something is bumped off before they can
tell what they know."
"You read too many detective stories, Josephine. Real life isn't like that. And if
anybody in this house knows something the
last thing they seem to want to do is to talk
about it."
Josephine's reply came to me rather
obscured by the gushing of water from a
^&
tap. ^
"Sometimes it's something that they don't
know that they do know."
I blinked as I tried to think this out.
Then, leaving Josephine to her ablutions, I
went down to the floor below.
Just as I was going out through the front
door to the staircase, Brenda came with a
soft rush through the drawing room door.
She came close to me and laid her hand
on my arm, looking up in my face.
"Well?" she asked.
It was the same demand for information
that Laurence had made, only it was phrased
differently. And her one word far more
effective.
I shook my head.
"Nothing," I said.
She have a long sigh.
"I'm so frightened," she said. "Charles,
I'm so frightened. ..."
Her fear was very real. It communicated
itself to me there in that narrow space. I
wanted to reassure her, to help her. I had
once more that poignant sense of her as
terribly alone in hostile surroundings.
?She might well have cried out: "Who is
on my side?"
And what would the answer have been?
Laurence Brown? And what, after all, was
Laurence Brown? No tower of strength in
a time of trouble. One of the weaker vessels. ^
I remembered the two of them drifting in
from the garden the night before.
I wanted to help her. I badly wanted to
help her. But there was nothing much I
could say or do. And I had at the bottom
of my mind an embarrassed guilty feeling,
as though Sophia's scornful eyes were
watching me. I remembered Sophia's voice
saying: "So she got you."
And Sophia did not see, did not want to
see, Brenda's side of it. Alone, suspected
of murder, with no one to stand by her.
"The inquest's tomorrow," Brenda said.
"What ? what will happen?"
There I could reassure her. i I i
"Nothing," I said. "You needn't worry
about that. It will be adjourned for the
police to make enquiries. It will probably
set the Press loose, though. So far, there's
been no indication in the papers that it
wasn't a natural death. The Leonides have
got a good deal of influence. But with an
adjourned inquest ? well, the fun will
start."
(What extraordinary things one said! The
fun! Why must I choose that particular
word?)
"Will ? will they be very dreadful?"
"I shouldn't give any interviews if I were
you. You know, Brenda, you ought to have
a lawyer ?" She recoiled with a terrific
gasp of dismay. "No ? no ? not the way
you mean. But someone to look after your
interests and advise you as to procedure,
and what to say and do, and what not to
say and do.
"You see," I added, "you're very much
alone."
Her hand pressed my arm more closely.
"Yes," she said. "You do understand
that. You've helped, Charles, you have
helped. . . ."
I went down the stairs with a feeling of
warmth, of satisfaction. . . . Then I saw
Sophia standing by the front door. Her
voice was cold and rather dry.
"What a long time you've been," she
said. "They rang up for you from London.
Your father wants you."
"At the Yard?"
"Yes."
"I wonder what they want me for. They
didn't say?"
Sophia shook her head. Her eyes were
anxious. I drew her to me.
"Don't worry, darling," I said, "I'll soon
be back."
Seventeen
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 visitor's chair, sat Mr. Gaitskill, looking
ruffled.
"-- extraordinary want of confidence,"
he was saying acidly.
"Of course, of course." My father spoke
soothingly. "Ah hullo, 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 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's 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
u^,, ^i-iM'nctp.d hv Mr. Leonides with s
sealed envelope which Mr. Agrodopolous
was to forward to Mr. Gaitskill immediately
after Mr. Leonides's 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
apologises 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.
&nb
sp; "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. Leonides5 s 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's 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
balmy, 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 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 Taverner was very carefully -/^ i^i^iriCT at rne. Tn some way-? I f6^
vaguely uneasy. . . .
Something was going on in both their
minds -- and it was a something to which
I had no clue.
I looked enquiringly at Gaitskill.
"It's none of my business," I said. "But --"
He responded.
"Mr. Leonides's 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 and fifty 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's 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 handwriting of an old man --
except perhaps for 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 nrobablv 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 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 lifelong 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 J
-- 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 su
rmise, 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 5 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 & 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! Noth|ing
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.
c "Josephine's been knocked out," I said.
My father took the receiver from me. He
said sharply as he did so: t
"I told you to keep an eye on that
child. ..."
Eighteen
In next to no time Taverner and I were
racing in a fast police car in the direction
of Swinly Dean.
I remembered Josephine emerging, from
among the cisterns, and her airy remark
that it was "about time for the second
murder." The poor child had had no idea
that she herself was likely to be the victim
of the "second murder."
I accepted fully the blame that my father
had tacitly ascribed to me. Of course I
ought to have kept an eye on Josephine.
Though neither Taverner nor I had any
real clue to the poisoner of old Leonides, it
was highly possible that Josephine had.
What I had taken for childish nonsense and
"showing off" might very well have been
something quite different. Josephine, in her
favourite sports of snooping and prying,
knight have become aware of some piece of
^formation that she herself could not assess
at its proper value.
I remembered the twig that had cracked
in the garden.
I had had an inkling then that danger
was about. I had acted upon it at the
moment, and afterwards it had seemed to
me that my suspicions had been melodramatic
and unreal. On the contrary. I should
have realised that this was murder, that
whoever committed murder had endangered
their neck, and that consequently that same
person would not hesitate to repeat the
crime if by the way safety could be assured.
Perhaps Magda, but some obscure maternal