Murder in the Museum, A British Library Crime Classic by John Rowland

Author:John Rowland
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Poisoned Pen Press
Published: 2016-02-24T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter XII

The Will Again

Mr. Fairhurst shook his head despondently.

“I’m afraid, my dear Miss Arnell, that there is little to be done,” he said.

Violet Arnell gazed mournfully at him, tears forming in her eyes.

“Now, don’t be silly, Henry,” snapped his sister. “If all you can do is be a Job’s comforter like that, then you’re a bigger fool than I took you for, and that’s a pity.”

“Well,” Henry argued, “if all that the police will tell me is that Wilkinson died a natural death, that Mr. Baker was on the spot (that is, at Pinner) at which he could easily have put a poisoned sweet in the packet in your father’s pocket, and that he was undoubtedly outside the British Museum gates (if not inside them) on the night when Crocker was murdered, what can I do?”

“Do something, Henry,” snapped Sarah. She was clearly on tenterhooks, disliking the idea of seeing Violet Arnell in such a tearful, woebegone state.

“There’s only one thing,” Henry added, after considerable deep thought, “that occurs to me.”

“And that is…?” Violet Arnell awaited his words with an eagerness which was exceedingly flattering to his vanity.

“That is—your father’s will,” he announced, and then looked at her to see what effect this would have.

“But what use do you think that can be?” she asked in plaintive tones.

Henry did his best to look impressive. “I don’t quite know,” he said slowly. “The point is, in a case like this, where all the clues more or less peter out, to investigate as fully as we can the few clues that we have.”

“But in what way is my father’s will a clue?”

“I don’t know,” said Henry again. “But it is one of the few things which we have, and we must do our best to see what we can make of it.”

Violet Arnell smiled. It was not a very triumphant smile—it was, as a matter of fact, a very milk-and-watery smile, but the fact of its managing to break through the hitherto uniform gloom of her countenance was something to be grateful for, and Henry felt quite a hero in consequence. He was, however, quite prepared to admit that the smile was due more to her imagination than to any prowess which he had yet achieved as a detective.

“As a matter of fact,” she said, “I have it here in my handbag. I have been carrying it around with me, as Inspector Shelley, after photographing it, told me to take great care of it, as it might be an important clue later on.”

Henry beamed. “There; what did I tell you?” he said. “An important clue. And I went straight for it, you see.”

“You might,” said Sarah with a supercilious sniff, “do something more than talk about it, Henry. Then we might think a little more of you as a detective.”

Violet produced the document from her handbag, and handed it to Henry. He read it aloud.

“This is the last will and testament of me, Julius Arnell, Professor Emeritus in the University of Portavon.

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