“Of course,” said Miss Booth, “if the communication hadn’t insisted on something beginning with B—”
“Well?”
“Well—I should have expected any papers to be in the safe down here.”
Miss Climpson groaned in spirit. The obvious place, naturally! If only her misplaced ingenuity—well! one must make the best of it.
“Why not look?” she suggested. “The letter B may have been referring to something quite different. Or it may have been an interruption from George Washington. It would be quite like him to use words beginning with a B, don’t you think?”
“But if it was in the safe, Mr. Urquhart would know about it.”
Miss Climpson began to feel that she had let her invention play about too freely.
“It wouldn’t do any harm to make sure,” she suggested.
“But I don’t know the combination,” said Miss Booth. “Mr. Urquhart does, of course. We could write and ask him.”
An inspiration came to Miss Climpson.
“I believe I know it,” she exclaimed. “There was a row of seven figures in that black notebook I was looking at just now, and it passed through my mind that they must be a memorandum of something.”
“Black Book!” cried Miss Booth. “Why, there you are! How could we have been so silly! Of course, Mrs. Wrayburn was trying to tell us where to find the combination!”
Miss Climpson again blessed the all-round utility of the letter B
“I’ll run up and fetch it,” she cried.
When she came down again, Miss Booth was standing before a section of the bookshelves, which had swung out from the wall, disclosing the green door of a built-in safe. With trembling hands, Miss Climpson touched the milled knob and turned it.
The first attempt was unsuccessful, owing to the fact that the note did not make it clear which way the knob should be turned first, but at the second attempt the pointer swung over on the seventh figure with a satisfying click.
Miss Booth seized the handle, and the heavy door moved and stood open.
A bundle of papers lay inside. On the top, staring them in the face, was a long, sealed envelope. Miss Climpson pounced upon it.
“Will of Rosanna Wrayburn
“Well, isn’t that marvellous?” cried Miss Booth. On the whole, Miss Climpson agreed with her.
XIX
Miss Climpson stayed the night in the spare bedroom.
“The best thing,” she said, “will be for you to write a little letter to Mr. Urquhart, explaining about the séance, and saying that you thought it best and safest to send the will on to him.”
“He will be very much surprised,” said Miss Booth. “I wonder what he will say. Lawyers don’t believe in spirit communications as a rule. And he’ll think it rather funny that we should have managed to open the safe.”
“Well, but the spirit led us directly to the combination, didn’t it? He could hardly expect you to ignore a message like that, could he? The proof of your good faith is that you are sending the will straight to him. And it would be as well, don’t you think, if you asked him to come up and check the other contents of the safe and have the combination altered.”
“Wouldn’t it be better if I kept the will and asked him to come for it?”
“But perhaps he requires it urgently?”
“Then why hasn’t he been to fetch it?”
Miss Climpson noted with some irritation that, where spiritualistic messages were not concerned, Miss Booth showed signs of developing an independent judgment.
“Perhaps he doesn’t know yet that he wants it. Perhaps the spirits foresaw an urgent need that will only arise tomorrow.”
“Oh, yes, that’s quite likely. If only people would avail themselves more fully of the marvellous guidance given to them, so much might be foreseen and provided for! Well, I think you are right. We will find a big envelope to fit it, and I will write a letter and we will send it by the first post tomorrow.”
“It had better be registered,” said Miss Climpson. “If you will entrust it to me, I will take it down to the post office first thing.”
“Will you? That will be a great relief to my mind. Well now, I’m sure you’re as tired as I am, so I’ll put on a kettle for the hot water bottles and we’ll turn in. Will you make yourself comfy in my sitting room? I’ve only got to put the sheets on your bed. What? No, indeed, I can do it in a moment; please don’t bother. I’m so used to making beds.”
“Then I’ll see to the kettles,” said Miss Climpson. “I simply must make myself useful.”
“Very well. It won’t take long. The water is quite hot in the kitchen boiler.”
Left alone in the kitchen, with a kettle bumping and singing on its way to boiling point, Miss Climpson wasted no time. She tiptoed quickly out again and stood with ear cocked at the foot of the stairs, listening to the nurse’s footsteps as they pattered into the distance. Then she slipped into the little sitting room, took up the will in its sealed envelope, and a long thin paper knife which she had already marked down as a useful weapon, and hastened back to the kitchen.
It is astonishing how long a kettle which seems to be on the verge of boiling will take before the looked for jet of steady steam emerges from its spout. Delusive little puffs and deceptive pauses in the song tantalise the watcher interminably. It seemed to Miss Climpson that there would have been time to make twenty beds before the kettle boiled that evening. But even a watched pot cannot absorb heat forever. After what appeared to be an hour, but was actually about seven minutes, Miss Climpson, guilty and furtive, was holding the flap of the envelope before the scalding steam.
“I mustn’t hurry,” said Miss
