He had yesterday changed his mind about going to the Clay funeral. The
Tisdall evidence progressing normally, he had seen no need to give himself a
harrowing hour which he could avoid. But only now did he realize how very
glad he was to have escaped it, and (being Grant) began instantly to wonder
whether after all he should have gone. Whether his subconscious desire to get
out of it had influenced his decision. He decided that it had not. There was
no need for him now to study the psychology of unknown friends of
Christine’s. He had had a good cross-section of them at Marta’s, and had
learned very little, after all. The party had stubbornly refused to break up.
Jammy had begun to talk again, hoping that they would dance to his piping.
But Marta vetoed any more talk of Christine, and although they had come back
to her several times, not even Jammy’s genius for evocation could keep them
on the subject. Lydia, who could never stay off her own subject for long, had
read their palms, chiromancy being a sideline of hers when horoscopes were
not available (she had given a shrewd enough reading of Grant’s character and
had warned him about making a mistaken decision in the immediate future: “a
nice safe thing to say to anyone,” he had reflected) and it was not until one
o’clock that the hostess had managed to shepherd them all to the door. Grant
had lingered, not, curiously enough, because he had questions to ask her (the
conversation had provided answers for him), but because she was anxious to
question him. Was Scotland Yard called in to investigate Christine’s death?
What was wrong? What had they found? What did they suspect?
Grant had said that yes, they had been called in (so much would by now be
common property) but that so far there was only suspicion. She had wept a
little, becomingly, with not too disastrous effect on the mascara, had
treated him to a short appreciation of Christine as artist and woman. “A
grand person. It must have taken tremendous character to overcome her initial
disadvantages.” She enumerated the disadvantages.
And Grant had gone out into the warm night with a sigh for human
nature—and a shrug for the sigh.
But there were bright spots even in human nature. Grant edged in toward
the curb, and came to a halt, his brown face glad and welcoming.
“Good morning!” he called to the little gray figure.
“Oh, good morning, Mr. Grant,” Erica said, crossing the pavement to him.
She gave him a brief little smile, but seemed pleased to see him; so much was
apparent through her schoolboy matter-of-factness. She was dressed in her
“town” clothes, he noticed; but they did not seem to be an improvement on her
country ones. They were neat, certainly, but they had an unused look; and the
gray suit she was wearing, although undoubtedly “good,” was dowdy. Her hat
had been got to match, and matched also in dowdiness.
“I didn’t know you ever stayed in town.”
“I don’t. I came up to get a bridge.”
“A
bridge
.”
“But it seems you can’t get them by the yard. They have to be made to
measure. So I’ve got to come up another day. All he did today was put a lot
of clay in my mouth.”
“Oh, the dentist. I see. I thought only old ladies had bridges.”
“Well, you see, the silly thing he put in the last time doesn’t hold. I’m
always picking it out of bits of toffee. I lost a lot of side teeth when
Flight fell with me at a post-and-rails last winter. I had a face like a
turnip. So it had to be a bridge, he says.”
“A misnomer, Flight.”
“In one way. Not in another. He was nearly at the other end of Kent before
they caught him.”
“Where are you going now? Can I give you a lift anywhere?”
“I suppose you wouldn’t like to show me Scotland Yard?”
“I would. Very much. But in twenty minutes I have an appointment with a
lawyer in the Temple.”
“Oh. In that case perhaps you would drop me in Cockspur Street. I have an
errand to do for Nannie.”
Yes, he thought, as she inserted herself beside him, it would be a Nannie.
No mother had chosen those clothes. They were ordered from the tailor just as
her school clothes had been. “One gray flannel suit and hat to match.” In
spite of her independence and her sureness of spirit, there was something
forlorn about her, he felt.
“This is nice,” she said. “They’re not very high, but I hate walking in
them.”
“What are?”
“My shoes.” She held up a foot and exhibited her very modest Cuban heel.
“Nannie thinks they are the right thing to wear in town, but I feel dreadful
in them. Teetery.”
“I expect one gets used to them in time. One must conform to the taboos of
the tribe.”
“Why must one?”
“Because an unquiet life is a greater misery than wearing the badge of
conformity.”
“Oh, well. I don’t come to town often. I suppose you haven’t time to have
an ice with me?”
“I’m afraid not. Let’s postpone it until I’m back in Westover, shall
we?”
“Of course, you’ll be back. I had forgotten that. I saw your victim
yesterday,” she added conversationally.
“My victim?”
“Yes, the man who fainted.”
“You saw him! Where?”
“Father took me over to luncheon at the Marine.”
“But I thought your father hated the Marine?”
“He does. He said he’d never seen such a set of poisonous bloaters in his
life. I think ‘bloaters’ is a little strong. They weren’t so very bad. And
the melon was very good.”
“Did your father tell you that Tisdall was waiting there?”
“No, the sergeant did. He doesn’t look very professional. Mr. Tisdall, not
the sergeant. Too friendly and interested. No professional waiter looks
interested. Not really. And he forgets the spoons for the ices. But I expect
you upset him pretty thoroughly the day before.”
“
I
upset him!” Grant took a deep breath and expressed his hope that
Erica was not going to let the plight of a good-looking young man play havoc
with her heart.
“Oh, no. Nothing like that. His nose is too long. Besides, I’m in love
with Togare.”
“Who is Togare?”
“The lion tamer, of course.” She turned to look at him doubtfully. “Do you
really
mean that you haven’t heard of Togare?”
Grant was afraid that that was so.
“Don’t you go to Olympia at Christmas? But you should! I’ll get Mr. Mills
to send you seats.”
“Thank you. And how long have you been in love with this Togare?”
“Four years. I’m very faithful.”
Grant admitted that she must be.
“Drop me at the Orient office, will you?” she said, in the same tone as
she had announced her faithfulness. And Grant set her down by the
yellow-funneled liner.
“Going cruising?” he asked.
“Oh, no. I go round the offices collecting booklets for Nannie. She loves
them. She’s never been out of England because she’s terrified of the sea, but
she likes to sit in safety and imagine. I got her some marvelous mountain
ones from the Austrian place in Regent Street in the spring. And she’s very
knowledgeable about the German spas. Good-bye. Thank you for the lift. How
shall I know when you come to Westover? For the ice, I mean.”
“I shall send you word through your father. Will that do?”
“Yes. Good-bye.” And she disappeared into the office.
And Grant went on his way to meet Christine Clay’s lawyer and Christine
Clay’s husband, feeling better.
IT was obvious at once why no one called Edward Champneis
anything but Edward. He was a very tall, very dignified, very good-looking,
and very orthodox person, with a manner of grave, if kindly, interest, and a
rare but charming smile. Alongside the fretful movements of the fussy Mr.
Erskine, his composure was like that of a liner suffering the administrations
of a tug.
Grant had not met him before. Edward Champneis had arrived in London on
Thursday afternoon, after nearly three months’ absence, only to be greeted by
the news of his wife’s death. He had gone down immediately to Westover and
identified the body, and on Friday he had interviewed the worried County
Constabulary, puzzling over the button, and helped them to make up their
minds that it was a case for the Yard. The thousand things waiting in town to
be done as a result of his wife’s death and his own long absence had sent him
back to London just as Grant left it.
He looked very tired, now, but showed no emotion. Grant wondered under
what circumstances this orthodox product of five hundred years of privilege
and obligation would show emotion. And then, suddenly, as he drew the chair
under him, it occurred to him that Edward Champneis was anything but
orthodox. Had he conformed to the tribe, as his looks conformed, he would
have married a second cousin, gone into the Service, looked after an estate,
and read the Morning Post. But he had done none of those things. He had
married an artist picked up at the other side of the world, he explored for
fun, and he wrote books. There was something almost eerie in the thought that
an exterior could be so utterly misleading.
“Lord Edward has, of course, seen the will,” Erskine was saying. “He was,
in fact, aware of its most important provisions some time ago, Lady Edward
having acquainted him with her desires at the time the testament was made.
There is, however, one surprise. But perhaps you would like to read the
document for yourself.”
He turned the impressive-looking sheet round on the table so that it faced
Grant.
“Lady Edward had made two previous wills, both in the United States, but
they were destroyed, on her instructions, by her American lawyers. She was
anxious that her estate should be administered from England, for the
stability of which she had a great admiration.”
Christine had left nothing to her husband. “I leave no money to my
husband, Edward Champneis, because he has always had, and always will have,
more than he can spend, and because he has never greatly cared for money.”
Whatever he cared to keep of her personal possessions were to be his,
however, except where legacies specifically provided otherwise. There were
various bequests of money, in bulk or in annuities, to friends and
dependents. To Bundle, her housekeeper and late dresser. To her Negro
chauffeur. To Joe Myers, who had directed her greatest successes. To a
bellhop in Chicago “to buy that gas station with.” To nearly thirty people in
all, in all parts of the globe and in all spheres of existence. But there was
no mention of Jason Harmer.
Grant glanced at the date. Eighteen months ago. She had at that time
probably not yet met Harmer.
The legacies, however generous, left the great bulk of her very large
fortune untouched. And that fortune was left, surprisingly, not to any
individual, but “for the preservation of the beauty of England.”
There was to be a trust, in which would be embodied the power to buy any
beautiful building or space threatened by extinction and to provide for its
upkeep.
That was Grant’s third surprise. The fourth came at the end of the list of
legacies. The last legacy of all read, “To my brother Herbert, a shilling for
candles.”
“A brother?” Grant said, and looked up inquiring.
“Lord Edward was unaware that Lady Edward had a brother until the will was
read. Lady Edward’s parents died many years ago, and there had been no
mention of any surviving family except for herself.”
“A shilling for candles. Does it convey anything to you, sir?” He turned
to Champneis, who shook his head.
“A family feud, I expect. Perhaps something that happened when they were
children. These are often the things one is more unforgiving about.” He
glanced toward the lawyer. “The thing I remember when I meet Alicia is always
that she smashed my birds’-egg collection.”
“But not
necessarily
a childhood quarrel,” Grant said. “She must
have known him much later.”
“Bundle would be the person to ask. She dressed my wife from her early
days in New York. But is it important? After all, the fellow was being
dismissed with a shilling.”
“It’s important because it is the first sign of real enmity I have
discovered among Miss Clay’s relationships. One never knows what it might
lead us to.”
“The Inspector may not think it so important when he has seen this,”
Erskine said. “This, which I will give you to read, is the surprise I spoke
of.”
So the surprise had not been one of those in the will.
Grant took the paper from the lawyer’s dry, slightly trembling hand. It
was a sheet of the shiny, thick, cream-colored notepaper to be obtained in
village shops all over England, and on it was a letter from Christine Clay to
her lawyer. The letter was headed “Briars, Medley, Kent,” and contained
instructions for a codicil to her will. She left her ranch in California,
with all stock and implements, together with the sum of five thousand pounds,
to one Robert Stannaway, late of Yeoman’s Row, London.
“That,” said the lawyer, “was written on Wednesday, as you see. And on
Thursday morning—” He broke off, expressively.
“Is it legal?” Grant asked.
“I should not like to contest it. It is entirely handwritten and properly
signed with her full name. The signature is witnessed by Margaret Pitts. The
provision is perfectly clear, and the style eminently sane.”
“No chance of a forgery?”
“Not the slightest. I know Lady Edward’s hand very well—you will
observe that it is peculiar and not easy to reproduce—and moreover I am
very well acquainted with her style, which would be still more difficult to
imitate.”
“Well!” Grant read the letter again, hardly believing in its existence.
“That alters everything. I must get back to Scotland Yard. This will probably
mean an arrest before night.” He stood up.
“I’ll come with you,” Champneis said.
“Very good, sir,” Grant agreed automatically. “If I may, I’ll telephone
first to make sure that the Superintendent will be there.”