Crooked House by Agatha Christie Page B

it. I know I'm right.”
    “Nonsense, mother, she wouldn't do a stupid thing like that.”
    “It wouldn't be stupid at all. If there's no will she'll get everything.”
    “Sh - here's Gaitskill back again.”
    The lawyer re-entered the room. Chief Inspector Taverner was with him and behind Taverner came Philip.
    “I understood from Mr Leonides,” Gaitskill was saying, “that he had placed his will with the Bank for safe keeping.”
    Taverner shook his head.
    “I've been in communication with the Bank. They have no private papers belonging to Mr Leonides beyond certain securities which they held for him.”
    Philip said:
    “I wonder if Roger - or Aunt Edith - Perhaps, Sophia, you'd ask them to come down here.”
    But Roger Leonides, summoned with the others to the conclave, could give no assistance.
    “But it's nonsense - absolute nonsense,” he declared. “Father signed the will and said distinctly that he was posting it to Mr Gaitskill on the following day.”
    “If my memory serves me,” said Mr Gaitskill, leaning back and half-closing his eyes, “it was on November 24th of last year that I forwarded a draft drawn up according to Mr Leonides's instructions. He approved the draft, returned it to me, and in due course I sent him the will for signature. After a lapse of a week, I ventured to remind him that I had not yet received the will duly signed and attested, and asking him if there was anything he wished altered. He replied that he was perfectly satisfied and added that after signing the will he had sent it to his Bank.”
    “That's quite right,” said Roger eagerly. “It was about the end of November last year - you remember, Philip? - Father had us all up one evening and read the will to us.”
    Taverner turned towards Philip Leonides.
    “That agrees with your recollection, Mr Leonides?”
    “Yes,” said Philip.
    “It was rather like the Voysey Inheritance,” said Magda. She sighed pleasurably.
    “I always think there's something so dramatic about a will.”
    “Miss Sophia?”
    “Yes,” said Sophia. “I remember perfectly.”
    “And the provisions of that will?” asked Taverner.
    Mr Gaitskill was about to reply in his precise fashion, but Roger Leonides got ahead of him.
    “It was a perfectly simple will. Electra and Joyce had died and their share of the settlements had returned to father. Joyce's son, William, had been killed in action in Burma, and the money he left went to his father. Philip and I and the children were the only relatives left. Father explained that. He left fifty thousand pounds free of duty to Aunt Edith, a hundred thousand pounds free of duty to Brenda, this house to Brenda or else a suitable house in London to be purchased for her, whichever she preferred. The residue to be divided into three portions, one to myself, one to Philip, the third to be divided between Sophia, Eustace and Josephine, the portions of the last two to be held in trust until they should come of age. I think that's right, isn't it, Mr Gaitskill?”
    “Those are - roughly stated - the provisions of the document I drew up,” agreed Mr Gaitskill, displaying some slight acerbity at not having been allowed to speak for himself.
    “Father read it out to us,” said Roger. “He asked if there was any comment we might like to make. Of course there was none.”
    “Brenda made a comment,” said Miss de Haviland.
    “Yes,” said Magda with zest. “She said she couldn't bear her darling old Aristide to talk about death. It 'gave her the creeps', she said. And after he was dead she didn't want any of the horrid money!”
    “That,” said Miss de Haviland, “was a conventional protest, typical of her class.”
    It was a cruel and biting little remark. I realised suddenly how much Edith de Haviland disliked Brenda.
    “A very fair and reasonable disposal of his estate,” said Mr Gaitskill.
    “And after reading it what happened?” asked Inspector Taverner.
    “After reading it,” said Roger, “he