would have received it if Mr Wavenhoe had not signed the codicil?”
“I’m not entirely sure. Perhaps my cousin Mrs Frant would have held it in trust for her son. There are a number of small bequests, but apart from those, she and Charlie are the co-heirs, and Mr Frant is appointed the executor. My father and Mr Wavenhoe had quarrelled over a matter of business, you see, so he was not mentioned in the will. Yet, in my uncle’s last hours, when Papa represented to Mr Wavenhoe that he had no quarrel with me, my uncle was much struck by the force of the argument and desired the codicil to be drawn up there and then.”
“And Mr Frant?”
“Mr Frant was not there. Sophie was in and out of the room but her thoughts were otherwise occupied.” Miss Carswall hesitated and then added in a voice not much above a whisper, “In fact, she put quite the wrong construction upon it. She thought that she was the beneficiary of the codicil.”
I remembered her words to Mr Carswall before Mr Wavenhoe had signed the codicil: We must do what my uncle wishes. And thank you. You are very good.
Miss Carswall edged a little closer to me and lowered her voice. “I understand that Mr Frant does not believe my uncle was in a fit state to make a decision of this nature, that indeed he had no idea what he was putting his name to.”
I nodded without committing myself. Was it possible that Mrs Frant had been tricked, and that I had been an unwitting agent in a scheme to defraud her of an inheritance? Did that explain her altered behaviour to me on the morning after Mr Wavenhoe’s death?
“It would not matter so much,” Miss Carswall burst out, “if my uncle’s affairs were not so embarrassed. My father believes that once his debts are paid there will be scarcely enough to settle the household bills. As for the bank – there is such a run on it at present that my father says there is sure to be a suspension of payments and perhaps even a commission of bankruptcy. It will go very hard on Sophie, I fear.”
“And on Mr Frant.”
“If the bank has run into difficulties, then he must be held at least partly responsible,” Miss Carswall said tartly. “Since my father withdrew from the partnership, Mr Frant has been largely responsible for the conduct of business.”
The carriage had left the village, and was now proceeding down a country lane at a walk.
Miss Carswall looked up at me. “I must go to the school.” Her voice had softened, had become almost pleading. “I – I scarcely know how to say –”
“To say what?”
“It is so absurd,” she replied, speaking in a rush. “And in any case it may be quite untrue. But Mr Frant is said to nurse a grudge against you.”
“But why should he do that?”
“It is said that he feels you should not have witnessed my uncle’s signature.”
“It is said? By whom?”
“Hush, Mr Shield. I – I heard him talking with my father and the lawyer on the morning after my uncle died. That is to say, I was in the next room, and they did not trouble to lower their voices.”
“But why should Mr Frant object to my witnessing the signature? If I had not done it, someone else would have. Does he hold a grudge against the physician as well?”
Miss Carswall did not reply. She covered her face with her hands.
“Besides, your father was so pressing that I could hardly refuse him,” I said, my mind filling with the memory of Mrs Frant’s cold, pale face in the breakfast room at Albemarle-street. “Nor was there any reason why I should do so.”
“I know,” she murmured, peeping at me through her gloved fingers. “I know. But men are not always rational creatures, are they?”
On Tuesday the 23rd November, Wavenhoe’s Bank closed its doors for ever. On the same day, two of its customers committed suicide rather than face ruin.
When a bank fails, the consequences spread like a contagion through society: fathers rot in the Marshalsea or blow out their brains, mothers take in sewing or walk the pavements, children are withdrawn from school and beg for pennies, servants lose their places and tradesmen’s bills go unpaid; and so the plague spreads, ever outwards, to people who never heard of Wavenhoe’s or Russell-square.
“Frant burned his fingers badly when the tobacco market collapsed,” Dansey told me as we smoked our evening pipes in the garden. “I have it on good authority that he had to turn to the Israelites to keep his head above water. Oh, and the servants have left. Always a sure sign of a sinking ship.”
On Wednesday there were more suicides and we heard that the bailiffs had gone into that opulent house in Russell-square. Dansey and I stood at a window and watched Charlie Frant, arm in arm with Edgar Allan, marching round the playground and blowing plumes of warm breath into the freezing air.
“I pity the boy, of course. But take my advice: have nothing more to do with the Frants, if you can help it. They will only bring you grief.”
It was sound advice but I was not able to take it, for the very next day, Thursday, the sad history of the Frants and Wavenhoes reached what many believed to be its catastrophe. The first intelligence we had of the terrible events of the night came at breakfast time. The man who brought the milk communicated it to the maids, and the news set the servants whispering and swaying like a cornfield in a breeze.
“Something’s afoot,” Dansey said as we sat with our weak, bitter coffee. “One doesn’t often see them so lively at this hour of the morning.”
Afterwards, Morley sidled up to us, with Quird hovering as usual at his elbow. “Please, sir,” he said to Dansey, shifting from one foot to the other, his face glowing with excitement. “Something horrible has happened.”
“Then I advise you not to tell me what it is,” Dansey said. “It may distress you further.”
“No, sir,” Quird broke in. “Truly, sir, you don’t understand.”
Dansey scowled at the boy.
“I beg your pardon,” Quird said quickly. “I did not mean to –”
“Someone’s been murdered in the night,” Morley broke in, his voice rising in his excitement.
“They say his head was smashed into jelly,” Quird whispered. “Torn limb from limb.”
“It might have been any of us,” Morley said. “The thief could have broken in and –”
“So a thief has turned to murder?” Dansey said. “Perhaps Stoke Newington is not such a humdrum place after all. Where is this interesting event said to have occurred?”
“Not exactly in the village, sir,” Morley answered. “Somewhere towards town. Not a stone’s throw from us, not really.”
“Ah. I might have known. So Stoke Newington remains as humdrum as ever. When there is news I shall
