Eleven

THE CASE OF THE MISSING WILL

The problem presented to us by Miss?Violet Marsh¹ made rather a pleasant change from our usualroutine work. Poirot had received a brisk and businesslike note from the lady asking for anappointment, and had replied asking her to call upon him at eleven o’clock the following day.

She arrived punctually—a tall, handsome young woman, plainly but neatly² dressed, with anassured and businesslike manner. Clearly a young woman who meant to get on in the world. I amnot a great admirer of the so-called New Woman myself, and, in spite of her good looks, I was notparticularly prepossessed in her favour.

“My business is of a somewhat unusual nature, Monsieur Poirot,” she began, after she hadaccepted a chair. “I had better begin at the beginning and tell you the whole story.”

“If you please, mademoiselle.”

“I am an orphan⁴. My father was one of two brothers, sons of a small yeoman farmer inDevonshire. The farm was a poor one, and the elder brother, Andrew, emigrated to Australia,where he did very well indeed, and by means of successful speculation⁵ in land became a very richman. The younger brother, Roger (my father), had no leanings towards the agricultural life. Hemanaged to educate himself a little, and obtained a post as clerk with a small firm. He marriedslightly above him; my mother was the daughter of a poor artist. My father died when I was sixyears old. When I was fourteen, my mother followed him to the grave. My only living relationthen was my uncle Andrew, who had recently returned from Australia and bought a small place,Crabtree Manor⁷, in his native county. He was exceedingly kind to his brother’s orphan child, tookme to live with him, and treated me in every way as though I was his own daughter.

“Crabtree Manor, in spite of its name, is really only an old farmhouse⁸. Farming was in myuncle’s blood, and he was intensely interested in various modern farming experiments. Althoughkindness itself to me, he had certain peculiar⁹ and deeply-rooted ideas as to the upbringing ofwomen. Himself a man of little or no education, though possessing remarkable¹⁰ shrewdness, heplaced little value on what he called ‘book knowledge.’ He was especially opposed to theeducation of women. In his opinion, girls should learn practical housework and dairy work, beuseful about the home, and have as little to do with book learning as possible. He proposed tobring me up on these lines, to my bitter disappointment and annoyance¹¹. I rebelled frankly¹². I knewthat I possessed³ a good brain, and had absolutely no talent for domestic duties. My uncle and I hadmany bitter arguments on the subject, for, though much attached to each other, we were both self-willed. I was lucky enough to win a scholarship, and up to a certain point was successful in gettingmy own way. The crisis arose when I resolved to go to Girton. I had a little money of my own, leftme by my mother, and I was quite determined¹³ to make the best use of the gifts God had given me.

I had one long, final argument with my uncle. He put the facts plainly before me. He had no otherrelations, and he had intended me to be his sole heiress. As I have told you, he was a very richman. If I persisted in these ‘newfangled notions’ of mine, however, I need look for nothing fromhim. I remained polite, but firm. I should always be deeply attached to him, I told him, but I mustlead my own life. We parted on that note. ‘You fancy your brains, my girl,’ were his last words.

‘I’ve no book learning, but, for all that, I’ll pit mine against yours any day. We’ll see what weshall see.’ ”

“That was nine years ago. I have stayed with him for a weekend occasionally, and ourrelations were perfectly¹⁴ amicable¹⁵, though his views remained unaltered. He never referred to myhaving matriculated, nor to my BSc. For the last three years his health had been failing, and amonth ago he died.

“I am now coming to the point of my visit. My uncle left a most extraordinary will. By itsterms, Crabtree Manor and its contents are to be at my disposal for a year from his death—‘duringwhich time my clever niece may prove her wits,’ the actual words run. At the end of that period,‘my wits having been proved better than hers,’ the house and all my uncle’s large fortune pass tovarious charitable institutions.”

“That is a little hard on you, mademoiselle, seeing that you were Mr.?Marsh’s only bloodrelation.”

“I do not look on it in that way. Uncle Andrew warned me fairly, and I chose my own path.

Since I would not fall in with his wishes, he was at perfect liberty to leave his money to whom hepleased.”

“Was the will drawn¹⁶ up by a lawyer?”

“No; it was written on a printed will-form and witnessed by the man and his wife who live atthe house and do for my uncle.”

“There might be a possibility of upsetting such a will?”

“I would not even attempt to do such a thing.”

“You regard it then as a sporting challenge on the part of your uncle?”

“That is exactly how I look upon it.”

“It bears that interpretation¹⁷, certainly,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “Somewhere in this ramblingold manor house your uncle has concealed¹⁹ either a sum of money in notes or possibly a secondwill, and has given you a year in which to exercise your ingenuity²⁰ to find it.”

“Exactly, Monsieur Poirot; and I am paying you the compliment of assuming that youringenuity will be greater than mine.”

“Eh, eh! but that is very charming of you. My grey cells are at your disposal. You have madeno search yourself?”

“Only a cursory²¹ one; but I have too much respect for my uncle’s undoubted abilities to fancythat the task will be an easy one.”

“Have you the will or a copy of it with you?”

Miss?March handed a document across the table. Poirot ran through it, nodding to himself.

“Made three years ago. Dated March 25; and the time is given also—11 A.M.—that is verysuggestive. It narrows the field of search. Assuredly it is another will we have to seek for. A willmade even half an hour later would upset this. Eh bien, mademoiselle, it is a problem charmingand ingenious that you have presented to me here. I shall have all the pleasure in the world insolving it for you. Granted that your uncle was a man of ability, his grey cells cannot have been ofthe quality of Hercule Poirot’s!”

(Really, Poirot’s vanity is blatant²²!)

“Fortunately, I have nothing of moment on hand at the minute. Hastings and I will go downto Crabtree Manor tonight. The man and wife who attended on your uncle are still there, Ipresume?”

“Yes, their name is Baker²³.”

II

The following morning saw us started on the hunt proper. We had arrived late the night before.

Mr.?and Mrs.?Baker, having received a telegram from Miss?Marsh, were expecting us. They were apleasant couple, the man gnarled and pink-cheeked, like a shrivelled pippin, and his wife a womanof vast proportion and true Devonshire calm.

Tired with our journey and the eight-mile drive from the station, we had retired²⁴ at once to bedafter a supper of roast chicken, apple pie, and Devonshire cream. We had now disposed of anexcellent breakfast, and were sitting in a small panelled room which had been the late Mr.?Marsh’sstudy and living room. A rolltop desk stuffed with papers, all neatly docketed, stood against thewall, and a big leather armchair showed plainly that it had been its owner’s constant resting-place.

A big chintz-covered settee ran along the opposite wall, and the deep low window seats werecovered with the same faded chintz of an old-fashioned pattern.

“Eh bien, mon ami,” said Poirot, lighting²⁶ one of his tiny cigarettes, “we must map out ourplan of campaign. Already I have made a rough survey of the house, but I am of the opinion thatany clue will be found in this room. We shall have to go through the documents in the desk withmeticulous care. Naturally, I do not expect to find the will amongst them, but it is likely that someapparently innocent paper may conceal¹⁸ the clue to its hiding place. But first we must have a littleinformation. Ring the bell, I pray of?you.”

I did so. While we were waiting for it to be answered, Poirot walked up and down, lookingabout him approvingly.

“A man of method, this Mr.?Marsh. See how neatly the packets of papers are docketed; thenthe key to each drawer has its ivory label—so has the key of the china cabinet on the wall; and seewith what precision the china within is arranged. It rejoices the heart. Nothing here offends the eye—”

He came to an abrupt²⁷ pause, as his eye was caught by the key of the desk itself, to which adirty envelope was affixed²⁸. Poirot frowned at it and withdrew it from the lock. On it were scrawledthe words: “Key of Roll Top Desk,” in a crabbed²⁹ handwriting, quite unlike the neatsuperscriptions on the other keys.

“An alien note,” said Poirot, frowning. “I could swear that here we have no longer thepersonality of Mr.?Marsh. But who else has been in the house? Only Miss?Marsh, and she, if Imistake not, is also a young lady of method and order.”

Baker came in answer to the bell.

“Will you fetch madame your wife, and answer a few questions?”

Baker departed, and in a few moments returned with Mrs.?Baker, wiping her hands on herapron and beaming all over her face.

In a few clear words Poirot set forth³⁰ the object of his mission. The Bakers³¹ were immediatelysympathetic.

“Us don’t want to see Miss?Violet done out of what’s hers,” declared the woman. “Cruel hard’twould be for hospitals to get it all.”

Poirot proceeded with his questions. Yes, Mr.?and Mrs.?Baker remembered perfectlywitnessing the will. Baker had previously³² been sent into the neighbouring town to get two printedwill forms.

“Two?” said Poirot sharply.

“Yes, sir, for safety like, I suppose, in case he should spoil one—and sure enough, so he diddo. Us had signed one—”

“What time of day was that?”

Baker scratched his head, but his wife was quicker.

“Why, to be sure, I’d just put the milk on for the cocoa at eleven. Don’t ee remember? It hadall boiled over on the stove when us got back to kitchen.”

“And afterwards?”

“ ’Twould be about an hour later. Us had to go in again. ‘I’ve made a mistake,’ said oldmaster, ‘had to tear the whole thing up. I’ll trouble you to sign again,’ and us did. And afterwardsmaster gave us a tidy sum of money each. ‘I’ve left you nothing in my will,’ says he, ‘but eachyear I live you’ll have this to be a nest egg when I’m gone’: and sure enough, so he did.”

Poirot reflected.

“After you had signed the second time, what did Mr.?Marsh do? Do you know?”

“Went out to the village to pay tradesmen’s books.”

That did not seem very promising³³. Poirot tried another tack³⁴. He held out the key of the desk.

“Is that your master’s writing?”

I may have imagined it, but I fancied that a moment or two elapsed before Baker replied:

“Yes, sir, it is.”

“He’s lying,” I thought. “But why?”

“Has your master let the house?—have there been any strangers in it during the last threeyears?”

“No, sir.”

“No visitors?”

“Only Miss?Violet.”

“No strangers of any kind been inside this room?”

“No, sir.”

“You forget the workmen, Jim,” his wife reminded him.

“Workmen?” Poirot wheeled round on her. “What workmen?”

The woman explained that about two years and a half ago workmen had been in the house todo certain repairs. She was quite vague as to what the repairs were. Her view seemed to be that thewhole thing was a fad²⁵ of her master’s and quite unnecessary. Part of the time the workmen hadbeen in the study; but what they had done there she could not say, as her master had not let eitherof them into the room whilst the work was in progress. Unfortunately, they could not rememberthe name of the firm employed, beyond the fact that it was a Plymouth one.

“We progress, Hastings,” said Poirot, rubbing his hands as the Bakers left the room. “Clearlyhe made a second will and then had workmen from Plymouth in to make a suitable hiding place.

Instead of wasting time taking up the floor and tapping the walls, we will go to Plymouth.”

With a little trouble, we were able to get the information we wanted. After one or two essayswe found the firm employed by Mr.?Marsh.

Their employees had all been with them many years, and it was easy to find the two men whohad worked under Mr.?Marsh’s orders. They remembered the job perfectly. Amongst various otherminor jobs, they had taken up one of the bricks of the old-fashioned fireplace, made a cavitybeneath, and so cut the brick that it was impossible to see the join. By pressing on the second brickfrom the end, the whole thing was raised. It had been quite a complicated piece of work, and theold gentleman had been very fussy³⁵ about it. Our informant was a man called Coghan, a big, gauntman with a grizzled moustache. He seemed an intelligent fellow.

We returned to Crabtree Manor in high spirits, and, locking the study door, proceeded to putour newly acquired knowledge into effect. It was impossible to see any sign on the bricks, butwhen we pressed in the manner indicated, a deep cavity was at once disclosed.

Eagerly Poirot plunged³⁶ in his hand. Suddenly his face fell from complacent³⁷ elation⁶ toconsternation. All he held was a charred³⁸ fragment of stiff paper. But for it, the cavity was empty.

“Sacre!” cried Poirot angrily. “Someone has been before us.”

We examined the scrap³⁹ of paper anxiously. Clearly it was a fragment of what we sought. Aportion of Baker’s signature remained, but no indication of what the terms of the will had been.

Poirot sat back on his heels. His expression would have been comical if we had not been soovercome. “I understand it not,” he growled⁴⁰. “Who destroyed this? And what was their object?”

“The Bakers?” I suggested.

“Pourquoi? Neither will makes any provision for them, and they are more likely to be kepton with Miss?Marsh than if the place became the property of a hospital. How could it be toanyone’s advantage to destroy the will? The hospitals benefit — yes; but one cannot suspectinstitutions.”

“Perhaps the old man changed his mind and destroyed it himself,” I suggested.

Poirot rose to his feet, dusting his knees with his usual care.

“That may be,” he admitted, “one of your more sensible observations, Hastings. Well, we cando no more here. We have done all that mortal man can do. We have successfully pitted our witsagainst the late Andrew Marsh’s; but, unfortunately, his niece is not better off for our success.”

By driving to the station at once, we were just able to catch a train to London, though not theprincipal express. Poirot was sad and dissatisfied. For my part, I was tired and dozed⁴¹ in a corner.

Suddenly, as we were just moving out of Taunton, Poirot uttered a piercing squeal⁴².

“Vite, Hastings! Awake and jump! But jump I say!”

Before I knew where I was we were standing⁴³ on the platform, bareheaded and minus ourvalises, whilst the train disappeared into the night. I was furious. But Poirot paid no attention.

“Imbecile that I have been!” he cried. “Triple imbecile! Not again will I vaunt my little greycells!”

“That’s a good job at any rate,” I said grumpily. “But what is this all about?”

As usual, when following out his own ideas, Poirot paid absolutely no attention to me.

“The tradesmen’s books—I have left them entirely⁴⁴ out of account? Yes, but where? Where?

Never mind, I cannot be mistaken. We must return at once.”

Easier said than done. We managed to get a slow train to Exeter, and there Poirot hired a car.

We arrived back at Crabtree Manor in the small hours of the morning. I pass over thebewilderment of the Bakers when we had at last aroused them. Paying no attention to anybody,Poirot strode at once to the study.

“I have been, not a triple imbecile, but thirty-six times one, my friend,” he deigned⁴⁵ to remark.

“Now, behold⁴⁶!”

Going straight to the desk he drew out the key, and detached the envelope from it. I stared athim stupidly. How could he possibly hope to find a big will form in that tiny envelope? With greatcare he cut open the envelope, laying it out flat. Then he lighted the fire and held the plain insidesurface of the envelope to the flame. In a few minutes faint characters began to appear.

“Look, mon ami!?” cried Poirot in triumph.

I looked. There were just a few lines of faint writing stating briefly⁴⁷ that he left everything tohis niece, Violet Marsh. It was dated March 25 12:30 p.m., and witnessed by Albert Pike,confectioner, and Jessie Pike, married woman.

“But is it legal?” I gasped⁴⁸.

“As far as I know, there is no law against writing your will in a blend of disappearing andsympathetic ink. The intention of the testator is clear, and the beneficiary is his only livingrelation. But the cleverness of him! He foresaw every step that a searcher would take—that I,miserable imbecile, took. He gets two will forms, makes the servants sign twice, then sallies outwith his will written on the inside of a dirty envelope and a fountain pen containing his little inkmixture. On some excuse he gets the confectioner and his wife to sign their names under his ownsignature, then he ties it to the key of his desk and chuckles⁴⁹ to himself. If his niece sees throughhis little ruse⁵⁰, she will have justified⁵¹ her choice of life and elaborate education and be thoroughlywelcome to his money.”

“She didn’t see through it, did she?” I said slowly. “It seems rather unfair. The old man reallywon.”

“But no, Hastings. It is your wits that go astray. Miss?Marsh proved the astuteness⁵² of her witsand the value of the higher education for women by at once putting the matter in my hands.

Always employ the expert. She has amply proved her right to the money.”

I wonder—I very much wonder—what old Andrew Marsh would have thought!

 

点击收听单词发音