Miss Climpson stepped softly up to the bed. Instinct made her move cautiously as a cat, though it was evident that nothing would ever startle or surprise its occupant.
An old, old face, so tiny in the vast expanse of sheet and pillow that it might have been a doll, stared up at her with unblinking, unseeing eyes. It was covered with fine surface-wrinkles, like a hand sodden with soapy water, but all the great lines carved by experience had been smoothed out with the relaxing of the helpless muscles. It was both puffed and crumpled. It reminded Miss Climpson of a child’s pink balloon, from which nearly all the air has leaked away. The escaping breath puffed through the lax lips in little blowing, snorting sounds and added to the resemblance. From under the frilled nightcap straggled a few lank wisps of whitened hair.
“Funny, isn’t it,” said Miss Booth, “to think that with her lying like that, her spirit can communicate with us.”
Miss Climpson was overcome by a sense of sacrilege. It was only by a great effort that she prevented herself from confessing the truth. She had pulled the garter with the soap-box above her knee for safety, and the elastic was cutting painfully into the muscles of her leg—a kind of reminder of her iniquities.
But Miss Booth had already turned away, and was pulling open the drawers of one of the bureaux.
Two hours passed, and they were still searching. The letter B. opened up a particularly wide field of search. Miss Climpson had chosen it on that account, and her foresight was rewarded. By a little ingenuity, that useful letter could be twisted to fit practically any hiding-place in the house. The things that were neither bureaux, beds, bags, boxes, baskets nor bibelot-tables could usually be described as big, black, brown or buhl or, at a pinch, as being bedroom or boudoir furniture, and since every shelf, drawer and pigeonhole in every object was crammed full of newspaper-cuttings, letters and assorted souvenirs, the searchers soon found their heads, legs and backs aching with effort.
“I’d no idea,” said Miss Booth, “that there could be so many possible places.”
Miss Climpson, sitting on the floor, with her back hair uncoiling itself and her decent black petticoats tucked up nearly to the soap-box, agreed wearily.
“It’s dreadfully exhausting, isn’t it?” said Miss Booth. “Wouldn’t you like to stop? I can go on searching tomorrow by myself. It’s a shame to tire you out in this way.”
Miss Climpson turned this over in her mind. If the will were found in her absence and sent to Norman Urquhart, would Miss Murchison be able to get hold of it before it was again hidden away or destroyed? She wondered.
Hidden away, not destroyed. The mere fact that the will had been sent to him by Miss Booth would prevent the solicitor from making away with it, for there would be a witness to its existence. But he might successfully conceal it for a considerable time—and time was of the essence of the adventure.
“Oh, I’m not a scrap tired,” she said brightly, sitting up on her heels and restoring her coiffure to something more like its usual neatness. She had a black note-book in her hand, taken from a drawer in one of the Japanese cabinets, and was turning its pages mechanically. A line of figures caught her eye: 12, 18, 4, 0, 9, 3, 15, and she wondered vaguely what they referred to.
“We’ve looked through everything here,” said Miss Booth. “I don’t believe we’ve missed anything—unless, of course, there is a secret drawer somewhere.”
“Could it be in a book, do you think?”
“A book! Why, of course it might. How silly of us not to think of that! In detective stories, wills are always hidden in books.”
“More often than in real life,” thought Miss Climpson, but she got up and dusted herself and said cheerfully:
“So they are. Are there many books in the house?”
“Thousands,” said Miss Booth. “Downstairs in the library.”
“I shouldn’t have expected Mrs. Wrayburn to be a great reader, somehow.”
“Oh, I don’t think she was. The books were bought with the house, so Mr. Urquhart told me. They’re nearly all old ones, you know—big things bound in leather. Dreadfully dull. I’ve never found a thing to read there. But they’re just the sort of books to hide wills in.”
They emerged into the corridor.
“By the way,” said Miss Climpson, “won’t the servants think it funny of us to be wandering about the place so late?”
“They all sleep in the other wing. Besides, they know that I sometimes have visitors. Mrs. Craig has often been here as late as this when we have had interesting sittings. There’s a spare bedroom where I can put people up when I want to.”
Miss Climpson made no more objections, and they went downstairs and along the hall into the library. It was big, and books filled the walls and bays in serried ranks—a heart-breaking sight.
“Of course,” said Miss Booth, “if the communication hadn’t insisted on something beginning with B—”
“Well?”
“Well—I should have expected any papers to be in the safe down here.”
Miss Climpson groaned in spirit. The obvious place naturally! If only her misplaced ingenuity—well! one must make the best of it.
“Why not look?” she suggested. “The letter B. may have been referring to something quite different. Or it may have been an interruption from George Washington. It would be quite like him to use words beginning with a B, don’t you think?”
“But if it was in the safe, Mr. Urquhart would know about it.”
Miss Climpson began to feel that she had let her invention play about too freely.
“It wouldn’t do any harm to make sure,” she suggested.
“But I don’t know the combination,” said Miss Booth. “Mr. Urquhart does, of course. We could write and ask him.”
An inspiration came to Miss Climpson
“I believe I know it,” she exclaimed. “There was a row of seven figures in that black note-book I was looking at just now, and it passed through my mind that they must be a memorandum of something.”
“Black Book!” cried Miss Booth. “Why there you are! How could we have been so silly! Of course, Mrs. Wrayburn was trying to tell us where to find the combination!”
Miss Climpson again blessed the all round utility of the letter B.
“I’ll run up and fetch it,” she cried.
When she came down again, Miss Booth was standing before a section of the bookshelves, which had swung out from the wall, disclosing the green door of a built-in safe. With trembling hands, Miss Climpson touched the milled knob and turned it.
The first attempt was unsuccessful, owing to the fact that the note did not make it clear which way the knob should be turned first, but at the second attempt the pointer swung over on the seventh figure with a satisfying click.
Miss Booth seized the handle, and the heavy door moved and stood open.
A bundle of papers lay inside. On the top, staring them in the face, was a long, sealed envelope. Miss Climpson pounced upon it.
“Will of Rosanna Wrayburn
5 June 1920.”
“Well, isn’t that marvellous?” cried Miss Booth. On the whole, Miss Climpson agreed with her.
Chapter XIX
MISS CLIMPSON stayed the night in the spare bedroom.
“The best thing,” she said, “will be for you to write a little letter to Mr. Urquhart, explaining about the séance , and saying that you thought it best and safest to send the will on to him.”
“He will be very much surprised,” said Miss Booth. “I wonder what he will say. Lawyers don’t believe in spirit communications as a rule. And he’ll think it rather funny that we should have managed to open the safe.”
“Well, but the spirit led us directly to the combination, didn’t it? He could hardly expect you to ignore a message like that, could he? The proof of your good faith is that you are sending the will straight to him. And it would be as well, don’t you think, if you asked him to come up and check the other contents of the safe and have the combination altered
.”
“Wouldn’t it be better if I kept the will and asked him to come for it?”
“But perhaps he requires it urgently?”
“Then why hasn’t he been to fetch it?” Miss Climpson noted with some irritation that, where spiritualistic messages were not concerned, Miss Booth showed signs of developing an independent judgment.
“Perhaps he doesn’t know yet that he wants it. Perhaps the spirits foresaw an urgent need that will only arise tomorrow.”
“Oh, yes, that’s quite likely. If only people would avail themselves more fully of the marvellous guidance given to them, so much might be foreseen and provided for! Well, I think you are right. We will find a big envelope to fit it, and I will write a letter and we will send it by the first post tomorrow.”
“It had better be registered,” said Miss Climpson. “If you will entrust it to me, I will take it down to the post office first thing.”
“Will you? That will be a great relief to my mind. Well now, I’m sure you’re as tired as I am, so I’ll put on a kettle for the hot-water bottles and we’ll turn in. Will you make yourself comfy in my sitting-room? I’ve only got to put the sheets on your bed. What? No, indeed, I can do it in a moment; please don’t bother. I’m so used to making beds.”
“Then I’ll see to the kettles,” said Miss Climpson. “I simply must make myself useful.”
“Very well. It won’t take long. The water is quite hot in the kitchen boiler.”
Left alone in the kitchen, with a kettle bumping and singing on its way to boiling point, Miss Climpson wasted no time. She tip-toed quickly out again and stood with ear cocked at the foot of the stairs, listening to the nurse’s footsteps as they pattered into the distance. Then she slipped into the little sitting-room, took up the will in its sealed envelope, and a long thin paper-knife which she had already marked down as a useful weapon, and hastened back to the kitchen.
It is astonishing how long a kettle which seems to be on the verge of boiling will take before the looked-for jet of steady steam emerges from its spout. Delusive little puffs and deceptive pauses in the song tantalise the watcher interminably. It seemed to Miss Climpson that there would have been time to make twenty beds before the kettle boiled that evening. But even a watched pot cannot absorb heat for ever. After what appeared to be an hour, but was actually about seven minutes, Miss Climpson, guilty and furtive, was holding the flap of the envelope before the scalding steam.
“I mustn’t hurry,” said Miss Climpson, “oh, blessed saints, I mustn’t hurry, or I shall tear it.”
She slipped the paper-knife under the flap; it lifted; it opened cleanly, just as Miss Booth’s step resounded in the passage.
Miss Climpson adroitly dropped the paper-knife behind the stove and thrust the envelope, with the flap doubled back to prevent it from re-sticking itself, behind a dish-cover on the wall.
“The water’s ready!” she cried blithely. “Where are the bottles?”
It is a tribute to her nerve that she filled them with a steady hand. Miss Booth thanked her, and departed upstairs, a bottle in each hand.
Miss Climpson pulled the will from its hiding-place, drew it from its envelope and glanced swiftly through it.
It was not a long document, and in spite of the legal phraseology, its purport was easily gathered. Within three minutes she had replaced it, moistened the gum and stuck the flap down again. She put it in her petticoat-pocket—for her garments were of a useful and old-fashioned kind—and went to hunt in the pantry. When Miss Booth returned, she was making tea peacefully.
“I thought it would refresh us after our labours,” she remarked.
“A very good idea,” said Miss Booth; “in fact, I was just going to suggest it.”
Miss Climpson carried the tea-pot to the sitting-room, leaving Miss Booth to follow with the cups, milk and sugar on a tray. With the tea-pot on the hob and the will once more lying innocently on the table, she smiled and breathed deeply. Her mission was accomplished.
* * *
Letter from Miss Climpson to Lord Peter Wimsey.
Tuesday, Jan. 7, 1930.
MY DEAR LORD PETER,
“As my telegram this morning will have informed you, I have SUCCEEDED!! Though what excuse I can find in my conscience for the methods I have used, I don’t KNOW! but I believe the Church takes into account the necessity of deception in certain professions , such as that of a police-detective or a SPY in time of WARFARE, and I trust that my subterfuges may be allowed to come under that category . However, you will not want to hear about my religious scruples ! So I will hasten to let you know what I have DISCOVERED!!
“In my last letter I explained the plan I had in mind, so you will know what to do about the Will itself , which was duly despatched by Registered Post this morning under cover to Mr. Norman Urquhart . How surprised he will be to get it!!! Miss Booth wrote an excellent covering letter which I saw before it went, which explains the circumstances and mentions NO NAMES!! I have wired to Miss Murchison to expect the package, and I hope that when it comes she will contrive to be present at the opening, so as to constitute yet another WITNESS to its existence. In any case, I should not think he would venture to tamper with it. Perhaps Miss Murchison may be able to INVESTIGATE it in detail, which I had not time to do (it was all most adventurous! and I am looking forward to telling you ALL ABOUT IT when I come back), but in case she is not able to do so, I will give you the rough outline .
“The property consists of real estate (the house and grounds) and a personalty (am I not good at legal terms??) which I am not able to calculate exactly . But the gist of it all is this:—
“The real estate is left to Philip Boyes , absolutely.
“Fifty thousand pounds is left to Philip Boyes also, in cash .
“The remainder (is not this called the residue?) is left to NORMAN URQUHART, who is appointed sole executor.
“There are a few small legacies to Stage Charities, of which I did not manage to memorise any particulars .
“There is a special paragraph, explaining that the greater part of the property is left to Philip Boyes in token that the testatrix FORGIVES the ill treatment meted out to her by his family , for which he was not responsible .
“The date of the Will is 5 June 1920, and the witnesses are Eva Gubbins , housekeeper, and John Briggs , gardener.
“I hope, dear Lord Peter, that this information will be enough for your purpose. I had hoped that even after Miss Booth had enclosed the Will in a covering envelope I might be able to take it out and peruse it at leisure, but unfortunately she sealed it for greater security with Mrs. Wrayburn’s private seal , which I had not sufficient dexterity to remove and replace , though I understand it is possible to do so with a hot knife.
“You will understand that I cannot leave Windle just yet—it would look so odd to do so immediately after this occurrence. Besides, I am hoping, in a further series of ‘sittings,’ to warn Miss Booth against Mrs. Craig and her ‘control’ Fedora, as I am quite sure that this person is quite as great a charlatan as I AM!!!—and without my altruistic motives!! So you will not be surprised if I am away from Town for, say, another week ! I am a little worried about the extra expense of this, but if you do not think it justified for the sake of safety, let me know—and I will alter my arrangements accordingly.
“Wishing you all success , dear Lord Peter,
Most sincerely yours,
“KATHARINE A. CLIMPSON.
“P.S. I managed to do the ‘job’ very nearly within the stipulated week, you see. I am so sorry it was not quite finished yesterday, but I was so terrified of spoiling the WHOLE THING by rushing it!!
* * *
“Bunter,” said Lord Peter, looking up from this letter, “I knew there was something fishy about that will.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“There is something about wills which brings out the worst side of human nature. People who under ordinary circumstances are perfectly upright and amiable, go as cur
ly as corkscrews and foam at the mouth, whenever they hear the words ‘I devise and bequeath.’ That reminds me, a spot of champagne in a silver tankard is no bad thing to celebrate on. Get up a bottle of the Pommery and tell Chief-Inspector Parker I should be glad of a word with him. And bring me those notes of Mr. Arbuthnot’s. And oh, Bunter!”
“My lord?”
“Get Mr. Crofts on the ’phone and give him my compliments, and say I have found the criminal and the motive and hope presently to produce proof of the way the crime was done, if he will see that the case is put off for a week or so.”
“Very good, my lord.”
“All the same, Bunter, I really don’t know how it was done.”
“That will undoubtedly suggest itself before long, my lord.”
“Oh, yes,” said Wimsey, airily. “Of course. Of course. I’m not worrying about a trifle like that.”
Chapter XX
“T’CH! t’ch!” said Mr. Pond, clicking his tongue against his denture.
Miss Murchison looked up from her typewriter.
“Is anything the matter, Mr. Pond?”
“No, nothing,” said the head-clerk, testily. “A foolish letter from a foolish member of your sex, Miss Murchison.”
“That’s nothing new.”
Mr. Pond frowned, conceiving the tone of his subordinate’s voice to be impertinent. He picked up the letter and its enclosure and took them into the inner office.
Miss Murchison nipped swiftly across to his desk and glanced at the registered envelope which lay upon it, open. The post-mark was ‘Windle.’
“That’s luck,” said Miss Murchison, to herself. “Mr. Pond is a better witness than I should be. I’m glad he opened it.”
She regained her place. In a few minutes Mr. Pond emerged, smiling slightly.
Five minutes later, Miss Murchison, who had been frowning over her shorthand note-book, rose up and came over to him.
“Can you read short-hand, Mr. Pond?”