“That was what I gathered,” said I.
Marchmont gazed at us for a moment with a surprised expression and then, laughing good-humouredly, fortified himself with a draught of ale.
“The moral of which is,” Thorndyke added, “that testamentary dispositions should not be mixed up with beefsteak pudding.”
“I believe you’re right, Thorndyke,” said the unabashed solicitor. “Business is business and eating is eating. We had better talk over our case in my office or your chambers after lunch.”
“Yes,” said Thorndyke, “come over to the Temple with me and I will give you a cup of coffee to clear your brain. Are there any documents?”
“I have all the papers here in my bag,” replied Marchmont; and the conversation—such conversation as is possible “when beards wag all” over the festive board—drifted into other channels.
As soon as the meal was finished and the reckoning paid, we trooped out of Wine Office Court, and, insinuating ourselves through the line of empty hansoms that, in those days, crawled in a continuous procession on either side of Fleet Street, betook ourselves by way of Mitre Court to King’s Bench Walk. There, when the coffee had been requisitioned and our chairs drawn up around the fire, Mr. Marchmont unloaded from his bag a portentous bundle of papers, and we addressed ourselves to the business in hand.
“Now,” said Marchmont, “let me repeat what I said before. Legally speaking, we have no case—not the ghost of one. But my client wished to take your opinion, and I agreed on the bare chance that you might detect some point that we had overlooked. I don’t think you will, for we have gone into the case very thoroughly, but still, there is the infinitesimal chance and we may as well take it. Would you like to read the two wills, or shall I first explain the circumstances?”
“I think,” replied Thorndyke, “a narrative of the events in the order of their occurrence would be most helpful. I should like to know as much as possible about the testator before I examine the documents.”
“Very well,” said Marchmont. “Then I will begin with a recital of the circumstances, which, briefly stated, are these: My client, Stephen Blackmore, is the son of Mr. Edward Blackmore, deceased. Edward Blackmore had two brothers who survived him, John, the elder, and Jeffrey, the younger. Jeffrey is the testator in this case.
“Some two years ago, Jeffrey Blackmore executed a will by which he made his nephew Stephen his executor and sole legatee; and a few months later he added a codicil giving two hundred and fifty pounds to his brother John.”
“What was the value of the estate?” Thorndyke asked.
“About three thousand five hundred pounds, all invested in Consols. The testator had a pension from the Foreign Office, on which he lived, leaving his capital untouched. Soon after having made his will, he left the rooms in Jermyn Street, where he had lived for some years, stored his furniture and went to Florence. From thence he moved on to Rome and then to Venice and other places in Italy, and so continued to travel about until the end of last September, when it appears that he returned to England, for at the beginning of October he took a set of chambers in New Inn, which he furnished with some of the things from his old rooms. As far as we can make out, he never communicated with any of his friends, excepting his brother, and the fact of his being in residence at New Inn or of his being in England at all became known to them only when he died.”
“Was this quite in accordance with his ordinary habits?” Thorndyke asked.
“I should say not quite,” Blackmore answered. “My uncle was a studious, solitary man, but he was not formerly a recluse. He was not much of a correspondent but he kept up some sort of communication with his friends. He used, for instance, to write to me sometimes, and, when I came down from Cambridge for the vacations, he had me to stay with him at his rooms.”
“Is there anything known that accounts for the change in his habits?”
“Yes, there is,” replied Marchmont. “We shall come to that presently. To proceed with the narrative: On the fifteenth of last March he was found dead in his chambers, and a more recent will was then discovered, dated the twelfth of November of last year. Now no change had taken place in the circumstances of the testator to account for the new will, nor was there any appreciable alteration in the disposition of the property. As far as we can make out, the new will was drawn with the idea of stating the intentions of the testator with greater exactness and for the sake of doing away with the codicil. The entire property, with the exception of two hundred and fifty pounds, was, as before, bequeathed to Stephen, but the separate items were specified, and the testator’s brother, John Blackmore, was named as the executor and residuary legatee.”
“I see,” said Thorndyke. “So that your client’s interest in the will would appear to be practically unaffected by the change.”
“Yes. There it is,” exclaimed the lawyer, slapping the table to add emphasis to his words. “That is the pity of it! If people who have no knowledge of law would only refrain from tinkering at their wills, what a world of trouble would be saved!”
“Oh, come!” said Thorndyke. “It is not for a lawyer to say that.”
“No, I suppose not,” Marchmont agreed. “Only, you see, we like the muddle to be made by the other side. But, in this case, the muddle is on our side. The change, as you say, seems to leave our friend Stephen’s interests unaffected. That is, of course, what poor Jeffrey Blackmore thought. But he was mistaken. The effect of the change is absolutely disastrous.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes. As I have said, no alteration in the testator’s
