Unnatural death
“He was Miss Whittaker’s solicitor,” said Ben, “and he managed all Miss
Dawson’s business, too. A nice gentleman he was, but uncommon sharp—ha,
ha! Never gave nothing away. But that’s lawyers all the world over,”
added he, shrewdly, “take all and give nothing.”
“Did he live in Crofton?”
“No, sir, in Croftover Magna, twelve miles from here. Pointer & Winkin
have his business now, but they’re young men, and I don’t know much
about them.”
Having by this time heard all the Coblings had to tell, Wimsey and
Parker gradually disentangled themselves and took their leave.
“Well, Cousin Hallelujah’s a wash-out,” said Parker.
“Possibly—possibly not. There may be some connection. Still, I certainly
think the disgraceful and papistical Mr. Paul is more promising.
Obviously Mr. Probyn is the bird to get hold of. You realise who he is?”
“He’s the mysterious solicitor, I suppose.”
“Of course he is. He knows why Miss Dawson ought to have made her will.
And we’re going straight off to Croftover Magna to look up Messrs.
Pointer & Winkin, and see what they have to say about it.”
Unhappily, Messrs. Pointer & Winkin had nothing to say whatever. Miss
Dawson had withdrawn her affairs from Mr. Probyn’s hands and had lodged
all the papers with her new solicitor. Messrs. Pointer & Winkin had
never had any connection with the Dawson family. They had no objection,
however, to furnishing Mr. Probyn’s address—Villa Bianca, Fiesole. They
regretted that they could be of no further assistance to Lord Peter
Wimsey and Mr. Parker. Good morning.
“Short and sour,” was his lordship’s comment. “Well, well—we’ll have a
spot of lunch and write a letter to Mr. Probyn and another to my good
friend Bishop Lambert of the Orinoco Mission to get a line on Cousin
Hallelujah, Smile, smile, smile. As Ingoldsby says: ‘The breezes are
blowing a race, a race! The breezes are blowing—we near the chase!’ Do
ye ken John Peel? Likewise, know’st thou the land where blooms the
citron-flower? Well, never mind if you don’t—you can always look forward
to going there for your honeymoon.”
CHAPTER XIII
Hallelujah
“_Our ancestors are very good kind of folks, but they are the last
people I should choose to have a visiting acquaintance with._”
Sheridan, _The Rivals_
That excellent prelate, Bishop Lambert of the Orinoco Mission, proved to
be a practical and kind man. He did not personally know the Rev.
Hallelujah Dawson, but thought he might belong to the Tabernacle
Mission—a Nonconformist body which was doing a very valuable work in
those parts. He would himself communicate with the London Headquarters
of this community and let Lord Peter know the result. Two hours later,
Bishop Lambert’s secretary had duly rung up the Tabernacle Mission and
received the very satisfactory information that the Rev. Hallelujah
Dawson was in England, and, indeed, available at their Mission House in
Stepney. He was an elderly minister, living in very reduced
circumstances—in fact, the Bishop rather gathered that the story was a
sad one—Oh, not at all, pray, no thanks. The Bishop’s poor miserable
slave of a secretary did all the work. Very glad to hear from Lord
Peter, and was he being good? Ha, ha! and when was he coming to dine
with the Bishop?
Lord Peter promptly gathered up Parker and swooped down with him upon
the Tabernacle Mission, before whose dim and grim frontage Mrs. Merdle’s
long black bonnet and sweeping copper exhaust made an immense
impression. The small fry of the neighbourhood had clustered about her
and were practising horn solos almost before Wimsey had rung the bell.
On Parker’s threatening them with punishment and casually informing them
that he was a police officer, they burst into ecstasies of delight, and
joining hands, formed a ring-o’-roses round him, under the guidance of a
sprightly young woman of twelve years old or thereabouts. Parker made a
few harassed darts at them, but the ring only broke up, shrieking with
laughter, and reformed, singing. The Mission door opened at the moment,
displaying this undignified exhibition to the eyes of a lank young man
in spectacles, who shook a long finger disapprovingly and said, “Now,
you children,” without the slightest effect and apparently without the
faintest expectation of producing any.
Lord Peter explained his errand.
“Oh, come in, please,” said the young man, who had one finger in a book
of theology. “I’m afraid your friend—er—this is rather a noisy
district.”
Parker shook himself free from his tormentors, and advanced, breathing
threatenings and slaughter, to which the enemy responded by a derisive
blast of the horn.
“They’ll run those batteries down,” said Wimsey.
“You can’t do anything with the little devils,” growled Parker.
“Why don’t you treat them as human beings?” retorted Wimsey. “Children
are creatures of like passions with politicians and financiers. Here,
Esmeralda!” he added, beckoning to the ringleader.
The young woman put her tongue out and made a rude gesture, but
observing the glint of coin in the outstretched hand, suddenly
approached and stood challengingly before them.
“Look here,” said Wimsey, “here’s half a crown—thirty pennies, you know.
Any use to you?”
The child promptly proved her kinship with humanity. She became abashed
in the presence of wealth, and was silent, rubbing one dusty shoe upon
the calf of her stocking.
“You appear,” pursued Lord Peter, “to be able to keep your young friends
in order if you choose. I take you, in fact, for a woman of character.
Very well, if you keep them from touching my car while I’m in the house,
you get this half-crown, see? But if you let ’em blow the horn, I shall
hear it. Every time the horn goes, you lose a penny, got that? If the
horn blows six times, you only get two bob. If I hear it thirty times,
you don’t get anything. And I shall look out from time to time, and if I
see anybody mauling the car about or sitting in it, _then_ you don’t get
anything. Do I make myself clear?”
“I takes care o’ yer car fer ’arf a crahn. An’ ef the ’orn goes, you
docks a copper ’orf of it.”
“That’s right.”
“Right you are, mister. I’ll see none on ’em touches it.”
“Good girl. Now, sir.”
The spectacled young man led them into a gloomy little waiting-room,
suggestive of a railway station and hung with Old Testament prints.
“I’ll tell Mr. Dawson you’re here,” said he, and vanished, with the
volume of theology still clutched in his hand.
Presently a shuffling step was heard on the coconut matting, and Wimsey
and Parker braced themselves to confront the villainous claimant.
The door, however, opened to admit an elderly West Indian, of so humble
and inoffensive an appearance that the hearts of the two detectives sank
into their boots. Anything less murderous could scarcely be imagined, as
he stood blinking nervously at them from behind a pair of steel-rimmed
spectacles, the frames of which had at one time been broken and bound
with twine.
The Rev. Hallelujah Dawson was undoubtedly a man of colour. He had the
pleasant, slightly aquiline features and brown-olive skin of the
Polynesian. His hair was scanty and greyish—not woolly, but closely
curled. His stooping shoulders were clad in a threadbare clerical coat.
His black eyes, yellow about the whites and slightly protruding, rolled
amiably at them, and his smile was open and frank.
“You asked to see me?” he began, in perfect English, but with the soft
native intonation. “I think I have not the pleasure—?”
“How do you do, Mr. Dawson? Yes. We are—er—makin’ certain
inquiries—er—in connection with the family of the Dawsons of Crofton in
Warwickshire, and it has been suggested that you might be able to
enlighten us, what? as to their West Indian connections—if you would be
so good.”
“Ah, yes!” The old man drew himself up slightly. “I am myself—in a way—a
descendant of the family. Won’t you sit down?”
“Thank you. We thought you might be.”
“You do not come from Miss Whittaker?”
There was something eager, yet defensive in the tone. Wimsey, not quite
knowing what was behind it, chose the discreeter part.
“Oh, no. We are—preparin’ a work on County Families, don’t you know.
Tombstones and genealogies and that sort of thing.”
“Oh!—yes—I hoped perhaps—” The mild tones died away in a sigh. “But I
shall be very happy to help you in any way.”
“Well, the question now is, what became of Simon Dawson? We know that he
left his family and sailed for the West Indies in—ah!—in seventeen—”
“Eighteen hundred and ten,” said the old man, with surprising quickness.
“Yes. He got into trouble when he was a lad of sixteen. He took up with
bad men older than himself, and became involved in a very terrible
affair. It had to do with gaming, and a man was killed. Not in a duel—in
those days that would not have been considered disgraceful—though
violence is always displeasing to the Lord—but the man was foully
murdered and Simon Dawson and his friends fled from justice. Simon fell
in with the press-gang and was carried off to sea. He served fifteen
years and was then taken by a French privateer. Later on he escaped
and—to cut a long story short—got away to Trinidad under another name.
Some English people there were kind to him and gave him work on their
sugar plantation. He did well there and eventually became owner of a
small plantation of his own.”
“What was the name he went by?”
“Harkaway. I suppose he was afraid that they would get hold of him as a
deserter from the Navy if he went by his own name. No doubt he should
have reported his escape. Anyway, he liked plantation life and was quite
satisfied to stay where he was. I don’t suppose he would have cared to
go home, even to claim his inheritance. And then, there was always the
matter of the murder, you know—though I dare say they would not have
brought that trouble up against him, seeing he was so young when it
happened and it was not his hand that did the awful deed.”
“His inheritance? Was he the eldest son, then?”
“No. Barnabas was the eldest, but he was killed at Waterloo and left no
family. Then there was a second son, Roger, but he died of smallpox as a
child. Simon was the third son.”
“Then it was the fourth son who took the estate?”
“Yes, Frederick. He was Henry’s Dawson’s father. They tried, of course,
to find out what became of Simon, but in those days it was very
difficult, you understand, to get information from foreign places, and
Simon had quite disappeared. So they had to pass him over.”
“And what happened to Simon’s children?” asked Parker. “Did he have
any?”
The clergyman nodded, and a deep, dusky flush showed under his dark
skin.
“I am his grandson,” he said, simply. “That is why I came over to
England. When the Lord called me to feed His lambs among my own people,
I was in quite good circumstances. I had the little sugar plantation
which had come down to me through my father, and I married and was very
happy. But we fell on bad times—the sugar crop failed, and our little
flock became smaller and poorer and could not give so much support to
their minister. Besides, I was getting too old and frail to do my
work—and I have a sick wife, too, and God has blessed us with many
daughters, who needed our care. I was in great straits. And then I came
upon some old family papers belonging to my grandfather, Simon, and
learned that his name was not Harkaway but Dawson, and I thought, maybe
I had a family in England and that God would yet raise up a table in the
wilderness. Accordingly, when the time came to send a representative
home to our London Headquarters, I asked permission to resign my
ministry out there and come over to England.”