“Perhaps if I offered her something—”
“You could try,” said Mr. Britt.
He had only met Miss Pellat once, but she had struck him as a remarkably tough character.
Mr. Snuggs tried that afternoon. He found Miss Lucretia Pellat in the small but nicely furnished front room of the lodge, pouring out tea from a heavy old silver pot. He refused the offer of a cup for himself and opened his proposition.
Miss Pellat shook her head. She shook it so emphatically that her long jade earrings tinkled.
“I wouldn’t dream of moving,” she said. “It’s a dear little house. Full of memories of the happy times my dear brother had here. He was happy, you know.”
“I dare say he was,” said Mr. Snuggs morosely.
“He kept his health to the last. When Providence delivered that final stroke, I could not help thinking that it was a perfect ending. Provided” — and on the word Miss Pellat leaned forward so sharply that her earrings tinkled again— “provided that it killed him.”
“Well, it did,” said Mr. Snuggs.
“That’s not true. It was the night in the open that killed him. If I had summoned help, and had him carried back to the house – taken to a hospital or nursing home – injected with drugs, no doubt he could have been saved. And saved for what. A pitiful, half-paralysed, old age. Like a mouse, caught by its back legs in a trap. I knew my brother too well to think he would have wanted that.”
Mr. Snuggs had got his breath back by now. He said, “Do you mean to say you were with him when it happened and you just left him there to die.”
“Death by exposure is quick, and not uncomfortable. If you read the diaries of the great Polar explorers you will find that it comes with a feeling of warmth and relaxation.”
Mr. Snuggs stared at her, horrified. “But,” he said, “you’re his sister. How could you do it? Walk off like that and leave him.”
“I didn’t walk straight off,” said Miss Pellat, and her voice sounded a clear note of warning.
“You didn’t, eh?”
“Because, when I’d only got as far as the edge of the wood, I heard a car coming. Your car, Mr. Snuggs.”
Mr. Snuggs stared at her, hypnotised.
“And I saw you get out, and walk over, and look at my brother. And I saw you walk away again.”
There was a long, long silence. At last Mr. Snuggs said, in a croaking voice, “I deny it.”
“Of course you do. And everything that I told you is entirely – what do the lawyers say – without prejudice. Such a curious expression. No, no, I am sure we can keep each other’s little secret, Mr. Snuggs.”
As he rose heavily to his feet, she added, “By the way, I fear I shall have to ask you to do something about the bath. I really need an entirely new one. And whilst you’re at it, you might let me have a new sink as well—”
Where There’s a Will
Malcolm Preece settled himself into the far corner seat of the last first class carriage on the 7.55 a.m. train from Bramhill to London. The seat was one in which long usage had given him almost prescriptive rights. After blowing his nose and wishing his regular travelling companion, Mr. Satterthwaite, “Good morning,” he turned to the obituary columns of The Times.
A familiar name caught his eye.
“I see one of our local celebrities has gone,” he said.
“Not Miss Pringle?” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “Dear, dear, and we all thought she’d make her century.”
“No. Not Miss Pringle. Colonel Spender.”
“I heard he’d been ill. He was a tough old boy. We thought he might have got over it.”
“Not this time,” said Mr. Preece and handed his copy of the paper to Mr. Satterthwaite, across a small woman who had presumed to occupy the seat between them. Mr. Preece suspected that she hadn’t got a first class ticket.
Spender. Ambrose. After a painful illness gallantly borne. Died in Guildford Infirmary. No flowers. Donations to the Imperial War Graves Commission.
“An eccentric character, by all accounts,” said Mr. Satterthwaite.
“He was one of my clients,” said Mr. Preece, with a note of reproof.
“Then I withdraw the remark. If he was a client of the firm of Preece and Sexton he must have been a man of the highest repute.”
“He had had a rather odd career,” conceded Mr. Preece. “He described himself as Colonel Spender. I had been told, in strict confidence” —and here Mr. Preece glared at the small woman as if daring her to repeat something overheard, in confidence, in a first class railway carriage— “that he was awarded this rank, and a number of English and foreign decorations too, for daring Intelligence work behind the enemy lines.”
“I only knew him vaguely,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “He had one of those houses in Knap Woods, didn’t he? Rather nice houses, but a bit isolated.”
“Not exactly isolated. A bit remote.”
“Wasn’t that where they found that woman – what was her name?”
“Mrs. Slane.”
“Mrs. Slane. That’s right. She’d been knocked on the head. But not robbed or—er—assaulted. The police never solved it.”
“It was a complete mystery,” said Mr. Preece, “and it looks like staying that way. It’s nearly two years since it happened. The trail must be getting very cold by now.”
The small woman, who was tired of being ignored, said defiantly, “My aunt’s cook, who was walking out with one of the policemen, told her that the case was not closed. They had a clue. And he told her what it was – in confidence, of course.”
“Oh?” said Mr. Preece.
“Really?” said Mr. Satterthwaite.
Both gentlemen then retired behind their newspapers and did not utter another word until the train reached Waterloo.
If a certain disparity in temperament produces the happiest marriages, the same might be said of professional partnerships. Certainly the solicitor’s practice of Messrs. Preece and Sexton, though not long established in Bedford Row, managed to get along well enough, although it would have been hard to find two men of more widely different characters than Mr. Preece and Mr. Sexton.
Malcolm Preece was correct in dress and deportment, conservative in outlook, and extremely conscientious in his work. He was normally the first to arrive at the office, and often the last to leave. Andrew Sexton was casual, empirical and occasionally, in Mr. Preece’s view, unnecessarily flippant. However, it was a combination of talents which seemed to work. As Mr. Preece sometimes remarked to his clients, “If there’s a theoretical solution, I can usually work it out. If I’m stuck, Andrew Sexton can often find a practical answer.”
Whilst they were opening and sorting out the mail, a ritual which they carried out together every morning, Mr. Preece told Andrew Sexton of the death of Colonel Spender.
“Yes,” said Mr. Sexton, “I saw it in The Times. I thought I’d get his will up so that we could have a look at it. I believe you’re his sole executor, aren’t you?”
“I think I am,” said Mr. Preece.
He was untwisting the string which held down the flap of the deed wallet. The first things which slid out as he opened it were a long, legal-looking envelope, then a smaller square one.
“That’s the will,” said Mr. Preece. “What’s the other one? I don’t remember it.”
Mr. Sexton picked it up. On it, neatly typed, were the words, To be placed with my will, and opened only at my death, followed by the initials, also typed, A.S.
“It has always seemed curious to me,” said Mr. Preece, “that people will employ a solicitor to make a perfectly sound will for them, and then clutter it round – hand me that paper knife, would you – with so-called letters of instruction, which are legally ineffective, and, in any event, so woollily drawn that they can’t be carried out – good heavens!”
“What is it?”
“I can’t believe it. It’s not possible.”
“What isn’t possible?”
“Colonel Spender—
no—”
Mr. Sexton grabbed the single sheet of notepaper from his partner’s hand, read it, and whistled.
“Well,” he said, “the old devil! I knew he was a queer cuss, but this beats everything.”
“Do you think it’s true? It can’t be, can it? It’s some sort of joke.”
“If you think it’s a joke,” said Sexton, “the most sensible thing would be to tear it up and forget about it.”
“Good heavens, we can’t do that. If the colonel took the trouble to leave it with his will, he must have meant me to act on it. As the executor, I’ve no choice.”
“Then you’ll have to show it to the police. They’ll have to make their minds up what they’re going to do. Come to think of it, there’s not much they can do now, is there?”
“I suppose not,” said Mr. Preece thoughtfully. “No.”
The typewritten slip was short and to the point. It said, Theresa Slane was a poisonous bitch. I knocked her on the head and have few regrets. I’m leaving this note with my will in case some other poor devil gets suspected of it. She had plenty of enemies, God knows. Incidentally, if the police don’t believe me, ask them whether or not they found an artificial pigskin glove near the body.
The note was unsigned. The two lawyers were still looking at it when the telephone rang.
So strong is the association of ideas that, even as Mr. Preece stretched out his hand to lift the receiver, he hesitated. “Suppose it’s the police,” he said. “What am I to say?”
“Why should it be the police?”
“No reason, really, I suppose. No. I’m being stupid.”
Mr. Preece lifted the receiver. The girl on the switchboard said, “Oh, Mr. Preece. It’s Colonel Spender for you. I’ll put you through.”
Mr. Preece had just sufficient presence of mind to hand his partner an extension receiver, and both of them listened to the wheezy voice at the other end.
“Thought I’d ring you up,” it said. “Just seen The Times myself. Thought I’d better explain, in case you jumped to the wrong conclusion. Ambrose Spender’s my cousin. Distant cousin. Same name. Soon as I get out of this damned hospital I’ll be round to see you. Got one or two things to discuss. Important things. Goodbye for now.”
Mr. Preece looked at Mr. Sexton; and Mr. Sexton looked at Mr. Preece. There was a long silence. The younger man recovered his voice first.
“I think we’d better put this back in its envelope, don’t you?” he said. “After all, the instructions were that it wasn’t to be opened until death.”
“Pretend we haven’t seen it?”
“That’s right.”
“We can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“As an officer of the court . . .” said Mr. Preece.
When he used these words, Mr. Preece, unlike many solicitors, really meant something by them. He saw himself dressed in some undefined but imposing legal uniform, defending the ancient rules and practices of the law against all attackers.
When he heard the fatal words, Mr. Sexton realised that it was no occasion for flippancy. He said, speaking slowly, “If you feel that we can’t ignore this information, even though it has come into our hands in an irregular manner – for we had of course no right to open the envelope until we were sure that Colonel Spender was dead – then where do you visualise that our duty lies?”
This was the right approach. Irregularity and duty were words which Mr. Preece understood.
He said, “We shall have to consider our next move very carefully. In my submission, we have a double duty in the matter. A duty to our client not to involve him prematurely. An equally important duty to the public not to suppress vital information about a crime. Indeed, to suppress it entirely would make us guilty of compounding a felony.”
“Accessories after the fact?”
“Something of that sort.” Like most solicitors whose practices were confined to conveyancing and probate, Mr. Preece really knew very little about the criminal law. “And have you considered that the police are certainly still working on the case? The files on a murder are never closed. Someone was mentioning, only this morning, that they had a clue. Why, they could even be on the point of arresting some innocent person! If we produced this information after that happened it would certainly be suspect. We might have manufactured it ourselves. The note is only typed—”
“And on a Remington standard machine,” said Mr. Sexton. “We’ve got half a dozen of them in the office.”
“Now that you mention it,” said Mr. Preece, “it is even possible that it was typed in this office. I recollect that when Colonel Spender came to discuss his will he arrived early for his appointment, and was put in one of the smaller offices which happened to be empty – the waiting room was being redecorated at the time, you remember.”
Mr. Sexton examined the note more closely.
“I think you’re right,” he said. “And what’s more, he used a piece of our paper. It’s that cream-laid quarto that we had a stock of. The girls used to complain that it was so thick they couldn’t take a proper carbon copy.”
“I’ve been thinking,” said Mr. Preece. “I know the superintendent at Bramhill quite well. In fact, we’ve played golf together more than once. Suppose that I give him this information, without revealing where it comes from?”
“He’s certain to want to know. What will you say when he asks you?”
“It’s perfectly simple. I shall say that the source of the information is connected with one of my clients, and is therefore privileged.”
“I see,” said Mr. Sexton doubtfully. “I hope he remembers he’s a friend and not just a policeman.”
However, when Mr. Preece presented himself at Bramhill Police Station that evening, he was told that the friendly golf-playing superintendent was on leave, and would be absent for a fortnight. This was disconcerting. He hardly felt that he could withhold vital information so long. He found himself talking to a much younger and less friendly detective inspector.
As soon as Mr. Preece mentioned the name Theresa Slane, the detective inspector said, “I think, sir, you had better wait for a few minutes. The case was handled by Central. It won’t take long to get hold of Superintendent Marker. I happen to know that he’s over at Weybridge.”
It took forty minutes to bring Superintendent Marker to the station, and by that time Mr. Preece, who had already completed a full day’s work, was both hungry and tired.
The superintendent was a huge man with a red face, who looked as if he had been poured into his enormous blue suit and left to set. He, also, was missing his dinner and this may have made him even brusquer than usual.
He said, “I understand you’ve something to tell us about the Slane case. I was in charge of that case. In fact I still am, so you can tell me about it.” As he said this, he signalled to a uniformed police sergeant who had come in behind, and was now seated unobtrusively in the corner with notebook open and pencil poised.
This was so different from the friendly chat which Mr. Preece had visualised, that he hardly knew how to begin. It occurred to him that he ought to establish his own bona fides first. He said, “My name is Malcolm Preece. I am a solicitor and—”
“That’s all right,” said Superintendent Marker. “I’ve looked you up in the Law List. And got your local particulars from the sergeant here. It’s just the information I want.”
“It has come to my knowledge,” said Mr. Preece, picking his words carefully, “that a document exists in which a local resident confesses that he was responsible for the murder of Mrs. Slane.”
“Let’s see it.”
“I’m afraid I’m not allowed to let you have it. I’m sorry.”
“Who wrote it?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“How did you get hold of it?”
“That is also confidential.”
“You’ll have to tell someone, sometime. Why not tell me now?”
“There will be no compulsion on me, at
any time, to reveal the source of my information,” said Mr. Preece with all the dignity he could muster. “It is privileged, as between solicitor and client.”
The superintendent made a noise deep down in his throat. It sounded like the sort of noise a hungry lion might have made if defied by a small Christian.
He said, “This isn’t a matter of who owes who tuppence halfpenny. This is murder. If you’ve really got any information, cough it up quick. If you haven’t, let’s all go home.”
“As to whether this information is privileged, I’d be happy to refer the matter to the Law Society. And may I add that I don’t care for your manner.”
“I don’t give a brass monkey if you like my manner or not,” said the superintendent getting up. “You’ve dragged me out when I was just sitting down to my first hot meal for two days. If you nuts are going to come along with phoney confessions, you might at least have the kindness to do it in office hours.”
He signalled to the sergeant, who was grinning broadly. “Come on, son,” he said, “let’s get home.”
Mr. Preece was very angry too. But it occurred to him that he had not fully delivered the message he intended. He said, “Before you go, I might also add that I wonder if you ever found the other glove?”
There was a moment of total silence, and total stillness. Then, without seeming to have moved, Superintendent Marker was back at the table, staring at Mr. Preece, and the sergeant was sitting down again in the corner, pencil poised.
It was as though a film director had said, “Cut. We’ll take that scene again.” Only this time it wasn’t the same scene. The superintendent had lost all trace of fatigue and boredom. He had settled his massive form into his chair, with the air of one who was prepared to stay in it all night.
“Well, Mr.—Mr. Preece,” he said, “what was that about a glove?”
The next two hours were easily the most unpleasant that Mr. Preece had ever spent. He had never imagined that the same question could be asked, so many times, in so many different ways. At the end of it he was quite surprised to find that it was only nine o’clock. He would not have been greatly surprised if it had been midnight. His housekeeper, Mrs. Biddlecombe, was waiting for him, looking worried.
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