As soon as the inquest was over, Leyland and Bredon met by arrangement to discuss further the bearings of the new discovery. They avoided the inn itself, partly because the day’s events had left it overcrowded, partly because they were afraid, since Bredon’s experience the night before, of speaking to a concealed audience. A slight rain was falling, and they betook themselves to the back of the inn, where a rambling path led along the riverbank through the ruins of an old mill. Next the disused mill-wheel there was a little room or shed, whose gaping walls and roof afforded, nevertheless, sufficient shelter from the weather. A “rustic seat,” made of knobby branches overlaid with dark brown varnish, offered uncomfortable repose. Draughts at the back of your neck, or sudden leakage in the slates above you, would cause you now and again to shift your attitude uneasily; but, since the Load of Mischief did not abound with amenities in any case, they were content with their quarters.
“I confess I’m a little shaken,” admitted Bredon. “Not that I see any logical reason for altering my own point of view; but I don’t want it to be suicide now as much as I did. The Bishop is such a jolly old man; and he could so obviously do with half a million, if only to put in new wallpaper. He might even give his secretary a rise. I tell you, I hate the idea of advising the company not to pay up. It can afford the money so easily. But I suppose I must have a sort of conscience about me somewhere, for I’m still determined to get at the truth. This codicil, you say, was put in less than three weeks ago?”
“Just about that. As nearly as I can calculate it must have been just before, not after, Mottram’s visit to the Indescribable.”
“The thing becomes more confusing than ever. If he did want to endow the Diocese of Pullford, why did he offer to resign his Euthanasia claim on condition that we repaid half his premiums? And if he didn’t want to endow the Diocese of Pullford, why did he take the trouble of altering his will in its favour?”
“Remember, when he drew up the codicil he may not have seen the specialist.”
“That’s true too. Now, look here, supposing he hadn’t put the codicil in, what would have become of the Euthanasia money? Would it have gone, like the rest, into these silly schemes of his about art galleries?”
“No; it wasn’t just a vague will, nothing about ‘all I die possessed of.’ The whole thing was itemized very clearly, and no allowance had been made at all for the disposal of the Euthanasia money. Consequently, if he hadn’t made the codicil, the Euthanasia money would have gone to his next of kin.”
“In fact, to this nephew? Really, I begin to want to see this nephew.”
“You have seen him.”
“Seen him—where?”
“At the inquest. Didn’t you notice a rather seedy little fellow, with a face like a rat, who was standing about in the porch just when it was over? That’s your man; Simmonds his name is, and if you want to get a taste of his quality, nothing’s easier, for he serves in his own shop. On a plea of braces trouble, shortage of cough lozenges, or what you will, his time is yours from ten in the morning to seven at night.”
“Yes, I noticed the little man. I can’t say I was prepossessed. But I must certainly improve the acquaintance. I suppose it’s not fair to ask what you make of him?”
“Oh, personally, I can’t say I’ve made much of him. I had a talk, and his manner and statements seemed to be perfectly straightforward. No nervousness, no embarrassment.”
“There’s one other thing about Mottram’s will that’s clearly important. You got it, I gather, from the solicitors; did you find out from them whether the terms of it were made public in any way?”
“About the main will they thought there was no secret. Mottram seems to have talked it over with members of the Pullford Town Council. Also the lawyers were directed to send a full statement of it to young Simmonds, as a kind of rebuke; Simmonds, you see, had annoyed Mottram at the time. But this codicil was a different affair; it was extremely confidential. Brinkman himself—though of course he may have been lying, or being discreet—professed ignorance of it. I should think it very improbable that anybody knows about it yet, except you and me and Mrs. Bredon and of course the lawyers themselves.”
“Then there’s a chance, I suppose, that Simmonds thought, and still thinks, he is coming in for a windfall from our company? Or do you think he didn’t know Mottram was insured?”
“He must have; because the Euthanasia policy was explicitly mentioned in the earlier will, the one which was cancelled. So you are not the only person who’s interested in young Simmonds. Well, what do you make of it all?”
“Let me tell you one thing; it wouldn’t be fair if I didn’t. About three weeks ago Mottram had an argument with the Bishop of Pullford on a matter of theology. Mottram was trying to persuade the Bishop that you were morally justified in doing evil in order that good might come of it.”
“I’m very much obliged for the information, old man, but I’m not much interested in these speculative questions. I’m concerned to hunt out the people who do evil, whether good comes of it or not.”
“But the information doesn’t impress you?”
“Not much.”
“Very well, then. Will you double that bet?”
“Double the bet? You’re mad! Why, I was just going to make the same offer, feeling sure you’d refuse. It’s taking your money.”
“Never mind that. Are you on?”
“On? Why, I’m prepared to redouble if you like.”
“Done! That’s twenty pounds each way. Now, would you like to hear my reading of the story?”
“By all means. And then I shall have
