The Mystery of Lincoln's Inn Part 15

Gilbert followed him to the door, and put some silver into his hand as he went out. Then Gilbert closed the door, and sat down beside his father.

"It looks," said he, "as if there were some uncommonly queer goings-on in this old Inn."

But his father scarcely noticed what he said. Francis Eversleigh's gaze was fastened on the paper lying before him on his table--the paper which was partly printed, partly written on.

It was an official certificate from the Syndic of Camajore in Italy, duly signed and sealed, of the death of Cooper Silwood.

CHAPTER XII

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

When he first saw the packet he thought there was something ominous about it, and a sure prescience that it contained bad news deterred him from opening it immediately; he therefore allowed it to lie on his table for some time. Such a want of courage had now become characteristic of the tortured man. At last, however, he screwed himself up to the point of looking into it. As it happened, he took out and glanced at the letter first; it was in a language he did not know, but he guessed it was Italian. It was written in a minute, cramped hand, difficult, in any case, to decipher, and he put it aside. Then he scanned the certificate.

Here the printed words and his Latin helped him, and he had little trouble 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 swam distressingly, his heart fluttered painfully, as he fell back gasping in his 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 blot out everything else for the time.

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

Then his brain clouded.

"Cooper Silwood dead--dead--dead--dead!" he babbled to himself, looking at the spots in the wall opposite him, and noting mechanically the shapes and sizes of them. "Dead--dead--dead!" he mumbled, till the words lost all meaning.

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

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

When Gilbert appeared in his father's room he found Francis Eversleigh in 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, of course, they were the tears of one who mourns. They could not but seem natural in the circ.u.mstances. He had always disliked Silwood; but his father and Silwood had been a.s.sociated in business for many years, and though he was rather surprised that his father should be in tears over Silwood's death, he was not at a loss altogether to account for it: his father, he thought, had a good heart, and was overcome with sorrow. He supposed that a long acquaintance with Silwood had shown his father some excellent qualities in the man now dead--qualities which he himself could not see.

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

"Yes," said Francis Eversleigh, in a harsh, strained voice, staring straight 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, I should prefer to learn something of the circ.u.mstances attending Mr.

Silwood's death. I must have this letter translated," said Francis Eversleigh, pointing to the communication in the small, cramped handwriting; "I think it will tell us exactly what has happened."

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

"Bring him here," said Eversleigh, who wished to keep everything connected 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 some firmness.

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

It was from Ugo Ucelli, Syndic of Camajore, which place, the interpreter explained, was in the north of Tuscany, a few miles from the coast, and no great distance from Leghorn, but the nearest town of importance was Lucca.

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

Mr. Silwood had said he was a partner of Mr. Eversleigh's. He, the Syndic, now hastened to write in accordance with the command of the deceased gentleman; he regretted that he had to give Mr. Eversleigh the pain of hearing the sad news, but he had a sacred duty to the dead to perform, 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 all along the Gulf of Genoa and southward as far as Leghorn. Mr. Silwood had fallen a victim to this plague--alas! its victims were numbered by hundreds and thousands; it was the greatest calamity that had visited Italy for many years!

In Mr. Silwood's case there had been little hope from the commencement of his sickness, to which he succ.u.mbed after about twenty-four hours.

Everything had been done for him that could be done; he had been attended by a doctor of skill and experience, nor had the tendance of competent nurses been wanting. Ah! It was evidently the will of G.o.d! The usual certificate of death was enclosed.

Owing to the requirements of the law, concluded the Syndic, the body was buried early on the morning of the day following that on which the death took place. The deceased had left some effects about which he had not given directions. These were now in his, the Syndic's possession, and he asked what was to be done with them. As Mr. Eversleigh would doubtless know what was proper in the circ.u.mstances, he, the Syndic, would be glad to 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 letter and of the death certificate; this he did, received his fee, and withdrew.

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

Francis Eversleigh had listened in a sort of heavy stupor to the reading of the Syndic's letter. The feeling which emerged most prominently from out of the chaos of his thoughts was one of envy; he envied Silwood, inasmuch as he was finally beyond the reach of the law--he had gone where its long arm could not go--he was safe!

Eversleigh then tried to think what was his position now Silwood was dead, and Morris Thornton was dead, most probably, also; but the man's brain was tired and sick and torpid from the frightful blows it had already been called upon to sustain. With a deep sigh, he confessed his impotence to himself, and abandoned the attempt.

"We must tell the others at once," he said, feeling it was easier to do something than to think, "and have an announcement of the death drawn up. 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 he had been silent.

"What a strange place," he observed, "for Mr. Silwood to have been at!

Perhaps, though, he was just pa.s.sing through. Still, at this time of the year, 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 of Italy, 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; he seemed 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 be taken out, and his estate looked after generally. You will do that, I presume?"

"Oh, about his will. I don't believe," returned Eversleigh, "that his will is in the office--indeed, I am not aware there is a will at all."