MARIE BELLOC LOWNDES - British Murder Mysteries Collection: 17 Books in One Edition. Marie Belloc Lowndes
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knowledge of, or even a bowing acquaintance with, the Misses Rushworth.
At last he said rather coldly, “I take it you are in possession of very little money?”
“Very little,” she answered, almost in a whisper.
“At the request of Mr. Miles Rushworth, I have a sum of money to place at your disposal. As a matter of fact, it is a considerable sum—two thousand pounds. If you will tell me who are your bankers, I——”
And then Ivy, keeping the joy she felt out of her voice, interrupted him:
“I have not got a banking account, Mr. Oram. I had one many years ago, before my husband lost all his money, but I have not had one for over three years. And oh! it’s been so inconvenient.”
A kinder look came into the lawyer’s grave face.
“In that case, Mrs. Lexton, I advise you to open an account at the local branch of the Birmingham Bank. It is close here, in Kensington High Street. Mr. Rushworth informed me in his cable that you would probably stay on in this flat for the next few weeks.”
“I should like to do that,” she said in a low tone.
“Your husband, I understand, was a great friend of Mr. Rushworth?”
“Yes, my husband was working in Mr. Rushworth’s office when he fell ill.”
“Was he indeed?”
That the Lextons could be what the sender of the cable had called “my closest friends” had surprised the solicitor. He had believed himself acquainted with all Miles Rushworth’s intimate circle.
Ivy had come across a good many lawyers in her life, and she had always found them bright, cheery, and pleasant. All of them, to a man, had admired her, and made her feel that they did so.
Very, very different was this lawyer’s attitude. She realised that he did not approve of her, and she even suspected that he regretted his client’s interest in her. That was quite enough for Ivy, and she began to long intensely for Mr. Oram to go away. She had already made up her mind that he was “horrid,” and she was sorry indeed that such a man should be Miles Rushworth’s representative.
“I will pay in the cheque to the Birmingham Bank tomorrow morning, Mrs. Lexton,” said the solicitor. “I will call for you, if I may, at eleven, for you will have to come too, in order that the manager may register your signature.”
At last he got up, and then he said suddenly: “Have you yet seen anyone from the police?”
“Yes, I saw a gentleman from Scotland Yard this morning.”
“I trust your legal adviser was present.”
“I have no legal adviser,” and she looked at him surprised.
“I’m sorry for that. I had hoped to learn that you had a solicitor, and that he had been present. However, I don’t suppose it will make any odds. I presume you told the gentleman from Scotland Yard everything that it was within your power to tell him, concerning the mysterious circumstances surrounding Mr. Lexton’s death?”
“Yes, I did,” she said falteringly.
It seemed to her that he was looking at her with such a hard, cold look on his bloodless face. She even had a queer feeling that this Mr. Oram could see right through her, and she felt a touch of deadly terror.
But Ivy’s fears were quite unfounded. The solicitor’s view of Ivy Lexton was very much what “the gentleman from Scotland Yard’s” had been. But whereas Inspector Orpington had liked and pitied her, Rushworth’s lawyer already regretted that, if only as a matter of common humanity, he must now secure for her the best legal advice in his power.
John Oram had the faults of his qualities. His life’s work had brought him in contact with more than one skilful adventuress. But against such a woman, when she came across his path, the dice were already loaded.
Thus he had never had much trouble with the kind of girl who infatuates a foolish “elder son,” and then, maybe, tries to extract an enormous sum out of him by a threat of a breach of promise case. More difficult to deal with he had found, in his long career as a family solicitor, the sort of woman blackmailer who has letters in her possession. But, even in regard to that type of woman, Mr. Oram, with the law on his side, invariably came out of the duel triumphant.
He had never had to do, even remotely, with a case of murder, and the last thing that would have occurred to his mind was that this lovely young fribble of a woman—for such was his old-fashioned expression—could be a secret poisoner.
“I think you must authorise me to instruct counsel to represent you at the inquest which I understand is about to be held.”
“What is counsel?” asked Ivy.
She felt surprised and uneasy. Was this disagreeable old man going to run up what she knew was called “a lawyer’s bill” which she would have to pay out of Rushworth’s munificent gift?
Mr. Oram looked at her with scarce concealed contempt.
“A counsel,” he replied drily, “is any member of the Bar. But naturally some are better than others, and, with your permission, I will obtain for you the services of a gentleman who is thoroughly experienced in cases of this kind.”
The next morning Mr. Oram arrived at his office early, and, after glancing over his letters, he had just made out a cheque for two thousand pounds to “the order of Mrs. Ivy Lexton,” when a card was brought into his private room. But before he looked at the card he had already fully made up his mind that he could see no one, however important their business might be, till his return from Kensington.
Already the solicitor and his head clerk, Alfred Finch, had gone into the question of who should represent Mrs. Lexton at the inquest, and at the various other proceedings which were likely to take place in connection with Jervis Lexton’s mysterious death. Money, as the saying is, being no object, they had selected as her counsel one known to them to be by far the soundest man for that sort of watching brief.
The old lawyer was sorry indeed that Miles Rushworth had brought him in touch with what he termed to himself “this very unpleasant business.”
His feeling was not shared by his head clerk. Alfred Finch was already keenly interested in the Lexton case. He was an intelligent man, keen about his work whatever it might be, and he already had managed to make certain pertinent inquiries. Indeed, he very much startled Mr. Oram by a remark he made towards the end of their discussion.
“They do say, sir, that Scotland Yard as good as know already who poisoned Mr. Lexton. I think it quite probable that you will see the news of an arrest on the newspaper placards on your way to Duke of Kent Mansion.”
“What sort of person has been, or is to be, arrested, Finch? Have you discovered that?”
“Well, sir, I haven’t yet got hold of the man’s name. But I gather he’s a gentleman, and one who was described to me as—” he coughed discreetly “—a beau of Mrs. Lexton. Mrs. Lexton seems to have been a bit of a flyer, sir. She was out every night dancing at what they call a smart night-club, or in some big hotel, during the days when her unfortunate husband was being slowly done to death by this friend of hers.”
“Have you heard anything serious against Mrs. Lexton’s character?”
Mr. Oram was very old-fashioned. The term “night-club” signified to him something vaguely terrible, and utterly disreputable.
“Oh, no, sir, there’s nothing against her. On the contrary, the story goes that, though the man under suspicion was crazy about her, she only flirted with him, so to speak. Mrs. Lexton, it seems, gave him away, quite unknowingly, to the C.I.D. inspector who is in charge of the case.”
Finch smiled, “They say it’s likely to be the most important case of the kind there’s been at the Old Bailey for many a long day. The public are about ready for another murder mystery.”
“Not