Patricia Wentworth - The Fire Within

OLD Mr. Edward Mottisfont looked over the edge of the sheet at David Blake.

“My nephew Edward is most undoubtedly and indisputably a prig-a damned prig,” he added thoughtfully after a moment's pause for reflection. As he reflected his black eyes danced from David's face to a crayon drawing which hung on the paneled wall above the mantelpiece.

“His mother's fault,” he observed, “it 's not so bad in a woman, and she was pretty, which Edward ain't. Pretty and a prig my sister Sarah-”

There was a faint emphasis on the word sister, and David remembered having heard his mother say that both Edward and William Mottisfont had been in love with the girl whom William married. “And a plain prig my nephew Edward,” continued the old gentleman. “Damn it all, David, why can't I leave my money to you instead?”

“Because I should n't take it, sir,” he said.

He was sitting, most unprofessionally, on the edge of his patient's large four-post bed. Old Mr. Edward Mottisfont looked at him quizzically.

“How much would you take-eh, David? Come now-say-how much?”

David laughed again. His grey eyes twinkled. “Nary penny, sir,” he said, swinging his arm over the great carved post beside him. There were cherubs' heads upon it, a fact that had always amused its owner considerably.

“Nonsense,” said old Mr. Mottisfont, and for the first time his thin voice was tinged with earnestness. “Nonsense, David. Why! I 've left you five thousand pounds.”

David started. His eyes changed. They were very deep-set eyes. It was only when he laughed that they appeared grey. When he was serious they were so dark as to look black. Apparently he was moved and concerned. His voice took a boyish tone. “Oh, I say, sir-but you must n't-I can't take it, you know.”

“And why not, pray?” This was Mr. Mottisfont at his most sarcastic.

David got the better of his momentary embarrassment.

“I shan't forget that you 've thought of it, sir,” he said. “But I can't benefit under a patient's will. I have n't got many principles, but that 's one of them. My father drummed it into me from the time I was about seven.”

Old Mr. Edward Mottisfont lifted the thin eyebrows that had contrived to remain coal-black, although his hair was white. They gave him a Mephistophelean appearance of which he was rather proud.

“Very fine and highfalutin,” he observed. “You 're an exceedingly upright young man, David.”

David roared.

After a moment the old gentleman's lips gave way at the corners, and he laughed too.

“Oh, Lord, David, who 'd ha' thought it of you!” he said. “You won't take a thousand?”

David shook his head.

“Not five hundred?”

David grinned.

“Not five pence,” he said.

Old Mr. Mottisfont glared at him for a moment. “Prig,” he observed with great conciseness. Then he pursed up his lips, felt under his pillow, and pulled out a long folded paper.

“All the more for Edward,” he said maliciously. “All the more for Edward, and all the more reason for Edward to wish me dead. I wonder he don't poison me. Perhaps he will. Oh, Lord, I 'd give something to see Edward tried for murder! Think of it, David-only think of it-Twelve British Citizens in one box-Edward in another-all the British Citizens looking at Edward, and Edward looking as if he was in church, and wondering if the moth was getting into his collections, and if any one would care for 'em when he was dead and gone. Eh, David? Eh, David? And Mary-like Niobe, all tears-”

David had been chuckling to himself, but at the mention of Edward's wife his face changed a little. He continued to laugh, but his eyes hardened, and he interrupted his patient: “Come, sir, you must n't tire yourself.”

“Like Niobe, all tears,” repeated Mr. Mottisfont, obstinately. “Sweetly pretty she 'd look too-eh, David? Edward 's a lucky dog, ain't he?”

David's eyes flashed once and then hardened still more. His chin was very square.

“Come, sir,” he repeated, and looked steadily at the old man.

“Beast-ain't I?” said old Mr. Mottisfont with the utmost cheerfulness. He occupied himself with arranging the bedclothes in an accurate line across his chest. As he did so, his hand touched the long folded paper, and he gave it an impatient push.

“You 're a damn nuisance, David,” he said. “I 've made my will once, and now I 've to make it all over again just to please you. All the whole blessed thing over again, from 'I, Edward Morell Mottisfont,' down to 'I deliver this my act and deed.' Oh, Lord, what a bore.”

“Mr. Fenwick,” suggested David, and old Mr. Edward Mottisfont flared into sudden wrath.

“Don't talk to me of lawyers,” he said violently. “I know enough law to make a will they can't upset. Don't talk of 'em. Sharks and robbers. Worse than the doctors. Besides young Fenwick talks-tells his wife things-and she tells her sister. And what Mary Bowden knows, the town knows. Did I ever tell you how I found out? I suspected, but I wanted to be sure. So I sent for young Fenwick, and told him I wanted to make my will. So far, so good. I made it-or he did. And I left a couple of thousand pounds to Bessie Fenwick and a couple more to her sister Mary in memory of my old friendship with their father. And as soon as Master Fenwick had gone I put his morning's work in the fire. Now how do I know he talked? This way. A week later I met Mary Bowden in the High Street, and I had the fright of my life. I declare I thought she 'd ha' kissed me. It was 'I hope you are prudent to be out in this east wind, dear Mr. Mottisfont,' and I must come and see them soon-and oh, Lord, what fools women are! Mary Bowden never could abide me till she thought I 'd left her two thousand pounds.”

“Fenwicks are n't the only lawyers in the world,” suggested David.

“Much obliged, I 'm sure. I did go to one once to make a will-they say it 's sweet to play the fool sometimes-eh, David? Fool I was sure enough. I found a little mottled man, that sat blinking at me, and repeating my words, till I could have murdered him with his own office pen-knife. He called me Moral too, in stead of Morell. 'Edward Moral Mottisfont,' and I took occasion to inform him that I was n't moral, never had been moral, and never intended to be moral. I said he must be thinking of my nephew Edward, who was damn moral. Oh, Lord, here is Edward. I could ha' done without him.”

The door opened as he was speaking, and young Edward Mottisfont came in. He was a slight, fair man with a well-shaped head, a straight nose, and as much chin as a great many other people. He wore pince-nez because he was short-sighted, and high collars because he had a long neck. Both the pince-nez and the collar had an intensely irritating effect upon old Mr. Edward Mottisfont.

“If he had n't been for ever blinking at some bug that was just out of his sight, his eyes would have been as good as mine, and he might just as well keep his head in a butterfly net or a collecting box as where he does keep it. Not that I should have said that Edward did keep his head.”