The Mystery of Lincoln's Inn Read online

  CHAPTER XII

  The certificate of Cooper Silwood's death and the accompanying letterhad come that morning in a long, queer-looking envelope, plasteredhalf-over with stamps and pitted with postmarks, amongst them being thatwhich showed the packet had been registered. It was addressed to FrancisEversleigh personally: hence it had not been touched by any one prior tohis coming to the office.

  When he first saw the packet he thought there was something ominousabout it, and a sure prescience that it contained bad news deterred himfrom opening it immediately; he therefore allowed it to lie on his tablefor some time. Such a want of courage had now become characteristic ofthe tortured man. At last, however, he screwed himself up to the pointof looking into it. As it happened, he took out and glanced at theletter first; it was in a language he did not know, but he guessed itwas Italian. It was written in a minute, cramped hand, difficult, in anycase, to decipher, and he put it aside. Then he scanned the certificate.Here the printed words and his Latin helped him, and he had littletrouble in understanding what it was.

  But in his shattered state it did not come home fully to him at once.When it did, the effect on him was terrible--his head swamdistressingly, his heart fluttered painfully, as he fell back gasping inhis chair.

  Cooper Silwood dead!

  It seemed impossible to him, as his brain, caught in strange tangles,like water-weeds in an eddy, whirled this way and that.

  Dead!

  The thing at last impressed itself upon his consciousness so as to blotout everything else for the time.

  "What next? What next?" he cried aloud, in a voice that was hardlyrecognizable as his; it was the protest of a man goaded beyond the limitof endurance.

  Then his brain clouded.

  "Cooper Silwood dead--dead--dead--dead!" he babbled to himself, lookingat the spots in the wall opposite him, and noting mechanically theshapes and sizes of them. "Dead--dead--dead!" he mumbled, till the wordslost all meaning.

  Something sub-conscious whispered to him this was madness, and with amighty effort he sought to recover himself. The effort saved him.

  The first force of the shock at length passed; its recoil passed offtoo, and he came to something like his senses. Desiring instinctively tolean on some one stronger than himself, his impulse was to send for hisson Gilbert immediately, and accordingly, when he had pulled himselfstill further round, he summoned Williamson, and dispatched him to findand bring the young man to Lincoln's Inn. He had hardly done so, whenhis vacillating mind swung round again, and he regretted it. But by thetime Gilbert arrived his mood had changed once more.

  When Gilbert appeared in his father's room he found Francis Eversleighin tears. They were the tears of weakness, of indecision, of self-pity;but when Gilbert heard what his father had to tell him he thought, ofcourse, they were the tears of one who mourns. They could not but seemnatural in the circumstances. He had always disliked Silwood; but hisfather and Silwood had been associated in business for many years, andthough he was rather surprised that his father should be in tears overSilwood's death, he was not at a loss altogether to account for it: hisfather, he thought, had a good heart, and was overcome with sorrow. Hesupposed that a long acquaintance with Silwood had shown his father someexcellent qualities in the man now dead--qualities which he himselfcould not see.

  "His death will be a great loss to you, father," said Gilbert; "youmust--and will--feel it very much, I fear."

  "Yes," said Francis Eversleigh, in a harsh, strained voice, staringstraight before him.

  "Have you told Ernest about it, or Mr. Williamson?" asked Gilbert.

  "Not yet; but, of course, they must be told. First of all, however, Ishould prefer to learn something of the circumstances attending Mr.Silwood's death. I must have this letter translated," said FrancisEversleigh, pointing to the communication in the small, crampedhandwriting; "I think it will tell us exactly what has happened."

  "I can get you a man," said Gilbert, "from a College of Languages nearhere, if you like. Shall I go and bring him? Or shall I take the letterwith me and get it translated?"

  "Bring him here," said Eversleigh, who wished to keep everythingconnected in any way with Silwood as much in the office as possible.

  "The other way would be the quicker, perhaps," Gilbert suggested.

  "Perhaps; but I had rather he came here," rejoined Eversleigh, with somefirmness.

  In about half an hour Gilbert was back again in his father's room withan interpreter, who quickly made himself master of the contents of theletter, and afterwards read it out aloud to the two Eversleighs.

  It was from Ugo Ucelli, Syndic of Camajore, which place, the interpreterexplained, was in the north of Tuscany, a few miles from the coast, andno great distance from Leghorn, but the nearest town of importance wasLucca.

  The Syndic stated that he had been given instructions by Mr. Silwood tocommunicate with Mr. Francis Eversleigh should the illness from whichhe, Mr. Silwood, was suffering at the time have a fatal termination, asappeared to be likely. And the illness had, unfortunately, resulted inthe death of Mr. Silwood, as had been feared.

  Mr. Silwood had said he was a partner of Mr. Eversleigh's. He, theSyndic, now hastened to write in accordance with the command of thedeceased gentleman; he regretted that he had to give Mr. Eversleigh thepain of hearing the sad news, but he had a sacred duty to the dead toperform, and he must discharge it.

  Mr. Eversleigh had probably seen from the newspapers, said the Syndic,that cholera was that summer--one of the hottest on record--epidemic allalong the Gulf of Genoa and southward as far as Leghorn. Mr. Silwood hadfallen a victim to this plague--alas! its victims were numbered byhundreds and thousands; it was the greatest calamity that had visitedItaly for many years!

  In Mr. Silwood's case there had been little hope from the commencementof his sickness, to which he succumbed after about twenty-four hours.Everything had been done for him that could be done; he had beenattended by a doctor of skill and experience, nor had the tendance ofcompetent nurses been wanting. Ah! It was evidently the will of God! Theusual certificate of death was enclosed.

  Owing to the requirements of the law, concluded the Syndic, the body wasburied early on the morning of the day following that on which the deathtook place. The deceased had left some effects about which he had notgiven directions. These were now in his, the Syndic's possession, and heasked what was to be done with them. As Mr. Eversleigh would doubtlessknow what was proper in the circumstances, he, the Syndic, would be gladto hear from him at his earliest convenience.

  Such was the letter of Ugo Ucelli, Syndic of Camajore.

  The interpreter was asked to write out a translation both of the letterand of the death certificate; this he did, received his fee, andwithdrew.

  Death is perhaps the only thing which commands universal respect: allrender involuntary homage to the King of Terror. It was this that causedGilbert, who had no love for Silwood, yet to say with sincerity when theinterpreter had gone, "Poor fellow! Poor fellow!" and then he wassilent.

  Francis Eversleigh had listened in a sort of heavy stupor to thereading of the Syndic's letter. The feeling which emerged mostprominently from out of the chaos of his thoughts was one of envy; heenvied Silwood, inasmuch as he was finally beyond the reach of thelaw--he had gone where its long arm could not go--he was safe!Eversleigh then tried to think what was his position now Silwood wasdead, and Morris Thornton was dead, most probably, also; but the man'sbrain was tired and sick and torpid from the frightful blows it hadalready been called upon to sustain. With a deep sigh, he confessed hisimpotence to himself, and abandoned the attempt.

  "We must tell the others at once," he said, feeling it was easier to dosomething than to think, "and have an announcement of the death drawnup. We must take the usual steps."

  "Yes, yes," said Gilbert, "we must do so."

  But Gilbert also had been thinking during the few minutes in which hehad been silent.

  "What a strange place," he observed, "for Mr. Silwood to have be
en at!Perhaps, though, he was just passing through. Still, at this time of theyear, it was an odd place to choose for a holiday. He must have known,too, about the cholera, surely. I never heard of Camajore! Did you?"

  "I believe Mr. Silwood spent a holiday a few years ago in the north ofItaly, probably at this very place, or somewhere in its neighbourhood,but I do not remember exactly," rejoined the other, dully.

  Francis Eversleigh sat in his chair, inert, without initiative; heseemed to be incapable of action. It was Gilbert who took the lead.

  "I suppose it is pretty certain that Mr. Silwood has left a will,"remarked Gilbert. "Of course letters of administration will have to betaken out, and his estate looked after generally. You will do that, Ipresume?"

  "Oh, about his will. I don't believe," returned Eversleigh, "that hiswill is in the office--indeed, I am not aware there is a will at all."He had very good reasons for imagining there would be no will, for hadnot Silwood told him that he had no money?

  "Mr. Silwood must have left a will, father," said Gilbert, confidently;"a man of his business habits would be certain to make a will. If it'snot in the office here, then I should think it will be in his chambersin Stone Buildings."

  "Perhaps so."

  "Well, that's what I should say. In any case, father, you will have togo across to his chambers, see what there is in them, and haveeverything taken care of. I wonder who is his heir, or if he has one? Henever seemed to have any relations or friends--but then I did not knowhim very well."

  "Relations, so far as I know, he had none," replied Francis Eversleigh;"and I scarcely think he had many friends. He always lived a very lonelylife."

  "He was so engrossed in his business!"

  "Yes, yes--quite so. As regards his chambers, I know he left them lockedup."

  "Still, don't you think you ought to examine them, considering presentcircumstances? If you like, I will go over there with you now."

  Eversleigh shrank from the thing. However, he looked at his stronghandsome son, and thought that if he must go to Stone Buildings--and heknew that he had better go as soon as possible--it was with Gilbertthat he would choose to go.

  "I think, first," he said, "it will be as well to tell Ernest and Mr.Williamson what has occurred; afterwards you and I will proceed to Mr.Silwood's chambers and examine them."

  Ernest Eversleigh and Williamson, therefore, were sent for. Eversleighannounced to them that Silwood was dead, and asked Gilbert to read tothem the translation of the Syndic's letter. Both were profoundlysurprised; Ernest, who appeared genuinely concerned, expressed hisregret at the news, while Williamson, who was astonished beyond measure,looked utterly aghast, and as if he thought the end of the world wasabout to come.

  "We--Gilbert and I--are going over to Mr. Silwood's rooms in StoneBuildings," said Francis Eversleigh. "I must consider what is necessaryto do in the circumstances, but I can say nothing at present."

  "Perhaps Mr. Williamson can tell us," said Gilbert, as his fatherstopped, "if there is a will?"

  "No, Mr. Gilbert, I do not know of one," replied the head-clerk. "Mr.Silwood never mentioned the subject to me."

  "I think that is all," said Francis Eversleigh, after a moment's pause,and Ernest and Williamson withdrew.

  "Well, Gilbert, I suppose we had better go at once and get it over,"observed Eversleigh to his elder son. "We will call one of the porters,and get him to go with us to open the door."

  On their way they met a porter of the Inn, and told him of Silwood'sdeath, and that they wished to gain admittance to the chambers in StoneBuildings.

  "Sorry to hear about Mr. Silwood," said the man; "must ha' been verysudden, surely. Dear me, dear me! But about opening the door o' hisrooms, I'm none so certain that I can do it. Mr. Silwood had a lock andkey of his own--a special Yale, which he'd had fitted on himself.However, I'll try."

  But the lock of the door, on which still was pinned the piece of paperwith "Out of Town" written upon it, resisted all his efforts. He triedon it every key in his bunch, but without effect.

  "This is a job for a locksmith, that's what it is," said he at last."Shall I go and fetch one? I can bring a man here in a few seconds whohas the proper tools, and he'll soon do the business."

  "Yes, please get a locksmith at once," said Francis Eversleigh.

  In about five minutes the porter returned with a locksmith, who set towork and forced the lock, but not without a considerable expenditure oftime and labour.

  As the door was opened, a foetid, noisome odour rushed out and filledthe landing. The locksmith involuntarily stepped back.

  "Whiff, whiff, what's that?" cried he, while the others exclaimed aboutthe horrible smell.

  It was the locksmith who entered the room first, a few feet in advanceof the others. Instantly he uttered a loud shout of terrified surprise.The others now pressed in after him, Francis Eversleigh the last.

  There lay the body of a man, face downwards, on the floor.

  Eversleigh, with a countenance as white as chalk, looked from the bodyto his son, and back to the body again. Gilbert was as white as hisfather. The other men looked mutely at the figure lying on the floor; itseemed to fascinate them. No one spoke a word. A great question shapeditself in the stillness of that room, but none of them was eager, forthe moment, to find the answer.

  Who was the man--the man who lay dead?

  Other questions came into their minds, but this was first.

  "We must see the man's face," said Gilbert, and his voice broke thespell which seemed to hold them powerless.

  The porter and the locksmith turned the body over.

  Though the features had partially become decomposed, the face was stillrecognisable on close inspection.

  "It's a stranger, I think, leastways in the Inn," said the porter.

  Eversleigh gazed at the dead face, peering into it. Suddenly he trembledas with ague, while he vainly struggled to speak.

  Gilbert, too, had been closely scrutinizing the dead face, and hethought that he recognized it. Looking at his father and seeing hisevident emotion, he felt certain.

  "It is Morris Thornton!" said he, in a hoarse unnatural voice.

  "Morris Thornton!" echoed Francis Eversleigh, and fell in a heap acrossthe body of his old friend.