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119 pages

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Linford Pratt, senior clerk to Eldrick& Pascoe, solicitors, of Barford, a young man who earnestly desired to get on in life, by hook or by crook, with no objection whatever to crookedness, so long as it could be performed in safety and secrecy, had once during one of his periodical visits to the town Reference Library, lighted on a maxim of that other unscrupulous person, Prince Talleyrand, which had pleased him greatly. With time and patience, said Talleyrand, the mulberry leaf is turned into satin. This seemed to Linford Pratt one of the finest and soundest pieces of wisdom which he had ever known put into words.

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Publié par	Pub One Info
Date de parution	23 octobre 2010
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9782819909866
Langue	English

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CHAPTER I
D EATH BRINGSOPPORTUNITY
Linford Pratt, senior clerk to Eldrick & Pascoe,solicitors, of Barford, a young man who earnestly desired to get onin life, by hook or by crook, with no objection whatever tocrookedness, so long as it could be performed in safety andsecrecy, had once during one of his periodical visits to the townReference Library, lighted on a maxim of that other unscrupulousperson, Prince Talleyrand, which had pleased him greatly. "Withtime and patience," said Talleyrand, "the mulberry leaf is turnedinto satin." This seemed to Linford Pratt one of the finest andsoundest pieces of wisdom which he had ever known put intowords.
A mulberry leaf is a very insignificant thing, but apiece of satin is a highly marketable commodity, with money in it.Henceforth, he regarded himself as a mulberry leaf which his ownwit and skill must transform into satin: at the same time he knewthat there is another thing, in addition to time and patience,which is valuable to young men of his peculiar qualities, a thingalso much beloved by Talleyrand – opportunity. He could find thepatience, and he had the time – but it would give him greathappiness if opportunity came along to help in the work. Ineveryday language, Linford Pratt wanted a chance – he waited thearrival of the tide in his affairs which would lead him on tofortune.
Leave him alone – he said to himself – to be sure totake it at the flood. If Pratt had only known it, as he stood inthe outer office of Eldrick & Pascoe at the end of a certainwinter afternoon, opportunity was slowly climbing the staircaseoutside – not only opportunity, but temptation, both assisted bythe Devil. They came at the right moment, for Pratt was alone; thepartners had gone: the other clerks had gone: the office-boy hadgone: in another minute Pratt would have gone, too: he was onlylooking round before locking up for the night. Then these thingscame – combined in the person of an old man, Antony Bartle, whoopened the door, pushed in a queer, wrinkled face, and asked in aquavering voice if anybody was in. "I'm in, Mr. Bartle," answeredPratt, turning up a gas jet which he had just lowered. "Come in,sir. What can I do for you?"
Antony Bartle came in, wheezing and coughing. He wasa very, very old man, feeble and bent, with little that lookedalive about him but his light, alert eyes. Everybody knew him – hewas one of the institutions of Barford – as well known as the TownHall or the Parish Church. For fifty years he had kept asecond-hand bookshop in Quagg Alley, the narrow passage-way whichconnected Market Street with Beck Street. It was not by any means acommon or ordinary second-hand bookshop: its proprietor styledhimself an "antiquarian bookseller"; and he had a reputation in twoContinents, and dealt with millionaire buyers and virtuosos inboth.
Barford people sometimes marvelled at the news thatMr. Antony Bartle had given two thousand guineas for a Book ofHours, and had sold a Missal for twice that amount to some Americancollector; and they got a hazy notion that the old man must bewell-to-do – despite his snuffiness and shabbiness, and that hisqueer old shop, in the window of which there was rarely anything tobe seen but a few ancient tomes, and two or three rare engravings,contained much that he could turn at an hour's notice into gold.All that was surmise – but Eldrick & Pascoe – which termincluded Linford Pratt – knew all about Antony Bartle, being hissolicitors: his will was safely deposited in their keeping, andPratt had been one of the attesting witnesses.
The old man, having slowly walked into the outeroffice, leaned against a table, panting a little. Pratt hastened toopen an inner door. "Come into Mr. Eldrick's room, Mr. Bartle," hesaid. "There's a nice easy chair there – come and sit down in it.Those stairs are a bit trying, aren't they? I often wish we were onthe ground floor."
He lighted the gas in the senior partner's room, andturning back, took hold of the visitor's arm, and helped him to theeasy chair. Then, having closed the doors, he sat down at Eldrick'sdesk, put his fingers together and waited. Pratt knew fromexperience that old Antony Bartle would not have come there excepton business: he knew also, having been at Eldrick & Pascoe'sfor many years, that the old man would confide in him as readily asin either of his principals. "There's a nasty fog coming onoutside," said Bartle, after a fit of coughing. "It gets on mylungs, and then it makes my heart bad. Mr. Eldrick in?" "Gone,"replied Pratt. "All gone, Mr. Bartle – only me here." "You'll do,"answered the old bookseller. "You're as good as they are." Heleaned forward from the easy chair, and tapped the clerk's arm witha long, claw-like finger. "I say," he continued, with a smile thatwas something between a wink and a leer, and suggestive of apleased satisfaction. "I've had a find!" "Oh!" responded Pratt."One of your rare books, Mr. Bartle? Got something for twopencethat you'll sell for ten guineas? You're one of the lucky ones, youknow, you are!" "Nothing of the sort!" chuckled Bartle. "And I hadto pay for my knowledge, young man, before I got it – we all have.No – but I've found something: not half an hour ago. Came straighthere with it. Matters for lawyers, of course." "Yes?" said Prattinquiringly. "And – what may it be?" He was expecting the visitorto produce something, but the old man again leaned forward, and dughis finger once more into the clerk's sleeve. "I say!" hewhispered. "You remember John Mallathorpe and the affair of – howlong is it since?" "Two years," answered Pratt promptly. "Of courseI do. Couldn't very well forget it, or him."
He let his mind go back for the moment to an affairwhich had provided Barford and the neighbourhood with a nine days'sensation. One winter morning, just two years previously, Mr. JohnMallathorpe, one of the best-known manufacturers and richest men ofthe town, had been killed by the falling of his own mill-chimney.The condition of the chimney had been doubtful for some littletime; experts had been examining it for several days: at the momentof the catastrophe, Mallathorpe himself, some of his principalmanagers, and a couple of professional steeple-jacks, were gatheredat its base, consulting on a report. The great hundred-footstructure above them had collapsed without the slightest warning:Mallathorpe, his principal manager, and his cashier, had beenkilled on the spot: two other bystanders had subsequently died frominjuries received. No such accident had occurred in Barford, nor inthe surrounding manufacturing district, for many years, and therehad been much interest in it, for according to the expert'sconclusions the chimney was in no immediate danger.
Other mill-owners then began to examine theirchimneys, and for many weeks Barford folk had talked of little elsethan the danger of living in the shadows of these great masses ofmasonry.
But there had soon been something else to talk of.It sprang out of the accident – and it was of particular interestto persons who, like Linford Pratt, were of the legal profession.John Mallathorpe, so far as anybody knew or could ascertain, haddied intestate. No solicitor in the town had ever made a will forhim. No solicitor elsewhere had ever made a will for him. No onehad ever heard that he had made a will for himself. There was nowill. Drastic search of his safes, his desks, his drawers revealednothing – not even a memorandum. No friend of his had ever heardhim mention a will. He had always been something of a queer man. Hewas a confirmed bachelor. The only relation he had in the world washis sister-in-law, the widow of his deceased younger brother, andher two children – a son and a daughter. And as soon as he wasdead, and it was plain that he had died intestate, they put intheir claim to his property.
John Mallathorpe had left a handsome property. Hehad been making money all his life. His business was a considerableone – he employed two thousand workpeople. His average annualprofit from his mills was reckoned in thousands – four or fivethousands at least. And some years before his death, he had boughtone of the finest estates in the neighbourhood, Normandale Grange,a beautiful old house, set amidst charming and romantic scenery ina valley, which, though within twelve miles of Barford, might havebeen in the heart of the Highlands. Therefore, it was no smallthing that Mrs. Richard Mallathorpe and her two children laid claimto. Up to the time of John Mallathorpe's death, they had lived invery humble fashion – lived, indeed, on an allowance from theirwell-to-do kinsman – for Richard Mallathorpe had been as much of awaster as his brother had been of a money-getter. And there was nowithstanding their claim when it was finally decided that JohnMallathorpe had died intestate – no withstanding that, at any rate,of the nephew and niece. The nephew had taken all the real estate:he and his sister had shared the personal property. And for somemonths they and their mother had been safely installed atNormandale Grange, and in full possession of the dead man's wealthand business.
All this flashed through Linford Pratt's mind in afew seconds – he knew all the story: he had often thought of theextraordinary good fortune of those young people. To be living oncharity one week – and the next to be legal possessors of thousandsa year! – oh, if only such luck would come his way! "Of course!" herepeated, looking thoughtfully at the old bookseller. "Not the sortof thing one does forget in a hurry, Mr. Bartle. What of it?"
Antony Bartle leaned back in his easy chair andchuckled – something, some idea, seemed to be affording himamusement. "I'm eighty years old," he remarked. "No, I'm more, tobe exact. I shall be eighty-two come February. When you've lived aslong as that, young Mr. Pratt, you'll know that this life is a gameof topsy-turvy – to some folks, at any rate. Just so!" "You didn'tcome here to tell me that, Mr. Bartle," said Pratt.