A Scrap of Paper
Leyland met him immediately on his return. He had heard from Angela
that Bredon had gone out for a walk with Brinkman, and at Brinkman’s
invitation; something too of the abruptness and the eagerness with
which the invitation was issued. Clearly, he was anxious to get first
news about Brinkman’s disclosures. There was still half an hour or so
to waste before luncheon; and Bredon, taking a leaf out of his wife’s
book, suggested the ale-house bench as a suitable place for talking
things over.
“Well?” asked Leyland. “I never dared to hope that Brinkman would
react so quickly. What did he say? Or rather, what can you tell me of
what he said?”
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. He just took me for a walk to the gorge
and back.”
“I say, old thing, are you playing quite fair? I mean, if Brinkman
only consented to talk to you in confidence, by all means say so, and
I’ll have to be content.”
“But he didn’t. He didn’t say a word he mightn’t have said in the
parlour to all of us. I can’t make head or tail of it.”
“Look here, it’s absurd trying to palm that off on me. I know you’re
more scrupulous than I am about these things; but really, what harm
can it do to tell me that Brinkman has confided to you? It doesn’t
make it any easier or any harder for me to put you into the
witness-box; and short of that I can’t get it out of you if you don’t
want to tell me. I won’t badger you; I won’t try and worm it out of
you; honestly I won’t. But don’t pretend that you’re still as ignorant
of Brinkman’s movements this last week as I am.”
“What the devil am I to say? Can’t you believe a fellow when he tells
the truth? I tell you that all the way to the gorge he talked about
anything that came into his head; and coming back from the gorge he
wouldn’t talk about anything at all—I simply couldn’t get him to
talk.”
“And _at_ the gorge?”
“He talked about the gorge. A regular morning with Herr Baedeker.
There really isn’t anything more to it.”
“Look here, let’s get this straight. We put up a conversation together
in a place where we know for a fact that Brinkman’s listening behind
the wall—and it isn’t the first time he’s listened to us, either. I
explain in a loud voice that I’ve taken out a warrant, or rather that
I’m just going to take out a warrant, for his arrest, and that his
best chance of saving himself from arrest is to confide in you or me.
An hour or so afterward he comes up to you, while you’re sitting out
there with Mrs. Bredon in the middle of a conversation. He takes no
notice at all of Mrs. Bredon, but asks you to come out for a morning
walk—on the transparent excuse that he wants to shew you this beastly
ditch of his. And then he proceeds to waste more than an hour of his
time and yours by talking platitudes about the scenery. Are we really
going to sit down and admit that?”
“Confound it all; we’ve got to. I’m no better pleased about it than
you are. But, God knows, I gave him every chance of having a talk if
he wanted to.”
“Do you think he was trying to pump you, perhaps? Can’t you remember
at all what he did talk about?”
“Talked about Pulteney a little. Said he was a typical schoolmaster,
or something of that sort. Oh, yes, and he talked about
geology—probable age of the earth, if I remember right. Asked me
whether I’d been here before. Asked me whether I’d been abroad much. I
really can’t recall his saying anything else.”
“And you’re sure you said nothing which could frighten him, which
could put him off?”
“I couldn’t have been more careful to avoid it.”
“Well, it’s—can you make anything of it yourself?”
“The only idea that occurred to me is that possibly Brinkman wanted me
to be away from the house for some reason; and chose this way of
making sure that I was.”
“M’m!—it’s possible, of course? But why should he want you to be
away—especially if he’s going to be away too?”
“I know, it doesn’t really make sense. I say, Leyland, I’m awfully
sorry about this.” He felt absurdly apologetic, though without seeing
any way of putting the blame on himself. “Look here, I’ll tell you one
thing: it’s not in our bargain, of course, but I don’t think there’s
any harm in telling you. Simmonds didn’t know about the Euthanasia
policy. Or rather, he did expect it to come to him at one time, but
not this last week or two, because he’d heard about the codicil
leaving it to the Bishop—heard, at any rate, that it wasn’t coming to
him. So I’m afraid your theory about Simmonds wants revising.”
“It has already been revised. This is very interesting: you say it’s
certain Simmonds knew about the change of plan?”
“Yes. You can guess the source.”
“And do you suppose he had any idea where the new will was kept?
Whether it was up in London, I mean, or in Mottram’s own possession?”
“That I couldn’t say. Does it make much difference?”
“A lot of difference. Look here, you’ve been dealing openly with me,
so I’ll give you some information in return. But I warn you you won’t
like it, because it doesn’t help your theory of a suicide a bit. Look
here.” He glanced round to see that nobody was watching them, then
took an envelope from his pocket, and cautiously shook out into his
open palm a triangle of paper. It was blue, lined paper, with an
official sort of look about it. It was obviously a corner left over
from a document which had been burned, for the hypotenuse opposite the
right angle was a frayed edge of brown ash. The writing on it was
“clerkly”—there is no other word to describe its combination of
ugliness with legibility. Only a fragment of writing was left on each
of the three lines which the paper contained, for there was a generous
allowance of margin. It was a bottom right-hand corner that the fire
had spared; and the surviving ends of the lines read:
“queath
aken out by
March in the year”
“Well, how’s that?” said Leyland. “I don’t think we shall differ much
over the reading of it.”
“No. It’s really rather disappointing, when you are supposed to be a
detective, for a document to come to hand in such excellent
condition—what there is of it. There aren’t two words in the English
language that end with the syllable ‘queath,’ and unless I am
mistaken—no, as you were—the word in the next line might be either
‘taken’ or ‘mistaken.’ And of course there’s Interlaken, when one
comes to think of it, and weaken, and shaken, and oaken, and all sorts
of words. But, as you say, or rather imply, ‘taken out by’ makes the
best sense. And I shall hardly be communicating new impressions to you
if I suggest that one speaks of ‘taking out’ insurance policies. Do
you happen to know when Mottram took out his Euthanasia? I believe
I’ve got the record upstairs.”
“He took it out in March. There isn’t a bit of doubt about this
document as it stands. It’s the copy of a will, made out by Mottram,
having reference to the Euthanasia policy. Now, unless this was a new
will altogether—which is possible—that means that this was a copy of
his second will, or rather of the codicil which referred to the
policy. For in the will, if you remember, there was no allusion to the
Euthanasia at all.”
“I suppose that it is absolutely certain that this scrap of paper
belonged to Mottram?”
“Quite certain—that’s the extraordinary thing, the way I found it. The
undertaker came round this morning to make—well, certain arrangements.
As you know, I had taken command of the key of Mottram’s room; it’s
been locked by my orders ever since you and I had that look
round—except yesterday, when I took the Coroner in. The undertaker
came to me for the key this morning, and I went into the room with
him; and, just mooning about there aimlessly, I saw something that you
and I had failed to see when we were searching the room—this bit of
paper. We were not much to blame, for it was rather hidden away,
behind the writing-table; that is, between the writing-table and the
window. To do us justice, I don’t know how we came to overlook it.
Considering it was in Mottram’s room, I don’t think it is a very wild
speculation to suppose that it was a part of Mottram’s will.”
“No, that seems reasonable. And how does it fit into your view of the
case? I mean”——
“Oh, of course, it’s conceivable that Mottram burned the thing
himself. But it doesn’t really make very much sense when you come to
think of it. We know, and Mottram knew, that it was only a spare copy
of the will which the solicitors had got up in London. It wasn’t a
very important document, therefore, one way or the other. And I’m sure
it hasn’t escaped your observation that whereas burning papers is a
natural way to get rid of them in winter, when there’s a fire in the
grate, one doesn’t do it in summer unless one’s absolutely put to it.
Nothing burns more ill-temperedly than a piece of paper when you have
to set light to it with a match. You can’t even burn it whole, without
great difficulty, for you must either keep hold of it, and so leave a
corner unburnt, or else leave it lying about in a grate or somewhere,
and then the flame generally dies down before it is finished. In this
case, it is pretty clear that somebody must have held it in his hand,
or it probably wouldn’t be a corner that remained unburnt. I can find
no finger-marks.”
“Wouldn’t a man who was destroying an important document be apt to
take care he didn’t leave any of it lying about?”
“Certainly, if he’d plenty of time to do it in. If it had been
Mottram, for example, burning his own will. It seems to me more like
the action of a man in a hurry; and I suspect that the man who burned
this document was in a hurry. Or at least he was flustered; for he had
been committing a murder, and so few people can keep their heads
altogether in that position.”
“It’s Simmonds, then, by your way of it?”
“Who else? You see, at first I was in rather a difficulty. We had
assumed, what it was natural to assume, that this codicil which
Mottram added to his will was kept a secret—that Simmonds didn’t know
about it, and that he’d murdered Mottram under the mistaken idea that
he would inherit the Euthanasia benefits as the next of kin. Now, if
that had been his intention, it would have been rather a coincidence
his _happening_ to light on the will and be able to burn it. But you
tell me that Simmonds did know about the codicil; very well, that
solves the difficulty. It was a double crime not only in fact but in
intention. You thought that Simmonds’s knowledge of the codicil gave
him a sort of moral alibi. On the contrary, it only fastens the halter
round his neck. He determined to destroy Mottram and the will
together, and so inherit. The motive is more obvious than ever. The
only thing which he unfortunately hadn’t taken into account was the
fact that the copy of the codicil which he destroyed was a duplicate,
and the original was up in London.”
“But isn’t it rather a big supposition, that Simmonds not only knew
the codicil was in existence but knew that it was in Mottram’s
possession when he came down here, and that it would be lying about in
Mottram’s room, quite easy for him to find?”
“You forget Mottram’s psychology. When Simmonds offended him, he
wasn’t content that Simmonds should be cut out of his will; he wanted
him to know that he’d been cut out of the will—directed the lawyers to
inform him of the fact. When he added that codicil about the
Euthanasia, although he made such a secret of it all round, he was
careful, as we know, to inform Simmonds that it had been done. Don’t
you think it’s likely that he wrote to Simmonds and said, ‘I have
willed the Euthanasia policy away to strangers, so as to prevent it
coming to you; you can look in on me when I’m at Chilthorpe, and I’ll
shew you the document’? And Simmonds, not understanding the
pernicketiness of lawyers, imagined that it would be the original of
the will, not a copy, that Mottram had by him. So, when he came round
here on his midnight visit, or rather on his early morning visit, he
turned off the gas, flung the window open, ransacked the despatch-box
which he found lying on the table, found the will, and burnt it
hastily at the open window. Probably he thought the unburnt fragment
had fallen out of the window; actually it had fallen under the table,
and here we are!”
“It was Angela, I suppose, who told you that Simmonds knew he had been
cut out of the will?”
“With the best intentions. Mrs. Bredon thought, of course, that my
suspicion of Simmonds could not survive the revelation. As a matter of
fact, it all fitted in nicely. Well, it just shews that one should
never waste time trying to puzzle out a problem until one’s sure that
all the relevant facts have been collated. Here were you and I
worrying our lives out over the difficulty, and all because we had
never noticed that bit of paper lying on the floor—and might never
have noticed it, if I hadn’t happened to go in with the undertaker.
Now, there’s only Brinkman’s part of the business to settle. Apart
from that, it’s as clear as daylight.”
“You think so? Well, you must think me a frightful Sadducee, but even
now I don’t mind doubling that bet again.”
“Forty pounds! Good Lord, man, the Indescribable must pay you well! Or
do they insure you against losing bets? Well, it would eat a big hole
in my salary. But if you want to throw your money away, I don’t mind.”
“Good! Forty quid. We’d best keep it dark from Angela, though. I say,
when ‘Raight-ho’ makes that horrible noise on the tom-tom inside, it
generally means that Mrs. Davis has finished blowing the dust off the
cold ham. What’s wrong with going in and seeing about a little lunch?”