“It looks rather like that, certainly.”
“What I want you to look for is the real will—either the original or the copy ought to be there. Don’t take it away, but try to memorise the chief points in it, especially the names of the chief legatee or legatees and of the residuary legatee. Remember that the residuary legatee gets everything which falls in by a legatee’s dying before the testatrix. I specially want to know whether anything was left to Philip Boyes or if any mention of the Boyes family is made in the will. Failing a will, there might be some other interesting document, such as a secret trust, instructing the executor to dispose of the money in some special way. In short, I want particulars of any document which may seem to be of interest. Don’t waste too much time making notes. Carry the provisions in your head if you can and note them down privately when you get away from the office. And be sure you don’t leave those skeleton keys about for people to find.”
Miss Murchison promised to observe these instructions, and, a taxi coming up at that moment, Wimsey put her into it and sped her to her destination.
XIV
Mr. Norman Urquhart glanced at the clock, which stood at 4:15, and called through the open door:
“Are those affidavits nearly ready, Miss Murchison?”
“I am just on the last page, Mr. Urquhart.”
“Bring them in as soon as you’ve finished. They ought to go round to Hanson’s tonight.”
“Yes, Mr. Urquhart.”
Miss Murchison galloped noisily over the keys, slamming the shift lever over with unnecessary violence, and causing Mr. Pond once more to regret the intrusion of female clerks. She completed her page, ornamented the foot of it with a rattling row of fancy lines and dots, threw over the release, spun the roller, twitching the foolscap sheets from under it in vicious haste, flung the carbons into the basket, shuffled the copies into order, slapped them vigorously on all four edges to bring them into symmetry, and bounced with them into the inner office.
“I haven’t had time to read them through,” she announced.
“Very well,” said Mr. Urquhart.
Miss Murchison retired, shutting the door after her. She gathered her belongings together, took out a hand mirror and unashamedly powdered her rather large nose, stuffed a handful of odds and ends into a bulging handbag, pushed some papers under her typewriter cover ready for the next day, jerked her hat from the peg and crammed it on her head, tucking wisps of hair underneath it with vigorous and impatient ringers.
Mr. Urquhart’s bell rang—twice.
“Oh, bother!” said Miss Murchison, with heightened colour.
She snatched the hat off again, and answered the summons.
“Miss Murchison,” said Mr. Urquhart, with an expression of considerable annoyance, “do you know that you have left out a whole paragraph on the first page of this?”
Miss Murchison flushed still more deeply.
“Oh, have I? I’m very sorry.”
Mr. Urquhart held up a document resembling in bulk that famous one of which it was said that there was not truth enough in the world to fill so long an affidavit.
“It is very annoying,” he said. “It is the longest and most important of the three, and is urgently required first thing tomorrow morning.”
“I can’t think how I could have made such a silly mistake,” muttered Miss Murchison. “I will stay on this evening and retype it.”
“I’m afraid you will have to. It is unfortunate, as I shall not be able to look it through myself, but there is nothing else to be done. Please check it carefully this time, and see that Hanson’s have it before ten o’clock tomorrow.”
“Yes, Mr. Urquhart. I will be extremely careful. I am very sorry indeed. I will make sure that it is quite correct and take it round myself.”
“Very well, that will do,” said Mr. Urquhart. “Don’t let it happen again.”
Miss Murchison picked up the papers and came out, looking flustered. She dragged the cover off the typewriter with sound and fury, jerked out the desk drawers till they slammed against the drawer stops, shook the top sheet, carbons and flimsies together as a terrier shakes a rat, and attacked the machine tempestuously.
Mr. Pond, who had just locked his desk, and was winding a silk scarf about his throat, looked at her in mild astonishment.
“Have you some more typing to do tonight, Miss Murchison?”
“Got to do the whole bally thing again,” said Miss Murchison. “Left out a paragraph on page one—it would be page one, of course—and he wants the tripe round at Hanson’s by 10 o’clock.”
Mr. Pond groaned slightly and shook his head.
“Those machines make you careless,” he reproved her. “In the old days, clerks thought twice about making foolish mistakes, when it meant copying the whole document out again by hand.”
“Glad I didn’t live then,” said Miss Murchison, shortly. “One might as well have been a galley slave.”
“And we didn’t knock off at half past four, either,” said Mr. Pond. “We worked in those days.”
“You may have worked longer,” said Miss Murchison, “but you didn’t get through as much in the time.”
“We worked accurately and neatly,” said Mr. Pond, with emphasis, as Miss Murchison irritably disentangled two keys which had jammed together under her hasty touch.
Mr. Urquhart’s door opened and the retort on the typist’s lips was silenced. He said good night and went out. Mr. Pond followed him.
“I suppose you will have finished before the cleaner goes, Miss Murchison,” he said. “If
