'What did you do with it?' I asked.
He seemed amused. 'The natural question is surely, 'What's in it? What have you left to me?''
'Mm,' I said dryly. 'I'm not asking that, ever. What I'm asking is more practical.'
'I left it with the solicitor in Cambridge.'
We were wandering slowly along towards the stream, the dogs quartering busily. The willow leaves, yellowing, would fall in droves in the next gale, and there was bonfire smoke drifting somewhere in the still air.
'Who knows where your will is?' I asked.
'I do. And the solicitor.'
'Who's the solicitor?'
'I saw his name on a brass plate outside his office and went in on impulse. I've got his card somewhere. We discussed what I wanted, he had it typed up, and I signed it with witnesses in his office and left it there for safekeeping.'
'For a brilliant man,' I said peaceably, 'you're as thick as two planks.'
CHAPTER NINE
Malcolm said explosively, 'You're bloody rude,' and, after a pause, 'In what way am I thick? A new will was essential.'
'Suppose you died without telling me or anybody else you'd made it, or where it could be found?'
'Oh.' He was dismayed, then brightened. 'The solicitor would have produced it.'
'If he knew you by reputation, if he had any idea of the sums involved, if he heard you were dead, if he were conscientious, and if he knew who to get in touch with. If he were lazy, he might not bother, he's under no obligation. Within a month, unless you boasted a bit about your wealth, he'll have forgotten your will's in his files.'
'You seem to know an awful lot about it.'
'Joyce worked for years for the Citizens Advice Bureau, do you remember? I used to hear lurid tales of family squabbles because no one knew where to find a will they were sure had been made. And equally lurid tales of family members knowing where the will was and burning it before anyone else could find it, if they didn't like what was in it.'
'That's why I left it in safekeeping,' Malcolm said. 'Precisely because of that.'
We reached the far boundary of the field. The stream ran on through the neighbour's land, but we at that point turned back. 'What should I do then?' he asked. 'Any ideas?'
'Send it to the probate office at Somerset House.'
'How do you mean?'
'Joyce told me about it, one time. You put your will in a special envelope they'll send you if you apply for it, then you take it or send it to the central probate office. They register your will there and keep it safe. When anyone dies and any solicitor anywhere applies for probate, the central probate office routinely checks its files. If it has ever registered a will for that person, that's the envelope that will be opened, and that's the will that will be proved.'
He thought it over. 'Do you mean, if I registered a will with the probate office, and then changed my mind and wrote a new one, it wouldn't be any good?'
'You'd have to retrieve the old will and re-register the new one. Otherwise the old will would be the one adhered to.'
'Good God. I didn't know any of this.'
'Joyce says not enough people know. She says if people would Only register their wills, they couldn't be pressured into changing them when they're gaga or frightened or on their deathbeds. Or at least, wills made like that would be useless.'
'I used to laugh, rathe rat Joyce's voluntary work. Felt indulgent.' He sighed. 'Seems it had its uses.'
The Citizens Advice Bureau, staffed by knowledgeable armies of Joyces, could steer one from the cradle to the grave, from marriage to divorce to probate, from child allowance to old age supplements. I'd not always listened attentively to Joyce's tales, but I'd been taken several times to the Bureau, and I seemed to have absorbed more than I'd realised.
'I kept a copy of my new will,' Malcolm said. 'I'll show it to you when we go in.'
'You don't need to.'
'You'd better see it,' he said.
I didn't argue. He whistled to the dogs who left the stream reluctantly, and we made our way back to the gate into the garden.
'Just wait out here while I check the house,' I said.
He was astonished. 'We've only been out for half an hour. And we locked the doors.'
'You regularly go out for half an hour at this time. And how many Of the family still have keys to the house?'
He was silent. All of the people who had ever lived there could have kept their keys to the house, and there had never been any need, before now, to change the locks.
'Stay here, then?' I asked, and he nodded sadly.
The kitchen door was still locked. I let myself in and went all through the house again, but it was quiet and undisturbed, and doors that I'd set open at certain angles were still as I'd left them.
I called Malcolm and he came into the kitchen and began getting the food for the dogs.
'Are you going through this checking rigmarole every single time we leave the house?' he said, sounding as if he didn't like it.
'Yes, until we get the locks changed.'
He didn't like that either, but expressed his disapproval only in a frown and a rather too vigorous scraping of dog food out of a tin.
'Fill the water bowls,' he said rather crossly, and I did that and set them down again on the floor.
'It isn't so easy to change the locks,' he said. 'They're all mortice locks, as you know, set into the doors. The one on the front door is antique.'
The front door keys were six inches long and ornate, and there had never been more than three of them, as far as I knew.
'All right,' I said. 'If we keep the front door bolted and the keys in your safe, we won't change that one.'
A little pacified, he put the filled dinner bowls on the floor, wiped his fingers and said it was time for a noggin. I bolted the kitchen door on the inside and then followed him through the hall to the office, where he poured scotch into two glasses and asked if I wanted to desecrate mine with ice. I said yes and went back to the kitchen to fetch some. When I returned, he had taken some sheets of paper from his open briefcase and was reading them.
'Here you are. Here's my will,' he said, and passed the papers over.
He had made the will, I reflected, before he had telephoned me to put an end to our quarrel, and I expected not to figure in it in consequence, but I'd done him an injustice. Sitting in an armchair and sipping the whisky, I read through all the minor bequests to people like Arthur Bellbrook, and all the lawyerly gobbledegook 'upon trust' and without commas, and came finally to the plain language.
'To each of my three divorced wives Vivien Joyce and Alicia I bequeath the sum of five hundred thousand pounds.
'My son Robin being provided for I direct that the residue of my estate shall be divided equally among my children Donald Lucy Thomas Gervase Ian Ferdinand and Serena.'
A long clause followed with provisions for 'if any of my children shall pre-decease me', leaving 'his or her share' to the grandchildren.
Finally came two short sentences:
'I bequeath to my son Ian the piece of thin wire to be found on my desk. He knows what he can do with
