Dead Men's Money Page 13

  CHAPTER XIII

  SIR GILBERT CARSTAIRS

  It was probably with a notion of justifying my present course ofprocedure to myself that during that ride I went over the reasons whichhad kept my tongue quiet up to that time, and now led me to go to SirGilbert Carstairs. Why I had not told the police nor Mr. Lindsey of whatI had seen, I have already explained--my own natural caution and reservemade me afraid of saying anything that might cast suspicion on aninnocent man; and also I wanted to await developments. I was notconcerned much with that feature of the matter. But I had undergone somequalms because I had not told Maisie Dunlop, for ever since the time atwhich she and I had come to a serious and sober understanding, it hadbeen a settled thing between us that we would never have any secrets fromeach other. Why, then, had I not told her of this? That took a lot ofexplaining afterwards, when things so turned out that it would have beenthe best thing ever I did in my life if I only had confided in her; butthis explanation was, after all, to my credit--I did not tell Maisiebecause I knew that, taking all the circumstances into consideration, shewould fill herself with doubts and fears for me, and would for ever beliving in an atmosphere of dread lest I, like Phillips, should be foundwith a knife-thrust in me. So much for that--it was in Maisie's owninterest. And why, after keeping silence to everybody, did I decide tobreak it to Sir Gilbert Carstairs? There, Andrew Dunlop came in--ofcourse, unawares to himself. For in those lecturings that he was so fondof giving us young folk, there was a moral precept of his kept croppingup which he seemed to set great store by--"If you've anything against aman, or reason to mistrust him," he would say, "don't keep it toyourself, or hint it to other people behind his back, but go straight tohim and tell him to his face, and have it out with him." He was a wiseman, Andrew Dunlop, as all his acquaintance knew, and I felt that I coulddo no better than take a lesson from him in this matter. So I would gostraight to Sir Gilbert Carstairs, and tell him what was in my mind--letthe consequences be what they might.

  It was well after sunset, and the gloaming was over the hills and theriver, when I turned into the grounds of Hathercleugh and looked round meat a place which, though I had lived close to it ever since I was born, Ihad never set foot in before. The house stood on a plateau of ground highabove Tweed, with a deep shawl of wood behind it and a fringe ofplantations on either side; house and pleasure-grounds were enclosed by ahigh ivied wall on all sides--you could see little of either until youwere within the gates. It looked, in that evening light, a romantic andpicturesque old spot and one in which you might well expect to seeghosts, or fairies, or the like. The house itself was something betweenan eighteenth-century mansion and an old Border fortress; its centre partwas very high in the roof, and had turrets, with outer stairs to them, atthe corners; the parapets were embattled, and in the turrets werearrow-slits. But romantic as the place was, there was nothing gloomyabout it, and as I passed to the front, between the grey walls and a sunkbalustered garden that lay at the foot of a terrace, I heard through theopen windows of one brilliantly lighted room the click of billiard ballsand the sound of men's light-hearted laughter, and through another thenotes of a piano.

  There was a grand butler man met me at the hall door, and looked sourlyat me as I leaned my bicycle against one of the pillars and made up tohim. He was sourer still when I asked to see his master, and he shook hishead at me, looking me up and down as if I were some undesirable.

  "You can't see Sir Gilbert at this time of the evening," said he. "Whatdo you want?"

  "Will you tell Sir Gilbert that Mr. Moneylaws, clerk to Mr. Lindsey,solicitor, wishes to see him on important business?" I answered, lookinghim hard in the face. "I think he'll be quick to see me when you give himthat message."

  He stared and growled at me a second or two before he went off with anill grace, leaving me on the steps. But, as I had expected, he was backalmost at once, and beckoning me to enter and follow him. And follow himI did, past more flunkeys who stared at me as if I had come to steal thesilver, and through soft-carpeted passages, to a room into which he ledme with small politeness.

  "You're to sit down and wait," he said gruffly. "Sir Gilbert will attendto you presently."

  He closed the door on me, and I sat down and looked around. I was in asmall room that was filled with books from floor to ceiling--big booksand little, in fine leather bindings, and the gilt of their letteringsand labels shining in the rays of a tall lamp that stood on a big desk inthe centre. It was a fine room that, with everything luxurious in the wayof furnishing and appointments; you could have sunk your feet in thewarmth of the carpets and rugs, and there were things in it for comfortand convenience that I had never heard tell of. I had never been in arich man's house before, and the grandeur of it, and the idea that itgave one of wealth, made me feel that there's a vast gulf fixed betweenthem that have and them that have not. And in the middle of thesephilosophies the door suddenly opened, and in walked Sir GilbertCarstairs, and I stood up and made my politest bow to him. He noddedaffably enough, and he laughed as he nodded.

  "Oh!" said he. "Mr. Moneylaws! I've seen you before--at that inquest theother day, I think. Didn't I?"

  "That is so, Sir Gilbert," I answered. "I was there, with Mr. Lindsey."

  "Why, of course, and you gave evidence," he said. "I remember. Well, andwhat did you want to see me about, Mr. Moneylaws? Will you smoke acigar?" he went on, picking up a box from the table and holding it out tome. "Help yourself."

  "Thank you, Sir Gilbert," I answered, "but I haven't started that yet."

  "Well, then, I will," he laughed, and he picked out a cigar, lighted it,and flinging himself into an easy chair, motioned me to take anotherexactly opposite to him. "Now, then, fire away!" he said. "Nobody'llinterrupt us, and my time's yours. You've some message for me?"

  I took a good look at him before I spoke. He was a big, fine, handsomeman, some five-and-fifty years of age, I should have said, but uncommonlywell preserved--a clean-shaven, powerful-faced man, with quick eyes and avery alert glance; maybe, if there was anything struck me particularlyabout him, it was the rapidity and watchfulness of his glances, thedetermination in his square jaw, and the extraordinary strength andwhiteness of his teeth. He was quick at smiling, and quick, too, in theuse of his hands, which were always moving as he spoke, as if toemphasize whatever he said. And he made a very fine and elegant figure ashe sat there in his grand evening clothes, and I was puzzled to knowwhich struck me most--the fact that he was what he was, the seventhbaronet and head of an old family, or the familiar, easy, good-naturedfashion which he treated me, and talked to me, as if I had been a man ofhis own rank.

  I had determined what to do as I sat waiting him; and now that he hadbidden me to speak, I told him the whole story from start to finish,beginning with Gilverthwaite and ending with Crone, and sparing no detailor explanation of my own conduct. He listened in silence, and with moreintentness and watchfulness than I had ever seen a man show in my life,and now and then he nodded and sometimes smiled; and when I had made anend he put a sharp question.

  "So--beyond Crone--who, I hear, is dead--you've never told a living soulof this?" he asked, eyeing me closely.

  "Not one, Sir Gilbert," I assured him. "Not even--"

  "Not even--who?" he inquired quickly.

  "Not even my own sweetheart," I said. "And it's the first secret ever Ikept from her."

  He smiled at that, and gave me a quick look as if he were trying to get afuller idea of me.

  "Well," he said, "and you did right. Not that I should care two pins, Mr.Moneylaws, if you'd told all this out at the inquest. But suspicion iseasily aroused, and it spreads--aye, like wildfire! And I'm a stranger,as it were, in this country, so far, and there's people might thinkthings that I wouldn't have them think, and--in short, I'm much obligedto you. And I'll tell you frankly, as you've been frank with me, how Icame to be at those cross-roads at that particular time and on thatparticular night. It's a simple explanation, and could be easilycorroborated, if need be. I suffer from a
disturbing form ofinsomnia--sleeplessness--it's a custom of mine to go long walks late atnight. Since I came here, I've been out that way almost every night, asmy servants could assure you. I walk, as a rule, from nine o'clock totwelve--to induce sleep. And on that night I'd been miles and miles outtowards Yetholm, and back; and when you saw me with my map and electrictorch, I was looking for the nearest turn home--I'm not too wellacquainted with the Border yet," he concluded, with a flash of his whiteteeth, "and I have to carry a map with me. And--that's how it was; andthat's all."

  I rose out of my chair at that. He spoke so readily and ingenuously thatI had no more doubt of the truth of what he was saying than I had of myown existence.

  "Then it's all for me, too, Sir Gilbert," said I. "I shan't say a wordmore of the matter to anybody. It's--as if it never existed. I wasthinking all the time there'd be an explanation of it. So I'll be biddingyou good-night."

  "Sit you down again a minute," said he, pointing to the easy-chair. "Noneed for hurry. You're a clerk to Mr. Lindsey, the solicitor?"

  "I am that," I answered.

  "Are you articled to him?" he asked.

  "No," said I. "I'm an ordinary clerk--of seven years' standing."

  "Plenty of experience of office work and routine?" he inquired.

  "Aye!" I replied. "No end of that, Sir Gilbert!"

  "Are you good at figures and accounts?" he asked.

  "I've kept all Mr. Lindsey's--and a good many trust accounts--for thelast five years," I answered, wondering what all this was about.

  "In fact, you're thoroughly well up in all clerical matters?" hesuggested. "Keeping books, writing letters, all that sort of thing?"

  "I can honestly say I'm a past master in everything of that sort,"I affirmed.

  He gave me a quick glance, as if he were sizing me up altogether.

  "Well, I'll tell you what, Mr. Moneylaws," he said. "The fact is, I'mwanting a sort of steward, and it strikes me that you're just the man I'mlooking for!"