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
fingers.
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 re-type 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 much 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 not, please remember to extinguish the light
and to hand the key to Mrs. Hodges in the basement."
"Yes, Mr. Pond. Good-night."
"Good-night."
His steps pattered through the entrance, sounded again loudly as he
passed the window, and died away in the direction of Brownlow Street.
Miss Murchison continued typing till she calculated that he was safely
on the tube at Chancery Lane. Then she rose, with a quick glance
round her, and approached a high tier of shelves, stacked with black
deed-boxes, each of which bore the name of a client in bold white
letters.
WRAYBURN was there, all right, but had mysteriously shifted its
place. This in itself was unaccountable. She clearly remembered
having replaced it, just before Christmas, on top of the pile
MORTIMER--SCROGGINS--LORD COOTE--DOLBY BROS. AND WINGFIELD; and here it
was, on the day after Boxing Day, at the bottom of a pile, heaped over
and kept down by BODGERS--SIR J. PENKRIDGE--FLATSBY & COATEN--TRUBODY
LTD. and UNIVERSAL BONE TRUST. Somebody had been spring-cleaning,
apparently, over the holidays, and Miss Murchison thought it improbable
that it was Mrs. Hodges.
It was tiresome, because all the shelves were full, and it would be
necessary to lift down all the boxes and stand them somewhere before
she could get out WRAYBURN. And Mrs. Hodges would be in soon, and
though Mrs. Hodges didn't really matter, it might look odd....
Miss Murchison pulled the chair from her desk (for the shelf was rather
high) and, standing on it, lifted down UNIVERSAL BONE TRUST. It was
heavyish, and the chair (which was of the revolving kind, and not the
modern type with one spindly leg and a stiffly sprung back, which
butts you in the lower spine and keeps you up to your job) wobbled
unsteadily, as she carefully lowered the box and balanced it on the
narrow top of the cupboard. She reached up again and took down TRUBODY
LTD., and placed it on BONE TRUST. She reached up for the third time
and seized FLATSBY & COATEN. As she stooped with it a step sounded in
the doorway and an astonished voice said behind her:
"Are you looking for something, Miss Murchison?"
Miss Murchison started so violently that the treacherous chair swung
through a quarter-turn, nearly shooting her into Mr. Pond's arms. She
came down awkwardly, still clasping the black deed-box.
"How you startled me, Mr. Pond! I thought you had gone."
"So I had," said Mr. Pond, "but when I got to the Underground I found
I had left a little parcel behind me. So tiresome--I had to come back
for it. Have you seen it any where? A little round jar, done up in
brown paper."
Miss Murchison set FLATSBY & COATEN on the seat of the chair and gazed
about her.
"It doesn't seem to be in my desk," said Mr. Pond. "Dear, dear, I
shall be so late. And I can't go without it, because it's wanted for
dinner--in fact, it's a little jar of caviare. We have guests tonight.
Now, where can I have put it?"
"Perhaps you put it down when you washed your hands," suggested Miss
Murchison, helpfully.
"Well now, perhaps I did." Mr. Pond fussed out and she heard the door
of the little lavabo in the passage open with a loud creak. It suddenly
occurred to her that she had left her handbag open on her desk. Suppose
the skeleton keys were visible. She darted towards the bag, just as Mr.
Pond returned in triumph.
"Much obliged to you for your suggestion, Miss Murchison. It was there
all the time. Mrs. Pond would have been so much upset. Well, good-night
again." He turned towards the door. "Oh, by the way, were you looking
for something?"
"I was looking for a mouse," replied Miss Murchison with a nervous
giggle. "I was just sitting working when I saw it run along the top of
the cupboard and--er--up the wall behind those boxes."
"Dirty little beasts," said Mr. Pond, "the place is over-run with them.
I have often said we ought to have a cat here. No hope of catching it
now, though. You're not afraid of mice apparently?"
"No," said Miss Murchison, holding her eyes, by a strenuous physical
effort, on Mr. Pond's face. If the skeleton keys were--as it seemed
to her they must be--indecently exposing their spidery anatomy on her
desk, it would be madness to look in that direction. "No--in your days
I suppose all women were afraid of mice."
"Yes, they were," admitted Mr. Pond, "but then, of course, their
garments were longer."
"Rotten for them," said Miss Murchison.
"They were very graceful in appearance," said Mr. Pond. "Allow me to
assist you in replacing those boxes."
"You will miss your train," said Miss Murchison.
"I have missed it already," replied Mr. Pond, glancing at his watch. "I
shall have to take the 5.30." He politely picked up FLATSBY & COATEN
and climbed perilously with it in his hands to the unsteady seat of the
rotatory chair.
"It's extremely kind of you," said Miss Murchison, watching him as he
restored it to its place.
"Not at all. If you would kindly hand me up the others--"
Miss Murchison handed him TRUBODY LTD., and UNIVERSAL BONE TRUST.
"There!" said Mr. Pond, completing the pile and dusting his hands. "Now
let us hope the mouse has gone for good. I will speak to Mrs. Hodges
about procuring a suitable kitten."
"That would be a very good idea," said Miss Murchison. "Good-night, Mr.
Pond."
"Good-night, Miss Murchison."
His footsteps pattered down the passage, sounded again, more loudly
beneath the window and for the second time died away in the direction
of Brownlow Street.
"Whew!" said Miss Murchison. She darted to her desk. Her fears had
deceived her. The bag was shut and the keys invisible.
She pulled her chair back to its place and sat down as a clash of
brooms and pails outside announced the arrival of Mrs. Hodges.
"Ho!" said Mrs. Hodges, arrested on the threshold at sight of the lady
clerk industriously typing away, "beg your pardon, miss, but I didn't
know as how anybody was here."
"Sorry, Mrs. Hodges, I've got a little bit of work to finish. But you
carry on. Don't mind me."
"That's all right, miss," said Mrs. Hodges, "I can do Mr. Partridge's
office fust."
"Well, if it's all the same to you," said Miss Murchison. "I've just
got to type a few pages and--er--make a précis--notes you know, of some
documents for Mr. Urquhart."
Mrs. Hodges nodded and vanished again. Presently a loud bumping noise
overhead proclaimed her presence in Mr. Partridge's office.
Miss Murchison waited no longer. She dragged her chair to the shelves
again, took down swiftly, one after the other, BONE TRUST, TRUBODY
LTD., FLATSBY & COATEN, SIR J. PENKRIDGE and BODGERS. Her heart beat
heavily as at last she seized WRAYBURN and carried it across to her
desk.
She opened her bag and shook out its contents. The bunch of picklocks
clattered upon the desk, mixed up with a handkerchief, a powder compact
and a pocket-comb. The thin and shining steel barrels seemed to burn
her fingers.
As she picked the bunch over, looking for the most suitable implement,
there came a loud rap at the window.
She wheeled round, terrified. There was nothing there. Thrusting the
picklocks into the pocket of her sports-coat, she tip-toed across and
looked out. In the lamplight she observed three small boys engaged in
climbing the iron railings which guard the sacred areas of Bedford Row.
The foremost child saw her and gesticulated, pointing downwards. Miss
Murchison waved her hand and cried, "Be off with you!"
The child shouted something unintelligible and pointed again. Putting
two and two together, Miss Murchison deduced from the rap at the
window, the gesture and the cry, that a valuable ball had fallen into
the area. She shook her head with severity and returned to her task.
But the incident had reminded her that the window had no blinds and
that, under the glare of the electric light, her movements were as
visible to anybody in the street as though she stood on a lighted
stage. There was no reason to suppose that Mr. Urquhart or Mr. Pond was
about, but her uneasy conscience vexed her. Moreover, if a policeman
should pass by, would he not be able to recognise picklocks a hundred
yards away? She peered out again. Was it her agitated fancy, or was
that a sturdy form in dark blue emerging from Hand Court?
Miss Murchison fled in alarm and, snatching up the deed-box, carried it
bodily into Mr. Urquhart's private office.
Here, at least, she could not be overlooked. If anybody came in--even
Mrs. Hodges--her presence might cause surprise but she would hear them
coming and be warned in advance.
Her hands were cold and shaking, and she was not in the best condition
to profit by Blindfold Bill's instructions. She drew a few deep
breaths. She had been told not to hurry herself. Very well, then, she
would not.
She chose a key with care and slipped it into the lock. For years,
as it seemed to her, she scratched about aimlessly, till at length
she felt the spring press against the hooked end. Pushing and lifting
steadily with one hand, she introduced her second key. She felt the
lever move--in another moment there was a sharp click and the lock was
open.
There were not a great many papers in the box. The first document
was a long list of securities, endorsed "Securities deposited with
Lloyd's Bank." Then came the copies of some title-deeds, of which the
originals were similarly deposited. Then came a folder filled with
correspondence. Some of this consisted of letters from Mrs. Wrayburn
herself, the latest letter being dated five years previously. In
addition there were letters from tenants, bankers and stockbrokers,
with copies of the replies written from the office and signed by Norman
Urquhart.
Miss Murchison hastened impatiently through all this. There was no
sign of a will or copy of a will--not even of the dubious draft that
the solicitor had shown to Wimsey. Two papers only now remained at the
bottom of the box. Miss Murchison picked up the first. It was a Power
of Attorney, dated January 1925, giving Norman Urquhart full powers to
act for Mrs. Wrayburn. The second was thicker and tied neatly with red
tape. Miss Murchison slipped this off and unfolded the document.
It was a Deed of Trust, making over the whole of Mrs. Wrayburn's
property to Norman Urquhart, in trust for herself, and providing that
he should pay into her current account, from the estate, a certain
fixed annual sum for personal expenses. The deed was dated July 1920
and attached to it was a letter, which Miss Murchison hastily read
through:
Appleford, Windle. 15th May, 1920.
My dear Norman,
Thank you very much, my dear boy, for your birthday letter and
the pretty scarf. It is good of you to remember your old aunt so
faithfully.
It has occurred to me that, now that I am over eighty years old, it
is time that I put my business into your hands entirely. You and
your father have managed very well for me all these years, and you
have, of course, always very properly consulted me before taking
any step with regard to investments. But I am getting such a _very
old woman now_ that I am quite out of touch with the modern world,
and I cannot pretend that my opinions are of any real value. I am
a _tired_ old woman, too, and though you always explain everything
_most clearly_, I find the _writing of letters a gêne_ and a burden
to me at my advanced age.
So I have determined to put my property in Trust with you for my
lifetime, so that you may have full power to handle everything
according to your own discretion, without having to consult me
every time. And also, though I am strong and healthy yet, I am glad
to say, and have my wits quite about me, still, that happy state of
things might alter at any time. I might become paralysed or feeble
in my head, or want to make some foolish use of my money, as silly
old women have done before now.
So will you draw up a deed of this kind and bring it to me and I
will sign it. And at the same time I will give you instructions
about my will.
Thanking you again for your good wishes,
Your affec. Great-Aunt,
Rosanna Wrayburn.
"Hurray!" said Miss Murchison. "There _was_ a will, then! And this
Trust--that's probably important, too."
She read the letter again, skimmed through the clauses of the Trust,
taking particular notice that Norman Urquhart was named as sole
Trustee, and finally made a mental note of some of the larger and
more important items in the list of securities. Then she replaced the
documents in their original order, re-locked the box--which yielded
to treatment like an angel--carried it out, replaced it, piled the
other boxes above it, and was back at her machine, just as Mrs. Hodges
re-entered the office.
"Just finished, Mrs. Hodges," she called out cheerfully.
"I wondered if yer would be," said Mrs. Hodges, "I didn't hear the
typewriter a-going."
"I was making notes by hand," said Miss Murchison. She crumpled
together the spoiled front page of the affidavit and threw it into the
waste-paper basket together with the re-type which she had begun. From
her desk-drawer she produced a correctly typed first page, provided
beforehand for the purpose, added it to the bundle of script, put the
top copy and the required sets of flimsies into an envelope, sealed it,
addressed it to Messrs. Hanson & Hanson, put on her hat and coat and
went out, bidding a pleasant farewell to Mrs. Hodges at the door.
A short walk brought her to Messrs. Hanson's office, where she
delivered the affidavit through the letter-box. Then, with a brisk step
and humming to herself, she made for the 'bus-stop at the junction of
Theobalds Road and Gray's Inn Road.
"I think I deserve a little supper in Soho," said Miss Murchison.
She was humming again as she walked from Cambridge Circus into Frith
Street. "What _is_ this beastly tune?" she asked herself abruptly. A
little consideration reminded her that it was "Sweeping through the
gates, Sweeping through the gates...."
"Bless me!" said Miss Murchison. "Going dotty, that's what I am."