Quincunx

  “How very strange. I don’t understand enough about the law to know how that can be. What a pity that our legal acquaintances are no longer to hand.”

  I blushed at these words for I felt embarrassed at withholding from her what I had learned from the two gentlemen.

  “But then what would be the consequences,” she went on, “if the party who tried fairly to buy it, were to succeed in doing so?”

  “My mother has told me that they would destroy it,” I answered, “for in some way that I do not understand, its existence endangers their interests.”

  “Stranger and stranger,” she said. “Then why has your mother refused their offer since it would at once end your financial hardship and put you out of danger?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, rather shame-facedly. I was unable to admit that it was I who had dissuaded her from taking this course of action because of what I had learned about the law of inheritance of real property.

  “Then don’t you think we must persuade her to sell it?”

  How much did she know, I wondered as I gazed into her grey eyes — so clear that it seemed unthinkable that she could be acting on hidden motives. For more reasons than I could calculate, I believed I could not tell her what Mr Pentecost and Mr Silverlight had shewn me to be a possibility. And she was surely right that our only reasonable course of action, now that we were in want and danger, was to sell the codicil to the Mompessons.

  “I suppose so,” I said.

  It was now very late and we retired to rest. Sleep failed to come, however, as I lay wondering whether to trust Miss Quilliam and remembering some of the puzzles in her story. How had she obtained her post with the Mompessons? How was it that she could afford such expensive lodgings as Mrs Malatratt’s on first coming to London? And then there was the business of the trunks: she had told us when we first came to her that they contained nothing of value, but in her account had appeared to contradict this.

  The next morning, which dawned fine and dry though with intimations of later rain, we rose and breakfasted late. Then Miss Quilliam and I raised with my mother the question of selling the codicil.

  I asked her if she thought that the party who had once offered for it would still be interested: “Oh yes,” she replied. “More anxious than before, I imagine.”

  At the suggestion, however, that we should therefore offer to sell it to them, she said in alarm: “No, Johnnie, I can’t do that.”

  “But why not?” I cried.

  “I made a promise to my father. He spent so much time trying to obtain it. And it cost him … it cost him his life.”

  “Whatever do you mean, Mamma?”

  “Don’t ask me about that!” she cried. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “Tell me at least, what did you promise him?”

  “That I would hold it in trust and pass it on to my heir.”

  “Then you mean, it’s really mine?”

  “Yes, but only when you reach twenty-one.”

  “But why was it so important to your father to pass it on to me?”

  She looked at me reproachfully and at last said: “Oh, Johnnie, you are wrong to make me tell you. But since you’re determined to know, it’s because it could be the means of bringing us a great fortune of which our family was cheated long ago.”

  “I guessed it!” I cried. So Mr Pentecost and Mr Silverlight had been right! “Tell me how!” I begged.

  She shook her head: “I won’t. And anyway, I don’t understand it. It’s too complicated. There’s a letter that explains it all.”

  I knew that, for I well remembered the letter I had seen in the casket all those years ago which had first brought to my attention the name “Huffam”.

  Seeing that I was wavering, Miss Quilliam said: “Johnnie and I believe you should sell it.”

  Reluctantly I stood by my earlier undertaking, and so, supported by Miss Quilliam, I argued that my grandfather had had the best interests of his daughter and her heirs at heart in requiring that promise, and that in the present circumstances those interests were best served by parting with rather than retaining the codicil. Moreover, if she were holding it in trust for me then it was in a sense mine to dispose of as I chose.

  She began to weaken and I followed up my attack: “Possession of it endangers us. We may be attacked again.”

  This frightened her and now at last she agreed to sell it. Miss Quilliam and I exchanged a surreptitious look of triumph.

  “Mamma,” I said, “will you now tell Miss Quilliam who the people are who wish to purchase it?”

  “They are known to you, Helen,” she said. “They are Sir Perceval and Lady Mompesson.”

  “I wondered if that were the case,” she said, to my surprise, and my suspicions came flooding back. Then she laid my fears somewhat to rest by explaining: “For I know that they are cousins of yours, and you have never told me what errand took you to Mompesson-park that day I met Johnnie.”

  The problem now arose of how we should communicate with the Mompessons. My mother was terrified at the thought of either of us venturing onto the streets again because she was convinced that the whole district was being watched by agents of our enemy. This made difficulty enough, but she also feared that it would be unsafe for us to approach the Mompessons’ house in case an observer had been posted outside to watch out for us. Although this seemed to me an irrational and excessive fear, I saw that there was no reasoning with her.

  “Why can you not simply send a letter?” Miss Quilliam asked.

  “Oh no!” she exclaimed. “That would not serve. It might be intercepted. I am sure he has an agent in the Mompessons’ household. So any communication from myself must be taken by someone whom I can trust absolutely.”

  There was a short silence which was ended by Miss Quilliam saying reflectively: “I suppose I could take a message.”

  My mother clasped her hand and said: “Oh Helen, would you? But it would have to be placed directly in the hands of Sir Perceval or Lady Mompesson.”

  Miss Quilliam nodded.

  My suspicions of her smouldered into life again.

  “But Mamma,” I cried, “it’s too much to ask Miss Quilliam to do that. You forget how she was humiliated and persecuted by them.”

  They looked at me in surprise and I blushed to think how close I had come to revealing that I had overheard her story.

  “Hush, Johnnie,” Miss Quilliam said. “It will be hard to appear before them, but I will do it since I see it is the only way.”

  While my mother expressed her thanks, Miss Quilliam and I looked at each other and the thought tormented me: what were her motives?

  In order to secure her admission to the house, my mother, with advice from Miss Quilliam and myself, wrote the following letter to the baronet:

  “The 16th. of July 18--.

  “Sir Perceval Mompesson:

  “I am now prepared to sell the Codicil for the figure previously discussed between us. The Bearer of this will tell you where I am to be found. I urge you not to delay, for the other interested Party is close upon my Track.

  “M. C.”

  I was intrigued to notice the initials with which my mother had signed the note. What was our real name?

  Miss Quilliam looked out of window and seeing that the sky was clouding over, picked up the single ancient umbrella that our little household possessed and, in a hail of thanks and good wishes, left the room. It was now the middle of the morning and since we could not expect her to return for several hours, an anxious, restless period began.

  “Mamma,” I asked, “will the Mompessons really destroy the codicil?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know if I should tell you,” she answered, twisting her hands in her anxiety. “But then, what harm can it do now? Well, I will tell you. As far as I understand it — and, as you know, I have no head for legal matters — it casts doubt on the legality of their ownership of the estate at Hougham.”

&nb
sp; “And does it,” I asked in excitement, “give you and me any right to the estate instead?”

  The question caused her obvious pain: “Not in itself, but under certain circumstances it could. But they are so remote! Oh Johnnie, don’t force me to tell you any more. I am betraying the trust my father laid upon me for your sake by selling it. Don’t remind me of my guilt.”

  “But I have encouraged you to sell it,” I said. “I am not reproaching you. I am only curious. May I not at least be permitted to read it before it is lost for ever?”

  She wrung her hands in anguish. “Oh I don’t know what to do.”

  Though I felt that I was being cruel, something beyond mere curiosity made me go on: “I think you should allow me to make a copy of it, Mamma.”

  “Very well,” she said at last and drew out the package of soft-leather from which she removed the much-folded piece of parchment.

  She handed it to me and when I tried to read it I saw that it was engrossed in a style of legal hand which I had never seen before and which, with the strange terminology, made it very difficult to understand.

  Although it was much too soon for any result, my mother now took up her station at the window to watch for the return of Miss Quilliam and, perhaps, a representative of the Mompessons. Meanwhile I sat at the table and began to copy the codicil. Although the date it bore was so remote, it was in such good condition — apart from the fold-marks — that it might have been written that morning. Copying it was a laborious business since at first I could not interpret the letters but simply transcribed them slavishly without understanding. Gradually, however, the hand became familiar to me and I was able to make sense of it — of the words at least if not their meaning:

  “I, Jeoffrey Huffam, do this day annex to this my last Will and Testament these Presents in witness whereto I set my hand and seal. Namely that I hereby create an Entail upon all the lands and hereditaments, tenements, messuages, and holdings: which Entail is vested in my Son, James, and the Heirs of his Body. In default of such Heirs the Entail shall pass to my only Grandson, Silas Clothier, on condition that he be alive at the determination of the aforementioned line. In the event of this Condition not being fulfilled, then the Entail shall pass to my Nephew, George Maliphant, and the Heirs of his Body.

  “Witnessed in the presence of:

  “Name. [Illegible.]

  “Name. [Illegible.]

  “Signed and sealed this Third day of September in the Year of Our Lord 1768 under the hand of Jeoffrey Huffam.”

  “Jeoffrey Huffam was your grandfather, wasn’t he?” I asked.

  “No, my great-grandfather,” she said unwillingly. “So James was your great-grandfather, and John, my father, was your grandfather.”

  “Can you explain why Jeoffrey added this to his will?”

  “He wanted to secure his property to his descendants for he feared that his son would sell it after his death. And so he tried to create an entail upon his heirs.”

  “And you and I are his heirs, aren’t we?” She said nothing. “Aren’t we, Mamma?”

  She nodded.

  “Then what happened to the codicil?”

  “Somehow it was stolen when Jeoffrey died and that was why James was able to sell the estate.”

  Remembering what the two legal gentlemen had taught me I cried: “But that means that James did not break the entail but merely barred it.”

  My mother shuddered: “That is what my papa used to say, though I never understood what it meant.”

  “It means that the Mompessons have only the base fee to the estate which gives them nothing but the right to possession — seizance. That was all that James sold them when they bought the estate. You and I have inherited the fee-simple, though it is of no advantage to us. You see, the Mompessons retain the estate only while there is an entailed heir. If the line fails, then the fee-simple passes to the heir who has the right of remainder and he possesses the estate.” I looked at the codicil and said: “That is someone called Silas Clothier. Who is he?”

  She looked away.

  “It’s he who would inherit if you and I were to die,” I prompted her. “Is he still alive? He must be very old.” Still she said nothing. I remembered that she had once uttered this name in fear, and so I said: “He is our enemy, isn’t he? It was he who sent Mr Barbellion to try to buy the codicil and who tried to abduct me when that failed and then bribed Bissett to betray us, and it was he who had us followed and attacked yesterday, wasn’t it?”

  She would say nothing and, seeing that my questions were frightening her, I gave them up.

  Towards the middle of the afternoon while I was still sitting at the table studying the original and my copy, I was startled by a gasp. I looked up and saw that my mother had gone pale and was staring into the street. When I hurried to the window and looked out, I saw Miss Quilliam coming along the street in the company of a strange gentleman. And yet he was not strange for I seemed to know him: the burly figure, the heavy jowls and staring eyes beneath bushy brows. Just before they approached so near to our house that they passed from my view, I recognised him: it was Mr Barbellion!

  “Betrayed!” my mother exclaimed. “We have been betrayed to our enemy!”

  “Come!” I said, taking her arm and drawing her towards the door. As I passed the table I seized both the original document and my copy of it.

  At the door, however, my mother refused to move any further.

  “It is too late,” she cried. “We cannot escape. We will meet them upon the stair.”

  “No, we’ll go up,” I cried.

  She made no move, so I dragged her through the door and up the stairs to the next landing. As we climbed we heard footsteps on the flight below us, but we just managed to stay out of sight. (Often and often have I reflected on how differently our lives would have turned out if we had been a moment slower!) As we gained the top-most landing we heard a quick knock on our own door and then the sound of Miss Quilliam and Mr Barbellion going in.

  “Quickly!” I whispered, “and quietly!”

  I pulled her down the stairs, past our own door which the new arrivals had closed behind them, and out into the street. We ran to the end of it and up the next one, and then chose another at hazard and kept on running in this fashion until we were exhausted and knew not where we were.

  We had come into a district of the metropolis that was quite strange to us, and, having entered through a wicket-gate, found ourselves in the quiet little yard of a large old church that stood between us and the bustle and clatter of a great thoroughfare. The fine weather of the morning had gone and it was now drizzling desultorily. Gasping for breath, we sat on a low wall.

  My mother put her hands over her face: “I cannot understand it,” she sobbed. “I cannot understand how she could do such a thing to us.”

  Indeed, I could not understand it either, but in the additional sense that I could not comprehend how Miss Quilliam had known where to find our enemy. For if even I had not been able to learn from my mother who these people were, how could she have known? Could it be that there were ramifications far beyond what I had imagined, and that her connexion with the Mompesson family had — in all innocence on her part — somehow led associates of our enemy to her? Or was it simply by chance that she was involved with them? I could not believe, however, that coincidence could stretch so far. The remaining and most horrible possibility was that she had been involved in the conspiracy from the very beginning. And yet I found it difficult to believe that she had betrayed us, though I could imagine no other explanation for her arrival with Mr Barbellion. I was about to raise this with my mother and try to untangle this web of apparent coincidences, accidents, and significant events, but I saw that she was past all reasoning.

  “First Bissett and now Helen!” she cried. “Whom can I trust? To have known us for so long and have shared so many hardships, and then to deliver us into the power of our enemy!”

  “We can’t be sure that she did,” I tried to object.
“There may be some other explanation.”

  She wasn’t listening for suddenly she said: “Where is the codicil?”

  “I have it,” I said. “Shall I keep it?”

  “No,” she cried. “Give it to me!”

  She spoke with fierce, suspicious intensity as if she did not trust even me. I pulled it from my pocket and she snatched it from me with a wild look, folded it up in its package, and stuffed it into her own pocket.

  Now I had to think of our situation. We were without lodging, hungry, and literally without a penny since we had given what little money we had to Miss Quilliam for any expenses incurred on her errand. It now began to rain more heavily and dusk was not far off. We were poorly dressed to withstand the rain, and, seeing my mother’s fevered condition I feared for the consequences if we did not soon find shelter, food and warmth. I remembered what Mrs Sackbutt had said about places where one could find bare refuge for a penny or two, but I could see that my mother needed more than that.

  “Listen,” I said impatiently, for it seemed to me that only one course of action presented itself: “We must go to Mrs Fortisquince.”

  My mother shook her head. Her lips moved and, unable to catch the words, I leaned forward: “Mrs Purviance will help us,” she muttered.

  “No,” I said. “She has no reason to help us. Mrs Fortisquince has.” She was the widow of my grandfather’s oldest friend and, moreover, was herself a cousin of ours. “She must do something for us.”

  Her lips moved again: “I don’t trust her.”

  “We need not trust her,” I said. “But the only alternative is the workhouse.”

  She shuddered: “I would be passed back,” she muttered.

  “Back where?” I asked quickly.

  “To Christchurch,” she said. “It would be too dangerous.”

  Christchurch, I thought. So that was the parish where my mother’s settlement lay. The very parish in which Cox’s-square and Bell-lane were which my mother had seemed to have some knowledge of that time we had gone to Mrs Sackbutt’s house! I would have leisure to reflect on this later.