by Henry Wade
From Isaacson, however, he had heard nothing, rather to his disappointment. Well, he must go round and see him; that was all there was to it. So thought Eustace, but it appeared that he was wrong. Following his usual practice of acting directly a decision was taken, he went round that same afternoon—the Monday following his return from Scotland—to Jermyn Street. He learnt that Mr. Isaacson was engaged; he would wait; Mr. Isaacson regretted that he was engaged all the afternoon. Surprised and angry, Eustace banged his way out of the office and down into Jermyn Street. What the devil did it mean? It was impossible that the fellow could be engaged for the whole afternoon, could not even do him the courtesy of one minute’s conversation in which an appointment could be fixed. No suggestion, even, of an appointment on another day. What was behind it? Impossible that he could suspect. . . . Impossible!
None the less Eustace was worried as well as anxious as he turned into the Jermyn Club, ordered a double-whisky and picked up the evening paper. The double-whisky improved things. He strolled into the little bar—modern addition much frowned on by the older members—and ordered a dry Martini. Here was George Priestley, with others of his type, who greeted him with acclamation and definite signs of a desire to toady. George, of course, had spotted what was up, what his position was now. What was it he had said, that day the news of Howard’s and Harold’s death came in? ‘Two steps nearer the throne’; that was it, wasn’t it? Well, now he was another and much more vital step nearer. George would have realized that—and told his cronies. In any case, the very fact that he had been staying with David—a Guardsman—the very fact, even, that he had been deer-stalking, would send him up in their estimation.
Well, that was all pleasant enough . . . but just a trifle dangerous. He didn’t want any talk about the prospects of his succession to the title; he didn’t want attention drawn to it. His conversation with the Procurator Fiscal on the subject had been unpleasant, decidedly awkward; he didn’t want anything more like that. Better keep quiet, keep out of the way, until in due course—not too soon, he hoped—Desmond died and he succeeded in a perfectly natural way.
In any case, pleasant or not, this sort of toadying wasn’t going to bring him in any immediate shekels. Indirectly it might, of course, because it would probably lead to more poker-playing, meeting more of the right sort of young fellows from whom shekels could, without undue risk or difficulty, be extracted. That aspect of the position must be attended to, but in the meantime the wind must be raised, even if it only amounted to a hundred, or even fifty. For a small sum like that it wouldn’t do any harm to go to one of those touting fellows who had written to him: ‘Angus McPhamish’ or the ‘British Loan and Mutual Assistance Society (Manager, J. Levy)’.
Preferring the titular pretentious to the pseudo-Scotch, Eustace wrote to Mr. Levy and in the course of post received a polite invitation to an interview; the interview was so satisfactory and the terms so reasonable that Eustace found himself going a good deal further than he intended, eventually leaving the office with five hundred pounds in his pocket, which he promptly proceeded to deposit with a surprised but gratified banker of the established order.
After a further celebration Eustace and Jill proceeded to plan for the future. Eustace had said nothing about matrimony, had hardly given the subject serious consideration; Jill for her part was too shrewd to start the subject at this stage; that could and should come later on, as opportunity arose. For the meantime she was comfortable enough where she was; all she wanted was money; not a lot, she was not extravagant, had no urge for jewels or a lot of expensive furs; just enough to make work unnecessary, some decent clothes, of course, a good dinner and an evening on the tiles every now and then; a bit lazy, perhaps a shade greedy—those were the only vices with which Jill Paris could consciously debit herself.
Eustace’s requirements, on the other hand, were rather greater. A decent flat again; that was what he wanted, first and foremost; it was really a sine qua non if he was to have a chance of making any money, quite apart from the question of comfort. Not St. James’s; he had no idea of returning there just yet; that would be making himself too conspicuous, drawing attention to his altered circumstances just at the very time he didn’t want to; Bloomsbury would do, but the real Bloomsbury, not this edge of Finsbury where he now lived; or better still, something in the neighbourhood of Covent Garden, handy but inconspicuous. Some new clothes—couldn’t afford to look shabby. A man-servant. Live like a gentleman again; that was all Eustace asked, and it was not asking much after all he had been through.
Chapter Thirteen
Lord Barradys
ON the morning following his satisfactory interview with the Managing Director of the British Loan and Mutual Assistance Society, Eustace paid his promised visit to his cousin, Desmond Hendel. The boy lived in a flat overlooking Regent’s Park; with—as Blanche had told Eustace—a Mrs. Toumlin, a nurse-companion, to look after him. It was Mrs. Toumlin who greeted Eustace in the small sitting-room into which he was shown. She was a tall, thin woman of about fifty, with kindly eyes and a gentle voice, but there was a certain tightness about her mouth which suggested to Eustace that she might be firm, even grim, on occasion. Mrs. Toumlin had been a hospital nurse, had married a doctor, and on the latter’s death had been compelled to earn her living again, but she had had no difficulty in finding well-paid posts such as this. Her gentleness, combined with her trained skill and efficiency, made her an ideal companion for a sick person.
Eustace explained who he was and Mrs. Toumlin, who had probably heard of him from Blanche Hendel, showed no hesitation in talking to him about Desmond. He was fairly well at the moment. His father’s death had been a shock to him, of course, but he had Jived for so long outside the world and the lives of other people that they were probably less of a reality to him than they would be to a healthy, normal boy, so that their lives and deaths, their successes and tragedies, passed him by, almost untouched, in this quiet backwater of life. Desmond would miss his father, but the death would have very little effect on his own life. Mrs. Toumlin did not think he even contemplated any change, whatever the material alteration in his position and prospects might be. He was quite happy here, with his books, his wireless, his own poetry, a few friends. At the present moment he was out on the balcony overlooking the park; that balcony was one of the reasons why the flat had been chosen; facing slightly west of south, it was ideal for an invalid and, unless he was feeling too bad, Desmond spent most of his daylight hours on it, enjoying the view and such occasional sunshine as the climate allowed.
That one little sentence—‘unless he was feeling too bad’—was the only direct reference to Desmond’s illness, and Eustace did not like to ask any pointed questions. It was a pity the boy was out on a balcony; to a doctor his bedroom would have told a good deal more. Still, he could come again another time, after dark. So Eustace followed Mrs. Toumlin out on to the broad balcony and at once all doubts about the future passed from his mind. One glance at the pale, emaciated face of the boy lying on the bed was enough; Eustace knew that he was in the presence of death, and of death hovering at no great distance away.
It was curious how quickly that first, unmistakable impression disappeared under the charm of Desmond Hendel’s manner, the friendliness of his smile. Desmond was twenty now and sufficiently man of the world, for all his illness, to realize that visitors are often embarrassed in a sick-room, to know how to put them at their ease. As he talked to Eustace, about his father, about Glenellich—which he had never seen—about Blanche, whom he undisguisedly loved, his face lit up and Eustace saw no longer that mask of death but a handsome, obviously Hendel face, with none of the haughtiness that marred the elder branch of the family but with a softened, wistful expression that was infinitely appealing.
The two cousins talked together for more than an hour, chiefly about the Hendel family. Each approached it from a different, rather detached point of view and they found that their impressions had much in common. Apart fr
om Blanche, Desmond was most attached to Henry Carr; the solicitor came frequently to see him, especially in the summer when he snatched an hour or two to watch cricket at Lord’s but always found a fraction of those precious hours to come and cheer up the young invalid; he generally brought books or news of books, talked to Desmond of what was going on in the world, treated him as a man, naturally and without the scarcely-veiled pity which invalids find so hard to bear. He seldom announced his visits beforehand, for fear that some business, preventing him, might disappoint Desmond of a pleasure which both shared. Eustace was surprised to hear this version of a character which had struck him as self-centred, though hospitable and friendly enough.
Eustace went away, feeling really sorry that this nice boy, so brave and cheerful in spite of his suffering, would have to die before ‘the plums’ could come to Jill and himself. Thank goodness, nature would do that tragic work; it would not fall to him. The removal of a disagreeable fellow like David had been unpleasant enough; to do the same with Desmond would be . . . however, he need not bother his head about that.
When he returned to his rooms that evening Eustace found a letter in a sprawling, unknown hand awaiting him. The envelope was of thick, good-quality paper; the impression it gave him was much the same as that made by that other letter which he had received only five short weeks ago, the letter by which his cousin, David Hendel, had signed his own death-warrant. And here—as he discovered on opening it—hardly less surprising, was a letter from David’s grandfather, old Lord Barradys, whom Eustace had never met and who had never previously shown any sign of being aware of Eustace’s existence.
Derrick House,
Barradys-on-Tyne.
September 18th, 1935.
DEAR EUSTACE (it ran)
I shall be grateful if you will put yourself to the trouble of coming North to see me. There are one or two matters which I should like to talk over with you. If you will let me know what day and at what hour you will arrive at Newcastle, my car shall meet you. As it is a long journey I hope that you will stay here for the night.
Yours truly,
Barradys.
Eustace felt himself flushing with excitement as he read the letter. Here was proof indeed that his position was changed, that he was now someone of importance in the family. Old Barradys had the reputation of being a hard, plain-spoken man, with very little use for polite manners or conventional family ties. Witness the fact that he had never before shown any sign of interest in Eustace’s existence. But now, not only was he recognizing his existence, but doing so in an extremely courteous, hospitable letter. Things were moving! George Priestley would know what interpretation to put on that letter—if he showed it to him—which of course he would not.
He showed it to Jill though, and she was not less pleased and excited than he was, urging him to catch the first train to Newcastle, telling him what clothes to wear and what to take—she would have packed for him if the Drages would have allowed her inside their house, which Eustace knew only too well that they would not. The trains to Newcastle were awkward; the journey was too short to be done comfortably at night; there was a ‘sleeper’ at 10.45 p.m. but it reached Newcastle at 5.10 a.m., an unconscionable hour. Finally it was decided that Eustace should travel in comfort by the Flying Scotsman the following Friday morning, arriving at Newcastle at 3.8 p.m.
It was a dull journey. Even the pleasurable pastime of making plans for a golden future could not fill those five tedious hours. A hunting man can often amuse himself by picking a line of country as the train flashes past meadow and stream and fence, but Eustace was no hunting man, for all his two horses at Bicester in bygone days, and in any case this was September and the country still ‘blind’. As the hours dragged on the golden dreams of the future inevitably changed to uncomfortable memories of the past. Those four grim days in Scotland would not pass easily from any man’s mind, even from the memory of so volatile a person as Eustace Hendel.
That cross-examination by the quiet, relentless Hannay would cling to his memory, thought Eustace, until his dying day. The whole story as he told it then, as it revealed itself under the questions, the reconstructions, the photographs of the Procurator Fiscal, had sounded so terribly thin, so suspicious; it had seemed impossible that the police would accept it. And yet, they had taken no action; here it was, a fortnight after the accident and, since the Registrar’s certificate had been given, they had shown no further sign of interest in the case. The post-mortem must have borne out his story; the Procurator Fiscal must have reported to whatever authority decided those things in Scotland that the case could be considered closed. Well, thank God for it; it had been an anxious time.
The train drew up in York Station. Eustace looked at his watch—it was half-past one. On again, the twin towers of the minster gleaming in the afternoon sun. Another hour and there sprang into his view the one unforgettable sight of that two hundred and seventy mile journey, the superb mass of Durham Cathedral, the lesser profile of the Castle, perched almost in mid-air above the cañon of the river Wear. Twenty minutes later they were in Newcastle.
A smart chauffeur, in white collar and short coat, greeted Eustace as he followed his porter out into the porticoed entrance of the great station. A Daimler limousine rolled him luxuriously through the narrow streets, up the long hill, past the pits, out into the open country north of the Tyne. In half an hour he was being ushered into a square stone mansion overlooking the river, through a large hall, into a long book-lined room where a fire crackled cheerfully in the big hearth.
His Lordship, said the sleek, black-haired butler, begged Mr. Hendel to excuse him. He had been in Newcastle on business all the morning and was now resting. He hoped to meet Mr. Hendel at dinner. In the meanwhile, would Mr. Hendel take tea? Mr. Hendel would, he thought, take a whisky and soda. Left alone for a minute, he looked about him, noted the solid mahogany furniture, the thick velvet curtains, the prints on the dark red walls—heavy perhaps, old-fashioned, much of it, but good, unmistakably good. He regretted now, with this superior butler, these silent, well-trained footmen, that he had not had time to get the new clothes that he had promised himself. His outer man was passable, but his underclothing was definitely shabby. Servants noticed these things; were inclined to judge a man by them. A bit undignified, for the future. . . . Pity.
Eustace spent the next hour or two wandering about the well-stocked, well-kept garden. There was money here, money in every well-pruned fruit-tree, money in the weedless paths, the long expanse of glass, the golden vines. Eustace licked his lips as he inspected it all. Whether Derrick House was included in the entail he did not know, did not really care; he would certainly never live there even if it came to him; but the signs of wealth were unmistakable; no man in these days kept the staff of gardeners that this perfection demanded unless he was rolling in money, and that must be reflected in the entailed estate.
Dressing for dinner, he felt a first qualm of nervousness. What would this old peer, head of a great business, autocratic ruler of a proud family, what would he be like? What did he want to talk about? He, Eustace, must mind his p’s and q’s; it might be important for him to make a good impression. If the old man liked him he might, in view of the position that was coming to Eustace, be willing to settle something on him straight away, enable him to take his proper position in the world as heir presumptive . . . well, no; not yet; Desmond was still that, on paper . . . as inevitably the future head, should he say, of the Hendel family. It was more than possible; indeed it was the obvious thing for him to do; Eustace wondered that he had not thought of it before. There was a sparkle of excitement in his eyes as he walked down the thickly-carpeted stairs and entered the library.
Lord Barradys was sitting in a stiff high-backed chair on the far side of the fire. He was looking towards the door and as Eustace approached him he hardly seemed aware of his visitor’s presence; he did not smile nor make any sign of greeting. Lord Barradys at this time was ninety years old; he was a small m
an and was now slightly bent; he had the hooked nose of all the Hendels, but his thin white hair and withered skin cancelled the usual identification marks of the elder or the younger branch; his face was deeply lined, his hands thin and wrinkled; only his grey eyes seemed alive and they were fixed now upon Eustace’s face in a penetrating stare. Eustace held out his hand, muttered an uncomfortable: “How are you, sir?” Lord Barradys did not at first appear to see the hand, but at last his own rose slowly, touched it, and fell into his lap.
“How d’ye do? Had a tiring journey?”
The voice was harsh, louder than seemed possible in that frail body. Eustace felt as if he were talking to an old mummy fitted with a mechanical voice; it was uncomfortable, uncanny.
“Not at all bad, sir. Fine place you’ve got here.”
Not quite tactful, that; looked as if he’d been measuring up. Still, it was awkward, this, difficult to know what one should say.
Lord Barradys appeared to take no notice. A gong rumbled; the butler entered the room, helped his master from the chair and gave him an arm, leading him across the hall and into a dining-room hung with full-length portraits of, Eustace did not doubt, Albert, Chandos himself, Bevis, and old Andrew, first Lord Barradys. The likenesses were unmistakable, the fair Hendels of the elder branch, no dusky cadets of Augustus’s line sullied this room, only Eustace himself, sinking nervously into the great leather-covered chair at the heavy, gleaming mahogany table.