A TALE OF TWO KNAVERIES.
IN FOUR CHAPTERS.—CONCLUSION.
Uncle Franklin drew towards his end. It soon became evident that that grim churchyard experiment which he had suggested would in his case be entirely unnecessary. As he sank lower and lower, and the cruel, icy grasp clutched his labouring heart more often and more fiercely, Lucy found herself almost a fixture at his side. He could hardly bear her absence, however short; and when the fits of palpitation were upon him, he seemed to hold on to life by her hand alone. He would talk to her when he was able—talk of business, nothing but business and money, always money, until the gold seemed to jingle in her brain as though it were the inside of a till. It was very trying and wearing; but tenderness of heart and compassion for this unloved and desolate old money-worshipper, whose idol had failed him at his need, this spoiler whom a hand more ruthless than his own was spoiling, kept her staunch to her post. She thought little of her expectations, and that only for her husband’s sake; in the presence of this aimless, endless money-babble from the lips of a suffering and dying man, the idea of her possible and probable inheritance had grown almost distasteful to her; and Uncle Franklin had not as yet broached the subject of his will.
There came, however, a day when, with the last words he ever spoke, he for the first time broke his silence in this respect. The doctor had paid his daily visit, and had gone away with that shake of the head and significant look which tells that human skill has done its utmost. The patient was lying in a half-doze, and Lucy was sitting by the bedside, when he suddenly opened his eyes and fixed them full upon her. ‘It’s nearly over, my girl,’ he said. ‘You have done your duty by me, and I thank you. You’ll find I have kept my promise. When the time comes, send to my solicitor, Blackford of Southampton Buildings—he’ll know what to do.’ He closed his eyes after speaking these words, and seemed to sleep again. That night he died, quietly and without a struggle. It was in the third week after the making of the second will.
Those were days of anxious reflection for Mr Blackford. Business was more than commonly ‘slack’ with him, so that he was able to give his undivided attention to his little scheme. Even Willoughby had failed to renew his visits, a circumstance which almost escaped the lawyer’s notice, so preoccupied was he with things of greater moment.
What course should he now adopt? How should he best use his advantage? Nobody save himself knew of the hiding-place, or even of the existence of the later will, unless the testator should have altered his mind. Somehow or other, he must manage to substitute the earlier will for the later. But how? There appeared to be but one way in which to do what must be done; it was a way which demanded courage, self-possession, and unflinching nerve; for a moment’s faltering or bungling would in all probability bring about a shameful and disastrous failure. That way Mr Blackford determined to take; and so waited as patiently as he might for the news of Mr Franklin’s death and the expected summons to the house.
Both came together; the latter in a form which he did not expect, and which discomposed him a good deal—in the form, namely, of an invitation to the funeral. Lucy said in her letter that Mr Franklin had stated that his solicitor would know how to act with reference to his affairs; and that both she and her husband felt that it would be more seemly to defer any such action until the dead man had been laid in his grave. But on reflection, Mr Blackford was less dissatisfied than at first with this arrangement. It was a delicate and difficult operation which he had to perform; possibly it might be carried out with greater ease in the confusion and excitement of a crowd, than under the undistracted scrutiny of only two pairs of eyes. All that he had to do was to slightly amend his plan of action to suit the altered circumstances. He replied to the letter with graceful condolence, asking that, in pursuance of the testator’s wishes as communicated to himself, all the family might be summoned to hear the will read after the funeral.
This was done accordingly; and when the company had returned from the ceremony, Mr Blackford found himself in the presence of a tolerably numerous and not too good-tempered assemblage, in Tom Wedlake’s dining-room. By this general invitation, vanished hopes had been revived, almost forgotten jealousies and suspicions had blossomed anew; and in every face, repressed truculence and ready defiance were thinly varnished over with the expression proper to the occasion. The general hostility brought itself to a focus upon Tom and Lucy, who were treated by all but the latter’s own parents with severely guarded affection.
The solicitor rose from his chair and addressed the expectant relatives with decorous gravity. He had carefully weighed and rehearsed every word which was to be spoken, for he had to pass through an ordeal which would test his coolness and readiness to the utmost. It was necessary in the first place to clear his way—to make sure that there was no unsuspected information in the possession of any present which might upset all his calculations in a moment.
‘It is now my duty,’ said he, ‘to read the will of the late Mr Franklin. But may I first ask, whether any one here happens to be aware of the intentions of the deceased with regard to the disposition of his property?’
There was no reply. All eyes were turned significantly and mistrustfully upon Tom and Lucy; but neither felt inclined to speak the word which should let loose upon them the pent-up storm.
‘Mr and Mrs Wedlake,’ said the solicitor—and a preparatory tremor of indignation ran through the listening group—‘were, as we know, in closer communication of late with their uncle than any other members of his family; perhaps they would be able to tell us something?’
Tom answered by a shake of the head, which might signify either refusal or unwillingness. But there was an air of composure about him and his wife which was in marked contrast with the flushed expectancy generally prevalent, and which was calculated to give rise to exasperating auguries.
Mr Blackford proceeded: ‘I regret this very much, for it renders my task all the more difficult and unpleasant. But that I cannot help. It is by no fault or interposition of my own that things are—as they will presently appear. Neither is it for me to question the testator’s wisdom or his right to do as he pleased with his own. I can only say that I used all my powers of persuasion to divert Mr Franklin from his purpose, but unavailingly; therefore, I could only act as I was instructed.’
Curiosity was excited by these words to the highest pitch; it was evident that they portended some disaster, and an angry buzz began to make itself heard.
‘The first thing to be done,’ continued the solicitor, ‘is to produce Mr Franklin’s will. It is in his bedroom; and, with the permission of Mr and Mrs Wedlake, I will now go and fetch it.’
The words were hardly out of his mouth when, with a brisk and business-like step, he left the room, and was half-way up the stairs before any one had the presence of mind to follow him. As he went, he drew a paper from his breast-pocket and carried it cautiously just within his coat. He was in the room scarcely a quarter of a minute before Tom and Lucy, followed by the whole of the company, came hurrying after him; but those precious seconds served his purpose. They found him looking up at the shelf of books in the recess, rather pale, a little out of breath, but entirely self-possessed. The master of the house was about to comment sharply on his strange behaviour; but the solicitor gave him no time.
‘The will,’ said he, ‘is in one of the largest of these books; but upon my word I don’t exactly remember which. Cruden’s Concordance—yes, I think it must have been Cruden’s Concordance. I think I should prefer, under all the circumstances, that some one else should make the search.—Mr Wedlake, perhaps, would oblige us by trying Cruden’s Concordance?’
Tom took down the big book, held it by its covers, and shook it vigorously, producing no other result than a shower of dust.
‘Dear me!’ said Mr Blackford, ‘it is very strange.—Will you try the next book, Mr Wedlake? It is a Prayer-book, I think.’
The same process was repeated; this time a folded paper fell to the floor. The solicitor picked it up.
‘We are right this time,’ he answered, reading the indorsement. ‘Will of William Franklin, Esquire.—And now, I think, we may go down-stairs again.’
The excited crowd, angrily expectant of they knew not what, rustled and fluttered down the stairs once more, and settled on the dining-room chairs like a flight of crows. Standing at the table, Mr Blackford opened and read the will with dignified deliberation, but with a slight tremor in his voice, and an almost imperceptible catching of the breath which he could not control, and which were perhaps excusable under the circumstances.
It is not easy to describe the scene which followed. Decency was thrown to the winds; poor human nature stood out in startling nudity from under the conventional trappings of woe. There was a perfect storm of ejaculations and threats; the women cried, the men raved; one reverend gentleman of hitherto irreproachable behaviour actually shook his fist in Mr Blackford’s face.
‘It is a fraud, a forgery!’ cried Dr Franklin, a younger brother of the deceased. ‘William would never have made such a will. He might have left his money to some public body, rather than to his own flesh and blood; but to a lawyer—never!’
Meanwhile, Tom Wedlake, who, having consistently expected nothing, was the less disappointed, and therefore able to keep his head, had taken the document in his own hands and carefully inspected the signature. He now raised his voice above the general hubbub.
‘Gentlemen, gentlemen! I think we are rather forgetting what we have been doing to-day. If you have no respect for the dead, perhaps you will be good enough to show a little for my wife’s dining-room.’
These words, sharply spoken, produced a sudden lull, of which Tom took advantage.
‘One thing is certain—this is no forgery. Most of you know Mr William Franklin’s writing better than I do. Look for yourselves. It is a perfectly genuine signature.’
A dozen necks were instantly craned over the paper. There was nothing to be said. Every one had to confess that Tom was right; but the fact only added fuel to the family wrath, as rendering their chances all the more desperate.
Tom continued: ‘My wife’s uncle has lived with us, as you know, for some months past, and my wife has taken care of him and nursed him in his last illness. He was grateful, or seemed so; and he promised to provide for her. He repeated his promise in the last words he ever spoke.’
‘I suppose, sir, that you will consequently consider yourself entitled to contest the will?’ fiercely interrupted the angry clergyman.
‘One moment, if you please. I shall do nothing of the kind; neither will my wife, with my consent. Mr Franklin had a right to do as he chose with his money; and I must say I never put any faith in his promises. This gentleman is welcome to what he has got, if he can arrange with his conscience—which I daresay he can. How and why he has got it, I don’t profess to understand; but I shall certainly not endanger my peace of mind by trying to take it from him.’
Mr Blackford had felt himself a little overborne by the general animosity; but he did not want for spirit, and now spoke up coolly and defiantly. ‘If anybody thinks fit to waste his time and money in trying to upset this will, he is quite welcome. I shall defend my rights.—And my conscience is quite easy, thank you, Mr Wedlake.’ Mr Blackford, having fired his shot, took himself off with his prize.
Tom had to devote the rest of the day to consoling his wife, who was fairly broken down by the revelation of Uncle Franklin’s cruel duplicity.
‘I can’t think he would have done it, Tom,’ she said. ‘I really believe he did get to like me at last; and what object could he have had in behaving in such a wicked way? I am quite certain that that Mr Blackford has cheated us, somehow. Did you notice how his voice shook, and how pale he was? and what made him run up-stairs as he did, without waiting for our leave?’
Tom was silent for a few seconds. ‘There is a great deal about the whole business that is strange and unaccountable,’ said he—‘a great deal that I can’t understand—and I don’t mean to try, Lucy dear. We needn’t break our hearts about Uncle Franklin’s money. We love one another—we are young and strong—let us put all this away from us like a bad dream, and settle down once more in the old happy way.’
Meanwhile, Mr Blackford was walking fast and far through London streets in a perfect delirium of self-gratulation, unshadowed by one thought of remorse or any dread of retribution. All was safely over; everything had fallen out well for him and his wicked scheme. The prize was fairly in his clutches at last, apparently beyond the power of any man to wrest it from him. The will by which he benefited was no clumsy forgery; it bore the testator’s genuine signature; it had been executed in the presence of disinterested witnesses, and, for all those witnesses could say, on the very date which it purported to bear.
No wonder that Mr Blackford exulted in the impregnability of his position, and indulged in castle-building to a considerable extent. He could not bring himself to return at present to his dull and dingy office, gloomy with the recollections of failure and poverty. In a very short time he would leave it for ever; he would continue his career in more cheerful quarters and under very different conditions. A professional man with plenty of money has no need to run after patients or clients; they, on the contrary, will run after him. His fortune should double and treble itself in his careful hands; municipal distinctions should be his; some day, perhaps, a seat in parliament. He would make a good marriage; he would shake hands with lords—most fascinating of dreams to him as a professed Radical—his working hours should be spent in easy and pleasant labour, and his leisure in carefully regulated dissipation. And so he strode through the lighted streets, intoxicating himself with the pleasures of imagination.
Another man, at the same time, was prowling about London streets, not through the broad and blazing main thoroughfares, but by gloomy byways, half lit by the feeble glimmer of thinly scattered lamps, where only an occasional footstep sounded upon the flags—a man who shrank from the presence of his kind, whom he insanely imagined were all leagued in a cruel and inexplicable conspiracy against his reputation and his life—a man accompanied wherever he went by mocking persecutors, who dinned into his ears, themselves unseen, furious denouncings, hideous blasphemies, fiendish jests; daring him to face them, and eluding his every effort to do so; threatening him continually with exposure and punishment for impossible crimes; taunting him with the universal enmity of mankind. And one name formed the ever-recurring burden of this diabolical chant—the name of the man in whom he had trusted, and who had betrayed him to his foes; the name of the man who was in their secrets, and was helping them to bring their victim to ruin; who had taken his money for pretended aid, only to join his persecutors in laughing at his misery.
The unhappy wretch stood still and listened, like a hare to the yelping of the pack. Presently he turned and went away, no longer with the uneven and desperate gait which had caused several passers-by to look curiously after him, but with the rapid and determined step of a man who had a thing to do and was on his way to do it.
Mr Blackford dined sumptuously in a well-known restaurant. Afterwards, he thought, he would go to his office, there in secrecy and safety to put the finishing stroke to his fortunes by destroying, carefully and completely, the second will. He had not cared to do this anywhere else; something might be seen and suspected; a bird of the air might carry the matter. Where so much was at stake, it was not worth while to leave anything to chance. When he had dined, he sat awhile and smoked his cigar with the air and sensations of a millionaire; while his visions of the future grew yet more roseate under the influence of a bottle of old Tokay. At last he took his hat and coat and departed.
The outer door of the house in which his offices were situated was closed; all the other occupants, with the exception of the old housekeeper, had long since gone home. He knocked and rang.
‘Law! Mr Blackford, sir, I couldn’t think who it could be at this time o’ night,’ said the woman, as she peered into his face by the light of her flaring and guttering candle. ‘Are you goin’ to your rooms? I’m afraid the fire’s out, some time. Shall I light it up again, sir?’
‘No, thank you, Mrs Smith,’ returned the solicitor. ‘I shall not be very long; I have a few letters to write, that’s all. Give me two or three matches to light the gas; I shall want nothing else.’
‘There’s been a gentleman here for you, about half an hour ago, sir,’ said Mrs Smith, as she lighted him up the stairs. ‘He seemed disappointed that you were gone; but I told him you wouldn’t be back to-night, and he went away.’
‘I should think he might have known that this was no time to find a man at his office. What sort of gentleman was he?’ inquired Mr Blackford carelessly.
‘Well, sir, I really couldn’t say; the wind blowed out my candle as I opened the door,’ said Mrs Smith. ‘He was a tallish gentleman, I think; but I didn’t notice no more than that.’
‘Ah—well, I daresay I shall know him when I see him. I suppose he will call to-morrow.’ And the solicitor entered his office and closed the door. He opened it again almost directly.
‘Mrs Smith, what has become of the key?’ he called sharply.
‘Mr Jobson took it away with him, sir, to get a new one made. The lock is that stiff, he twisted the handle off the key trying to turn it, and he had a job to get it out again.’
Mr Blackford seemed much annoyed. ‘Very careless of him. The lock has always gone well enough before. However, it can’t be helped.—Mind, you don’t come up here to disturb me, do you hear? My letters are important, and I want to be very quiet while I write them.’
‘I’ll take care, sir,’ answered the housekeeper humbly; and the door closed once more.
The old woman set down her candle and put her head out into the street. A sudden desire had come over her to solace her loneliness with the luxury of a bloater for supper. There was a dried-fish shop just round the corner. She could get there and back in a minute, and she would leave the door on the latch, to save herself the trouble of fetching her key. No harm could come to the house in that time; so she set off at a shuffling run along the pavement.
A tall figure came from the shadow of the opposite houses into the middle of the road. It paused and looked up for a moment at the now lighted windows of the solicitor’s office; then it advanced to the door, cautiously pushed it open, and disappeared within.
The housekeeper returned almost immediately. She did not notice that the door was a little wider ajar than she had left it; had she done so, the same high wind which had already extinguished her candle once that evening would have sufficiently accounted for the fact. Taking her light, she vanished into the subterranean region where she lived, whence presently arose the savoury odour of the toasting bloater.
Mr Blackford, on entering his inner room, sat down at his table. He left the door slightly open behind him, in order that he might hear any footstep on the landing, any attempt to enter the outer office. Taking both the wills from his pocket, he spread them before him. Again a wild feeling of exultation surged through his brain and made his pulses bound; he could not resist the pleasure of reading through the document so unavailingly designed to rob him of his hopes, before he put it for ever beyond the power of mischief. After that, he read the will which was in his favour; then he fell once more into a delicious reverie. There was no reason for hurry; he was quite alone and in safety.
He was so absorbed that he did not hear the outer door open with a caution which might well have escaped greater watchfulness. Neither did he hear the catlike step which crossed the floor of the clerks’ office, nor the tiny creak as his own door was pushed open. After this, the silence was deathlike; it was only accentuated by the slight hiss of the burning gas over his head.
Mrs Smith had long finished her bloater, and sat yawning by the dying fire in the nether regions, wondering how long it would be before ‘her gentleman’ took his departure, so that she might lock up and go to bed. Once already she had heard, as she thought, a footstep on the stairs, and the street door quietly closed; so sure had she been of this, that she had gone up to the first floor to see that all was right. But Mr Blackford’s gas was still burning; and through the outer and inner doors, both of which, a little to her surprise, were open, she could see the figure of the solicitor seated in his chair with his back towards her, bending low and intently over his desk; so she had concluded that her old ears had deceived her, and mindful of Mr Blackford’s warning, had stolen back to the basement. That was nearly two hours ago, and her patience was becoming exhausted.
At last she thought that he must either have fallen asleep over his writing, or that he had left without her hearing him; so she once more went up-stairs.
He was sitting just as she had last seen him; but this time she thought that there was something strange about his unaltered posture. He must certainly be asleep. She walked gingerly into the outer office, and spoke to him—no answer. She spoke louder—still silence. Then she went up to the motionless figure and touched it on the shoulder. The next instant, she jumped back with a ringing shriek, stumbled out on to the landing, and got herself down the stairs and into the street with an agility which would have done credit to a younger and lighter woman; and in fifteen minutes the house was in the occupation of the police.
Mr Blackford had fallen forward on his desk, the papers on which were spattered with his blood. The top and back of his head were smashed in by blows from some heavy blunt instrument. He had been horribly murdered; and before dawn the murderer was in the hands of the police—a raving maniac, flourishing the blood-incrusted life-preserver with which he had done the deed, and boasting of having silenced for ever the most dangerous of all his foes. It was ascertained that his name was Charles Willoughby; and from the papers found at his lodgings, it was easy to communicate with his friends. He is now in a lunatic asylum, hopelessly incurable, and his property is in the hands of trustees.
Both wills were found on the dead man’s table; and before many hours were over, Tom and Lucy Wedlake were informed of the interposition which had taken place in their favour. When the first shock at the terrible nature of that interposition was over, Lucy could not help triumphing a little over her husband at the complete fulfilment of her prophecy, and Uncle Franklin’s exoneration from the suspicion of ingratitude and treachery. Tom was beyond measure astonished, and confessed to his wife’s superior acumen.
They lost no time in putting themselves in competent professional hands; and the will which constituted Lucy sole legatee was established without much difficulty. There was a little trouble at first with the dead man’s relations; but they were fairly respectable people, and when the hopelessness of their case was made apparent to them, they withdrew their opposition to the document which bore the clear impress of the testator’s real intentions.
Tom Wedlake has purchased a partnership in a flourishing commercial house, and is now richer than Uncle Franklin ever was, and a far greater object of respect to his own and his wife’s families. Towards them, however, he by no means enacts the old gentleman’s ill-conditioned part, being open-handed and generous to the last degree; and he is at this moment the head of as happy a household as can be found within the four-mile radius or outside it, a fact which he prizes far beyond all his wealth.