The First R. Austin Freeman Megapack: 27 Mystery Tales of Dr. Thorndyke & Others

by R. Austin Freeman

  “But even so,” I said, “if this man had a hankering for a freehold residence in some particular bone-yard, he might have gone about the business in a more reasonable way.”

  “There I am entirely with you,” Thorndyke replied. “It is the absurd way in which this provision is worded that not only creates all the trouble but also makes the whole document so curiously significant in view of the testator’s disappearance.”

  “How significant?” Jervis demanded eagerly.

  “Let us consider the provisions of the will point by point,” said Thorndyke; “and first note that the testator commanded the services of a very capable lawyer.”

  “But Mr. Jellicoe disapproved of the will,” said I; “in fact, he protested strongly against the form of it.”

  “We will bear that in mind, too,” Thorndyke replied. “And now with reference to what we may call the contentious clauses: the first thing that strikes us is their preposterous injustice. Godfrey’s inheritance is made conditional on a particular disposal of the testator’s body. But this is a matter not necessarily under Godfrey’s control. The testator might have been lost at sea, or killed in a fire or explosion, or have died abroad and been buried where his grave could not be identified. There are numerous probable contingencies besides the improbable one that has happened, that might prevent the body from being recovered.

  “But even if the body had been recovered, there is another difficulty. The places of burial in the parishes named have all been closed for many years. It would be impossible to reopen any of them without a special faculty, and I doubt whether such a faculty would be granted. Possibly cremation might meet the difficulty, but even that is doubtful; and, in any case, the matter would not be in the control of Godfrey Bellingham. Yet, if the required interment should prove impossible, he is to be deprived of his legacy.”

  “It is a monstrous and absurd injustice,” I exclaimed.

  “It is,” Thorndyke agreed; “but this is nothing to the absurdity that comes to light when we consider clauses two and three in detail. Observe that the testator presumably wished to be buried in a certain place; also he wished that his brother should benefit under the will. Let us take the first point and see how he has set about securing the accomplishment of what he desired. Now, if we read clauses two and three carefully, we shall see that he has rendered it virtually impossible that his wishes can be carried out. He desires to be buried in a certain place and makes Godfrey responsible for his being so buried. But he gives Godfrey no power or authority to carry out the provision, and places insuperable obstacles in his way. For until Godfrey is an executor, he has no power or authority to carry out the provisions: and until the provisions are carried out, he does not become an executor.”

  “It is a preposterous muddle,” exclaimed Jervis.

  “Yes, but that is not the worst of it,” Thorndyke continued. “The moment John Bellingham dies, his dead body has come into existence; and it is ‘deposited’ for the time being, wherever he happens to have died. But unless he should happen to have died in one of the places of burial mentioned—which is in the highest degree unlikely—his body will be, for the time being, ‘deposited’ in some place other than those specified. In that case clause two is—for the time being—not complied with, and consequently George Hurst becomes, automatically, the co-executor.

  “But will George Hurst carry out the provisions of clause two? Probably not. Why should he? The will contains no instructions to that effect. It throws the whole duty on Godfrey. On the other hand, if he should carry out clause two, what happens? He ceases to be an executor and he loses a legacy of some seventy thousand pounds. We may be pretty certain that he will do nothing of the kind. So that, on considering the two clauses, we see that the wishes of the testator could only be carried out in the unlikely event of his dying in one of the burial-places mentioned, or his body being conveyed immediately after death to a public mortuary in one of the said parishes. In any other event, it is virtually certain that he will be buried in some place other than that which he desired, and that his brother will be left absolutely without provision or recognition.”

  “John Bellingham could never have intended that,” I said.

  “Clearly not,” agreed Thorndyke; “the provisions of the will furnish internal evidence that he did not. You note that he bequeathed five thousand pounds to George Hurst, in the event of clause two being carried out; but he has made no bequest to his brother in the event of its not being carried out. Obviously, he had not entertained the possibility of this contingency at all. He assumed, as a matter of course, that the conditions of clause two would be fulfilled, and regarded the conditions themselves as a mere formality.”

  “But,” Jervis objected, “Jellicoe must have seen the danger of a miscarriage and pointed it out to his client.”

  “Exactly,” said Thorndyke. “There is the mystery. We understand that he objected strenuously, and that John Bellingham was obdurate. Now it is perfectly understandable that a man should adhere obstinately to the most stupid and perverse disposition of his property; but that a man should persist in retaining a particular form of words after it has been proved to him that the use of such form will almost certainly result in the defeat of his own wishes; that, I say, is a mystery that calls for very careful consideration.”

  “If Jellicoe had been an interested party,” said Jervis, “one would have suspected him of lying low. But the form of clause two doesn’t affect him at all.”

  “No,” said Thorndyke; “the person who stands to profit by the muddle is George Hurst. But we understand that he was unacquainted with the terms of the will, and there is certainly nothing to suggest that he is in any way responsible for it.”

  “The practical question is,” said I, “what is going to happen? And what can be done for the Bellinghams?”

  “The probability is,” Thorndyke replied, “that the next move will be made by Hurst. He is the party immediately interested. He will probably apply to the Court for permission to presume death and administer the will.”

  “And what will the Court do?”

  Thorndyke smiled drily. “Now you are asking a very pretty conundrum. The decisions of Courts depend on idiosyncrasies of temperament that no one can foresee. But one may say that a Court does not lightly grant permission to presume death. There will be a rigorous inquiry—and a decidedly unpleasant one, I suspect—and the evidence will be reviewed by the judge with a strong predisposition to regard the testator as being still alive. On the other hand, the known facts point very distinctly to the probability that he is dead; and, if the will were less complicated and all the interested parties were unanimous in supporting the application, I don’t see why it might not be granted. But it will clearly be to the interest of Godfrey to oppose the application, unless he can show that the conditions of clause two have been complied with—which it is virtually certain that he can not; and he may be able to bring forward reasons for believing John to be still alive. But even if he is unable to do this, inasmuch as it is pretty clear that he was intended to be the chief beneficiary, his opposition is likely to have considerable weight with the Court.”

  “Oh, is it?” I exclaimed eagerly. “Then that accounts for a very peculiar proceeding on the part of Hurst. I have stupidly forgotten to tell you about it. He has been trying to come to a private agreement with Godfrey Bellingham.”

  “Indeed!” said Thorndyke. “What sort of agreement?”

  “His proposal was this: that Godfrey should support him and Jellicoe in an application to the Court for permission to presume death and to administer the will, and that, if it was successful, Hurst should pay him four hundred pounds a year for life: the arrangement to hold good in all eventualities.”

  “By which he means?”

  “That if the body should be discovered at any future time, so that the conditions of clause two could be carried out, Hurst should still retain the property and continue to pay Godfrey the four hundred a year for life.”
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  “Hey ho!” exclaimed Thorndyke; “that is a queer proposal; a very queer proposal indeed.”

  “Not to say fishy,” added Jervis. “I don’t fancy the Court would look with approval on that little arrangement.”

  “The law does not look with much favour on any little arrangements that aim at getting behind the provisions of a will,” Thorndyke replied; “though there would be nothing to complain of in this proposal if it were not for the reference to ‘all eventualities.’ If a will is hopelessly impracticable, it is not unreasonable or improper for the various beneficiaries to make such private arrangements among themselves as may seem necessary to avoid useless litigation and delay in administering the will. If, for instance, Hurst had proposed to pay four hundred a year to Godfrey so long as the body remained undiscovered on condition that, in the event of its discovery, Godfrey should pay him a like sum for life, there would have been nothing to comment upon. It would have been an ordinary sporting chance. But the reference to ‘all eventualities’ is an entirely different matter. Of course, it may be mere greediness, but all the same, it suggests some very curious reflections.”

  “Yes, it does,” said Jervis. “I wonder if he has any reason to expect that the body will be found? Of course it doesn’t follow that he has. He may be merely taking the opportunity offered by the other man’s poverty to make sure of the bulk of the property whatever happens. But it is uncommonly sharp practice, to say the least.”

  “Do I understand that Godfrey declined the proposal?” Thorndyke asked.

  “Yes, he did, very emphatically; and I fancy that the two gentlemen proceeded to exchange opinions on the circumstances of the disappearance with more frankness than delicacy.”

  “Ah,” said Thorndyke, “that is a pity. If the case comes into Court, there is bound to be a good deal of unpleasant discussion and still more unpleasant comment in the newspapers. But if the parties themselves begin to express suspicions of one another there is no telling where the matter will end.”

  “No, by Jove!” said Jervis. “If they begin flinging accusations of murder about, the fat will be in the fire with a vengeance. That way lies the Old Bailey.”

  “We must try to prevent them from making an unnecessary scandal,” said Thorndyke. “It may be that an exposure will be unavoidable, and that must be ascertained in advance. But to return to your question, Berkeley, as to what is to be done. Hurst will probably make some move pretty soon. Do you know if Jellicoe will act with him?”

  “No, he won’t. He declines to take any steps without Godfrey’s assent—at least, that is what he says at present. His attitude is one of correct neutrality.”

  “That is satisfactory, so far,” said Thorndyke, “though he may alter his tone when the case comes into Court. From what you said just now I gathered that Jellicoe would prefer to have the will administered and be quit of the whole business; which is natural enough, especially as he benefits under the will to the extent of two thousand pounds and a valuable collection. Consequently, we may fairly assume that, even if he maintains an apparent neutrality, his influence will be exerted in favour of Hurst rather than of Bellingham; from which it follows that Bellingham ought certainly to be properly advised, and, when the case goes into Court, properly represented.”

  “He can’t afford either the one or the other,” said I. “He’s as poor as an insolvent church mouse and as proud as the devil. He wouldn’t accept professional aid that he couldn’t pay for.”

  “H’m,” grunted Thorndyke, “that’s awkward. But we can’t allow the case to go ‘by default,’ so to speak—to fail for the mere lack of technical assistance. Besides, it is one of the most interesting cases that I have ever met with, and I am not going to see it bungled. He couldn’t object to a little general advice in a friendly, informal way—amicus curiae, as old Brodribb is so fond of saying; and there is nothing to prevent us from pushing forward the preliminary inquiries.”

  “Of what nature would they be?”

  “Well, to begin with, we have to satisfy ourselves that the conditions of clause two have not been complied with: that John Bellingham has not been buried within the parish boundaries mentioned. Of course he has not, but we must not take anything for granted. Then we have to satisfy ourselves that he is not still alive and accessible. It is perfectly possible that he is, after all, and it is our business to trace him, if he is still in the land of the living. Jervis and I can carry out these investigations without saying anything to Bellingham; my learned brother will look through the register of burials—not forgetting the cremations—in the metropolitan area, and I will take the other matter in hand.”

  “You really think that John Bellingham may still be alive?” said I.

  “Since his body has not been found, it is obviously a possibility. I think it in the highest degree improbable, but the improbable has to be investigated before it can be excluded.”

  “It sounds like a rather hopeless quest,” I remarked. “How do you propose to begin?”

  “I think of beginning at the British Museum. The people there may be able to throw some light on his movements. I know that there are some important excavations in progress at Heliopolis—in fact, the Director of the Egyptian Department is out there at the present moment; and Doctor Norbury, who is taking his place temporarily, is an old friend of John Bellingham’s. I shall call on him and try to discover if there is anything that might have induced Bellingham suddenly to go abroad—to Heliopolis, for instance. Also, he may be able to tell me what it was that took the missing man to Paris on that last, rather mysterious journey. That might turn out to be an important clue. And meanwhile, Berkeley, you must endeavour tactfully to reconcile your friend to the idea of letting us give an eye to the case. Make it clear to him that I am doing this entirely for the enlargement of my own knowledge.”

  “But won’t you have to be instructed by a solicitor?” I asked.

  “Yes, of course, nominally; but only as a matter of etiquette. We shall do all the actual work. Why do you ask?”

  “I was thinking of the solicitor’s costs, and I was going to mention that I have a little money of my own—”

  “Then keep it, my dear fellow. You’ll want it when you go into practice. There will be no difficulty about the solicitor; I shall ask one of my friends to act nominally as a personal favour to me—Marchmont would take the case for us, Jervis, I am sure.”

  “Yes,” said Jervis. “Or old Brodribb, if we put it to him amicus curiae.”

  “It is excessively kind of both of you to take this benevolent interest in the case of my friends,” I said; “and it is to be hoped that they won’t be foolishly proud and stiff-necked about it. It’s rather the way with poor gentlefolk.”

  “I’ll tell you what!” exclaimed Jervis. “I have a most brilliant idea. You shall give us a little supper at your rooms and invite the Bellinghams to meet us. Then you and I will attack the old gentleman, and Thorndyke shall exercise his persuasive powers on the lady. These chronic and incurable old bachelors, you know, are quite irresistible.”

  “You observe that my respected junior condemns me to lifelong celibacy,” Thorndyke remarked. “But,” he added, “his suggestion is quite a good one. Of course, we mustn’t put any sort of pressure on Bellingham to employ us—for that is what it amounts to, even if we accept no payment—but a friendly talk over the supper-table would enable us to put the matter delicately and yet convincingly.”

  “Yes,” said I, “I see that, and I like the idea immensely. But it won’t be possible for several days, because I’ve got a job that takes up all my spare time—and that I ought to be at work on now,” I added, with a sudden qualm at the way in which I had forgotten the passage of time in the interest of Thorndyke’s analysis.

  My two friends looked at me inquiringly, and I felt it necessary to explain about the injured hand and the Tell el Amarna tablets; which I accordingly did, rather shyly and with a nervous eye upon Jervis. The slow grin, however, for which I was watchin
g, never came; on the contrary, he not only heard me through quite gravely, but when I had finished said with some warmth, and using my old hospital pet name:

  “I’ll say one thing for you, Polly; you’re a good chum, and you always were. I hope your Nevill’s Court friends appreciate the fact.”

  “They are far more appreciative than the occasion warrants,” I answered. “But to return to this supper question: how will this day week suit you?”

  “It will suit me,” Thorndyke answered, with a glance at his junior.

  “And me too,” said the latter; “so, if it will do for the Bellinghams, we will consider it settled; but if they can’t come you must fix another night.”

  “Very well,” I said, rising and knocking out my pipe, “I will issue the invitation tomorrow. And now I must be off to have another slog at those notes.”

  As I walked homewards I speculated cheerfully on the prospect of entertaining my friends under my own (or rather Barnard’s) roof, if they could be lured out of their eremitical retirement. The idea had, in fact, occurred to me already, but I had been deterred by the peculiarities of Barnard’s housekeeper. For Mrs. Gummer was one of those housewives who make up for an archaic simplicity of production by preparations on the most portentous and alarming scale. But this time I would not be deterred. If only the guests could be enticed into my humble lair, it would be easy to furnish the raw materials of the feast from outside; and the consideration of ways and means occupied me pleasantly until I found myself once more at my writing-table, confronted by my voluminous notes on the incident of the North Syrian War.