“Did you get in touch with anybody?”
“Yes. I went to Crofton- which was mentioned in my grandfather’s letters- and saw a lawyer in the town there- a Mr. Probyn of Croftover. You know him?”
“I’ve heard of him.”
“Yes. He was very kind, and very much interested to see me. He showed me the genealogy of the family, and how my grandfather should have been the heir to the property.”
“But the property had been lost by that time, had it not?”
“Yes. And, unfortunately- when I showed him my grandmother’s marriage certificate, he- he told me that it was no certificate at all. I fear that Simon Dawson was a sad sinner. He took my grandmother to live with him, as many of the planters did take women of colour, and he gave her a document which was supposed to be a certificate of marriage signed by the Governor of the country. But when Mr. Probyn inquired into it, he found that it was all a sham, and no such governor had ever existed. It was distressing to my feelings as a Christian, of course- but since there was no property, it didn’t make any actual difference to us.”
“That was bad luck,” said Peter, sympathetically.
“I called resignation to my aid,” said the old Indian, with a dignified little bow. “Mr. Probyn was also good enough to send me with a letter of introduction to Miss Agatha Dawson, the only surviving member of our family.”
“Yes, she lived at Leahampton.”
“She received me in the most charming way, and when I told her who I was- acknowledging, of course, that I had not the slightest claim upon her- she was good enough to make me an allowance of £100 a year, which she continued til her death.”
“Was that the only time you saw her?”
“Oh, yes. I would not intrude upon her. It could not be agreeable to her to have a relative of my complexion continually at her house,” said the Rev. Hallelujah, with a kind of proud humility. “But she gave me lunch and spoke very kindly.”
“And forgive my askin’- hope it isn’t impertinent- but does Miss Whittaker keep up the allowance?”
“Well, no- I- perhaps I should not expect it, but it would have made a great difference to our circumstances. And Miss Dawson rather led me to hope that it might be continued. She told me that she did not like the idea of making a will, but, she said, ‘It is not necessary at all, Cousin Hallelujah, Mary will have all my money when I am gone, and she can continue the allowance on my behalf.’ But perhaps Miss Whittaker did not get the money after all?”
“Oh, yes, she did. It is very odd. She may have forgotten about it.”
“I took the liberty of writing her a few words of spiritual comfort when her aunt died. Perhaps that did not please her. Of course I did not write again. Yet I am loath to believe that she has hardened her heart against the unfortunate. No doubt there is some explanation.”
“No doubt,” said Lord Peter, “Well, I’m very grateful to you for your kindness. That has quite cleared up the little matter of Simon and his descendants. I’ll just make a note of the names and dates, if I may.”
“Certainly. I will bring you the paper which Mr. Probyn kindly made out for me, showing the whole of the family. Excuse me.”
He was not gone long, and soon reappeared with a genealogy, neatly typed out on a legal-looking sheet of blue paper.
Dawson Pedigree Chart
Wimsey began to note down the particulars concerning Simon Dawson and his son, Bosun, and his grandson Hallelujah. Suddenly he put his finger on an entry further along.
“Look here, Charles,” he said. “Here is our Father Paul- the bad boy who turned R.C. and became a monk.”
“So he is. But- he’s dead, Peter- died in 1922, three years before Agatha Dawson.”
“Yes. We must wash him out. Well, these little setbacks will occur.”
They finished their notes, bade farewell to the Rev. Hallelujah, and emerged to find Esmeralda valiantly defending Mrs. Merdle against all comers. Lord Peter handed over the half-crown and took delivery of the car.
“The more I hear of Mary Whittaker,” he said, “the less I like her. She might at least have given poor old Cousin Hallelujah his hundred quid.”
“She’s a rapacious female,” agreed Parker. “Well, anyway, Father Paul’s safely dead, and Cousin Hallelujah is illegitimately descended. So there’s an end of the long-lost claimant from overseas.”
“Damn it all!” cried Wimsey, taking both hands from the steering-wheel and scratching his head, to Parker’s extreme alarm, “that strikes a familiar chord. Now where in thunder have I heard those words before?”
Chapter 14 Sharp Quillets of the Law
“Things done without example- in their issue
Are to be feared.”
Henry VIII, 1,2
Murbles is coming round to dinner tonight, Charles,” said Wimsey. “I wish you’d stop and have grub with us too. I want to put all this family history business before him.”
“Where are you dining?”
“Oh, at the flat. I’m sick of restaurant meals. Bunter does a wonderful bloody steak and there are new peas and potatoes and genuine English grass. Gerald sent it up from Denver specially. You can’t buy it. Come along. Ye olde English fare, don’t you know, and a bottle of what Pepys calls Ho Bryon. Do you good.”
Parker accepted. But he noticed that, even when speaking on his beloved subject of food, Wimsey was vague and abstracted. Something seemed to be worrying at the back of his mind, and even when Mr. Murbles appeared, full of mild legal humour, Wimsey listened to him with extreme courtesy indeed, but with only half his attention.
They were partly through dinner when, apropos of nothing, Wimsey suddenly brought his fist down on the mahogany with a crash that startled even Bunter, causing him to jerk a great crimson splash of the Haut Brion over the edge of the glass upon the tablecloth.
“Got it!” said Lord Peter.
Bunter in a low shocked voice begged his lordship’s pardon.
“Murbles,” said Wimsey, without heeding him, “isn’t there a new Property Act?”
“Why yes,” said Mr. Murbles, in some surprise. He had been in the middle of a story about a young barrister and a Jewish pawnbroker when the interruption occurred, and was a little put out.
“I knew I’d read that sentence somewhere- you know, Charles- doing away with the long-lost claimant from overseas. It was in some paper or other about a couple of years ago, and it had to do with the new Act. Of course it said what a blow it would be to romantic novelists. Doesn’t the Act wash out claims of distant relatives, Murbles?”
“In a sense, it does,” replied the solicitor. “Not, of course, in the entailed property, which has its own rules. But I understand you to refer to ordinary personal property or real estate not entailed.”
“Yes- what happens to that, now, if the owner of the property dies without a will?”
“It is rather a complicated matter,” began Mr. Murbles.
“Well, look here, first of all-before the jolly old Act was passed, the next of kin got it all, didn’t he- no matter if he was only a seventh cousin fifteen times removed?”
“In a general way, that is correct. If there was husband or wife- ”
“Wash out the husband and wife. Suppose the person is unmarried and has no near relations living. It would have gone-”