since I smoked any.’ He lit a Virginia cigarette and inhaled deeply. ‘You see, the first year at Oxford I used to smoke a lot too much, as so many freshers do. Then, when I began to have dreams of a Blue, I dropped it altogether.’
‘And you got your reward, I dare say.’
Verney smiled, in momentary forgetfulness of the day’s bad news. ‘Do you take an interest in that sort of thing? Yes: three-mile; also cross-country running, since we are on the subject.’
‘No, I know nothing about it,’ Trent said; ‘but as soon as you spoke of dreaming of a Blue, I could see that your dream had probably come true. You look like a Blue. When Nokes outdares Stokes in azure feats, you know, it often marks him for life.’
Verney’s dejection again took possession of him. ‘Well, it came in useful when I began working for Randolph,’ he said. ‘The boys’ club part of the job was what always appealed to me most. You know about the Randolph Institute, I dare say. Nothing sectarian; just educational and social and athletic. I love it—in fact, I spend most of my time there, because there’s a room I use as a sort of general office for all Randolph’s charitable affairs. And of course, having a bit of a record in athletics gave me more influence with the lads than almost anything else could have done. Then my being a non-smoker was a good thing too, you see. You can hardly imagine the state that many of these young fellows get their respiratory tracts into with eternally smoking cheap fags. And as for running, there’s simply nothing like it for our sort of lads, so long as they’re sound physically—hard exercise in the open air, easy to fit in after the day’s work, and costs next to nothing.’
‘It’s good for you,’ Trent said. ‘You get all the exercise you need, I expect.’
‘All I need—yes. But to tell you the truth,’ Verney said, rather in the manner of one confessing to a secret vice, ‘since I began playing golf about five years ago, I prefer a round of that to any other open-air sport I know—and I have had a pretty good experience. Whenever I can manage it, I go off for a game to Matcham. It’s not a good course, and you often can’t get a caddy, but then I never want one; and it is the cheapest golf I know this side of London, which is what I have to consider. How I wish—but it is no use talking about that. As far as keeping fit goes, I have every opportunity, as you say. There’s nothing like running, above all, for that.’
‘There’s a good deal, no doubt,’ Trent said, ‘in having that sort of thing managed by someone who knows all about it.’
‘Yes,’ Verney said simply, ‘there is, of course. The boys have their committee; but they leave the whole show to me really, and I’m rather proud of the way our fellows have come forward since I took over. Last January the Randolph Athletic Club was runner-up in the Middlesex cross-country team championship, and challenged Southgate Harriers pretty closely. We provided the first two men home in that event, and we won the junior race easily. And now, I suppose’—he tossed the end of his cigarette into the fire—‘the Kilburn Institute’s all over and done with.’
Trent felt a moment of keen sympathy, for Verney’s whole manner was that of a heartbroken man.
‘Do you mean that his death really means the end of all that work?’ he asked. ‘Wasn’t there any endowment? Or surely there would be some provision in his will for the keeping-up of the various organizations he had started—what was that phrase he was so fond of using?—for the benefit of the community. I should think, from what I’ve heard, that the shutting-up of that Institute would pretty well amount to a social disaster for that part of London. It ought not to be possible.’
‘Well, it is,’ Verney said, as he accepted another cigarette. ‘You see, Trent, old Randolph had a rather strange side to his character as a public benefactor. He made a great fortune fairly early in life, and he devoted almost the whole of his income to charities and public objects. He continued to heap up more money; but I think it was because he could hardly help it. The real hobby of his life was to attend personally to all his enormous expenditure on charities and public objects. Sometimes he would give a great sum for some special purpose; but when he did that, it was always in the way of capital expenditure. He would build and equip a sanatorium, say, for some town or some big charitable institution; but he would never settle anything on it. He might, and usually did, put his name down year by year for a contribution to its upkeep; but he used to say he started a place like that as an opportunity for charity on the part of other people.’
Trent nodded. ‘That’s not unusual, I know,’ he said. ‘But how about places like the Institute? I always understood that was entirely his own private show, maintained by him exclusively. He surely can’t have left it high and dry, so to speak.’
‘That is just what I was coming to,’ Verney said. ‘The position of the Institute was just as you say—he held it in his own hands entirely, financing it as if it were a part of his own household. And he had other establishments on just the same footing, like the Randolph Infant Orphanage at Bishopsbridge, or the Randolph Mental Hospital at Claypoole. He was very proud of them, too, and saw to their being the best run places of their kind in the country. They cost him something, Trent; I’m telling you, and I know. But they never had a penny of funds of their own; and whatever Randolph parted with in any sort of way, he always would know what happened to it. He couldn’t seem to bear the idea of anyone else controlling wealth that he had amassed—that was at the bottom of it. And I don’t see that you could find fault with that, seeing that he did devote all those vast sums to other people, and put himself to a vast amount of trouble in looking after the spending of the money. But the unfortunate consequence is that now—’ he raised a hand, palm-downwards, and brought it down sharply on the arm of his chair.
Trent stared at him. ‘You don’t mean to say he’s made no bequests to these places that he created, and lavished money on, and that made up a large part of his reputation?’
Verney arose and crossed his arms. ‘I mean this,’ he said harshly. ‘Randolph made no bequests at all. He left no will.’
THERE was a momentary silence as Trent took in this amazing statement and its implications.
‘The man who murdered Randolph,’ Verney said, ‘has probably killed half a dozen invaluable charities and other good works stone dead with that same bullet. Besides that, he has dried up completely a great stream of benevolence that spread itself out in all directions. For I am convinced that there is no will; and if there is no will, what is to happen to the Randolph fortune, and to the causes that it supported, heaven alone knows. Somebody will inherit, I suppose; but there will be delay, and who can answer for what he will do with the money? He may prefer horse-racing, or yachting, or play-producing, or any other way of getting rid of money by the cartload. One thing is practically certain; he won’t live on a few thousands a year, and devote the rest to well-directed benevolence.
‘Another thing,’ Verney went on, holding up an expository finger. ‘There may be rival claimants, and a dispute dragging on indefinitely; for as far as I know Randolph had no near relations. You may have heard that he had a son, an only son, who disappeared from home when he was about sixteen, and has never been heard of since. The old man did everything possible to find out what had happened to him, but no trace of him was ever found and he was given up for dead long ago. But there may be other relatives. You see what a disaster the whole thing is likely to be, apart from the personal loss of such a man, and such an influence for good.
‘There is one detail,’ Verney went on after a moment’s pause, ‘of interest to you. Randolph was very anxious that you should paint a replica of the Tabarders’ portrait of him, to be hung in the hall of the Institute. Did you hear about that?’
‘I had a note from him about it,’ Trent said, ‘but nothing was settled.’
‘Well, it never will be now,’ Verney