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All this sprang out of nothing.
Nothing in the texture of the general life had changed. The corn had not ceased to ripen in the sun. The rivers bore their barges and gave power to a myriad engines. The flocks fattened on the pastures, the herds were unnumbered. Men laboured everywhere in the various servitudes to which they were born, and chafed not more than usual in their bonds. Bellona tossed and murmured as ever, yet still slept her uneasy sleep. To all mankind save a million or two of half-crazed gamblers, blind to all reality, the death of Manderson meant nothing; the life and work of the world went on. Weeks before he died strong hands had been in control of every wire in the huge network of commerce and industry that he had supervised. Before his corpse was buried his countrymen had made a strange discovery—that the existence of the potent engine of monopoly that went by the name of Sigsbee Manderson had not been a condition of even material prosperity. The panic blew itself out in two days, the pieces were picked up, the bankrupts withdrew out of sight; the market ‘recovered a normal tone’.
While the brief delirium was yet subsiding there broke out a domestic scandal in England that suddenly fixed the attention of two continents. Next morning the Chicago Limited was wrecked, and the same day a notable politician was shot down in cold blood by his wife’s brother in the streets of New Orleans. Within a week of its rising, ‘the Manderson story’, to the trained sense of editors throughout the Union, was ‘cold’. The tide of American visitors pouring through Europe made eddies round the memorial or statue of many a man who had died in poverty; and never thought of their most famous plutocrat. Like the poet who died in Rome, so young and poor, a hundred years ago, he was buried far away from his own land; but for all the men and women of Manderson’s people who flock round the tomb of Keats in the cemetery under the Monte Testaccio, there is not one, nor ever will be, to stand in reverence by the rich man’s grave beside the little church of Marlstone.
CHAPTER II (#ulink_980a1858-f4b4-5f5a-9d8e-e92999d3e896)
KNOCKING THE TOWN ENDWAYS (#ulink_980a1858-f4b4-5f5a-9d8e-e92999d3e896)
IN the only comfortably furnished room in the offices of the Record, the telephone on Sir James Molloy’s table buzzed. Sir James made a motion with his pen, and Mr Silver, his secretary, left his work and came over to the instrument.
‘Who is that?’ he said. ‘Who? … I can’t hear you … Oh, it’s Mr Bunner, is it? … Yes, but … I know, but he’s fearfully busy this afternoon. Can’t you … Oh, really? Well, in that case—just hold on, will you?’
He placed the receiver before Sir James. ‘It’s Calvin Bunner, Sigsbee Manderson’s right-hand man,’ he said concisely. ‘He insists on speaking to you personally. Says it is the gravest piece of news. He is talking from the house down by Bishopsbridge, so it will be necessary to speak clearly.’
Sir James looked at the telephone, not affectionately, and took up the receiver. ‘Well?’ he said in his strong voice, and listened. ‘Yes,’ he said. The next moment Mr Silver, eagerly watching him, saw a look of amazement and horror. ‘Good God!’ murmured Sir James. Clutching the instrument, he slowly rose to his feet, still bending ear intently. At intervals he repeated ‘Yes.’ Presently, as he listened, he glanced at the clock, and spoke quickly to Mr Silver over the top of the transmitter. ‘Go and hunt up Figgis and young Williams. Hurry.’ Mr Silver darted from the room.
The great journalist was a tall, strong, clever Irishman of fifty, swart and black-moustached, a man of untiring business energy, well known in the world, which he understood very thoroughly, and played upon with the half-cynical competence of his race. Yet was he without a touch of the charlatan: he made no mysteries, and no pretences of knowledge, and he saw instantly through these in others. In his handsome, well-bred, well-dressed appearance there was something a little sinister when anger or intense occupation put its imprint about his eyes and brow; but when his generous nature was under no restraint he was the most cordial of men. He was managing director of the company which owned that most powerful morning paper, the Record, and also that most indispensable evening paper, the Sun, which had its offices on the other side of the street. He was, moreover, editor-in-chief of the Record, to which he had in the course of years attached the most variously capable personnel in the country. It was a maxim of his that where you could not get gifts, you must do the best you could with solid merit; and he employed a great deal of both. He was respected by his staff as few are respected in a profession not favourable to the growth of the sentiment of reverence.
‘You’re sure that’s all?’ asked Sir James, after a few minutes of earnest listening and questioning. ‘And how long has this been known? … Yes, of course, the police are; but the servants? Surely it’s all over the place down there by now … Well, we’ll have a try … Look here, Bunner, I’m infinitely obliged to you about this. I owe you a good turn. You know I mean what I say. Come and see me the first day you get to town … All right, that’s understood. Now I must act on your news. Goodbye.’
Sir James hung up the receiver, and seized a railway timetable from the rack before him. After a rapid consultation of this oracle, he flung it down with a forcible word as Mr Silver hurried into the room, followed by a hard-featured man with spectacles, and a youth with an alert eye.
‘I want you to jot down some facts, Figgis,’ said Sir James, banishing all signs of agitation and speaking with a rapid calmness. ‘When you have them, put them into shape just as quick as you can for a special edition of the Sun.’ The hard-featured man nodded and glanced at the clock, which pointed to a few minutes past three; he pulled out a notebook and drew a chair up to the big writing-table. ‘Silver,’ Sir James went on, ‘go and tell Jones to wire our local correspondent very urgently, to drop everything and get down to Marlstone at once. He is not to say why in the telegram. There must not be an unnecessary word about this news until the Sun is on the streets with it—you all understand. Williams, cut across the way and tell Mr Anthony to hold himself ready for a two-column opening that will knock the town endways. Just tell him that he must take all measures and precautions for a scoop. Say that Figgis will be over in five minutes with the facts, and that he had better let him write up the story in his private room. As you go, ask Miss Morgan to see me here at once, and tell the telephone people to see if they can get Mr Trent on the wire for me. After seeing Mr Anthony, return here and stand by.’ The alert-eyed young man vanished like a spirit.
Sir James turned instantly to Mr Figgis, whose pencil was poised over the paper. ‘Sigsbee Manderson has been murdered,’ he began quickly and clearly, pacing the floor with his hands behind him. Mr Figgis scratched down a line of shorthand with as much emotion as if he had been told that the day was fine—the pose of his craft. ‘He and his wife and two secretaries have been for the past fortnight at the house called White Gables, at Marlstone, near Bishopsbridge. He bought it four years ago. He and Mrs Manderson have since spent a part of each summer there. Last night he went to bed about half-past eleven, just as usual. No one knows when he got up and left the house. He was not missed until this morning. About ten o’clock his body was found by a gardener. It was lying by a shed in the grounds. He was shot in the head, through the left eye. Death must have been instantaneous. The body was not robbed, but there were marks on the wrists which pointed to a struggle having taken place. Dr Stock, of Marlstone, was at once sent for, and will conduct the post-mortem examination. The police from Bishopsbridge, who were soon on the spot, are reticent, but it is believed that they are quite without a clue to the identity of the murderer. There you are, Figgis. Mr Anthony is expecting you. Now I must telephone him and arrange things.’
Mr Figgis looked up. ‘One of the ablest detectives at Scotland Yard,’ he suggested, ‘has been put in charge of the case. It’s a safe statement.’
‘If you like,’ said Sir James.
‘And Mrs Manderson? Was she there?’
‘Yes. What about her?’
‘Prostrated by the shock,’ hinted the reporter, ‘and sees nobody. Human interest.’
‘I wouldn’t put that in, Mr Figgis,’ said a quiet voice. It belonged to Miss Morgan, a pale, graceful woman, who had silently made her appearance while the dictation was going on. ‘I have seen Mrs Manderson,’ she proceeded, turning to Sir James. ‘She looks quite healthy and intelligent. Has her husband been murdered? I don’t think the shock would prostrate her. She is more likely to be doing all she can to help the police.’
‘Something in your own style, then, Miss Morgan,’ he said with a momentary smile. Her imperturbable efficiency was an office proverb. ‘Cut it out, Figgis. Off you go! Now, madam, I expect you know what I want.’
‘Our Manderson biography happens to be well up to date,’ replied Miss Morgan, drooping her dark eyelashes as she considered the position. ‘I was looking over it only a few months ago. It is practically ready for tomorrow’s paper. I should think the Sun had better use the sketch of his life they had about two years ago, when he went to Berlin and settled the potash difficulty. I remember it was a very good sketch, and they won’t be able to carry much more than that. As for our paper, of course we have a great quantity of cuttings, mostly rubbish. The sub-editors shall have them as soon as they come in. Then we have two very good portraits that are our own property; the best is a drawing Mr Trent made when they were both on the same ship somewhere. It is better than any of the photographs; but you say the public prefers a bad photograph to a good drawing. I will send them down to you at once, and you can choose. As far as I can see, the Record is well ahead of the situation, except that you will not be able to get a special man down there in time to be of any use for tomorrow’s paper.’
Sir James sighed deeply. ‘What are we good for, anyhow?’ he enquired dejectedly of Mr Silver, who had returned to his desk. ‘She even knows Bradshaw by heart.’
Miss Morgan adjusted her cuffs with an air of patience. ‘Is there anything else?’ she asked, as the telephone bell rang.
‘Yes, one thing,’ replied Sir James, as he took up the receiver. ‘I want you to make a bad mistake some time, Miss Morgan—an everlasting bloomer—just to put us in countenance.’ She permitted herself the fraction of what would have been a charming smile as she went out.
‘Anthony?’ asked Sir James, and was at once deep in consultation with the editor on the other side of the road. He seldom entered the Sun building in person; the atmosphere of an evening paper, he would say, was all very well if you liked that kind of thing. Mr Anthony, the Murat of Fleet Street, who delighted in riding the whirlwind and fighting a tumultuous battle against time, would say the same of a morning paper.
It was some five minutes later that a uniformed boy came in to say that Mr Trent was on the wire. Sir James abruptly closed his talk with Mr Anthony.
‘They can put him through at once,’ he said to the boy.
‘Hullo!’ he cried into the telephone after a few moments.
A voice in the instrument replied, ‘Hullo be blowed! What do you want?’
‘This is Molloy,’ said Sir James.
‘I know it is,’ the voice said. ‘This is Trent. He is in the middle of painting a picture, and he has been interrupted at a critical moment. Well, I hope it’s something important, that’s all!’
‘Trent,’ said Sir James impressively, ‘it is important. I want you to do some work for us.’
‘Some play, you mean,’ replied the voice. ‘Believe me, I don’t want a holiday. The working fit is very strong. I am doing some really decent things. Why can’t you leave a man alone?’
‘Something very serious has happened.’
‘What?’
‘Sigsbee Manderson has been murdered—shot through the brain—and they don’t know who has done it. They found the body this morning. It happened at his place near Bishopsbridge.’ Sir James proceeded to tell his hearer, briefly and clearly, the facts that he had communicated to Mr Figgis. ‘What do you think of it?’ he ended.
A considering grunt was the only answer.
‘Come now,’ urged Sir James.
‘Tempter!’
‘You will go down?’
There was a brief pause.
‘Are you there?’ said Sir James.
‘Look here, Molloy,’ the voice broke out querulously, ‘the thing may be a case for me, or it may not. We can’t possibly tell. It may be a mystery; it may be as simple as bread and cheese. The body not being robbed looks interesting, but he may have been outed by some wretched tramp whom he found sleeping in the grounds and tried to kick out. It’s the sort of thing he would do. Such a murderer might easily have sense enough to know that to leave the money and valuables was the safest thing. I tell you frankly, I wouldn’t have a hand in hanging a poor devil who had let daylight into a man like Sig Manderson as a measure of social protest.’
Sir James smiled at the telephone—a smile of success. ‘Come, my boy, you’re getting feeble. Admit you want to go and have a look at the case. You know you do. If it’s anything you don’t want to handle, you’re free to drop it. By the by, where are you?’
‘I am blown along a wandering wind,’ replied the voice irresolutely, ‘and hollow, hollow, hollow all delight.’
‘Can you get here within an hour?’ persisted Sir James.
‘I suppose I can,’ the voice grumbled. ‘How much time have I?’
‘Good man! Well, there’s time enough—that’s just the worst of it. I’ve got to depend on our local correspondent for tonight. The only good train of the day went half an hour ago. The next is a slow one, leaving Paddington at midnight. You could have the Buster, if you like’—Sir James referred to a very fast motor car of his—‘but you wouldn’t get down in time to do anything tonight.’
‘And I’d miss my sleep. No, thanks. The train for me. I am quite fond of railway travelling, you know; I have a gift for it. I am the stoker and the stoked. I am the song the porter sings.’
‘What’s that you say?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said the voice sadly. ‘I say,’ it continued, ‘will your people look out a hotel near the scene of action, and telegraph for a room?’
‘At once,’ said Sir James. ‘Come here as soon as you can.’
He replaced the receiver. As he turned to his papers again a shrill outcry burst forth in the street below. He walked to the open window. A band of excited boys was rushing down the steps of the Sun building and up the narrow thoroughfare toward Fleet Street. Each carried a bundle of newspapers and a large broadsheet with the simple legend:
MURDER
OF
SIGSBEE
MANDERSON
Sir James smiled and rattled the money in his pockets cheerfully.
‘It makes a good bill,’ he observed to Mr Silver, who stood at his elbow.
Such was Manderson’s epitaph.
CHAPTER III (#ulink_39e4ae35-b767-5aa8-ab79-0539dee14dae)
BREAKFAST (#ulink_39e4ae35-b767-5aa8-ab79-0539dee14dae)
AT about eight o’clock in the morning of the following day Mr Nathaniel Burton Cupples stood on the veranda of the hotel at Marlstone. He was thinking about breakfast. In his case the colloquialism must be taken literally: he really was thinking about breakfast, as he thought about every conscious act of his life when time allowed deliberation. He reflected that on the preceding day the excitement and activity following upon the discovery of the dead man had disorganised his appetite, and led to his taking considerably less nourishment than usual. This morning he was very hungry, having already been up and about for an hour; and he decided to allow himself a third piece of toast and an additional egg; the rest as usual. The remaining deficit must be made up at luncheon, but that could be gone into later.
So much being determined, Mr Cupples applied himself to the enjoyment of the view for a few minutes before ordering his meal. With a connoisseur’s eye he explored the beauty of the rugged coast, where a great pierced rock rose from a glassy sea, and the ordered loveliness of the vast tilted levels of pasture and tillage and woodland that sloped gently up from the cliffs toward the distant moor. Mr Cupples delighted in landscape.
He was a man of middle height and spare figure, nearly sixty years old, by constitution rather delicate in health, but wiry and active for his age. A sparse and straggling beard and moustache did not conceal a thin but kindly mouth; his eyes were keen and pleasant; his sharp nose and narrow jaw gave him very much of a clerical air, and this impression was helped by his commonplace dark clothes and soft black hat. The whole effect of him, indeed, was priestly. He was a man of unusually conscientious, industrious, and orderly mind, with little imagination. His father’s household had been used to recruit its domestic establishment by means of advertisements in which it was truthfully described as a serious family. From that fortress of gloom he had escaped with two saintly gifts somehow unspoiled: an inexhaustible kindness of heart, and a capacity for innocent gaiety which owed nothing to humour. In an earlier day and with a clerical training he might have risen to the scarlet hat. He was, in fact, a highly regarded member of the London Positivist Society, a retired banker, a widower without children. His austere but not unhappy life was spent largely among books and in museums; his profound and patiently accumulated knowledge of a number of curiously disconnected subjects which had stirred his interest at different times had given him a place in the quiet, half-lit world of professors and curators and devotees of research; at their amiable, unconvivial dinner parties he was most himself. His favourite author was Montaigne.
Just as Mr Cupples was finishing his meal at a little table on the veranda, a big motor car turned into the drive before the hotel. ‘Who is this?’ he enquired of the waiter. ‘Id is der manager,’ said the young man listlessly. ‘He have been to meed a gendleman by der train.’
The car drew up and the porter hurried from the entrance. Mr Cupples uttered an exclamation of pleasure as a long, loosely built man, much younger than himself, stepped from the car and mounted the veranda, flinging his hat on a chair. His high-boned, quixotic face wore a pleasant smile; his rough tweed clothes, his hair and short moustache were tolerably untidy.
‘Cupples, by all that’s miraculous!’ cried the man, pouncing upon Mr Cupples before he could rise, and seizing his outstretched hand in a hard grip. ‘My luck is serving me today,’ the newcomer went on spasmodically. ‘This is the second slice within an hour. How are you, my best of friends? And why are you here? Why sit’st thou by that ruined breakfast? Dost thou its former pride recall, or ponder how it passed away? I am glad to see you!’
‘I was half expecting you, Trent,’ Mr Cupples replied, his face wreathed in smiles. ‘You are looking splendid, my dear fellow. I will tell you all about it. But you cannot have had your own breakfast yet. Will you have it at my table here?’
‘Rather!’ said the man. ‘An enormous great breakfast, too—with refined conversation and tears of recognition never dry. Will you get young Siegfried to lay a place for me while I go and wash? I shan’t be three minutes.’ He disappeared into the hotel, and Mr Cupples, after a moment’s thought, went to the telephone in the porter’s office.
He returned to find his friend already seated, pouring out tea, and showing an unaffected interest in the choice of food. ‘I expect this to be a hard day for me,’ he said, with the curious jerky utterance which seemed to be his habit. ‘I shan’t eat again till the evening, very likely. You guess why I’m here, don’t you?’
‘Undoubtedly,’ said Mr Cupples. ‘You have come down to write about the murder.’
‘That is rather a colourless way of stating it,’ the man called Trent replied, as he dissected a sole. ‘I should prefer to put it that I have come down in the character of avenger of blood, to hunt down the guilty, and vindicate the honour of society. That is my line of business. Families waited on at their private residences. I say, Cupples, I have made a good beginning already. Wait a bit, and I’ll tell you.’ There was a silence, during which the newcomer ate swiftly and abstractedly, while Mr Cupples looked on happily.
‘Your manager here,’ said the tall man at last, ‘is a fellow of remarkable judgement. He is an admirer of mine. He knows more about my best cases than I do myself. The Record wired last night to say I was coming, and when I got out of the train at seven o’clock this morning, there he was waiting for me with a motor car the size of a haystack. He is beside himself with joy at having me here. It is fame.’ He drank a cup of tea and continued: ‘Almost his first words were to ask me if I would like to see the body of the murdered man—if so, he thought he could manage it for me. He is as keen as a razor. The body lies in Dr Stock’s surgery, you know, down in the village, exactly as it was when found. It’s to be post-mortem’d this morning, by the way, so I was only just in time. Well, he ran me down here to the doctor’s, giving me full particulars about the case all the way. I was pretty well au fait by the time we arrived. I suppose the manager of a place like this has some sort of a pull with the doctor. Anyhow, he made no difficulties, nor did the constable on duty, though he was careful to insist on my not giving him away in the paper.’
‘I saw the body before it was removed,’ remarked Mr Cupples. ‘I should not have said there was anything remarkable about it, except that the shot in the eye had scarcely disfigured the face at all, and caused scarcely any effusion of blood, apparently. The wrists were scratched and bruised. I expect that, with your trained faculties, you were able to remark other details of a suggestive nature.’
‘Other details, certainly; but I don’t know that they suggest anything. They are merely odd. Take the wrists, for instance. How was it you could see bruises and scratches on them? I dare say you saw something of Manderson down here before the murder.’
‘Certainly,’ Mr Cupples said.
‘Well, did you ever see his wrists?’
Mr Cupples reflected. ‘No. Now you raise the point, I am reminded that when I interviewed Manderson here he was wearing stiff cuffs, coming well down over his hands.’
‘He always did,’ said Trent. ‘My friend the manager says so. I pointed out to him the fact you didn’t observe, that there were no cuffs visible, and that they had, indeed, been dragged up inside the coat-sleeves, as yours would be if you hurried into a coat without pulling your cuffs down. That was why you saw his wrists.’
‘Well, I call that suggestive,’ observed Mr Cupples mildly. ‘You might infer, perhaps, that when he got up he hurried over his dressing.’
‘Yes, but did he? The manager said just what you say. “He was always a bit of a swell in his dress,” he told me, and he drew the inference that when Manderson got up in that mysterious way, before the house was stirring, and went out into the grounds, he was in a great hurry. “Look at his shoes,” he said to me: “Mr Manderson was always specially neat about his footwear. But those shoe-laces were tied in a hurry.” I agreed. “And he left his false teeth in his room,” said the manager. “Doesn’t that prove he was flustered and hurried?” I allowed that it looked like it. But I said, “Look here: if he was so very much pressed, why did he part his hair so carefully? That parting is a work of art. Why did he put on so much? For he had on a complete outfit of underclothing, studs in his shirt, sock-suspenders, a watch and chain, money and keys and things in his pockets. That’s what I said to the manager. He couldn’t find an explanation. Can you?”
Mr Cupples considered. ‘Those facts might suggest that he was hurried only at the end of his dressing. Coat and shoes would come last.’
‘But not false teeth. You ask anybody who wears them. And besides, I’m told he hadn’t washed at all on getting up, which in a neat man looks like his being in a violent hurry from the beginning. And here’s another thing. One of his waistcoat pockets was lined with wash-leather for the reception of his gold watch. But he had put his watch into the pocket on the other side. Anybody who has settled habits can see how odd that is. The fact is, there are signs of great agitation and haste, and there are signs of exactly the opposite. For the present I am not guessing. I must reconnoitre the ground first, if I can manage to get the right side of the people of the house.’ Trent applied himself again to his breakfast.
Mr Cupples smiled at him benevolently. ‘That is precisely the point,’ he said, ‘on which I can be of some assistance to you.’ Trent glanced up in surprise. ‘I told you I half expected you. I will explain the situation. Mrs Manderson, who is my niece—’
‘What!’ Trent laid down his knife and fork with a clash. ‘Cupples, you are jesting with me.’
‘I am perfectly serious, Trent, really,’ returned Mr Cupples earnestly. ‘Her father, John Peter Domecq, was my wife’s brother. I never mentioned my niece or her marriage to you before, I suppose. To tell the truth, it has always been a painful subject to me, and I have avoided discussing it with anybody. To return to what I was about to say: last night, when I was over at the house—by the way, you can see it from here. You passed it in the car.’ He indicated a red roof among poplars some three hundred yards away, the only building in sight that stood separate from the tiny village in the gap below them.
‘Certainly I did,’ said Trent. ‘The manager told me all about it, among other things, as he drove me in from Bishopsbridge.’
‘Other people here have heard of you and your performances,’ Mr Cupples went on. ‘As I was saying, when I was over there last night, Mr Bunner, who is one of Manderson’s two secretaries, expressed a hope that the Record would send you down to deal with the case, as the police seemed quite at a loss. He mentioned one or two of your past successes, and Mabel—my niece—was interested when I told her afterwards. She is bearing up wonderfully well, Trent; she has remarkable fortitude of character. She said she remembered reading your articles about the Abinger case. She has a great horror of the newspaper side of this sad business, and she had entreated me to do anything I could to keep journalists away from the place—I’m sure you can understand her feeling, Trent; it isn’t really any reflection on that profession. But she said you appeared to have great powers as a detective, and she would not stand in the way of anything that might clear up the crime. Then I told her you were a personal friend of mine, and gave you a good character for tact and consideration of others’ feelings; and it ended in her saying that, if you should come, she would like you to be helped in every way.’
Trent leaned across the table and shook Mr Cupples by the hand in silence. Mr Cupples, much delighted with the way things were turning out, resumed:
‘I spoke to my niece on the telephone only just now, and she is glad you are here. She asks me to say that you may make any enquiries you like, and she puts the house and grounds at your disposal. She had rather not see you herself; she is keeping to her own sitting-room. She has already been interviewed by a detective officer who is there, and she feels unequal to any more. She adds that she does not believe she could say anything that would be of the smallest use. The two secretaries and Martin, the butler (who is a most intelligent man), could tell you all you want to know, she thinks.’
Trent finished his breakfast with a thoughtful brow. He filled a pipe slowly, and seated himself on the rail of the veranda. ‘Cupples,’ he said quietly, ‘is there anything about this business that you know and would rather not tell me?’
Mr Cupples gave a slight start, and turned an astonished gaze on the questioner. ‘What do you mean?’ he said.
‘I mean about the Mandersons. Look here! Shall I tell you a thing that strikes me about this affair at the very beginning? Here’s a man suddenly and violently killed, and nobody’s heart seems to be broken about it, to say the least. The manager of this hotel spoke to me about him as coolly as if he’d never set eyes on him, though I understand they’ve been neighbours every summer for some years. Then you talk about the thing in the coldest of blood. And Mrs Manderson—well, you won’t mind my saying that I have heard of women being more cut up about their husbands being murdered than she seems to be. Is there something in this, Cupples, or is it my fancy? Was there something queer about Manderson? I travelled on the same boat with him once, but never spoke to him. I only know his public character, which was repulsive enough. You see, this may have a bearing on the case; that’s the only reason why I ask.’
Mr Cupples took time for thought. He fingered his sparse beard and looked out over the sea. At last he turned to Trent. ‘I see no reason,’ he said, ‘why I shouldn’t tell you as between ourselves, my dear fellow. I need not say that this must not be referred to, however distantly. The truth is that nobody really liked Manderson; and I think those who were nearest to him liked him least.’
‘Why?’ the other interjected.
‘Most people found a difficulty in explaining why. In trying to account to myself for my own sensations, I could only put it that one felt in the man a complete absence of the sympathetic faculty. There was nothing outwardly repellent about him. He was not ill-mannered, or vicious, or dull—indeed, he could be remarkably interesting. But I received the impression that there could be no human creature whom he would not sacrifice in the pursuit of his schemes, in his task of imposing himself and his will upon the world. Perhaps that was fanciful, but I think not altogether so. However, the point is that Mabel, I am sorry to say, was very unhappy. I am nearly twice your age, my dear boy, though you always so kindly try to make me feel as if we were contemporaries—I am getting to be an old man, and a great many people have been good enough to confide their matrimonial troubles to me; but I never knew another case like my niece’s and her husband’s. I have known her since she was a baby, Trent, and I know—you understand, I think, that I do not employ that word lightly—I know that she is as amiable and honourable a woman, to say nothing of her other good gifts, as any man could wish. But Manderson, for some time past, had made her miserable.’
‘What did he do?’ asked Trent, as Mr Cupples paused.
‘When I put that question to Mabel, her words were that he seemed to nurse a perpetual grievance. He maintained a distance between them, and he would say nothing. I don’t know how it began or what was behind it; and all she would tell me on that point was that he had no cause in the world for his attitude. I think she knew what was in his mind, whatever it was; but she is full of pride. This seems to have gone on for months. At last, a week ago, she wrote to me. I am the only near relative she has. Her mother died when she was a child; and after John Peter died I was something like a father to her until she married—that was five years ago. She asked me to come and help her, and I came at once. That is why I am here now.’
