Sharp Quillets of the Low
“_Things done without example—in their issue
Are to be feared._”
_Henry VIII_, 1, 2
“Murbles is coming round to dinner to-night, Charles,” said Wimsey. “I
wish you’d stop and have grub with us too. I want to put all this family
history business before him.”
“Where are you dining?”
“Oh, at the flat. I’m sick of restaurant meals. Bunter does a wonderful
bloody steak and there are new peas and potatoes and genuine English
grass. Gerald sent it up from Denver specially. You can’t buy it. Come
along. Ye olde English fare, don’t you know, and a bottle of what Pepys
calls Ho Bryon. Do you good.”
Parker accepted. But he noticed that, even when speaking on his beloved
subject of food, Wimsey was vague and abstracted. Something seemed to be
worrying at the back of his mind, and even when Mr. Murbles appeared,
full of mild legal humour, Wimsey listened to him with extreme courtesy
indeed, but with only half his attention.
They were partly through dinner when, a propos of nothing, Wimsey
suddenly brought his fist down on the mahogany with a crash that
startled even Bunter, causing him to jerk a great crimson splash of the
Haut Brion over the edge of the glass upon the tablecloth.
“Got it!” said Lord Peter.
Bunter in a low shocked voice begged his lordship’s pardon.
“Murbles,” said Wimsey, without heeding him, “isn’t there a new Property
Act?”
“Why, yes,” said Mr. Murbles, in some surprise. He had been in the
middle of a story when the interruption occurred, and was a little put
out.
“I knew I’d read that sentence somewhere—you know, Charles—about doing
away with the long-lost claimant from overseas. It was in some paper or
other about a couple of years ago, and it had to do with the new Act. Of
course, it said what a blow it would be to romantic novelists. Doesn’t
the Act wash out the claims of distant relatives, Murbles?”
“In a sense, it does,” replied the solicitor. “Not, of course, in the
case of entailed property, which has its own rules. But I understand you
to refer to ordinary personal property or real estate not entailed.”
“Yes—what happens to that, now, if the owner of the property dies
without making a will?”
“It is rather a complicated matter,” began Mr. Murbles.
“Well, look here, first of all—before the jolly old Act was passed, the
next-of-kin got it all, didn’t he—no matter if he was only a seventh
cousin fifteen times removed?”
“In a general way, that is correct. If there was a husband or wife—”
“Wash out the husband and wife. Suppose the person is unmarried and has
no near relations living. It would have gone—”
“To the next-of-kin, whoever that was, if he or she could be traced.”
“Even if you had to burrow back to William the Conqueror to get at the
relationship?”
“Always supposing you could get a clear record back to so very early a
date,” replied Mr. Murbles. “It is, of course, in the highest degree
improbable—”
“Yes, yes, I know, sir. But what happens now in such a case?”
“The new Act makes inheritance on intestacy very much simpler,” said Mr.
Murbles, setting his knife and fork together, placing both elbows on the
table and laying the index-finger of his right hand against his left
thumb in a gesture of tabulation.
“I bet it does,” interpolated Wimsey. “I know what an Act to make things
simpler means. It means that the people who drew it up don’t understand
it themselves and that every one of its clauses needs a law-suit to
disentangle it. But do go on.”
“Under the new Act,” pursued Mr. Murbles, “one half of the property goes
to the husband and wife, if living, and subject to his or her
life-interest, then all to the children equally. But if there be no
spouse and no children, then it goes to the father or mother of the
deceased. If the father and mother are both dead, then everything goes
to the brothers and sisters of the whole blood who are living at the
time, but if any brother or sister dies before the intestate, then to
his or her issue. In case there are no brothers or sisters of the—”
“Stop, stop! you needn’t go any further. You’re absolutely sure of that?
It goes to the brothers’ or sisters’ issue?”
“Yes. That is to say, if it were you that died intestate and your
brother Gerald and your sister Mary were already dead, your money would
be equally divided among your nieces and nephews.”
“Yes, but suppose they were already dead too—suppose I’d gone tediously
living on till I’d nothing left but great-nephews and great-nieces—would
they inherit?”
“Why—why, yes, I suppose they would,” said Mr. Murbles, with less
certainty, however. “Oh, yes, I think they would.”
“Clearly they would,” said Parker, a little impatiently, “if it says to
the issue of the deceased’s brothers and sisters.”
“Ah! but we must not be precipitate,” said Mr. Murbles, rounding upon
him. “To the lay mind, doubtless, the word ‘issue’ appears a simple one.
But in law”—(Mr. Murbles, who up till this point had held the
index-finger of the right hand poised against the ring-finger of the
left, in recognition of the claims of the brothers and sisters of the
half-blood, now placed his left palm upon the table and wagged his right
index-finger admonishingly in Parker’s direction)—“in _law_ the word may
bear one of two, or indeed several, interpretations according to the
nature of the document in which it occurs and the date of that
document.”
“But in the new Act—” urged Lord Peter.
“I am not, particularly,” said Mr. Murbles, “a specialist in the law
concerning property, and I should not like to give a decided opinion as
to its interpretation, all the more as, up to the present, no case has
come before the Courts bearing on the present issue—no pun intended, ha,
ha, ha! But my immediate and entirely tentative opinion—which, however,
I should advise you not to accept without the support of some weightier
authority—would be, I _think_, that issue in this case means issue _ad
infinitum_, and that therefore the great-nephews and great-nieces would
be entitled to inherit.”
“But there might be another opinion?”
“Yes—the question is a complicated one—”
“What did I tell you?” groaned Peter. “I _knew_ this simplifying Act
would cause a shockin’ lot of muddle.”
“May I ask,” said Mr. Murbles, “exactly why you want to know all this?”
“Why, sir,” said Wimsey, taking from his pocket-book the genealogy of
the Dawson family which he had received from the Rev. Hallelujah Dawson,
“here is the point. We have always talked about Mary Whittaker as Agatha
Dawson’s niece; she was always called so and she speaks of the old lady
as her aunt. But if you look at this, you will see that actually she was
no nearer to her than great-niece: she was the grand-daughter of
Agatha’s sister Harriet.”
“Quite true,” said Mr. Murbles, “but still, she was apparently the
nearest surviving relative, and since Agatha Dawson died in 1925, the
money passed without any question to Mary Whittaker under the old
Property Act. There’s no ambiguity there.”
“No,” said Wimsey, “none whatever, that’s the point. But—”
“Good God!” broke in Parker, “I see what you’re driving at. When did the
new Act come into force, sir?”
“In January, 1926,” replied Mr. Murbles.
“And Miss Dawson died, rather unexpectedly, as we know, in November,
1925,” went on Peter. “But supposing she had lived, as the doctor fully
expected her to do, till February or March, 1926—are you absolutely
positive, sir, that Mary Whittaker would have inherited then?”
Mr. Murbles opened his mouth to speak—and shut it again. He rubbed his
hands very slowly the one over the other. He removed his eyeglasses and
resettled them more firmly on his nose. Then:
“You are quite right, Lord Peter,” he said in a grave tone, “this is a
very serious and important point. Much too serious for me to give an
opinion on. If I understand you rightly, you are suggesting that any
ambiguity in the interpretation of the new Act might provide an
interested party with a very good and sufficient motive for hastening
the death of Agatha Dawson.”
“I do mean exactly that. Of course, if the great-niece inherits anyhow,
the old lady might as well die under the new Act as under the old. But
if there was any doubt about it—how tempting, don’t you see, to give her
a little push over the edge, so as to make her die in 1925. Especially
as she couldn’t live long anyhow, and there were no other relatives to
be defrauded.”
“That reminds me,” put in Parker, “suppose the great-niece is excluded
from the inheritance, where does the money go?”
“It goes to the Duchy of Lancaster—or in other words, to the Crown.”
“In fact,” said Wimsey, “to no one in particular. Upon my soul, I really
can’t see that it’s very much of a crime to bump a poor old thing off a
bit previously when she’s sufferin’ horribly, just to get the money she
intends you to have. Why the devil should the Duchy of Lancaster have
it? Who cares about the Duchy of Lancaster? It’s like defrauding the
Income Tax.”
“Ethically,” observed Mr. Murbles, “there may be much to be said for
your point of view. Legally, I am afraid, murder is murder, however
frail the victim or convenient the result.”
“And Agatha Dawson didn’t want to die,” added Parker, “she said so.”
“No,” said Wimsey, thoughtfully, “and I suppose she had a right to an
opinion.”
“I think,” said Mr. Murbles, “that before we go any further, we ought to
consult a specialist in this branch of the law. I wonder whether
Towkington is at home. He is quite the ablest authority I could name.
Greatly as I dislike that modern invention, the telephone, I think it
might be advisable to ring him up.”
Mr. Towkington proved to be at home and at liberty. The case of the
great-niece was put to him over the ’phone. Mr. Towkington, taken at a
disadvantage without his authorities, and hazarding an opinion on the
spur of the moment, thought that in all probability the great-niece
would be excluded from the succession under the new Act. But it was an
interesting point, and he would be glad of an opportunity to verify his
references. Would not Mr. Murbles come round and talk it over with him?
Mr. Murbles explained that he was at that moment dining with two friends
who were interested in the question. In that case, would not the two
friends also come round and see Mr. Towkington?
“Towkington has some very excellent port,” said Mr. Murbles, in a
cautious aside, and clapping his hand over the mouth-piece of the
telephone.
“Then why not go and try it?” said Wimsey, cheerfully.
“It’s only as far as Gray’s Inn,” continued Mr. Murbles.
“All the better,” said Lord Peter.
Mr. Murbles released the telephone and thanked Mr. Towkington. The party
would start at once for Gray’s Inn. Mr. Towkington was heard to say,
“Good, good,” in a hearty manner before ringing off.
On their arrival at Mr. Towkington’s chambers the oak was found to be
hospitably unsported, and almost before they could knock, Mr. Towkington
himself flung open the door and greeted them in a loud and cheerful
tone. He was a large, square man with a florid face and a harsh voice.
In court, he was famous for a way of saying, “Come now,” as a preface to
tying recalcitrant witnesses into tight knots, which he would then
proceed to slash open with a brilliant confutation. He knew Wimsey by
sight, expressed himself delighted to meet Inspector Parker, and bustled
his guests into the room with jovial shouts.
“I’ve been going into this little matter while you were coming along,”
he said. “Awkward, eh? ha! Astonishing thing that people can’t say what
they mean when they draw Acts, eh? ha! Why do you suppose it is, Lord
Peter, eh? ha! Come now!”
“I suspect it’s because Acts are drawn up by lawyers,” said Wimsey with
a grin.
“To make work for themselves, eh? I daresay you’re right. Even lawyers
must live, eh? ha! Very good. Well now, Murbles, let’s just have this
case again, in greater detail, d’you mind?”
Mr. Murbles explained the matter again, displaying the genealogical
table and putting forward the point as regards a possible motive for
murder.
“Eh, ha!” exclaimed Mr. Towkington, much delighted, “that’s good—very
good—your idea, Lord Peter? Very ingenious. Too ingenious. The dock at
the Old Bailey is peopled by gentlemen who are too ingenious. Ha! Come
to a bad end one of these days, young man. Eh! Yes—well, now, Murbles,
the question here turns on the interpretation of the word ‘issue’—you
grasp that, eh, ha! Yes. Well, _you_ seem to think it means issue _ad
infinitum_. How do you make that out, come now?”
“I didn’t say I thought it did; I said I thought it might,” remonstrated
Mr. Murbles, mildly. “The general intention of the Act appears to be to
exclude any remote kin where the common ancestor is further back than
the grandparents—not to cut off the descendants of the brothers and
sisters.”
“Intention?” snapped Mr. Towkington. “I’m astonished at you, Murbles!
The law has nothing to do with good intentions. What does the Act _say_?
It says, ‘To the brothers and sisters of the whole blood and their
issue.’ Now, in the absence of any new definition, I should say that the
word is here to be construed as before the Act it was construed on
intestacy—in so far, at any rate, as it refers to personal property,
which I understand the property in question to be, eh?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Murbles.
“Then I don’t see that you and your great-niece have a leg to stand
on—come now!”
“Excuse me,” said Wimsey, “but d’you mind—I know lay people are awful
ignorant nuisances—but if you _would_ be so good as to explain what the
beastly word did or does mean, it would be frightfully helpful, don’t
you know.”
“Ha! Well, it’s like this,” said Mr. Towkington, graciously. “Before
1837—”
“Queen Victoria, I know,” said Peter, intelligently.
“Quite so. At the time when Queen Victoria came to the throne, the word
‘issue’ had no legal meaning—no legal meaning at all.”
“You surprise me!”
“You are too easily surprised,” said Mr. Towkington. “Many words have no
legal meaning. Others have a legal meaning very unlike their ordinary
meaning. For example, the word ‘daffy-down-dilly.’ It is a criminal
libel to call a lawyer a daffy-down-dilly. Ha! Yes, I advise you _never_
to do such a thing. No, I certainly advise you never to do it. Then
again, words which are quite meaningless in your ordinary conversation
may have a meaning in law. For instance, I might say to a young man like
yourself, ‘You wish to leave such-and-such property to so-and-so.’ And
you would very likely reply, ‘Oh, yes, absolutely’—meaning nothing in
particular by that. But if you were to write in your will, ‘I leave
such-and-such property to so-and-so _absolutely_,’ then that word would
bear a definite legal meaning, and would condition your bequest in a
certain manner, and might even prove an embarrassment and produce
results very far from your actual intentions. Eh, ha! You see?”
“Quite.”
“Very well. Prior to 1837, the word ‘issue’ meant nothing. A grant ‘to
A. and his issue’ merely gave A. a life estate. Ha! But this was altered
by the Wills Act of 1837.”
“As far as a will was concerned,” put in Mr. Murbles.
“Precisely. After 1837, in a will, ‘issue’ meant ‘heirs of the
body’—that is to say, ‘issue _ad infinitum_.’ In a deed, on the other
hand, ‘issue’ retained its old meaning—or lack of meaning, eh, ha! You
follow?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Murbles, “and on intestacy of personal property—”
“I am coming to that,” said Mr. Towkington.
“—the word ‘issue’ continued to mean ‘heirs of the body,’ and that held
good till 1926.”
“Stop!” said Mr. Towkington, “issue of the child or children of the
deceased certainly meant ‘issue _ad infinitum’—but_—issue of any person
_not_ a child of the deceased only meant the child of that person and
did not include other descendants. And that undoubtedly held good till
1926. And since the new Act contains no statement to the contrary, I
think we must presume that it continues to hold good. Ha! Come now! In
the case before us, you observe that the claimant is _not_ the child of
the deceased nor issue of the child of the deceased; nor is she the
child of the deceased’s sister. She is merely the grandchild of the
deceased sister of the deceased. Accordingly, I think she is debarred
from inheriting under the new Act, eh? ha!”
“I see your point,” said Mr. Murbles.
“And moreover,” went on Mr. Towkington, “after 1925, ‘issue’ in a will
or deed does _not mean_ ‘issue _ad infinitum_.’ That at least is clearly
stated, and the Wills Act of 1837 is revoked on that point. Not that
that has any direct bearing on the question. But it may be an indication
of the tendency of modern interpretation, and might possibly affect the
mind of the court in deciding how the word ‘issue’ was to be construed
for the purposes of the new Act.”
“Well,” said Mr. Murbles, “I bow to your superior knowledge.”
“In any case,” broke in Parker, “any uncertainty in the matter would
provide as good a motive for murder as the certainty of exclusion from
inheritance. If Mary Whittaker only _thought_ she might lose the money
in the event of her great-aunt’s surviving into 1926, she might quite
well be tempted to polish her off a little earlier, and make sure.”
“That’s true enough,” said Mr. Murbles.
“Shrewd, very shrewd, ha!” added Mr. Towkington. “But you realise that
all this theory of yours depends on Mary Whittaker’s having known about
the new Act and its probable consequences as early as October, 1925, eh,
ha!”
“There’s no reason why she shouldn’t” said Wimsey. “I remember reading
an article in the _Evening Banner_, I think it was, some months
earlier—about the time when the Act was having its second reading.
That’s what put the thing into my head—I was trying to remember all
evening where I’d seen that thing about washing out the long-lost heir,
you know. Mary Whittaker may easily have seen it too.”
“Well, she’d probably have taken advice about it if she did,” said Mr.
Murbles. “Who is her usual man of affairs?”
Wimsey shook his head.
“I don’t think she’d have asked him,” he objected. “Not if she was wise,
that is. You see, if she did, and he said she probably wouldn’t get
anything unless Miss Dawson either made a will or died before January,
1926, and if after that the old lady did unexpectedly pop off in
October, 1925, wouldn’t the solicitor-johnnie feel inclined to ask
questions? It wouldn’t be safe, don’t y’know. I ’xpect she went to some
stranger and asked a few innocent little questions under another name,
what?”
“Probably,” said Mr. Towkington. “You show a remarkable disposition for
crime, don’t you, eh?”
“Well, if I did go in for it, I’d take reasonable precautions,” retorted
Wimsey. “’S wonderful, of course, the tomfool things murderers _do_ do.
But I have the highest opinion of Miss Whittaker’s brains. I bet she
covered her tracks pretty well.”
“You don’t think Mr. Probyn mentioned the matter,” suggested Parker,
“the time he went down and tried to get Miss Dawson to make her will.”
“I _don’t_,” said Wimsey, with energy, “but I’m pretty certain he tried
to explain matters to the old lady, only she was so terrified of the
very idea of a will she wouldn’t let him get a word in. But I fancy old
Probyn was too downy a bird to tell the heir that her only chance of
gettin’ the dollars was to see that her great-aunt died off before the
Act went through. Would _you_ tell anybody that, Mr. Towkington?”
“Not if I knew it,” said that gentleman, grinning.
“It would be highly undesirable,” agreed Mr. Murbles.
“Anyway,” said Wimsey, “we can easily find out. Probyn’s in Italy—I was
going to write to him, but perhaps you’d better do it, Murbles. And, in
the meanwhile, Charles and I will think up a way to find whoever it was
that did give Miss Whittaker an opinion on the matter.”
“You’re not forgetting, I suppose,” said Parker, rather dryly, “that
before pinning down a murder to any particular motive, it is usual to
ascertain that a murder has been committed? So far, all we know is that,
after a careful post-mortem analysis, two qualified doctors have agreed
that Miss Dawson died a natural death.”
“I wish you wouldn’t keep on saying the same thing, Charles. It bores me
so. It’s like the Raven never flitting which, as the poet observes,
still is sitting, still is sitting, inviting one to heave the pallid
bust of Pallas at him and have done with it. You wait till I publish my
epoch-making work: _The Murderer’s Vade-Mecum, or 101 Ways of Causing
Sudden Death_. That’ll show you I’m not a man to be trifled with.”
“Oh, well!” said Parker.
But he saw the Chief Commissioner next morning and reported that he was
at last disposed to take the Dawson case seriously.