The House on the Cliff

by D. E. Stevenson

  “To-morrow? Yes, of course, Ronnie! I told you to come whenever you liked. Are you getting your holiday sooner than you expected?”

  “It’s business—very important business.”

  “What is it?”

  “I can’t explain on the phone; it’s much too complicated. Uncle Bob is sending me down to Mountain Cross to tell you about it. I shall leave early so you can expect me soon after lunch. Is that all right?”

  “Yes, of course! But Ronnie——”

  “I’m terribly busy getting things fixed up. I’ll tell you everything when I see you. G’bye for now. Elfrida Jane.”

  “But Ronnie, is it something horrid?” asked Elfrida anxiously.

  There was no reply; Ronnie had rung off.

  What can it be? wondered Elfrida as she put down the receiver. The only “business” she could think of was the letter to Glen . . . but that was not too complicated to explain on the phone. Perhaps it was something to do with her grandmother’s estate . . . but she had a feeling that it was something else. Ronnie’s voice had sounded as-if he were excited. Oh, what could it be?

  *

  35

  Ronnie arrived soon after two o’clock on Friday afternoon; he was smiling cheerfully as he walked into the hall—which relieved Elfrida’s anxiety—but Patrick was there, hopping with delight, and Chowne had appeared to carry in the visitor’s suitcase, so nothing could be said about the mysterious business. It was all the more mysterious because Ronnie had come in Mr. Sandford’s big black Jaguar instead of his own little Wisp.

  “Oh, why didn’t you bring the Wisp?” asked Patrick in disappointed tones. “She’s much nicer.”

  “She was tired,” replied Ronnie without hesitation.

  When the usual greetings had been exchanged Ronnie turned to Chowne and said, “I did what you asked me to do. It’s all right, Chowne.”

  Chowne smiled in his usual slightly alarming manner.

  Then Ronnie said he would go and unpack . . . and ran upstairs.

  Patrick retired to the parlour; he was reading his new little books and, as he was half-way through Benjamin Bunny and was a slow but persevering reader, Elfrida knew he would be settled there for some time. She hesitated for a few moments and then followed Ronnie upstairs and knocked on his door.

  “Come in, Elfrida Jane! I hoped you would come; I’m bursting to tell you!”

  “It isn’t anything horrid, is it?” she asked.

  “Were you worrying? I’m sorry,” he replied. “I should have told you——”

  “I wondered and wondered what it could be.”

  “It’s a long story. You had better sit down on the bed and I’ll tell you from the beginning. You remember that when I was going away on Tuesday Chowne ran after me with a parcel? You’ll never guess what it was.”

  “I thought it was something you had forgotten to pack.”

  “Not this time,” said Ronnie. “It was a parcel addressed to ‘Robert Sandford, Esq.’ Chowne made me understand that I was to deliver it to him safely by hand, so I said I would. I was in a hurry so I didn’t wait to find out any more about it.

  “Unfortunately the poor old Wisp didn’t behave very well so it was latish when I got to London. By this time I had examined the parcel; it was heavy and was done up very carefully in brown paper, tied with string and sealed with red wax. It looked important, so instead of waiting to give it to Uncle Bob in the morning I took it straight to his house. To be honest I had become inquisitive about it.”

  “What was it?” asked Elfrida, who also had become inquisitive.

  “Wait a bit,” said Ronnie, smiling at her. “Let me tell you the story in my own way. When I got to Uncle Bob’s house he and Aunt Millie were having dinner and I was invited to sit down and share the meal. I accepted with pleasure: I was hungry and they have scrumptious food. I said nothing about the parcel until Aunt Millie retired in the good old-fashioned manner and I was given a glass of port.”

  “Then you gave him the parcel and he opened it,” suggested Elfrida.

  “Hold on, you’re going too fast! I gave him the parcel but, before opening it, he examined it carefully and pointed out that it was addressed to him in Mr. Ware’s writing and——”

  “Grandfather’s writing!” exclaimed Elfrida in surprise.

  “Yes. I didn’t know his writing so I hadn’t realised that. It was addressed in Mr. Ware’s writing, the seals were intact and the imprints had been made with Mr. Ware’s signet. Uncle Bob told me to make a note of these points.”

  “But Ronnie, why did he——”

  “Because it might have been important to know that nobody had tampered with the parcel.”

  “Oh, I see!”

  “When we had satisfied ourselves that all was well the parcel was opened and was found to contain a sealed letter and a large red album full of stamps.”

  “What!” cried Elfrida.

  “Yes,” said Ronnie, nodding. “It was none other than the famous ‘red book’.”

  “But I thought the parcel was valuable!”

  “Yes,” said Ronnie, nodding again.

  “Cousin Walt said the album was of no value!”

  “That was just his fun.”

  Elfrida was speechless.

  “Uncle Bob doesn’t know much about stamps, neither do I,” said Ronnie, continuing his story. “But we were both impressed by the size of the collection. All the sets were beautifully arranged and nearly all were complete. Do you know this,” said Ronnie confidentially, “I always thought stamp-collecting was a bit silly but Mr. Ware’s album has made me change my mind. It really is quite fascinating.”

  “I’d like to see it.”

  “You must see it before it’s sold. Well, where was I? Oh, yes! Uncle Bob and I had a look at it and then we decided to pack it up and take it along to Mr. Riggs—his house is about ten minutes’ walk from Uncle Bob’s. Mr. Riggs is an ardent philatelist.”

  “Yes,” nodded Elfrida.

  “Do you know Mr. Arnold Riggs?”

  “No, but I know he likes stamps.”

  Ronnie smiled. “He certainly does! Mr. Riggs is a dried-up old stick but he was thrilled to the marrow when he saw the neat little rows of stamps in Mr. Ware’s album. His eyes gleamed and his hair stood on end and he became so red in the face that I was afraid he was going to have a fit.”

  “Do you mean it’s worth a lot of money?” asked Elfrida, somewhat callously.

  “Yes.”

  “Who does it belong to?”

  “You.”

  “Me? Oh, Ronnie, would there be enough money to buy a field?”

  “Several fields . . . and more pigs, if that’s what you want.”

  She gazed at him, wide-eyed. “Ronnie, it can’t be true! I don’t understand . . .”

  “It’s a bit difficult to take it in all of a sudden,” admitted Ronnie.

  “And where was the album?” asked Elfrida in bewilderment. “We looked everywhere for it.”

  “I know,” said Ronnie. “I heard an account of the search from the senior partner.”

  “Where was it, Ronnie?”

  “That’s one of the things I don’t know.”

  “Well, go on and tell me some of the things you do know,” said Elfrida impatiently. “How did Grandfather happen to have a valuable book of stamps and why did he hide it—and how did Chowne find it?”

  “You had better read this letter,” replied Ronnie, producing a typewritten screed from his pocket. “It’s a copy of the letter from Mr. Ware which was enclosed in the parcel. Mr. Ware’s letter is difficult to read because the writing is very shaky—he was ill when he wrote it—so we made some copies of it. You can keep this one if you like.”

  “It’s very long,” said Elfrida looking at it doubtfully.

  “Yes, but it’s very interesting. Take your time about it, Elfrida Jane.”

  Mountain Cross

  My dear Sandford,

  As one nears the end of one’s life it becomes
difficult to know what to do with one’s belongings—at least I find it so. I have no child to come after me, to live in Mountain Cross, to love the dear old house and take care of it as it has been loved and cared for by our family ever since it was built.

  As you know, my wife and I made wills in each other’s favour. This seemed right at the time but now we are both old—I am gravely ill and my dear wife is not in good health—so our parting will not be for long. For this reason we decided that it would be more sensible for me to bequeath Mountain Cross to my nephew, Walter Whitgreave, and I wrote to him telling him of my illness and asking him to fly over from Canada and see me. He replied vaguely, and not very sympathetically, saying he was in the midst of some business transactions but would try to come later. It is obvious from his letter that Walter is completely absorbed in his own affairs and would never settle down and live in this part of the world.

  This being so I shall allow my will to stand; everything will be left to my dear wife to do as she thinks fit. Possibly she will decide to leave Mountain Cross to her brother’s only son, Edward Mountjoy, who is a colonel in the Gunners and has two fine sons of his own. This would ensure the future of Mountain Cross which is what we both desire. If she decides upon this she will make a proviso that the family will adopt the name of Ware . . . but I have no intention of tying her down; she is to have complete freedom of choice in the matter.

  For a long time my wife has been anxious for me to try to get in touch with our daughter, Marjory, who left home and eloped with Frederick Thistlewood when she was nineteen years old. It is unnecessary to tell you this, my dear Sandford, I merely want to put it on record. For years I felt I could never forgive Marjory for, what seemed to me, “her treachery”; but gradually I recovered from my resentment. Perrimont helped me—he is a good man, wise and kind—he showed me that my resentment was “a sickness of the spirit.” He begged me to forgive Marjory and try to find her.

  I took his advice and got in touch with a Private Inquiry Agent in London. The man seemed energetic and competent; he assured me that there would be little difficulty in tracing Marjory (Thistlewood is an uncommon name); but I decided to wait until he had discovered her whereabouts before mentioning the subject to my wife. I realised that Marjory might have died—she was a delicately-nurtured girl, unused to roughing it—and I was anxious that my wife should be spared disappointment. It was as well I said nothing for Marjory cannot be found. She cannot be found either alive or dead; she seems to have vanished off the face of the earth.

  You will wonder why I have reopened old wounds, but you are the only man I can trust with my confession . . . and the only man who can carry out my last wish.

  I am giving this parcel to Ernest Chowne with instructions to keep it safely and to deliver it to you when my wife and I are both dead and the new owner of Mountain Cross—whomsoever he may be—has been in residence for not less than three months. That should be long enough for him—or her—to settle down comfortably in the old house. Chowne will carry out this trust most faithfully, I know; he should be suitably rewarded.

  You are not a philatelist, my dear Sandford, but your partner, Arnold Riggs, will be able to give you some idea of the value of this collection. Expert advice will be necessary. I began to collect “the little bits of coloured paper” when I was a schoolboy and continued to add to the collection whenever possible. My stamps have been a great interest to me all my life and a solace in time of trouble. For the last fifteen years I have been in touch with philatelists all over the world and have bought from them with discretion.

  You have sometimes wondered why my capital was dwindling! This album will give you the solution to the puzzle. Some men make a success in business; others buy and sell shares to augment their capital; a few invest in diamonds. As I am not a businessman, have very little knowledge of the Stock Exchange and even less of precious stones these methods of making money were not for me. I have always been interested in philately and have studied the subject seriously so I have been investing in stamps.

  The album can be sold, indeed it must be sold, and the proceeds given to Mountain Cross. By this I mean that the individual who has settled down to live at Mountain Cross is to have the money to spend on the place, to improve its amenities and make it self-supporting.

  You may think this arrangement rather strange (I am aware that it would be difficult if not impossible to make a will to this effect); but Mountain Cross has belonged to our family for generations and is very dear to my heart so I should like to think you will do your best to carry out my last wish.

  Believe me, my dear Sandford,

  Yours sincerely

  Roger Ware

  Elfrida read the letter twice; then she looked up and said, “Ronnie, how astonishing! That’s what Grandfather was doing with his money! What did Mr. Sandford say about it?”

  “He said Mr. Ware must have been mad.”

  “Mad? Oh, no! He knew exactly what he wanted and he has put it very clearly. He loved Mountain Cross and he hadn’t enough money to keep it in proper order so he increased his capital by investing in stamps. It was the only way he could make money for Mountain Cross. That isn’t mad, is it?”

  “He knew what he wanted but he didn’t go about it in the right way,” explained Ronnie. “The letter isn’t sensible from a lawyer’s point of view. You see, a lawyer is trained to look ahead and safeguard his client’s property. To put it simply a lawyer’s job is first to understand his client’s intentions and then make sure that everything will work out in accordance with his client’s intentions. In this case all sorts of things could have happened which would have made the outcome very different from what Mr. Ware intended.”

  “What sort of things?”

  “Mrs. Ware could have left the place to Whitgreave; he would have sold it straight off to the highest bidder.”

  “Yes, but I don’t think she would have left it to him.”

  “Perhaps not. She might have left it to her nephew, the colonel, but could he have lived here? Colonels aren’t usually well off and by selling the best fields Mr. Ware made it impossible for Mountain Cross to be run as a farm.”

  “It wasn’t very wise to sell the fields,” admitted Elfrida.

  “He did it because he was obsessed with the idea of getting hold of every penny he could lay his hands on to complete his sets of stamps. When a man is obsessed with an idea he can’t see straight. It really is a kind of madness,” said Ronnie thoughtfully. “You see, Mr. Ware wanted Colonel Mountjoy to come and live here and take the name of Ware, and bring up his family at Mountain Cross, but by running down his estate and selling the fields he made it an impossible proposition. Nobody could live here comfortably unless he had substantial private means.”

  “That’s true.”

  “So Colonel Mountjoy would probably have sold it,” continued Ronnie. “He might have sold it to a man who intended to build on the land and make it into a housing estate—there’s a lot of building going on round about Cherleigh—or a syndicate might have bought the house and turned it into a hotel.”

  “Grandfather wouldn’t have liked that!”

  Ronnie shook his head. “No, but it was a thing that might easily have happened . . . and supposing it had happened and the hotel-keeper had come to live at Mountain Cross, what then? After he had been settled here for three months he might have raked in all the money from the sale of Mr. Ware’s album. I don’t say he would have raked in the money, because there are various legal snags; I only say that if Mr. Ware’s ‘last wish’—as stated in his letter—could have been carried out he would have done so.”

  “Yes, I see,” said Elfrida. “Lucius said much the same thing when I told him the fields had been sold; he said nobody could run the place as a farm and make it pay.” She paused and then continued thoughtfully. “I might have sold Mountain Cross. Mr. Sandford wanted me to sell it—and I realised that it was the sensible thing to do—but something prevented me. Something . . . I really don’
t know what.”

  “Some Power with a Great Purpose,” suggested Ronnie.

  Elfrida nodded.

  After a few moments’ silence she said, “You mentioned ‘various legal snags.’ What are they?”

  “There aren’t any,” replied Ronnie, smiling cheerfully, “As it happens Mr. Ware’s ‘Last Wish’ can be carried out quite easily . . . but that’s more by luck than good guidance. If there had been no letter you would have been entitled to the proceeds from the sale of the album just the same. The letter makes no difference one way or the other.”

  “The letter makes a lot of difference to me.”

  “It makes no difference in law. First, because it isn’t a legal document; second, because you inherited Mountain Cross and its contents. The album must have been in the house when you came into possession.”

  “It wasn’t. Emma looked everywhere; she hunted high and low for days on end. There wasn’t a nook or cranny that she didn’t examine . . . she even took up some of the floorboards which seemed to have been loosened! She found all sorts of extraordinary things but she couldn’t find the ‘red book’.”

  “She must have known where it was all the time.”

  “Known where it was!” cried Elfrida. “I tell you she hunted madly all over the house!”

  “Perhaps she was just pretending to——”

  Elfrida laughed. “You don’t know Emma Chowne! She couldn’t keep a secret to save her life.”

  “Oh . . .” said Ronnie doubtfully. “Perhaps Chowne had put it in the bank or something. I wonder if that would make any difference.”

  “What difference could it make?”

  “I’m not sure. You see, the album is valuable and unless it was included specifically in Mr. Ware’s bequest to his wife it might be considered as a separate item.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Elfrida frankly.

  “If a thing is very valuable it ought to be mentioned by name in a person’s will.”

  “Oh, I see! Go on, Ronnie.”

  “Well, it wasn’t specified . . . and, that being so, Whitgreave may think he has a claim to it. I don’t think the claim would be valid, but if he thought there was any chance of getting it he might take the case to court . . . which would be unpleasant to say the least of it.”