by Henry Wade
But risks must be faced; the prize was enormous, failure would be . . . worse than any penalty of discovery. Better to be hung, thought Eustace, in his blackest mood of depression, better to be hung and done with it than to go down hill, through the dreary, squalid stages of cheaper lodgings, worse food, shabbier clothes, to the inevitable, ghastly end.
In the meantime, a drink. He couldn’t stand his own gloomy thoughts any longer. No good going to Jill—only depress her. No good going to the Club, couldn’t face George Priestley in his present mood. ‘Julian’s’; that was the place; better drinks and more amusing people.
‘Julian’s’ had the desired effect, at least of clearing off the worst of Eustace’s depression. It even set his brain working again in a more rational fashion, though the thoughts which emerged were perhaps unduly tinged with rose. He had jumped too quickly to the worst conclusions, had let Carr put the wind up him; these lawyers were all alike, pessimistic devils, always looking on the gloomy side of things. Ten to one Desmond had not the smallest intention of being dictated to by his ‘ga-ga’ old grand- . . . no, great-grandfather. Anyway, he would find out something about that on Sunday when he went round to see the boy.
Saturday passed slowly. The effect of Julian’s wizardry had worn off and depression returned; not quite so black as before, more reasonable, more controlled, but still . . . depression. Eustace was glad when Sunday came and he could go round to Desmond’s flat and find out for himself how the wind blew.
Punctually at half-past twelve he presented himself at the door of the fifth-floor flat and was admitted by Mrs. Toumlin herself.
“The girl’s not back from church yet”, she explained; “I always let her go in the mornings once a month and when there are five I let her have the fifth as well.”
“What the hell does that matter to me?” wondered Eustace. “Why’s she talking as if she was nervous or excited. She was like that on Friday; she wasn’t the first time I came here.”
“I’m afraid I shan’t be able to let you stay very long”, continued Mrs. Toumlin. “Desmond hasn’t been at all well this week. He seems so nervy and gets so tired. Of course you won’t let him know that I’ve said that; it’s not good for him to know I think he isn’t well. But if you won’t mind going when I give you a little hint? I’ll blow my nose, shall I?”
How irritating women were, with their little plots and subterfuges. It never paid, that sort of thing; always made people suspicious of something worse than you were trying to conceal; much better to be frank and open. However, one must do what she wanted.
He followed the irritating woman through the sitting-room onto the balcony. Desmond was lying, as before, on a couch, with a light rug over his legs. Eustace was struck by the change in his looks. He seemed more haggard, his eyes deeper sunk into his skull, than when Eustace had seen him last; they were restless, too, those deep, violet-coloured eyes; they did not rest on one with the calm peacefulness that had so much impressed him before.
To Eustace’s intense annoyance Mrs. Toumlin took a seat on the other side of Desmond, picking up some needlework on which she had evidently been engaged before the visitor arrived. Why on earth couldn’t she clear out and let him talk to Desmond alone, as she had done on his first visit? It would be almost impossible to find out anything worth knowing with that woman listening to every word. How was he to get rid of her? Tact? Subtlety? Downright rudeness?
Nervous and uncertain, Eustace’s eyes wandered from one to the other of his companions, noting the nimble working of Mrs. Toumlin’s fingers, the restless movements of Desmond’s blue-veined hands; noting, too, the details of furniture, the table with its books and flowers; noting the absence of the usual invalid paraphernalia—no bottles or pill-boxes or thermometers here, only a box of cigarettes—for his guests; Desmond did not smoke himself—a box of chocolates for himself.
Mrs. Toumlin, placid again now, kept the conversation going, neither of the men seeming to have anything to say. She was one of those women who made a point of ‘knowing men’s subjects’; she talked about the situation in Abyssinia, the state of the Funds, about horse-racing, dog-racing, about hunting and—finding neither Eustace nor Desmond responded to these subjects—switched back to the Government and the prospects of a General Election. Eustace, whose ideas on women were curiously old-fashioned, found himself growing more and more irritated; he couldn’t stand this yap; he must get rid of her somehow.
With cumbersome tact, he devoted his attention to Mrs. Toumlin for a minute and then said, heartily:—
“Now, Mrs. Toumlin, why don’t you trot off for a bit of exercise before lunch; it’s a lovely morning. I’ll look after Desmond.”
Mrs. Toumlin’s hands checked for a minute at their work, then went on as steadily and surely as before. She herself had not taken her eyes off what she was doing.
“Thank you, Mr. Hendel”, she said, “but I had my walk before Gladys went to church. Now do you think France will go off the gold standard?”
Hell! She wasn’t going to budge; that was plain as the nose on her face; it didn’t take a psychologist to see that. These nursing women, when they turned obstinate, were worse than ten mules. Very well; she must stay. But he would come some time when she was out and have his talk to Desmond then. Desmond would be glad enough of a quiet talk with him; no two men could ever talk comfortably in front of a woman. He would find out somehow when the old hen did take her exercise and he’d slip in then; tip the girl, Gladys, if necessary. In the meantime, do what he could to amuse poor Desmond.
The attempt was a failure; Desmond was ill-at-ease, nervy, quite different to the smiling boy he had first met. Before long Mrs. Toumlin produced a substantial square of ‘sensible linen’ and trumpeted into it. Vindictively, Eustace ignored the signal, took a fresh cigarette, lit it, and began a dissertation on Hungarian cooking—of which he knew nothing. Mrs. Toumlin trumpeted again, saying: “I really think I’m catching a cold; there’s quite a draught coming round the corner”, and rose to her feet. Eustace was compelled to follow suit and soon found himself being shepherded through the sitting-room. As he emerged, in Mrs. Toumlin’s wake, into the little hall, he noticed that the door opposite the sitting-room was ajar, which it had not been when he arrived; the maid, Gladys, must be back from church—or wherever she had elected to spend her ‘fifth Sunday’ morning.
“Well, good-bye, Mrs. Toumlin”, he said. “I’ll come in again in a day or two; perhaps be able to relieve you for a proper afternoon off; I expect you find it difficult to leave Desmond for long unless you know someone’s going to be with him.”
Mrs. Toumlin held out her hand.
“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Hendel”, she said, “but just at the present, you know, I think it would be better if you didn’t come and see Desmond. You can see for yourself that he’s not the thing; I’m really rather worried about him and I’m thinking of asking Sir Horace to come round and advise me; such a kind man, and so wise.”
And there he was, out on the mat again.
It had been a frost, Eustace told himself as he walked down the stairs. Apart from the continued presence of the Toumlin woman the change in Desmond himself would probably have made the visit a failure. He was so obviously embarrassed, no doubt as a result of old Barradys’ letter; poor boy, he probably felt a sort of guilty conscience at what he was doing . . . well, contemplating doing . . . to upset Eustace’s apple-cart. No wonder he felt uncomfortable; it was a rotten thing to do to anyone, let alone to somebody he had no reason at all to dislike. However, next time, when he got Desmond to himself, thought Eustace, he would get things back on a more natural, friendly footing, and very likely be able to knock the whole idea of resettling the estate on the head. Of course he was not going to be put off by the Toumlin. For some reason or other she had got her knife into him. He would just old-soldier her; watch her times of going out and slip in.
Walking away from the flats, deep in thought, Eustace nearly ran into a young woman, ne
atly dressed, who was turning the corner from St. John’s Wood Road. Her face was vaguely familiar; he half raised his hand to his head; she gave a nervous smile and hurried on. Who on earth? Why, of course, the maid Gladys. Then she had not been back at the flat when . . . he must just have been mistaken about that door. Should he follow her, call to her, question her about Mrs. Toumlin’s exercise hours? Rather awkward to do that here; rather awkward to follow her, call to her, in the street; it might look . . . better wait and have a talk to her in the flat some time.
Eustace was not unduly disappointed by the fruitlessness of his visit; he was not going to be deterred by a small set-back; his blood was up now, his fighting spirit roused. Once the first shock of Henry Carr’s news was over, once he had conquered—with ‘Julian’s’ aid—the black depression caused by that shock, he had made, he flattered himself, a good recovery and was not going to allow anything now between him and his goal. Guile, in the first place—to get a quiet talk with Desmond; then tact—to find out what he intended to do; finally, skill, charm, whatever it needed, with the help of Henry Carr and possibly Blanche—good idea that—whatever was needed to checkmate the machinations of that old maniac up at Newcastle. If the worst came to the worst, he would deal with the old devil himself—but that would be risky and he wanted no more risks than were necessary.
To-morrow he was dining with Henry Carr; not a bad chap Henry; rather an odd mixture of the cautious lawyer and the oncoming, hearty good fellow. Of course, he had had a chance to see both aspects; no doubt most people saw only one or the other. Henry might have heard a bit more by then, be able to suggest a line of country. Till Monday then . . .
The Junior English Universities Club is probably the least select and at the same time the most prosperous of all the University Clubs in London. By keeping its subscription low it had attracted a vast number of men from many Universities who either could not have afforded or would not have been eligible or acceptable at the more dignified clubs. It had three Squash Courts, a swimming bath, a notable bar, many bedrooms, a grill-room as well as a dining-room; it only narrowly escaped the ultimate horror of a ‘bell-hop’—that buttoned imp who wanders about the huger caravanserais singing in a nasal falsetto: ‘Meester Laizenby’. And as a result of its popularity it was able to produce an extremely good dinner, one of a character not to be found in the dignified brethren that turned up their noses at this vulgar upstart.
“I had to chuck my old Club when my firm smashed up in ’21”, explained Henry Carr, leading Eustace to the white-tiled, chromium-plated lavatory. “Did without one for five years, but it was devilish awkward. Then someone suggested this, I had a look at it, thought I could manage the subscription . . . and haven’t regretted it. It gives me a game or a swim, both of which I love; the food’s good; there’s always a bedroom when I want it; most of the members are appalling, but there are one or two good fellows.”
Henry Carr was a good host. He no doubt realized that Eustace was going through a trying time, as a result of the news he had given him on Friday, and he set himself to entertain and amuse his guest, on the principle that it does one good to forget one’s worries even for an hour. The dinner was excellent; more like that of a high-class restaurant than a club.
“What about coffee and a cigar on the terrace?” asked Carr at the end of it. “It’s quite warm still and yet not hot enough to attract a crowd; we shall have a chance of a quiet talk.”
That was exactly what Eustace wanted and he wasted no time in getting down to business. He told the solicitor frankly that since David Hendel’s death he had assumed that he was bound to succeed to the estate as well as to the title, that he had already borrowed money, incurred extra expenditure, on the strength of that assumption, and that the news of old Lord Barradys’ advice to Desmond had come as a complete and very severe shock to him.
“Can’t it be stopped, Henry?” he asked eagerly. “Surely you—perhaps Blanche too—can stop Desmond doing this, breaking the entail, resettling on George? Why should he have it? You don’t think it’s right, do you? No, I know you don’t. And I don’t believe Blanche would either if she knew. I believe she likes me; she was very kind to me down at Coombe and at Glenellich too; I believe it was she who got David to ask me up there. Desmond is devoted to her—and to you. I am sure that if you two talked to him he would give up the idea.”
He looked anxiously at Carr, trying to read his expression in the darkness. A sudden glow from his cigar threw a faint light on the solicitor’s face; Eustace saw that he was smiling slightly—though there seemed nothing to smile at. There was an appreciable pause; then Carr leant forward, gently tapping the ash from his cigar as he did so.
“I don’t think any good will be done by beating about the bush, Eustace”, he said quietly. “I sympathize very much with your position, but it is facts that we have got to face. I saw Desmond this afternoon. He told me that he had definitely decided to carry out Lord Barradys’ wish and to resettle the estate upon your cousin, George.”
Hope died in one moment in Eustace’s heart, the optimistic imaginings of the last three days faded away, never to reappear. This, he recognized, was final. The tone of Henry’s Carr’s voice told him that. It was like receiving, at the hands of some doctor, sentence of death.
Minute followed minute on leaden feet. Eustace sat motionless, his cigar dying to cold blackness in his fingers, just as his hope had died. He made no attempt to speak, no pretence of hiding his feelings. It was K.O. He was ‘out’.
Henry Carr watched him, that same smile, now hidden in the darkness, still curling the corner of his expressive mouth. At last he spoke.
“There’s only one fact that qualifies what I’ve told you”, he said. “Desmond cannot break the entail until he comes of age. He is still a minor. He is twenty-one on the fifteenth of November.”
Chapter Seventeen
Beating a Blanket
IT must be Desmond, then. That fact stood out, ice-clear, in Eustace’s mind. Desmond must not live to make that change in the entail. That was the only hope. It was too late now for persuasion or dissuasion. He had decided, definitely; so Henry Carr said. Then—he must be stopped. There was no time to try any other alternative; there were just six weeks. Desmond, poor, sick, suffering Desmond, must die before he came of age, before he could legally bar the entail and re-settle the estate upon George. George! Why on earth George? What was the attraction in George? A young prig in a port-shop!
A sudden gust of rage shook Eustace as he thought of the monstrous injustice that these people were contemplating—old Barradys and Desmond. Even Desmond did not escape that anger and Eustace almost welcomed the fact; it made the decision to put Desmond out of the way a little less unpleasant. Because he had got quite fond of Desmond in the short time he had known him and it was a disagreeable thought that the poor boy would have to die. But after all, he had got to die before very long anyhow and it would really be a kindness to put him out quietly and quickly now; brave and cheerful as he was, life could be no great pleasure to him. Yes, really a kindness; nothing to regret at all.
The extraordinary thing was that he hadn’t thought of it before. Why had he gone to all the trouble of trying to think of a way of killing the old fool up at Newcastle, when all that that would do would be to eliminate an influence—an influence which might already have proved decisive, so that the elimination might already prove too late? Whereas by eliminating Desmond he went straight to the crux of the matter. Extraordinary that he should not have realized that before. Why hadn’t he? Interesting psychological problem that, and Eustace, as a doctor, knew something about psychology. Probably the reason was simply that he had wanted to kill old Barradys—had leapt at an excuse to get his own back on the old maniac who had been so offensive to him. Just as he had been quite glad to kill David, whom he had disliked at sight. Whereas Desmond he had liked—and so the idea of killing him had not entered his mind! Interesting.
And not only was the elimination of Des
mond so much more direct and effective a way of achieving what he wanted, but it would be so much easier. Desmond’s case presented all the favourable conditions that he had wanted when he first thought about how to kill David. The boy was an invalid; he would have medicines, probably some form of hypnotic drug; there should be no great difficulty about substituting a lethal for a harmless dose; it was only a case of finding out what the drug was and how it was administered.
Even if it proved impossible to find out, it should not be impossible to guess; there are not many ways of treating a sarcoma of the spine. Apart from any question of radium or deep X-rays, the boy would certainly be having a fairly frequent administration of some hypnotic; morphia was the most probable—morphia injections, but there were some men who had a passion for giving veronal or luminol in the form of a mixture, often with some form of opium as a sleeping draught. There were patients, too, Eustace knew—cancer patients—who hated the impression of being doped which the morphia prick inevitably gave them; for them, no doubt, a mixture at regular intervals was more suitable. Whatever it was, there was the groundwork on which to build. If Desmond was taking some such mixture, then an added dose would soon break him up; best of all, of course, if one could ensure its being taken with the last dose before the sleeping draught; that would mean a concentration of drug very difficult for a weakened constitution to resist, even though it had gained some immunity from constant administration. That was what he wanted; a gradual, though fairly rapid, breaking up; far less dangerous than one lethal dose, which in any case would be difficult to administer.