“Maurice’s—not mine,” Cecil corrected him with a touch of bitterness which Sir Clinton failed to understand at the moment.
“I’ve nothing to do with Ravensthorpe nowadays,” Cecil went on, after a pause. “I live there, that’s all. The whole affair went to Maurice—lock, stock, and barrel—when my father died. I’ve really no more right in these grounds than you have. I might be kicked out any day.”
Sir Clinton was puzzled by Cecil’s tone. It was only natural that Ravensthorpe should go down into the hands of Maurice, since he was the elder brother. There could be no particular grievance in that. And yet Cecil’s voice had betrayed something deeper than a mere mild resentment. The asperity in his last remark had been unmistakable.
For a few minutes Cecil remained silent, staring moodily out at the landscape. Sir Clinton refrained from interrupting his thoughts. The matter certainly had excited his curiosity; but until Cecil chose to say more, there seemed to be no reason for intruding into the private affairs of the Ravensthorpe household. Even the privileges of an old friend did not seem to Sir Clinton a sufficient excuse for probing into family matters.
But the Chief Constable, without any voluntary effort, had the gift of eliciting confidences without soliciting them. Cecil’s brooding came to an end and he turned round to face his companion.
“I suppose I’ve said either too much or too little already,” he began. “I don’t see why I shouldn’t tell you about the affair. It’s nearly common talk as it is, and you’re sure to hear something about it sooner or later. You may as well get it first-hand and be done with it.”
Sir Clinton, having solicited no confidence, contented himself with merely listening, without offering any vocal encouragement.
“You knew my father well,” Cecil went on, after a short pause in which he seemed to be arranging his ideas in some definite order. “He was one of the best, if you like. No one would say a word against him—it’s the last thing I’d think of doing myself, at any rate.”
Sir Clinton nodded approvingly.
“The bother was,” Cecil continued, “that he judged everyone by himself. He couldn’t understand that anyone might not be as straight as he always was. He never made an allowance for some kinds of human nature, if you see what I mean. And, another thing, he had a great notion of the duties of the head of the family. He took them pretty seriously and he looked after a lot of people who had no claim on him, really, except that they belonged to the clan.”
“He was always generous, I know,” Sir Clinton confirmed. “And he always trusted people. Sometimes, perhaps, he overdid it.”
Cecil made a gesture of agreement and continued:
“He overdid it when he drew up his will. Maurice, of course, was bound to be the next head of the family, once my father had gone; so my father took it for granted that things would go on just the same. The head of the family would run the show with an eye to the interests of the rest of us, and all would be right on the night. That was the theory of the business, as my father saw it; and he drafted his will on that basis.”
Cecil sat up suddenly and flung away his cigarette with a vehemence which betrayed the heat of his feelings.
“That was the theory of the business, as I said. But the practice wasn’t quite so satisfactory. My father left every penny he had to Maurice; he left him absolutely every asset; and, of course, Ravensthorpe’s entailed, so Maurice got that in the normal course. Joan, my mother, and myself, were left without a farthing to bless ourselves with. But there was a suggestion in the will—not a legally binding thing, but merely a sort of informal direction—that Maurice was to look after us all and give us some sort of income each. I suppose my father hardly thought it worth while to do more than that. Being the sort of man he was, he would rely implicitly on Maurice playing the game, just as he’d have played the game himself—had played it all his life, you know.”
Sir Clinton showed no desire to offer any comment; and in a moment or two Cecil went on once more:
“Last year, there was nothing to complain about. Maurice footed our bills quite decently. He never grumbled over our expenses. Everything seemed quite sound. It never crossed my mind to get things put on a business footing. In fact, you know, I’d hardly have had the nerve to suggest anything of the sort. It would have looked a bit grasping, wouldn’t it?”
Cecil glanced inquiringly at Sir Clinton, but the Chief Constable seemed averse from making any comment at this stage. Cecil took his case from his pocket and lit a fresh cigarette before continuing his story.
“You don’t remember Una Rainhill, I suppose?”
Sir Clinton shook his head.
