“You saw the actual collapse?” asked Collingwood.
“Aye—didn’t I?” exclaimed Cobcroft. “Another man and myself were looking out of the office window, right opposite. It fell in the queerest way—like this,” he went on, holding up his garden-rake. “Supposing this shaft was the chimney—standing straight up. As we looked we saw it suddenly bulge out, on all sides—it was a square chimney, same size all the way up till you got to the cornice at the top—bulge out, d’ye see, just about halfway up—simultaneous, like. Then—down it came with a roar that they heard over half the town! O’ course, there were some two or three thousands of tons of stuff in that chimney—and when the dust was cleared a bit there it was in one great heap, right across the yard. And it was a good job,” concluded Cobcroft, reflectively, “that it fell straight—collapsed in itself, as you might say—for if it had fallen slanting either way, it ’ud ha’ smashed right through some of the sheds, and there’d ha’ been a terrible loss of life.”
“Mr. John Mallathorpe was killed on the spot, I believe?” suggested Collingwood.
“Aye—and Gaukrodger, and Marshall, and the steeplejack that had just come down, and another or two,” said Cobcroft. “They’d no chance—they were standing in a group at the very foot, talking. They were all killed there and then—instantaneous. Some others were struck and injured—one or two died. Yes, sir—I’m not very like to forget that!”
“A terrible experience!” agreed Collingwood. “It would naturally fix itself on your memory.”
“Aye—my memory’s very keen about it,” said Cobcroft. “I remember every detail of that morning. And,” he continued, showing a desire to become reminiscent, “there was something happened that morning, before the accident, that I’ve oft thought over and has oft puzzled me. I’ve never said aught to anybody about it, because we Yorkshiremen we’re not given to talking about affairs that don’t concern us, and after all, it was none o’ mine! But you’re a law gentleman, and I dare say you get things told to you in confidence now and then, and, of course, this is between you and me. I’ll not deny that I have oft thought that I would like to tell it to a lawyer of some sort, and find out how it struck him.”
“Anything that you like to tell me, Mr. Cobcroft, I shall treat as a matter of confidence—until you tell me it’s no longer a secret,” answered Collingwood.
“Why,” continued Cobcroft, “it isn’t what you rightly would call a secret—though I don’t think anybody knows aught about it but myself! It was just this—and it may be there’s naught in it but a mere fancy o’ mine. That morning, before the accident happened, I was in and out of the private office a good deal—carrying in and out letters, and account books, and so on. Mr. John Mallathorpe’s private office, ye’ll understand, sir, opened out of our countinghouse—as it does still—the present manager, Mr. Horsfall, has it, just as it was. Well, now, on one occasion, when I went in there, to take a ledger back to the safe, Mr. Mallathorpe had his manager and cashier, Gaukrodger and Marshall in with him. Mr. Mallathorpe, he always used a stand-up desk to write at—never wrote sitting down, though he had a big desk in the middle of the room that he used to sit at to look over accounts or talk to people. Now when I went in, he and Gaukrodger and Marshall were all at this stand-up desk—in the window-place—and they were signing some papers. At least Gaukrodger had just signed a paper, and Marshall was taking the pen from him. ‘Sign there, Marshall,’ says Mr. Mallathorpe. And then he went on, ‘Now we’ll sign this other—it’s well to have these things in duplicate, in case one gets lost.’ And then—well, then, I went out, and—why, that was all.”
“You’ve some idea in your mind about that,” said Collingwood, who had watched Cobcroft closely as he talked. “What is it?”
Cobcroft smiled—and looked round as if to ascertain that they were alone. “Why!” he answered in a low voice. “I’ll tell you what I did wonder—some time afterwards. I dare say you’re aware—it was all in the papers—that Mr. John Mallathorpe died intestate?”
“Yes,” asserted Collingwood. “I know that.”
“I’ve oft wondered,” continued Cobcroft, “if that could ha’ been his will that they were signing! But then I reflected a bit on matters. And there were two or three things that made me say naught at all—not a word. First of all, I considered it a very unlikely thing that a rich man like Mr. John Mallathorpe would make a will for himself. Second—I remembered that very soon after I’d been in his private office Marshall came out into the countinghouse and gave the office lad a lot of letters and documents to take to the post—some of ’em big envelopes—and I thought that what I’d seen signed was some agreement or other that was in one of them. And third—and most important—no will was ever found in any of Mr. John Mallathorpe’s drawers or safes or anywhere, though they turned things upside down at the office, and, I heard, at his house as well. Of course, you see, sir, supposing that to have been a will—why, the only two men who could possibly have proved it was were dead and gone! They were killed with him. And
