Chapter 17

There was something strained in the atmosphere of my father’s room. The Old Man sat behind his table, Chief Inspector Taverner leaned against the window frame. In the visitors’ chair sat Mr Gaitskill, looking ruffled.

‘—extraordinary want of confidence,’ he was saying acidly.

‘Of course, of course.’ My father spoke soothingly. ‘Ah, hallo, Charles, you’ve made good time. Rather a surprising development has occurred.’

‘Unprecedented,’ Mr Gaitskill said.

Something had clearly ruffled the little lawyer to the core. Behind him, Chief Inspector Taverner grinned at me.

‘If I may recapitulate?’ my father said. ‘Mr Gaitskill received a somewhat surprising communication this morning, Charles. It was from a Mr Agrodopolous, proprietor of the Delphos Restaurant. He is a very old man, a Greek by birth, and when he was a young man he was helped and befriended by Aristide Leonides. He has always remained deeply grateful to his friend and benefactor and it seems that Aristide Leonides placed great reliance and trust in him.’

I would never have believed Leonides was of such a suspicious and secretive nature,’ said Mr Gaitskill. ‘Of course, he was of advanced years—practically in his dotage, one might say.’

‘Nationality tells,’ said my father gently. ‘You see, Gaitskill, when you are very old your mind dwells a good deal on the days of your youth and the friends of your youth.’

‘But Leonides’ affairs had been in my hands for well over forty years,’ said Mr Gaitskill. ‘Forty-three years and six months to be precise.’

Taverner grinned again.

‘What happened?’ I asked.

Mr Gaitskill opened his mouth, but my father forestalled him.

‘Mr Agrodopolous stated in his communication that he was obeying certain instructions given him by his friend Aristide Leonides. Briefly, about a year ago he had been entrusted by Mr Leonides with a sealed envelope which Mr Agrodopolous was to forward to Mr Gaitskill immediately after Mr Leonides’ death. In the event of Mr Agrodopolous dying first, his son, a godson of Mr Leonides, was to carry out the same instructions. Mr Agrodopolous apologizes for the delay, but explains that he has been ill with pneumonia and only learned of his old friend’s death yesterday afternoon.’

‘The whole business is most unprofessional,’ said Mr Gaitskill.

‘When Mr Gaitskill had opened the sealed envelope and made himself acquainted with its contents, he decided that it was his duty—’

‘Under the circumstances,’ said Mr Gaitskill.

‘To let us see the enclosures. They consist of a will, duly signed and attested, and a covering letter.’

‘So the will has turned up at last?’ I said.

Mr Gaitskill turned a bright purple.

‘It is not the same will,’ he barked. ‘This is not the document I drew up at Mr Leonides’ request. This has been written out in his own hand, a most dangerous thing for any layman to do. It seems to have been Mr Leonides’ intention to make me look a complete fool.’

Chief Inspector Taverner endeavoured to inject a little balm into the prevailing bitterness.

‘He was a very old gentleman, Mr Gaitskill,’ he said. ‘They’re inclined to be cranky when they get old, you know—not barmy, of course, but just a little eccentric.’

Mr Gaitskill sniffed.

‘Mr Gaitskill rang us up,’ my father said, ‘and apprised us of the main contents of the will and I asked him to come round and bring the two documents with him. I also rang you up, Charles.’

I did not quite see why I had been rung up. It seemed to me singularly unorthodox procedure on both my father’s and Taverner’s part. I should have learnt about the will in due course, and it was really not my business at all how old Leonides had left his money.

‘Is it a different will?’ I asked. ‘I mean, does it dispose of his estate in a different way?’

‘It does indeed,’ said Mr Gaitskill.

My father was looking at me. Chief Inspector Ta verner was very carefully not looking at me. In some way, I felt vaguely uneasy…

Something was going on in both their minds—and it was a something to which I had no clue.

I looked inquiringly at Gaitskill.

‘It’s none of my business,’ I said. ‘But—’

He responded.

‘Mr Leonides’ testamentary dispositions are not, of course, a secret,’ he said. ‘I conceived it to be my duty to lay the facts before the police authorities first, and to be guided by them in my subsequent procedure. I understand,’ he paused, ‘that there is an—understanding, shall we say— between you and Miss Sophia Leonides?’

‘I hope to marry her,’ I said, ‘but she will not consent to an engagement at the present time.’

‘Very proper,’ said Mr Gaitskill.

I disagreed with him. But this was no time for argument.

‘By this will,’ said Mr Gaitskill, ‘dated November the 29th of last year, Mr Leonides, after a bequest to his wife of one hundred thousand pounds, leaves his entire estate, real and personal, to his granddaughter, Sophia Katherine Leonides absolutely.’

I gasped. Whatever I had expected, it was not this.

‘He left the whole caboodle to Sophia,’ I said. ‘What an extraordinary thing. Any reason?’

‘He set out his reasons very clearly in the covering letter,’ said my father. He picked up a sheet of paper from the desk in front of him. ‘You have no objection to Charles reading this, Mr Gaitskill?’

‘I am in your hands,’ said Mr Gaitskill coldly. ‘The letter does at least offer an explanation—and possibly (though I am doubtful as to this) an excuse for Mr Leonides’ extraordinary conduct.’

The Old Man handed me the letter. It was written in a small crabbed handwriting in very black ink. The handwriting showed character and individuality. It was not at all like the careful forming of the letters, more characteristic of a bygone period, when literacy was something painstakingly acquired and correspondingly valued.

Dear Gaitskill [it ran],

You will be astonished to get this, and probably offended. But I have my own reasons for behaving in what may seem to you an unnecessarily secretive manner.

I have long been a believer in the individual. In a family (this I have observed in my boyhood and never forgotten) there is always one strong character and it usually falls to this one person to care for, and bear the burden of, the rest of the family. In my family I was that person. I came to London, established myself there, supported my mother and my aged grandparents in Smyrna, extricated one of my brothers from the grip of the law, secured the freedom of my sister from an unhappy marriage and so on. God has been pleased to grant me a long life, and I have been able to watch over and care for my own children and their children. Many have been taken from me by death; the rest, I am happy to say, are under my roof. When I die, the burden I have carried must descend on someone else. I have debated whether to divide my fortune as equally as possible amongst my dear ones—but to do so would not eventually result in a proper equality. Men are not born equal—to offset the natural inequality of Nature one must redress the balance. In other words, someone must be my successor, must take upon him or herself the burden of responsibility for the rest of the family. After close observation I do not consider either of my sons fit for this responsibility. My dearly loved son Roger has no business sense, and though of a lovable nature is too impulsive to have good judgement. My son Philip is too unsure of himself to do anything but retreat from life. Eustace, my grandson, is very young and I do not think he has the qualities of sense and judgement necessary. He is indolent and very easily influenced by the ideas of anyone whom he meets. Only my granddaughter Sophia seems to me to have the positive qualities required. She has brains, judgement, courage, a fair and unbiased mind and, I think, generosity of spirit. To her I commit the family welfare—and the welfare of my kind sister-in-law Edith de Haviland, for whose life-long devotion to the family I am deeply grateful.

This explains the enclosed document. What will be harder to explain—or rather to explain to you, my old friend—is the deception that I have employed. I thought it wise not to raise speculation about the disposal of my money, and I have no intention of letting my family know that Sophia is to be my heir. Since my two sons have already had considerable fortunes settled upon them, I do not feel that my testamentary dispositions will place them in a humiliating position.

To stifle curiosity and surmise, I asked you to draw me up a will. This will I read aloud to my assembled family. I laid it on my desk, placed a sheet of blotting paper over it and asked for two servants to be summoned. When they came I slid the blotting paper up a little, exposing the bottom of a document, signed my name and caused them to sign theirs. I need hardly say that what I and they signed was the will which I now enclose and not the one drafted by you which I had read aloud.

I cannot hope that you will understand what prompted me to execute this trick. I will merely ask you to forgive me for keeping you in the dark. A very old man likes to keep his little secrets.

Thank you, my dear friend, for the assiduity with which you have always attended to my affairs. Give Sophia my dear love. Ask her to watch over the family well and shield them from harm.

Yours very sincerely,

Aristide Leonides.

I read this very remarkable document with intense interest.

‘Extraordinary,’ I said.

‘Most extraordinary,’ said Mr Gaitskill, rising. ‘I repeat, I think my old friend Mr Leonides might have trusted me’

‘No, Gaitskill,’ said my father. ‘He was a natural twister. He liked, if I may put it so, doing things the crooked way.’

‘That’s right, sir,’ said Chief Inspector Taverner. ‘He was a twister if there ever was one!’

He spoke with feeling.

Gaitskill stalked out unmollified. He had been wounded to the depths of his professional nature.

‘It’s hit him hard,’ said Taverner. ‘Very respectable firm, Gaitskill, Callum &c Gaitskill. No hanky panky with them. When old Leonides put through a doubtful deal, he never put it through with Gaitskill, Callum & Gaitskill. He had half a dozen different firms of solicitors who acted for him. Oh, he was a twister!’

‘And never more so than when making his will,’ said my father.

‘We were fools,’ said Taverner. ‘When you come to think of it, the only person who could have played tricks with that will was the old boy himself. It just never occurred to us that he could want to!’

I remembered Josephine’s superior smile as she had said:

‘Aren’t the police stupid?’

But Josephine had not been present on the occasion of the will. And even if she had been listening outside the door (which I was fully prepared to believe!) she could hardly have guessed what her grandfather was doing. Why, then, the superior air? What did she know that made her say the police were stupid? Or was it, again, just showing off?

Struck by the silence in the room I looked up sharply— both my father and Taverner were watching me. I don’t know what there was in their manner that compelled me to blurt out defiantly:

‘Sophia knew nothing about this! Nothing at all.’

‘No?’ said my father.

I didn’t quite know whether it was an agreement or a question.

‘She’ll be absolutely astounded!’

‘Yes?’

‘Astounded!’

There was a pause. Then, with what seemed sudden harshness, the telephone on my father’s desk rang.

‘Yes?’ He lifted the receiver—listened and then said: ‘Put her through.’

He looked at me.

‘It’s your young woman,’ he said. ‘She wants to speak to us. It’s urgent.’

I took the receiver from him.

‘Sophia?’

‘Charles? Is that you? It’s—Josephine!’ Her voice broke slightly.

‘What about Josephine?’

‘She’s been hit on the head. Concussion. She’s—she’s pretty bad… They say she may not recover…’

I turned to the other two.

‘Josephine’s been knocked out,’ I said.

My father took the receiver from me. He said sharply as he did so:

‘I told you to keep an eye on that child…’