Lord Peter Views the Body · The Undignified Melodrama of the Bone of Contention (8/8)

“One moment, Martin. I will call you so, because I have known you a long time, and your father too. I understand your anger at the things Haviland has said. They were unpardonable, as I am sure he will realise when he comes to his right mind. But you must remember that he has been greatly shocked and upset⁠—as we all have been⁠—by this very very painful business. And it is not fair to say that Haviland has tried to ‘do you out’ of anything. He knew nothing about this iniquitous will, and he naturally saw to it that the funeral arrangements were carried out in the usual way. You must settle the future amicably between you, just as you would have done had the will not been accidentally mislaid. Now, Martin⁠—and Haviland too⁠—think it over. My dear boys, this scene is simply appalling. It really must not happen. Surely the estate can be divided up in a friendly manner between you. It is horrible that an old man’s body should be a bone of contention between his own sons, just over a matter of money.”

“I’m sorry,” said Martin. “I forgot myself. You’re quite right, sir. Look here, Haviland, forget it. I’ll let you have half the money⁠—”

“Half the money! But it’s all mine. You’ll let me have half? How damned generous! My own money!”

“No, old man. It’s mine at the moment. The governor’s not buried yet, you know. That’s right, isn’t it, Mr. Frobisher-Pym?”

“Yes; the money is yours, legally, at this moment. You must see that, Haviland. But your brother offers you half, and⁠—”

“Half! I’m damned if I’ll take half. The man’s tried to swindle me out of it. I’ll send for the police, and have him put in gaol for robbing the Church. You see if I don’t. Give me the telephone.”

“Excuse me,” said Wimsey. “I don’t want to butt in on your family affairs any more than I have already, but I really don’t advise you to send for the police.”

“You don’t, eh? What the hell’s it got to do with you?”

“Well,” said Wimsey deprecatingly, “if this will business comes into court, I shall probably have to give evidence, because I was the bird who found the thing, don’t you see?”

“Well, then?”

“Well, then. They might ask how long the will was supposed to have been where I found it.”

Haviland appeared to swallow something which obstructed his speech.

“What about it, curse you!”

“Yes. Well, you see, it’s rather odd when you come to think of it. I mean, your late father must have hidden that will in the bookcase before he went abroad. That was⁠—how long ago? Three years? Five years?”

“About four years.”

“Quite. And since then your bright caretaker has let the damp get into the library, hasn’t she? No fires, and the window getting broken, and so on. Ruinous to the books. Very distressin’ to anybody like myself, you know. Yes. Well, supposin’ they asked that question about the will⁠—and you said it had been there in the damp for four years. Wouldn’t they think it a bit funny if I told ’em that there was a big damp stain like a grinning face on the end of the bookshelf, and a big, damp, grinning face on the jolly old Nüremberg Chronicle to correspond with it, and no stain on the will which had been sittin’ for four years between the two?”

Mrs. Haviland screamed suddenly. “Haviland! You fool! You utter fool!”

“Shut up!”

Haviland snapped round at his wife with a cry of rage, and she collapsed into a chair, with her hand snatched to her mouth.

“Thank you, Winnie,” said Martin. “No, Haviland⁠—don’t trouble to explain. Winnie’s given the show away. So you knew⁠—you knew about the will, and you deliberately hid it away and let the funeral go on. I’m immensely obliged to you⁠—nearly as obliged as I am to the discreet Graham. Is it fraud or conspiracy or what, to conceal wills? Mr. Frobisher-Pym will know.”

“Dear, dear!” said the magistrate. “Are you certain of your facts, Wimsey?”

“Positive,” said Wimsey, producing the Nüremberg Chronicle from under his arm. “Here’s the stain⁠—you can see it yourself. Forgive me for having borrowed your property, Mr. Burdock. I was rather afraid Mr. Haviland might think this little discrepancy over in the still watches of the night, and decide to sell the Chronicle or give it away, or even think it looked better without its back pages and cover. Allow me to return it to you, Mr. Martin⁠—intact. You will perhaps excuse my saying that I don’t very much admire any of the roles in this melodrama. It throws, as Mr. Pecksniff would say, a sad light on human nature. But I resent extremely the way in which I was wangled up to that bookshelf and made to be the bright little independent witness who found the will. I may be an ass, Mr. Haviland Burdock, but I’m not a bloody ass. Good night. I will wait in the car till you are all ready.”

Wimsey stalked out with some dignity.

Presently he was followed by the vicar and by Mr. Frobisher-Pym.

“Mortimer’s taking Haviland and his wife to the station,” said the magistrate. “They’re going back to town at once. You can send their traps off in the morning, Hancock. We’d better make ourselves scarce.”

Wimsey pressed the self-starter.

As he did so, a man ran hastily down the steps and came up to him. It was Martin.

“I say,” he muttered. “You’ve done me a good turn⁠—more than I deserve, I’m afraid. You must think I’m a damned swine. But I’ll see the old man decently put away, and I’ll share with Haviland. You mustn’t judge him too hardly, either. That wife of his is an awful woman. Run him over head and ears in debt. Bust up his business. I’ll see it’s all squared up. See? Don’t want you to think us too awful.”

“Oh, right-ho!” said Wimsey.

He slipped in the clutch, and faded away into the wet, white fog.