WRAYBURN was there, all right, but had mysteriously shifted its place. This in itself was unaccountable. She clearly remembered having replaced it, just before Christmas, on top of the pile MORTIMER—SCROGGINS—LORD COOTE—DOLBY BROS. AND WINGFIELD; and here it was, on the day after Boxing Day, at the bottom of a pile, heaped over and kept down by BODGERS—SIR J. PENKRIDGE—FLATSBY & COATEN—TRUBODY LTD. and UNIVERSAL BONE TRUST. Somebody had been spring cleaning, apparently, over the holidays, and Miss Murchison thought it improbable that it was Mrs. Hodges.
It was tiresome, because all the shelves were full, and it would be necessary to lift down all the boxes and stand them somewhere before she could get out WRAYBURN. And Mrs. Hodges would be in soon, and though Mrs. Hodges didn’t really matter, it might look odd…
Miss Murchison pulled the chair from her desk (for the shelf was rather high) and, standing on it, lifted down UNIVERSAL BONE TRUST. It was heavyish, and the chair (which was of the revolving kind, and not the modern type with one spindly leg and a stiffly sprung back, which butts you in the lower spine and keeps you up to your job) wobbled unsteadily, as she carefully lowered the box and balanced it on the narrow top of the cupboard. She reached up again and took down TRUBODY LTD., and placed it on BONE TRUST. She reached up for the third time and seized FLATSBY & COATEN. As she stooped with it a step sounded in the doorway and an astonished voice said behind her:
“Are you looking for something, Miss Murchison?”
Miss Murchison started so violently that the treacherous chair swung through a quarter-turn, nearly shooting her into Mr. Pond’s arms. She came down awkwardly, still clasping the black deed-box.
“How you startled me, Mr. Pond! I thought you had gone.”
“So I had,” said Mr. Pond, “but when I got to the Underground I found I had left a little parcel behind me. So tiresome—I had to come back for it. Have you seen it anywhere? A little round jar, done up in brown paper.”
Miss Murchison set FLATSBY & COATEN on the seat of the chair and gazed about her.
“It doesn’t seem to be in my desk,” said Mr. Pond. “Dear, dear, I shall be so late. And I can’t go without it, because it’s wanted for dinner—in fact, it’s a little jar of caviare. We have guests tonight. Now, where can I have put it?”
“Perhaps you put it down when you washed your hands,” suggested Miss Murchison, helpfully.
“Well now, perhaps I did.” Mr. Pond fussed out and she heard the door of the little lavabo in the passage open with a loud creak. It suddenly occurred to her that she had left her handbag open on her desk. Suppose the skeleton keys were visible. She darted towards the bag, just as Mr. Pond returned in triumph.
“Much obliged to you for your suggestion, Miss Murchison. It was there all the time. Mrs. Pond would have been so much upset. Well, good-night again.” he turned towards the door. “Oh, by the way, were you looking for something?”
“I was looking for a mouse,” replied Miss Murchison with a nervous giggle. “I was just sitting working when I saw it run along the top of the cupboard and—er—up the wall behind those boxes.”
“Dirty little beasts,” said Mr. Pond, “The place is overrun with them. I have often said we ought to have a cat here. No hope of catching it now, though. You’re not afraid of mice apparently?”
“No,” said Miss Murchison, holding her eyes, by a strenuous physical effort, on Mr. Pond’s face. If the skeleton keys were—as it seemed to her they must be—indecently exposing their spidery anatomy on her desk, it would be madness to look in that direction. “No—in your days I suppose all women were afraid of mice.”
“Yes, they were,” admitted Mr. Pond, “but then, of course, their garments were longer.”
“Rotten for them,” said Murchison.
“They were very graceful in appearance,” said Mr. Pond. “Allow me to assist you in replacing those boxes.”
“You will miss your train,” said Miss Murchison.
“I have missed it already,” replied Mr. Pond, glancing at his watch. “I shall have to take the 5.30.” He politely picked up FLATSBY & COATEN and climbed perilously with it in his hands to the unsteady seat of the rotatory chair.
“It’s extremely kind of you,” said Miss Murchison, watching him as he restored it to its place.
“Not at all. If you would kindly hand me up the others—”
Miss Murchison handed him TRUBODY LTD., and UNIVERSAL BONE TRUST.
“There!” said Mr. Pond, completing the pile and dusting his hands. “Now let us hope the mouse has gone for good. I will speak to Mrs. Hodges about procuring a suitable kitten.”
“That would be a very good idea,” said Miss Murchison. “Goodnight, Mr. Pond.”
“Good-night, Miss Murchison.”
His footsteps pattered down the passage, sounded again more loudly beneath the window and for the second time died away in the direction of Brownlow Street.
“Whew!” said Miss Murchison. She darted to her desk. Her fears had deceived her. The bag was shut and the keys invisible.
She pulled her chair back to its place and sat down as a clash of brooms and pails outside announced the arrival of Mrs. Hodges.
“Ho!” said Mrs. Hodges, arrested on the threshold at sight of the lady clerk industriously typing away, “beg your pardon, miss, but I didn’t know as how anybody was here.”
“Sorry, Mrs. Hodges, I’ve got a little bit of work to finish. But you carry on. Don’t mind me.”
“That’s all right, miss,” said Mrs. Hodges, “I can do Mr. Partridge’s office fust.”
“Well, if it’s all the same to you,” said Miss Murchison. “I’ve just got to type a few pages and—er—make a précis—notes you know, of some documents for Mr. Urquhart.”
Mrs. Hodges nodded and vanished again. Presently a loud bumping noise overhead proclaimed her presence in Mr. Partridge’s office.
Miss Murchison waited no longer. She dragged her chair to the shelves again, took down swiftly, one after the other, BONE TRUST, TRUBODY LTD., FLATSBY & COATEN, SIR J. PENKRIDGE and BODGERS.
Her heart beat heavily as at last she seized WRAYBURN and carried it across to her desk.
She opened her bag and shook out its contents. The bunch of picklocks clattered upon the desk, mixed up with a handkerchief, a powder compact and a pocket-comb. The thin and shining steel barrels seemed to burn her fingers.
As she picked the bunch over, looking for the most suitable implement, there came a loud rap at the window.
She wheeled round, terrified. There was nothing there. Thrusting the picklocks into the pocket of her sports-coat, she tiptoed across and looked out. In the lamplight she observed three small boys engaged in climbing the iron railings which guard the sacred areas of Bedford Row. The foremost child saw her and gesticulated, pointing downwards. Miss Murchison waved her hand and cried, “Be off with you!”
The child shouted something unintelligible and pointed again. Putting two and two together, Miss Murchison deduced from the rap at the window, the gesture and the cry, that a valuable ball had fallen into the area. She shook her head with severity and returned to her task.
But the incident had reminded her that the windows had no blinds and that, under the glare of the electric light, her movements were as visible to anybody in the street as though she stood on a lighted stage. There was no reason to suppose that Mr. Urquhart or Mr. Pond was about, but her uneasy conscience vexed her. Moreover, if a policeman should pass by, would he not be able to recognise picklocks a hundred yards away? She peered out again. Was it her agitated fancy, or was that a sturdy form in dark blue emerging from Hand Court?
Miss Murchison fled in alarm and, snatching up the deed-box, carried it bodily into Mr. Urquhart’s private office.
Here, at least, she could not be overlooked. If anybody came in—even Mrs. Hodges—her presence might cause surprise but she would hear them coming and be warned in advance.
Her hands were cold and shaking, and she was not in the best condition t
o profit by Blindfold Bill’s instructions. She drew a few deep breaths. She had been told not to hurry herself. Very well, then, she would not.
She chose a key with care and slipped it into the lock. For years, as it seemed to her, she scratched about aimlessly, till at length she felt the spring press against the hooked end. Pushing and lifting steadily with one hand, she introduced her second key. She felt the lever move—in another moment there was a sharp click and the lock was open.
There were not a great many papers in the box. The first document was a long list of securities, endorsed “Securities deposited with Lloyd’s Bank.” Then came the copies of some title-deeds, of which the originals were similarly deposited. Then came a folder filled with correspondence. Some of this consisted of letters, from Mrs. Wrayburn herself, the latest letter being dated five years previously. In addition there were letters from tenants, bankers and stockbrokers, with copies of the replies written from the office and signed by Norman Urquhart.
Miss Murchison hastened impatiently through all this. There was no sign of a will or copy of a will—not even of the dubious draft that the solicitor had shown to Wimsey. Two papers only now remained at the bottom of the box. Miss Murchison picked up the first. It was a Power of Attorney, dated January 1925, giving Norman Urquhart full powers to act for Mrs. Wrayburn. The second was thicker and tied neatly with red tape. Miss Murchison slipped this off and unfolded the document.
It was a Deed of Trust, making over the whole of Mrs. Wrayburn’s property to Norman Urquhart, in trust for herself, and providing that he should pay into her current account, from the estate, a certain fixed annual sum for personal expenses. The deed was dated July 1920 and attached to it was a letter, which Miss Murchison hastily read through:
Appleford, Windle.
15th May, 1920.
MY DEAR NORMAN,
Thank you very much, my dear boy, for your birthday letter and the pretty scarf. It is good of you to remember your old aunt so faithfully.
It has occurred to me that, now that I am over eighty years old, it is time that I put my business into your hands entirely. You and your father have managed very well for me all these years, and you have, of course, always very properly consulted me before taking any step with regard to investments. But I am getting such a very old woman now that I am quite out of touch with the modern world, and I cannot pretend that my opinions are of any real value. I am a tired old woman, too, and though you always explain everything most clearly , I find the writing of letters a gêne and a burden to me at my advanced age.
So I have determined to put my property in Trust with you for my lifetime, so that you may have full power to handle everything according to your own discretion, without having to consult me every time. And also, though I am strong and healthy yet, I am glad to say, and have my wits quite about me, still, that happy state of things might alter at any time. I might become paralysed or feeble in my head, or want to make some foolish use of my money, as silly old women have done before now.
So will you draw up a deed of this kind and bring it to me and I will sign it. And at the same time I will give you instructions about my will.
Thanking you again for your good wishes,
Your affec. Great-Aunt,
ROSANNA WRAYBURN.
“Hurray!” said Miss Murchison. “There was a will, then! And this Trust—that’s probably important, too.”
She read the letter again, skimmed through the clauses of the trust, taking particular notice that Norman Urquhart was named as sole Trustee, and finally made a mental note of some of the larger and more important items in the list of securities. Then she replaced the documents in their original order, relocked the box—which yielded to treatment like an angel—carried it out, replaced it, piled the other boxes above it, and was back at her machine, just as Mrs. Hodges re-entered the office.
“Just finished, Mrs. Hodges,” she called out cheerfully.
“I wondered if yer would be,” said Mrs. Hodges, “I didn’t hear the typewriter a-going.”
“I was making notes by hand,” said Miss Murchison. She crumpled together the spoiled front page of the affidavit and threw it into the waste-paper basket together with the re-type which she had begun. From her desk-drawer she produced a correctly typed first page, provided beforehand for the purpose, added it to the bundle of script, put the top copy and the required sets of flimsies into an envelope, sealed it, addressed it to Messrs. Hanson & Hanson, put on her hat and coat and went out, bidding a pleasant farewell to Mrs. Hodges at the door.
A short walk brought her to Messrs. Hansons’ office, where she delivered the affidavit through the letter box. Then with a brisk step and humming to herself, she made for the ’bus-stop at the junction of Theobald’s Road and Gray’s Inn Road.
“I think I deserve a little supper in Soho,” said Miss Murchison.
She was humming again as she walked from Cambridge Circus into Frith Street. “What is this beastly tune?” she asked herself abruptly. A little consideration reminded her that it was “Sweeping through the gates, Sweeping through the gates…”
“Bless me!” said Miss Murchison. “Going dotty, that’s what I am.”
Chapter XV
LORD PETER congratulated Miss Murchison and gave her a rather special lunch at Rules, where there is a particularly fine old cognac for those that appreciate such things. Indeed, Miss Murchison was a little late in returning to Mr. Urquhart’s office, and in her haste omitted to hand back the skeleton keys. But when the wine is good and the company agreeable one cannot always think of everything.
Wimsey himself, by a great act of self-control, had returned to his own flat to think, instead of bolting away to Holloway Gaol. Although it was a work of charity and necessity to keep up the spirits of the prisoner (it was in this way that he excused his almost daily visits) he could not disguise from himself that it would be even more useful and charitable to get her innocence proved. So far, he had not made much real progress.
The suicide theory had been looking very hopeful when Norman Urquhart had produced the draft of the will; but his belief in that draft had now been thoroughly undermined. There was still a faint hope of retrieving the packet of white powder from the “Nine Rings,” but as the days passed remorselessly on, that hope diminished almost to vanishing-point. It irked him to be taking no action in the matter—he wanted to rush to the Gray’s Inn Road, to cross-question, bully, bribe, ransack every person and place in and about the “Rings” but he knew that the police could do this better than he could.
Why had Norman Urquhart tried to mislead him about the will? He could so easily have refused all information. There must be some mystery about it. But if Urquhart were not, in fact, the legatee, he was playing rather a dangerous game. If the old lady died, and the will was proved, the facts would probably be published—and she might die any day.
How easy it would be, he thought, regretfully, to hasten Mrs. Wrayburn’s death a trifle. She was ninety-three and very frail. An over-dose of something—a shake—a slight shock, even—it did not do to think after that fashion. He wondered idly who lived with the old woman and looked after her…
It was the 30th of December, and he still had no plan. The stately volumes on his shelves, rank after rank of Saint, historian, poet, philosopher, mocked his impotence. All that wisdom and all that beauty, and they could not show him how to save the woman he imperiously wanted from a sordid death by hanging. And he had thought himself rather clever at that kind of thing. The enormous and complicated imbecility of things was all round him like a trap. He ground his teeth and raged helplessly, striding about the suave, wealthy, futile room. The great Venetian mirror over the fireplace showed him his own head and shoulders. He saw a fair, foolish face, with straw-coloured hair sleeked back; a monocle clinging incongruously under a ludicrously twitching brow; a chin shaved to perfection, hairless, epicene; a rather high collar, faultlessly starched, a tie elegantly knotted and matching in colour the handkerchief which
peeped coyly from the breast-pocket of an expensive Savile-Row tailored suit. He snatched up a heavy bronze from the mantelpiece—a beautiful thing, even as he snatched it, his fingers caressed the patina—and the impulse seized him to smash the mirror and smash the face—to break out into great animal howls and gestures.
Silly! One could not do that. The inherited inhibitions of twenty civilised centuries tied one hand and foot in bonds of ridicule. What if he did smash the mirror? Nothing would happen. Bunter would come in, unmoved and unsurprised, would sweep up the débris in a dustpan, would prescribe a hot bath and massage. And next day a new mirror would be ordered, because people would come in and ask questions, and civilly regret the accidental damage to the old one. And Harriet Vane would still be hanged, just the same.
Wimsey pulled himself together, called for his hat and coat, and went away in a taxi to call on Miss Climpson.
“I have a job,” he said to her, more abruptly than was his wont, “which I should like you to undertake yourself. I can’t trust anybody else.”
“How kind of you to put it like that,” said Miss Climpson.
“The trouble is, I can’t in the least tell you how to set about it. It all depends on what you find when you get there. I want you to go to Windle in Westmorland and get hold of an imbecile and paralysed old lady called Mrs. Wrayburn, who lives at a house called Appleford. I don’t know who looks after her, or how you are to get into the house. But you’ve got to do it, and you’ve got to find out where her will is kept, and, if possible, see it.”
“Dear me!” said Miss Climpson.
“And what’s worse,” said Wimsey, “you’ve only got about a week to do it in.”
“That’s a very short time,” said Miss Climpson.
“You see,” said Wimsey, “unless we can give some very good reason for delay, they’re bound to take the Vane case almost first thing next sessions. If I could persuade the lawyers for the defence that there is the least chance of securing fresh evidence, they could apply for a postponement. But at present I have nothing that could be called evidence—only the vaguest possible hunch.”