Chapter 10

I returned to consciousness so gradually that I didn’t at first realize that I had been asleep.

The scent of the flowers was in my nose. In front of me a round white blob appeared to float in space. It was some few seconds before I realized that it was a human face I was looking at—a face suspended in the air about a foot or two away from me. As my fa culties returned, my vision became more precise. The face still had its goblin suggestion—it was round with a bulging brow, combed-back hair and small, rather beady, black eyes. But it was definitely attached to a body—a small skinny body. It was regarding me very earnestly.

‘Hallo,’ it said.

‘Hallo,’ I replied, blinking.

‘I’m Josephine.’

I had already deduced that. Sophia’s sister, Josephine, was, I judged, about eleven or twelve years of age. She was a fantastically ugly child with a very distinct likeness to her grandfather. It seemed to me possible that she also had his brains.

‘You’re Sophia’s young man,’ said Josephine.

I acknowledged the correctness of this remark.

‘But you came down here with Chief Inspector Taverner. Why did you come with Chief Inspector Taverner?’

‘He’s a friend of mine.’

‘Is he? I don’t like him. I shan’t tell him things.’

‘What sort of things?’

‘The things I know. I know a lot of things. I like knowing things.’

She sat down on the arm of the chair and conti nued her searching scrutiny of my face. I began to feel quite uncomfortable.

‘Crandfather’s been murdered. Did you know?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I knew.’

‘He was poisoned. With es-er-ine.’ She pronounced the word very carefully. ‘It’s interesting, isn’t it?’

‘I suppose it is.’

‘Eustace and I are very interested. We like detective stories. I’ve always wanted to be a detective. I’m being one now. I’m collecting clues.’

She was, I felt, rather a ghoulish child.

She returned to the charge.

‘The man who came with Chief Inspector Taver ner is a detective too, isn’t he? In books it says you can always know plain-clothes detectives by their boots. But this detective was wearing suede shoes.’

‘The old order changeth,’ I said.

Josephine interpreted this remark according to her own ideas.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘there will be a lot of changes here now, I expect. We shall go and live in a house in London on the Embankment. Mother has wanted to for a long time. She’ll be very pleased. I don’t expect father will mind if his books go, too. He couldn’t afford it before. He lost an awful lot of money over Jezebel.’

‘Jezebel’ I queried.

‘Yes, didn’t you see it?’

‘Oh, it was a play? No, I didn’t. I’ve been abroad.’

‘It didn’t run very long. Actually it was the most awful flop. I don’t think mother’s really the type to play Jezebel, do you?’

I balanced my impressions of Magda. Neither in the peach-coloured neglige nor in the tailored suit had she conveyed any suggestion of Jezebel, but I was willing to believe that there were other Magdas that I had not yet seen.

‘Perhaps not,’ I said cautiously.

‘Grandfather always said it would be a flop. He said he wouldn’t put up any money for one of these historical religious plays. He said it would never be a box-office success. But mother was frightfully keen. I didn’t like it much myself. It wasn’t really a bit like the story in the Bible. I mean, Jezebel wasn’t wicked like she is in the Bible. She was all patriotic and really quite nice. That made it dull. Still, the end was all right. They threw her out of the window. Only no dogs came and ate her. I think that was a pity, don’t you? I like the part about the dogs eating her best. Mother says you can’t have dogs on the stage but I don’t see why. You could have performing dogs.’ She quoted with gusto: ‘“And they ate her all but the palms of her hands” Why didn’t they eat the palms of her hands?’

‘I’ve really no idea,’ I said.

‘You wouldn’t think, would you, that dogs were so particular. Our dogs aren’t. They eat simply anything.’

Josephine brooded on this Biblical mystery for some seconds.

‘I’m sorry the play was a flop,’ I said.

‘Yes. Mother was terribly upset. The 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 PM, they call it, but I think that’s rather confusing, don’t you? Because PM 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 on to 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 new featherweight cases.’

‘I hadn’t heard they were going abroad,’ I said.

‘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 pin-cushion. That’s only in very old-fashioned books and wives do it when they leave their husbands. But it would be silly now because nobody has pin-cushions 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 Tondon. 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, “I can tell you who did it.’”

‘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.’

‘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 into 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 high-backed 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 opened 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-in-law kept it.’

‘But he sent it to you—surely he did—after signing it. He actually told us he had.’

‘The police, I understand, have been through Mr Leonides’ private papers,’ said Mr Gaitskill. ‘I’ll just have a word with Chief Inspector Taverner.’

He left the room.

‘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.’

‘Ssh—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 2’th of last year that I forwarded a draft drawn up according to Mr Leonides’ 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.’

‘Miss Sophia?’

‘Yes,’ said Sophia. ‘I remember perfectly.’

‘And the provisions of that will?’ asked Taverner.

Mr Gaitskill was about to reply in his precise fa shion, but Roger Leonides got ahead of him.

‘It was a perfectly simple will. Electra and Joyce had died and their share 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 the only relatives left. Father explained that. 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, 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.

‘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 realized 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 Wolmer, 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, 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’ 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 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, of course, 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.’

‘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 visualize 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?’

‘It was where it is now.’

‘I am trying to see how a substitution of some kind could be 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 Mr 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 the 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. ‘This document, of course, revokes all former wills and testaments. There are a large number of witnesses who saw Mr Leonides sign what 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.

‘Thank you, Mr Leonides, but I am meeting Dr Gray 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 of Taverner. 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.

‘That child,’ said Sophia, ‘is a bit of a problem.’