THE CHIEF MOURNERS
The attendance was small at Mr. Saffron's funeral. Besides meek and
depressed Mrs. Wiles, and Beaumaroy himself, Doctor Mary found herself,
rather to her surprise, in company with old Mr. Naylor. On comparing
notes she discovered that, like herself, he had come on Beaumaroy's
urgent invitation and, moreover, that he was engaged also to come on
afterwards to Tower Cottage, where Beaumaroy was to entertain the chief
mourners at a midday repast. "Glad enough to show my respect to a
neighbour," said old Naylor. "And I always liked the old man's looks.
But really I don't see why I should go to lunch! However,
Beaumaroy----!"
Mary did not see why he should go to lunch--nor, for that matter, why
she should either, but curiosity about the chief mourners made her glad
that she was going. The chief mourners did not look, at first sight,
attractive. Mr. Radbolt was a short plump man, with a weaselly face and
cunning eyes; his wife's eyes, of a greeny colour, stared stolidly out
from her broad red face; she was taller than her mate, and her figure
contrived to be at once stout and angular. All through the service,
Beaumaroy's gaze was set on the pair as they sat or stood in front of
him, wandering from the one to the other in an apparently fascinated
study.
At the cottage he entertained his party in the parlour with a generous
hospitality, and treated the Radbolts with most courteous deference. The
man responded with the best manners that he had--who can do more? The
woman was much less cordial; she was curt, and treated Beaumaroy rather
as the servant than the friend of her dead cousin; there was a clear
suggestion of suspicion in her bearing towards him. After a broad stare
of astonishment on her introduction to "Dr. Arkroyd," she took very
little notice of Mary; only to Mr. Naylor was she clumsily civil and
even rather cringing; it was clear that in him she acknowledged the
gentleman. He sat by her, and she tried to insinuate herself into a
private conversation with him, apart from the others, probing him as to
his knowledge of the dead man and his mode of living. Her questions
hovered persistently round the point of Mr. Saffron's expenditure.
"Mr. Saffron was not a friend of mine," Naylor found it necessary to
explain. "I had few opportunities of observing his way of life, even if
I had felt any wish to do so."
"I suppose Beaumaroy knew all about his affairs," she suggested.
"As to that, I think you must ask Mr. Beaumaroy himself."
"From what the lawyers say, the old man seems to have been getting rid
of his money, somehow or to somebody," she grumbled in a positive
whisper.
To Mr. Naylor's intense relief, Beaumaroy interrupted this conversation.
"Well, how do you like this little place, Mrs. Radbolt?" he asked
cheerfully. "Not a bad little crib, is it? Don't you think so too, Dr.
Arkroyd?" Throughout this gathering Beaumaroy was very punctilious with
his "Dr. Arkroyd." One would have thought that Mary and he were almost
strangers.
"Yes, I like it," said Mary. "The Tower makes it rather unusual and
picturesque." This was not really her sincere opinion; she was playing
up to Beaumaroy, convinced that he had opened some conversational
manoeuvre.
"Don't like it at all," answered Mrs. Radbolt. "We'll get rid of it as
soon as we can, won't we, Radbolt?" She always addressed her husband as
"Radbolt."
"Don't be in a hurry, don't throw it away," Beaumaroy advised. "It's
not everybody's choice, of course, but there are quarters--yes, more
than one quarter--in which you might get a very good offer for this
place." His eye caught Mary's for a moment. "Indeed I wish I was in a
position to make you one myself. I should like to take it as it
stands--lock, stock, and barrel. But I've sunk all I had in another
venture--hope it'll turn out a satisfactory one! So I'm not in a
position to do it. If Mrs. Radbolt wants to sell, what would you think
of it, Dr. Arkroyd--as a speculation?"
Mary shook her head, smiling, glad to be able to smile with plausible
reason. "I'm not as fond of rash speculations as you are, Mr.
Beaumaroy."
"It may be worth more than it looks," he pursued. "Good neighbourhood,
healthy air, fruitful soil--very rich soil hereabouts."
"My dear Beaumaroy, the land about here is abominable," Naylor
expostulated.
"Perhaps generally, but some rich pockets--what one may call pockets,"
corrected Beaumaroy.
"I'm not an agriculturist," remarked weaselly Mr. Radbolt in his oily
tones.
"And then there's a picturesque old yarn told about it. Oh, whether it's
true or not, of course I don't know. It's about a certain Captain
Duggle--not the army--the Mercantile Marine, Mrs. Radbolt. You know the
story, Dr. Arkroyd? And you too, Mr. Naylor? You're the oldest
inhabitant of Inkston present, sir. Suppose you tell it to Mr. and Mrs.
Radbolt? I'm sure it will make them attach a new value to this really
very attractive cottage--with, as Dr. Arkroyd says, the additional
feature of the Tower."
"I know the story only as a friend of mine--Mr. Penrose--who takes great
interest in local records and traditions, told it to me. If our host
desires, I shall be happy to tell it to Mrs. Radbolt." Mr. Naylor
accompanied his words with a courtly little bow to that lady, and
launched upon the legend of Captain Duggle.
Mr. Radbolt was a religious man. At the end of the story he observed
gravely, "The belief in diabolical personalities is not to be lightly
dismissed, Mr. Beaumaroy."
"I'm entirely of your opinion, Mr. Radbolt." This time Mary felt that
her smile was not so plausible.
"There seems to have been nothing in the grave," mused Mrs. Radbolt.
"Apparently not when Captain Duggle left it--if he was ever in it--at
all events not when he left the house, in whatever way and by whatever
agency."
"As to the latter point, I myself incline to Penrose's theory," said
Mr. Naylor. "_Delirium tremens_, you know!"
Beaumaroy puffed at his cigar. "Still, I've often thought that, though
it was empty then, it would have made--supposing it really exists--an
excellent hiding-place for anybody who wanted such a thing. Say for a
miser, or a man who had his reasons for concealing what he was worth! I
once suggested the idea to Mr. Saffron, and he was a good deal amused.
He patted me on the shoulder and laughed heartily. He wasn't often so
much amused as that."
A new look came into Mrs. Radbolt's green eyes. Up to now, distrust of
Beaumaroy had predominated. His frank bearing, his obvious candour and
simplicity, had weakened her suspicions. But his words suggested
something else; he might be a fool, not a knave; Mr. Saffron had been
amused, had laughed beyond his wont. That might have seemed the best way
of putting Beaumaroy off the scent. The green eyes were now alert,
eager, immensely acquisitive.
"The grave's in the Tower, if it's anywhere. Would you like to see the
Tower, Mrs. Radbolt?"
"Yes, I should," she answered tartly. "Being part of our property as it
is."
Mary exchanged a glance with Mr. Naylor, as they followed the others
into the Tower. "What an abominable woman!" her glance said. Naylor
smiled a despairing acquiescence.
The strangers--chief mourners, heirs-at-law, owners now of the place
wherein they stood--looked round the bare brick walls of the little
rotunda. Naylor examined it with interest too--the old story was a
quaint one. Mary stood at the back of the group, smiling triumphantly.
How had he disposed of--everything? She had not been wrong in her
unlimited confidence in his ingenuity. She did not falter in her faith
in his word pledged to her.
"Safe from burglars, that grave of the Captain's, if you kept it
properly concealed!" Beaumaroy pursued in a sort of humorous meditation.
"And in these days some people like to have their money in their own
hands. Confiscatory legislation possible, isn't it, Mr. Naylor? You know
about those things better than I do. And then the taxes--shocking, Mr.
Radbolt! By Jove, I knew a chap the other day who came in for what
sounded like a pretty little inheritance. But by the time he'd paid all
the duties and so on, most of the gilt was off the gingerbread! It's
there--in front of the hearth--that the story says the grave is. Doesn't
it, Mr. Naylor?" A sudden thought seemed to strike him. "I say, Mrs.
Radbolt, would you like us to have a look whether we can find any
indications of it?" His eyes travelled beyond the lady whom he
addressed, they met Mary's. She knew their message; he was taking her
into his confidence about his experiment with the chief mourners.
The stout angular woman had leapt to her conclusion. Much less money
than had been expected--no signs of money having been spent--and here,
not the cunning knave whom she had expected, but a garrulous open fool,
giving away what was--perhaps--a golden secret! Mammon--the greed of
acquisitiveness, the voracious appetite for getting more--gleamed in her
green eyes.
"There? Do you say it's--it's supposed to be there?" she asked eagerly,
with a shake in her voice.
Her husband interposed in a suave and sanctimonious voice: "My dear, if
Mr. Beaumaroy and the other gentleman won't mind my saying so, I've been
feeling that these are rather light and frivolous topics for the day,
and the occasion which brings us here. The whole thing is probably an
unfounded story, although there is a sound moral to it. Later on--just
as a matter of curiosity--if you like, my dear. But to-day--Cousin
Aloysius's day of burial--is it quite seemly?"
The big woman looked at her smaller mate for just a moment--a
scrutinizing look. Then she said with most unexpected meekness, "I was
wrong. You always have the proper feelings, Radbolt."
"The fault was mine, entirely mine," Beaumaroy hastily interposed. "I
dragged in the old yarn, I led Mr. Naylor into telling it, I told you
about what I said to Mr. Saffron and how he took it. All my fault! I
acknowledge the justice of your rebuke. I apologize, Mr. Radbolt! And I
think that we've exhausted the interest of the Tower." He looked at his
watch; "Er--how do you stand for time? Shall Mrs. Wiles make us a cup of
tea, or have you a train to catch?"
"That's the woman in charge of the house, isn't it?" asked Mrs. Radbolt.
"Comes in for the day. She doesn't sleep here." He smiled pleasantly on
Mrs. Radbolt. "To tell you the truth, I don't think that she would
consent to sleep here by herself. Silly! But--the old story, you know!
"Don't you sleep here?" the woman persisted, though her husband was
looking at her rather uneasily.
"Up to now I have," said Beaumaroy. "But there's nothing to keep me here
now, and Mr. Naylor has kindly offered to put me up as long as I stay at
Inkston."
"Going to leave the place with nobody in it?"
Beaumaroy's manner indicated surprise. "Oh, yes! There's nothing to
tempt thieves, is there? Just lock the door and put the key in my
pocket!"
The woman looked very surly, but flummoxed. Her husband, with his suave
oiliness, came to her rescue. "My wife is always nervous, perhaps
foolishly nervous, about fire, Mr. Beaumaroy. Well, with an old house
like this, there is always the risk."
"Upon my soul, I hadn't thought of it! And I've packed up all my things,
and your car's come and fetched them, Mr. Naylor. Still, of course I
could----"
"Oh, we've no right, no claim, to trouble you, Mr. Beaumaroy. Only my
wife is----"
"Fire's an obsession with me, I'm afraid," said the stout woman, with a
rumbling giggle. The sound of her mirth was intolerably disagreeable to
Mary.
"I really think, my dear, that you'll feel easier if I stay myself,
won't you? You can send me what I want to-morrow, and rejoin me when we
arrange--because we shall have to settle what's to be done with the
place."
"As you please, Mr. Radbolt." Beaumaroy's tone was, for the first time,
a little curt. It hinted some slight offence--as though he felt himself
charged with carelessness, and considered Mrs. Radbolt's obsession mere
fussiness. "No doubt, if you stay, Mrs. Wiles will agree to stay too,
and do her best to make you comfortable."
"I shall feel easier that way, Radbolt," Mrs. Radbolt admitted, with
another rumble of apologetic mirth.
Beaumaroy motioned his guests back to the parlour. His manner retained
its shade of distance and offence. "Then it really only remains for me
to wish you good-bye--and all happiness in your new property. Any
information in my possession as to Mr. Saffron's affairs I shall, of
course, be happy to give you. Is the car coming for you, Mr. Naylor?"
"I thought it would be pleasant to walk back; and I hope Doctor Mary
will come with us and have some tea. I'll send you home afterwards,
Doctor Mary."
Farewells were exchanged, but now without even a show of cordiality.
Naylor and Doctor Mary felt too much distaste for the chief mourners to
attain more than a cold civility. Beaumaroy did not relax into his
earlier friendliness. His apparent dislike to her husband's plan of
staying at the cottage roused Mrs. Radbolt's suspicions again; was he a
rogue after all, but a very plausible, a very deep one? Only Mr.
Radbolt's unctuousness--surely it would have smoothed the stormiest
waves?--saved the social situation.
"Intelligent people, I thought," Beaumaroy observed, as the three
friends pursued their way across the heath towards Old Place. "Didn't
you, Mr. Naylor?"
Old Naylor grunted. With a twinkle in his eyes, Beaumaroy tried Doctor
Mary. "What was your impression of them?"
"Oh!" moaned Mary, with a deep and expressive note. "But how did you
know they'd be like that?"
"Letters--and the old man's description; he had a considerable command
of language, and very violent likes and dislikes. I made a picture of
them--and it's turned out pretty accurate."
"And those were the nearest kith and kin your poor old man had?" Naylor
shook his head sadly. "The woman obviously cared not a straw about
anything but handling his money--and couldn't even hide it! A gross and
horrible female, Beaumaroy!"
"Were you really hurt about their insisting on staying?" asked Mary.
"Oh, come, you're sharper than that, Doctor Mary! Still, I think I did
it pretty well. I set the old girl thinking again, didn't I?" He broke
into laughter, and Mary joined in heartily. Old Naylor glanced from one
to the other with an air of curiosity.
"You two people look to me--somehow--as if you'd got a secret between
you."
"Perhaps we have! Mr. Naylor's a man of honour, Doctor Mary; a man who
appreciates a situation, a man you can trust." Beaumaroy seemed very gay
and happy now, disembarrassed of a load, and buoyant alike in walk and
in spirit. "What do you say to letting Mr. Naylor--just him--nobody
else--into our secret?"
Mary put her arm through old Mr. Naylor's. "I don't mind, if you don't.
But nobody else!"
"Then you shall tell him--the entire story--at your leisure. Meanwhile
I'll begin at the wrong end. I told you I'd made a picture of the hated
cousins, of the heirs-at-law, these sorrowing chief mourners. Well,
having made a picture of them that's proved true, I'll make a prophecy
about them, and I'll bet you it proves just as true."
"Go on," said Mary. "Listen, Mr. Naylor," she added, with a squeeze of
the old man's arm.
"You're like a couple of naughty children!" he said, with an
affectionate look and laugh.
"Well, my prophecy is that they'll swear the poor dear old man's estate
at under five thousand."
"Well, why shouldn't----?" old Naylor began; but he stopped as he saw
Mary's eyes meet Beaumaroy's in a rapture of quick and delighted
understanding.
"And then perhaps you'll own to being sorry, Doctor Mary!"
"So that's what you were up to, was it?" said Mary.