Confusion—That’s all I can remember when I look back. Newspapermenasking questions—wanting interviews—masses of letters and telegrams—Greta coping with them—
The first really startling thing was that Ellie’s family were not as we sup-posed in America. It was quite a shock to find that most of them were actu-ally in England. It was understandable, perhaps, that Cora van Stuyvesantshould be. She was a very restless woman, always dashing across toEurope, to Italy, to Paris, to London and back again to America, to PalmBeach, out West to the ranch2; here, there and everywhere. On the actualday of Ellie’s death she had been not more than fifty miles away, still pur-suing her whim3 of having a house in England. She had rushed over to stayin London for two or three days and gone to fresh house agents for freshorders to view and had been touring round the country seeing half adozen on that particular day.
Stanford Lloyd, it turned out, had flown over in the same plane ostens-ibly for a business meeting in London. These people learnt of Ellie’s death,not from the cables which we had dispatched to the United States but fromthe public Press.
An ugly wrangle4 developed about where Ellie should be buried. I had as-sumed it was only natural that she’d be buried here where she had died.
Here where she and I had lived.
But Ellie’s family objected violently to this. They wanted the bodybrought to America to be buried with her forebears. Where her grand-father and her father, her mother and others had been laid to rest. I sup-pose it was natural, really, when one comes to think of it.
Andrew Lippincott came down to talk to me about it. He put the matterin a reasonable way.
“She never left any directions as to where she wished to be buried,” hepointed out to me.
“Why should she?” I demanded hotly. “How old was she—twenty-one?
You don’t think at twenty-one you’re going to die. You don’t start thinkingthen the way you want to be buried. If we’d ever thought about it we’d as-sume we’d be buried together somewhere even if we didn’t die at thesame time. But who thinks of death in the middle of life?”
“A very just observation,” said Mr. Lippincott. Then he said, “I’m afraidyou’ll also have to come to America, you know. There’s a great deal ofbusiness interests you’ll have to look into.”
“What sort of business? What have I got to do with business?”
“You could have a great deal to do with it,” he said. “Don’t you realizethat you’re the principal beneficiary under the will?”
“You mean because I’m Ellie’s next of kin1 or something?”
“No. Under her will.”
“I didn’t know she ever made a will.”
“Oh yes,” said Mr. Lippincott. “Ellie was quite a businesslike young wo-man. She’d had to be, you know. She’d lived in the middle of that kind ofthing. She made a will on coming of age and almost immediately after shewas married. It was lodged5 with her lawyer in London with a request thatone copy should be sent to me.” He hesitated and then said, “If you docome to the States, which I advise, I also think that you should place youraffairs in the hands of some reputable lawyer there.”
“Why?”
“Because in the case of a vast fortune, large quantities of real estate,stocks, controlling interests in varying industries, you will need technicaladvice.”
“I’m not qualified6 to deal with things like that,” I said. “Really I’m not.”
“I quite understand,” said Mr. Lippincott.
“Couldn’t I place the whole thing in your hands?”
“You could do so.”
“Well then, why don’t I?”
“All the same, I think you should be separately represented. I amalready acting7 for some members of the family and a conflict of interestsmight arise. If you will leave it in my hands, I will see that your interestsare safeguarded by your being represented by a thoroughly8 able attor-ney.”
“Thank you,” I said, “you’re very kind.”
“If I may be slightly indiscreet—” he looked a little uncomfortable—itpleased me rather thinking of Lippincott being indiscreet.
“Yes?” I said.
“I should advise you to be very careful of anything you sign. Any busi-ness documents. Before you sign anything, read it thoroughly and care-fully.”
“Would the kind of document you’re talking about mean anything to meif I do read it?”
“If it is not all clear to you, you will then hand it over to your legal ad-viser.”
“Are you warning me against somebody or someone?” I said, with a sud-denly aroused interest.
“That is not at all a proper question for me to answer,” said Mr. Lippin-cott. “I will go this far. Where large sums of money are concerned it is ad-visable to trust nobody.”
So he was warning me against someone, but he wasn’t going to give meany names. I could see that. Was it against Cora? Or had he had suspicions—perhaps suspicions of some long standing—of Stanford Lloyd, that floridbanker so full of bonhomie, so rich and carefree, who had recently beenover here “on business?” Might it be Uncle Frank who might approach mewith some plausible9 documents? I had a sudden vision of myself, a poorinnocent boob, swimming in a lake surrounded by evilly disposed cro-codiles, all smiling false smiles of amity10.
“The world,” said Mr. Lippincott, “is a very evil place.”
It was perhaps a stupid thing to say, but quite suddenly I asked him aquestion.
“Does Ellie’s death benefit anyone?” I asked.
He looked at me sharply.
“That’s a very curious question. Why do you ask that?”
“I don’t know,” I said, “it just came into my head.”
“It benefits you,” he said.
“Of course,” I said. “I take that for granted. I really meant—does it bene-fit anyone else?”
Mr. Lippincott was silent for quite a long time.
“If you mean,” he said, “does Fenella’s will benefit certain other peoplein the way of legacies11, that is so in a minor12 degree. Some old servants, anold governess, one or two charities but nothing of any particular moment.
There’s a legacy13 to Miss Andersen but not a large one for she has already,as you probably know, settled a very considerable sum on Miss Ander-sen.”
I nodded. Ellie had told me she was doing that.
“You were her husband. She had no other near relations. But I take itthat your question did not mean specifically that.”
“I don’t know quite what I meant by it,” I said. “But somehow or other,you’ve succeeded, Mr. Lippincott, in making me feel suspicious. Suspiciousof I don’t know who, or why. Only—well, suspicious. I don’t understandfinance,” I added.
“No, that is quite apparent. Let me say only that I have no exact know-ledge, no exact suspicions of any kind. At someone’s death there is usuallyan accounting14 of their affairs. This may take place quickly or it may bedelayed for a period of many years.”
“What you really mean,” I said, “is that some of the others quite likelymight put a few fast ones over and ball up things generally. Get me per-haps to sign releases—whatever you call the things.”
“If Fenella’s affairs were not, shall we say, in the healthy state theyought to be, then—yes, possibly her premature15 death might be, shall wesay, fortunate for someone, we will name no names, someone perhapswho could cover his traces more easily if he had a fairly simple person, if Imay say so, like yourself to deal with. I will go that far but I do not wish tospeak further on the matter. It would not be equitable16 to do so.”
There was a simple funeral service held in the little church. If I couldhave stayed away I would have done so. I hated all those people who werestaring at me lining17 up outside the church. Curious eyes. Greta pulled methrough things. I don’t think I’d realized until now what a strong, reliablecharacter she was. She made the arrangements, ordered flowers, ar-ranged everything. I understood better now how Ellie had come to dependupon Greta as she had done. There aren’t many Gretas in the world.
The people in the church were mostly our neighbours—some, even, thatwe had hardly known. But I noticed one face that I had seen before, butwhich I could not at the moment place. When I got back to the house, Car-son told me there was a gentleman in the drawing room waiting to see me.
“I can’t see anyone today. Send him away. You shouldn’t have let himin!”
“Excuse me, sir. He said he was a relation.”
“A relation?”
Suddenly I remembered the man I’d seen in the church.
Carson was handing me a card.
It meant nothing to me for a moment. Mr. William R. Pardoe. I turned itover and shook my head. Then I handed it to Greta.
“Do you know by any chance who this is?” I said. “His face seemed fa-miliar but I couldn’t place it. Perhaps it’s one of Ellie’s friends.”
Greta took it from me and looked at it. Then she said:
“Of course.”
“Who is it?”
“Uncle Reuben. You remember. Ellie’s cousin. She’s spoken of him toyou, surely?”
I remembered then why the face had seemed familiar to me. Ellie hadhad several photographs in her sitting room of her various relations care-lessly placed about the room. That was why the face had been so familiar.
I had seen it so far only in a photograph.
“I’ll come,” I said.
I went out of the room and into the drawing room. Mr. Pardoe rose tohis feet, and said:
“Michael Rogers? You may not know my name but your wife was mycousin. She called me Uncle Reuben always, but we haven’t met, I know.
This is the first time I’ve been over since your marriage.”
“Of course I know who you are,” I said.
I don’t know quite how to describe Reuben Pardoe. He was a big burlyman with a large face, wide and rather absent-looking as though he werethinking of something else. Yet after you had talked to him for a few mo-ments you got the feeling that he was more on the ball than you wouldhave thought.
“I don’t need to tell you how shocked and grieved I was to hear of Ellie’sdeath,” he said.
“Let’s skip that,” I said. “I’m not up to talking about it.”
“No, no, I can understand that.”
He had a certain sympathetic personality and yet there was somethingabout him that made me vaguely18 uneasy. I said, as Greta entered:
“You know Miss Andersen?”
“Of course,” he said, “how are you, Greta?”
“Not too bad,” said Greta. “How long have you been over?”
“Just a week or two. Touring around.”
Then it came to me. On an impulse I went in. “I saw you the other day.”
“Really? Where?”
“At an auction19 sale at a place called Bartington Manor20.”
“I remember now,” he said, “yes, yes I think I remember your face. Youwere with a man about sixty with a brown moustache.”
“Yes,” I said. “A Major Phillpot.”
“You seemed in good spirits,” he said, “both of you.”
“Never better,” I said, and repeated with the strange wonder that I al-ways felt, “Never better.”
“Of course—at that time you didn’t know what had happened. That wasthe date of the accident, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, we were expecting Ellie to join us for lunch.”
“Tragic,” said Uncle Reuben. “Really tragic….”
“I had no idea,” I said, “that you were in England. I don’t think Ellie hadany idea either?” I paused, waiting for what he would tell me.
“No,” he said, “I hadn’t written. In fact, I didn’t know how much time Ishould have over here, but actually I’d concluded my business earlier thanI thought and I was wondering if after the sale I’d have the time to driveover and see you.”
“You came over from the States on business?” I asked.
“Well, partly yes and partly no. Cora wanted some advice from me onone or two matters. One concerning this house she’s thinking of buying.”
It was then that he told me where Cora had been staying in England.
Again I said:
“We didn’t know that.”
“She was actually staying not far from here that day,” he said.
“Near here? Was she in a hotel?”
“No, she was staying with a friend.”
“I didn’t know she had any friends in this part of the world.”
“A woman called—now what was her name?—Hard—something. Hard-castle.”
“Claudia Hardcastle?” I was surprised.
“Yes. She was quite a friend of Cora’s. Cora knew her well when she wasin the States. Didn’t you know?”
“I know very little,” I said. “Very little about the family.”
I looked at Greta.
“Did you know that Cora knew Claudia Hardcastle?”
“I don’t think I ever heard her speak of her,” said Greta. “So that’s whyClaudia didn’t turn up that day.”
“Of course,” I said, “she was going with you to shop in London. You wereto meet at Market Chadwell station—”
“Yes—and she wasn’t there. She rang up the house just after I’d left. Saidsome American visitor had turned up unexpectedly and she couldn’t leavehome.”
“I wonder,” I said, “if the American visitor could have been Cora.”
“Obviously,” said Reuben Pardoe. He shook his head. “It all seems soconfused,” he said. He went on, “I understand the inquest was adjourned21.”
“Yes,” I said.
He drained his cup and got up.
“I won’t stay to worry you any more,” he said. “If there’s anything I cando, I’m staying at the Majestic22 Hotel in Market Chadwell.”
I said I was afraid there wasn’t anything he could do and thanked him.
When he had gone away, Greta said:
“What does he want, I wonder? Why did he come over?” And thensharply: “I wish they’d all go back where they belong.”
“I wonder if it was really Stanford Lloyd I saw at the George—I only gota glimpse.”
“You said he was with someone who looked like Claudia so it probablywas him. Perhaps he called to see her and Reuben came to see Cora—whata mix-up!”
“I don’t like it—all of them milling round that day.”
Greta said things often happened that way — as usual she was quitecheerful and reasonable about it.
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kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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ranch
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| n.大牧场，大农场 | |
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whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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wrangle
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| vi.争吵 | |
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lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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amity
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| n.友好关系 | |
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legacies
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| n.遗产( legacy的名词复数 )；遗留之物；遗留问题；后遗症 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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accounting
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| n.会计，会计学，借贷对照表 | |
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premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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equitable
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| adj.公平的；公正的 | |
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lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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auction
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| n.拍卖；拍卖会；vt.拍卖 | |
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manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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adjourned
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| （使）休会， （使）休庭( adjourn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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