by Clara Benson
‘You tell a convincing lie, Mrs. Marchmont, but you forget that I have heard all from Henry,’ said Jameson.
‘One does such reckless things in one’s youth,’ said Angela vaguely. ‘Besides, I have William to take care of me.’
‘Who is William?’
‘My chauffeur and man-of-all-work. I found him in America a few years ago. He’s dreadfully impertinent but quite devoted.’
‘Well, do please be careful,’ said Jameson, unconvinced, and Angela promised that she would.
Mount Street was only five minutes’ walk away and as promised, Inspector Jameson saw her safely inside the building and bade her goodnight, reminding her as he did so to call him at any time if she needed help. Once he had gone, Angela hurried up to her flat. She passed through the dimly-lit drawing room and into the bedroom beyond, which was in darkness. Cautiously, she pulled aside a curtain and peered out. At first she saw nothing but then, after a few moments, a shadowy figure slid out from a doorway opposite and set off down the street. It was impossible to see who it was from that distance. Angela let the curtain fall and thought very hard.
SEVENTEEN
The offices of Addison, Addison and Gouch, solicitors, were located discreetly behind an unassuming black front door on Bedford Row. Mrs. Marchmont rang the bell and was shown immediately into the comfortable rooms occupied by Mr. Addison the Younger (Mr. Addison the Elder having long since retired from practice). Mr. Addison, a jolly, rubicund man who, to his great misfortune, looked more like a milkman than a solicitor, beamed as he shook his visitor’s hand and indicated a seat.
‘How delightful to see you again, Mrs. Marchmont,’ he said. ‘I’m terribly sorry I can’t spare you more time this morning, but Mr. Gouch has rather unfortunately broken his arm and I have had to take over his cases for the next week or two.’
‘Please don’t mention it,’ replied Angela. ‘It was very kind of you to see me at such short notice. I shan’t keep you long.’
‘I understand you want to ask me about an inheritance.’
‘Yes,’ said Angela. ‘I won’t bore you with the whole story, but I have been poring over the will of one Philip Haynes, who died a couple of years ago leaving behind him some testamentary instructions of a rather curious nature.’
She explained the provisions of Philip’s will and how his money was to be divided. Mr. Addison listened carefully, eyebrows raised.
‘That is indeed somewhat unusual,’ he said when she had finished. ‘And, as you may have noticed, it puts the solicitor in rather a position of power—firstly of course because he is the ultimate beneficiary of twenty thousand pounds, and secondly because he is also the executor, and as such is in a position to dictate the course of events to a certain degree.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Angela. ‘That had not escaped my notice. The contents of the will don’t seem to have caused much surprise among Philip’s family, who knew him as a mischievous eccentric, given to playing malicious tricks on them all, but as an outsider, I must confess I am curious. Why did he decide to stipulate that, after any of his children’s deaths, the money revert to his solicitor, of all people? His family disliked each other, so if he had really wished to sow discord among them, surely it would have made more sense from his point of view to play them off against one another, for example by having the money that would normally pass to one particular family member revert to a hated relative.’
‘I see what you mean,’ said Mr. Addison.
‘I have a very active imagination so it’s entirely possible that I am making something out of nothing,’ said Angela, ‘but when Philip Haynes’s granddaughter happened to mention to me that a particular phrase had been used in the will, my curiosity was aroused. Yesterday, therefore, I went to Somerset House to see the document for myself. I spent quite some time reading it, but no matter how hard I looked, I could see no trace of the phrase or anything like it. The granddaughter had been quite certain it was there, but she also said that her grandfather had been fond of changing his will, so I can only assume that a later will was signed which superseded the earlier one. All the same, I should like to know what it meant. Tell me, Mr. Addison, if you were to read a will in which someone left a bequest to someone on the terms communicated to him, what should you think?’
Mr Addison pricked up his ears.
‘That was the phrase in question, was it?’ he said. ‘On the terms communicated to him. That is very interesting and suggestive. My word,’ he went on enthusiastically, ‘I know of such things but have never actually come across one myself. I believe they are quite rare these days.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Angela.
‘Why, it sounds very much as though Philip Haynes intended to set up a secret trust.’
He rose and went to a bookshelf, then selected a weighty reference work and brought it back to his desk. Angela waited as he found the page he wanted.
‘Hmm—hmm. Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘Very interesting indeed. Are you familiar with the concept of the secret trust?’ he asked.
‘Not at all,’ said Angela.
‘Secret trusts have been used for centuries as a means by which a testator may bequeath assets to a particular person without mentioning him or her by name in the will. They have traditionally provided a convenient means for mistresses and illegitimate children to receive an inheritance without causing embarrassment to the legitimate family. I shall not waste your time by expounding on the finer points of McCormick v Grogan or Rochefoucauld v Boustead, but the way it works is this: let us say that A wishes to leave a certain sum to B without A’s family knowing he has done so. He writes a will ostensibly leaving that sum to C, having first obtained C’s private consent to act as trustee. In law a trust is then deemed to have been created. Following the testator’s death, C receives the bequest in accordance with the deceased’s apparent last wishes, but is then bound by law to hold it in trust for B.’
‘And this is expressed in the will using the phrase I mentioned?’
‘Yes, or a similar expression—one which in any event makes it clear to anybody reading it that C has been given separate instructions regarding the ultimate destination of the assets.’
‘In that case, then, it is known that a secret trust has been created but not whom it is intended to benefit?’
‘That is so, yes.’
‘It certainly sounds as though Philip may at one time have intended to leave some money to a person or persons unknown,’ said Angela. ‘Presumably he changed his mind later on, though.’
The solicitor beamed even more widely.
‘Ah, but here we come to the most interesting point—we cannot be sure that he did change his mind. Incredible though it may seem, the law allows a secret trust to be created without its being mentioned in the will at all. Let us suppose that A wanted to leave some money to his mistress, B, but did not wish his wife to get wind of the fact. In this case he could simply say “I leave a thousand pounds to C,” and nobody would be any the wiser that he and C had in fact reached a private agreement for C to pass the money on to B.’
‘Nobody except C and possibly B, I assume,’ said Angela. ‘It seems a terribly risky thing to do—create a secret trust without mentioning it in the will, I mean. What if C decides to keep the money?’
‘Ah!’ said the solicitor, nodding vigorously. ‘I see you have spotted the biggest flaw in the thing. Yes, it would be very easy for the trustee to keep the money if he wished. Since secret trusts may be agreed verbally—in fact, are likely to be agreed verbally by their very nature—they can lead to all sorts of disputes. Without witnesses, it may be very difficult to prove that a secret trust ever existed. I imagine that many an intended beneficiary has been cheated out of his rightful inheritance over the years.’
‘To return to the case in question,’ said Angela, ‘is it possible that, after changing his will, Philip Haynes maintained the agreement with his solicitor to form a secret trust but did not mention it expressly in the later version?’<
br />
‘It’s certainly possible, but we have no way of knowing without speaking to the solicitor himself—and if he is bound by secrecy then he is hardly likely to tell you.’
Just then a clerk entered discreetly and gave Mr. Addison a meaningful look. The solicitor glanced at his watch and nodded.
‘Is there anything else you should like to ask me about?’ he said politely.
‘No, I think that’s everything,’ said Angela. She rose and held out her hand. ‘You have been enormously helpful, thank you.’
Mr. Addison shook her hand and gave her another beaming smile.
‘Do call me if you think of anything else you would like to know,’ he said.
Angela stepped out into the street and walked towards Holborn, intending to return home. The day was a fine one, however, so she decided to make a little detour to Lincoln’s Inn Fields to enjoy the sunshine. Sitting on a bench, she reviewed the information she had received from Mr. Addison. There was scant evidence for it, to be sure, but it looked as though there might be more to Philip’s will than met the eye. It had always seemed odd to her that Philip should leave his children only a life interest in what should have been their birthright. And then to stipulate that the money revert to his solicitor after their deaths? It was unaccountable, wholly unaccountable. But if Philip’s true intention had been to provide in some way for some other person—perhaps a relative unknown to or unadmitted by the family—why, then, that was much more comprehensible. But why had he done it in such a roundabout way? Surely the easiest thing would have been to leave some money directly to Mr. Faulkner, to be held on trust for the person in question. Why give his children a life interest in the money only to snatch it back from their families after their deaths? It seemed almost as though Philip wanted to deny his grandchildren part of their rightful inheritance. Susan, in particular, had ended up with nothing after Winifred’s unfortunate speculation and yet she had claimed to be his favourite grandchild. And what of the wording of the will? Mr. Addison had seemed convinced that the earlier version revealed an intention to create a secret trust. Had Philip changed his mind about the trust, or had he deliberately rewritten the will to make sure that it would remain wholly secret?
Angela sighed. Only one thing in the whole business was clear to her: that Philip Haynes had been a most ill-natured character.
‘Lucky for me I never had to make his acquaintance,’ she said to herself. ‘What a difficult man he must have been! It’s little wonder his family turned out as they did. A miracle, in fact, that John has managed to remain relatively unaffected by it all. I imagine much of that is Louisa’s doing.’
And what of John, in fact? For the first time, it occurred to Angela that he was the only one left; that he, the eldest child, had outlived his younger sisters and brother. Had he been fonder of them she should have felt sorry for him, but he did not seem to require her sympathy. Could he be in danger himself, though? If Philippa, Winifred and Edward had indeed been murdered—whether for their money or for some other motive—then as Philip’s last remaining child surely he was the next target. Whoever was behind the deaths was ruthless, and would clearly stop at nothing in order to gain his ends. Perhaps she should warn John of the potential danger.
But—but—was there something more to it than that? She had long felt that he was concealing something—and Ursula too seemed to think that he knew something about the matter which he refused to reveal. Could it be the unthinkable? Angela now forced herself to face a question that up to now she had pushed from her mind: was John the murderer? His love for Underwood House and desire to keep it for himself gave him ample motive. He had persuaded Philippa to leave her share of the house to him—and shortly afterwards, Philippa had died. Winifred had wanted to get rid of Underwood, and she had died too, leaving her share to Susan, who had been more amenable and had agreed to sell it to John. That left only Edward—and after his death, Ursula. And, judging by the conversation William had overheard between Ursula and Mr. Faulkner, she was smarting from the loss of Edward’s five thousand pounds. Perhaps she would be more willing to sell her share of the house to John now. Had John been relying upon that supposition? Certainly, there was no shortage of motive. But what about opportunity? If Donald was to be believed, John had not been in his study, as he claimed, when Winifred fell from the upstairs gallery. And as for Philippa and Edward—why, it would be almost impossible to provide alibis for their deaths.
Angela felt a sinking sense of dismay. Her clear, logical mind told her that there was no use in denying what should have been obvious long ago: that, assuming all three deaths were caused by the same agency, then John was the most likely suspect. Ursula certainly seemed to think so, although she had not said so expressly for reasons best known to herself.
‘How can I ever face Louisa if he is the guilty one?’ she said to herself. ‘It will break her heart. Why couldn’t she have taken my hint and asked me to stop the investigation when I gave her the chance?’
But there was no use in thinking about that any more. What was past was past, and Angela knew that she must carry on to the end now, come what may.
EIGHTEEN
The first thing Mrs. Marchmont did when she returned to her flat was to put through a telephone-call to Mr. Faulkner. She had little hope of achieving anything by it, but it had to be done.
‘Faulkner speaking,’ said the solicitor as he came on the line.
‘Hallo, Mr. Faulkner, it’s Angela Marchmont here,’ said Angela. ‘I’m sorry to trouble you, but I have a question about Philip Haynes’s will.’
‘Hallo, Mrs. Marchmont. What is it you wish to know?’
There was no sense in beating about the bush. Angela took a deep breath.
‘Did Philip ever create a secret trust with you as the trustee?’ she asked.
There was the briefest of pauses at the other end of the line, then came a laugh.
‘A secret trust? Whatever gave you that idea? No, there was no agreement of the sort. What made you think there might be?’
‘Something Susan Dennison said to me the other day. She told me that she had seen her grandfather’s will, and that the clause referring to the money which was to revert to you contained a phrase which seemed to imply that you had been told what to do with it.’
‘Indeed? How very odd. But I think she must be mistaken, since there is no such phrase in the will as far as I know.’
‘No,’ agreed Angela. ‘I went to Somerset House yesterday to have a look at it myself, and I couldn’t find anything of the kind. But I understand that Philip Haynes was forever changing his will, and wondered whether Susan was talking about an earlier version of the document.’
‘I wrote every one of Philip’s wills, and can assure you that none of them contained a phrase of the type you mention. No doubt Miss Dennison was telling you what she truly believed, but I am afraid she is very like her mother, who was somewhat vague in many respects. I mean no impoliteness when I say that I should not like to rely on her as a witness in court.’
‘Then you never agreed with Philip to hold money on trust for someone, under a secret provision contained in either an earlier will or the final version?’
‘That is the case,’ he said firmly.
There seemed nothing else to be said, so Angela thanked him and hung up. She had not expected him to admit it—indeed she would have been surprised if he had, but his denial meant she was unable to proceed with what had looked like a promising line of inquiry.
‘Still,’ she said to herself, ‘perhaps some new evidence will come to light later. I shan’t give up hope.’
The next morning she drove down to Underwood House with William.
‘Let us see if you have any more success with the servants today,’ she said.
William nodded feelingly.
‘I hope so, ma’am,’ he said. ‘There was one young lady in particular who seemed kindly disposed towards me. It was a pity that the housekeeper insisted on sticking so close by th
e whole time. She’s a fierce one, right enough! I guess she suspected that I was there to fool around with her girls.’
‘Whereas nothing could have been further from the truth,’ said Angela blandly.
William grinned.
‘At any rate, I couldn’t get any of them to talk to me and give me the low-down. I just hope it’s the housekeeper’s day out today, or that she’s come down with a cold. Nothing too serious, you understand—just enough to keep her sniffling in her room and out of the way.’
Louisa was out but Stella was at home. She seemed a little depressed.
‘Hallo, Mrs. Marchmont,’ she said. ‘Are you still investigating?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ said Angela. ‘As a matter of fact, I wondered if you wouldn’t mind showing me upstairs. In particular, I’d like to know which bedrooms were occupied and by whom on the day of Winifred’s death.’
‘Oh? Do you have a clue, then?’
‘Not exactly—I just want to get things straight in my mind,’ replied Angela.
‘Well, then, come with me. I shall show you who slept where.’
They went up the stairs and came onto the galleried landing. Angela looked around her and leaned over the balustrade at the point where Winifred had fallen.
‘I believe Ursula was right,’ she said.
‘Right about what?’
‘She said that it would have been very difficult for Winifred to fall accidentally since she was not tall enough. Look here.’ She stretched her arm out towards the chandelier. ‘You see I can only just reach the light from here myself and I am rather tall, but I understand Winifred was a very short woman, so it would have been much harder for her.’
‘Do you think she wasn’t leaning over at all, then?’
‘She may have been—obviously we will never know. But the balustrade is a high one so she would have been unlikely to fall accidentally, that is all I meant. Ursula thinks that somebody grabbed her by the ankles and tipped her over, and I must say it looks as though the theory may be a sound one.’
