“Wishing you all success, dear Lord Peter,

Most sincerely yours,

“Katharine A. Climpson.

“P.S. I managed to do the ‘job’ very nearly within the stipulated week, you see. I am so sorry it was not quite finished yesterday, but I was so terrified of spoiling the whole thing by rushing it!!

“Bunter,” said Lord Peter, looking up from this letter, “I knew there was something fishy about that will.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“There is something about wills which brings out the worst side of human nature. People who under ordinary circumstances are perfectly upright and amiable, go as curly as corkscrews and foam at the mouth, whenever they hear the words ‘I devise and bequeath.’ That reminds me, a spot of champagne in a silver tankard is no bad thing to celebrate on. Get up a bottle of the Pommery and tell Chief-Inspector Parker I should be glad of a word with him. And bring me those notes of Mr. Arbuthnot’s. And oh, Bunter!”

“My lord?”

“Get Mr. Crofts on the ’phone and give him my compliments, and say I have found the criminal and the motive and hope presently to produce proof of the way the crime was done, if he will see that the case is put off for a week or so.”

“Very good, my lord.”

“All the same, Bunter, I really don’t know how it was done.”

“That will undoubtedly suggest itself before long, my lord.”

“Oh, yes,” said Wimsey, airily. “Of course. Of course. I’m not worrying about a trifle like that.”

CHAPTER XX

“T’ch!t’ch!” said Mr. Pond, clicking his tongue against his denture.

Miss Murchison looked up from her typewriter.

“Is anything the matter, Mr. Pond?”

“No, nothing,” said the head-clerk, testily. “A foolish letter from a foolish member of your sex, Miss Murchison.”

“That’s nothing new.”

Mr. Pond frowned, conceiving the tone of his subordinate’s voice to be impertinent. He picked up the letter and its enclosure and took them into the inner office.

Miss Murchison nipped swiftly across to his desk and glanced at the registered envelope which lay upon it, open. The post-mark was ‘Windle.’

“That’s luck,” said Miss Murchison, to herself. “Mr. Pond is a better witness than I should be. I’m glad he opened it.”

She regained her place. In a few minutes Mr. Pond emerged, smiling slightly.

Five minutes later, Miss Murchison, who had been frowning over her shorthand note-book, rose up and came over to him.

“Can you read short-hand, Mr. Pond?”

“No,” said the head-clerk. “In my day it was not considered necessary.”

“I can’t make out this outline,” said Miss Murchison. “It looks like ‘give consent to,’ but it may be only ‘give consideration to’ – there’s a difference, isn’t there?”

“There certainly is,” said Mr. Pond, drily.

“P’raps I’d better not risk it,” said Miss Murchison. “It’s got to go off this morning. I’d better ask him.”

Mr. Pond snorted – not for the first time – over the carelessness of the female typist.

Miss Murchison walked briskly across the room and opened the inner door without knocking – an informality which left Mr. Pond groaning again.

Mr. Urquhart was standing up with his back to the door, doing something or other at the mantelpiece. He turned round sharply, with an exclamation of annoyance.

“I have told you before, Miss Murchison, that I like you to knock before entering.”

“I am very sorry; I forgot.”

“Don’t let it happen again. What is it?”

He did not return to his desk, but stood leaning against the mantelshelf. His sleek head, outlined against the drab-painted panelling, was a little thrown back, as though – Miss Murchison thought – he were protecting or defying somebody.

“I could not quite make out my shorthand note of your letter to Tewke & Peabody,” said Miss Murchison, “and I thought it better to come and ask you.”

“I wish,” said Mr. Urquhart, fixing a stern eye upon her, “that you would take your notes clearly at the time. If I am going too fast for you, you should tell me so. It would save trouble in the end – wouldn’t it?”

Miss Murchison was reminded of a little set of rules which Lord Peter Wimsey – half in jest and half in earnest – had once prepared for the guidance of “The Cattery.” Of Rule Seven, in particular, which ran: “Always distrust the man who looks you straight in the eyes. He wants to prevent you from seeing something. Look for it.”

She shifted her eyes under her employer’s gaze.

“I’m very sorry, Mr. Urquhart. I won’t let it occur again,” she muttered. There was a curious dark line at the edge of the panelling just behind the solicitor’s head, as though the panel did not quite fit its frame. She had never noticed it before.

“Well, now, what is the trouble?”

Miss Murchison asked her question, got her answer and retired. As she went, she cast a glance over the desk. The will was not there.

She went back and finished her letters. When she took them in to be signed, she seized the opportunity to look at the panelling again. There was no dark line to be seen.

Miss Murchison left the office promptly at half-past four. She had a feeling that it would be unwise to linger about the premises. She walked briskly away through Hand Court, turned to the right along Holborn, dived to the right again through Featherstone Buildings, made a detour through Red Lion Street and debouched into Red Lion Square. Within five minutes she was at her old walk round the square, and up Princeton Street. Presently, from a safe distance, she saw Mr. Pond come out, thin, stiff and stooping, and walk down Bedford Row towards Chancery Lane Station. Before very long, Mr. Urquhart followed. He stood a moment on the threshold, glancing to left and right, then came straight across the street towards her. For a moment she thought he had seen her, and she dived hurriedly behind a van that was standing at the kerb. Under its shelter she withdrew to the corner of the street, where there is a butcher’s shop, and scanned a windowful of New Zealand lamb and chilled beer. Mr. Urquhart came nearer. His steps grew louder – then paused. Miss Murchison glued her eyes on a round of meat marked 4½ lb. 3s. 4d. A voice said: “Good evening, Miss Murchison. Choosing your supper chop? ”

“Oh! Good evening, Mr. Urquhart. Yes – I was just wishing that Providence had seen fit to provide more joints suitable for single people.”

“Yes – one gets tired of beef and mutton.”

“And pork is apt to be indigestible.”

“Just so. Well, you should cease to be single, Miss Murchison.”

Miss Murchison giggled.

“But this is so sudden, Mr. Urquhart.”

Mr. Urquhart flushed under his curious freckled skin.

“Good-night,” he said abruptly, and with extreme coldness.

Miss Murchison laughed to herself as he strode off.

“Thought that would settle him. It’s a great mistake to be familiar with your subordinates. They take advantage of you.”

She watched him out of sight on the far side of the Square, then returned along Princeton Street, crossed Bedford Row and re-entered the office building. The charwoman was just coming downstairs.

“Well, Mrs. Hodges, it’s me again! Do you mind letting me in? I’ve lost a pattern of silk. I think I must have left it in my desk, or dropped it on the floor. Have you come across it?”

“No, miss, I ain’t done your office yet.”

“Then I’ll have to hunt round for it. I want to get up to Bourne’s before halfpast six. It’s such a nuisance.”

“Yes, miss, and such a crowd always with the buses and things. Here you are, miss.”

She opened the door, and Miss Murchison darted in.

“Shall I ’elp you to look for it, miss?”

“No, thank you, Mrs. Hodges, please don’t bother. I don’t expect it’s far off.”

Mrs. Hodges took up a pail and went to fill it at a tap in the back yard. As soon as her heavy steps had ascended again to the first floor, Miss Murchison made for the inner office.