‘My marriage to Mr Cheviot, sir,’ said Elinor, in a low tone, ‘took place when he lay upon his death-bed. Our – our betrothal was a secret known only to – known only to my Lord Carlyon!’
He looked much struck. ‘Known to Carlyon! You amaze me, ma’am! I had not supposed – He cannot have known of this marriage!’
She replied with more firmness: ‘You are mistaken: I owe my marriage solely to Lord Carlyon’s exertions to bring it about.’
‘Impossible!’ he exclaimed. ‘Why, it cuts up all his hopes! That is, if the poor boy made his Will before he died, but I dare say he had no time.’
‘On the contrary, my lord, Mr Cheviot drew up his Will in my favour.’
‘You do not mean it! This is most astonishing news! A strange man, Carlyon! There is no understanding him at all! Ah, my dear, had my poor sister-in-law left things otherwise, who shall say that I should be standing here to-day, upon this melancholy occasion!’
She was constrained to say: ‘I believe my Lord Carlyon cannot be blamed for your – for my husband’s untimely death, sir.’
‘Ah, I dare say not, but I shall always say that he used the poor lad with unmerited harshness! But how did it come about? I saw Eustace in town not five days since, and he was in good health! But I collect he met with some accident?’
‘Yes. That is – Pardon me, but it is painful to me to be obliged to discuss – I am sure my Lord Carlyon will inform you better than I can how it was!’
‘Ah, no wonder!’ he sighed, taking her hand, and squeezing it feelingly. ‘This is painful for you indeed! A secret betrothal! It is easy to see why it must have been so! Yet poor Eustace might have told me! I have always stood his friend. And you say Carlyon assisted at your marriage? Well! I am all admiration, do not pretend to understand how it can have been so! But, my dear, tell me! Who is there to support and advise you in all the business to be undertaken now? I speak to you without reserve: I fear poor Eustace’s affairs will be found to be in a sad tangle. It is well that I was able to snatch a day to journey down to visit you! You will let me relieve you of the burden – the sad duty – of settling the effects! It is proper that I should help you, ma’am, for you must know that I was greatly attached to Eustace. In spite of his youthful follies, be it understood! I do not deny that he has not always conducted himself as he should, but we shall not speak ill of the dead.’
‘You are very good, sir,’ she managed to say. ‘But I believe – that is, I know – that my Lord Carlyon is an executor of the Will, and has taken all into his hands. I have nothing to do.’
He looked to be a good deal affronted by this, and reddened, exclaiming: ‘Without a word to me! I hope I am not one to rate my claims too high, but as poor Eustace’s nearest relative I might have expected to be consulted before Carlyon took it upon himself – But so it has been always! He is a man of so little sensibility that I dare say he may not even think that there are relics I must wish to possess! The Wincanton interest is all he cares for, but my poor brother was Eustace’s father, little though any of the Wincantons or the Carlyons may have regarded him! I do not care to think of Carlyon’s turning over papers that can be of no interest to anyone but my brother’s own kin! My letters to him! – I believe all were preserved! I should wish them to be destroyed, or handed back to me.’
She could only suggest to him that he should approach Carlyon in the matter. His little red mouth pouted disconsolately; he said that he wondered he had not been sent for; and seemed to be labouring under such a sense of wounded dignity that she found herself apologizing to him for an oversight which was none of hers. Upon learning from her that Carlyon had removed all Eustace Cheviot’s papers from Highnoons, he said something about encroaching ways which she judged it better to ignore. Miss Beccles suggested solicitously that he must need some refreshment after his drive; and while a tray of wine and cakes was sent for he was induced to sit down by the fire. He seemed to be very much put out by the discovery that his support and advice were not needed by the widow, and she soon perceived that he was a man with a very high notion of his own consequence. She said all that was conciliatory, and had the satisfaction of seeing him grow more mellow towards her. He offered to remain at Highnoons until after the funeral, and she was hard put to it to know how to decline without giving offence. He was evidently much affected by his nephew’s death, and sat sighing gustily, and shaking his head over it until she began to wonder whether he would ever take himself off. But in the end he did so, saying he should drive to the Hall, and demand the whole truth from Carlyon. He told Elinor that although he was much occupied with state affairs he should certainly attend the funeral, and, once more taking her hand between both of his, said that he should claim the privilege of an uncle in desiring her to allow him to put up at Highnoons for a night.
Civility compelled her to assure him that he would be welcome; he thanked her; and at last climbed up again into his chaise, and was driven away.
‘Prosy old fool!’ said Nicky. ‘Did you brush through it pretty well, cousin? What did he say? I thought he was staying here for ever, and wondered whether I could not set Bouncer on to drive him away! But then I thought very likely you would not like it if I did, so I kept the old fellow with me. But I dare say he would like to take a bite out of fat old Bedlington, wouldn’t you, Bouncer?’
Bouncer jumped up at him ecstatically, apparently under the impression that this treat was indeed in store for him.
Eleven
There was nothing amongst Eustace Cheviot’s papers to occupy the two executor’s minds for long, and it was soon agreed between them that the first step towards winding up his estate must to be ascertain the exact number of his obligations. This task the lawyer took in hand, sighing, and pulling down the corners of his mouth, and saying that he feared the half of them were not yet known. He perused Cheviot’s Will in a disapproving way, but although he audibly tut-tutted, and shook his head sadly, he allowed that it was sufficiently well drawn up to serve. ‘But, my lord,’ he added severely, ‘I must not be understood to say that this document is drawn up in quite such terms as I should have used, had I been called upon to serve my late client in this matter. However, it appears to be valid, and I shall apply for probate directly.’
He then tied such papers as he proposed taking away with him with a piece of tape; excused himself from remaining at the Hall that night, as he was civilly invited to do, on the score of having already hired a room at the inn at Wisborough Green; assured Carlyon that he would not fail to be present at the inquest on the following morning; and bowed himself out.
He had hardly been gone ten minutes when the door into Carlyon’s study was again opened, and his brother John walked into the room, rubbing his hands together, and exclaiming against the inclemency of the weather.
‘My dear John!’ Carlyon said. ‘I did not expect to see you until tomorrow!’
‘No, well, I thought I might arrive too late if I put off the journey, and so applied to Sidmouth for leave to absent myself immediately. I found him in a good humour, and so here I am,’ John replied, walking over to the fire, and bending over it to warm his hands.
‘I am extremely glad to see you. Did you come post?’
‘No, I drove myself, and damned cold it was! How has all gone since I saw you? Where is Nicky?’
‘Nicky is at Highnoons, with a hole in his shoulder,’ replied Carlyon, going over to the table on which the butler had set out a decanter and some glasses. ‘Sherry, John?’
‘Nicky is what?’ demanded John, straightening himself with a jerk.
‘It’s not serious,’ Carlyon said, pouring sherry into two of the glasses.
‘Good God, Ned, cannot Nicky keep out of trouble for as much as two days?’
‘Apparently not, but he cannot be blamed for this adventure. Sit down, and I’ll tell you the whole: I fancy it should interest you.’
John cast h
imself into a deep chair by the fire, saying caustically: ‘You need not tell me you do not blame him! Well, what mischief is he in now?’
But when he had heard Carlyon’s matter-of-fact account of the happenings at Highnoons he abandoned his sceptical attitude, and stared at his brother with his brows knit. ‘Good God!’ he said slowly. ‘But –’ He stopped, and appeared to sink into deep abstraction. ‘Good God!’ he said again, and rose, and went to pour himself out another glass of sherry. He stood holding this in his hand for a minute or two before returning to his chair by the fire. ‘Eustace Cheviot?’ he said, on a note of incredulity. ‘Who would be fool enough to employ a drunken sot on such work? I cannot credit it!’
‘No, it does seem unlikely,’ Carlyon agreed, polishing his quizzing-glass, and holding it up to observe the result. ‘But I must admit that he had always a marked propensity for intrigue. However, I dare say this suspicion had not crossed my mind but for what you were saying to me the other night, about leakages of information. I shall be happy to learn that my reflections upon this subject are far-fetched and nonsensical?’ He looked enquiringly at John as he spoke, but found him still heavily frowning. ‘What, if anything, do you know of Louis De Castres?’
‘Nothing. He is not suspected, to the best of my knowledge. But it would be useless to deny that there have been instances where men as well-born as he – It must be investigated, Ned!’
Carlyon nodded. John began to poke the fire rather vindictively. ‘The devil! I wish – But that’s nothing to the purpose, of course! If there should be any truth in this, Ned, it will raise the deuce of a scandal. I own, I wish we were well out of it. You found nothing amongst Eustace’s papers?’
‘No, nothing.’
‘Nicky did not know who it was who fired at him?’
‘No. But the very fact of his entering the house by the secret stair would seem to preclude his having been any common thief. Moreover, the book-room would scarcely have attracted a common thief, and one must assume that the house was well-known to the man. He appears to have had no hesitation upon entering it, but made his way straight to the book-room.’
John grunted, and went on jabbing at the log in the hearth. ‘What do you mean to do?’
‘Wait upon events.’
John glanced up at him under his brows. ‘You are thinking it may be that memorandum I spoke of, are you not?’ he asked bluntly. ‘If it were so indeed it must be found!’
‘Certainly, but I think it quite as important to discover the man who sold it to De Castres.’
‘By God, yes! But, Ned, I cannot quite agree with you in this! Boney’s people would give much to have a copy of it, but to steal the thing itself advertises to us that Wellington’s plans are known!’
‘The season is already some way advanced. Would it be possible, in your judgment, for Wellington to alter his plans?’
John stared at him. ‘How can I say? No, I must suppose. The transports –’ He broke off, recollecting himself. ‘Hang it, Ned, I will not believe it can be so! Even if it is now too late to alter whatever dispositions his lordship has made, to inform him that these are known must be the work of an idiot! Boney’s agents know their work a little too well for that!’
‘So I should imagine, and have already told myself. Yet I fancy there might be several answers to that argument. If any suspicion of Eustace’s intentions existed in the mind of De Castres, he might have demanded to see the memorandum itself. Consider for a moment what must be the disastrous result to the French if Eustace had given deliberately false information! To concentrate troops without incontrovertible proof that it is precisely in that direction a powerful enemy will strike would be to take a risk I cannot think any general would hazard.’
‘You would think so indeed. You think De Castres had bargained for a sight of the memorandum, either to carry it off with him, or to make his own copy of it?’
‘Something of that kind, perhaps. You yourself said it would very likely be discovered in a wrong file. It may have been intended to have restored it in just such a way.’
‘I spoke in jest! It can never have been in a file, of course. I tell you the thing is most secret!’
‘There might still be ways of restoring it.’
‘Yes, I suppose there might – but not ways known to Eustace Cheviot, Ned! Now, for heaven’s sake, my dear fellow, do but consider! You knew Eustace as well as anyone! This will not do!’
Carlyon got up to replenish his own glass. ‘Very true, but I never imagined Eustace could be more than a go-between. If all these suspicions are correct, someone of far more importance than Eustace must stand behind him. Someone who is afraid to appear in the matter himself, and so employs a tool.’
‘I will not allow it to be possible!’ John said explosively. ‘I never knew such a fellow as you are, Ned, for doing or saying the most outrageous things, and then making them seem the merest commonplace! It is a great deal too bad of you, and I know you rather too well to be drawn in!’
‘Now, what have I ever done or said to deserve this from you?’ asked Carlyon mildly.
‘I could recite to you a score of things!’ John retorted. ‘But one will suffice! If it was not the most outrageous thing imagin-able to force that unfortunate young female into marriage with Eustace, then I know nothing of the matter! And do not explain to me how it comes to be the most reasonable and ordinary thing to have done, because I shall end by believing you, and I know very well it was no such thing!’
Carlyon laughed. ‘Very well, I will not, but I cannot believe your judgment to be so easily overpowered.’
‘If Eustace was indeed selling information to the French,’ said John, ‘then I must set it all at Bedlington’s door! I dare say Eustace has very often visited him at the Horse Guards, and I will take my oath he would know how to make the most of his opportunities! He was never a fool: indeed, he had the sort of cunning there is no keeping pace with. You should know that! I should not be at all surprised if Bedlington had dropped some hint, without in the least meaning to, but enough for Eustace! We cannot tell how it may have been, but to be trying to implicate someone of real consequence – Bathurst, no doubt! – is the outside of enough!’
‘No, I was not thinking of Bathurst,’ said Carlyon calmly.
‘This is something indeed!’ said John, with awful irony. ‘Depend upon it, Ned, this is all a figment of the imagination, and whatever it was that De Castres wanted will be found to have nothing whatsoever to do with any state affair!’
‘I hope you may be right. I am really not anxious to plunge the whole family into such a scandal as you have already foreseen.’
The butler came into the room, and bowed. ‘I beg your lordship’s pardon, but my Lord Bedlington has called, and would wish to have speech with your lordship immediately. I have ushered his lordship into the Crimson Saloon.’
John choked over his sherry, and was taken with a fit of coughing. After an infinitesimal pause, Carlyon said: ‘Inform his lordship that I shall be with him directly, and carry sherry and Madeira into the Crimson Saloon. You had better instruct Mrs Rugby to prepare the Blue Suite, since no doubt his lordship will be spending the night here.’
The butler bowed again, and withdrew. Carlyon glanced down at his brother. ‘Now what have you to say?’ he enquired.
‘Damme, Ned!’ said John, still coughing. ‘It was only his being announced so pat! You must have expected him to come here!’
‘I did,’ replied Carlyon. ‘But not before he had received my letter, notifying him of Eustace’s death.’
‘What?’ John exclaimed. ‘You inserted a notice in the Gazette, of course! He has seen that!’
‘He can hardly have done so, since it does not appear until to-morrow,’ Carlyon retorted.
John heaved himself up out of his chair, staring. ‘Ned! You mean you believe Bedlington – You think that De Castres told Bedli
ngton – It’s not possible!’
‘No, that was not what was in my mind,’ Carlyon replied. ‘I was thinking of one whom I know to be a close friend of De Castres.’
‘Francis Cheviot! That frippery dandy!’
‘Well, the thought cannot but occur to one,’ Carlyon said. ‘He is Bedlington’s son – and here we have Bedlington, twenty-four hours before he should be in Sussex.’
‘Yes, I know, but – a fellow who cares for nothing but the set of his cravat, and the blend of his snuff!’
‘Ah!’ said Carlyon pensively. ‘But I recall that upon at least three occasions in the past I have found Francis Cheviot by no means lacking in intelligence. In fact, my dear John, I would never underrate him as an opponent. I have known him to be – quite amazingly ruthless when he has set out to attain his own ends.’
‘I would not have credited it! Of course, you have been better acquainted with him than I ever was. I cannot stand the fellow!’
‘Nor I,’ said Carlyon. ‘Were you not telling me that he had suffered severe losses over the gaming-table?’
‘Yes, so I believe. He plays devilish high – but one must be just, even to Francis Cheviot, you know, and he did inherit his mother’s fortune! Not but what I should doubt whether it can have been handsome enough to stand – But this is to no purpose, Ned!’
‘Very true. Let us go and welcome our guest!’
They found the butler arranging decanters on a table in the Crimson Saloon, and Lord Bedlington fidgeting in front of the fire. He started forward as Carlyon came into the room, exclaiming: ‘Carlyon, what is this terrible business? I came at once – though I could ill be spared! I was never more shocked in my life! And I must tell you that I wonder at your not having advised me immediately of the event! Oh, how d’ye do, John!’
‘I called at your house in town, but was so unfortunate as to find you away from home,’ said Carlyon, shaking hands. ‘So I wrote you a letter, which I fancy will reach your house to-morrow. Tell me, from what source did you learn of Eustace’s death?’