Jeffrey Blackmore's Will
My arrival at Thorndyke's chambers was not unexpected, having been
heralded by a premonitory post-card. The "oak" was open and an
application of the little brass knocker of the inner door immediately
produced my colleague himself and a very hearty welcome.
"At last," said Thorndyke, "you have come forth from the house of
bondage. I began to think that you had taken up your abode in Kennington
for good."
"I was beginning, myself, to wonder when I should escape. But here I am;
and I may say at once that I am ready to shake the dust of general
practice off my feet for ever--that is, if you are still willing to have
me as your assistant."
"Willing!" exclaimed Thorndyke, "Barkis himself was not more willing
than I. You will be invaluable to me. Let us settle the terms of our
comradeship forthwith, and to-morrow we will take measures to enter you
as a student of the Inner Temple. Shall we have our talk in the open air
and the spring sunshine?"
I agreed readily to this proposal, for it was a bright, sunny day and
warm for the time of year--the beginning of April. We descended to the
Walk and thence slowly made our way to the quiet court behind the
church, where poor old Oliver Goldsmith lies, as he would surely have
wished to lie, in the midst of all that had been dear to him in his
chequered life. I need not record the matter of our conversation. To
Thorndyke's proposals I had no objections to offer but my own
unworthiness and his excessive liberality. A few minutes saw our
covenants fully agreed upon, and when Thorndyke had noted the points on
a slip of paper, signed and dated it and handed it to me, the business
was at an end.
"There," my colleague said with a smile as he put away his pocket-book,
"if people would only settle their affairs in that way, a good part of
the occupation of lawyers would be gone. Brevity is the soul of wit; and
the fear of simplicity is the beginning of litigation."
"And now," I said, "I propose that we go and feed. I will invite you to
lunch to celebrate our contract."
"My learned junior is premature," he replied. "I had already arranged a
little festivity--or rather had modified one that was already arranged.
You remember Mr. Marchmont, the solicitor?"
"Yes."
"He called this morning to ask me to lunch with him and a new client at
the 'Cheshire Cheese.' I accepted and notified him that I should bring
you."
"Why the 'Cheshire Cheese'?" I asked.
"Why not? Marchmont's reasons for the selection were, first, that his
client has never seen an old-fashioned London tavern, and second, that
this is Wednesday and he, Marchmont, has a gluttonous affection for a
really fine beef-steak pudding. You don't object, I hope?"
"Oh, not at all. In fact, now that you mention it, my own sensations
incline me to sympathize with Marchmont. I breakfasted rather early."
"Then come," said Thorndyke. "The assignation is for one o'clock, and,
if we walk slowly, we shall just hit it off."
We sauntered up Inner Temple Lane, and, crossing Fleet Street, headed
sedately for the tavern. As we entered the quaint old-world dining-room,
Thorndyke looked round and a gentleman, who was seated with a companion
at a table in one of the little boxes or compartments, rose and saluted
us.
"Let me introduce you to my friend Mr. Stephen Blackmore," he said as we
approached. Then, turning to his companion, he introduced us by our
respective names.
"I engaged this box," he continued, "so that we might be private if we
wished to have a little preliminary chat; not that beef-steak pudding is
a great help to conversation. But when people have a certain business
in view, their talk is sure to drift towards it, sooner or later."
Thorndyke and I sat down opposite the lawyer and his client, and we
mutually inspected one another. Marchmont I already knew; an elderly,
professional-looking man, a typical solicitor of the old school;
fresh-faced, precise, rather irascible, and conveying a not unpleasant
impression of taking a reasonable interest in his diet. The other man
was quite young, not more than five-and-twenty, and was a fine
athletic-looking fellow with a healthy, out-of-door complexion and an
intelligent and highly prepossessing face. I took a liking to him at the
first glance, and so, I saw, did Thorndyke.
"You two gentlemen," said Blackmore, addressing us, "seem to be quite
old acquaintances. I have heard so much about you from my friend, Reuben
Hornby."
"Ah!" exclaimed Marchmont, "that was a queer case--'The Case of the Red
Thumb Mark,' as the papers called it. It was an eye-opener to
old-fashioned lawyers like myself. We've had scientific witnesses
before--and bullied 'em properly, by Jove! when they wouldn't give the
evidence that we wanted. But the scientific lawyer is something new. His
appearance in court made us all sit up, I can assure you."
"I hope we shall make you sit up again," said Thorndyke.
"You won't this time," said Marchmont. "The issues in this case of my
friend Blackmore's are purely legal; or rather, there are no issues at
all. There is nothing in dispute. I tried to prevent Blackmore from
consulting you, but he wouldn't listen to reason. Here! Waiter! How much
longer are we to be waiters? We shall die of old age before we get our
victuals!"
The waiter smiled apologetically. "Yessir!" said he. "Coming now, sir."
And at this very moment there was borne into the room a Gargantuan
pudding in a great bucket of a basin, which being placed on a
three-legged stool was forthwith attacked ferociously by the
white-clothed, white-capped carver. We watched the process--as did every
one present--with an interest not entirely gluttonous, for it added a
pleasant touch to the picturesque old room, with its sanded floor, its
homely, pew-like boxes, its high-backed settles and the friendly
portrait of the "great lexicographer" that beamed down on us from the
wall.
"This is a very different affair from your great, glittering modern
restaurant," Mr. Marchmont remarked.
"It is indeed," said Blackmore, "and if this is the way in which our
ancestors lived, it would seem that they had a better idea of comfort
than we have."
There was a short pause, during which Mr. Marchmont glared hungrily at
the pudding; then Thorndyke said:
"So you refused to listen to reason, Mr. Blackmore?"
"Yes. You see, Mr. Marchmont and his partner had gone into the matter
and decided that there was nothing to be done. Then I happened to
mention the affair to Reuben Hornby, and he urged me to ask your advice
on the case."
"Like his impudence," growled Marchmont, "to meddle with my client."
"On which," continued Blackmore, "I spoke to Mr. Marchmont and he agreed
that it was worth while to take your opinion on the case, though he
warned me to cherish no hopes, as the affair was not really within your
specialty."
"So you understand," said Marchmont, "that we expect nothing. This is
quite a forlorn hope. We are taking your opinion as a mere formality, to
be able to say that we have left nothing untried."
"That is an encouraging start," Thorndyke remarked. "It leaves me
unembarrassed by the possibility of failure. But meanwhile you are
arousing in me a devouring curiosity as to the nature of the case. Is it
highly confidential? Because if not, I would mention that Jervis has now
joined me as my permanent colleague."
"It isn't confidential at all," said Marchmont. "The public are in full
possession of the facts, and we should be only too happy to put them in
still fuller possession, through the medium of the Probate Court, if we
could find a reasonable pretext. But we can't."
Here the waiter charged our table with the fussy rapidity of the
overdue.
"Sorry to keep you waiting, sir. Rather early, sir. Wouldn't like it
underdone, sir."
Marchmont inspected his plate critically and remarked:
"I sometimes suspect these oysters of being mussels; and I'll swear the
larks are sparrows."
"Let us hope so," said Thorndyke. "The lark is better employed 'at
Heaven's gate singing' than garnishing a beef-steak pudding. But you
were telling us about your case."
"So I was. Well it's just a matter of--ale or claret? Oh, claret, I
know. You despise the good old British John Barleycorn."
"He that drinks beer thinks beer," retorted Thorndyke. "But you were
saying that it is just a matter of--?"
"A matter of a perverse testator and an ill-drawn will. A peculiarly
irritating case, too, because the defective will replaces a perfectly
sound one, and the intentions of the testator were--er--were--excellent
ale, this. A little heady, perhaps, but sound. Better than your sour
French wine, Thorndyke--were--er--were quite obvious. What he evidently
desired was--mustard? Better have some mustard. No? Well, well! Even a
Frenchman would take mustard. You can have no appreciation of flavour,
Thorndyke, if you take your victuals in that crude, unseasoned state.
And, talking of flavour, do you suppose that there is really any
difference between that of a lark and that of a sparrow?"
Thorndyke smiled grimly. "I should suppose," said he, "that they were
indistinguishable; but the question could easily be put to the test of
experiment."
"That is true," agreed Marchmont, "and it would really be worth trying,
for, as you say, sparrows are more easily obtainable than larks. But,
about this will. I was saying--er--now, what was I saying?"
"I understood you to say," replied Thorndyke, "that the intentions of
the testator were in some way connected with mustard. Isn't that so,
Jervis?"
"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 beef-steak 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 circumstances had
taken place at the time the new will was executed. <i>But</i> only two days
before his death, his sister, Mrs. Edmund Wilson, died; and on her will
being proved it appeared that she had bequeathed to him her entire
personalty, estimated at about thirty thousand pounds."
"Heigho!" exclaimed Thorndyke. "What an unfortunate affair!"
"You are right," said Mr. Marchmont; "it was a disaster. By the original
will this great sum would have accrued to our friend Mr. Stephen,
whereas now, of course, it goes to the residuary legatee, Mr. John
Blackmore. And what makes it even more exasperating is the fact that
this is obviously not in accordance with the wishes and intentions of
Mr. Jeffrey, who clearly desired his nephew to inherit his property."
"Yes," said Thorndyke; "I think you are justified in assuming that. But
do you know whether Mr. Jeffrey was aware of his sister's intentions?"
"We think not. Her will was executed as recently as the third of
September last, and it seems that there had been no communication
between her and Mr. Jeffrey since that date. Besides, if you consider
Mr. Jeffrey's actions, you will see that they suggest no knowledge or
expectation of this very important bequest. A man does not make
elaborate dispositions in regard to three thousand pounds and then leave
a sum of thirty thousand to be disposed of casually as the residue of
the estate."
"No," Thorndyke agreed. "And, as you have said, the manifest intention
of the testator was to leave the bulk of his property to Mr. Stephen. So
we may take it as virtually certain that Mr. Jeffrey had no knowledge of
the fact that he was a beneficiary under his sister's will."
"Yes," said Mr. Marchmont, "I think we may take that as nearly certain."
"With reference to the second will," said Thorndyke, "I suppose there is
no need to ask whether the document itself has been examined; I mean as
to its being a genuine document and perfectly regular?"
Mr. Marchmont shook his head sadly.
"No," he said, "I am sorry to say that there can be no possible doubt as
to the authenticity and regularity of the document. The circumstances
under which it was executed establish its genuineness beyond any
question."
"What were those circumstances?" Thorndyke asked.
"They were these: On the morning of the twelfth of November last, Mr.
Jeffrey came to the porter's lodge with a document in his hand. 'This,'
he said, 'is my will. I want you to witness my signature. Would you mind
doing so, and can you find another respectable person to act as the
second witness?' Now it happened that a nephew of the porter's, a
painter by trade, was at work in the Inn. The porter went out and
fetched him into the lodge and the two men agreed to witness the
signature. 'You had better read the will,' said Mr. Jeffrey. 'It is not
actually necessary, but it is an additional safeguard and there is
nothing of a private nature in the document.' The two men accordingly
read the document, and, when Mr. Jeffrey had signed it in their
presence, they affixed their signatures; and I may add that the painter
left the recognizable impressions of three greasy fingers."
"And these witnesses have been examined?"
"Yes. They have both sworn to the document and to their own signatures,
and the painter recognized his finger-marks."
"That," said Thorndyke, "seems to dispose pretty effectually of any
question as to the genuineness of the will; and if, as I gather, Mr.
Jeffrey came to the lodge alone, the question of undue influence is
disposed of too."
"Yes," said Mr. Marchmont. "I think we must pass the will as absolutely
flawless."
"It strikes me as rather odd," said Thorndyke, "that Jeffrey should have
known so little about his sister's intentions. Can you explain it, Mr.
Blackmore?"
"I don't think that it is very remarkable," Stephen replied. "I knew
very little of my aunt's affairs and I don't think my uncle Jeffrey knew
much more, for he was under the impression that she had only a life
interest in her husband's property. And he may have been right. It is
not clear what money this was that she left to my uncle. She was a very
taciturn woman and made few confidences to anyone."
"So that it is possible," said Thorndyke, "that she, herself, may have
acquired this money recently by some bequest?"
"It is quite possible," Stephen answered.
"She died, I understand," said Thorndyke, glancing at the notes that he
had jotted down, "two days before Mr. Jeffrey. What date would that be?"
"Jeffrey died on the fourteenth of March," said Marchmont.
"So that Mrs. Wilson died on the twelfth of March?"
"That is so," Marchmont replied; and Thorndyke then asked:
"Did she die suddenly?"
"No," replied Stephen; "she died of cancer. I understand that it was
cancer of the stomach."
"Do you happen to know," Thorndyke asked, "what sort of relations
existed between Jeffrey and his brother John?"
"At one time," said Stephen, "I know they were not very cordial; but the
breach may have been made up later, though I don't know that it actually
was."
"I ask the question," said Thorndyke, "because, as I dare say you have
noticed, there is, in the first will, some hint of improved relations.
As it was originally drawn that will makes Mr. Stephen the sole legatee.
Then, a little later, a codicil is added in favour of John, showing that
Jeffrey had felt the necessity of making some recognition of his
brother. This seems to point to some change in the relations, and the
question arises: if such a change did actually occur, was it the
beginning of a new and further improving state of feeling between the
two brothers? Have you any facts bearing on that question?"
Marchmont pursed up his lips with the air of a man considering an
unwelcome suggestion, and, after a few moments of reflection, answered:
"I think we must say 'yes' to that. There is the undeniable fact that,
of all Jeffrey's friends, John Blackmore was the only one who knew that
he was living in New Inn."
"Oh, John knew that, did he?"
"Yes, he certainly did; for it came out in the evidence that he had
called on Jeffrey at his chambers more than once. There is no denying
that. But, mark you!" Mr. Marchmont added emphatically, "that does not
cover the inconsistency of the will. There is nothing in the second will
to suggest that Jeffrey intended materially to increase the bequest to
his brother."
"I quite agree with you, Marchmont. I think that is a perfectly sound
position. You have, I suppose, fully considered the question as to
whether it would be possible to set aside the second will on the ground
that it fails to carry out the evident wishes and intentions of the
testator?"
"Yes. My partner, Winwood, and I went into that question very carefully,
and we also took counsel's opinion--Sir Horace Barnaby--and he was of
the same opinion as ourselves; that the court would certainly uphold the
will."
"I think that would be my own view," said Thorndyke, "especially after
what you have told me. Do I understand that John Blackmore was the only
person who knew that Jeffrey was in residence at New Inn?"
"The only one of his private friends. His bankers knew and so did the
officials from whom he drew his pension."
"Of course he would have to notify his bankers of his change of
address."
"Yes, of course. And à propos of the bank, I may mention that the
manager tells me that, of late, they had noticed a slight change in the
character of Jeffrey's signature--I think you will see the reason of the
change when you hear the rest of his story. It was very trifling; not
more than commonly occurs when a man begins to grow old, especially if
there is some failure of eyesight."
"Was Mr. Jeffrey's eyesight failing?" asked Thorndyke.
"Yes, it was, undoubtedly," said Stephen. "He was practically blind in
one eye and, in the very last letter that I ever had from him, he
mentioned that there were signs of commencing cataract in the other."
"You spoke of his pension. He continued to draw that regularly?"
"Yes; he drew his allowance every month, or rather, his bankers drew it
for him. They had been accustomed to do so when he was abroad, and the
authorities seem to have allowed the practice to continue."
Thorndyke reflected a while, running his eye over the notes on the slips
of paper in his hand, and Marchmont surveyed him with a malicious smile.
Presently the latter remarked:
"Methinks the learned counsel is floored."
Thorndyke laughed. "It seems to me," he retorted, "that your proceedings
are rather like those of the amiable individual who offered the bear a
flint pebble, that he might crack it and extract the kernel. Your
confounded will seems to offer no soft spot on which one could commence
an attack. But we won't give up. We seem to have sucked the will dry.
Let us now have a few facts respecting the parties concerned in it; and,
as Jeffrey is the central figure, let us begin with him and the tragedy
at New Inn that formed the starting-point of all this trouble."