In the end it was the town clerk who lost his temper. He snapped out, “Is it true, sir, that since you have been rector of St Michael’s there has been a falling-off in attendance at the church?”
“A small decrease, yes.”
“If it’s only small, how do you account for the fact, which appears from your own accounts, that the collections this year are fifty per cent less than last year?”
The rector considered the matter. “I think,” he said gently, “that the actual figure is forty-two per cent.”
“If this decline continues, is it not likely that in the near future the church will be closed altogether?”
The Inspector, who had been showing signs of restlessness, said, “I fail to see the relevance of this line of enquiry, Mr Timms.” And to the rector, “There is no need for you to answer that question.”
“I have no objection to answering it,” said the rector. “What will happen in the future is neither in your hands nor in mine. It is in the hands of God.”
His voice was still calm, but it was as cold as naked steel. It punctured the town clerk who said, “I have no more questions,” and sat down.
“In that case,” said the Inspector, helping himself to another pastille, “it will be a convenient moment to adjourn.”
During the lunch break Jonas congratulated the rector on his restraint. He looked surprised. “I could hardly go wrong,” he said. “The instruction given to us in St Matthew’s gospel is explicit. If a man smite you on one cheek, turn to him the other.”
“It certainly worked in this case.”
“What is your honest opinion? Have we any chance of winning?”
“I think the Inspector is sympathetic to the needs of your church. Whether we can win depends on how well their witness has done his homework.”
Unfortunately it soon became clear that McClachan had prepared his case very thoroughly indeed. He was a qualified surveyor, with an intimate knowledge of Shackleton. He was able to identify six other sites which were ripe for development. Two of them were nearer to the centre of Shackleton than the rector’s field and were outside the Green Belt.
“In short,” said the town clerk, “although, at some future date, it might be appropriate to consider this site for development, your view is that, at the moment, it would be premature?”
“In my view, totally premature.”
And that’s one back for your wife’s cakes and jams, thought Jonas.
When Mr Timms sat down there was a long moment of silence. Jonas knew that it was unusual for an Inspector to say anything after the parties had finished. But he sometimes helped them by indicating how his mind was working.
He said, “Mr Pickett, you will appreciate the force of what the last witness has told us. I should like to say, however, that I am not unmindful of the needs of the church. Had this application been for some purpose connected with the church, a residence for a curate, perhaps, or a church hall, then my views on the matter would certainly be different.”
While the Inspector was speaking Jonas had become aware of a change in the rector. He was no longer sitting quietly, but was tapping with one foot on the ground and his face was mottled. Now he was scribbling on a piece of paper. He pushed it towards Jonas who read, written in emphatic capital letters:
‘CAN I SAY SOMETHING?’
Jonas seized his own pen and wrote underneath it, ‘Only if you no longer wish me to act for you.’
The Inspector observed that something was happening. He turned courteously towards the rector and said, “Have you anything you would care to add?”
In the silence which ensued Jonas was aware of the struggle that was going on. The outcome depended on the strength of such influence as he had been able to establish over his difficult client. Finally, with a sound like the gasp of someone coming up from deep water, the rector said, “No, sir.”
“I think we’d better go back to my office,” said Jonas. “I’ll take you in my car.”
When they got there, Jonas said, “I had a feeling that you were going to be rude to the Inspector. Perhaps you could explain why.”
The rector, who had recovered his composure, said, “Tell me, Mr Pickett, what would your opinion be of a parent who held out a sweet to his child and when the child stretched out his hand to take it, threw it into the fire? It is my dearest wish to build a church hall. It would solve many of my problems. The sale of those four acres of land, coupled with planning permission, would produce one hundred and twenty thousand pounds, or thereabouts. And that happens to be almost exactly the amount which a builder has quoted to me for the job. So what is the Inspector saying? That he would guarantee that I would get permission to put up my hall. That is the sweet. But equally that he could guarantee that I could
not
raise the money by building houses. So—”
The rector held out one hand and opened the long thin fingers, as though he was dropping something.
At that moment the telephone rang.
“I must apologise,” said Jonas. “When my secretary and Sam Conybeare are both out, calls get put straight through to me. I’d better deal with it.”
It was Ronald Sykes. He said, “I think you know I act for Lavinia Semple—”
“Yes, I know it,” said Jonas. “And I’ve got a client with me, so if you don’t mind—”
“I think you ought to hear this. She died last night.”
“I’m very sorry. But—”
“And she’s left everything to the rector.”
Jonas swung round to look at the rector, who had clearly heard what Sykes had said. He seemed unsurprised.
“Were you expecting this?”
“Miss Semple is one of the most faithful of my flock. She came to see me after morning service two weeks ago. She indicated what was in her mind. I besought her to do nothing hurriedly. I had no idea, of course, that she was to be gathered so soon.”
The telephone said, “Are you still there?”
“Sorry,” said Jonas. “The fact is, I have the rector with me.”
“Oh, I see.” The reserve in Sykes’s voice sounded a warning.
Jonas said, “Perhaps we ought to have a word about this.”
“I agree,” said Sykes. “And as soon as possible. I’d come to you, but I’m rather tied up at the moment. Could you possibly come round to my office?” He did not add, ‘Without the rector,’ but the implication was clear.
Sykes said, “One of Miss Semple’s few remaining pleasures was the making and altering of her will. Normally, she told me what she wanted to do and I drew up the document. This time, as you can see, she tried her own hand at it.”
Jonas looked at the paper on the desk. It was an old woman’s writing, spidery, but absolutely clear.
“She’s copied the legal wording from the last one I made for her. And it’s been properly witnessed and dated. My brother and I are executors. We wouldn’t anticipate any difficulty in getting probate.”
“Then,” said Jonas, “what’s the trouble?” He knew that something was worrying Sykes. He had heard it on the telephone and he heard it again now.
“Well, you see, it’s a big estate. There’s property in London and the Home Counties. She couldn’t dispose of that. It’s entailed and goes to a cousin. What she’s left the rector is her free estate: money and shares.”
“Yes, I follow that.” He picked up the will and studied it. A notion of what was upsetting his colleague crossed his mind. “It’s the last five words, I suppose.”
“If I had drafted the will I certainly shouldn’t have put them in.”
To my old friend Tobias Harmer D.D., Rector of St Michael’s Church Shackleton I bequeath all my unentailed property as I explained to him.
The difficulty was becoming clearer.
“You mean,” said Jonas, “that without those last five words it would be a gift to the rector personally. With them, there’s a trust tacked on.”
“There’s certainly a suggestion that she told him what she expected him to do with the money.”
“So it could have been meant as a gift to the church and not to him.”
The two lawyers looked at each other. The cat was out of the bag now, claws and all.
Jonas said, “What
is
the rate of tax?”
“As I told you, it’s a very large estate. It might be as high as seventy-five per cent.”
“Which would be avoided if this was a gift to the church.”
“Exactly.”
“But payable if it was a personal gift to the rector.”
“Yes.”
“In that case,” said Jonas, “the vital question is, what
did
she say to the rector after morning service two weeks ago?”
With a layman it would have taken Jonas three times as long to explain the point. The rector’s theologically trained brain grasped the implications at once.
He said, “I see. Yes. So what is it you want me to do?”
“I want you to remember, if you can, the exact words Miss Semple used when she promised you this legacy.”
“Why is what she said important? I thought it was only what the will said that mattered.”
“Correct. But there’s one exception. If a will is worded so that it can mean two different things, outside evidence is allowed, to show which was meant. Particularly in the case of home-made wills, which tend to be vague.”
“How much money is involved?”
“Sykes could only give me a rough estimate. Certainly not less than a hundred thousand pounds. More likely a hundred and fifty thousand.”
The rector thought about this for some time. His face was expressionless, but his fingers were opening and closing on the arms of the chair. Finally he said, “Very well, I can tell you what Miss Semple said. Not perhaps the precise words, but the sense of them. She said, ‘You will understand that this money is for the church.’”
“Splendid,” said Jonas. “That seems quite clear. I will draw up a statutory declaration.”
“Explain, please.”
“Oh, it’s a solemn declaration which you swear to in front of another solicitor. I’m sure Ronald Sykes will be happy to oblige us. As soon as I’ve drafted it we’ll go round and see him.”
“And if I am prepared to make this declaration, the whole of the money comes to the church. If I am unable to make it, three-quarters of it may go to the government.”
“In a nutshell,” said Jonas.
“Just a formality really,” said Sykes, with professional cheerfulness. “Initial the first page. That’s right. Then sign the document at the foot of page two. Excellent. Now you take the Testament in your right hand and we’ll both stand up. Ready?”
It was a copy of the New Testament bound in black buckram and limp with much handling. His clients normally grabbed the book and gabbled the required words. The rector was the first person he had known to handle it with proper reverence.
Sykes said, “Please repeat after me, ‘I solemnly and sincerely declare that this is my name and handwriting.’”
The rector repeated the words.
“‘And that the contents of this my declaration are true.’”
Jonas, who had come with the rector, had a sudden urge to interrupt. To shout out ‘stop’. He knew this was irrational and absurd. He had administered the oath to hundreds of his clients without he or them giving it another thought. The difference here, he realised, was that the rector understood the meaning and implication of what he was doing. He was pledging his word to his God that he was telling the truth.
After a pause, which seemed to go on for ever, but may only have lasted a few seconds, the rector repeated, “And that the contents of this my declaration are true.”
“That will cost you one pound,” said Sykes.
Jonas had the fee ready and passed it across the table. They left the office and walked away down the street together. They had nothing to say to each other. Back in the office Jonas found Claire waiting for him. She said, “You’re looking very serious.”
Jonas said, “Am I?” with unusual brusqueness and disappeared into his own room, leaving Claire staring after him.
Three days later, towards the end of the afternoon, Mrs Baxter arrived unannounced at the office. Claire could see that she was badly upset about something. Maybe it was the same thing that was worrying Jonas. He had been in a very odd mood lately. She said, “I’m afraid Mr Pickett’s out. If we’d known you were coming—”
“I’m glad. I’ll find it easier to explain to you. Mr Sykes and Mr Pickett have done something terrible to my brother.”
Claire didn’t pretend not to understand her. She said, “You mean that statutory declaration?”
“I don’t know what it was, but whatever they made him do it’s destroying him. I was planning to go home yesterday, but for David’s sake I had to stay. I daren’t leave him alone.”
Claire said, “Do you think your brother’s mad?”
The brutality of the question shook her, as Claire had intended it to do. “Mad? I don’t know. But I can tell you this. He hasn’t slept for the last two nights. His bedroom’s next to mine. Last night I could hear him pacing, backwards and forwards, hour after hour. That was bad enough, but it was worse when he stopped, quite suddenly. Absolute silence. I began to be afraid.”
Claire said, in the same matter-of-fact voice, “You were afraid he’d killed himself?”
“Yes, I was. And I couldn’t possibly go to sleep without knowing. So I opened the door quietly and looked in. He was on his knees by his bed. I went back to my room and managed to get a little sleep. This morning he’s hardly spoken to me. Just ‘thank you’ when I got him his breakfast. I’m scared silly, Miss Easterbrook, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. Isn’t there
something
we could do?”
“What about his doctor?”
“He hasn’t got a regular one. And—well—I know he’s got great confidence in Mr Pickett. If you could only persuade him how bad things are, I’m sure he’d think of something.”
“I’ll try,” said Claire reluctantly. “But don’t bank on it. When his mind’s made up he’s the most obstinate man I’ve ever known.”
As was his custom on a fine afternoon, Jonas had been for a stroll along the front and he came back refreshed and happy; a happiness which disappeared as soon as he had grasped what Claire was trying to tell him.
“Really,” he said, in the querulous voice of someone who was arguing with himself. “All we asked him to do was to tell the truth and even if he was lying, he was doing it for the sake of his church, not for himself.”