There came to Wimsey’s mind the picture of the stricken, helpless old woman, holding to her own way in spite of he lawyer’s reasoning and her niece’s subterfuge. A remarkable old lady, certainly, in her way.
“I suppose the Dawson family has practically died out, then,” he said.
“Oh, yes, sir. There’s only Miss Mary now- and she’s a Whittaker, of course. She is Miss Harriet’s grand-daughter, Mr. Charles Whittaker’s only child. Shen was left all alone, too, when she went to live with Miss Dawson. Mr. Charles and his wife was killed in one of these dreadful motors- dear, dear- it seemed we was fated to have nothing but one tragedy after another. Just to think of Ben and me outliving them all.”
“Cheer up, Mother,” said Ben, laying his hand on hers. “The Lord have been wonderful good to us.”
“That He have. Three sons we have, sir, and two daughters, and fourteen grandchildren and three great grandchildren. Maybe you’d like to see their pictures, sir.”
Lord Peter said he should like to very much, and Parker made confirmatory noises. The life-histories of all the children and descendants were detailed at suitable length. Whenever a pause seemed discernible, Parker would mutter hopefully in Wimsey’s ear, “How about Cousin Hallelujah?” but before a question could be put, the interminable family chronicle was resumed.
“And for God’s sake, Charles,” whispered Peter, savagely, when Mrs. Cobling had risen to hunt for the shawl which Grandson William had sent home from the Dardanelles, “don’t keep saying Hallelujah at me! I’m not a revival meeting.”
The shawl being duly admired, the conversation turned upon foreign parts, natives and black people generally, following on which, Lord Peter added carelessly:
“By the way, hasn’t the Dawson family got some sort of connections in those foreign countries, somewhere?”
Well, yes, said Mrs. Cobling, in rather a shocked tone. There had been Mr. Paul, Mr. Henry’s brother. But he was not mentioned much. He had been a terrible shock to his family. In fact- a gasp here, and a lowering of the voice- he had turned Papist and become- a monk! (Had he become a murderer, apparently, he could hardly have done worse.) Mr. Henry had always blamed himself very much in the matter.
“How was it his fault?”
“Well, of course, Mr. Henry’s wife- my dear mistress, you see, sir- she was French, as I told you, and of course, she was a Papist. Being brought up that way, she wouldn’t know any better, naturally, and she was very young when she was married. But Mr. Henry soon taught her to be a Christian, and she put away her idolatrous ideas and went to the parish church. But Mr. Paul, he fell in love with one of her sisters, and the sister had been vowed to religion, as they called it, and had shut herself up in a nunnery. And then Mr. Paul had broken his heart and “gone over” to the Scarlet Woman and-again the pause and the hush- become a monk. A terrible to-do it made. And he’d lived to be a very old man, and for all Mrs. Cobling knew was living yet, still in the error of his ways.
“If he’s alive,” murmured Parker, “he’s probably the real heir. He’d be Dawson ’s uncle and her nearest relation.”
Wimsey frowned and returned to the charge.
“Well, it couldn’t have been Mr. Paul I had in mind,” he said, “because this sort of relation of Miss Agatha Dawson’s that I heard about was a real foreigner- in fact a very dark-complexioned man-almost a black man, or so I was told.”
“Black?” cried the old lady- “oh, no, sir- that couldn’t be. Unless- dear Lord a’ mercy, it couldn’t be that, surely! Ben, do you think it could be that? – Old Simon, you know?”
Ben shook his head. “I never heard tell much about him.”
“Nor nobody did,” replied Mrs. Cobling, energetically. “He was a long way back, but they had tales of him in the family. ‘Wicked Simon,’ they called him. He sailed away to the Indies, many years ago, and nobody knew what became of him. Wouldn’t it be a queer thing, like, if he was to have married a black wife out in them parts, and this was his- oh, dear-his grandson it ’ud have to be, if not his great-grandson, for he was Mr. Henry’s uncle, and that’s a long time ago.”
This was disappointing. A grandson of “old Simon’s” would surely be too distant a relative to dispute Mary Whittaker’s title. However:
“That’s very interesting,” said Wimsey. “Was it the East Indies or the West Indies he went to, I wonder?”
Mrs. Cobling didn’t know, but believed it was something to do with America.
“It’s a pity as Mr. Probyn ain’t in England any longer. He could have told you more about the family than what I can. But he retired last year and went away to Italy or some such place.”
“Who was he?”
“He was Miss Whittaker’s soliciter,” 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 washout,” 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 Dawkin 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 13 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 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?