in the vicinity of bedford square, so near to it that we may as well designate the locality by that name throughout the story, stood the large professional residence of greatorex and greatorex. it was large in every sense of the word; both as to the size of the house, and to the extent of the business transacted in it. a safe, good, respectable firm was that of greatorex and greatorex, standing as well in the public estimation as any solicitors could stand; and deservedly so, mr. greatorex was a man of nice honour; upright, just, trustworthy. he would not have soiled his hands with what is technically called dirty work; if any client wanted underhand business done, swindling work (although it might be legal) that would not bear the light of day, he need not take it to greatorex and greatorex.
the head of the firm, john greatorex, was still in what many call the prime of life. he was fifty-eight, active and energetic. marrying when he was very young, he really did not look a great deal older than his son bede. and bede was not his first-born. the eldest son had entered the army; he was in india now, captain greatorex. he also had married young, and his little daughter and only child had been sent home to her grand-parents in accordance with the prevailing custom.
the wife of mr. greatorex had been miss ollivera, sister to the father of john ollivera, the barrister, whose sad end has been lately recorded. mrs. greatorex had fallen into ill-health or some time past now; in fact, she was slowly dying of an incurable complaint. but for not liking to leave her, mr. greatorex might have hastened down as soon as the sad news reached him of his nephew's premature end. i say he "might;" but mr. greatorex was, himself, only recovering from an attack of illness, and was scarcely strong enough to travel. and so he waited at home with all the patience he could call up, understanding nothing but that his nephew john, who had been as dear to him as were his own children, was dead. his children had been many: eight. james (captain greatorex), the eldest; bede the second, one year younger; next came two daughters, who were married and away; then a son, matthew, who was working his way to competency in spain; the two next had died, and francis was the youngest. the latter, called frank always, was in the house in bedford square, but not yet made a partner.
the young barrister just dead, john ollivera, left no relations to mourn for him, except his brother henry william, and the greatorex family. the two brothers had to make their own way in the world, their uncle mr. greatorex helping them to do it; the elder one choosing the bar (as you have seen); henry william, the church. john had his chambers in lincoln's inn, and would certainly have risen into note had he lived: henry william was a curate.
three o'clock was striking in london on wednesday afternoon, as a train slackened its speed and drew into the paddington terminus. one of the first of its passengers to alight was mr. bede greatorex. he had a small black bag in his hand, and jumped with it into a hansom cab.
"bedford square!"
the cabman answered with a nod as he touched his hat. he had driven mr. bede greatorex before, who was sufficiently well known in london. instead, however, of being permitted to dash up to the well-known door, the man found himself stopped a few yards short of it.
"i'll get out here," said bede greatorex.
paying the fare, he went on with his bag, and glanced up at the windows as he crossed to the house. all the blinds were down. it was a very large house: it had been two originally. in the old, old days, some thirty or more years ago, mr. greatorex had rented only one of the houses. as his family and business increased, he bought the one he occupied and the next adjoining, and made them into one. there were two entrances still; the one pertained to the house and mrs. greatorex; the other was the professional entrance. the rooms on the ground floor--and there were several--were taken up by the business; one of them, looking to the garden, was the sitting-room of mr. greatorex.
bede went to the private entrance, and let himself in with his latchkey. lodging his small bag at the foot of the handsome staircase, he walked through some passages to his father's sitting-room, which was empty. retracing his steps he went upstairs; a maidservant happened to meet him on the first landing; he handed her the bag and opened the door of the dining-room. a spacious, well-fitted up apartment, its paper white and gold, with streaks of crimson slightly intermingled to give it colour.
mr. greatorex was there. he sat over the fire and had fallen asleep. it surprised bede: for mr. greatorex was a man not given to idleness or indulgence of any kind. indeed, to see him sitting upstairs in the day time was an event almost unknown. bede closed the door again softly. there was a haggard look in the elder man's face, partly the effect of his recent illness; and bede would not disturb him.
outside the door, he stood a moment in hesitation. it was a spacious landing-place, something like an upper hall. the floor was carpeted with dark green; painted windows--yellow, blue, crimson--threw down a bright light of colour; there was a small conservatory at one end, containing odoriferous plants on which the sun was shining; and a chaste statue or two imparted still life to the whole.
bede hesitated. none but himself knew how horribly he hated and dreaded the tale he had to tell about poor john ollivera. all the way up he had been rehearsing to himself the manner in which he should break it for the best, but the plan had gone clean out of his head now.
"i'll go up and wash my hands first, at any rate," decided bede. "the dust was worse than we had it on monday."
ascending to the second landing, he was quietly crossing it to his own room, when a door was flung open, and a pretty little girl in blue, her curling hair bound back with ribbons, came flying out. it was the daughter of captain greatorex. the young lady had naturally a will of her own; and since her arrival from india, the indulgence lavished on her had not tended to lessen it. but she was a charming child, and wonderfully keen.
"oh, bede, have you come back! grandmamma has been asking for you all the day."
"hush, jane! i'll go in to grandmamma presently."
miss jane did not choose to "hush." she evaded bede's hand, flew across the soft carpet of the landing, and threw open a bedroom door, calling out that bede had come. as to styling him uncle bede, she had never done anything of the kind.
he heard his mother's voice, and could almost have boxed the child's ears. back she came again, laying hold of him this time, her saucy dark brown eyes, grave now, lifted up to his face.
"bede, how came john ollivera to die?"
"hush, jane," he said again. this was precisely the point on which he did not care to hold present communication with his mother. he wished, if possible, to spare her; but the little girl was persistent.
"is he dead, bede?"
"yes, child, he is dead."
"oh, dear! and he can never kiss me again, or bring me new dolls! i broke the last one in two, and threw it at him."
her eyes filled with tears. bede, deep in thought, put away the little hands that had fastened on his arms.
"i liked him better than you, bede. what made him die?"
"bede! bede! is that you?" called out his mother.
bede had to go in. mrs. greatorex was on the sofa, dressed, her back supported by pillows. her complexion was of dark olive, showing her spanish extraction; a capable, kindly woman she had ever been in life; and was endeavouring now to meet the death that she knew could not be far off, as a christian should. he stooped and kissed her. in features he resembled her more than any of her children.
"do you feel better, mother?"
"my dear, you know that there can be no 'better' for me here. the pain is not heavy today. have you just come up to town?"
"just got in now."
"and what have you to tell me? i cannot believe that john is dead. when the telegram came yesterday morning, your father happened to be with me, and they brought it up. but for that, i dare say he would not have told me yet. he spares me all the trouble that he can, you know, dear. i fainted, bede; i did indeed. the death must have been very sudden."
"yes," replied bede.
"was it a fit? jane, run to the schoolroom. your governess will be angry at your staying away so long."
jane's answer to this mandate was to perch herself on the arm of the sofa, side by side with the speaker, and to fix her eyes and her attention on the face of bede.
"none of the olliveras have been subject to fits; remember that, bede," continued mrs. greatorex. "neither did john himself look at all likely for one. to think that he should go before me! jane, my little dear one, you must indeed go to miss ford."
"i am going to stay here, grand'ma, and to hear about john."
"there's nothing much to hear, or to tell," spoke bede, as much perhaps for his mother's ear as for the child's. "if you do not obey your grandmamma, jane, i shall take you myself to the schoolroom.
"no, you won't, bede. why don't you answer grand'ma about john?"
mrs. greatorex had nearly left off contending with miss jane; weary, sick, in pain, it was too much effort, and she generally yielded to the dominant little will. as she appeared to do now, for it was to bede she spoke.
"bede, dear, you are keeping me in suspense. was it a fit?"
"no; it could not be called a fit."
"the heart, perhaps?"
"his death must have been quite sudden," said bede, with pardonable evasion. "instantaneous, the doctors thought: and therefore without pain."
"poor john! poor john! the veil is lifted for him. bede!"
bede had begun to turn his attention to the young lady, and was putting her down from the sofa. he wheeled round at the word, and miss jane mounted again.
"what, mother?"
mrs. greatorex dropped her voice reverently: and her dark eyes, looking large from illness, had a bright, hopeful, yearning light in them as she spoke.
"i think he was fit to go."
"yes," answered bede, swallowing a lump of emotion. "it is the one drop of comfort amidst much darkness. at least----. but i must keep my word," he added, breaking suddenly off, and seizing the child again, as if glad of an excuse to cease; "you go now to miss ford, young lady."
she set up a succession of cries. bede only carried her away the faster.
"you'll come back and tell me more, bede," said mrs. greatorex.
"i will come by-and-by," he turned to say. "i have pressing things to do; and i have not yet spoken with my father. try and get your afternoon's sleep, mother dear."
miss ford, a nursery governess, stood at the schoolroom door, and began to scold her pupil as she received her from the hands of mr. bede greatorex. he shut himself into his room for a few minutes, and then descended the stairs in deep thought. he had begun to ask himself whether the worst could not be kept from his mother; not for very long could she be spared to them now.
mr. greatorex was then coming out of the dining-room. he shook hands with his son, and they went back and sat down together. bede grew quite agitated at the task before him. he hated to inflict pain; he knew that john ollivera had been dear to his father, and that the blow would be keenly felt. all the news as yet sent up by him to bedford square was, that john was dead.
whence, then, that grey look on his father's face?--the haggard mouth, the troubled, shrinking eyes going searchingly out to bede's? mr. greatorex was a fresh-looking man in general, with a healthy colour and smooth brown hair, tall and upright as his son. he looked short and shrinking and pale now.
"bede, how came he to do it?"
something like a relief came into bede's heart as he heard the words. it was so much better for the way to have been paved for him!--the shock would not be so great.
"then you know the particulars, sir.
"i fear i know the truth, bede; not the particulars. the times had a short paragraph this morning, saying that john ollivera had died by his own hand. was it so?"
bede gravely nodded. his breath was coming and going faster than is consistent with inward calmness.
"my god!" cried mr. greatorex, from between his quivering lips, as he sank into a chair, and covered his face with his hands. but the sacred word was not spoken in irreverence; no, nor in surprise; rather, as it seemed, in the light of an appealing prayer.
"and what could have induced it?" came the question presently, as he let his hands fall.
"i had better tell you the whole from the beginning," said bede, "you will then----"
"tell it, of course," interrupted mr. greatorex. "begin at the beginning."
bede stood up, facing the fire; his elbow on the mantelpiece, his back partially turned to his father, while he told it: he did not care to watch the anguish and horror of the usually placid face. he concealed nothing: relating how he had reached the city and held an interview with his cousin; how he had left him after the lapse of an hour, promising to be with him in the morning before starting for town; and how he had been aroused from his bed by the tidings that john was dead. he described the state of the room when found; the pistol lying underneath the hand; the note on the table. as well as bede greatorex could repeat the details, as testified to before the coroner--and we may be very sure they were implanted with painful exactitude on his memory--he gave them all faithfully.
"it might have been an accident," urged mr. greatorex, in an imploring kind of tone, as if he wanted to be assured that it was.
bede did not answer.
"i forgot the writing, bede; i forgot the writing," said mr. greatorex, with a groan.
"whatever it might be, whether accident or self-intended, it is an awful shame to bury him as they are going to do," burst forth bede, in a sudden access of anger.
and the words served to tell mr. greatorex what the verdict had been.
"it is a sin, sir; yes, it is. i could not stay to see it."
"so it may be, bede; but that's the least of it--that's the least of it. i'd as soon have believed myself capable of such a thing as that john ollivera was. oh, john! john!"
a painful silence. bede felt glad that his task was so far over.
"his motive, bede? what could have been his motive?"
"there was no motive, father; as far as i can see."
"you were young men together, bede; of the same pursuits--frequent companions; did you ever suspect he had any care, or embarrassment, or trouble?"
"no. he had none, i feel sure."
"those first words of the note, as you have related them, sound curious," resumed mr. greatorex. "what was it that he was trying to accomplish?"
"we cannot discover; no clue whatever has come to light. it would almost seem as though he had written them to the air, without foundation."
"that would be to say his senses had deserted him."
"kene thinks that the headache of which he had complained may have proceeded from some disordered function of the brain, and induced insanity."
"do you think it?" asked mr. greatorex, looking at his son. "you were the last person who saw him alive."
"i should be glad to think it if i could. he was quite calm and collected when i was with him; just as usual."
"the extraordinary thing to me is, that nobody should have heard the discharge of the pistol."
"the people of the house were all out. even the servant-girl had gone about the neighbourhood gossiping."
"it might have been heard in the street."
"if the street were quiet, perhaps yes. but on assize nights, they tell me, there is an unusual deal of outdoor bustle."
mr. greatorex sat looking at the fire, and revolving the different points of the dreadful history. bede resumed.
"i was wondering whether the worst of the details could be kept from my mother. they would try her terribly. she only thinks as yet, i find, that he died suddenly."
"because she only knows as much as your telegram said. it will be impossible to keep it from her; the newspapers will be full of it. three times today has your mother sent down for the times, and i have returned an excuse. there's no help for it, bede."
"then you shall tell her, sir. i can't. it must be broken to her by degrees. how was it william ollivera was so late in coming down?" he suddenly resumed. "he only arrived today as i was departing."
"william ollivera was out of town, and did not return until last night. you have said nothing about our cause, bede."
"that's all right. it was taken yesterday afternoon. kene led in the place of john, and we got the verdict."
"where are john's papers and things?"
"his brother and frank will take charge of them. i have his private letters. i thought it best to come up to you at once, knowing you were in suspense."
"a suspense that has been grievous since i read that paragraph this morning, bede. i have been fit for nothing."
neither was bede that day. mr. greatorex rose to go to his wife's room, there to enter upon his task--just as his son had been entering upon it with him. bede paced the carpet for a few minutes alone. it was a long room; the furniture not dark and heavy, but light-looking and pleasant to the eye, though comprising all the requisites for a well-appointed dining-room. bede took a look at himself in the pier-glass, and pushed his hair off his forehead--his sisters used to accuse him of inordinate vanity. and then quitted the room and the house.
he was bending his steps to lincoln's inn, to the chambers occupied by his cousin. not many yards had he gone, before someone darted across the street and pounced upon him.
"halloa, greatorex! what's this, that's up about ollivera?"
it was a chancery barrister, who had known john ollivera well. bede greatorex explained in a few short words, and hurried off.
"i can't stay to tell you more now," he said in apology. "there's a great deal to do and to be thought of, and i hardly know whether our heads are on our shoulders or off. i'm on my way to his chambers to search if there may be any paper, or aught else, that can throw light on it."
a hansom passed at the moment, and bede jumped into it. he might have met fifty questioners, else, and reached his destination after dark. the chambers were on the third floor, and he went up to them. mr. ollivera's clerk, a small youth of nineteen, was at his post; and the laundress, who waited on mr. ollivera, was there also. the news had brought her up in tears.
perhaps it was excusable that they should both begin upon mr. bede greatorex in their thirst for information. respectfully, of course, but eagerly. he responded in a few quiet words, and passed into the rooms, the woman's sobs following him.
here was the sitting-room where john saw people; next to it his bedroom; all in neat order. near the bed was a small mahogany stand, and a cushioned chair. on the stand lay his bible--just as the other one was seen but yesterday resting on its stand elsewhere. bede knew that his cousin never failed to read that bible, and to fall on his knees before the chair morning and evening. he turned away with a groan, and proceeded to his work of search.
only a casual search today; there was no time for minute examination. just a look here and there, lest haply he might come upon some paper or letter of elucidation. but he could not find any.
"i am going to lock the rooms up, jenner," he said to the clerk. "things must be left as they are until the reverend mr. ollivera comes to town. he will have the arrangement of matters. i don't suppose there's any will."
"am i to leave the service at once, sir?--now?" asked mr. jenner, in excessive surprise.
"you must leave the rooms now--unless you would like to be locked up in them," returned bede greatorex. "call in bedford square tomorrow morning; we may be able to recommend something you to: and perhaps you will be wanted here again for a few days."
they quitted the chambers together; and mr. bede greatorex took possession of the key. "i suppose," he said to the clerk, as they went down, "that you never observed any peculiarity of manner in mr. ollivera that might tend to induce suspicion of aberration of mind?"
the young man turned round and stared, scarcely taking in the sense of the question. certainly there had not been anything of the kind observable in mr. ollivera.
"he was cheerful and sensible always, sir: he didn't seem to have a care."
bede sighed, and proceeded homeward. a recollection came over him, as he went along in the dusk, of the last evening he had walked home from his cousin's chambers; it was only the night before john had gone on circuit. oh, the contrast between that time and this! and bede thought, in the bitter grief and sorrow of the moment, that he would willingly forfeit his own life could he recall that of john ollivera.
