Heir Presumptive

by Henry Wade

  Again Mr. Christendome gently blew his nose before continuing:

  “The position after the death of Captain David Hendel became a very difficult one. Mr. Desmond, as you have heard, sir, was in a very delicate state of health and it was not to be hoped that he could ever marry or produce an heir. After him, where would the entailed estate go? That of course was easily discovered, but the question arose: was that future disposal of the entailed estate in the best interest of the Hendel family? and if not, what alteration in its disposal could and should be made?”

  “You mean, should the entail be broken?” asked the Coroner.

  “Exactly, sir. As tenant in tail Mr. Desmond Hendel would, when he came of age, be in a position, with the consent of Lord Barradys, the tenant for life, to bar the entail—either end it altogether or re-settle it. Now it had, we believed, always been the intention of the original creator of the entail, and it has certainly been the desire of the present tenant, that the Hendel estates should remain in the Hendel family. If the entail remained unbroken, that intention and that desire would in fact be defeated.”

  “Eh? how is that? There is a younger branch,” said the Coroner, looking across at Eustace, William and George.

  “Not a male member of a younger branch; not, that is to say, a male Hendel.”

  Eustace’s head was beginning to spin. What was all this? No male Hendel? What about himself? and William? and George?

  “I must remind you, sir, that we are speaking of the entailed estate, not of the title. There is, of course, an heir presumptive to the title; Mr. Eustace Hendel is the direct descendant of the third son of the first Lord Barradys, as are Mr. William and Mr. George Hendel. But we are dealing with the entailed estate only. That estate, as I said, was entailed by the second Lord Barradys upon his son Chandos, the present peer, and the heirs of his—Chandos’—body.”

  “Ah, I see your point. It was a general entail, not a tail male?”

  “Exactly, sir. Now, in general entail, as you are aware, the expression ‘heirs of his body’ covers both sexes and the estate becomes descendable, first to the sons of a first wife, then to the sons of a second or any subsequent wife, and finally, failing such sons, to the daughters, all of whom share equally as coparceners. In this case, all the male heirs of the body having failed, the estate, should the entail stand, would pass to the female heirs. Chandos, Lord Barradys, had only one daughter, Louisa, who married James Kidd and died in 1912. Through this marriage also there is one female heir, who survives to-day. The daughter of James and Louisa Kidd is Julia, the wife of Henry Carr, and she now becomes tenant in tail of the estate.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Lord Barradys Survives

  EUSTACE’S brain reeled under the shock of Mr. Christendome’s pronouncement. In a few dry, quiet words the solicitor had destroyed the foundations upon which all the schemes of the last three months had been built. He was not to succeed after all! After all the trouble, all the anxiety, all the risk; with one murder on his conscience and another threatening him with danger, an empty title was his sole reward. And the estates—to Julia! What had happened? Why had he got it all wrong? Christendome himself had said . . . Henry Carr had said . . .

  Dazed and confused, Eustace hardly heard Mr. Christendome explain the perplexity in which his clients had found themselves. Neither Lord Barradys nor Mr. Desmond Hendel had wished the estates to leave the family, to go to anyone whose heir was not a Hendel. They had contemplated breaking the entail and re-settling upon a male member of the junior branch of the family, the descendants of Augustus, youngest son of the first Lord Barradys. There were three of them alive now, Mr. Christendome explained: Eustace, grandson of Augustus’ eldest son, Clarence; William, son of Augustus’ younger son, Hubert; and William’s son, George. Only within the last few days it had been decided that the re-settlement should be in favour of the latter. The necessary documents were being prepared and would have been executed as soon as Mr. Desmond came of age, on the fifteenth of November. Death, however, had intervened and the existing settlement, which he had just explained, would stand.

  How had he misunderstood? ‘The estates pass with the title’ . . . had not Christendome said that? down at Coombe? or had it been Henry? What was clearer than that? But, of course, at that time it had been true! Male heirs of Chandos’ body were alive and the estates were passing with the title. Was it his own fault, then? his own stupidity? But, surely, that day in Regent’s Park, Henry had told him—or at least led him to believe—that the idea of Desmond barring the entail would cut out him—Eustace? Had he again misunderstood? It had really been Julia who was in danger of being cut out! Had he misunderstood all along, or had . . . ?

  “Come on, for God’s sake.”

  Henry Carr’s voice was harsh as he pulled Eustace to his feet. The court was clearing; the inquest was adjourned. Eustace felt a touch on his arm and turning, saw Chief-Inspector Darnell, accompanied by the uniformed Superintendent. The blood drained from his heart; was this arrest, then?

  “You’ll not be leaving town at present, Mr. Hendel?” asked the detective quietly.

  Eustace shook his head, too dazed to speak.

  “That’s all right, sir. I’d be glad if you’d notify me at the Yard if you have any idea of going away, or Superintendent James here, or any of his officers.”

  Eustace nodded and Chief-Inspector Darnell stood aside. A minute later Eustace found himself in a taxi with Henry Carr.

  “I say, Henry . . . ”, he began.

  “Shut up, for God’s sake,” snapped his companion. “I must think.”

  “Yes, but you told me . . .”

  “I told you? You told me nothing about this chocolate that’s been found in your flat. How the hell are we to explain that?”

  “But it . . . I . . . that isn’t what I want to know, Henry. About the entail . . .”

  With an effort Carr controlled his rising temper. He put his hand on Eustace’s arm.

  “Look here, old man, we’ve got a lot to talk about,” he said, “but not in this taxi. We’re going to your flat. I want a drink and so do you. Till then, let me think.”

  Eustace sank back into the corner of the cab and gave himself up to his whirling thoughts. The drive was not a long one; very soon they were outside Brandford Mansions. Carr paid the taxi and followed Eustace into the lift.

  That fellow Hamilton! The thought of him had just returned to Eustace. The treacherous swine! Out he should go, that very moment.

  His key turned in the lock; he pushed open the door of the flat.

  “Hamilton!” he called sharply.

  There was no answer.

  “Hamilton!!”

  Eustace strode into the kitchen; it was empty. So was every other room in the flat, except the sitting room, where Henry was already mixing himself a drink. Eustace went out onto the landing and ran upstairs to the servants’ quarters on the top floor; Hamilton’s room was empty, bare. The fellow had gone. Slowly Eustace walked down the stairs. So the rat had left the sinking ship, had he? Curse and blast all such men. His ship was not going to sink. He must have this out with Henry Carr. Henry had misled him. Deliberately? By God, it looked like it. Had he . . . ? Had . . . ?

  He strode into the sitting room. Henry thrust a glass of whisky into his hands. He was drinking one himself, dark yellow, almost neat.

  “Drink that before you talk. We both need it.”

  Eustace looked at his companion, then at the whiskey. Yes, he needed a drink; there was some straight talking to be done. He drank it off and gave a little shudder; the whiskey ran like fire through his veins. He was tired, of course . . .

  “Damn strong, that . . .”

  He saw Henry Carr watching him, a look of intense interest in his eyes.

  “What are you looking at me like that for?” he asked. “Look here, there’s something damned fishy about this entail. You told me . . . my God?”

  A sudden shudder had shaken him. A surge of excitement
swept over him; he wanted to talk, to shout. He felt his face flushing; his throat was dry. His hand jerked forward in little stabs, uncontrolled by any volition of his own will.

  “This entail . . . this ’ntail . . . ’ntail . . .”, he stammered, seizing Henry Carr’s arm and shaking it violently. Dizzy, stammering, barely conscious of what he was saying or even trying to say, Eustace dimly knew that he had something of tremendous importance to convey to this man; words, jumbled and unintelligible, jostled each other over his flushed lips. Suddenly dropping Carr’s arm he tried to walk to the door, but his legs were out of control, he staggered, dropped into a chair; for a minute or more he sat there, gripping the arms, chattering, his face flushed and almost unrecognizable, wild excitement still driving brain and tongue to their unintelligible task. Then suddenly exhaustion flooded over him; he sank back, giving way to the surging waves of depression which overwhelmed him. The tumbling words dropped to a whisper—ceased.

  Henry Carr heaved a sigh of relief, drained his own glass.

  “My God, Eustace, you’ve given me a fright—you and old Christendome”, he said. “I thought you were going to start talking before I was ready for the last act. Damned awkward, that jury asking for Christendome. However, this’ll put them off the line. ‘Suicide of suspected cousin’, ‘doses himself with the poison used on his victim’. You realize that you’ve just swallowed a grain of hyoscine, don’t you, Eustace? I was afraid you might taste it, even in that neat dose, but you swallowed it down like a good ’un.”

  Through the muffled surging of the blood in his ears Eustace heard the voice, though the words meant nothing to him. Through the waves of blackness that clouded his sight he saw a dim face peering at him, but it was impersonal, a mask floating in the shimmering mirage of a dream.

  “You’ve been a wonderfully useful cat’s-paw to me, Eustace; saved me no end of trouble.”

  Henry Carr lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.

  “I’m sorry you’ve had to go yourself but it was too dangerous to leave you. Your suicide is just the red herring that’ll direct attention from me, even now that they know about the entail. Damned lucky your Mr. Hamilton taking himself off, though I could probably have got you to send him out. Gives me a little time to clear up.”

  Carr leaned forward and pulled down an eyelid of the dying man; the pupil was widely dilated; there was no sign of consciousness of being touched. Rising to his feet, Carr took his tumbler to the pantry, washed and wiped it; returning, he put it back in the red lacquer cupboard. Then he wiped the outside of the decanter and of Eustace’s glass and, holding them in his handkerchief, folded Eustace’s limp fingers round each in turn.

  “Somebody may have seen me come in with you, but obviously you’ll have taken the stuff after I left. Lucky the C.I.D. man coming out about that chocolate; they’ll think that’s what made you think the game was up.”

  A little glass bottle, half full of white crystals, was put on the table beside the decanter.

  “And so, good-night.”

  Carr took a last look round the room, stirred the hunched-up figure in the chair. There was no response. Eustace would sleep on for an hour, two hours, perhaps three, but from that unfathomable coma he would never wake.

  Going out into the hall, Henry Carr put on his hat, opened the door into the outer landing, looked back and said:

  “Don’t bother to come out, old man. Take things easy and don’t worry. See you in the morning.”

  He slammed the door and walked down the stairs, pleased with the artistry of that little touch. It would probably be wasted, but one never knew—somebody might have heard it.

  It was quite dark when he got down into the street; it was difficult to see whether any police officer was about, though Carr knew that there was quite a possibility that an eye would be kept on Eustace’s movements till the next sitting of the Coroner’s court. That was a risk he had to take, and in any case, when Eustace’s death came to be known, he intended to say that he had gone back to the flat with him, discussed the day’s evidence, and left him in low spirits. So that, unless someone found Eustace dead or dying almost immediately, the natural assumption would be that he had taken the hyoscine directly after his solicitor left.

  The beauty of the whole thing, of course, lay in the fact that Eustace was a doctor. As Sir Hulbert Lemuel had said, it was an easy matter for a doctor to get hyoscine, an almost impossible one for a layman. In a sense that was true; he himself had got the stuff from a doctor, but the getting of it had been simplicity itself: a client of his, a doctor, had died; he (Henry) had had to wind up the dead man’s affairs, he had had easy access to his papers and possessions, and had merely extracted a bottle of hyoscine-hydrobromide from the man’s medicine cupboard. That had been a year or more ago; there could be no possibility of tracing the theft to him now.

  In the Underground going to Waterloo there was too much bustle and noise to allow of clear thinking, but in his suburban train he was able to find a first-class carriage to himself. It was past the hour of the daily rush return from work, though the third-class carriages were fairly full; he himself never travelled first-class on ordinary occasions, but this was one on which he thought the luxury was justified.

  The train pulled slowly out from the long platform and Henry Carr sank back into his cushioned seat with a sigh of relief. He had a great deal to be thankful for. In the last few months he had been through a period of intense strain; this very day he had been on the brink of disaster, but he had just managed to pull the game out of the fire; now it was nearly over and he would soon be able to settle down in peace to enjoy with Julia her hard-won inheritance.

  His troubles, of course, had not been of a mere three months’ duration—that was only the climax. They had begun soon after the war when he and his partners had done a bit too well, prospered a bit too easily, got careless, and been found out. It was then, Henry prided himself, that he had shown his real metal. Press had shot himself, Orton done a bunk; he himself had stayed and faced the music. Not only that, but he had actually escaped prosecution; he had sacrificed all his savings to recoup the clients who had suffered and they had believed in him—believed him an innocent victim of his partners’ malpractice. He had been ruined, of course, financially, but his professional honour had survived and he had been able to begin again and, with the indomitable help of Julia, had slowly built up a new business for himself. It had been a terribly difficult and wearing task, and, with the general state of depression in all business, he had been unable to do more than keep himself and his family alive and just respectable. There had been no possibility of putting aside money for his and Julia’s old age, and the task of paying for Dick and Helen’s education had become increasingly difficult.

  So he had faced the situation and decided that honesty was not good enough. Being a solicitor and knowing the family affairs, he had realized that in certain eventualities the settled estates might conceivably come to Julia, or at least that, even if it was decided to re-settle the estates on a male of the younger line, a very handsome provision might be made for Julia by way of recompense. So he had set about the devising of those ‘certain eventualities’. Three men at least must be removed from Julia’s path—Howard, Harold, and David; with any luck Desmond, poor fellow, would go of his own accord; the old peer did not matter because, being only tenant for life, he could not himself disturb the entail. It would take time and intense care; no risks must be run; ‘accidents’ must happen.

  The drowning of Howard and Harold together was to be the master-stroke—and it had taken three years to achieve! For two years he had taken that house at Coombe—and failed to get Julia’s cousins to come and stay. This year, when he was almost in despair, when Desmond—nearly of age and still alive—threatened to become another obstacle in the path, Howard and Harold had come. He had made an excuse to take the house a week before the children’s holidays had begun—must get the unpleasant business out of the way before the kids came. Howard and H
arold had come and had shown themselves confident swimmers; he had taken them every morning to bathe in Coombe Cove, which was rather crowded; he had shown them Davy’s Cut, in which no one was mad enough to bathe because of its terrible under-drag, had told them that it was ‘supposed to be rather unsafe’ and refused to take the responsibility of allowing them to bathe in it. Then, on the Tuesday morning, when the tide would be at its most dangerous, he had feigned a chill and allowed his visitors to go alone. Being Hendels, full of self-confidence, they had naturally gone to the secluded cove that they had been warned against—and the inevitable had happened.

  All that episode had gone perfectly, but Henry had faced the future with considerable apprehension and dislike. One accident in the family, well engineered, could easily be swallowed; a second would be a thousand times more dangerous. He was actually without a plan for David’s death at the time of Howard’s funeral down at Coombe, and then, out of the blue, had come Eustace, like Abraham’s ram in the thicket, ready to his hand for the slaughter—ready, rather, to become the perfect cat’s-paw.

  That had not, of course, been obvious all at once; what did very soon become obvious was that Eustace knew nothing about law! He had misunderstood Christendome’s explanation of the entail; having the little knowledge which is forever dangerous, he had assumed that because the old man had traced the course of the entail from son to son, pari passu with the title, this was a settlement in tail male, whereas in actual fact it was a general entail—as Christendome had explained at the inquest only that day. Eustace had then tried to pump him (Henry) about it and he, seeing Eustace’s muddle, had, without saying anything that was untrue, allowed Eustace to deceive himself—to lead himself up the garden path! It was almost too easy, but it had been astonishingly effective. Almost as if he had spoken, Eustace’s thoughts had declared themselves. He was hard up, in trouble; now he saw a golden vista opening before him—a great prize at its end. Before his eyes Henry had seen the idea of murdering David form in Eustace’s brain.