Heir Presumptive

by Henry Wade

  “Wake up, sir”, the man exclaimed. And again, monotonously: “Wake up, sir.”

  Was this the fool’s idea of calling one?

  “G’ ’way”, growled Eustace. “. . . sleep.”

  He closed his eyes, but Hamilton renewed his efforts.

  “Wake up, sir.” Shake. “Wake up, sir.”

  Eustace roused himself and sat up.

  “What the hell’s the matter?” he asked irritably, aware now from the man’s expression that something was the matter.

  “There’s a police-officer asking to see you, sir.”

  “Police . . . ?”

  A cold sponge could not have wakened Eustace more thoroughly. He stared at Hamilton.

  “What sort of police-officer?”

  “Plain clothes, sir. Didn’t give any rank.”

  The man was clearly thrilled, as well as anxious. It wouldn’t do to let him see what an unpleasant shock his news was.

  “All right; I’ll see him. Some silly fuss. Give me my dressing-gown.”

  Having brushed his hair, Eustace lit a cigarette and strolled into the sitting-room.

  “Where is he?”

  “In the hall, sir. Very insistent”, murmured Hamilton.

  “Show him in here.”

  Hamilton opened the door and with a slight cock of the head indicated to the visitor that he could come in but that he was not going to be announced as a gentleman would be. A burly figure, clad in dark clothes and carrying a bowler hat, came into the room.

  “Good morning, sir.”

  The big policeman paused and eyed the door till Hamilton had reluctantly closed it behind him. He was, thought Eustace, almost too like a policeman to be true; heavy in build and expression; nothing to be afraid of so far as a battle of wits was concerned.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir. I’m Divisional Detective-Inspector Wennessy.”

  He held out a warrant card for Eustace’s inspection.

  “I have been instructed to inform you that your cousin, Mr. Desmond Hendel, died at seven o’clock this morning.”

  Desmond! Dead! It was impossible to conceal altogether the tremendous effect of this astonishing news. Eustace drew a deep breath of smoke into his lungs and exhaled it through his nostrils. Walking to the fire-place he stubbed out the cigarette against the grate. When he turned towards the police-officer his face and voice were under control.

  “Poor chap,” he said. “That’s very sad, though it’s only what was expected, isn’t it? I don’t quite understand why you should have been troubled to come and tell me.”

  The detective looked at him stolidly.

  “Mr. Hendel’s death was not quite what was expected, sir,” he said. “The doctors think he died of an overdose of a drug.”

  He stopped, as if expecting some comment. Eustace felt his heart pounding. Overdose of a drug! What could it mean? There had been no . . .

  “I don’t quite follow,” he said. “What drug?”

  “That’s not known at the moment, sir, of course, though it will be after the autopsy. It may be the drug that he was taking for his complaint. You don’t happen to know what that is, do you, sir?”

  “I? The drug? Why should I?”

  “I just thought you might happen to know, sir. You’ve visited Mr. Hendel fairly frequently, haven’t you, sir?”

  “Fairly, yes. After all, he’s my cousin.”

  “Quite so, sir. That would be only just recently, though, wouldn’t it? That you’ve visited him, I mean.”

  The man’s expression and demeanour were as stolid as ever, yet Eustace felt a faint stirring of uneasiness. What was the point of these questions? The death must have been accidental—or natural. Why should he be questioned about it?

  “It does happen to have been only recently,” he replied, “but I don’t see what that’s got to do with it. As a matter of fact I had seen nothing of that branch of my family since I was a boy. I met them again—some of them, that is—at the funeral of Mr. Howard Hendel and his son.”

  “Ah, yes, sir; very sad case, I remember. Accidental death, of course.”

  “Of course; they were drowned down in Cornwall.”

  “And you met Mr. Desmond Hendel then, sir?”

  “No, not him; he’s been practically bedridden for some time. I met his father and some other cousins; through them I subsequently met Desmond.”

  The large detective drew a note-book from his pocket and turned over the pages till he found a blank.

  “You’ll excuse me if I just jot some of this down, sir?” he asked.

  “Of course; but I don’t know what on earth it’s all about.”

  Inspector Wennessy made no attempt to answer that point, but renewed his own questions.

  “And the first date you met Mr. Desmond Hendel, sir?”

  “I don’t know exactly; about a fortnight ago; after I got back from Scotland, anyhow.”

  “After the death of the young gentleman’s father, that would be?”

  “Yes,” replied Eustace shortly.

  “And that was . . . accidental also, sir?”

  Eustace felt a cold shiver of apprehension run through him. There was something behind all this aimless questioning; that was quite obvious. But what could it mean? Desmond’s death at least must have been accidental, if not actually natural. Why should the police question him like this? Mercifully, he had nothing to hide; his conscience, so far as Desmond was concerned, was clear. He did not answer the last question and apparently Inspector Wennessy did not expect an answer; at any rate he did not repeat the question.

  “Now your visits to Mr. Desmond Hendel, sir,” he went on. “The first was on the 19th September, I think you said.”

  “I didn’t say anything of the kind. I don’t remember the exact date. It was about a fortnight ago.”

  “Does not remember exact date,” murmured Inspector Wennessy, scribbling in his note-book. “And since then, sir? Fairly regular visits?”

  “Not regular, no. I’ve been two or three times. But why on earth do you want to know about that?”

  “Mere matter of routine, sir,” replied the Inspector blandly. “And would I be right in saying you visited him again on Monday 23rd, Friday 27th, Sunday 29th, and yesterday?”

  Eustace stared.

  “Where on earth did you get all those dates from?” he asked.

  “Information received, sir. Would that be about right?”

  “I’ve only seen my cousin twice. On Sunday was the last time. I’ve called once or twice besides, but he wasn’t well enough to see me.”

  “I see, sir; anxious about the young gentleman’s health, no doubt?”

  Damn the fellow’s impertinence. What was he getting at?

  “And on two of those occasions the companion-lady was out? Is that right, sir?”

  “Yesterday she was. I don’t remember any other time. She came back soon after I got there.”

  “And till she came back you were alone in the flat, sir?”

  Eustace felt a cold sweat break out all over him. There was danger in this question. How could he say that he had known he was being watched? It would look as if he had a guilty conscience. What had happened to Desmond? Why was he being questioned like this?

  “Certainly I was not alone. Apart from Mr. Hendel there was the maid who let me in and I believe another maid. I heard them talking. I waited in the hall for Mrs. Toumlin to return, as the maid thought she wouldn’t like my cousin to have any visitors in her absence.”

  “Quite so, sir. So you waited in the hall. And the maid? She went back into the kitchen, I suppose?”

  “She did for a minute or two. Then she came out and telephoned—a message for Mrs. Toumlin. Then she went into another room, just off the hall; the pantry, I think.”

  “I see, sir. And you remained in the hall till Mrs. Toumlin returned?”

  Eustace nodded.

  “How long would that have been, sir?”

  “Ten or fifteen minutes, I suppose.�
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  “You didn’t go into any other room, sir? Mr. Desmond Hendel’s bedroom, for instance?”

  Eustace frowned angrily.

  “I told you I remained in the hall.”

  “You did, sir. I just wondered whether it might have slipped your memory. Well, I think that’s about all I need bother you with just now, sir. The inquest will be to-morrow, I fancy; you’ll be notified about time and place by the Coroner’s officer.”

  “But I’ve got no evidence to give the Coroner.”

  “You never can tell, sir. No doubt he’ll like to know about your interest in the young gentleman and your visits and all that. If you’ll excuse my suggesting it, sir, I think it would be as well if you were to rub up your dates—when you visited Mr. Hendel, when the companion-lady was out, and so on.”

  Eustace’s nerves were fraying; it was all he could do to keep his temper.

  “I’ve no idea about dates,” he said shortly. “I don’t keep a diary.”

  Inspector Wennessy closed his note-book, took a comprehensive look round the room.

  “Nice place you’ve got here, sir. Not been here long, I understand?”

  “I’ve been here two days and I should like some breakfast if you’ve nearly done asking irrelevant questions.”

  The detective rose to his feet.

  “Very sorry to have kept you, sir, I’m sure,” he said. “Having mine early made me kind of inconsiderate.”

  He moved towards the door. Eustace would have liked to follow the dignified course of ringing for Hamilton to show him out, but he did not want any gossiping on the landing. He went out into the hall himself and opened the outer door. Inspector Wennessy paused on the threshold.

  “And there’s nothing you wish to tell me, sir?” he asked, his small eyes seeming to bore into Eustace’s brain.

  “I’ve told you all I know . . . and that’s nothing.”

  “Very well, sir. Good morning.”

  He stumped slowly down the stairs, ignoring the lift. After waiting to make sure that he was gone, Eustace closed the door of the flat and returned to his sitting-room.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Golden Dreams

  EUSTACE hardly knew whether to be most alarmed or elated by the startling news brought to him by Detective-Inspector Wennessy and his subsequent interrogation. The supreme fact emerged that the way was now clear for him to succeed to the Barradys title and estates, that the last obstacle had been removed without any action on his part. He was innocent of poor Desmond’s death, and that was a real relief to Eustace; he had liked the boy and the idea of killing him, even though death would be a merciful release, had been definitely repugnant to him. Not only was he now relieved of that unpleasant task, but he was also saved, almost miraculously saved, from the appalling risk which that task would have involved.

  But was he saved? That was the other side to the picture, the alarming aspect of the detective’s visit. There had been some unpleasant, even sinister, meaning behind all those questions. The inspector himself was a fool, but he had almost certainly been acting under instructions. Why? What had the police got in their minds?

  As he shaved, Eustace turned the problem over in his mind and before long he thought he saw what had happened. Desmond had come to the inevitable end which, sooner or later, awaits all the unfortunate victims of that terrible disease. No constitution, undermined by shock and suffering, can stand up indefinitely against the effects of hypnotic drugs, however carefully administered. His end had probably come sooner and more suddenly than had been expected, but Mrs. Toumlin herself had said that the boy had been unwell during the last week; no doubt that had been the symptom of break-up. The death was natural and inevitable, but the police had jumped to the conclusion that there was something sinister behind it. Why? Obviously because of what had gone before. Within little more than two months there had been four sudden deaths in the Hendel family, as a result of which he, Eustace, from the position of rank outsider, had moved up to first favourite. Odds on favourite now; in fact, dead certainty. And so the police, muddle-headed idiots, had jumped to the conclusion that he must, or at any rate might, be responsible for what had happened.

  It was rank injustice, but it was a disquieting idea. Obviously the Scottish police had had suspicions about the death of David, even though they had evidently decided that they had insufficient evidence on which to proceed. They must have communicated their suspicions to the English police, and Scotland Yard had evidently, as Eustace had more than once feared they might, put one and one together and were jumping to an entirely erroneous conclusion. Not only one and one, but even two and one and one, making four! That fool detective had even questioned him about the accidental drowning of Howard and Harold! It was preposterous, and of course there was no danger in that, because he could easily prove that he had not set eyes on them for years. But there was danger in the other idea—Desmond. There was danger because, innocent as he was, there was some foundation for their suspicions in that case.

  Eustace cursed his own persistence in trying to get access to Desmond’s flat. Five times in a fortnight; it did seem rather a lot, rather odd, considering that he had never before been near the boy. There was a good, and perfectly innocent, reason for that, but Eustace was broad-minded enough to realize that the police had some grounds for raising their eyebrows.

  If only he had waited! There was this gift from the gods waiting to fall into his lap and he, like a fool, had gone fussing round, drawing attention to himself, pushing his head into an entirely unnecessary noose. Attention? Was it more than that that he had drawn? Had he actually made them suspect before the death? It was a disturbing thought. Eustace recalled Mrs. Toumlin’s odd behaviour on the occasion of his last two visits. She had been normal and pleasant enough the first time he called, but after that she had been decidedly queer. He remembered that she had seemed embarrassed, even nervous, that day when he had met Henry Carr coming out of the flat and when she had said that Desmond was not well enough to see him. Then, on the Sunday when, by arrangement with her, he had had his second talk with Desmond, she had been the same, had never left him for an instant, and had hustled him out of the place as quickly as she possibly could. Why was that? Was she suspicious of him then? Had the police . . . ?

  With a shock Eustace remembered the incident of the pantry door that day, the door opposite the sitting-room. It had been shut when he arrived, open—or rather, ajar—when he left. At the time he had thought that the parlourmaid must have returned from church, but he had met her outside. He had assumed that it must have been the cook, though cooks do not usually go into a pantry in the middle of a Sunday morning. But was there another explanation? Was it conceivable that Mrs. Toumlin, warned by the police, had notified them of his intended visit and that they had put a man there—in case anything happened? That indeed was a truly alarming idea; if the police had been so suspicious of him as all that, he had indeed been walking on the edge of a precipice. What a merciful dispensation of providence that he had done nothing to incriminate himself, that Desmond had died naturally and that he, Eustace, was absolutely innocent of that death.

  With a sigh of relief Eustace finished his second cup of coffee and rose to his feet. Better forget all about the appalling risk he had run and concentrate on the wonderful fortune that had befallen him. Heir presumptive to one of the richest peers in England and bound inevitably by law to succeed! Always provided, of course, that he survived Lord Barradys! And as the old man was ninety, that seemed something worth betting on. How the money-lenders would pester him now! How that fellow Isaacson would kick himself for not accommodating him the last time he had wanted money, for being actually rude about it! The fellow would come cringing now, as soon as the fact of the now-unbreakable entail became known, as it almost certainly would. Well, Isaacson would get no more business from him. Indeed, it would be unnecessary to deal with any money-lender; his bank would be only too glad to lend him all he wanted on that security.

&
nbsp; Eustace stretched his arms luxuriously. It was a glorious prospect. Unlimited money, luxury . . . and Jill. Jill must be told at once; he would go round now and break the glad tidings to her. No need to worry her with that detective’s silly questions. All that would be put right by the inquest, after the P.M. had cleared up the cause of death. Dear, lovely Jill; he wasn’t going to worry her; love and happiness were all that she must have, and by God, she should have them now.

  Filling his cigarette case from a fresh box, his eye fell on the depleted box of Dudeville chocolates which had barely survived the previous evening’s party. The sight of it reminded him of that other chocolate, the peppermint-cream, which he had locked up in his writing-table, intending to experiment on it to-day. Thank goodness, that necessity was washed out. It had been a mad idea, really, the sort of thing one only thought of late at night after a good deal to drink and invariably discarded in the morning. It would have been appallingly difficult and risky, even if it had been even possible. Thank God, it was no longer necessary even to try. All the same, the thought of that chocolate reminded him of what lay beside it in that locked drawer—the little glass tube of morphia tablets.

  A qualm of uneasiness passed through Eustace. That detective had been sitting within a foot or two of the writing-table; if he had known what was in that drawer it might have been very awkward. He had not of course been alone in the room . . . at least . . . Eustace remembered that Hamilton had taken some time to wake him, that though the detective had been left in the hall there might possibly have been time for him to come in here and snoop round. The drawer was locked, but detectives, in books at any rate, had skeleton keys . . .

  Quickly Eustace unlocked the drawer and sighed with relief when he saw the little bottle lying there beside the chocolate. He picked it up and put it in his pocket; it would be wiser to get rid of the thing; there was no need for it now and there was no point in running unnecessary risks. The chocolate he put back in the Dudeville box, then, with an odd feeling of repugnance at the idea of Jill eating something that might have contained death, he picked it out again and threw it into the waste-paper basket. Taking the Dudeville box with him—Jill adored the things—he walked round to Pearl Street.