Charles Palliser (158 page)

Having followed this through to a dead-end, I returned to Joey’s account and asked him to go on:

“The Mumpseys was having a great ball and I thought he must be a guest,” he continued; “on’y he weren’t togged up like the other swells getting out of their carriages.

Well, I waited outside all night and at last the carriages started to collect their masters and mistresses and drive away and the lights in the ball-room went out. But my mark didn’t come out. Then very late — oh, about two or three — I seen a genel’man arrive in a hackney-coach who didn’t look like no guest but more like a parson or a lawyer for he was in a great hurry and wasn’t finely dressed but wearing black. I was a-feared my mark had gone out through the mews, but at last, towards seven o’clock this morning, he come down the steps.”

“So late!” I exclaimed. “What business could he have there that would keep him overnight! And in the middle of a ball!”

Joey shrugged and went on: “Then I followed him to a house in Great -Titchfield-street.”

“Mr Pamplin!” I cried, remembering the address that Henry had once mentioned.

“He come out with a cove in a slabbering bib.”

“A clergyman! Yes, that’s he!”

“He was there an hour or two — most like having breakfast,” Joey said wistfully.

Taking the hint I laid before him what alimentary resources I could muster and he went on:

“Then they went to Fozard’s livery-stable in Piccadilly and I got close enough to hear him order a post-chaise.”

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“Did he say where he was going?”

“No, but that stable on’y posts along roads to the North. Then they took a hackney-coach and I had to run after them as best as I could. Luckily the traffic was heavy. They went to a crib near St. Paul’s, something like a church with arches and pointed winders.

I arst the gate-keeper what it was and he said something that sounded like ‘doctor’s coming’.”

“Doctors’ Commons!” I cried.

“Aye, that’s the ticket. So I give the gate-keeper a shillin’ and arst him to lam the business of the two genel’men as had jist arrived. And he come back and said they’d sweared out an alligator for a special licence.”

“An allegation, Joey.”

“Alligation,” he repeated.

“For whom was it?”

“Why, for himself, Henry Bellringer. But I couldn’t catch the lady’s name.”

I was puzzled and explained why: “Whom is he marrying? And why at this moment?

Surely now that he has the will, it is in his interests to sell it to either Sir David or the Maliphant claimant?”

“But supposing he knowed that Barney had been paid to kill you? How would that change things?”

Why, at my death the will makes Miss Henrietta the heir.”

I broke off and stared at Joey in horror. He understood my meaning and we both rose to our feet.

“But,” I said, “she would never consent. She …”

I fell silent for I had recalled that of course she believed that I was dead! Oh Heavens!

What had I done by my decision not to enlighten her? But then another thought came to me and I cried:

“But why are the Mompessons allowing him to? What do they gain by it?”

There was no time to be lost in such speculations.

I began to dress, crying out: “Run for a coach, Joey.” As he made for the door I shouted: “Stop. What time did Bellringer order the post-chaise for?”

“I couldn’t hear the hour. But it was for today.”

“Then we have no time to lose.”

While Joey ran down to the street I opened my bureau and carefully pocketed all the capital — twenty pounds and a few shillings — that remained from Miss Lydia’s gift.

Now at least I was using it in a cause that would have been close to her heart. Then I boarded the coach Joey had hailed, and we set off for Brook-street.

Reaching the house at half-past six, we agreed that Joey would go round to the mews and see what he could glean from the stablemen. Meanwhile I went up the steps and boldly rang the bell. The footman who opened it was Joseph (Ned) and he did not recognise me.

“I wish to see Sir David and Lady Mompesson on a matter of urgent business,” I said impressively.

He eyed me sceptically and I became acutely conscious of the bloody kerchief around my head and my shabby and now blood-stained clothes.

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“May I have your card, sir,” he said; “and I will send to enquire if they are at home?”

My printed card bore my assumed name so I said : “Tell them that I am Mr John Huffam.”

As I had anticipated, the name which had had so powerful an effect upon old Mr Escreet served to unlock yet another door, for when Joseph returned he asked me to follow him. We ascended the stairs and, somewhat to my embarrassment, I was ushered into the Great Parlour.

Lady Mompesson sat on a sopha and Sir David stood behind it. As I came through the door which was held open by Joseph, their eyes were fastened on my face. They seemed to start when they saw me, though whether it was because they recognised me or because of the somewhat gruesome sight I presented, I did not know.

We stared at each other in silence and then, after a few moments, David glanced at his mother’s face.

I spoke aloud the question that I was sure he was putting to her silently: “Well, Lady Mompesson, do you recognise me?”

“I saw the Huffam heir once only and briefly more than six years ago when he was a small boy. It would be otiose to speculate on whether you are he.”

“I remember the occasion,” I said. “Considering that my resurrection from the dead now safeguards the title to your estate, you seem surprisingly unwilling to recognise me.”

“You are mistaken,” Lady Mompesson said. “You appear to be unaware that the legitimacy of the Huffam heir — setting aside the question of whether you are he — is about to be declared invalid by the Court of Chancery.”

“On what grounds?” I demanded.

“The heirship of John Huffam is being rejected because no proof of his parents’

marriage has ever been found,” she said. “Nor, indeed, is there any evidence of the birth of a legitimate heir to his daughter, Mary Clothier.”

I flushed at the reference to my mother’s marriage and, as I took it though I was not clear precisely what she meant, to my own origins. Insolent, cruel woman! But at least now I understood their lack of interest in me. If there were no longer a Huffam heir, their only means of preventing the Maliphant claimant from inheriting would be to produce the will.

“We have nothing to say to you,” Lady Mompesson went on. “It was you who sought this interview. Kindly state your business.”

“I have come,” I said, “to appeal to you on behalf of Miss Henrietta Palphramond.”

“What impudence!” Sir David cried.

“Will you be good enough to make your meaning clear?” his mother asked.

“I refer to her marriage,” I said. The way they glanced at each other confirmed for me the correctness of my surmise that the licence was for her. “I cannot believe that you approve it.”

Lady Mompesson said haughtily: “Your impertinence is astonishing.”

“You cannot approve,” I continued, waxing indignant as I spoke, “a hasty, half-clandestine marriage by special licence performed by a clergyman of vicious personal habits. You are surprised that I know so much about it? A trusted servant of mine — a friend, I should say — saw Henry Bellringer at Doctors’ Commons earlier today. I know enough of her proposed husband to believe that you would be condemning her to a life of wretchedness.”

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“You have over-stepped the limits,” Lady Mompesson said with icy fury. “We need detain you no longer.”

Her son reached towards the bell-rope.

“Wait,” I said. “If I cannot appeal to your honour and generosity, I appeal to your self-interest.”

Sir David paused and turned towards me.

“I do not understand your motives,” I went on. “How are your interests being served by this marriage?” He seized the bell-rope and I cried: “Bellringer has the will! Don’t you see what that means?”

They stared at each other in amazement and then directed their gaze at me.

“What can you mean?” Lady Mompesson exclaimed. “Mr Bellringer is only an intermediary in this affair.”

“Is that what he has told you?” I cried. “That he is merely acting for someone who has it? Then I understand it all now.” Seeing that I had guessed aright, I went on: “But I know he has it for he stole it from me. Yes, it was I who took it from that hiding-place.”

I walked across to the chimney-piece and, using my pen-knife, pulled out the appropriate bolts so that the inner recess slid open. I turned back with a smile that I could not repress:

“I worked in this house as a lowly domestic and one night I stole in here and removed it. Did Assinder not tell you?”

“He died without regaining the power of speech,” Lady Mompesson said.

I shuddered at this news for until now I had not known what his fate had been.

“Mr Bellringer, however, told us of your dishonourable and criminal conduct in stealing the will,” she went on.

“But he did not tell you the truth about what happened to it after that,” I said triumphantly.

I briefly described how Bellringer had copied and substituted the will while I slept and had then betrayed me to Silas Clothier.

When I had finished they looked at each other in unconcealed dismay. This was one of the sweetest moments of my life.

Then Sir David turned to me: “That’s enough,” he said. “Leave this house now.”

“One last thing,” Lady Mompesson interrupted, holding up her hand. “What were you saying about Miss Palphramond’s marriage a moment ago? I do not think I understood you perfectly.”

“That it is because he has the will that Bellringer is marrying her. As her husband he will, in all but name, possess the estate that she inherits under the will.”

“Bellringer marrying her!” Sir David cried.

“Yes,” I answered in surprise. “Of whom else but he were we speaking?”

“You are certain that the special licence was in his name?” Lady Mompesson asked.

I studied their faces: “In whose name do you suppose it was?”

Her face grew suddenly pale. “You must leave instantly,” she commanded. “David, ring the bell.”

“Be calm, Mamma,” her son said as he obeyed her. “Phumphred will do what he is told.”

“Yes,” she said in exasperation. “But told by whom?”

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“Damn him!” Sir David suddenly exploded, his features turning an ancestral hue. “I suppose this is his revenge on behalf of his great-grandfather!”

“I think I see!” I cried in the darkening face of Sir David. “He was to have arranged it all, except that he was to have been the groomsman, not the groom!”

He advanced towards me looking so dangerous that I hastily withdrew from the room and ran down the stairs. Leaving the house I hurried round to the mews where I met Joey. I sat on a low wall to listen to him for my haste had made my sore head throb.

He had learned that at about five or six in the afternoon a party made up of Miss Henrietta, Lady Mompesson’s lady’s-maid (Miss Pickavance), and Mr Pamplin had set off in the great family coach driven by Mr Phumphred, with Mr Tom and Mr Bellringer accompanying it in a hired chaise. The coach held only four so that presumably explained why they had needed the chaise. But most important, Joey had learned that their destination was Hougham!

I told Joey what had passed between the Mompessons and myself while we hurried to a nearby livery-stable. There they told us we had no chance of finding a post-chaise that day for there had been a run on the road because of the bad weather. This seemed to be the case, for we hurried from one stable to another without success. At last, however, and very late we found what we were seeking — for a carriage had been unexpectedly returned — and so we set off at nearly midnight. At fifty shillings for each stage and with the tolls to pay as well, my little store of money would be exhausted by the time I reached Hougham. They had six or seven hours’ start on us, but they were travelling in the much slower carriage. And presumably they would break their journey overnight. If they were indeed going to Hougham, then we had a good chance of overtaking them.

At only the second stage on the Great-North-road we passed a slower phaeton —

though going at full spank — that I recognised by the arms on the pannels. I had no doubt that Sir David was inside.

A thaw had just started so the roads were very bad. As we journeyed north, the wind was rising steadily, and, as it swept inland across the flat landscape to our right, it buffeted the carriage so that it rocked alarmingly. We were delayed by having to enquire of the ostlers at every inn to know if our quarry had halted for the night. They were easy to identify and we soon found that we were indeed upon the right track. As time passed, we learned that we were gaining on them. By the early hours of next morning, however, it began to seem that they must be travelling overnight; though even in that case we reckoned that we should still overtake the lumbering family coach by an hour or two after breakfast-time.

However, when we stopped at an inn in Hertford at about five or six o’clock, one of the ostlers told us that the party we sought had arrived a few hours before. And indeed, there the coach was still in the coach-house though, worryingly, the chaise was not to be seen.

Joey and I entered the inn and I sent a startled maid-servant for the landlord who appeared in his nightgown and nightcap with an expression of alarm on his face. At first he would say nothing, but when I had frightened him with talk of an action for aiding and abetting the abduction of a minor, he agreed to tell us what we wanted to know. The party we were pursuing had arrived very late last night at an hour or two after midnight, and had engaged rooms as if intending to stay. However, after only a few hours all but two of them had risen and, leaving those two behind, had set off again in the lighter and WEDDINGS AND WIDOWS

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faster vehicle. Their own coachman had taken the reins and they had been accompanied by two mounted postilions — one riding ahead at the gallop to pay the tolls and order fresh horses. They had gone barely an hour ago!