“Of course. Cute old lady. How very irritating for Miss Whittaker. And after that very hopeful visit of the solicitor, too. So disappointing. Instead of the expected will, a very carefully planted spoke in her wheel.”
“Yes. But we’re still brought up against the problem, why a will at all?”
“So we are.”
The two men pulled at their pipes for some time in silence.
“The aunt evidently intended the money to go to Mary Whittaker all right,” remarked Parker at last. “She promised it so often—besides, I daresay she was a just-minded old thing, and remembered that it was really Whittaker money which had come to her over the head of the Rev. Charles, or whatever his name was.”
“That’s so. Well, there’s only one thing that could prevent that happening, and that’s—oh, lord! old son. Do you know what it works out at?—The old, old story, beloved of novelists—the missing heir!”
“Good lord, yes, you’re right. Damn it all, what fools we were not to think of it before. Mary Whittaker possibly found out that there was some nearer relative left, who would scoop the lot. Maybe she was afraid that if Miss Dawson got to know about it, she’d divide the money or disinherit Mary altogether. Or perhaps she just despaired of hammering the story into the old lady’s head, and so hit on the idea of getting her to make the will unbeknownst to herself in Mary’s favour.”
“What a brain you’ve got, Charles. Or, see here, Miss Dawson may have known all about it, sly old thing, and determined to pay Miss Whittaker out for her indecent urgency in the matter of will-makin’ by just dyin’ intestate in the other chappie’s favour.”
“If she did, she deserved anything she got,” said Parker, rather viciously. “After taking the poor girl away from her job under promise of leaving her the dibs.”
“Teach the young woman not to be so mercenary,” retorted Wimsey, with the cheerful brutality of the man who has never in his life been short of money.
“If this bright idea is correct,” said Parker, “it rather messes up your murder theory, doesn’t it? Because Mary would obviously take the line of keeping her aunt alive as long as possible, in hopes she might make a will after all.”
“That’s true. Curse you, Charles, I see that bet of mine going west. What a blow for friend Carr, too. I did hope I was going to vindicate him and have him played home by the village band under a triumphal arch with ‘Welcome, Champion of Truth!’ picked out in red-white-and-blue electric bulbs. Never mind. It’s better to lose a wager and see the light than walk in ignorance bloated with gold.—Or stop!—why shouldn’t Carr be right after all? Perhaps it’s just my choice of a murderer that’s wrong. Aha! I see a new and even more sinister villain step upon the scene. The new claimant, warned by his minions—”
“What minions?”
“Oh, don’t be so pernickety, Charles. Nurse Forbes, probably. I shouldn’t wonder if she’s in his pay. Where was I? I wish you wouldn’t interrupt.”
“Warned by his minions—” prompted Parker.
“Oh, yes—warned by his minions that Miss Dawson is hobnobbing with solicitors and being tempted into making wills and things, gets the said minions to polish her off before she can do any mischief.”
“Yes, but how?”
“Oh, by one of those native poisons which slay in a split second and defy the skill of the analyst. They are familiar to the meanest writer of mystery stories. I’m not going to let a trifle like that stand in my way.”
“And why hasn’t this hypothetical gentleman brought forward any claim to the property so far?”
“He’s biding his time. The fuss about the death scared him, and he’s lying low till it’s all blown over.”
“He’ll find it much more awkward to dispossess Miss Whittaker now she’s taken possession. Possession is nine points of the law, you know.”
“I know, but he’s going to pretend he wasn’t anywhere near at the time of Miss Dawson’s death. He only read about it a few weeks ago in a sheet of newspaper wrapped round a salmon-tin, and now he’s rushing home from his distant farm in thing-ma-jig to proclaim himself as the long-lost Cousin Tom … Great Scott! that reminds me.”
He plunged his hand into his pocket and pulled out a letter.
“This came this morning just as I was going out, and I met Freddy Arbuthnot on the doorstep and shoved it into my pocket before I’d read it properly. But I do believe there was something in it about a Cousin Somebody from some godforsaken spot. Let’s see.”
He unfolded the letter, which was written in Miss Climpson’s old-fashioned flowing hand, and ornamented with such a variety of underlinings and exclamation marks as to look like an exercise in musical notation.
“Oh, lord!” said Parker.
“Yes, it’s worse than usual, isn’t it?—it must be of desperate importance. Luckily it’s comparatively short.”
My dear Lord Peter,
I heard something this morning which may be of use so I hasten to communicate it!! You remember I mentioned before that Mrs. Budge’s maid is the sister of the present maid at Miss Whittaker’s? Well!!! The aunt of these two girls came to pay a visit to Mrs. Budge’s girl this afternoon, and was introduced to me—of course, as boarder at Mrs. Budge’s I am naturally an object of local interest—and, bearing your instructions in mind, I encourage this to an extent I should not otherwise do!!
It appears that this aunt was well acquainted with a former housekeeper of Miss Dawson’s—before the time of the Gotobed girls, I mean. The aunt is a highly respectable person of forbidding aspect!—with a bonnet (!), and to my mind, a most disagreeable censorious woman. However!—We got to speaking of Miss Dawson’s death, and this aunt—her name is Timmins—primmed up her mouth and said: “No unpleasant
