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

“I did, yes.” Percy’s nervousness seemed to have returned, although I couldn’t imagine why the memory of tea on the Downs posed any sort of threat to him.

“You were then on good terms?”

“Yes.”

“You shared tea, scones, and clotted cream at the Bide-A-Wee café?” It was strange the effect on the witness of this innocent question. He took out a silk handkerchief, wiped his forehead and had to force himself to answer, “Yes, we did.”

“And talked?”

“We talked, yes.” Percy answered so quietly that the judge was constrained to tell him to speak up.

“And after that conversation you and your brother never met or spoke to each other again?”

There was a long pause. Had I stumbled, guided by a dead hand, on some vital piece of evidence? I couldn’t believe it.

“No. We never did.”

“And he made a will cutting out your family, and leaving all his considerable property to my client, Miss Beasley?”

“He made an alleged will, Mr. Rumpole,” the judge was at pains to remind me.

I bowed respectfully, and said, “If that’s what you call it in the Chancery Division, yes, my Lord. What I want to ask you, Mr. Percival Ollard, is simply this — what did you and your brother say to each other at the Bide-A-Wee café?”

Now the pause seemed endless. Percy looked at Featherstone and got no help. He looked at his wife and his ballet-dancing son. He looked vainly at the doors and the windows, and finally his desperate gaze fell on the learned judge.

“My Lord. Must I answer that question?” he said.

“Mr. Rumpole, do you press the question?” His Lordship asked me with distaste.

“My Lord, I do.” For some reason, I was on to a good thing, and I wasn’t letting it go.

“Then it is relevant and you must answer it, Mr. Ollard.” At least the judge knew his business.

“My L–L-Lord,” Percival Ollard stammered. He was clearly extremely distressed. So distressed that the judge had time to look at the clock and relieve the witness’s agony for an hour. “I see the time,” he said. “You may give us your answer after luncheon, Mr. Percival Ollard. Shall we say, two o’clock...?”

We all rose obediently to our hind legs, with Rumpole muttering, “Bloody Chancery Judge. He’s let old Percy off the hook.”

Miss Beasley vanished somewhere at lunchtime, and when I had returned from a rather unhappy encounter with the plaice in the crypt, I found Guthrie Featherstone waiting for me outside the Court. He offered me a cigarette, which I refused, and he lit my small cigar with a gold lighter.

“Horace,” he said, “we’ve always got on pretty well at the Bar.”

“Have we, Guthrie?”

“My client has come to a rather agonizing decision.”

“You mean he’s going to answer my question?”

“It’s not that exactly. You see, Horace, we’re chucking in the sponge. Our hands are up. We surrender! Matron can have her precious will. We offer no further evidence.”

You could have knocked me down with a Chancery brief, but I tried to sound nonchalant. “Oh really, Featherstone,” I said, “that’s very satisfactory.” It was also somewhat incredible. But Guthrie, it became clear, had other matters on his mind.

“I say, Rumpole. A fellow must be certain of his fee. You’ll let me have my costs out of the estate, won’t you?”

“I suppose so.” I warned him, “I’d better just check.”

“With your client?”

“Not only with her,” I said, “with the deceased. I mean it’s his money, isn’t it?” And I left him thinking, no doubt, that old Horace Rumpole had completely lost his marbles.

When Matron came into view I put the proposition to her; I told her that the Percival Ollards would give her all the boodle, only provided that Guthrie, and their other lawyers, got their costs out of the estate. She and the dear departed must have had a convivial lunch together, agreement was reached, and the deal was on. With about as much joy and enthusiasm as King John might have shown when signing Magna Carta, Mr. Justice Venables pronounced, in the absence of further argument, for the will of the first of March, 1974, benefiting Miss Beasley, and against the earlier will which favoured the Percival Ollards. All parties were allowed their costs out of the estate.

When we came out of Court, Matron seized my hand in her muscular grasp.

“Thanks most awfully, Mr. Rumpole,” she said. “The colonel knew you’d pull it off and hit them for six.”

“Miss Beasley. May I call you ‘Matey’?”

“Please.”

“What’s the truth of it? What did the brothers say to each other over the scones and Darjeeling?”

There was a pause, and then Miss Beasley said with a small, secret smile, “How would I know, Mr. Rumpole? Only the colonel and his brother know that.”