‘But your wife did die, Mr Nightingale,’ Wexford said quietly.
Quentin looked down and clasped his hands together.
‘Yes ... About this will, I took it for nonsense, as I’ve said. I doubt if it was even witnessed.’
‘One person witnessed it, at any rate,’ said Wexford. ‘Lionel Marriott.’
Quentin raised his eyes and there was genuine surprise in them.
‘Mr Nightingale, I can’t just let this go by. What became of this piece of paper your wife was “scribbling” on?’
‘She gave it to me and asked me to put it in my safe.’
‘And did you?’
‘Well, yes, I did. Elizabeth insisted on my doing so in her presence. Oh, it was very silly but I didn’t want to distress her.’
‘Is it still there?'
‘I suppose so,’ Quentin said wonderingly. ‘I told you, I forgot all about it and I imagine Elizabeth did too when we got back safe and sound.’
Wexford said heavily, ‘I’ll trouble you to open that safe now, sir, if you please.’
Eyeing Wexford as if he thought he was dealing with a lunatic who needed to be humoured, Quentin lifted down from the study wall a small Stubbs oil of a phaeton and pair. Behind it, set into the wall, was a steel door. Murmuring the combination under his breath, Quentin opened it to reveal a space about the size of a large biscuit tin. The safe contained a neat stack of papers which Wexford supposed to be share certificates and personal documents, and several leather jewel boxes. Quentin took out a handful of papers. He leafed through them and then, his expression still amused and derisive, held out to Wexford a long brown envelope.
‘It’s in there,’ he said.
‘May I?’ Wexford’s tone left no room for refusal. He slit open the envelope and drew out a sheet of expensive blue writing paper headed with the Manor address. The paper was covered with a bold, rather masculine handwriting. Wexford turned it over, glanced at the foot of the reverse side and said in his strong official voice, ‘This is a perfectly legal will, sir, none the less valid and binding because it was not made on a will form or in the presence of a lawyer.’
‘Good heavens!’ said Quentin. He sat down, leaving the safe door open.
‘It is witnessed by -let me see- Myrtle Annie Cantrip and Lionel Hepburn Marriott and correctly signed by your wife. You’d find yourself up against a great deal of trouble if you tried to contest it.’
‘But I don’t want to contest it.’
‘I think you’d better read it before you commit yourself, Mr Nightingale.’
‘What does it say?’ Quentin’s face was now utterly bewildered, the smile wiped away. ‘Will you read it me, Mr Wexford?’
‘Very well.’ At last Wexford sat down. He cleared his throat and read in the same expressionless voice:
“‘This is the last will and testament of me, Elizabeth Frances Nightingale, born Villiers, being of sound mind. This is my last will and revokes all other wills made by me.” ‘ Here Mrs Nightingale’s knowledge of legal language had apparently dried up, for she continued in a more natural manner, interspersed, however, with occasional officialese. ‘ “I leave all my money, including the money my husband invested for me, to Sean Arthur Lovell, of 2 Church Cottages, Myfleet, in the county of Sussex, in the hope that he will use it in the furtherance of his ambition ....” ‘
‘Good heavens!’ Quentin said again. ‘Good heavens!’
'... and all the personal jewellery I possess to my sister-in-law, Georgina Villiers, of 55 Kingsmarkham Road, Clusterwell .” ‘
Here Wexford paused and raised his eyebrows. so that she may indulge her love of adornment, although as a virtuous woman her price is above rubies.” ‘
‘Elizabeth wrote that?’ Quentin asked in a hollow voice.
‘Yes, sir.’
They were both surprised, Wexford thought, but probably for different reasons. For his part he was astonished that the woman whom her brother had described as frivolous and empty-headed should have had the wit to compose it and the knowledge to give it that malevolent bite. Quentin’s astonishment stemmed perhaps from the malevolence alone. He had gone pale.
‘Is that all?’ he asked.
‘That’s all. How much money did your wife leave, sir?’
‘Oh, nothing to speak of.’ Quentin forced a laugh. ‘She was overdrawn, as a matter of fact, on her private account. There’s about three hundred pounds that I invested for her years ago.’
‘Mmhm. I’m sure you won’t grudge that to young Lovell. Is something troubling you, sir?’
‘No, well, I ...’
‘Mrs Villiers,’ said Wexford thoughtfully, ‘is a lady who seems fond of jewellery, as your wife -er, pointed out. Let us hope there are a few nice pieces for her.’
‘A few nice pieces!’ Quentin suddenly sprang to his feet. ‘My wife’s jewellery is in those boxes.’ He plunged his hands into the safe. ‘At a rough estimate,’ he said, ‘I’d value it at thirty thousand pounds.’
Wexford had seen too many precious stones to be dazzled by this small but brilliant collection. He was, in any case, not given to gasping, and his face was calm with a hint of taciturnity as he watched Quentin open the three boxes.
One was of white leather, one of green and the third of teak inlaid with onyx. Quentin had placed them on his writing desk and lifted the lids to disclose more boxes, tiny caskets for rings and ear-rings, longer cases for bracelets and necklaces.
Quentin took out one of the rings, a diamond halfhoop, set in platinum, and held it to the light.
‘It was her engagement ring,’ he said. ‘She wore it sometimes, when,’ he said, his voice growing hoarse, ‘I particularly asked her to.’ He looked at Wexford. ‘Perhaps I could buy it from Georgina.’
‘Your wife was fond of her?’
'I don’t know,’ Quentin said hopelessly, pushing the ring back into its velvet bed. ‘I never thought much about it. She must have been ... And yet she can’t have been, can she? You couldn’t be fond of someone and leave that cruel message for them. I don’t understand it.’
‘We know Mrs Nightingale had a strong dislike for her brother. Perhaps that dislike extended itself to his wife.’
Quentin closed the ring box. ‘The idea seems to have got about,’ he said carefully, ‘that my wife and her brother were at daggers drawn.’
Wexford raised his eyebrows. ‘it isn’t true?’
‘It seems strange for me, her husband, to say this, but really I don’t know. Denys never found fault with her to me and as for Elizabeth... Well, she never tried to stop him coming to the house, although it’s true she did sometimes say rather spiteful things to me about him when we were alone. And yet, you know, I used to see her lookwell, almost compassionately at him when we were all three together. I never saw signs of any real hatred.’
‘Perhaps you’re not a man who probes much into other people’s motives and emotions.’
‘I can’t be, can I?' Quentin said sadly. ‘Otherwise I’d have seen that Elizabeth didn’t enjoy Georgina’s company and I’d have ...
I’d have realised she was going secretly into the forest at night. No, I suppose Elizabeth and Denys did have a genuine dislike of each other and I hadn’t the perception to see it. Or I didn’t want to.’ He spoke quietly now and with slight embarrassment. ‘When you love people you want them to love each other and you convince yourself they do. I hate the idea of malicious stories going round that there was some sort of feud.’
There was a short silence and then Wexford said, ‘Back to this will, sir. You evidently didn’t know of your wife’s friendship with Scan Lovell?’