Trent Intervenes

by E. C. Bentley

  Trent nodded. ‘After what you told me about the impression she made on you, that isn’t surprising.’

  ‘No: Snow and I had been expecting it to happen. But the worst of it was, Landell didn’t take it easily, as some husbands in that position do. He was obviously very unhappy, though he never said anything about it to Snow. She had quite given up pretending to be affectionate, or to consider him in any way, and Snow got the idea that Landell hated his wife like poison, though never daring to stand up to her. Yet he used to have plenty of character, too.’

  ‘I have seen the sort of thing,’ Trent said. ‘Unless a man is a bit of a brute himself, he can’t bear to see the woman making an exhibition of herself. He’ll stand anything rather than have her make a scene.’

  ‘Just so. Well, after a time Snow got no more invitations to go there; and as you may suppose, he didn’t mind that. It had got to be too uncomfortable, and though he was devilish sorry for Landell, he didn’t see that he could do anything for him. For one thing, she wouldn’t ever leave them alone together if she could possibly help it. If they were pottering about with the rock plants, or playing chess, or going for a walk, they always had her company.’

  Trent made a grimace. ‘Jolly for the visitor! And now, what was it you didn’t understand?’

  ‘I’ll tell you. About a month ago a letter for Snow came to the office. I opened it—I was dealing with all his business correspondence. It was from Mrs Landell, saying that her husband was ill and confined to bed; that he wished to settle some business affairs, and would be most grateful if Snow could find time to come down on the following day.

  ‘Well, Snow couldn’t, of course. I got the idea from this letter, naturally, that the matter was more or less urgent. It read as if Landell was right at the end of his tether. So I rang up Mrs Landell, explained the situation, and said I would come myself that afternoon if it suited her. She said she would be delighted if I would; she was very anxious about her husband, whose heart was in a serious state. I mentioned the train I would come by, and she said their car would meet it.

  ‘When I got there, she took me up to Landell’s bedroom at once. He was looking very bad, and seemed to have hardly strength enough to speak. There was a nurse in the room: Mrs Landell sent her out and stayed with us all the time I was there—which I had expected, after what I had heard from Snow. Then Landell began to talk, or whisper, about what he wanted done.

  ‘It was a scheme for the rearrangement of his investments, and a shrewd one, too—he had a wonderful flair for that sort of thing, made a study of it. In fact’—Selby leant forward and tapped his friend’s knee—‘there was absolutely nothing for him to discuss with me. He knew exactly what he wanted done, and he needed no advice; he knew more about such matters than I did, or Snow either. Still, he made quite a show of asking my opinion of this detail and that, and all I could do was to look wise, and hum and haw, and then say that nothing could be better. Then he said that the exertion of writing a business letter was forbidden by his doctor, and would I oblige him by doing it for him? So I took down a letter of instructions to his brokers, which he signed; and his wife had the securities he was going to sell all ready in a long envelope; and that was that. The car took me to the station, and I got back in time for dinner, after an absolutely wasted half-day.’

  Trent had listened to all this with eager attention. ‘It was wasted, you say,’ he observed. ‘Do you mean he could have dictated such a letter to his wife, without troubling you at all?’

  ‘To his wife, or to anybody who could write. And of course he knew that well enough. I tell you, all that business of consulting me was just camouflage. I knew it, and I could feel that he knew I knew it. But what the devil it was intended to hide is beyond me. I don’t think his wife suspected anything queer; Snow always said she was a fool about business matters. She listened intently to everything that was said, and seemed quite satisfied. His instructions were acted upon, and he signed the transfers; I know that, because when I came to making an inventory of the estate, after his death, I found it had all been done. Now then, Phil: what do you make of all that?’

  Trent caressed his chin for a few moments. ‘You’re quite sure that there was something unreal about the business? His wife, you say, saw nothing suspicious.’

  ‘Of course I’m sure. His wife evidently didn’t know that he was cleverer about investments than either Snow or me, and that anyhow it wasn’t our job. If he had wanted advice, he could have had his broker down.’

  Trent stretched his legs before him and carefully considered the end of his cigar. ‘No doubt you are right,’ he said at length. ‘And it does sound as if there was something unpleasant below the surface. For that matter, the surface itself was not particularly agreeable, as you describe it. Mrs Landell, the ministering angel!’ He rose to his feet. ‘I’ll turn the thing over in my mind, Arthur, and let you know if anything strikes me.’

  Trent found the house in Cholsey Wood without much difficulty next morning. The place actually was a tract of woodland of large extent, cleared here and there for a few isolated modern houses and grounds, a row of cottages, an inn called the Magpie and Gate, and a Tudor manor-house standing in a well-tended park. The Grove, the house of which he was in search, lay half a mile beyond the inn on the road that bisected the neighbourhood. A short drive led up to it through the high hedge that bounded the property on this side, and Trent, turning his car into the opening, got out and walked to the house, admiring as he went the flower-bordered lawn on one side, the trim orchard on the other. The two-storied house, too, was a well-kept well-built place, its porch overgrown by wistaria in full flower.

  His ring was answered by a chubby maidservant, to whom he offered his card. He had been told, he said, that Mr Landell allowed visitors who were interested in gardening to see his rock-garden, of which Trent had heard so much. Would the maid take his card to Mr Landell, and ask if it would be convenient—here he paused, as a lady stepped from an open door at the end of the hall. Trent described her to himself as a handsome brassy blonde with a hard blue eye.

  ‘I am Mrs Landell,’ she said, as she took the card from the girl and glanced at it. ‘I heard what you were saying. I see, Mr Trent, you have not heard of my bereavement. My dear husband passed away a fortnight ago.’ Trent began to murmur words of vague condolence and apology. ‘Oh no,’ she went on with a sad smile, ‘you must not think you are disturbing me. You must certainly see the rock-garden now you are here. You have come a long way for the purpose, I dare say, and my husband would not have wished you to go away disappointed.’

  ‘It is a famous garden,’ Trent observed. ‘I heard of it from someone I think you know—Arthur Selby, the lawyer.’

  ‘Yes, he and his partner were my husband’s solicitors,’ the lady said. ‘I will show you where the garden is, if you will come this way.’ She turned and went before him through the house, until they came out through a glass-panelled door into a much larger extent of grounds. ‘I cannot show it off to you myself,’ she went on, ‘I know absolutely nothing about that sort of gardening. My husband was very proud of it, and he was adding to the collection of plants up to the time he was taken ill last month. You see that grove of elms? The house is called after it. If you go along it you will come to a lily-pond, and the rock-garden is to the left of that. I fear I cannot entertain anyone just now, so 1 will leave you to yourself, and the parlour-maid will wait to let you out when you have seen enough.’ She bowed her head in answer to his thanks, and retired into the house.

  Trent passed down the avenue and found the object of his journey, a tall pile of roughly terraced grey rocks covered with a bewildering variety of plants rooted in the shallow soil provided for them. The lady of the house, he reflected, could hardly know less about rock-gardens than himself, and it was just as well that there was to be no dangerous comparing of ignorances. He did not even know what he was looking for. He believed that the garden had something to tell, and that was all. Pacing slowly up an
d down, with searching eye, before the stony rampart with its dress of delicate colours, he set himself to divine its secret.

  Soon he noted a detail which, as he considered it, became more curious. Here and there among the multitude of plants there was one distinguished by a flat slip of white wood stuck in the soil among the stems, or just beside the growth. There were not many: searching about, he could find no more than seven. Written on each slip in a fair, round hand was a botanical name. Such names meant nothing to Trent; he could but wonder vaguely why they were there. Why were these plants thus distinguished? Possibly they were the latest acquisitions. Possibly Landell had so marked them to draw the attention of his old friend and fellow-enthusiast Snow. Landell had been expecting Snow to come and see him, Trent remembered. Snow had been unable to come, and Arthur Selby had come instead. Another point: the business Landell had wanted done was trifling; anyone could have attended to it. Why had it been so important to Landell that Snow should come?

  Had Landell been expecting to have a private talk with Snow about some business matter? No: because on previous occasions, as on this occasion, Mrs Landell had been present throughout the interview; it was evident, according to Selby, that she did not intend to leave her husband alone with his legal adviser at any time, and Landell must have realized that. Was this the main point: that the unfortunate Landell had been planning to communicate something to Snow by some means unknown to his wife?

  Trent liked the look of this idea. It fitted into the picture, at least. More than that: it gave strong confirmation to the quite indefinite notion he had formed on hearing Selby’s story; the notion that had brought him to Cholsey Wood that day. Snow was a keen amateur of rock-gardening. If Snow had come to visit Landell, one thing virtually certain was that Snow would not have gone away without having a look at his friend’s collection of rock-plants, if only to see what additions might have been recently made. And such additions—so Mrs Landell had just been saying—had been made. Mrs Landell knew nothing about rock-gardening; even if she had wasted a glance on this garden, she would have noticed nothing. Snow would have noticed instantly anything out of the way. And what was there out of the way?

  Trent began to whistle faintly.

  The wooden slips had now a very interesting look. With notebook and pencil he began to write down the names traced upon them. Armeria hallerii. And Arcana nieuwillia. And Saponaria galspitosa—good! And these delicate little blossoms, it appeared, rejoiced in the formidable name of Acantholimon glumaceum. Then here was Cartavacua bellmannii. Trent’s mind began to run on the nonsense botany of Edward Lear: Nasticreechia crawluppia and the rest. This next one was Veronica incana. And here was the last of the slips: Ludovica caroli, quite a pretty name for a shapeless mass of grey-green vegetation that surely was commonly called in the vulgar tongue—

  At this point Trent flung his notebook violently to the ground, and followed it with his hat. What a fool he had been! What a triple ass, not to have jumped to the thing at once! He picked up the book and hurriedly scanned the list of names … Yes: it was all there.

  Three minutes later he was in his car on the way back to town.

  In his room at the offices of Messrs. Snow and Selby the junior partner welcomed Trent on the morning after his expedition to Cholsey Wood.

  Selby pushed his cigarette box across the table. ‘Can you tell it to me in half an hour, do you think? I’d have been glad to come to lunch with you and hear it then, but this is a very full day, and I shan’t get outside the office until seven, if then. What have you been doing?’

  ‘Paying a visit to your late client’s rock-garden,’ Trent informed him. ‘It made a deep impression on me. Mrs Landell was very kind about it.’

  Selby stared at him. ‘You always had the devil’s own cheek,’ he observed. ‘How on earth did you manage that? And why?’

  ‘I won’t waste time over the how,’ Trent said. ‘As to the why, it was because it seemed to me, when I thought it over, that that garden might have a serious meaning underlying all its gaiety. And I thought so all the more when I found that Mary, Mary, quite contrary, hadn’t a notion how her garden grew. You see, it was your partner whom Landell had wanted to consult about those investments of his; and it was hardly likely that your rock-gardening partner, once on the spot, would have missed the chance of feasting his eyes on his friend’s collection of curiosities. So I went and feasted mine; and I found what I expected.’

  ‘The deuce you did!’ Selby exclaimed. ‘And what was it?’

  ‘Seven plants—only seven out of all the lot—marked with their botanical names, clearly written on slips of wood, à la Kew Gardens. I won’t trouble you with four of the names—they were put there just to make it look more natural, I suppose; they were genuine names; I’ve looked them up. But you will find the other three interesting—choice Latin, picked phrase, if not exactly Tully’s every word.’

  Trent, as he said this, produced a card and handed it to his friend, who studied the words written upon it with a look of complete incomprehension.

  ‘Arcana nieuwillia,’ he read aloud. ‘I can’t say that thrills me to the core, anyhow. What’s an Arcana? Of course, I know no more about botany than a cow. It looks as if it was named after some Dutchman.’

  ‘Well, try the next,’ Trent advised him.

  ‘Cartavacua bellmannii. No, that too fails to move me. Then what about the rest of the nosegay? Ludovica caroli. No, it’s no good, Phil. What is it all about?’

  Trent pointed to the last name. ‘That one was what gave it away to me. The slip with Ludovica caroli on it was stuck into a clump of saxifrage. I know saxifrage when I see it; and I seemed to remember that the right scientific name for it was practically the same—Saxifraga. And then I suddenly remembered another thing: that Ludovicus is the Latin form of the name Louis, which some people choose to spell L-E-W-I-S.’

  ‘What!’ Selby jumped to his feet. ‘Lewis—and caroli! Lewis Carroll! Oh Lord! The man whose books Snow and Landell both knew by heart. Then it is a cryptogram.’ He referred eagerly to the card. ‘Well, then—Cartavacua bellmannii. Hm! would that be the Bellman in The Hunting of the Snark? And Cartavacua?’

  ‘Translate it,’ Trent suggested.

  Selby frowned. ‘Let’s see. In law, carta used to be a charter. And vacua means empty. The Bellman’s empty charter—’

  ‘Or chart. Don’t you remember?

  ‘He had bought a large map representing the sea,

  Without the least vestige of land:

  And the crew were much pleased when they found it to be

  A map they could all understand.

  ‘And in the poem, one of the pages is devoted to the Bellman’s empty map.’

  ‘Oh! And that tells us—?’

  ‘Why, I believe it tells us to refer to Landell’s own copy of the book, and to that blank page.’

  ‘Yes, but what for?’

  ‘Arcana nieuwillia, I expect.’

  ‘I told you I don’t know what Arcana means. It isn’t law Latin, and I’ve forgotten most of the other kind.’

  ‘This isn’t law Latin, as you say. It’s the real thing, and it means “hidden”, Arthur, “hidden”.’

  ‘Hidden what?’ Selby stared at the card again; then suddenly dropped into his chair and turned a pale face to his friend. ‘My God, Phil! So that’s it!’

  ‘It can’t be anything else, can it?’

  Selby turned to his desk telephone and spoke into the receiver. ‘I am not to be disturbed on any account till I ring.’ He turned again to Trent …

  ‘I asked Mr Trent to drive me down,’ Selby explained, ‘because I wanted his help in a matter concerning your husband’s estate. He has met you before informally, he tells me.’

  Mrs Landell smiled at Trent graciously. ‘Only the other day he called to see the rock-garden. He mentioned that he was a friend of yours.’

  She had received them in the morning-room at the Grove, and Trent, who on the occasion of his earlier visit
had seen nothing but the hallway running from front to back, was confirmed in his impression that strict discipline ruled in that household. The room was orderly and speckless, the few pictures hung mathematically level, the flowers in a bowl on the table were fresh and well displayed.

  ‘And what is the business that brings you and Mr Trent down so unexpectedly?’ Mrs Landell inquired. ‘Is it some new point about the valuation of the property, perhaps?’ She looked from one to the other of them with round blue eyes.

  Selby looked at her with an expression that was new in Trent’s experience of that genial, rather sybaritic man of law. He was now serious, cool and hard.

  ‘No, Mrs Landell; nothing to do with that,’ Selby said. ‘I am sorry to tell you I have reason to believe that your husband made another will not long ago, and that it is in this house. If there is such a will, and if it is in order legally, it will of course supersede the will made shortly after your marriage.’

  Mrs Landell’s first emotion on hearing this statement was to be seen in a look of obviously genuine amazement. Her eyes and mouth opened together, and her hands fell on the arms of her chair. The feeling that succeeded, which she did her best to control, was as plainly one of anger and incredulity.

  ‘I don’t believe a word of it,’ she said sharply. ‘It is quite impossible. My husband certainly did not see his solicitor, or any other lawyer, for a long time before his death. When he did see Mr Snow, I was always present. If he made another will, I must have known about it. The idea is absurd. Why should he have wanted to make another will?’

  Selby shrugged. ‘That I cannot say, Mrs Landell. The question does not arise. But if he had wanted to, he could make a will without a lawyer’s assistance, and if it complied with the requirements of the law it would be a valid will. The position is that, as his legal adviser and executor of the will of which we know, I am bound to satisfy myself that there is no later will, if I have grounds for thinking that there is one. And I have grounds for thinking so.’