The case was much as Hewitt had surmised. The zealous Brasyer, posting to London in hot haste after Mackrie, spent some days in watching him. At last the captain and the steward with their two boxes took a cab and went to Bond Street, with Brasyer in another cab behind them. The two entered a shop the window of which was set out with rare curiosities and much old silver and gold. Brasyer could restrain himself no longer. He grabbed a passing policeman, and rushed with him into the shop. There they found the captain and the steward with two small packing cases opened before them, trying to sell—a couple of very ancient-looking Japanese bronze figures, of that curious old workmanship and varied colour of metal that in genuine examples mean nowadays high money value.
Brasyer vanished: there was too much chaff for him to live through in the British mercantile marine after this adventure. The fact was, the steward had come across the bargain, but had not sufficient spare cash to buy, so he called in the aid of the captain, and they speculated in the bronzes as partners. There was much anxious inspection of the prizes on the way home, and much discussion as to the proper price to ask. Finally, it was said, they got three hundred pounds for the pair.
Now and again Hewitt meets Merrick still. Sometimes Merrick says, “Now, I wonder after all whether or not some of those Nicobar men who were continually dodging suspiciously about that bullion-room did mean having a dash at the gold if there were a chance?” And Hewitt replies, “I wonder.”
The Holford Will Case
T one time, in common, perhaps, with most people, I took a sort of languid, amateur interest in questions of psychology, and was impelled thereby to plunge into the pages of the many curious and rather abstruse books which attempt to deal with phenomena of mind, soul, and sense. Three things of the real nature of which, I am convinced, no man will ever learn more than we know at present—which is nothing.
From these I strayed into the many volumes of “Transactions of the Psychical Research Society,” with an occasional by-excursion into mental telepathy and theosophy; the last, a thing whereof my Philistine intelligence obstinately refused to make head or tail.
It was while these things were occupying part of my attention that I chanced to ask Hewitt whether, in the course of his divers odd and out-of-the-way experiences, he had met with any such weird adventures as were detailed in such profusion in the books of “authenticated” spooks, doppelgangers, poltergeists, clairvoyance, and so forth.
“Well,” Hewitt answered, with reflection, “I haven’t been such a wallower in the uncanny as some of the worthy people who talk at large in those books of yours, and, as a matter of fact, my little adventures, curious as some of them may seem, have been on the whole of the most solid and matter-of-fact description. One or two things have happened that perhaps your “psychical” people might be interested in, but they’ve mostly been found to be capable of a disappointingly simple explanation. One case of some genuine psychological interest, however, I have had; although there’s nothing even in that which isn’t a matter of well-known scientific possibility.” And he proceeded to tell me the story that I have set down here, as well as I can, from recollection.
I think I have already said, in another place, that Hewitt’s professional start as a private investigator dated from his connection with the famous will case of Bartley v. Bartley and others, in which his then principals, Messrs. Crellan, Hunt & Crellan, chiefly through his exertions, established their extremely high reputation as solicitors. It was ten years or so after this case that Mr. Crellan senior—the head of the firm—retired into private life, and by an odd chance Hewitt’s first meeting with him after that event was occasioned by another will difficulty.
“CAN YOU RUN DOWN AT ONCE?”
These were the terms of the telegram that brought Hewitt again into personal relations with his old principal:
“Can you run down at once on a matter of private business? I will be at Guildford to meet eleven thirty-five from Waterloo. If later or prevented please wire. Crellan.”
The day and the state of Hewitt’s engagements suited, and there was full half an hour to catch the train. Taking, therefore, the small travellingbag that always stood ready packed in case of any sudden excursion that presented the possibility of a night from home, he got early to Waterloo, and by half-past twelve was alighting at Guildford Station. Mr. Crellan, a hale, white-haired old gentleman, wearing gold-rimmed spectacles, was waiting with a covered carriage.
“How d’ye do, Mr. Hewitt, how d’ye do?” the old gentleman exclaimed as soon as they met, grasping Hewitt’s hand, and hurrying him toward the carriage. “I’m glad you’ve come, very glad. It isn’t raining, and you might have preferred something more open, but I brought the brougham because I want to talk privately. I’ve been vegetating to such an extent for the last few years down here that any little occurrence out of the ordinary excites me, and I’m sure I couldn’t have kept quiet till we had got indoors. It’s been bad enough, keeping the thing to myself, already.”
The door shut, and the brougham started. Mr. Crellan laid his hand on Hewitt’s knee, “I hope,” he said, “I haven’t dragged you away from any important business?”
“No,” Hewitt replied, “you have chosen a most excellent time. Indeed, I did think of making a small holiday to-day, but your telegram——”
“Yes, yes. Do you know, I was almost ashamed of having sent it after it had gone. Because, after all, the matter is, probably, really a very simple sort of affair that you can’t possibly help me in. A few years ago I should have thought nothing of it, nothing at all. But as I have told you, I’ve got into such a dull, vegetable state of mind since I retired and have nothing to do that a little thing upsets me, and I haven’t mental energy enough to make up my mind to go to dinner sometimes. But you’re an old friend, and I’m sure you’ll forgive my dragging you all down here on a matter that will, perhaps, seem ridiculously simple to you, a man in the thick of active business. If I hadn’t known you so well I wouldn’t have had the impudence to bother you. But never mind all that. I’ll tell you.
“Do you ever remember my speaking of an intimate friend, a Mr. Holford? No. Well, it’s a long time ago, and perhaps I never happened to mention him. He was a most excellent man—old fellow, like me, you know; two or three years older, as a matter of fact. We were chums many years ago; in fact, we lodged in the same house when I was an articled clerk and he was a student at Guy’s. He retired from the medical profession early, having come into a fortune, and came down here to live at the house we’re going to; as a matter of fact, Wedbury Hall.
“When I retired I came down and took up my quarters not far off, and we were a very excellent pair of old chums till last Monday—the day before yesterday—when my poor old friend died. He was pretty well in years—seventy-three—and a man can’t live for ever. But I assure you it has upset me terribly, made a greater fool of me than ever, in fact, just when I ought to have my wits about me.
“The reason I particularly want my wits just now, and the reason I have requisitioned yours, is this: that I can’t find poor old Holford’s will. I drew it up for him years ago, and by it I was appointed his sole executor. I am perfectly convinced that he cannot have destroyed it because he told me everything concerning his affairs. I have always been his only adviser, in fact, and I’m sure he would have consulted me as to any change in his testamentary intentions before he made it. Moreover, there are reasons why I know he could not have wished to die intestate.”
“Which are——?” queried Hewitt as Mr. Crellan paused in his statement.
“Which are these: Holford was a widower, with no children of his own. His wife, who has been dead nearly fifteen years now, was a most excellent woman, a model wife, and would have been a model mother if she had been one at all. As it was she adopted a little girl, a poor little soul who was left an orphan at two years of age. The child’s father, an unsuccessful man of business of the name of Garth, maddened by a sudden and ruinous loss, committed suicide, and hi
s wife died of the shock occasioned by the calamity.
“The child, as I have said, was taken by Mrs. Holford and made a daughter of, and my old friend’s daughter she has been ever since, practically speaking. The poor old fellow couldn’t possibly have been more attached to a daughter of his own, and on her part she couldn’t possibly have been a better daughter than she was. She stuck by him night and day during his last illness, until she became rather ill herself, although of course there was a regular nurse always in attendance.
“Now, in his will, Mr. Holford bequeathed rather more than half of his very large property to this Miss Garth; that is to say, as residuary legatee, her interest in the will came to about that. The rest was distributed in various ways. Holford had largely spent the leisure of his retirement in scientific pursuits. So there were a few legacies to learned societies; all his servants were remembered; he left me a certain number of his books; and there was a very fair sum of money for his nephew, Mr. Cranley Mellis, the only near relation of Mr. Holford’s still living. So that you see what the loss of this will may mean. Miss Garth, who was to have taken the greater part of her adoptive father’s property, will not have one shilling’s worth of claim on the estate, and will be turned out into the world without a cent. One or two very old servants will be very awkwardly placed, too, with nothing to live on, and very little prospect of doing more work.”
“ ‘IT WAS IN THAT BUREAU,’ MR. CRELLAN EXPLAINED.”
“Everything will go to this nephew,” said Hewitt, “of course?”
“Of course. That is unless I attempt to prove a rough copy of the will which I may possibly have by me. But even if I have such a thing and find it, long and costly litigation would be called for, and the result would probably be all against us.”
“You say you feel sure Mr. Holford did not destroy the will himself ?”
“I am quite sure he would never have done so without telling me of it; indeed, I am sure he would have consulted me first. Moreover, it can never have been his intention to leave Miss Garth utterly unprovided for; it would be the same thing as disinheriting his only daughter.”
“Did you see him frequently?”
“There’s scarcely been a day when I haven’t seen him since I have lived down here. During his illness—it lasted a month—I saw him every day.”
“And he said nothing of destroying his will?”
“Nothing at all. On the contrary, soon after his first seizure—indeed, on the first visit at which I found him in bed—he said, after telling me how he felt, ‘Everything’s as I want it, you know, in case I go under.’ That seemed to me to mean his will was still as he desired it to be.”
“Well, yes, it would seem so. But counsel on the other side (supposing there were another side) might quite as plausibly argue that he meant to die intestate, and had destroyed his will so that everything should be as he wanted it, in that sense. But what do you want me to do—find the will?”
“Certainly, if you can. It seemed to me that you, with your clever head, might be able to form a better judgment than I as to what has happened and who is responsible for it. Because if the will has been taken away, someone has taken it.”
“It seems probable. Have you told anyone of your difficulty?”
“Not a soul. I came over as soon as I could after Mr. Holford’s death, and Miss Garth gave me all the keys, because, as executor, the case being a peculiar one, I wished to see that all was in order, and, as you know, the estate is legally vested in the executor from the death of the testator, so that I was responsible for everything; although, of course, if there is no will I’m not executor. But I thought it best to keep the difficulty to myself till I saw you.”
“Quite right. Is this Wedbury Hall?”
The brougham had passed a lodge gate, and approached, by a wide drive, a fine old red brick mansion carrying the heavy stone dressings and copings distinctive of early eighteenth-century domestic architecture.
“Yes,” said Mr. Crellan, “this is the place. We will go straight to the study, I think, and then I can explain details.”
The study told the tale of the late Mr. Holford’s habits and interests. It was half a library, half a scientific laboratory—pathological curiosities in spirits, a retort or two, test tubes on the writing-table, and a fossilised lizard mounted in a case, balanced the many shelves and cases of books disposed about the walls. In a recess between two book-cases stood a heavy old-fashioned mahogany bureau.
“Now it was in that bureau,” Mr. Crellan explained, indicating it with his finger, “that Mr. Holford kept every document that was in the smallest degree important or valuable. I have seen him at it a hundred times, and he always maintained it was as secure as any iron safe. That may not have been altogether the fact, but the bureau is certainly a tremendously heavy and strong one. Feel it.”
Hewitt took down the front and pulled out a drawer that Mr. Crellan unlocked for the purpose.
“Solid Spanish mahogany an inch thick,” was his verdict, “heavy, hard, and seasoned; not the sort of thing you can buy nowadays. Locks, Chubb’s patent, early pattern, but not easily to be picked by anything short of a blast of gunpowder. If there are no marks on this bureau it hasn’t been tampered with.”
“Well,” Mr. Crellan pursued, “as I say, that was where Mr. Holford kept his will. I have often seen it when we have been here together, and this was the drawer, the top on the right, that he kept it in. The will was a mere single sheet of foolscap and was kept, folded of course, in a blue envelope.”
“When did you yourself last actually see the will?”
“I saw it in my friend’s hand two days before he took to his bed. He merely lifted it in his hand to get at something else in the drawer, replaced it, and locked the drawer again.”
“Of course there are other drawers, bureaux, and so on, about the place. You have examined them carefully, I take it?”
“I’ve turned out every possible receptacle for that will in the house, I positively assure you, and there isn’t a trace of it.”
“You’ve thought of secret drawers, I suppose?”
“Yes. There are two in the bureau which I always knew of. Here they are.” Mr. Crellan pressed his thumb against a partition of the pigeon-holes at the back of the bureau and a strip of mahogany flew out from below, revealing two shallow drawers with small ivory catches in lieu of knobs. “Nothing there at all. And this other, as I have said, was the drawer where the will was kept. The other papers kept in the same drawer are here as usual.”
“Did anybody else know where Mr. Holford kept his will?”
“Everybody in the house, I should think. He was a frank, aboveboard sort of man. His adopted daughter knew, and the butler knew, and there was absolutely no reason why all the other servants shouldn’t know; probably they did.”
“First,” said Hewitt, “we will make quite sure there are no more secret drawers about this bureau. Lock the door in case anybody comes.”
Hewitt took out every drawer of the bureau, and examined every part of each before he laid it aside. Then he produced a small pair of silver callipers and an ivory pocket-rule and went over every inch of the heavy framework, measuring, comparing, tapping, adding, and subtracting dimensions. In the end he rose to his feet satisfied. “There is most certainly nothing concealed there,” he said.
The drawers were put back, and Mr. Crellan suggested lunch. At Hewitt’s suggestion it was brought to the study.
“So far,” Hewitt said, “we arrive at this. Either Mr. Holford has destroyed his will, or he has most effectually concealed it, or somebody has stolen it. The first of these possibilities you don’t favour.”
“I don’t believe it is a possibility, for a moment. I have told you why; and I knew Holford so well, you know. For the same reasons I am sure he never concealed it.”
“Very well, then. Somebody has stolen it. The question is, who?”
“That is so.”
“It seems to me that everyone in this h
ouse had a direct and personal interest in preserving that will. The servants have all something left them, you say, and without the will that goes, of course. Miss Garth has the greatest possible interest in the will. The only person I have heard of as yet who would benefit by its loss or destruction would be the nephew, Mr. Mellis. There are no other relatives, you say, who would benefit by intestacy?”
“Not one.”
“Well, what do you think yourself, now? Have you any suspicions?”
Mr. Crellan shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve no more right to suspicions than you have, I suppose,” he said. “Of course, if there are to be suspicions they can only point one way. Mr. Mellis is the only person who can gain by the disappearance of this will.”
“Just so. Now, what do you know of him?”
“I don’t know much of the young man,” Mr. Crellan said slowly. “I must say I never particularly took to him. He is rather a clever fellow, I believe. He was called to the bar some time ago, and afterwards studied medicine, I believe, with the idea of priming himself for a practice in medical jurisprudence. He took a good deal of interest in my old friend’s researches, I am told—at any rate he said he did; he may have been thinking of his uncle’s fortune. But they had a small tiff on some medical question. I don’t know exactly what it was, but Mr. Holford objected to something—a method of research or something of that kind—as being dangerous and unprofessional. There was no actual rupture between them, you understand, but Mellis’s visits slacked off, and there was a coolness.”
The Best Martin Hewitt Detective Stories Page 13