlock it, and go into it.
"I never saw a dead person in my life," she rejoined; "not even my
husband; and I shall not easily recover from the shock. I would give
anything rather than have been exposed to it."
"And so would I, and I shall always regret it," was my warm apology.
"Then why do you introduce the subject?"
"I did not intend to allude to that; but to your having sat in the
front room I must allude; and I know you will excuse my asking you the
question I am about to put to you. Did you happen to see a parchment
lying in that front room: on the table, or the side-tables,
or--anywhere, in short? We have missed one: and if you chanced to have
noticed it, it would be a great assistance to us, as a proof that we
need not carry our researches further back than that day."
"I don't remember that I saw any parchment," she carelessly rejoined.
"I saw some papers, tied round with pink tape, on the table; I did not
notice them particularly. I pray you not to make me think about that
afternoon, or you will have me in hysterics again."
"It is not possible--your ladyship will pardon me--that it can have
caught your dress in any way, and so have been carried downstairs and
out of the house, and--perhaps--lost in the street?" I persisted
slowly, looking at her.
Looking at her: but I could detect no emotion on her face; no drooping
of the eye; no rise or fall of colour, such as one guilty would have
been likely to display. She appeared to take my question literally,
and to see nothing beyond it.
"I cannot tell anything about it, Mr. Strange. Had my dress been
covered with parchments, I was in too much terror to notice them. Your
clerks would be more able to answer you than I, for they had to assist
me down to my carriage. But how should a parchment become attached to
a lady's dress?" she added, shaking out the folds of her ample skirts.
"The crape is quite soft, you perceive. Touch it."
"Quite so," I assented, advancing for a half-moment the extreme tip of
my forefinger.
"You will take a glass of wine? Now don't say no. Why can't you be
sociable?"
"Not any wine, thank you," I answered with a laugh. "We lawyers have
to keep our heads clear, Lady Clavering: we should not do that if we
took wine in the daytime."
"Sit still, pray. You have scarcely been here five minutes. I want to
speak to you, too, upon a matter of business."
So I resumed my seat, and waited. She was looking at me very
earnestly.
"It is about those missing letters of mine. Have you searched for
them, Mr. Strange?"
"Partially. I do not think we hold any. There are none amongst the
Clavering papers."
"Why do you say 'partially'?" she questioned.
"I have not had time to search amongst the packets of letters in Mr.
Brightman's cupboards and places. But I think if there were any of
your letters in our possession they would have been with the Clavering
papers."
Her gaze again sought mine for a moment, and then faded to vacancy.
"I wonder if he burnt them," she dreamily uttered.
"Who? Mr. Brightman?"
"No; my husband. You must look _everywhere_, Mr. Strange. If those
letters are in existence, I must have them. You will look?"
"Certainly I will."
"I shall remain in town until I hear from you. You _will_ go, then!"
"One more question ere I do go, Lady Clavering. Have you positively no
recollection of seeing this lost parchment?"
She looked surprised at my pertinacity. "If I had, I should say so. I
do not think I saw anything of the sort. But if I had seen it, the
subsequent fright would have taken it clean out of my memory."
So I wished her good-morning and departed. "It is not Lady Clavering,"
I exclaimed to Lennard, when I reached home.
"Are you sure of that, Mr. Strange?"
"I think so. I judge by her manner: it is only consistent with perfect
innocence. In truth, Lennard, I begin to see that I was foolish to
have doubted her at all, the circumstances surrounding it are so
intensely improbable."
And yet, even while I spoke, something of the suspicion crept into my
mind again. So prone to inconsistency is the human heart.