A soft step outside the door – a soft halting footstep. Then the door swung silently open …
Mrs Harter staggered to her feet, swaying slightly from side to side, her eyes fixed on the doorway, something slipped from her fingers into the grate.
She gave a strangled cry which died in her throat. In the dim light of the doorway stood a familiar figure with chestnut beard and whiskers and an old-fashioned Victorian coat.
Patrick had come for her!
Her heart gave one terrified leap and stood still. She slipped to the ground in a huddled heap.
There Elizabeth found her, an hour later.
Dr Meynell was called at once and Charles Ridgeway was hastily recalled from his bridge party. But nothing could be done. Mrs Harter had gone beyond human aid.
It was not until two days later that Elizabeth remembered the note given to her by her mistress. Dr Meynell read it with great interest and showed it to Charles Ridgeway.
‘A very curious coincidence,’ he said. ‘It seems clear that your aunt had been having hallucinations about her dead husband’s voice. She must have strung herself up to such a point that the excitement was fatal and when the time actually came she died of the shock.’
‘Auto-suggestion?’ said Charles.
‘Something of the sort. I will let you know the result of the autopsy as soon as possible, though I have no doubt of it myself.’ In the circumstances an autopsy was desirable, though purely as a matter of form.
Charles nodded comprehendingly.
On the preceding night, when the household was in bed, he had removed a certain wire which ran from the back of the wireless cabinet to his bedroom on the floor above. Also, since the evening had been a chilly one, he had asked Elizabeth to light a fire in his room, and in that fire he had burned a chestnut beard and whiskers. Some Victorian clothing belonging to his late uncle he replaced in the camphor-scented chest in the attic.
As far as he could see, he was perfectly safe. His plan, the shadowy outline of which had first formed in his brain when Doctor Meynell had told him that his aunt might with due care live for many years, had succeeded admirably. A sudden shock, Dr Meynell had said. Charles, that affectionate young man, beloved of old ladies, smiled to himself.
When the doctor departed, Charles went about his duties mechanically. Certain funeral arrangements had to be finally settled. Relatives coming from a distance had to have trains looked out for them. In one or two cases they would have to stay the night. Charles went about it all efficiently and methodically, to the accompaniment of an undercurrent of his own thoughts.
A very good stroke of business! That was the burden of them. Nobody, least of all his dead aunt, had known in what perilous straits Charles stood. His activities, carefully concealed from the world, had landed him where the shadow of a prison loomed ahead.
Exposure and ruin had stared him in the face unless he could in a few short months raise a considerable sum of money. Well – that was all right now. Charles smiled to himself. Thanks to – yes, call it a practical joke – nothing criminal about that – he was saved. He was now a very rich man. He had no anxieties on the subject, for Mrs Harter had never made any secret of her intentions.
Chiming in very appositely with these thoughts, Elizabeth put her head round the door and informed him that Mr Hopkinson was here and would like to see him.
About time, too, Charles thought. Repressing a tendency to whistle, he composed his face to one of suitable gravity and repaired to the library. There he greeted the precise old gentleman who had been for over a quarter of a century the late Mrs Harter’s legal adviser.
The lawyer seated himself at Charles’ invitation and with a dry cough entered upon business matters.
‘I did not quite understand your letter to me, Mr Ridgeway. You seemed to be under the impression that the late Mrs Harter’s will was in our keeping?’
Charles stared at him.
‘But surely – I’ve heard my aunt say as much.’
‘Oh! quite so, quite so. It was in our keeping.’
‘Was?’
‘That is what I said. Mrs Harter wrote to us, asking that it might be forwarded to her on Tuesday last.’
An uneasy feeling crept over Charles. He felt a far-off premonition of unpleasantness.
‘Doubtless it will come to light amongst her papers,’ continued the lawyer smoothly.
Charles said nothing. He was afraid to trust his tongue. He had already been through Mrs Harter’s papers pretty thoroughly, well enough to be quite certain that no will was amongst them. In a minute or two, when he had regained control of himself, he said so. His voice sounded unreal to himself, and he had a sensation as of cold water trickling down his back.
‘Has anyone been through her personal effects?’ asked the lawyer.
Charles replied that her own maid, Elizabeth, had done so. At Mr Hopkinson’s suggestion, Elizabeth was sent for. She came promptly, grim and upright, and answered the questions put to her.
She had been through all her mistress’s clothes and personal belongings. She was quite sure that there had been no legal document such as a will amongst them. She knew what the will looked like – her mistress had had it in her hand only the morning of her death.
‘You are sure of that?’ asked the lawyer sharply.
‘Yes, sir. She told me so, and she made me take fifty pounds in notes. The will was in a long blue envelope.’
‘Quite right,’ said Mr Hopkinson.
‘Now I come to think of it,’ continued Elizabeth, ‘that same blue envelope was lying on this table the morning after – but empty. I laid it on the desk.’
‘I remember seeing it there,’ said Charles.
He got up and went over to the desk. In a minute or two he turned round with an envelope in his hand which he handed to Mr Hopkinson. The latter examined it and nodded his head.
‘That is the envelope in which I despatched the will on Tuesday last.’
Both men looked hard at Elizabeth.
‘Is there anything more, sir?’ she inquired respectfully.
‘Not at present, thank you.’
Elizabeth went towards the door.
‘One minute,’ said the lawyer. ‘Was there a fire in the grate that evening?’
‘Yes, sir, there was always a fire.’
‘Thank you, that will do.’
Elizabeth went out. Charles leaned forward, resting a shaking hand on the table.
‘What do you think? What are you driving at?’
Mr Hopkinson shook his head.
‘We must still hope the will may turn up. If it does not –’
‘Well, if it does not?’
‘I am afraid there is only one conclusion possible. Your aunt sent for that will in order to destroy it. Not wishing Elizabeth to lose by that, she gave her the amount of her legacy in cash.’
‘But why?’ cried Charles wildly. ‘Why?’
Mr Hopkinson coughed. A dry cough.
‘You have had no – er – disagreement with your aunt, Mr Ridgeway?’ he murmured.
Charles gasped.
‘No, indeed,’ he cried warmly. ‘We were on the kindest, most affectionate terms, right up to