Reginald Templeton’s Letter
Anthony Crosby looked up with a smile as Winnie Cotterill was ushered
into his private office.
“Good morning, Miss Cotterill. Very glad to see you,” he said, getting
up from his chair and shaking hands with the girl. “You got my note,
then?”
“You said you wanted to see me, Mr. Crosby.”
“I did. Sit down, won’t you? Now I dare say you’ve been wondering why
I’ve enticed you into my office, eh?”
“Is it anything about Mr. Templeton’s murder?” asked Winnie as she sat
down.
“Well—er—in a way it is.”
“Have the police found out yet who did it?” asked the girl eagerly.
The lawyer took up some typewritten sheets lying on his table and
glanced at them.
“The superintendent at Frattenbury has been good enough to send me a
private report,” he replied. “I don’t think I’m betraying their
confidence when I tell you that so far they haven’t laid their hands
on the villain. There was another man they suspected—besides Mr.
Grayson—but he seems to have cleared himself.”
Winnie had taken off her gloves. The observant lawyer glanced at her
left hand.
“You’re very glad Mr. Grayson is no longer suspected?” he asked dryly.
The girl blushed a little, smiled and nodded.
“Yes,” she said. “You see—since I saw you last——”
“You’ve added to your jewellery, eh, Miss Cotterill?”
“Mr. Grayson asked me to marry him, and I said——”
“‘Yes.’ I’m not surprised. Let me offer you my congratulations. When
are you going to be married?”
“Oh, it’ll be ever so long a time. You see, Harold’s got to make his
way as an artist. He’s the youngest son. He’s getting on, of course.
But we shall have to wait a bit.”
“And you—do you manage to earn your own living?”
“Oh, yes—just, you know. I haven’t been able to save anything. But I’m
getting along nicely.”
“I see. Well, Miss Cotterill, we’ll dismiss this naturally pleasant
subject for a time, if you don’t mind. I’ll tell you why I asked you
to call. I suppose you know that my late client was much interested in
you?”
“Uncle?—Mr. Templeton? He was most awfully good to me.”
“I wonder if you know why?” said the lawyer.
“Sometimes I’ve often tried to guess—I’ve wondered if he was fond of
my mother, you know?”
Crosby nodded. “Yes—he was, Miss Cotterill. He was in love with her
before she married.”
A deep blush spread over the girl’s face.
“You haven’t sent for me to tell me he—he was my fa——”
“No, no, no, my dear young lady. I assure you. Besides, you probably
remember your father?”
And he looked at her keenly.
“Yes—very faintly. You see, I was very young when he died—I couldn’t
have been more than four years old. I can just remember him—not what
he was like, you know. That’s all. I asked because—because my mother
hardly ever mentioned him—she didn’t seem to care to talk about
him—and I wondered——”
“Yes, yes,” interposed the lawyer sympathetically. “I understand.
Well, you can dismiss any such thought from your mind.”
“Can you tell me anything about my father?”
He looked at her a moment, and then said:
“No, I can’t tell you anything about him. But I can tell you something
that ought to please you,” he went on with a smile. “Mr. Templeton
made his will, and left it with me before he went to South Africa.
Here it is,” and he held up a paper. “Can you guess the contents?”
“How can I, Mr. Crosby?”
“Well, he’s left everything of which he died possessed to you!”
“To _me_!” she exclaimed, in astonishment. “Oh, no—there must be some
mistake.”
He laughed.
“It’s very rude of you to doubt a lawyer’s word, my dear young lady.
And you ought not to be surprised. His only relations, apparently,
were the Fittleworths, and they’re quite well off. Now, don’t jump to
conclusions. You’re not going to be an heiress by any means, so don’t
you think it. Mr. Templeton wasn’t at all rich, and he spent most of
his money in travelling and fitting out expeditions. I’ve been looking
over his affairs, and you’ll only get two thousand pounds at the
outside.”
“Two thousand pounds!” cried Winnie. “I never expected to have so much
money in all my life. Do you really mean it?”
“I wish everyone was as modest in their ideas of money as you are. No
I don’t, though—I should have to lower my fees! Yes, it’s about two
thousand, as far as I can make out. Now, what are you going to do with
it?”
He leaned back in his chair and smiled at her. Visions of gowns, hats,
jewellery, furniture, and finally a trousseau flitted through the
girl’s mind. And the lawyer, who had a knowledge of human
nature—intensified by being a married man—shrewdly guessed several of
the visions.
“I—don’t—know,” said Winnie slowly. “There are ever so many things,
and——”
“Now look here, Miss Cotterill,” broke in Crosby, “may I presume to
give you a bit of advice? If you invest the money carefully, it ought
to bring you in a hundred a year.”
He knew what the answer would be. And it was.
“Oh, Mr. Crosby, can’t I have _some_ of it to spend now?”
“You can have the whole lot if you like—when we’ve taken out probate.
It’s yours absolutely.”
“I shouldn’t want to spend it _all_. I shouldn’t know how to.”
“Oh, I expect you would. Anyhow—I don’t want to force myself on
you—but will you let me arrange matters? Suppose you have a hundred
pounds and let me invest the remainder for you, eh?”
Her eyes sparkled.
“That would be just ripping!” she said. “Thank you ever so much.”
“Very well. I’ll see about taking out probate, and let you know when I
shall want you again.”
He had adopted his professional manner and looked at his watch
markedly.
“There isn’t anything else just now. Good-bye, Miss Cotterill; and
hearty congratulations—in a double sense.”
When Winnie Cotterill had departed, the lawyer took up another paper
that was lying on his desk, and read it carefully. The sealed packet
he had mentioned to Canon Fittleworth had contained it. It was in the
form of a letter from Reginald Templeton.
My Dear Crosby,
We are all of us in the lap of the gods, and sometimes they drop us
before we think they will. Anyhow, when a man starts, as I am
starting, for some considerable time abroad, one never knows what
may happen. So this is for your private eye in case I cut the traces
or they are cut for me—and don’t see you again.
You have my will, in which I leave the little I’ve got to Winnie
Cotterill—and I expect you know the reason. But there’s something
else I want to tell you about the girl, which I think you ought to
know in case the unforeseen may happen—as it does sometimes. Her
name isn’t really Cotterill at all—it’s Forbes. Don’t start, my
friend, there’s nothing wrong with her parentage. The facts are
these. Her mother, Mabel Cotterill, didn’t marry me as I hoped she
would. She chose a man named Percy Forbes, a young lawyer. He turned
out a wrong ’un. When Winifred was about four years old, he was
tried on a serious charge of embezzlement, and sentenced to seven
years’ penal servitude. He hadn’t got a leg to stand upon, it was a
clear case. He and his wife were living at the time—well, it doesn’t
matter where. But Mrs. Forbes naturally left the neighbourhood; in
fact I advised her to do so. The question arose about Winifred. The
mother didn’t want the child to hear of the family disgrace, so she
went to a neighbourhood where nobody knew her, and took her maiden
name of Cotterill. We used to talk over matters sometimes—as to what
would happen when Forbes came out of prison—and she hated the
thought of the child ever knowing that her father had been a
convict. But Forbes didn’t come out of prison—he died at Princetown
in the third year of his sentence. So Winifred was brought up to
believe that he died when she was four years old—and that’s all she
knows. And her mother stuck to the name of Cotterill.
What do I want you to do? Probably nothing, my friend. I trust you
to keep up the fiction. A name doesn’t matter, and the girl will, I
hope, marry some good fellow, and so get another name that she’s a
right to. You will agree that it is best not to let her have the
burden of her father’s disgrace.
_But_—and this is the real object of this letter—if ever there’s a
question of her benefiting by the knowledge (I don’t suppose there
ever will be), I wanted you to know the facts. It seemed to me to be
only fair to her. And, in that case, I ask you to use _your own
discretion_—just as I should have done. You’re a wiser man than I am
but even I could solve the problem as to whether it would be better
for the girl to know of her father’s crime for the sake of any
material advantage that might occur, or whether a mind based on the
contentment of ignorance is not really worth more than worldly
dross.
I know I’m a queer chap, and it’s because I’m queer that I haven’t
mentioned places. You’re shrewd enough to find out the facts for
yourself if occasion arises. And as the finding out of the facts
would take you a little time, I’ve tied you up, so that you can have
plenty of leisure for decision.
That’s all. If the aforementioned gods drop me, you’ll see that
Winifred gets my little lot of possessions. And to recompense you
for this—and for making further investigations if you have to do
so—please take the enclosed bank-note for a hundred pounds, with
every good wish from
Your sincere friend,
Reginald Templeton.
The lawyer carefully replaced this document in its envelope and locked
it up.
“A queer letter,” he said to himself; “but then, Templeton was not an
ordinary sort of man. Of course, I can easily find out about this
fellow Forbes, if I want to, but it seems to me, at present, that
there’s nothing to do—yes, it wouldn’t be fair to tell the girl. I can
quite understand the policy of bringing her up in ignorance of her
father’s crime.
“Well, anyway,” he went on, “this matter has nothing to do with the
murder.”
He took up the superintendent’s letter and read it again.
“So Moss is out of the running,” he soliloquised, “and the diamonds
are accounted for. So it could hardly be robbery—unless,” and he went
on thoughtfully, “unless, of course, someone else knew he had those
diamonds on him—and did not know he had handed them over to Moss. That
looks feasible. It’s a rational motive for the crime. I wonder who
this other suspect is that the police say they have an eye on?
“There’s another queer thing about this murder,” he reflected. “Hardly
any papers were found in the cabin, and none on Templeton’s body. Yet
there were about thirty pounds in notes in the open locker. If the
murderer was after the diamonds, and didn’t find them, why did he take
any papers? For Templeton must have had a pocket-book or something on
him. It’s a rum case. I wonder if the police will ever solve it. Well,
perhaps there will be some fresh light at the inquest. Anyhow, I can’t
give any more time to it just now.”
It wasn’t long before Winnie Cotterill saw Grayson. He called at the
flat and had tea. Maude Wingrave came in just after he had arrived.
Winnie told them the news.
“Poor Uncle!” she said; “I’d rather not have had the money when it
means his death, of course. But I just can’t help being excited. Look
here, you children! You’ve both got to dine with me to-night—at the
‘Petit Cygne.’ I’ll stand treat.”
“Squanderer!” derided Maude. “Beware, Mr. Grayson! She’ll throw your
money about like ducks and drakes. I don’t think I’ll come, Winnie.”
“Why not, old thing?”
“You two irresponsible young persons having entered upon the broad
downward path that leadeth into the narrow straights of matrimony with
insufficient income will do all the talking to one another—and it will
be appalling to listen unto. That’s why.”
“I’ll promise to address quite a lot of remarks to you,” said Grayson.
“Yes, I know—‘Don’t you think Winnie looks charming to-night?’ and all
that sort of unbearable——”
“Shut up, Maude—don’t be rude. Please excuse her, Harold. I’m trying
to teach her manners—she spent the extra tuppence on frivolity. You’ll
both come, and there’s an end of it.”
“The end of it will be that I shall leave you two children at the
close of the meal, see?”
“_We_ don’t mind, do we, Harold?”
“Not a bit,” replied Grayson, as if he meant it.
“You’re not polite, Mr. Grayson,” said Maude. “If you don’t treat me
with due respect, I shall stay till the bitter end.”
But, being a good-hearted girl, of course she didn’t.