The Will Again
“_The will! the will! We will hear Caesar’s will!_”
_Julius Caesar_
“Oh, Miss Evelyn, my dear, oh, poor dear!”
The tall girl in black started, and looked round.
“Why, Mrs. Gulliver—how very, very kind of you to come and meet me!”
“And glad I am to have the chance, my dear, all owing to these kind
gentlemen,” cried the landlady, flinging her arms round the girl and
clinging to her to the great annoyance of the other passengers pouring
off the gangway. The elder of the two gentlemen referred to gently put
his hand on her arm, and drew them out of the stream of traffic.
“Poor lamb!” mourned Mrs. Gulliver, “coming all this way by your
lonesome, and poor dear Miss Bertha in her grave and such terrible
things said, and her such a good girl always.”
“It’s poor Mother I’m thinking about,” said the girl. “I couldn’t rest.
I said to my husband, ‘I must go,’ I said, and he said, ‘My honey, if I
could come with you I would, but I can’t leave the farm, but if you feel
you ought to go, you shall,’ he said.”
“Dear Mr. Cropper—he was always that good and kind,” said Mrs. Gulliver,
“but here I am, forgittin’ all about the good gentlemen as brought me
all this way to see you. This is Lord Peter Wimsey, and this is Mr.
Murbles, as put in that unfortnit advertisement, as I truly believes was
the beginin’ of it all. ’Ow I wish I’d never showed it to your poor
sister, not but wot I believe the gentleman acted with the best
intentions, ’avin’ now seen ’im, which at first I thought ’e was a wrong
’un.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said Mrs. Cropper, turning with the ready address
derived from service in a big restaurant. “Just before I sailed I got a
letter from poor Bertha enclosing your ad. I couldn’t make anything of
it, but I’d be glad to know anything which can clear up this shocking
business. What have they said it is—murder?”
“There was a verdict of natural death at the inquiry,” said Mr. Murbles,
“but we feel that the case presents some inconsistencies, and shall be
exceedingly grateful for your co-operation in looking into the matter,
and also in connection with another matter which may or may not have
some bearing upon it.”
“Righto,” said Mrs. Cropper. “I’m sure you’re proper gentlemen, if Mrs.
Gulliver answers for you, for I’ve never known her mistaken in a person
yet, have I, Mrs. G? I’ll tell you anything I know, which isn’t much,
for it’s all a horrible mystery to me. Only I don’t want you to delay
me, for I’ve got to go straight on down to Mother. She’ll be in a
dreadful way, so fond as she was of Bertha, and she’s all alone except
for the young girl that looks after her, and that’s not much comfort
when you’ve lost your daughter so sudden.”
“We shall not detain you a moment, Mrs. Cropper,” said Mr. Murbles. “We
propose, if you will allow us, to accompany you to London, and to ask
you a few questions on the way, and then—again with your permission—we
should like to see you safely home to Mrs. Gotobed’s house, wherever
that may be.”
“Christchurch, near Bournemouth,” said Lord Peter. “I’ll run you down
straight away, if you like. It will save time.”
“I say, you know all about it, don’t you?” exclaimed Mrs. Cropper with
some admiration. “Well, hadn’t we better get a move on, or we’ll miss
this train?”
“Quite right,” said Mr. Murbles. “Allow me to offer you my arm.”
Mrs. Cropper approving of this arrangement, the party made its way to
the station, after the usual disembarkation formalities. As they passed
the barrier on to the platform Mrs. Cropper gave a little exclamation
and leaned forward as though something had caught her eye.
“What is it, Mrs. Cropper?” said Lord Peter’s voice in her ear. “Did you
think you recognised somebody?”
“You’re a noticing one, aren’t you?” said Mrs. Cropper. “Make a good
waiter—you would—not meaning any offence, sir, that’s a real compliment
from one who knows. Yes, I did think I saw someone, but it couldn’t be,
because the minute she caught my eye she went away.”
“Who did you think it was?”
“Why, I thought it looked like Miss Whittaker, as Bertha and me used to
work for.”
“Where was she?”
“Just down by that pillar there, a tall dark lady in a crimson hat and
grey fur. But she’s gone now.”
“Excuse me.”
Lord Peter unhitched Mrs. Gulliver from his arm, hitched her smartly on
to the unoccupied arm of Mr. Murbles, and plunged into the crowd. Mr.
Murbles, quite unperturbed by this eccentric behaviour, shepherded the
two women into an empty first-class carriage which, Mrs. Cropper noted,
bore a large label, “Reserved for Lord Peter Wimsey and party.” Mrs.
Cropper made some protesting observation about her ticket, but Mr.
Murbles merely replied that everything was provided for, and that
privacy could be more conveniently secured in this way.
“Your friend’s going to be left behind,” said Mrs. Cropper as the train
moved out.
“That would be very unlike him,” replied Mr. Murbles, calmly unfolding a
couple of rugs and exchanging his old-fashioned top-hat for a curious
kind of travelling cap with flaps to it. Mrs. Cropper, in the midst of
her anxiety, could not help wondering where in the world he had
contrived to purchase this Victorian relic. As a matter of fact, Mr.
Murbles’ caps were specially made to his own design by an exceedingly
expensive West End hatter, who held Mr. Murbles in deep respect as a
real gentleman of the old school.
Nothing, however, was seen of Lord Peter for something like a quarter of
an hour, when he suddenly put his head in with an amiable smile and
said:
“One red-haired woman in a crimson hat; three dark women in black hats;
several nondescript women in those pull-on sort of dust-coloured hats;
old women with grey hair, various; sixteen flappers without hats—hats on
rack, I mean, but none of ’em crimson; two obvious brides in blue hats;
innumerable fair women in hats of all colours; one ash-blonde dressed as
a nurse, none of ’em our friend as far as I know. Thought I’d best just
toddle along the train to make sure. There’s just one dark sort of
female whose hat I can’t see because it’s tucked down beside her. Wonder
if Mrs. Cropper would mind doin’ a little stagger down the corridor to
take a squint at her.”
Mrs. Cropper, with some surprise, consented to do so.
“Right you are. ’Splain later. About four carriages along. Now, look
here, Mrs. Cropper, if it _should_ be anybody you know, I’d rather on
the whole she didn’t spot you watching her. I want you to walk along
behind me, just glancin’ into the compartments but keepin’ your collar
turned up. When we come to the party I have in mind, I’ll make a screen
for you, what?”
These manœuvres were successfully accomplished, Lord Peter lighting a
cigarette opposite the suspected compartment, while Mrs. Cropper viewed
the hatless lady under cover of his raised elbows. But the result was
disappointing. Mrs. Cropper had never seen the lady before, and a
further promenade from end to end of the train produced no better
results.
“We must leave it to Bunter, then,” said his lordship, cheerfully, as
they returned to their seats. “I put him on the trail as soon as you
gave me the good word. Now, Mrs. Cropper, we really get down to
business. First of all, we should be glad of any suggestions you may
have to make about your sister’s death. We don’t want to distress you,
but we have got an idea that there might, just possibly, be something
behind it.”
“There’s just one thing, sir—your lordship, I suppose I should say.
Bertha was a real good girl—I can answer for that absolutely. There
wouldn’t have been any carryings-on with her young man—nothing of that.
I know people have been saying all sorts of things, and perhaps, with
lots of girls as they are, it isn’t to be wondered at. But, believe me,
Bertha wouldn’t go for to do anything that wasn’t right. Perhaps you’d
like to see this last letter she wrote me. I’m sure nothing could be
nicer and properer from a girl just looking forward to a happy marriage.
Now, a girl as wrote like that wouldn’t be going larking about, sir,
would she? I couldn’t rest, thinking they was saying that about her.”
Lord Peter took the letter, glanced through it, and handed it reverently
to Mr. Murbles.
“We’re not thinking that at all, Mrs. Cropper, though of course we’re
very glad to have your point of view, don’t you see. Now, do you think
it possible your sister might have been—what shall I say?—got hold of by
some woman with a plausible story and all that, and—well—pushed into
some position which shocked her very much? Was she cautious and up to
the tricks of London people and all that?”
And he outlined Parker’s theory of the engaging Mrs. Forrest and the
supposed dinner in the flat.
“Well, my lord, I wouldn’t say Bertha was a very quick girl—not as quick
as me, you know. She’d always be ready to believe what she was told and
give people credit for the best. Took more after her father, like. I’m
Mother’s girl, they always said, and I don’t trust anybody further than
I can see them. But I’d warned her very careful against taking up with
women as talks to a girl in the street, and she did ought to have been
on her guard.”
“Of course,” said Peter, “it may have been somebody she’d got to know
quite well—say, at the restaurant, and she thought she was a nice lady
and there’d be no harm in going to see her. Or the lady might have
suggested taking her into good service. One never knows.”
“I think she’d have mentioned it in her letters if she’d talked to the
lady much, my lord. It’s wonderful what a lot of things she’d find to
tell me about the customers. And I don’t think she’d be for going into
service again. We got real fed up with service, down in Leahampton.”
“Ah, yes. Now that brings us to quite a different point—the thing we
wanted to ask you or your sister about before this sad accident took
place. You were in service with this Miss Whittaker whom you mentioned
just now. I wonder if you’d mind telling us just exactly why you left.
It was a good place, I suppose?”
“Yes, my lord, quite a good place as places go, though of course a girl
doesn’t get her freedom the way she does in a restaurant. And naturally
there was a good deal of waiting on the old lady. Not as we minded that,
for she was a very kind, good lady, and generous too.”
“But when she became so ill, I suppose Miss Whittaker managed
everything, what?”
“Yes, my lord; but it wasn’t a hard place—lots of the girls envied us.
Only Miss Whittaker was very particular.”
“Especially about the china, what?”
“Ah, they told you about that, then?”
“I told ’em, dearie,” put in Mrs. Gulliver. “I told ’em all about how
you come to leave your place and go to London.”
“And it struck us,” put in Mr. Murbles, “that it was, shall we say,
somewhat rash of Miss Whittaker to dismiss so competent and, if I may
put it so, so well-spoken and personable a pair of maids on so trivial a
pretext.”
“You’re right there, sir. Bertha—I told you she was the trusting one—she
was quite ready to believe as she done wrong, and thought how good it
was of Miss Whittaker to forgive her breaking the china, and take so
much interest in sending us to London, but I always thought there was
something more than met the eye. Didn’t I, Mrs. Gulliver?”
“That you did, dear; something more than meets the eye, that’s what you
says to me, and what I agrees with.”
“And did you, in your own mind,” pursued Mr. Murbles, “connect this
sudden dismissal with anything which had taken place?”
“Well, I did then,” replied Mrs. Cropper, with some spirit. “I said to
Bertha—but she would hear nothing of it, taking after her father as I
tell you—I said, ‘Mark my words,’ I said, ‘Miss Whittaker don’t care to
have us in the house after the row she had with the old lady.’”
“And what row was that?” inquired Mr. Murbles.
“Well, I don’t know as I ought rightly to tell you about it, seeing it’s
all over now and we promised to say nothing about it.”
“That, of course,” said Mr. Murbles, checking Lord Peter, who was about
to burst in impetuously, “depends upon your own conscience. But, if it
will be of any help to you in making up your mind, I think I may say, in
the strictest confidence, that this information may be of the utmost
importance to us—in a roundabout way which I won’t trouble you with—in
investigating a very singular set of circumstances which have been
brought to our notice. And it is just barely possible—again in a very
roundabout way—that it may assist us in throwing some light on the
melancholy tragedy of your sister’s decease. Further than that I cannot
go at the moment.”
“Well, now,” said Mrs. Cropper, “if that’s so—though, mind you, I don’t
see what connection there could be—but if you think that’s so, I reckon
I’d better come across with it, as my husband would say. After all, I
only promised I wouldn’t mention about it to the people in Leahampton,
as might have made mischief out of it—and a gossipy lot they is, and no
mistake.”
“We’ve nothing to do with the Leahampton crowd,” said his lordship, “and
it won’t be passed along unless it turns out to be necessary.”
“Righto. Well, I’ll tell you. One morning early in September Miss
Whittaker comes along to Bertha and I, and says, ‘I want you girls to be
just handy on the landing outside Miss Dawson’s bedroom,’ she says,
‘because I may want you to come in and witness her signature to a
document. We shall want two witnesses,’ she says, ‘and you’ll have to
see her sign; but I don’t want to flurry her with a lot of people in the
room, so when I give you the tip, I want you to come just inside the
door without making a noise, so that you can see her write her name, and
then I’ll bring it straight across to you and you can write your names
where I show you. It’s quite easy,’ she says, ‘nothing to do but just
put your names opposite where you see the word Witnesses.’
“Bertha was always a bit the timid sort—afraid of documents and that
sort of thing, and she tried to get out of it. ‘Couldn’t Nurse sign
instead of me?’ she says. That was Nurse Philliter, you know, the
red-haired one as was the doctor’s fiancée. She was a very nice woman,
and we liked her quite a lot. ‘Nurse has gone out for her walk,’ says
Miss Whittaker, rather sharp, ‘I want you and Evelyn to do it,’ meaning
me, of course. Well, we said we didn’t mind, and Miss Whittaker goes
upstairs to Miss Dawson with a whole heap of papers, and Bertha and I
followed and waited on the landing, like she said.”
“One moment,” said Mr. Murbles, “did Miss Dawson often have documents to
sign?”
“Yes, sir, I believe so, quite frequently, but they was usually
witnessed by Miss Whittaker or the nurse. There was some leases and
things of that sort, or so I heard. Miss Dawson had a little
house-property. And then there’d be the cheques for the housekeeping,
and some papers as used to come from the Bank, and be put away in the
safe.”
“Share coupons and so on, I suppose,” said Mr. Murbles.
“Very likely, sir, I don’t know much about those business matters. I did
have to witness a signature once, I remember, a long time back, but that
was different. The paper was brought down to me with the signature ready
wrote. There wasn’t any of this to-do about it.”
“The old lady was capable of dealing with her own affairs, I
understand?”
“Up till then, sir. Afterwards, as I understood, she made it all over to
Miss Whittaker—that was just before she got feeble-like, and was kept
under drugs. Miss Whittaker signed the cheques then.”
“The power of attorney,” said Mr. Murbles, with a nod. “Well now, did
you sign this mysterious paper?”
“No, sir, I’ll tell you how that was. When me and Bertha had been
waiting a little time, Miss Whittaker comes to the door and makes us a
sign to come in quiet. So we comes and stands just inside the door.
There was a screen by the head of the bed, so we couldn’t see Miss
Dawson nor she us, but we could see her reflection quite well in a big
looking-glass she had on the left side of the bed.”
Mr. Murbles exchanged a significant glance with Lord Peter.
“Now be sure you tell us every detail,” said Wimsey, “no matter how
small and silly it may sound. I believe this is goin’ to be very
excitin’.”
“Yes, my lord. Well, there wasn’t much else, except that just inside the
door, on the left-hand side as you went in, there was a little table,
where Nurse mostly used to set down trays and things that had to go
down, and it was cleared, and a piece of blotting-paper on it and an
inkstand and pen, all ready for us to sign with.”
“Could Miss Dawson see that?” asked Mr. Murbles.
“No, sir, because of the screen.”
“But it was inside the room.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We want to be quite clear about this. Do you think you could draw—quite
roughly—a little plan of the room, showing where the bed was and the
screen and the mirror, and so on?”
“I’m not much of a hand at drawing,” said Mrs. Cropper dubiously, “but
I’ll try.”
Mr. Murbles produced a notebook and fountain pen, and after a few false
starts, the following rough sketch was produced.
[Illustration: Miss Dawson’s bedroom]
“Thank you, that is very clear indeed. You notice, Lord Peter, the
careful arrangements to have the document signed in presence of the
witnesses, and witnessed by them in the presence of Miss Dawson and of
each other. I needn’t tell you for what kind of document that
arrangement is indispensable.”
“Was that it, sir? We couldn’t understand why it was all arranged like
that.”
“It might have happened,” explained Mr. Murbles, “that in case of some
dispute about this document, you and your sister would have had to come
into court and give evidence about it. And if so, you would have been
asked whether you actually saw Miss Dawson write her signature, and
whether you and your sister and Miss Dawson were all in the same room
together when you signed your names as witnesses. And if that had
happened, you could have said yes, couldn’t you, and sworn to it?”
“Oh, yes.”
“And yet, actually, Miss Dawson would have known nothing about your
being there.”
“No, sir.”
“That was it, you see.”
“I see now, sir, but at the time Bertha and me couldn’t make nothing of
it.”
“But the document, you say, was never signed.”
“No, sir. At any rate, we never witnessed anything. We saw Miss Dawson
write her name—at least, I suppose it was her name—to one or two papers,
and then Miss Whittaker puts another lot in front of her and says,
‘Here’s another little lot, auntie, some more of those income-tax
forms.’ So the old lady says, ‘What are they exactly, dear, let me see?’
So Miss Whittaker says, ‘Oh, only the usual things.’ And Miss Dawson
says, ‘Dear, dear, what a lot of them. How complicated they do make
these things to be sure.’ And we could see that Miss Whittaker was
giving her several papers, all laid on top of one another, with just the
places for the signatures left showing. So Miss Dawson signs the top
one, and then lifts up the paper and looks underneath at the next one,
and Miss Whittaker says, ‘They’re all the same,’ as if she was in a
hurry to get them signed and done with. But Miss Dawson takes them out
of her hand and starts looking through them, and suddenly she lets out a
screech, and says, ‘I won’t have it, I won’t have it! I’m not dying yet.
How dare you, you wicked girl! Can’t you wait till I’m dead?—you want to
frighten me into my grave before my time. Haven’t you got everything you
want?’ And Miss Whittaker says, ‘Hush, auntie, you won’t let me
explain—’ and the old lady says, ‘No, I won’t, I don’t want to hear
anything about it. I hate the thought of it. I won’t talk about it. You
leave me be. I can’t get better if you keep frightening me so.’ And then
she begins to take and carry on dreadful, and Miss Whittaker comes over
to us looking awful white and says, ‘Run along, you girls,’ she says,
‘my aunt’s taken ill and can’t attend to business. I’ll call you if I
want you,’ she says. And I said, ‘Can we help with her, miss?’ and she
says, ‘No, it’s quite all right. It’s just the pain come on again. I’ll
give her her injection and then she’ll be all right.’ And she pushes us
out of the room, and shuts the door, and we heard the poor old lady
crying fit to break anybody’s heart. So we went downstairs and met Nurse
just coming in, and we told her Miss Dawson was took worse again, and
she runs up quick without taking her things off. So we was in the
kitchen, just saying it seemed rather funny-like, when Miss Whittaker
comes down again and says, ‘It’s all right now, and auntie’s sleeping
quite peaceful, only we’ll have to put off business till another day.’
And she says, ‘Better not say anything about this to anybody, because
when the pain comes on Aunt gets frightened and talks a bit wild. She
don’t mean what she says, but if people was to hear about it they might
think it odd.’ So I up and says, ‘Miss Whittaker,’ I says, ‘me and
Bertha was never ones to talk’; rather stiff, I said it, because I don’t
hold by gossip and never did. And Miss Whittaker says, ‘That’s quite all
right,’ and goes away. And the next day she gives us an afternoon off
and a present—ten shillings each, it was, because it was her aunt’s
birthday, and the old lady wanted us to have a little treat in her
honour.”
“A very clear account indeed, Mrs. Cropper, and I only wish all
witnesses were as sensible and observant as you are. There’s just one
thing. Did you by any chance get a sight of this paper that upset Miss
Dawson so much?”
“No, sir—only from a distance, that is, and in the looking-glass. But I
think it was quite short—just a few lines of typewriting.”
“I see. Was there a typewriter in the house, by the way?”
“Oh, yes, sir. Miss Whittaker used one quite often for business letters
and so on. It used to stand in the sitting-room.”
“Quite so. By the way, do you remember Miss Dawson’s solicitor calling
shortly after this?”
“No, sir. It was only a little time later Bertha broke the teapot and we
left. Miss Whittaker gave her her month’s warning, but I said no. If she
could come down on a girl like that for a little thing, and her such a
good worker, Bertha should go at once and me with her. Miss Whittaker
said, ‘Just as you like,’ she said—she never was one to stand any
back-chat. So we went that afternoon. But afterwards I think she was
sorry, and came over to see us at Christchurch, and suggested why
shouldn’t we try for a better job in London. Bertha was a bit afraid to
go so far—taking after Father, as I mentioned, but Mother, as was always
the ambitious one, she says, ‘If the lady’s kind enough to give you a
good start, why not go? There’s more chances for a girl in Town.’ And I
said to Bertha, private-like, afterwards, I says, ‘Depend on it, Miss
Whittaker wants to see the back of us. She’s afraid we’ll get talking
about the things Miss Dawson said that morning. But,’ I says, ‘if she’s
willing to pay us to go, why not go,’ I says. ‘A girl’s got to look out
for herself these days, and if we go off to London she’ll give us a
better character than what she would if we stayed. And anyway,’ I said,
‘if we don’t like it we can always come home again.’ So the long and
short was, we came to Town, and after a bit we got good jobs with Lyons,
what with the good character Miss Whittaker gave us, and I met my
husband there and Bertha met her Jim. So we never regretted having taken
the chance—not till this dreadful thing happened to Bertha.”
The passionate interest with which her hearers had received this recital
must have gratified Mrs. Cropper’s sense of the dramatic. Mr. Murbles
was very slowly rotating his hands over one another with a dry, rustling
sound—like an old snake, gliding through the long grass in search of
prey.
“A little scene after your own heart, Murbles,” said Lord Peter, with a
glint under his dropped eyelids. He turned again to Mrs. Cropper.
“This is the first time you’ve told this story?”
“Yes—and I wouldn’t have said anything if it hadn’t been—”
“I know. Now, if you’ll take my advice, Mrs. Cropper, you won’t tell it
again. Stories like that have a nasty way of bein’ dangerous. Will you
consider it an impertinence if I ask you what your plans are for the
next week or two?”
“I’m going to see Mother and get her to come back to Canada with me. I
wanted her to come when I got married, but she didn’t like going so far
away from Bertha. She was always Mother’s favourite—taking so much after
Father, you see. Mother and me was always too much alike to get on. But
now she’s got nobody else, and it isn’t right for her to be all alone,
so I think she’ll come with me. It’s a long journey for an ailing old
woman, but I reckon blood’s thicker than water. My husband said, ‘Bring
her back first-class, my girl, and I’ll find the money.’ He’s a good
sort, is my husband.”
“You couldn’t do better,” said Wimsey, “and if you’ll allow me, I’ll
send a friend to look after you both on the train journey and see you
safe on to the boat. And don’t stop long in England. Excuse me buttin’
in on your affairs like this, but honestly I think you’d be safer
elsewhere.”
“You don’t think that Bertha—?”
Her eyes widened with alarm.
“I don’t like to say quite what I think, because I don’t know. But I’ll
see you and your mother are safe, whatever happens.”
“And Bertha? Can I do anything about that?”
“Well, you’ll have to come and see my friends at Scotland Yard, I think,
and tell them what you’ve told me. They’ll be interested.”
“And will something be done about it?”
“I’m sure, if we can prove there’s been any foul play, the police won’t
rest till it’s been tracked down to the right person. But the difficulty
is, you see, to prove that the death wasn’t natural.”
“I observe in to-day’s paper,” said Mr. Murbles, “that the local
superintendent is now satisfied that Miss Gotobed came down alone for a
quiet picnic and died of a heart attack.”
“That man would say anything,” said Wimsey. “We know from the
post-mortem that she had recently had a heavy meal—forgive these
distressin’ details, Mrs. Cropper’—so why the picnic?”
“I suppose they had the sandwiches and the beer-bottle in mind,” said
Mr. Murbles, mildly.
“I see. I suppose she went down to Epping alone with a bottle of Bass
and took out the cork with her fingers. Ever tried doing it, Murbles?
No? Well, when they find the corkscrew I’ll believe she went there
alone. In the meantime, I hope the papers will publish a few more
theories like that. Nothin’ like inspiring criminals with confidence,
Murbles—it goes to their heads, you know.”