“You’re not suggesting that Brinkman dictated the letter?” asked Leyland. “Of course that would open up some interesting possibilities.”
“No, I wasn’t thinking of that. I was only thinking it was rather a cold-blooded way for a suicide to write his last letter. But it’s a small point.”
“And meanwhile,” said Leyland, “I suppose you’re waiting for me to fork out those forty pounds?”
“What!” said the Bishop, “you have a personal interest in this, Mr. Bredon? Well, in any case you have saved your company a larger sum than that. I’m afraid you will have to write and tell them that it was suicide, and the claim does not urge.”
“On the contrary, My Lord,” said Bredon, knocking out his pipe thoughtfully into the fireplace, “I’m going to write to the company and tell them that the claim has got to be paid, because Mottram met his death by accident.”
XXV
Bredon’s Account of It All
“God bless my soul!” cried the Bishop, “you don’t mean to say you’re preparing to hush it up! Why, your moral theology must be as bad as poor Mottram’s.”
“It isn’t a question of theology,” replied Bredon, “it’s a question of fact. I am going to write to the Indescribable Company and tell them that Mottram died by accident, because that happens to be the truth.”
“Ah‑h‑h!” said Angela.
“Indeed?” said Mr. Eames.
“Not another mental perspective!” groaned Mr. Pulteney.
“That’s exactly what it is. I’m not a detective really; I can’t sit down and think things out. I see everything just as other people do, I share all their bewilderment. But suddenly, when I’m thinking of something quite different, a game of patience, for example, I see the whole thing in a new mental perspective. It’s like the optical illusion of the tumbling cubes—you know, the pattern of cubes which looks concave to the eye, and then, by a readjustment of your mental focus, you suddenly see them as convex instead. What produces that change? Why, you catch sight of one particular angle in a new light, and from that you get your new mental picture of the whole pattern. Just so, one can stumble upon a new mental perspective about a problem like this by suddenly seeing one single fact in a new light. And then the whole problem rearranges itself.”
“I am indebted to you for your lucid exposition,” said Mr. Pulteney, “but even now the events of the past week are not quite clear to me.”
“Miles, don’t be tiresome,” said Angela. “Start right from the beginning, and don’t let’s have any mystery-making.”
“All right. It would make a better story the other way, but still—well, first you want to get some picture of Mottram. I can only do it by guesswork, but I should say this: He had an enormous amount of money, and no heir whom he cared for. He was a shrewd, rather grasping man, and he came to think that everybody else was after his money. It’s not uncommon with rich people—what you might call the Chuzzlewit-complex. Am I right so far?”
“Absolutely right,” said the Bishop.
“Again, he was a man who loved a mystery for its own sake, surprises, almost practical jokes. And again, he was a vain man in some ways, caring intensely what other people thought of him, and very anxious to know what they thought of him. Also, he had a high respect for the Catholic Church, or at least for its representatives in Pullford.”
“All that’s true,” said Eames.
“Well, I think he really did mean to leave some money to the Pullford Diocese. No, don’t interrupt; that’s not as obvious as it sounds. He really did mean to endow the diocese, and he disclosed his intention to Brinkman. Brinkman, as we know, was a real anti-clerical, and he protested violently. Catholics were alike, he said, all the world over; the apparent honesty of a man like Your Lordship was only a blind. In reality Catholics, and especially Catholic priests, were always hunting for money and would do anything to get it—anything. At last Mottram determined that he must settle the point for himself. First of all, he went round to the Cathedral house and defended the proposition that it was lawful to do evil in order that good might come. He wanted to see whether he would get any support for that view in the abstract; he got none. Then he decided, with Brinkman’s collaboration, on a practical test. He would put Your Lordship’s honesty to the proof.
“He went up to London, saw his solicitors, and added a codicil to his will, leaving the benefits of the Euthanasia policy to the Bishop of Pullford. I am afraid it must be admitted that he did not, at the time, mean that codicil to become operative. It was part of his mystery. Then he went on to our people at the Indescribable, and spun a cock-and-bull yarn about seeing a specialist, who had told him that he had only two more years to live. Actually he was in robust health; he only invented this story and told it to the Indescribable in order that, when it came to the point, it might be reasonable (though not necessary) to explain his death as suicide. Then he came, back here and made preparations for his holiday. He was going to take his holiday at Chilthorpe—to be more accurate, he meant to start his holiday at Chilthorpe. He strongly urged Your Lordship to come down and share part of it with him; it was essential to his
