Crooked House - Agatha Christie [29]
“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 realized 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 signed it.”
Taverner leaned forward.
“Just how and when did he sign it?”
Roger looked round at his wife in an appealing way. Clemency spoke in answer to that look. The rest of the family seemed content for her to do so.
“You want to know exactly what took place?”
“If you please, Mrs. Roger.”
“My father-in-law laid the will down on his desk and requested one of us—Roger, I think—to ring the bell. Roger did so. When Johnson came in answer to the bell, my father-in-law requested him to fetch Janet Wolmer, the parlourmaid. When they were both there, he signed the will and requested them to sign their own names beneath his signature.”
“The correct procedure,” said Mr. Gaitskill. “A will must be signed by the testator in the presence of two witnesses who must affix their own signatures at the same time and place.”
“And after that?” asked Taverner.
“My father-in-law thanked them, and they went out. My father-in-law picked up the will, put it in a long envelope and mentioned that he would send it to Mr. Gaitskill on the following day.”
“You all agree,” said Inspector Taverner, looking round, “that this is an accurate account of what happened?”
There were murmurs of agreement.
“The will was on the desk, you said. How near were any of you to that desk?”
“Not very near. Five or six yards, perhaps, would be the nearest.”
“When Mr. Leonides read you the will was he himself sitting at the desk?”
“Yes.”
“Did he get up, or leave the desk, after reading the will and before signing it?”
“No.”
“Could the servants read the document when they signed their names?”
“No,” said Clemency. “My father-in-law placed a sheet of