Barnard Sweete cleared his throat and delivered the speech he had rehearsed in his chambers. His tone was smooth and plausible, his expression one of polite sadness.
‘The question of your husband’s last will and testament must be addressed,’ he said. ‘Matthew Whetcombe was a very wealthy man and he wanted that wealth distributed to a number of different people. The nature of his illness and the unlooked for speed of his death left no time for long discussions about the inheritance of his estate. He penned no detailed instructions himself. What we have …’ He coughed again as Mary’s attention wavered. ‘What we have is a nuncupative will. That is to say, a will which is declared orally by the testator and later written down. This is a perfectly legal form of procedure and not at all uncommon.’
A glance at the vicar brought his endorsement at once.
‘Indeed, no,’ he said. ‘Nuncupative wills are accepted practice. I myself have been a witness of some. The Church has many functions at the death-bed.’
‘Thank you, Mr Calmady,’ continued Sweete, opening his satchel to take out a sheaf of documents. ‘Here is the last will and testament of Matthew Whetcombe of Barnstaple as witnessed by myself and other persons, Gideon Livermore among them.’ He put slight emphasis on Livermore’s name and looked up for a reaction but none came. ‘I leave it with you for your perusal but its main clauses are as I have already indicated. You and your daughter, Lucy, are well provided for and need have no financial worries but the bulk of the estate, together with the Mary, has been left to your late husband’s close friend and former partner, Gideon Livermore.’
This time there was a reaction and it was one of such acute loathing that Barnard Sweete made a mental note to omit it from the full report he would need to make to Livermore of his visit. The merchant had been a frequent caller at the house while Matthew Whetcombe was alive and he made no secret of his admiration for Mary. It was not mutual. Mary Whetcombe shivered at the thought that Gideon Livermore would not only be able to visit the house in future, he would own it. With Lucy and her servants, she would have to move out and take up residence in their country house some five miles away from Barnstaple. It was a grim prospect. Hers had been an unhappy marriage but Matthew Whetcombe had given her both countenance and security. Both had now been stripped away by means of legal process.
‘Let me clarify the procedure,’ said Sweete, referring to a page in front of him. ‘Matthew Whetcombe’s nuncupative will was made on April 23rd. He died two days later. He was buried on May 1st. On the following day, as is customary, an inventory was made of all his worldly goods. I have a copy of it here, dated May 2nd, and duly witnessed by myself and others. That inventory will be exhibited here in Barnstaple in ten days time when the will is proved.’
‘That is admirably clear,’ said Arthur Calmady.
‘Have you any questions?’
‘None, sir,’ said the vicar with lofty obsequiousness.
‘I was speaking to Mistress Whetcombe.’
‘My apologies, sir.’
‘Do you have any questions?’ nudged the lawyer.
The vicar tried to coax her. ‘Mary …’
They waited for some time before deciding that Mary Whetcombe had nothing to say. Sweete tidied the documents he had brought and left them in a neat pile on the table. He was confident that she would do no more than glance at them. The inventory was plain enough but the will was so enmeshed in legal jargon that she would never be able to disentangle it to her advantage. Barnard Sweete thought it foolproof.
Muttering niceties, he rose to leave and the vicar got simultaneously to his feet. Both were backing away when she spoke in a voice of remarkable firmness.
‘Matthew made a proper will.’
‘And here it lies before you,’ said Sweete easily.
‘I talk of a written will, set down in his own fair hand and witnessed by others.’ The men resumed their seats. ‘The end was quick but the doctor had warned him about his heart. Matthew made a will then. Dr Lymette was a witness.’
‘He was also a witness of the nuncupative will.’
‘Can one cancel out the other?’
‘That is its function.’
‘Yes, yes,’ agreed Calmady, singing the prescribed response. ‘What we decide at one time may seem inappropriate at another. It is only when a man faces his Maker that he is able to make a true judgement.’
‘The last will and testament,’ noted Sweete. ‘It does not matter how many came before. The last one only counts.’
‘Where is the first one?’ she asked.
‘That is immaterial.’
‘It is not to me, sir. Where is it?’
‘A copy must have been lodged with you,’ said Calmady innocently, turning to the lawyer. ‘Do you have the document still in your possession?’
‘We do not, Mr Calmady.’
‘Why not?’ asked Mary with a flash of spirit.
‘Yes, why not?’ said the vicar, changing his allegiance.
‘Because, sir,’ replied Sweete pointedly, ‘we have many clients in Barnstaple and in the surrounding area. Hundreds of wills are deposited with us and some are altered or refined many times. If we retained every version of every invalid will, we should have no room in our chambers for anything else. Does that satisfy you, Mr Calmady?’
The vicar was suitably cowed. ‘Oh, yes. Yes, yes.’
‘What of the copy?’ wondered Mary.
‘Copy?’ said Sweete.
‘Of the first will.’
‘I have just told you that it was destroyed.’
‘That was your copy, sir. I speak of Matthew’s.’ The two men shifted uneasily in their chairs. ‘My husband had his faults — which husband does not — but he was meticulous in his affairs. The will may have been lodged with you but he would have retained a copy of it in case yours were mislaid.’
‘Wills are never mislaid by us.’
‘Destroyed, then.’
‘Is the copy not here in the house, Mary?’ said Calmady.
‘We have searched in vain.’
‘Nothing was found among his papers when the inventory was done,’ said Sweete. ‘His own copy must therefore have been mislaid or destroyed.’ He rode over her objection before she could voice it. ‘In any case, the earlier will has neither value nor interest here. It is replaced by another. Though I may tell you now that the terms of the first are very largely replicated in the second.’
Mary was so hurt by this information that she did not question it. Barnard Sweete was a reputable lawyer. He had served her husband for years. Why should he lie to her? She glanced wearily across at the pile of documents and nodded her head. It was a sign of defeat.
The lawyer jumped smartly to his feet and gestured for the vicar to follow suit. They bade a farewell then stole across to the door but their departure was blocked a second time. After a loud tap, the maidservant entered and stood between them, not sure if she should wait till they had gone before she delivered the message. Mary had nothing to hide.
‘Well, what is it?’ she said.
‘A gentleman waits below for you.’
‘Did he give a name?’
‘Nicholas Bracewell.’
As soon as he disembarked with the roan, Nicholas rode along the Strand and entered the town through West Gate. He did not pause to take stock of his birthplace or to allow any room for sentiment to intrude. He was there on urgent business and that took precedence over everything else. All he had to guide him was the name of a dead girl, but it was enough. Coupled with the information he had learnt at sea, it took him straight to Crock Street. The captain had spoken with snarling envy of a big house, and he soon located it. He went first to the stables at the rear of the house. The lad who was cleaning the tack recognised the horse at once and was delighted to have the animal restored to his care, but Nicholas did not tell him how the roan had come into his hands. That information was reserved for the mistress of the house. Certain that he was at the correct address, he walked back to the front door to knock. A maidservant took his name then invited him to step inside and wait while she went to see if he would be received.