Ten Star Clues (3 page)

“Arthur's awfully rich. Money matters to-day. If you've money you've everything. Ralph wouldn't have a farthing, if he wasn't heir, and he has no profession except managing the estates. I wonder if Arthur would give him a job—five or ten pounds a week perhaps. What's the good of that?”

“You both look a bit down,” Arthur said. He helped himself to another cake. “I can remember Bertram,” he said. “I was here when we heard of his death. Cheek for this bloke to turn up now and claim to be him. Clinton Wells has seen him, hasn't he?”

“Yes. He told me there was nothing in it,” Ralph answered.

“Well, he's a lawyer and he ought to know,” Arthur remarked.

“Oh, the fellow's an impostor all right,” declared Ralph. “He's managed to get hold of poor old Bertram's papers— stole them after Bertram died most likely. Now he has his tale pat, but there are all kinds of things he ought to know that he hasn't any idea of. You could see it. When he got here he was gaping all round, like one of the Saturday shillingers. He wasn't remembering familiar things, he was noticing and trying to remember new ones. Bertram wasn't bad at cricket. The first century he made in anything like a good match was for Wych and District against an M.C.C. team. No chap ever forgets his first century in a good match. Couldn't if he tried,” pronounced Ralph, who himself bowled a good fast ball and was a fair, if somewhat impetuous, batsman, generally good for runs if he didn't get out in the first over. “But this fellow hadn't a notion what I was talking about when I tried him with it.”

“Wonder why he has waited so long?” Arthur mused, half to himself. “If he managed to get hold of Bertram's papers after his death, that's all of ten years ago, isn't it?”

“To explain why he has forgotten such a lot,” Ralph suggested.

“Yes, there's that,” agreed Arthur. “Handy excuse. Or he may have been screwing up his courage.”

“Grand-dad ought to send for the police,” Anne interposed sharply. “I can't think why he doesn't. Perhaps he has,” she added hopefully, “and they're just waiting for the police to get here.”

“Well, about that,” Arthur pointed out, helping himself to more cake, “I don't know what he could be charged with. I don't quite know what just saying you are someone you aren't would come under for a police charge.”

“The Roger Tichborne man was sent to prison,” Anne reminded him.

“Wasn't that for perjury committed at the first trial?” Arthur asked. “Do you know, Ralph?”

Ralph didn't answer. He didn't like Arthur's tone very much, and he liked still less the touch of mockery, of malice indeed, he felt beneath the smoothness of Arthur's voice. It has the voice Arthur used, he felt, when Arthur was explaining to someone that he, Arthur, had got the best of the bargain, and there was nothing the someone could do about it. Of course, it all made very little difference to Arthur since his prospect of inheriting had always been negligible. Ralph's expectation of life was perfectly good, he and Anne had every intention of producing a large family. Besides, when a chap was as rich and prosperous and successful as Arthur Hoyle, he had no need to worry about losing so small a chance of inheriting. There were, no doubt, those vague rumours about Arthur having dropped a packet recently on the Stock Exchange, but rumours don't amount to much, and certainly there was no sign of any change in the luxurious style of living at The Thatched Cottage, any more than there was any sign of worry to be seen overshadowing Arthur's accustomed air of plump prosperity. He was well into his fifth cake now, by the way.

Through the french windows that opened on the terrace from the small drawing-room, three men came in succession. First was old Earl Wych, aged, white-haired, erect, looking stern and intent, with so set and grim an expression indeed that Sophy found herself thinking of a soldier advancing to the attack. Not that she had ever seen a soldier advancing to the attack, but that was the thought that came into her mind. Behind the old earl was a much younger man, evidently very nervous, a nervousness that showed itself in restless eyes, an occasional twitching at the corners of the mouth, a perpetual fidgeting with handkerchief and cigarette case, and so on. Sophy remembered, too, later on, how when he stood still she could see his toes working inside his long, narrow, shiny, patent leather shoes. A natural nervousness perhaps in a man claiming to be the long-lost heir and uncertain of his reception. At the moment the thought in Sophy's mind was that if you said ‘Boo' to him very loudly and very suddenly, he would probably run away. Unfortunately, it occurred to no one to try the experiment. Besides, it may be Sophy did not quite understand the kind of timid desperation, of frightened obstinacy, some people can display.

Behind these two came a tall, very good-looking young man, athletic in build, with strong, eager features, a bronzed complexion, a general air of brisk and confident authority. He had not at all the appearance of the traditional family lawyer. But it might come to that in time, for he was still much the youngest partner in the old established firm of Wells, Clinton, Wells and Blacklock that for many years had been in charge of all the legal side of the Hoyle estates, and he would certainly not have been here to-day but for the accident that the senior partner, Mr. Blacklock, was ill, and the second partner, another Blacklock, was away on holiday. So this young man, Clinton Wells, combining in himself the original Clinton and Wells strains, found himself in full charge. Gossip whispered that he was an ambitious young man, showing no signs of settling down as a country solicitor, and even entertaining political aspirations. It was reported he had been heard to say that what a little Welsh lawyer could do, a solicitor from the Midlands could do, too. More ill-natured gossip remarked that he had the pale-blue eyes of the Hoyle family, and hinted that a certain unavowed mixing, outside legal bonds, of Hoyle and Clinton blood a generation or two back, accounted for the favour with which old Earl Wych always seemed to regard the young man. But these were only whispers none dared repeat aloud, whispers without a shred of proved foundation. True, there were always those clear, rather pale-blue eyes characteristic in the Hoyle family, showing, for example, both in Anne and in Ralph, though in Ralph's case the blue often seemed to be a grey, so that Sophy, at least, was never quite sure whether they were really blue or really grey.

There advanced slowly the little group—the tall, commanding looking old man; the nervous young man; the handsome, youthful lawyer, looking as distinguished in his way as did the old earl himself. The group by the tea table were all on their feet now. Arthur had an air of complete bewilderment. Ralph waited, utterly expressionless. Anne gave the impression of holding herself in check, of being ready to spring at any moment, of a coiled-up spring indeed that the smallest touch might release. To Sophy's mind the comparison between this advance of the three men with the advance of soldiers upon a firmly held position, grew still stronger. She became suddenly afraid. In a clear, loud voice, with little in it of the frequent shrillness of old age, Earl Wych said:—

“This is my grandson, Bertram, we all believed dead so long. I am sure you will welcome him. At first I failed to recognize him, but now I am convinced of his identity.”

There followed a bleak silence, broken only by a quick, deep-drawn breath from the claimant, the soi-disant Bertram Hoyle. It was almost as if he experienced a sudden relief, as if until then he had not been quite sure of what the old earl would say. No longer had he the appearance of being ready to run if any one said ‘Boo' to him. Instead, and instantly, he took on an air of swaggering confidence, and, looking at the others, seemed to be asking them what they thought of that.

What Ralph thought, it was not easy to tell. His features were utterly expressionless. The only change was that he no longer lolled against the parapet but straightened himself and stood upright. The earl was looking straight at him; and Sophy, watching, had an odd sensation that silently the old man was pleading with him, asking for sympathy and understanding, almost for help. But Ralph's own gaze was averted, directed towards that wide expanse of countryside, of field and wood and pasture, of hedge and grove and spinney, all lying there in the quiet afternoon sunshine, all of it land over which for centuries the Hoyles had borne sway and rule.

Arthur was still gaping, open-mouthed, open-eyed. The impression he gave was of a complete and indeed incredulous astonishment. One expected every moment to hear him burst out laughing and remark that it had been a good joke and now let's be serious. Anne was leaning forward, her hands on the tea table, her eyes intent upon the claimant. There was questioning and doubt and anger in her gaze, and something else as well that Sophy, at least, did not understand, something of poise and calculation as at secret, unknown thoughts. Yet what Sophy remembered best in after days, when thinking over that strange scene, in the first moments at least so strangely silent, was neither the dark impassivity with which Ralph listened to his great-uncle's declaration, nor the change in the claimant's attitude from nervousness to swaggering assurance, nor the suggestion in Anne's eyes of hidden, secret thoughts, nor Arthur Hoyle's almost ludicrous surprise, nor yet that impression as of a pleading for sympathy, even for help, Earl Wych seemed to her somehow to convey, but rather the sharp intake just behind her of the lawyer's breath, and of how when she turned for a moment to look she saw his strong white even teeth so firmly clamped upon his under lip that spots of blood showed here and there.

No one had spoken. The only person who had even moved was the claimant, who had dropped into a chair, where he lolled with a kind of insolent self-assurance, as if now perfectly at home. Angrily Sophy thought to herself:—

“Yes, but it wouldn't take much to send you running again.”

In a perfectly level, expressionless voice, as if he were merely remarking that it was a fine day, or that he would like another cup of tea, without letting his eyes wander from their contemplation of the fair countryside before him, Ralph said over his shoulder and almost casually:—

“That's a lie.”

There followed another silence. Earl Wych went very red and then very pale. He struck his hand heavily on the back of a chair near. Then he said:—

“That's the first time in my life I've been called a liar.”

Ralph turned and faced him.

“It may be the first time that you have lied,” he said.

Earl Wych still had his hand on the back of a chair. But now it seemed less in anger than for support. Sophy had the idea that he might fall, and instinctively took a step or two towards him. He seemed to understand, and, instead of resenting her action, to be glad of it. He said to Anne:—

“Give your cousin Bertram some tea.”

Sophy found suddenly that the old man was leaning a little heavily on her shoulder. He began to walk back towards the castle, still availing himself of her support, of which indeed he was evidently glad. She had the impression that his sight had become dim, that he no longer saw surrounding objects very clearly. She heard him muttering to himself, but she could not tell what he said, though twice over she heard the word ‘Bertram' pronounced, and once the phrase ‘wretched boy', and then again she heard: ‘No lie, no lie. Bertram's there.'

But what this meant she could not imagine.

They entered the castle through the great open french windows of the small drawing-room—its length, by the way, was about thirty feet, its breadth in proportion— and then on to the library where the earl was accustomed to sit. At its door he paused and looked at Sophy with a slight air of surprise, as if wondering who she was and why she was there and why he was leaning on her shoulder. He said:—

“Thank you, my dear. I shall be all right now.” Then he said:— “Ralph should take it better. Bertram has his rights. Can't the boy trust me?”

He pushed open the library door and went in, leaving Sophy on the threshold as if he had forgotten she was there, as indeed very likely was the case. Evidently he wished to be alone. Sophy hesitated for a moment, not quite knowing what to do. But she was a young woman with a healthy appetite and she had by no means finished her tea, which, indeed, had been a somewhat interrupted meal. She decided to go back to the terrace and see if anything to eat was still there. She found herself wondering if the old earl had been quite fair to Ralph in saying he should have taken it better. To her surprise she discovered that she was feeling a little sorry for Ralph. Odd, to feel sorry for that strong, aloof personality. She was on the terrace now and she was aware of Martin, the butler, hovering at a distance. She had a disagreeable impression that he was watching. By the tea-table no one seemed to have moved or even to have spoken. Except that Anne had poured out for her newly-discovered cousin a cup of tea, which he was sipping with an air of smug triumph that made even Sophy long to box his ears. His earlier nervousness had entirely disappeared and he had an almost bragging air of possession, even though he did still keep a wary eye on the still and silent figure by the parapet. Sipping his tea as he spoke Bertram was saying now:—

“You know, Cousin Anne, I remember you perfectly. I should have known you again anywhere, any time. So would you me perhaps?”

“No,” said Anne, though in a queer, detached, unemotional voice.

“Too bad,” Bertram smiled without a trace of discomposure. “I expect I've changed more than you, though. Now Cousin Arthur—” He paused and looked at Arthur, who still had not lost his manner of extreme and indeed incredulous bewilderment. “No,” Bertram decided. “I should not have known Cousin Arthur again. One forgets a lot in ten years, especially in the sort of rough and tumble life I've had out there, not to mention a whack on the head I had that got me six months in hospital without knowing who I was or how I got there. Of course, they had me remembering again after a time. That was from getting mixed up in a street row, and when the cops came along, well, they just naturally clubbed every one around. They're handy with their night sticks, those lads, and if you get some when they're handing it out, well, it's just too bad, and that's all there's to it.”