notices were simply frightful. When she
read them, she burst into tears and cried
all day and she threw her breakfast tray at
Gladys, and Gladys gave notice. It was
rather fun."
"I perceive that you like drama, Josephine,"
I said.
"They did a post mortem on grandfather,"
said Josephine. "To find out what
he had died of. A P.M., they call it, but I
think that's rather confusing, don't you? Because
P.M. stands for Prime Minister too.
And for afternoon," she added, thoughtfully.
"Are you sorry your grandfather is dead?"
I asked.
"Not particularly. I didn't like him much.
He stopped me learning to be a ballet
dancer."
"Did you want to learn ballet dancing?"
"Yes, and mother was willing for me to
learn, and father didn't mind, but grandfather
said I'd be no good."
She slipped off the arm of the chair, kicked off her shoes and endeavoured to get onto what are called technically, I
believe, her points.
"You have to have the proper shoes, of
course," she explained, "and even then you
get frightful abscesses sometimes on the
ends of your toes." She resumed her shoes
and inquired casually: .
"Do you like this house?"
"I'm not quite sure," I said.
"I suppose it will be sold now. Unless
Brenda goes on living in it. And I suppose
Uncle Roger and Aunt Clemency won't be
going away now."
"Were they going away?" I asked with a
faint stirring of interest.
"Yes. They were going on Tuesday.
Abroad, somewhere. They were going by
air. Aunt Clemency bought one of those a new featherweight cases."
"I hadn't heard they were going abroad,"
I said. I r.i
"No," said Josephine. "Nobody knew.
It was a secret. They weren't going to tell
anyone until after they'd gone. They were
going to leave a note behind for grandfather."
|
She added:
"Not pinned to the pincushion. That's
only in very old-fashioned books and wives m^ do it when they leave their husbands. But !],
it would be silly now because nobody has
pincushions any more."
"Of course they don't. Josephine, do you
know why your Uncle Roger was -- going
away?"
She shot me a cunning sideways glance. "I think I do. It was something to do
with Uncle Roger's office in London. I
rather think -- but I'm not sure -- that
he'd embezzled something." ^ "What makes you think that?"
Josephine came nearer and breathed heavily
in my face.
"The day that grandfather was poisoned
Uncle Roger was shut up in his room with
him ever so long. They were talking and
talking. And Uncle Roger was saying that
he'd never been any good, and that he'd let
grandfather down -- and that it wasn't the
money so much -- it was the feeling he'd
been unworthy of trust. He was in an awful
state."
I looked at Josephine with mixed feelings.
"Josephine," I said, "hasn't anybody ever
told you that it's not nice to listen at
doors?"
Josephine nodded her head vigorously.
"Of course they have. But if you want to
find things out, you have to listen at doors.
I bet Chief Inspector Taverner does, don't
you?"
I considered the point. Josephine went
on vehemently:
"And anyway if he doesn't, the other one
does, the one with the suede shoes. And
they look in people's desks and read all
their letters, and find out all their secrets.
Only they're stupid! They don't know
where to look!"
Josephine spoke with cold superiority. I
was stupid enough to let the inference
escape me. The unpleasant child went on:
"Eustace and I know lots of things --
but I know more than Eustace does. And I
shan't tell him. He says women can't ever
be great detectives. But I say they can. I'm
going to write down everything in a notebook
and then, when the police are completely
baffled, I shall come forward and
say,
"Do you read a lot of detective stories,
Josephine?"
"Masses."
"I suppose you think you know who
killed your grandfather?"
"Well, I think so -- but I shall have to
find a few more clues." She paused and
added, "Chief Inspector Taverner thinks
that Brenda did it, doesn't he? Or Brenda
and Laurence together because they're in
love with each other."
"You shouldn't say things like that,
Josephine."
"Why not? They are in love with each
other."
"You can't possibly judge."
sfe "Yes, I can. They write to each other.
Love letters."
"Josephine! How do you know that?"
"Because I've read them. Awfully soppy
letters. But Laurence is soppy. He was too
frightened to fight in the war. He went into
basements, and stoked boilers. When the
flying bombs went over here, he used to
turn green ? really green. It made Eustace
and me laugh a lot."
What I would have said next, I do not
know, for at that moment a car drew up
outside. In a flash Josephine was at the
window, her snub nose pressed to the pane.
"Who is it?" I asked.
"It's Mr. Gaitskill, grandfather's lawyer.
I expect he's come about the will."
Breathing excitedly, she hurried from the
room, doubtless to resume her sleuthing
activities.
Magda Leonides came in the room and
to my surprise came across to me and took
my hands in hers.
"My dear," she said, "thank goodness
you're still here. One needs a man so
badly."
She dropped my hands, crossed to a i
highbacked chair, altered its position a
little, glanced at herself in a mirror, then
picking up a small Battersea enamel box
from a table she stood pensively opening
and shutting it.
It was an attractive pose.
Sophia put her head in at the door and
said in an admonitory whisper, "Gaitskill!"
"I
know," said Magda.
A few moments later, Sophia entered the ;
room accompanied by a small elderly man,
and Magda put down her enamel box and
came forward to meet him.
"Good morning, Mrs. Philip. I'm on my
way upstairs. It seems there's some misunderstanding
about the will. Your husband
wrote to me with the impression that the
will was in my keeping. I understood from
Mr. Leonides himself that it was at his
vault. You don't know anything about it, I
suppose?"
"About poor Sweetie's will?" Magda
A
op
ened astonished eyes. "No, of course
not. Don't tell me that wicked woman
upstairs has destroyed it?"
"Now, Mrs. Philip," he shook an admonitory
finger at her. "No wild surmises.
It's just a question of where your father-inlaw
kept it."
"But he sent it to you -- surely he did
-- after signing it. He actually told us he
had." o
"The police, I understand, have been
through Mr. Leonides's private papers,"
said Mr. Gaitskill. "I'll just have a word
with Chief Inspector Taverner."
He left the room. g
"Darling," cried Magda. "She has destroyed
it. I know I'm right."
"Nonsense, mother, she wouldn't do a
stupid thing like that."
"It wouldn't be stupid at all. If there's
no will she'll get everything."
"Sh -- here's Gaitskill back again."
The lawyer re-entered the room. Chief
Inspector Taverner was with him and behind
Taverner came Philip.
"I understood from Mr. Leonides,"
Gaitskill was saying, "that he had placed
his will with the Bank for safe keeping."
Taverner shook his head.
"I've been in communication with the
Bank. They have no private papers belonging
to Mr. Leonides beyond certain securities
which they held for him."
Philip said:
"I wonder if Roger -- or Aunt Edith --
Perhaps, Sophia, you'd ask them to come
down here."
But Roger Leonides, summoned with the
others to the conclave, could give no
assistance.
"But it's nonsense -- absolute nonsense," he declared. "Father signed the will and
said distinctly that he was posting it to Mr.
Gaitskill on the following day."
"If my memory serves me," said Mr.
Gaitskill, leaning back and half-closing his
eyes, "it was on November 24th of last year
that I forwarded a draft drawn up according
to Mr. Leonides's instructions. He approved
the draft, returned it to me, and in due
course I sent him the will for signature.
After a lapse of a week, I ventured to
remind him that I had not yet received the
will duly signed and attested, and asking
him if there was anything he wished altered.
He replied that he was perfectly satisfied
and added that after signing the will he had
sent it to his Bank."
"That's quite right," said Roger eagerly. "It was about the end of November last
year -- you remember, Philip? -- Father
had us all up one evening and read the will
to us."
Taverner turned towards Philip Leonides.
"That agrees with your recollection, Mr.
Leonides?"
"Yes," said Philip.
"It was rather like the Voysey Inheritance,"
said Magda. She sighed pleasurably.
"I always think there's something so dramatic
about a will." s %
"Miss Sophia?"
"Yes," said Sophia. "I remember perfectly."
"And the provisions of that wiU?" asked
Taverner.
Mr. Gaitskill was about to reply in his
precise fashion, but Roger Leonides got
ahead of him.
"It was a perfectly simple will. Electra
and Joyce had died and their shaire of the
settlements had returned to father. Joyce's
son, William, had been killed in action in
Burma, and the money he left went to his
father. Philip and I and the children were Ae only relatives left. Father 'explained Aat. He left fifty thousand pounds free of
duty to Aunt Edith, a hundred thousand
pounds free of duty to Brenda, this house
to Brenda or else a suitable house in London
to be purchased for her, whichever she
preferred. The residue to be divided into
three portions, one to myself, one to Philip, i the third to be divided between Sophia, Eustace and Josephine, the portions of the
last two to be held in trust until they should
come of age. I think that's right, isn't it, Mr. Gaitskill?"
"Those are -- roughly stated -- the provisions
of the document I drew up," agreed
Mr. Gaitskill, displaying some slight acerbity
at not having been allowed to speak
for himself.
"Father read it out to us," said Roger. |
"He asked if there was any comment we
might like to make. Of course there was
none."
"Brenda made a comment," said Miss de
Haviland. Rfe
"Yes," said Magda with zest. "She said
she couldn't bear her darling old Aristide
to talk about death. It 'gave her the creeps', |
she said. And after he was dead she didn't
want any of the horrid money!"
"That," said Miss de Haviland, "was a conventional protest, typical of her class."
It was a cruel and biting little remark. I
realised suddenly how much Edith de
Haviland disliked Brenda.
"A very fair and reasonable disposal of
his estate," said Mr. Gaitskill.
"And after reading it what happened?"
asked Inspector Taverner.
"After reading it," said Roger, "he signed
it."
Taverner leaned forward.
"Just how and when did he sign it?"
Roger looked round at his wife in an
appealing way. Clemency spoke in answer
to that look. The rest of the family seemed
content for her to do so. %
"You want to know exactly what took
place?"
"If you please, Mrs. Roger."
"My father-in-law laid the will down on
his desk and requested one of us ? Roger,
I think ? to ring the bell. Roger did so.
When Johnson came in answer to the bell,
my father-in-law requested him to fetch
Janet Woolmer, the parlourmaid. When
they were both there, he signed the will
and requested them to sign their own names
beneath his signature."
"The correct procedure," said Mr. Gaitskill.
"A will must be signed by the testator
in the presence of two witnesses who must
affix their own signatures at the same time
and place."
"And after that?" asked Taverner.
"My father-in-law thanked them, and
they went out. My father-in-law picked up
the will 5 put it in a long envelope and
mentioned that he would send it to Mr.
Gaitskill on the following day."
"You all agree," said Inspector Taverner,
looking round, "that this is an accurate
account of what happened?"
There were murmurs of agreement.
"The will was on the desk, you said.
How near were any of you to that desk?"
"Not very near. Five or six yards,
perhaps, would be the nearest."
"When Mr. Leonides read you the will
was he himself sitting at the desk?"
"Yes." .
"Did he get up, or leave the desk, after
reading the will and before signing it?"
"No."
"Could the servants read the document
when they signed their names?"
"No," said Clemency. "My father-in-law
placed a sheet of paper across the upper
part of the document."
"Quite properly," said Philip. "The ^
contents of the will were no business of the
servants."
"I see," said Taverner. "At least ? I
don't see."
With a brisk movement he produced a
long envelope and leaned forward to hand
it to the lawyer.
"Have a look at that," he said. "And tell
me what it is."
Mr. Gaitskill drew a folded document
out of the envelope. He looked at it with
lively astonishment, turning it round and
round in his hands.
"This," he said, "is somewhat surprising.
I do not understand it at all. Where was
this, if I may ask?"
"In the safe, amongst Mr. Leonides's
other papers."
"But what is it?" demanded Roger.
"What's all the fuss about?"
"This is the will I prepared for your
father's signature, Roger ? but ? I can't
understand it after what you have all said
?- it is not signed."
"What? Well, I suppose it is just a draft."
"No," said the lawyer. "Mr. Leonides
returned me the original draft. I then drew
up the will ? this will," he tapped it with
his finger, "and sent it to him for signature.
According to your evidence he signed the
will in front of you all ? and the two
witnesses also appended their signatures ?
and yet this will is unsigned."
"But that's impossible," exclaimed Philip
Leonides, speaking with more animation
than I had yet heard from him.
Taverner asked: "How good was your
father's eyesight?"
"He suffered from glaucoma. He used
strong glasses 5 of course 5 for reading."
"He had those glasses on that evening?"
"Certainly. He didn't take his glasses off
until after he had signed. I think I am
right?" , b
"Quite right," said Clemency.
"And nobody ? you are all sure of that
? went near the desk before the signing of
the will?"
"I wonder now," said Magda, screwing
up her eyes. "If one could only visualise it
all again."
"Nobody went near the desk," said
Sophia. "And grandfather sat at it all the
time."
"The desk was in the position it is now?
It was not near a door, or a window, or any
drapery?"
55
"It was where it is now.
"I am trying to see how a substitution of
some kind could have been effected," said
Taverner. "Some kind of substitution there
must have been. Mr. Leonides was under
the impression that he was signing the
document he had just read aloud."
"Couldn't the signatures have been
erased?" Roger demanded.
"No, Mr. Leonides. Not without leaving
signs of erasion. There is one other possibility.
That this is not the document sent
to Mr. Leonides by Gaitskill and which he
signed in your presence."
"On the contrary," said Mr. Gaitskill. "I
could swear to this being the original
document. There is a small flaw in the
paper -- at the top left hand corner -- it
resembles, by a stretch of fancy, an aeroplane.
I noticed it at the time."
The family looked blankly at one another.
"A most curious set of circumstances," said Mr. Gaitskill. "Quite without precedent
*
in my experience."
"The whole thing's impossible," said
Roger. "We were all there. It simply
couldn't have happened."
Miss de Haviland gave a dry cough. "Never any good wasting breath saying
something that has happened couldn't have
happened," she remarked. "What's tie
position now? That's what I'd like to
know?"
Gaitskill immediately became the cautious
lawyer.
"The position will have to be examined
very carefully," he said. "The document, of course, revokes all former wills and
testaments. There are a large number of
witnesses who saw Mr. Leonides sign wtiat
he certainly believed to be this will in
perfectly good faith. Hum. Very interesting.
Quite a little legal problem."
Taverner glanced at his watch.
"I'm afraid," he said, "I've been keeping
you from your lunch."
"Won't you stay and lunch with us. Chief
Inspector?" asked Philip, a?
"Thank you, Mr. Leonides, but I am
meeting Dr. Cray in Swinly Dean."
Philip turned to the lawyer.
"You'll lunch with us, Gaitskill?"
"Thank you, Philip."
Everybody stood up. I edged unobtrusively
towards Sophia.
"Do I go or stay?" I murmured. It sounded ridiculously like the title of a
Victorian song.
"Go, I think," said Sophia.
I slipped quietly out of the room in
pursuit ofTaverner. Josephine was swinging
to and fro on a baize door leading to the
back quarters. She appeared to be highly
amused about something.
"The police are stupid," she observed.
Sophia came out of the drawing room.
"What have you been doing, Josephine?"
"Helping Nannie."
"I believe you've been listening outside
the door."
Josephine made a face at her and retreated.
3;
"That child," said Sophia, "is a bit of a
problem."
"So the kid told you?" said Taverner.
"She seems to be wise to everything that
goes on in that house."
"Children usually are," said my father
drily.
This information, if true, altered the
whole position. If Roger had been, as
Josephine had confidently suggested, "embezzling"