Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 100, Nos. 4 & 5. Whole Nos. 603 & 604, October 1992

“What I have told Miss Beasley is,” he said, “that she has no locus standi.” I had no doubt he was right but I hoped that the learned Pontefract was about to make his meaning clear to a humble hack. Happily he did so. “Miss Beasley is in no way related to the late colonel.”

“In absolutely no way!” Matron was clearly not keen to be associated with the Percival Ollards.

“And she doesn’t seem to have been named in any other will.”

“We haven’t found any other will. Yet.” Matron looked more than ever like the Duke of Wellington about to meet her Waterloo.

“So she can’t contest the February 1970 will in favour of Peter Ollard. If it fails, she stands to gain... nothing.” Mr. Pontefract broke the news gently but clearly to the assembled company.

Little as I know of the law of wills, some vague subconscious stirring, some remote memory of a glance at Chancery in a Nutshell before diving into the Bar Finals, made me feel that the sepulchral Pontefract had a point. I summed up the situation judicially by saying:

“Of course in law, Miss Beasley, your very experienced solicitor is perfectly right. I agree with what he has said and I have nothing to add.”

“There is another law, Mr. Rumpole.” Miss Beasley spoke quietly, but very firmly. “The higher law of God’s justice.”

“I’m afraid you won’t find they’ll pay much attention to that in the Chancery Division.” I hated to disillusion her.

“Miss Beasley insisted we saw you, Mr. Rumpole. But you have only confirmed my own views. Legally, we haven’t got a leg to stand on.” Mr. Pontefract was gathering up his papers, ready for the “off.”

“Well, we’ll jolly well have to find one, won’t we?” Matron sounded unexpectedly cheerful. “Mr. Rumpole, I won’t keep you any longer. I’ll be in touch as soon as we find that leg you’re looking for.”

And now Miss Beasley stood up in a businesslike way. I felt as though I’d been ordered a couple of tranquilizers and a blanket bath and not to fuss because she’d be round with Doctor in the morning. Before she went, however, I had one question to ask:

“Just one thing, Miss Beasley. You say the late colonel recommended me, as a sound legal adviser?”

“He did indeed! He was mentioning your name only last week,” Miss Beasley answered cheerfully.

“Last week? But, Miss Beasley, I understand that Colonel Ollard departed this life almost six months ago.”

“Oh yes, Mr. Rumpole,” she explained, as though to a child, “that’s when he died. Not when he was speaking to me.”

At which point I sneezed, and Matron said, “You want to watch that cold, Mr. Rumpole. It could turn into something nasty.”

Miss Beasley, of course, was right. The reason I hadn’t been able to concentrate with my usual merciless clarity on the law governing testamentary matters was that I had the dry throat and misty eyes of an old legal hack with a nasty cold coming on. A rare burst of duty took me down to the Old Bailey for a small matter of warehouse-breaking, and four nights later saw me drinking, for medicinal reasons, a large brandy, sucking a clinical thermometer, and shivering in front of my electric fire at Froxbury Court, dressed in pyjamas and a dressing gown. She Who Must Be Obeyed looked at me without any particular sympathy. There has never been much of the Florence Nightingale about my wife Hilda.

“Rumpole! That’s the third time you’ve taken your temperature this evening. What is it?”

“It’s sunk down to normal, Hilda. I must be fading away.”

“Really! It’s only a touch of flu. Doctor MacClintock says there’s a lot of it about.”

“It’s a touch of death, if you want my opinion. There’s a lot of that about too.”

“Well, I hope you’ll stay in the warm tomorrow.”

“I can’t do that! Got to get down to the Bailey. The jury are coming back in my murder in the morning.” I sneezed and continued bravely, “I’d better be in at the death.”

“That’s what you will be in at. If you must

go traipsing down to the Old Bailey, don’t expect me to feel sorry for you.”

I was about to say, of course I never expected Hilda to feel sorry for me, when the telephone rang. She rushed to answer it (unlike me, she takes an unnatural delight in answering telephones), and announced that a Miss Rosemary Beasley was on the line and wished to communicate with her counsel as a matter of urgency. Cursing the fact that Miss Beasley, unlike my other clients, wasn’t tucked up in the remand wing of the nick, safe from the telephone, I took the instrument and breathed into it a rheumy, “Good evening.”

Matron came back, loud and clear, “Mr. Rumpole. I am sitting here at my planchette.”

“At your what?” Miss Beasley had me mystified.

“Sometimes I use the board, or the wine glass, or the cards. Sometimes I have Direct Communication.”

“That must be nice for you. Miss Beasley, what are you talking about?”

“Tonight I am at the planchette. I have just had such a nice chat with Colonel Ollard.”

“With the late Colonel Ollard?”