“Mr. Popham, sir,” he answered softly, “has always been my very good friend. I entered Mr. Popham’s service, sir, at an early age. Mr. Popham, sir, acted very handsomely by me. He gave me my articles, sir. And when I was admitted—two years ago, Mr. Brereton—Messrs. Popham & Pilboody gave me—very generously—an office in their suite, so that I could have my name up, and do a bit on my own, sir. Oh yes!—I’m connected—intimately—with that famous firm, Mr. Brereton!”
There was an assurance about Mr. Pett, a cocksureness of demeanour, a cheerful confidence in himself, which made Brereton long to kick him; but he restrained his feelings and said coldly that he supposed Mr. Pett wished to speak to Mr. Bent and himself on business.
“Not on my own business, sir,” replied Pett, laying his queer-looking white fingers on his brief bag. “On the business of my esteemed feminine relative, Miss Pett. I am informed, Mr. Brereton—no offence, sir, oh, none whatever!—that you put some—no doubt necessary—questions to Miss Pett at the court this morning which had the effect of prejudicing her in the eyes—or shall we say ears?—of those who were present. Miss Pett accordingly desires that I, as her legal representative, should lose no time in putting before you the true state of the case as regards her relations with Kitely, deceased, and I accordingly, sir, in the presence of our friend, the superintendent, whom I have already spoken to outside, desire to tell you what the truth is. Informally, you understand, Mr. Brereton, informally!”
“Just as you please,” answered Brereton. “All this is, as you say, informal.”
“Quite informal, sir,” agreed Pett, who gained in cheerfulness with every word. “Oh, absolutely so. Between ourselves, of course. But it’ll be all the pleasanter if you know. My aunt, Miss Pett, naturally does not wish, Mr. Brereton, that any person—hereabouts or elsewhere—should entertain such suspicions of her as you seemed—I speak, sir, from information furnished—to suggest, in your examination of her today. And so, sir, I wish to tell you this. I acted as legal adviser to the late Mr. Kitely. I made his will. I have that will in this bag. And—to put matters in a nutshell, Mr. Brereton—there is not a living soul in this world who knows the contents of that will but—your humble and obedient!”
“Do you propose to communicate the contents of the late Mr. Kitely’s will to us?” asked Brereton, drily.
“I do, sir,” replied Mr. Pett. “And for this reason. My relative—Miss Pett—does not know what Mr. Kitely’s profession had been, nor what Mr. Kitely died possessed of. She does not know—anything! And she will not know until I read this will to her after I have communicated the gist of it to you. And I will do that in a few words. The late Mr. Kitely, sir, was an ex-member of the detective police force. By dint of economy and thrift he had got together a nice little property—house-property, in London—Brixton, to be exact. It is worth about one hundred and fifty pounds per annum. And—to cut matters short—he has left it absolutely to Miss Pett. I myself, Mr. Brereton, am sole executor. If you desire to see the will, sir, you, or Mr. Bent, or the superintendent, are at liberty to inspect it.”
Brereton waved the proffered document aside and got up from his chair.
“No, thank you, Mr. Pett,” he said. “I’ve no desire to see Mr. Kitely’s will. I quite accept all that you say about it. You, as a lawyer, know very well that whatever I asked Miss Pett this morning was asked in the interests of my client. No—you can put the will away as far as I’m concerned. You’ve assured me that Miss Pett is as yet in ignorance of its contents, and—I take your word. I think, however, that Miss Pett won’t be exactly surprised.”
“Oh, I daresay my aunt has a pretty good idea, Mr. Brereton,” agreed Pett, who having offered the will to both Bent and the superintendent, only to meet with a polite refusal from each, now put it back in his bag. “We all of us have some little idea which quarter the wind’s in, you know, sir, in these cases. Of course, Kitely, deceased, had no relatives, Mr. Brereton: in fact, so far as Miss Pett and self are aware, beyond ourselves, he’d no friends.”
“I was going to ask you a somewhat pertinent question, Mr. Pett,” said Brereton. “Quite an informal one, you know. Do you think he had any enemies?”
Pett put his long white fingers together and inclined his head to one side. His slit of a mouth opened slightly, and his queer teeth showed themselves in a sly grin.
“Just so!” he said. “Of course, I take your meaning, Mr. Brereton. Naturally, you’d think that a man of his profession would make enemies. No doubt there must be a good many persons who’d have been glad—had he still been alive—to have had their knives into him. Oh, yes! But—unfortunately, I don’t know of ’em, sir.”
“Never heard him speak of anybody who was likely to cherish revenge, eh?” asked Brereton.
“Never, sir! Kitely, deceased,” remarked Pett, meditatively, “was not given to talking of his professional achievements. I happen to know that he was concerned in some important cases in his time—but he rarely, if ever, mentioned them to me. In fact, I may say, gentlemen,” he continued in a palpable burst of confidence, “I may say, between ourselves, that I’d had the honour of Mr. K.’s acquaintance for some time before ever I knew what his line of business had been! Fact!”
“A close man, eh?” asked Brereton.
“One of the very closest,” replied Pett. “Yes, you may say that, sir.”
“Not likely to let things out, I suppose?” continued Brereton.
“Not he! He was a regular old steel trap, Kitely was—shut tight!” said Pett.
“And—I suppose you’ve no theory, no idea of your own about his murder?” asked Brereton, who was watching the little man closely. “Have you
