The Mystery of the Clasped Hands: A NovelBoothby, Guy
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The Mystery of the Clasped Hands: A Novel
Boothby, Guy
Detective and mystery stories; Fiction
If I were given my choice of all the charming residences in the county
of Midlandshire, I fancy I should decide in favour of Detwich Hall. To
my thinking it is, in every respect, an ideal residence. While
sufficiently old to have a history (one of the Charleses spent some days
in hiding there), it has proved itself capable of being adapted to
modern ideas of comfort. The main portion was built, I believe, toward
the close of the reign of the Virgin Queen; a wing was added by the
owner who occupied it in the time of the early Georges; while the father
of the man who had bequeathed the property to Godfrey, was responsible
for the stables, and a somewhat obscure wing on the southern front. It
was admirably situated in the centre of a park of some three hundred
acres, and was approached by a picturesque drive, about half a mile
long, which ran for some distance along the banks of an ornamental
lake. On this lake, by the way, some of the finest duck shooting in the
county is to be obtained. In his boyhood Godfrey had spent many happy
days there, little dreaming that some day it would become his own
property. Indeed, it is quite certain it would not have done so had his
cousin Wilfred not been killed in India in the performance of a piece of
desperate heroism that will be remembered as long as a certain native
regiment exists. As for Godfrey, the old man had always liked the boy,
but had been bitterly disappointed when he had resolved to embark upon
an artistic career instead of playing the part of a country gentleman,
as so many of his ancestors had done before him. To have proved himself
a capable Master of Hounds would have been in the old bachelor’s eyes a
greater distinction than to have painted the finest picture that ever
graced the walls of Burlington House. Yet in his heart he knew the power
of the young man, and honoured him for the dogged persistence with which
he had fought the uphill fight of a painter’s life.
“Well, well, I suppose he’ll come out of it all right in the end,” he
was wont to say to himself when he thought of the matter. “He’ll be
none the worse for having known a little poverty. I like the boy and he
likes me, and, please God, he’ll do his best by the dear old place when
he comes into it. I should like to see him in it.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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