A TALE OF TWO KNAVERIES.
IN FOUR CHAPTERS.—CHAP. III.
In the course of the next three months, Mr Blackford’s relations with his crazy client Willoughby entered upon a somewhat uncomfortable phase. He had continued his heartless game with the poor wretch, entertaining him with purely imaginative accounts of the superhuman exertions which were being made on his behalf, and bleeding him with a rapacity which grew with each successive extortion. He had in this way obtained nearly a hundred pounds, when something happened which he might have foreseen had he not been blinded by his greed, and which caused him to entertain very unpleasant misgivings. Had Willoughby been a sane man, pursuing a sane object, these repeated demands for money, unaccompanied by any tangible performance, would have aroused suspicions which would have manifested themselves in the usual manner. But being as he was, his disease coloured everything which happened to him; and the perfectly natural suspicions which arose in his mind made themselves heard only by the mocking voices of his airy persecutors. So one morning he informed Mr Blackford that the persons who followed him wherever he went had adopted fresh tactics.
‘They have managed to find out what I come here for,’ said he, ‘and they are trying to frighten me out of doing so in a very curious way. In fact,’ he continued with an uneasy laugh, ‘they have taken to slandering you as well.’
‘And what are they good enough to say about me?’ inquired the solicitor, in much surprise.
‘Of course I pay no attention to it. I have every confidence in you; I am sure you are doing the best you can for me—as you are, are you not?’ added the unfortunate client, with a look of pitiful appeal, which would have softened the heart of any but a necessitous and perfectly unprincipled man. As it was, Mr Blackford experienced an unpleasant spasm in the place where his conscience used to be, before it had dwindled away like an unused muscle.
‘Of course I am,’ he replied. ‘I hope you don’t doubt it?’
‘Oh, certainly not; on the contrary,’ returned Willoughby, with a courteous bow. ‘But last night they mentioned your name in a most unpleasant way. “He went to the wrong man when he went to Blackford.” That was what one of them said. And another answered: “Yes, Blackford is altogether on our side. He’ll spend all his money on Blackford, and get no good whatever.” And they said—they said—— I can’t remember everything; but it was all to the same effect. Of course that kind of thing makes a man uneasy—naturally. Isn’t it disgraceful that the law can do nothing to protect one from such persecution?’
Mr Blackford thought it best to laugh the matter off. ‘Well,’ said he jocularly, ‘if we can but catch sight of them, I’ll soon disabuse them of any such idea.—Don’t you pay any attention to their nonsense. Of course they would like to put you off the scent. The rascals! I’d give a good deal to get fairly at them. It won’t be long, now, before I do so. We are well on their track; and once we have them before the magistrate, we’ll pay them out for all the trouble they’ve given us.’
Willoughby rose to go. ‘I hope, as you say, that it will not be long now,’ said he, with a doubtful and dissatisfied air. ‘You see, it is wearing me out, and I have spent a good deal of money over it, besides. One of them threatened to kill me last night. If anything of that kind is to be attempted, they won’t find me an easy victim, Mr Blackford! I shall try to be beforehand with them, at anyrate. I’m not a man to be played with too long.’
And there was a look in the madman’s eyes as he spoke, and a kind of quiver through his brawny muscles, which seemed to say that the moment was fast approaching when playing with him would be a very risky amusement indeed.
‘By George!’ said the solicitor to himself, wiping his forehead, when he was once more alone, ‘this is getting rather too warm. The fellow gave me quite a turn. If he takes that notion into his head, things may become awkward.’ And Mr Blackford decided that the time had arrived for communicating with Willoughby’s friends in Cape Town. He would have tried to induce the police to move in the matter at once; but this remedy, as he knew, was difficult and uncertain, and should it fail, would but add to the danger. He wrote off then and there, representing in feeling language the condition of his unfortunate client, which he stated he had only just discovered, and urging that some one should come to England immediately, with a view to putting the lunatic’s person and property under proper control. Of course he said nothing about the money he had extorted for his phantom services. Fortunately, it was against his principles to give receipts unless they were demanded, which in this case they had not been, and all the payments had been made in cash; so he left it to be inferred that his exertions had been gratuitously rendered entirely from a sense of duty, and delicately hinted at their continuance on a different footing. Practice ‘In Lunacy’ is very lucrative; and Mr Blackford was not the man to neglect such chances as came in his way.
After this, owing to certain instructions which Mr Blackford gave to his staff, Willoughby found it surprisingly difficult to obtain a satisfactory interview with his solicitor. If he made an appointment by letter, Mr Blackford had always been unavoidably called out, and the time of his return was certain only in that it would be very late. If the client called unexpectedly, he always found the lawyer putting on his hat and gloves in a violent hurry, to attend some important appointment; and the interview was restricted to a short conversation as they walked through the streets, with ready assistance at hand on all sides. Willoughby’s manner under this treatment grew more and more unsatisfactory. Jobson, the clerk, who knew nothing of the business in hand, never suspected the visitor’s peculiar condition, and cheerfully assured him, according to orders, that all was going on well. But this did not satisfy him; and on the few occasions of his seeing the lawyer in person, he made that gentleman extremely uncomfortable by the growing gloom and wildness of his looks, and by persistent references to the hints of treachery which his mysterious foes continued to throw out.
Suddenly, he discontinued his visits. A fortnight went by, during which he made no sign; and then something happened which drove him entirely out of Mr Blackford’s mind. This was the receipt of a letter written by Lucy Wedlake, at the request of her uncle, who wished to see his solicitor at once on important business. It was added that Mr Franklin had been seriously ill, but was now much better, and it was hoped that with care he would soon recover.
Mr Blackford found his client in his bedroom, propped up with pillows in a chair by the fireside. It was evident at the first glance that he had received a heavy blow. His face was anxious and watchful, like that of one who expects from hour to hour the advent of a dreaded enemy, and fears to be taken unprepared. It was with little trace of his ordinary rough irritability, and with a tremulous and feeble voice, that he bade the solicitor sit down, for there was a deal to talk about. He had had ‘an attack,’ he said; the doctors told him it was the heart, and he must be very careful. They had to say something for their money, of course; still, it might be true. We must all go some time; and his time might be short. He had committed an injustice, which must be put right at once. His niece had done her duty by him, and he had broken his promise to her. It was his wish to make a fresh will at once, leaving her the whole of his property, according to his original intention.
‘I’ve planned it all in my mind,’ said he. ‘It is to be for her alone, mind you; her husband shall never touch a penny that I can keep from him. He’s an impudent upstart. He spoke to me as no man ever ventured to speak before; and I doubt he’s brought me to my grave, through being upset the way I was. Take that pen and paper, Blackford, and set it down just as I tell you. The money is to be invested, and the income to be paid to my niece Lucy Wedlake as long as she lives; after her death, the capital is to be divided equally among the children. If she has no children, it’s all to go to the Vintners’ Company. That cuts out Thomas Wedlake, doesn’t it? That’s all right.—Now about yourself. I suppose you consider that you’re an injured man, don’t you—hey?’
To this question, put with some approach to Uncle Franklin’s usual manner and tone, Mr Blackford found it difficult, in the then state of his emotions, to make any reply whatever. He managed to stammer out, with a ghastly attempt at a smile, that he was aware that he had no right to expect——
‘No more you had,’ interrupted Mr Franklin; ‘that’s very true; so there’s little harm done. Though I don’t say but what I’ll do something for you too. That has happened to me which makes a man think of things he usen’t to mind. Maybe I’ve no right to disappoint you altogether, after what I led you to expect. I might have employed another lawyer to make this will; but I thought you were entitled to have what business was to be got out of the thing. And you shan’t say I was unhandsome. Put yourself down for a thousand pounds.’
Mr Blackford expressed his gratitude as well as he could, which was not very well; but it was a great deal more than he felt under the circumstances.
‘You have named no trustees,’ said he, recovering himself a little; ‘it will be necessary to do so. I myself should be very happy’——
‘No,’ said the old man; ‘I don’t care for lawyers as trustees; they never seem to run straight. Let me see—put down William Brown, of the Stock Exchange, and James Harberton, of Leadenhall Street, merchant. Give them each a hundred pounds for their services. They won’t refuse to act when they find their names in the will; if they were to be asked beforehand, they’d say no; so don’t you tell either of them till I’m gone. And talking of that—don’t let my niece or any one else hear a word about this. I shall keep the will myself this time, and you will be the only person to know where it is to be found. Otherwise, they’ll all be scrabbling after it as soon as the breath is out of me—perhaps before; and it may be a whim, but I don’t like the notion. Lucy’s a good sort; but then she is only a woman, and curious, like the rest of ’em. I shall tell her to send for you when the right time comes; and then you can lay your hand upon the will and do what’s needful—which will bring a little more grist to your mill, to console you. Get the thing ready by to-morrow at this time, and bring it here with two witnesses, as before. Bring the old will as well; I wish to destroy it myself.’
‘That is hardly necessary,’ said the solicitor, catching at he knew not what straw of hope; ‘it will be effectually revoked by the later document.’
‘Don’t you argue with me; do as I tell you. I say I shall destroy it with my own hands; then there can’t be any question about it.—Don’t fail to come to-morrow; I want to get it over. I don’t think there’s much time to waste. If you were to take me anywhere near a churchyard and lay me down, I doubt I shouldn’t be in a hurry to get up again.’
Mr Blackford attempted a politely deprecatory murmur, but was testily interrupted. ‘Oh, I daresay you won’t be sorry to get your money. I’m tired talking. Mind you do just as I have told you.—Good-day.’
It was not until he found himself sitting in his own room, staring blankly at the opposite wall, that the solicitor realised the full weight of his misfortune. He had no feeling of anger; the blow, though he had all along had a lurking presentiment of it, was too cruel and staggering, now that it had fallen, to arouse any such emotion. He was bitterly disappointed. A thousand pounds! But a few months ago, a thousand pounds would have seemed a fortune, and the windfall would have set him planning innumerable ways of turning it to the best advantage. But what was it now to him, who had been deprived of the expectation of a sum which would have rendered all planning unnecessary, only to be resorted to as a recreation, for the remainder of his life? Nothing, and worse than nothing—a mere tantalising taste of the good fortune which ought in justice—so it really appeared to him—to have been his. And must he now give up all his hopes? Must he remain for ever a mere plodding man of business of doubtful reputation—even with a thousand pounds of capital? Were the delights of unlimited leisure, of freedom from thought for the morrow, of unstinted gratification of animal appetites, of worldly consideration, never to be his, after all? He was fast approaching middle life; the time remaining to him for the enjoyment of all these things was growing shorter and shorter. To the purer pleasures of honest labour, to the noble ambition of building up a modest fortune by dauntless perseverance and undeviating rectitude, in the hope that some day, with folded hands, he might fearlessly await the end in the quiet of an old age free from reproach—to all this he was utterly a stranger; nor would the prospect, had it been suggested, have at all allured him. His life had been one of poverty tempered by knaveries too petty to attract punishment; his dream of success had been one of sudden and unearned wealth, coming without effort, to be applied only to selfish gratification. To such men, crime, as crime, presents nothing repulsive; they abstain from it only so long as it offers no advantage commensurate with the risk. Given advantage and opportunity, crime follows with the certainty of a mathematical demonstration. He would not give way without a struggle. He could not. Something must be done. But what?
He opened his safe, and took out the will which was to have made him rich, and by that time to-morrow would be a mere piece of waste paper. He read it through, dwelling on every word with the bitterness of one who takes leave of hope for ever. When he came to the end, he gave a slight start of surprise—the date was blank. It had been left blank, he remembered, when the document was signed. He had intended to fill it in on his return to the office, but he had forgotten to do so. It should have been the 28th of November. What did it matter now! He threw the will on his desk with a despairing gesture, and walked up and down, trying to think. His brain was in a whirl; he could see no loophole of escape from the impending sacrifice. Then he remembered—and it came to him as an additional stab—that he had his bread to earn; whatever else he might do, he must at present carry out his client’s instructions. He must with his own hands prepare the instrument which was to rob him—so he put it to himself—of his just expectations.
As he turned to the table, his eye again fell upon the blank space at the end of the will where the date should have been inserted; and at that moment, the crime which was to come to his aid stepped up softly behind him and whispered its first hint into his ear.
It was a revelation. Mr Blackford, as he sat and thought out the details, though by no means a religious man, almost considered it to be providential. No shrinking from the cruel wrong he was about to commit, no sentiment of justice or compassion interfered with his determination to avail himself of it to its fullest extent. He set to work at once. His first step was to walk across to the law-stationer and inform him that the writer who had witnessed a will on a former occasion would be required for a like service to-morrow. The testator, he explained, was the same; he was making a fresh will; he was an eccentric old gentleman, who insisted that the very persons who had attested the old will should also attest the new one; and he took the precaution of seeing the writer himself and making sure of his attendance. As he went back to the office, he warned Jobson that he, too, would be required for the same purpose.
He got down his books and set to work. He drew the new will with the greatest care and accuracy, according to the instructions which he had just received. Everything was vested in the trustees named, in trust to pay the income to the testator’s dear niece Lucy, the wife of Thomas Wedlake, for her life, for her separate use, free from the debts, control, or engagements of her present or any future husband. After her death, the fund was to be divided amongst her children as she should direct; in default of children, the whole to be paid to the Vintners’ Company of London. Nothing was neglected; all the usual and proper powers and provisos were inserted with careful attention to detail.
The previous will he had fair-copied with his own hand, instead of handing it to his clerk or law-stationer. He did the same in this case, though the document was longer and the transcription involved considerable labour. His next proceeding, in the eyes of another lawyer, would have seemed very curious, for lawyers are extremely particular about the preservation, for future reference, of the draft of any deed or other document which they prepare; but the draft of this will Mr Blackford tore to fragments, which he afterwards burned in the grate. He was taking unusual pains, in fact, to carry out the testator’s wishes, that no one beside himself and his solicitor should be aware of the contents of the will.
It was now past his usual lunch-time; and he strolled into the outer office, and sent his boy to get him a dry biscuit and a glass of brandy-and-water. Until this arrived, he stood chatting to Jobson on indifferent subjects; and then intimating to him that he was going to be extremely busy with private affairs, and must not be disturbed on any account whatever, he retired with his spare meal. He locked the door of his room behind him; he was about to enter on an important part of his operation. He took up the old will—that which was to be destroyed on the morrow—and examined it carefully as he ate and drank. It was copied on a piece of the paper known as ‘demy;’ it occupied the whole of the first page and four lines of the second. Then followed the long and cumbrous attestation clause, with Mr Franklin’s straggling and irregular signature against it. Taking a paper of the same size, shape, and quality, the solicitor made an exact and laboured copy, or rather fac-simile. It had the same number of lines, and each line contained the same words as in the original. One or two unimportant erasures and carelessly formed letters were faithfully repeated. The signature, ‘Wm. Franklin,’ was transferred by means of tracing and carbonised paper, and then gone over and touched up with the pen, until a most successful imitation was produced. Two small blots, or rather splutters, had been made by the testator in writing his name. Their positions were accurately ascertained by measurement, their outlines transferred with the tracing-paper and then filled in with ink; a final touch of which Mr Blackford was reasonably proud, as indicating real genius. The result was a duplicate, which only a very careful scrutiny could have distinguished from the original of the will which was in his own favour. This ended his labours for the present.
Next day, Mr Blackford presented himself and his two witnesses before his client with the new will for signature. The old man, who was in much the same condition, read it through for himself and expressed his approval. The usual formalities were gone through, and the witnesses dismissed.
‘Now,’ said Mr Franklin, ‘have you brought the other will?’
‘I have, as you requested me to do so,’ said the solicitor, producing it; ‘though, as I said at the time, it was not necessary.’
‘Never mind,’ said his client, taking it from his hand; ‘it’s just as well out of the way. How do I know what tricks a lawyer might be up to?’
To this speech, in Mr Franklin’s best style, the solicitor made no reply; he was conscious of being ‘up to tricks’ of a rather elaborate nature. His client read the revoked will through with the same care as he had bestowed on that which superseded it. When he came to the signature, something about it seemed to arrest his attention; he turned it to the light and inspected it closely. Mr Blackford’s heart thumped uncomfortably against his ribs.
‘Curious!’ said Mr Franklin slowly; ‘I never knew myself to miss dotting an i before.’
He continued to pore over the signature, making grumbling comments, in an undertone, for some seconds, during which Mr Blackford felt an almost irresistible desire to snatch the document from him and knock his venerable head against the wall. At last, to the solicitor’s intense relief, he tore it across and across and threw it upon the fire, where it was quickly destroyed.
‘That’s done with,’ said Mr Franklin. ‘The next thing is to put this one away where no one but you and I will know where to find it. I prefer to keep it here, because then I shall know it’s all safe. As to the last, it didn’t so much matter; you were the person most interested in its safety, so it was very well that you should have the custody of it. It’s different now.—D’ye see that half-dozen of books on the shelf in the recess? At this end, you’ll find a big old illustrated Prayer-book. Put the will in there, and remember the page.’
Mr Blackford took down the book, which opened of itself—ominously enough—at the service for the Burial of the Dead. He did not mention this circumstance, but put the folded paper in its place and closed and replaced the volume.
‘That’s well,’ said Mr Franklin in a weary voice. ‘I’m weaker than I thought; all this has tired me out.—Good-bye, Blackford; shake hands. You’ll do your part at the proper time; I shall tell ’em to send for you. Don’t forget—the old Prayer-book at this end of the shelf.’
‘I won’t forget,’ replied the lawyer; ‘but I hope it may be many a long day yet before I am called on to remember.—Good-bye, sir.’
Uncle Franklin did not reply; he was lying back on his pillows with closed eyes; and so Mr Blackford left him.
The first steps of his scheme had been well planned, well carried out, and had met with entire success. He had been obliged, it is true, to forge a duplicate of the former will; but the forgery had just been put out of evidence by the testator himself. There was nothing to bear witness against him on that score. There were now two wills in existence, both bearing the testator’s genuine signature, both attested by the same witnesses, and both dated—or shortly to be dated—on the same day; the only difference between them being the trifling one, that the will which was between the leaves of the old Prayer-book was in favour of Lucy Wedlake, while that which remained in Mr Blackford’s possession constituted him the sole legatee. The witnesses, having merely signed their names to two documents of very similar appearance on two different occasions, would be quite unable to say which they had last attested, for they knew nothing of the contents of either.
So far, so good. What was to be the next step? That, as Mr Blackford perceived, was a matter requiring very careful consideration.