King of the Castle

It was one of the maids.

“Here,” he said, in a half-whisper. “Your mistress – upstairs?”

“No, sir. In the library, I think. A gentleman came.”

“That’ll do,” he said sharply. “No; stop. Where is Miss Mary?”

“Gone out, sir, with Mrs Woodham.”

He turned quickly and swung to the door, with a look in his face that was diabolical.

“Gun – pistol?” he muttered. “No, no; not that – not murder. Better revenge. Lot of the money’s mine. Free, free! Let him take her – let him – curse him! I wish I was strong once more.”

As if impelled by the wave of passion that came over him, he walked quickly to the library door, and as he reached it, he heard a peculiar clang, as of the closing of the book-shelf doors which screened the iron safe.

A peculiar look of rage and cunning distorted his face; and, twisting the handle round, he threw open the door and rushed in, as, with her face wild from excitement, Claude turned towards him.

“Hah!” he cried, with a look of fierce triumph, as he caught her by the wrist, “I’ve come back.” And he uttered a low laugh as he pointed to the great safe.

Claude tried to speak, but no words would come, and she clung to the hand which held her to keep herself from falling.

“Didn’t expect me back, eh? Didn’t expect me back?”

“Come away quick; come away!” panted Claude, in a voice hardly above a whisper.

“Yes, of course,” he snarled, as he held her at arm’s-length, nearly fainting from terror and agony. “Come away, so as not to disturb our dear Chris!”

Claude looked at him wildly.

“Parry Glyddyr!” she cried, as a look of horror dilated her eyes, and she tried to cling to him and push him towards the door, for no further words words would come.

“Yes! Parry Glyddyr, your lawful husband,” he yelled. “Found out at last!”

Volume Three – Chapter Eighteen.

The Lawyer is Busy

John Trevithick would, in an ordinary way, have finished the little business in connection with Mrs Sarson’s savings in a very short time, but he quite fluttered the widow by the importance he attached to the deed, and the way in which he was going to invest the money.

“You will not have any savings left, Mrs Sarson, when he sends in his bill,” Chris said to her grimly; and, on Trevithick’s next visit, the poor woman, in an agitated way, touched upon the topic of the bill of costs.

“Nonsense!” said Trevithick, smiling. “My dear Mrs Sarson, I always charge what the legal men call pro rata.”

“Oh, do you, sir?” she said. “Then that way is not very expensive?”

“Certainly not. You don’t understand. If you were very rich, the bill would be high; but in your case, if you trust to me, your costs shall be very small indeed.”

“Thank you kindly, sir; and will you take the money to-day?”

“No; you have kept it safely so far, and a few days will not hurt. I’ll take it next time.”

When “next time” came, John Trevithick said the same, and at his next visit he once more put her off.

“What a shame!” he said to himself on his next visit to Danmouth. “It is imposing on the poor woman. I must find some other excuse for coming over. By George!”

He slapped his great knee, and laughed with delight at his happy thought.

“I’ll open an office here in Danmouth; take Mrs Sarson’s second parlour, and come over twice a week. Do her good and do me good, and, who knows, it may bring clients.”

Full of this idea, he called upon Mrs Sarson one morning about a fortnight before the incidents of the last chapter, and on being closeted with her, opened out his business at once in a quick, legal way.

“Now, then, my dear madam, if you will hand me that money, I’ll take charge of it, complete the little mortgage, and you can have the deeds of the premises upon which your money is to be lent at five per cent, or I will keep them for you – which you please.”

“Oh, I should like, if you don’t think it would be wrong, Mr Trevithick, to keep the deeds myself, as I shall not have the money.”

“Very good.”

Mrs Sarson, who had recovered from the rheumatic attack which had frightened her into making arrangements about her savings, rose from her chair, and, in a very feminine way, sought for the key, which was kept hidden in an under pocket – one of the make of a saddle bag – whose security depended on the strength of two tape strings.

The lawyer smiled to himself, and thought of his own iron safe, built in the wall of the office, as the widow brought out her key, and opened a large tea-caddy standing upon a side table.

“Not a very safe place, Mrs Sarson, eh?”

“Ah, you don’t know, sir,” said the woman, with a smile, as she threw up the lid, took up a large cut glass sugar basin full of white lumps from the centre compartment, and then first one and then the other of the two oblong receptacles, each well filled with fragrant black and green, for she opened them, and laughingly displayed their contents.

This done, she thrust her hand down into the round velvet-lined hole from which the sugar basin had been lifted, gave it a knock sideways, and then lifted out the whole of the internal fittings of the caddy, set it on the table, and held it on one side, showing that the bottom was the exact size of a Bank of England note, one for ten pounds being visible.

“There!” she said, with a sigh; “that was my dear husband’s idea. He was a cabinetmaker, sir, and he was quite right. They have always been safe.”

“Yes, Mrs Sarson,” said the lawyer; “but you have lost your interest.”

“Lost what, sir?”

“Your interest! How many years have they been lying here?”

“Oh, a many, sir. Some were put there by my poor husband, and I’ve gone on putting in more as often as I could save up another ten pounds, for I kept the sovereigns in my pocket till I had ten, and then I used to change them for notes.”

“Humph, yes!” said Trevithick, wetting a finger, bank-clerkly, and counting the notes. “Twenty-seven. All tens. Two hundred and seventy pounds. I only want two hundred and fifty, Mrs Sarson. You shall put two back for nest eggs.”

He took the two top notes off, before turning the parcel over and looking at the bottom note, one that looked old and yellow, and he read the date.

“Forty years old that one, Mrs Sarson.”

“Yes, sir; but that don’t matter, does it?”

“Oh, no; the Bank of England never refuses its paper. And this top one is dated – let me see. Ah! two years old, and pretty new – Good God!”

The number had struck his eye, and he had turned it over, and read a name written upon the back.