Envious Casca Read online

  ‘Well, that accounts for his dark threats yesterday,’ remarked Stephen.

  ‘What were they, sir?’ asked Hemingway.

  Stephen’s mocking eyes lifted momentarily to his face. ‘Something about making changes. I thought it was mere rhetoric.’

  ‘The question is, if Mr Blyth hasn’t got the will, where is it?’ asked Mottisfont.

  Stephen shrugged. ‘Probably in the incinerator.’

  ‘No, no; he wouldn’t have done that!’ Joseph said. ‘Don’t talk of him in that cruel way, Stephen! You know there was no one, not even me, he cared for as much as he cared for you!’

  ‘Are you trying to say that I had reason to know there was a will in my favour?’ demanded Stephen.

  ‘You ought to have guessed as much, I should have thought,’ said Mottisfont spitefully. ‘Joseph’s been hinting at it ever since I came down here!’

  At this attack, Joseph instantly ranged himself on the side of his nephew. ‘I don’t wish to speak harshly at such a time, Edgar, but that is a – a monstrous suggestion! Stephen, did I ever, at any time, tell you anything about poor Nat’s will?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh, I haven’t known your family for all these years without learning that you always stick together!’ Mottisfont said. ‘All I can say is that I for one got the impression that Stephen was Nat’s heir, and I got it from the remarks you let fall, Joe!’

  The Inspector, though not unappreciative of this interchange, intervened, saying apologetically: ‘I don’t want to interfere with you gentlemen, but if there is a will I’d like to see it.’

  ‘There isn’t one,’ Stephen said shortly.

  The Inspector’s eyes were on Joseph’s troubled face. ‘What do you say to that, sir?’

  ‘My brother did make a will,’ Joseph answered. ‘Perhaps he subsequently destroyed it. I don’t know. But there’s a safe in this room, and I think it might be there.’

  ‘A safe in this room?’ repeated Stephen.

  ‘Yes, it’s hidden behind that picture,’ replied Joseph. ‘I don’t suppose you knew about it. Nat only told me when he was ill, and wanted me to get something out of it.’

  ‘Can you open it?’

  ‘Yes, if the combination hasn’t been changed.’

  Stephen walked over to the picture Joseph had indicated, and took it down, revealing a small wall-safe. After a good deal of fussing and fumbling, Joseph succeeded in opening it. He then invited Blyth to see what it contained, and stood back, looking anxious.

  Blyth drew two bundles of documents out of the safe, and brought them to the desk, where he and Hemingway went through them. Stephen stood frowning by the fireplace, while Mottisfont, who seemed to find it difficult to sit still, polished his spectacles.

  After a pause, Blyth said in his precise way: ‘Most of these papers are share-certificates, and can have no bearing on the case. I find that there is a will.’ He added in a disparaging tone: ‘It would appear to be in order.’

  ‘For God’s sake – !’ said Stephen irritably. ‘Since there is a will, let’s know how we stand! Who’s the heir?’

  The solicitor looked austerely at him over the top of his pince-nez. ‘It is, as you no doubt perceive, a brief document,’ he said. ‘Had I been consulted – But I was not.’

  ‘I think it’s all right,’ Joseph said guiltily. ‘My brother wouldn’t let me send for you, but I think I remembered enough of my early training to draw it up correctly.’

  ‘It will of course have to be proved,’ said Blyth in a cold tone. ‘Where such a large sum of money is involved, I should naturally have advised the employment of a solicitor. But I am well aware of the late Mr Herriard’s peculiarities.’

  ‘Who – is – the – heir?’ demanded Stephen.

  Blyth looked affronted, and Mottisfont muttered something about observing a little decency. The Inspector, however, supported Stephen, and said that he too would like to know who was the heir.

  ‘There are two bequests,’ said Blyth. ‘Miss Paula Herriard inherits fifteen thousand pounds; Mr Joseph Herriard, ten thousand pounds. The residue, including the house and estate, is left to Mr Stephen Herriard, unconditionally.’

  There was a moment’s silence. Stephen jerked his head round to stare at his uncle. ‘What in hell’s name did you do that for?’ he asked angrily.

  Even Blyth looked surprised. The Inspector stood watching Stephen with the interest of a connoisseur. Joseph said: ‘It was Nat, old man, not I. I only helped him to draw it up.’

  ‘Encouraged him to leave a fortune to me, I suppose!’

  The savage, gibing note in Stephen’s voice made Mottisfont’s jaw drop. The Inspector looked from Stephen’s harsh face to Joseph’s worried one, and waited.

  ‘Stephen, I can’t bear you to speak so bitterly of Nat!’ Joseph said. ‘You know he thought the world of you! I didn’t have to encourage him to make you his heir! He always meant it to be that way. The only thing I did was to persuade him to make a proper will.’

  ‘Well, I call it very decent of you, Joe!’ said Mottisfont, unable to contain himself. ‘It isn’t everyone who’d have behaved as you’ve done.’

  ‘My dear Edgar, I hope you didn’t think I was the Wicked Uncle of the fairy-stories!’

  ‘No; but I should have expected – You were Nat’s brother, after all! Ten thousand only! Well, I never would have believed it!’

  Joseph gave one of his whimsical smiles. ‘I’m afraid it seems a dreadfully large sum to me. I never could cope with money. You can say I am an impractical old fool, if you like, but I should have been very uncomfortable if Nat had left me more.’

  This was so unusual a point of view that no one could think of anything to say. After a pause, Blyth cleared his throat, and enquired whether the Inspector wished to go through his late client’s papers.

  Joseph sighed. ‘If you must, I suppose you must,’ he said. ‘Somehow one hates the thought of poor Nat’s papers being tampered with!’

  ‘I can’t see the least sense in it,’ said Mottisfont. ‘They aren’t likely to throw any light on the murder.’

  ‘You never know, sir,’ said Hemingway, polite but discouraging.

  The contents of Nathaniel’s desk, however, afforded little of interest. Evidently Nathaniel had been a methodical man who kept his papers neatly docketed, and did not hoard correspondence. A letter from Paula was discovered, bearing a recent date. Paula’s wild handwriting covered four pages, but apart from one petulant reference to her uncle’s meanness in not instantly agreeing to support Willoughby Roydon’s works there was nothing in the letter to indicate that she felt any animosity towards him. None of the other private letters seemed to have any bearing on the case, and after glancing through them the Inspector turned to the business letters, which Blyth was sorting. These too were uninteresting from Hemingway’s point of view, but while he was running through them, Blyth, who had been studying some papers which were clipped together, glanced fleetingly towards Mottisfont, and then silently laid the papers before Hemingway.

  ‘Ah!’ said Mottisfont, with a slight laugh. ‘I fancy I see my own fist! I can guess what that is!’

  Hemingway paid no heed to this remark, but picked up the sheaf, and began to read the first letter.

  It had apparently been written in reply to a demand for information, and the terms in which it was couched were too guarded to afford the Inspector any very precise idea of the business the firm of Herriard and Mottisfont had been conducting. Attached to it was the rough draft of a further letter from Nathaniel. Such intemperate expressions as crass folly, unjustifiable risks, and staggering impudence abounded, and had called forth a second letter from Mottisfont, in which he suggested rather stiffly that his partner was behind the times, and had, in fact, been out of the business for too long to realise the exigencies of modern times, or the necessity of seizing any opportunity that offered for lucrative trading.

  The fourth and last letter in the clip was again a copy, and in Nathani