The Complete Works of Arthur Morrison (Illustrated). Arthur Morrison

nothing of destroying his will?”

      “Nothing at all. On the contrary, soon after his first seizure — indeed, on the first visit at which I found him in bed — he said, after telling me how he felt, ‘ Everything’s as I want it, you know, in case I go under.’ That seemed to me to mean his will was still as he desired it to be.”

      “Well, yes, it would seem so. But counsel on the other side (supposing there were another side) might quite as plausibly argue that he meant to die intestate, and had destroyed his will so that everything should be as he wanted it, in that sense. But what do you want me to do — find the will?”

      “Certainly, if you can. It seemed to me that you, with your clever head, might be able to form a better judgment than I as to what has happened and who is responsible for it. Because if the will has been taken away, some one has taken it.”

      “It seems probable. Have you told any one of your difficulty?”

      “Not a soul. I came over as soon as I could after Mr. Holford’s death, and Miss Garth gave me all the keys, because, as executor, the case being a peculiar one, I wished to see that all was in order, and, as you know, the estate is legally vested in the executor from the death of the testator, so that I was responsible for everything; although, of course, if there is no will I’m not executor. But I thought it best to keep the difficulty to myself till I saw you.”

      “Quite right. Is this Wedbury Hall?”

      The brougham had passed a lodge gate, and approached, by a wide drive, a fine old red brick mansion carrying the heavy stone dressings and copings distinctive of early eighteenth century domestic architecture.

      “Yes,” said Mr. Crellan, “this is the place. We will go straight to the study, I think, and then I can explain details.”

      The study told the tale of the late Mr. Holford’s habits and interests. It was half a library, half a scientific laboratory: pathological curiosities in spirits, a retort or two, test tubes on the writing-table, and a fossilized lizard mounted in a case, balanced the many shelves and cases of books disposed about the walls. In a recess between two book-cases stood a heavy, old-fashioned mahogany bureau.

      “Now it was in that bureau,” Mr. Crellan explained, indicating it with his finger, “that Mr. Holford kept every document that was in the smallest degree important or valuable. I have seen him at it a hundred times, and he always maintained it was as secure as any iron safe. That may not have been altogether the fact, but the bureau is certainly a tremendously heavy and strong one. Feel it.”

      Hewitt took down the front and pulled out a drawer that Mr. Crellan unlocked for the purpose.

      “Solid Spanish mahogany an inch thick,” was his verdict, “heavy, hard, and seasoned; not the sort of thing you can buy nowadays. Locks, Chubb’s patent, early pattern, but not easily to be picked by anything short of a blast of gunpowder. If there are no marks on this bureau it hasn’t been tampered with.”

      “Well,” Mr. Crellan pursued, “as I say, that was where Mr. Holford kept his will. I have often seen it when we have been here together, and this was the drawer, the top on the right, that he kept it in. The will was a mere single sheet of foolscap, and was kept, folded of course, in a blue envelope.”

      “When did you yourself last actually see the will?”

      “I saw it in my friend’s hand two days before he took to his bed. He merely lifted it in his hand to get at something else in the drawer, replaced it, and locked the drawer again.”

      “Of course there are other drawers, bureaux, and so on, about the place. You have examined them carefully, I take it? ”

      “I’ve turned out ever possible receptacle for that will in the house, I positively assure you, and there isn’t a trace of it.”

      “You’ve thought of secret drawers, I suppose?”

      “Yes. There are two in the bureau which I always knew of. Here they are.” Mr. Crellan pressed his thumb against a partition of the pigeonholes at the back of the bureau and a strip of mahogany flew out from below, revealing two shallow drawers with small ivory catches in lieu of knobs. “Nothing there at all. And this other, as I have said, was the drawer where the will was kept. The other papers kept in the same drawer are here as usual.”

      “Did anybody else know where Mr. Holford kept his will?”

      “Everybody in the house, I should think. He was a frank, above-board sort of man. His adopted daughter knew, and the butler knew, and there was absolutely no reason why all the other servants shouldn’t know; probably they did.”

      “First,” said Hewitt, “we will make quite sure there are no more secret drawers about this bureau. Lock the door in case anybody comes.”

      Hewitt took out every drawer of the bureau, and examined every part of each before he laid it aside. Then he produced a small pair of silver callipers and an ivory pocket-rule and went over every inch of the heavy framework, measuring, comparing, tapping, adding, and subtracting dimensions. In the end he rose to his feet satisfied. “There is most certainly nothing concealed there,” he said.

      The drawers were put back, and Mr. Crellan suggested lunch. At Hewitt’s suggestion it was brought to the study.

      “So far,” Hewitt said, “we arrive at this: either Mr. Holford has destroyed his will, or he has most effectually concealed it, or somebody has stolen it. The first of these possibilities you don’t favour.”

      “I don’t believe it is a possibility for a moment. I have told you why; and I knew Holford so well, you know. For the same reasons I am sure he never concealed it.”

      “Very well, then. Somebody has stolen it. The question is, who?”

      “That is so.”

      “It seems to me that every one in this house had a direct and personal interest in preserving that will. The servants have all something left them, you say, and without the will that goes, of course. Miss Garth has the greatest possible interest in the will. The only person I have heard of as yet who would benefit by its loss or destruction would be the nephew, Mr. Mellis. There are no other relatives, you say, who would benefit by intestacy?”

      “Not one.”

      “Well, what do you think yourself, now? Have you any suspicions?”

      Mr. Crellan shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve no more right to suspicions than you have, I suppose,” he said. “Of course, if there are to be suspicions they can only point one way. Mr. Mellis is the only person who can gain by the disappearance of this will.”

      “Just so. Now, what do you know of him?”

      “I don’t know much of the young man,” Mr. Crellan said slowly. “I must say I never particularly took to him. He is rather a clever fellow, I believe. He was called to the bar some time ago, and afterwards studied medicine, I believe, with the idea of priming himself for a practice in medical jurisprudence. He took a good deal of interest in my old friend’s researches, I am told — at any rate he said he did; he may have been thinking of his uncle’s fortune. But they had a small tiff on some medical question. I don’t know exactly what it was, but Mr. Holford objected to something — a method of research or something of that kind — as being dangerous and unprofessional. There was no actual rupture between them, you understand, but Mellis’s visits slacked off, and there was a coolness.”

      “Where is Mr. Mellis now?”

      “In London, I believe.”

      “Has he been in this house between the day you last saw the will in that drawer and yesterday, when you failed to find it?”

      “Only once. He came to see his uncle two days before his death — last Saturday, in fact. He didn’t stay long.”

      “Did you see him?”

      “Yes.”

      “What did he do?”

      “Merely