Unnatural death
to you is, to find out whether a will has been made and if not, to get
one made without delay if the testatrix is capable of making one.
Otherwise I think there is a very real danger of your wife’s losing her
inheritance.”
“You seem quite familiar with the question,” said Parker, with a smile;
“I suppose you are always being asked it since this new Act came in?”
“I wouldn’t say ‘always.’ It is comparatively rare for a great-niece to
be left as sole next-of-kin.”
“Is it? Well, yes, I should think it must be. Do you remember being
asked that question in the summer of 1925, Mr. Trigg?”
A most curious expression came over the solicitor’s face—it looked
almost like alarm.
“What makes you ask that?”
“You need have no hesitation in answering,” said Parker, taking out his
official card. “I am a police officer and have a good reason for asking.
I put the legal point to you first as a problem of my own, because I was
anxious to have your professional opinion first.”
“I see. Well, Inspector, in that case I suppose I am justified in
telling you all about it. I _was_ asked that question in June, 1925.”
“Do you remember the circumstances?”
“Clearly. I am not likely to forget them—or rather, the sequel to them.”
“That sounds interesting. Will you tell the story in your own way and
with all the details you can remember?”
“Certainly. Just a moment.” Mr. Trigg put his head out into the outer
office. “Badcock, I am engaged with Mr. Parker and can’t see anybody.
Now, Mr. Parker, I am at your service. Won’t you smoke?”
Parker accepted the invitation and lit up his well-worn briar, while Mr.
Trigg, rapidly smoking cigarette after cigarette, unfolded his
remarkable story.
CHAPTER XVIII
The London Lawyer’s Story
“_I who am given to novel-reading, how often have I gone out with the
doctor when the stranger has summoned him to visit the unknown patient
in the lonely house. . . . This Strange Adventure may lead, in a later
chapter, to the revealing of a mysterious crime._”
_The Londoner_
“I think,” said Mr. Trigg, “that it was on the 15th, or 16th June, 1925,
that a lady called to ask almost exactly the same question that you have
done—only that she represented herself as inquiring on behalf of a
friend whose name she did not mention. Yes—I think I can describe her
pretty well. She was tall and handsome, with a very clear skin, dark
hair and blue eyes—an attractive girl. I remember that she had very fine
brows, rather straight, and not much colour in her face, and she was
dressed in something summery but very neat. I should think it would be
called an embroidered linen dress—I am not an expert on those things—and
a shady white hat of panama straw.”
“Your recollection seems very clear,” said Parker.
“It is; I have rather a good memory; besides, I saw her on other
occasions, as you shall hear.
“At this first visit she told me—much as you did—that she was only
temporarily in Town, and had been casually recommended to me. I told her
that I should not like to answer her question off-hand. The Act, you may
remember, had only recently passed its Final Reading, and I was by no
means up in it. Besides, from just skimming through it, I had convinced
myself that various important questions were bound to crop up.
“I told the lady—Miss Grant was the name she gave, by the way—that I
should like to take counsel’s opinion before giving her any advice, and
asked if she could call again the following day. She said she could,
rose and thanked me, offering me her hand. In taking it, I happened to
notice rather an odd scar, running across the backs of all the
fingers—rather as though a chisel or something had slipped at some time.
I noticed it quite idly, of course, but it was lucky for me I did.
“Miss Grant duly turned up the next day. I had looked up a very learned
friend in the interval, and gave her the same opinion that I gave you
just now. She looked rather concerned about it—in fact, almost more
annoyed than concerned.
“‘It seems rather unfair,’ she said, ‘that people’s family money should
go away to the Crown like that. After all, a great-niece is quite a near
relation, really.’
“I replied that, provided the great-niece could call witnesses to prove
that the deceased had always had the intention of leaving her the money,
the Crown would, in all probability, allot the estate, or a suitable
proportion of it, in accordance with the wishes of the deceased. It
would, however, lie entirely within the discretion of the court to do so
or not, and, of course, if there had been any quarrel or dispute about
the matter at any time, the judge might take an unfavourable view of the
great-niece’s application.’
“‘In any case,’ I added, ‘I don’t _know_ that the great-niece is
excluded under the Act—I only understand that she _may_ be. In any case,
there are still six months before the Act comes into force, and many
things may happen before then.’
“‘You mean that Auntie may die,’ she said, ‘but she’s not really
dangerously ill—only mental, as Nurse calls it.’
“Anyhow, she went away then after paying my fee, and I noticed that the
‘friend’s great-aunt’ had suddenly become ‘Auntie,’ and decided that my
client felt a certain personal interest in the matter.”
“I fancy she had,” said Parker. “When did you see her again?”
“Oddly enough, I ran across her in the following December. I was having
a quick and early dinner in Soho, before going on to a show. The little
place I usually patronise was very full, and I had to sit at a table
where a woman was already seated. As I muttered the usual formula about
‘Was anybody sitting there,’ she looked up, and I promptly recognised my
client.
“‘Why, how do you do, Miss Grant?’ I said.
“‘I beg your pardon,’ she replied, rather stiffly. ‘I think you are
mistaken.’
“‘I beg _your_ pardon,’ said I, stiffer still, ‘My name is Trigg, and
you came to consult me in Bedford Row last June. But if I am intruding,
I apologise and withdraw.’
“She smiled then, and said, ‘I’m sorry, I did not recognise you for the
moment.’
“I obtained permission to sit at her table.
“By way of starting a conversation, I asked whether she had taken any
further advice in the matter of the inheritance. She said no, she had
been quite content with what I had told her. Still to make conversation,
I inquired whether the great-aunt had made a will after all. She
replied, rather briefly, that it had not been necessary; the old lady
had died. I noticed that she was dressed in black, and was confirmed in
my opinion that she herself was the great-niece concerned.
“We talked for some time, Inspector, and I will not conceal from you
that I found Miss Grant a very interesting personality. She had an
almost masculine understanding. I may say I am not the sort of a man who
prefers women to be brainless. No, I am rather modern in that respect.
If ever I was to take a wife, Inspector, I should wish her to be an
intelligent companion.”
Parker said Mr. Trigg’s attitude did him great credit. He also made the
mental observation that Mr. Trigg would probably not object to marrying
a young woman who had inherited money and was unencumbered with
relations.
“It is rare,” went on Mr. Trigg, “to find a woman with a legal mind.
Miss Grant was unusual in that respect. She took a great interest in
some case or other that was prominent in the newspapers at the time—I
forget now what it was—and asked me some remarkably sensible and
intelligent questions. I must say that I quite enjoyed our conversation.
Before dinner was over, we had got on to more personal topics, in the
course of which I happened to mention that I lived in Golder’s Green.”
“Did she give you her own address?”
“She said she was staying at the Peveril Hotel in Bloomsbury, and that
she was looking for a house in Town. I said that I might possibly hear
of something out Hampstead way, and offered my professional services in
case she should require them. After dinner I accompanied her back to her
hotel, and bade her good-bye in the lounge.”
“She was really staying there, then?”
“Apparently. However, about a fortnight later, I happened to hear of a
house in Golder’s Green that had fallen vacant suddenly. It belonged, as
a matter of fact, to a client of mine. In pursuance of my promise, I
wrote to Miss Grant at the Peveril. Receiving no reply, I made inquiries
there, and found that she had left the hotel the day after our meeting,
leaving no address. In the hotel register, she had merely given her
address as Manchester. I was somewhat disappointed, but thought no more
about the matter.
“About a month later—on January 26th, to be exact, I was sitting at home
reading a book, preparatory to retiring to bed. I should say that I
occupy a flat, or rather maisonette, in a small house which has been
divided to make two establishments. The people on the ground floor were
away at that time, so that I was quite alone in the house. My
housekeeper only comes in by the day. The telephone rang—I noticed the
time. It was a quarter to eleven. I answered it, and a woman’s voice
spoke, begging me to come instantly to a certain house on Hampstead
Heath, to make a will for someone who was at the point of death.”
“Did you recognise the voice?”
“No. It sounded like a servant’s voice. At any rate, it had a strong
cockney accent. I asked whether to-morrow would not be time enough, but
the voice urged me to hurry or it might be too late. Rather annoyed, I
put my things on and went out. It was a most unpleasant night, cold and
foggy. I was lucky enough to find a taxi on the nearest rank. We drove
to the address, which we had great difficulty in finding, as everything
was pitch-black. It turned out to be a small house in a very isolated
position on the Heath—in fact, there was no proper approach to it. I
left the taxi on the road, about a couple of hundred yards off, and
asked the man to wait for me, as I was very doubtful of ever finding
another taxi in that spot at that time of night. He grumbled a good
deal, but consented to wait if I promised not to be very long.
“I made my way to the house. At first I thought it was quite dark, but
presently I saw a faint glimmer in a ground-floor room. I rang the bell.
No answer, though I could hear it trilling loudly. I rang again and
knocked. Still no answer. It was bitterly cold. I struck a match to be
sure I had come to the right house, and then I noticed that the front
door was ajar.
“I thought that perhaps the servant who had called me was so much
occupied with her sick mistress as to be unable to leave her to come to
the door. Thinking that in that case I might be of assistance to her, I
pushed the door open and went in. The hall was perfectly dark, and I
bumped against an umbrella-stand in entering. I thought I heard a faint
voice calling or moaning, and when my eyes had become accustomed to the
darkness, I stumbled forward, and saw a dim light coming from a door on
the left.”
“Was that the room which you had seen to be illumined from outside?”
“I think so. I called out, ‘May I come in?’ and a very low, weak voice
replied, ‘Yes, please.’ I pushed the door open and entered a room
furnished as a sitting-room. In one corner there was a couch, on which
some bed-clothes appeared to have been hurriedly thrown to enable it to
be used as a bed. On the couch lay a woman, all alone.
“I could only dimly make her out. There was no light in the room except
a small oil-lamp, with a green shade so tilted as to keep the light from
the sick woman’s eyes. There was a fire in the grate, but it had burnt
low. I could see, however, that the woman’s head and face were swathed