Repeat Business

by Lyn McConchie

  “Tell us about this presumption of death.” I asked.

  “That is the crux of the problem. The original sum was from the estate of his father’s kinsman, a cousin to the father and a man of intemperate habits and evil temper. The man was living in France—having fled England to escape prosecution for the death of a man at his hands in a duel that was not so much an honest fight as a deliberate murder. The French authorities were looking for him at the time for another killing on which they had substantial proof of guilt, but he was believed to be aboard a yacht that went down with all hands in a great storm off the French coast. As the only known living relative, my great-uncle, applied for presumption of death and received the estate.

  “Now, however, one has come forward saying that he has only just discovered by means of family papers that in fact my relative did not die in the storm. He but used that belief to take another name—the name of Estworth—and return, not to England but to Scotland, where he purchased land, married, and produced a son. The claimant is a man of about thirty, named Obadiah Estworth, the great-grandson of the cousin’s son. He has the family papers and I believe his story.

  “I would have been happy to return to him the amount my great-uncle received from his kinsman’s estate, but this man is not satisfied with that. His claim is that since the entire fortune was built upon that money, and if there is no will to say otherwise, then he is entitled to it all.”

  “Absurd!” I said angrily. “But what does his claim matter? You have only to show Lord Mount-James’ will and the lawyers will make quick work of his impudence.”

  Holmes looked at us. “In which lies the problem, does it not, Lord Mount-James? You do not have the will.”

  “I do not.” The young man looked at us imploringly. “The entail is safe. It is the personal will that is missing. I am told it was not uncommon for the old man to demand his will be returned to him, often for months at a time, while he considered small changes or additions. The lawyers assure me they have the notes of the current will which was signed and witnessed several years ago, but only days before his death my great-uncle demanded that the signed will be given to him as he wished to consider a codicil. His lawyer has confided privately to me that he believed his Lordship to have discovered the existence of the claimant, and to be intending to return to him by that means the original amount my great-uncle inherited, together with a reasonable additional amount by way of interest.”

  Holmes nodded. “Such would have been fair and right. But the claimant is now saying that the old man destroyed the will so that the money might return to its source.”

  Godfrey Staunton groaned. “He is. He can prove he is who he claims to be. He can prove that the courts gave my great-uncle the money that should rightfully have gone to the Estworth family. Should this be taken to court I have some reason to believe I would win, but if I merely handed over the fortune to Obadiah, I should have to sell as much as thirty percent of my great-uncle’s estates to fund the upkeep of the remainder.

  “If I fight and lose, I should be constrained in the end to sell almost all of the estates to pay the lawyers, and thus I should be forced to throw out of home and work those who have served our family faithfully, in some cases for generations. As yet they know nothing of this possibility, and I will not tell them until all other avenues are exhausted. Although you know servants, I am sure they guess something is up, and the servants’ hall will be abuzz with speculation.”

  “You are certain that your great-uncle left you, if not his whole fortune, then the bulk of it?”

  “Yes.” Godfrey Staunton gave us a rueful smile. “He was an old miser in some ways, but he loved his land and his family name—and although he gave me little during his lifetime, he was fond of me in his way. He would never have written a will which forced his land to be sold, or his servants or me to suffer want.”

  Holmes looked at his thoughtfully. “I met your great-uncle upon several occasions. That was my impression of him. Thus, we have only to find his will and all may yet be well. If we do so, and all of his private fortune was indeed left to you alone, what will you do about your claimant?”

  “I will deal with him as I believe my great-uncle intended. He shall have the return of the amount of his original estate together with a reasonable interest for the many years it was not in his family‘s possession.”

  Holmes rose. “That appears just and I shall help you, sir. Watson, will you aid us?”

  I stood. “When have I ever failed you, Holmes?”

  He gave me a look of affection. “Never, my dear fellow, but I would not take you for granted.”

  I smiled at my old friend in some amusement. Perhaps he would not take me for granted at the beginning of a case, but once it was fairly in train he would forget that and use me as if I were no more than a second pair of his own hands—and yet I would have it no other way. I picked up my gloves and hat, donned my heaviest overcoat, dropping a filled flask into one pocket, and wound a woolen muffler securely about my neck.

  “I am ready.”

  Holmes looked grave. “Add your revolver to that, my dear Watson. It is possible we may require it.” I did as he commanded, and together we plunged out into the snow. Holmes considered the depth of it and grimaced slightly.

  “It is not far to the station, let us walk that way, it will be warmer than waiting here for a cab to appear.” With which decision, as I too looked at the deepening snow, I was in hearty agreement. We found a cab at the end of several blocks, however, and were whisked to the station in greater comfort. Once upon the train Holmes began to question our young acquaintance as to what he knew about this Obadiah Estworth.

  “Why, apart from the fact that my lawyers and I am satisfied he is who he claims to be, Mr. Holmes, not a great deal.” But upon careful questioning by my friend a substantial amount of information was elicited.

  Obadiah was the only son of a man who had owned a good-sized farm. His father had died only three months earlier, and it was after his death that the son had opened an ancient deed box of which he said, until he had come upon it in another locked box beneath his father’s bed, he had been completely unaware. Within the deed box had been papers showing his ancestor’s original name and his ownership of French lands. Since the Estworth family was currently in want of funds to expand and improve their farm, Obadiah had set out to discover if his family still had any right to the lands listed in the old deeds.

  An old family friend, an elderly and semi-retired lawyer, who had—with some difficulty—discovered the events that had gained Godfrey’s great-uncle the foundations of a much greater fortune, aided him in this. It seemed likely to me that Obadiah’s original intent was to reclaim only that estate which Lord Mount-James had wrongly received, but once he discovered that no will was to be found, he had become greedy. As our client had said to us, in a battle at law Obadiah Estworth was likely to lose, but Staunton could be all but ruined in the process.

  Once at the estate Holmes wasted no time. “Where were your great-uncle’s rooms?”

  “This way. When he was younger he lived upstairs, but in his last year he moved downstairs to the rooms I shall show you.”

  I halted him with a question. “Could the old man still climb the stairs?”

  “Oh, yes, easily enough. It was merely that he did not wish to do so a number of times each day. For that reason he removed himself most of the time to the rooms here.” he indicated the door before us.

  Holmes shook his head. “Familiarity breeds not so much contempt as comfort. Let us first examine the rooms Lord Mount-James inhabited for most of his life. It is in them we are most likely to find clues to his way of thinking.”

  He examined the rooms minutely while we alternately aided him by moving items or stood back to watch the search. The rooms were filled with odd items such as books, carved wood statues, and paintings and sketches of horses. I noticed a gap on one wall amid a number of the paintings, but we could se nothing else of use. Holmes did no
t appear downcast when nothing was discovered, going immediately to the rooms on the lower floor and continuing his search.

  There he discovered a picture, a most attractive oil painting of an old gray horse, with a middle-aged man standing beside it. Holmes studied the painting and turned to look closely at Staunton, before turning back to the portrait. He was briefly silent before he spoke.

  “This was your great-uncle, was it not?”

  Godfrey Staunton nodded, allowing a small grin to appear upon his lips. “It was. The horse is The Outsider; my great-uncle was in his late thirties when he received the animal as settlement for a debt and rode him in a number of private races—most of which they won.” He sighed. “I think after his parents died he never loved anything so much as that horse. He had the painting done at considerable expense a year before the beast died at more than twenty. The painting came downstairs with him when he removed to here.”

  Holmes took the painting down and nodded. “Look here, the backing is slit, something was hidden within it but is now gone.”

  “You think it to have been the will?” I said in some excitement.

  “I think it likely.”

  Staunton frowned. “But if it has been taken, who could have done so? Estworth has never been in this house, and only he could have reason to take a will favorable to me.”

  Holmes said nothing, but left the rooms and walked across the passage by the foot of the stairs again. The butler appeared as we passed there, and asked if we would wish for anything in the way of food or drink to be brought. Having refused his offer we continued on to what I discovered to be the library, a large, many-windowed room with packed bookshelves that continued as high as the ceiling on three sides. Holmes scanned the shelves, plucking out a book here and there before pausing.

  “Staunton,” he said thoughtfully. “Your great-uncle might have hidden earlier wills—as well as this one we seek—around and about this house. Gather the servants here, I would ask them if they have ever come across papers bearing handwriting. Such places as they may list could give us clues as to your great-uncle’s habits of mind.”

  They trooped in. Staunton excluded the outside servants, as they were never likely to discover papers, but of the inside servants we questioned some twenty. No great number, since Lord Mount-James had done little entertaining for the past twenty years. Staunton was speaking as they entered.

  “If we must search further, then I ask that you both remain to dine with me. Moreover, I have sufficient spare beds in this place to house a regiment; stay and search with me if you will.”

  We both nodded while Staunton opened the questioning of the servants, Holmes and I adding such other questions as occurred to us. The butler was indignant; yes, he had come across papers once or twice. He had said and done nothing about them, his master knew his own mind best. The parlor maid was able to inform us that twice in her dusting she had come across papers.

  “Once hidden in the big green vase upon the mantelpiece in his study, sir, and once under the edge of the carpet in his bedroom. I said nothing to him on either occasion, sir, it was not my place.”

  The elderly housekeeper nodded. “I found papers here in the library once, sir. Inside one of his books, it was out of place and I discovered them as I replaced it on the correct shelf. I told his Lordship that he should be more careful lest one of the girls use some valuable paper by mistake for lighting the fire.”

  Godfrey smiled at her. “What did he say to that, Mrs. Davis?”

  She smiled back indulgently, “He said that I should mind my own business and leave what I found where I found it. But you know his custom, Master Godfrey, he was sharp in his manner but meant nothing by it. He was a good man in his own way.”

  I looked at them all. “It is of great importance that we discover certain papers your master may have hidden here in the house. Can any of you recall possible hiding places, anywhere your master may have hidden papers in the last months before his death?”

  They appeared willing to help, but cudgel their brains though they might, none of them seemed able to remember any possible hiding places other that those already mentioned.

  Holmes broke in. “Tell me, Mrs. Davis? What can you remember about the book in which you found the papers; do you recall the title, the pages, how far within the book were the papers lodged?” She turned to look at him, and upon her face was the blank expression of an old servant addressing a guest they neither know nor trust.

  “It was a great thick book of sermons, sir. The papers were about a third of the way within. I mind the page numbers the papers lay within, they were ninety-nine and one hundred.” She turned back to Staunton. “Don’t you worry about no old papers, and no wicked men, Master Godfrey; cook has made your favorite roast beef and dumplings for dinner, and I’ll see your bed is well warmed a’fore you go up to it.” She bustled out while Holmes looked after her with an expression upon his face the meaning of which I could not decipher.

  Staunton chuckled briefly “Old servants. She had known me since I was a child and is devoted.”

  “Is she?” Holmes asked quietly, glancing again towards the door through which Mrs. Davis had departed.

  Staunton frowned. “Yes.” he said tersely. “And I may say that it is reciprocal. She would rather die than do anything against my interests. If you suspect her of being in the pay of the Estworths, then you are very far from the mark.” Holmes said nothing more but shrugged slightly, changing the subject to our next objective.

  “It is clear from what the servants say that your great-uncle was indeed in the habit of hiding papers about this house. It may be we will have to have the whole place searched.”

  I gave an involuntary groan. “Holmes, for pity’s sake, the house is enormous. You could muster every servant and search for months while still not finding every possible hiding place.”

  “No, therefore I must find another method. Do you have any objection to our dining here and then remaining the night as Staunton suggests?” Of course I did not, but when we sat down to dinner I found Holmes very keen to discuss the case once we had done with the meal and the butler had left us to ourselves.

  I had another question. “Where have you been, Holmes? I was looking to come down to dinner with you?”

  “Oh, I wished for a word with the parlor maid again.”

  “Could she tell you anything of the will?”

  “No. However, she was informative on another subject altogether. But you are certain Obadiah Estworth has not come here?” he asked Staunton who was surprised at the sudden change in subject.

  “I am sure if he had called he would have asked to see me, sir.”

  “But you have been in town these past few weeks discussing the missing will with the lawyers.”

  “Well, yes, that is so. But then he would guess that, and if he wished to see me, he would call upon me in town.”

  “Quite so.” By now we were drinking a fine old port while Holmes smoked his pipe. He glanced casually about him, seeming to focus upon the door and then speaking of a sudden very clearly and rather louder than he had been. “It is a pity about the missing will, Staunton; without it you may lose most of this estate to Obadiah Estworth. Not a good man, I think; rather, I believe him to be a greedy one who would not uphold the traditions of the Mount-James.”

  Looking puzzled, Staunton muttered some agreement while I found myself alerted; there was something in Holmes’ manner, which told me he had found a trail to follow.

  “Yes,” my friend continued, picking up the evening paper that lay near him, “in the morning we must search the old man’s rooms downstairs. It may be that the will leaving all his fortune to you is somewhere there, hidden away where none would think to look for it. We must discover it so that you and all those who serve you so well are not dispossessed.”

  Behind the paper he waved a bewildered-looking Staunton to silence before our client could protest that we had already searched his great-uncle’s room downstairs with
the most careful attention.

  “Yes,” Holmes continued, “once we have breakfasted in the morning we shall search that room. I am in hopes that the will may be secreted somewhere there, since it is not in his rooms upstairs.” After that he changed the subject again, and waved us to silence any time we attempted to question him further.

  We were all down promptly to breakfast, Holmes, because it was his wont to be early, and Staunton and I because our minds raced with the queries we had not been permitted to put earlier. Once we had eaten and drunk, Holmes led the way to Lord Mount-James’ rooms, where he shut the door very firmly, after looking at it briefly. Once we were safely shut within, he spoke softly.

  “Please do not raise your voices no matter what I may show you. The door is shut and is of some thickness, but one never knows. I say this, Staunton, because you may have a hard decision to make, and if so, you will not wish those in this house to know prematurely what it shall be. One moment, gentlemen, while I assure myself that my deductions were correct.”

  With that he lifted the oil painting of the horse from the wall, running his fingers down the backing. He nodded to himself, turned the painting so that it was upside down and shook it in a series of quick jerks. A thin packet of papers fell from it and he caught them up. He opened the packet, looked quickly at the pages within, and handed them to Staunton.

  “The missing will, gentlemen, which is signed and witnessed, but without any codicil. I think Lord Mount-James may have considered too long on that and died before he could write it.”

  Staunton was gaping at us. “But—but, you saw, Doctor Watson. We searched the room last night. We took down the picture and the will was not there. How is it that it is there this morning?” His eyes glittered in anger. “Someone in this house was hiding it; you were right, Mr. Holmes, Obadiah was here and he bribed—” His voice had been growing louder and Holmes waved him to speak more quietly.