Crooked House - Agatha Christie [53]
“The whole business is most unprofessional,” said Mr. Gaitskill.
“When Mr. Gaitskill had opened the sealed envelope and made himself acquainted with its contents, he decided that it was his duty—”
“Under the circumstances,” said Mr. Gaitskill.
“To let us see the enclosures. They consist of a will, duly signed and attested, and a covering letter.”
“So the will has turned up at last?” I said.
Mr. Gaitskill turned a bright purple.
“It is not the same will,” he barked. “This is not the document I drew up at Mr. Leonides’ request. This has been written out in his own hand, a most dangerous thing for any layman to do. It seems to have been Mr. Leonides’ intention to make me look a complete fool.”
Chief-Inspector Taverner endeavoured to inject a little balm into the prevailing bitterness.
“He was a very old gentleman, Mr. Gaitskill,” he said. “They’re inclined to be cranky when they get old, you know—not barmy, of course, but just a little eccentric.”
Mr. Gaitskill sniffed.
“Mr. Gaitskill rang us up,” my father said, “and apprised us of the main contents of the will and I asked him to come round and bring the two documents with him. I also rang you up, Charles.”
I did not quite see why I had been rung up. It seemed to me singularly unorthodox procedure on both my father’s and Taverner’s part. I should have learnt about the will in due course, and it was really not my business at all how old Leonides had left his money.
“Is it a different will?” I asked. “I mean, does it dispose of his estate in a different way?”
“It does indeed,” said Mr. Gaitskill.
My father was looking at me. Chief-Inspector Taverner was very carefully not looking at me. In some way, I felt vaguely uneasy….
Something was going on in both their minds—and it was a something to which I had no clue.
I looked inquiringly at Gaitskill.
“It’s none of my business,” I said. “But—”
He responded.
“Mr. Leonides’ testamentary dispositions are not, of course, a secret,” he said. “I conceived it to be my duty to lay the facts before the police authorities first, and to be guided by them in my subsequent procedure. I understand,” he paused, “that there is an—understanding, shall we say—between you and Miss Sophia Leonides?”
“I hope to marry her,” I said, “but she will not consent to an engagement at the present time.”
“Very proper,” said Mr. Gaitskill.
I disagreed with him. But this was no time for argument.
“By this will,” said Mr. Gaitskill, “dated November the 29th of last year, Mr. Leonides, after a bequest to his wife of one hundred thousand pounds, leaves his entire estate, real and personal, to his granddaughter, Sophia Katherine Leonides absolutely.”
I gasped. Whatever I had expected, it was not this.
“He left the whole caboodle to Sophia,” I said. “What an extraordinary thing. Any reason?”
“He set out his reasons very clearly in the covering letter,” said my father. He picked up a sheet of paper from the desk in front of him. “You have no objection to Charles reading this, Mr. Gaitskill?”
“I am in your hands,” said Mr. Gaitskill coldly. “The letter does at least offer an explanation—and possibly (though I am doubtful as to this) an excuse for Mr. Leonides’ extraordinary conduct.”
The Old Man handed me the letter. It was written in a small crabbed handwriting in very black ink. The handwriting showed character and individuality. It was not at all like the careful forming of the letters, more characteristic of a bygone period, when literacy was something painstakingly acquired and correspondingly valued.
Dear Gaitskill [it ran],
You will be astonished to get this, and probably offended. But I have my own reasons for behaving in what may seem to you an unnecessarily secretive manner. I have long been a believer in the individual. In a family (this I have observed in my boyhood and never forgotten) there is always one strong character and it usually falls to this one person to care for, and bear the burden of, the rest of the family. In my family I was that person. I came to