“Well, it’s—can you make anything of it yourself?”
“The only idea that occurred to me is that possibly Brinkman wanted me to be away from the house for some reason; and chose this way of making sure that I was.”
“M’m!—it’s possible, of course? But why should he want you to be away—especially if he’s going to be away too?”
“I know, it doesn’t really make sense. I say, Leyland, I’m awfully sorry about this.” He felt absurdly apologetic, though without seeing any way of putting the blame on himself. “Look here, I’ll tell you one thing: it’s not in our bargain, of course, but I don’t think there’s any harm in telling you. Simmonds didn’t know about the Euthanasia policy. Or rather, he did expect it to come to him at one time, but not this last week or two, because he’d heard about the codicil leaving it to the Bishop—heard, at any rate, that it wasn’t coming to him. So I’m afraid your theory about Simmonds wants revising.”
“It has already been revised. This is very interesting: you say it’s certain Simmonds knew about the change of plan?”
“Yes. You can guess the source.”
“And do you suppose he had any idea where the new will was kept? Whether it was up in London, I mean, or in Mottram’s own possession?”
“That I couldn’t say. Does it make much difference?”
“A lot of difference. Look here, you’ve been dealing openly with me, so I’ll give you some information in return. But I warn you you won’t like it, because it doesn’t help your theory of a suicide a bit. Look here.” He glanced round to see that nobody was watching them, then took an envelope from his pocket, and cautiously shook out into his open palm a triangle of paper. It was blue, lined paper, with an official sort of look about it. It was obviously a corner left over from a document which had been burned, for the hypotenuse opposite the right angle was a frayed edge of brown ash. The writing on it was “clerkly”—there is no other word to describe its combination of ugliness with legibility. Only a fragment of writing was left on each of the three lines which the paper contained, for there was a generous allowance of margin. It was a bottom right-hand corner that the fire had spared; and the surviving ends of the lines read:
“queath
aken out by
March in the year”
“Well, how’s that?” said Leyland. “I don’t think we shall differ much over the reading of it.”
“No. It’s really rather disappointing, when you are supposed to be a detective, for a document to come to hand in such excellent condition—what there is of it. There aren’t two words in the English language that end with the syllable ‘queath,’ and unless I am mistaken—no, as you were—the word in the next line might be either ‘taken’ or ‘mistaken.’ And of course there’s Interlaken, when one comes to think of it, and weaken, and shaken, and oaken, and all sorts of words. But, as you say, or rather imply, ‘taken out by’ makes the best sense. And I shall hardly be communicating new impressions to you if I suggest that one speaks of ‘taking out’ insurance policies. Do you happen to know when Mottram took out his Euthanasia? I believe I’ve got the record upstairs.”
“He took it out in March. There isn’t a bit of doubt about this document as it stands. It’s the copy of a will, made out by Mottram, having reference to the Euthanasia policy. Now, unless this was a new will altogether—which is possible—that means that this was a copy of his second will, or rather of the codicil which referred to the policy. For in the will, if you remember, there was no allusion to the Euthanasia at all.”
“I suppose that it is absolutely certain that this scrap of paper belonged to Mottram?”
“Quite certain—that’s the extraordinary thing, the way I found it. The undertaker came round this morning to make—well, certain arrangements. As you know, I had taken command of the key of Mottram’s room; it’s been locked by my orders ever since you and I had that look round—except yesterday, when I took the Coroner in. The undertaker came to me for the key this morning, and I went into the room with him; and, just mooning about there aimlessly, I saw something that you and I had failed to see when we were searching the room—this bit of paper. We were not much to blame, for it was rather hidden away, behind the writing-table; that is, between the writing-table and the window. To do us justice, I don’t know how we came to overlook it. Considering it was in Mottram’s room, I don’t think it is a very wild speculation to suppose that it was a part of Mottram’s will.”
“No, that seems reasonable. And how does it fit into your view of the case? I mean—”
“Oh, of course, it’s conceivable that Mottram burned the thing himself. But it doesn’t really make very much sense when you come to think of it. We know, and Mottram knew, that it was only a spare copy of the will which the solicitors had got up in London. It wasn’t a very important document, therefore, one way or the other. And I’m sure it hasn’t escaped your observation that whereas burning papers is a natural way to get rid of them in winter, when there’s a fire in the grate, one doesn’t do it in summer unless one’s absolutely put to it. Nothing burns more ill-temperedly than a piece of paper when you have to set light to it with a match. You can’t even burn it whole, without great difficulty, for you must either keep hold of it, and so leave a corner unburnt, or else leave it lying about in a grate or somewhere, and then the flame generally dies down before it is finished. In this case, it is pretty
