They lunched successfully, finishing off with ripe Stilton and biscuits. Mr. Rattisbon had two and a half glasses of hock to Verity’s one. His face, normally the colour of one of his own parchments, became quite pink.

They withdrew into the garden and sat in weather-worn deck chairs under the lime trees.

“How very pleasant, my dear Verity,” said Mr. Rattisbon. “Upon my word, how quite delightful! I suppose, alas, I must keep my eye upon the time. And if I may, I shall telephone Miss Prunella. I mustn’t overstay my welcome.”

“Oh, fiddle, Ratsy!” said Verity, who had called him by this Kenneth Grahamish nickname for some forty years, “what did you think about the inquest?”

The professional change came over him. He joined his fingertips, rattled his tongue and made his noise.

“M’nah,” he said. “My dear Verity. While you were preparing our delicious luncheon I thought a great deal about the inquest and I may say that the more I thought the less I liked it. I will not disguise from you, I am uneasy.”

“So am I. What exactly is your worry? Don’t go all professionally rectitudinal like a diagram. Confide. Do, Ratsy, I’m the soul of discretion. My lips shall be sealed with red tape, I promise.”

“My dear girl, I don’t doubt it. I had, in any case, decided to ask you: you were, were you not, a close friend of Mrs. Foster?”

“A very old friend. I think perhaps the closeness was more on her side than mine if that makes sense.”

“She confided in you?”

“She’d confide in the Town Crier if she felt the need but yes, she did quite a lot.”

“Do you know if she has recently made a Will?”

“Oh,” said Verity, “is that your trouble?”

“Part of it, at least. I must tell you that she did in fact execute a Will four years ago. I have reason to believe that she may have made a later one but have no positive knowledge of such being the case. She — yah — she wrote to me three weeks ago advising me of the terms of a new Will she wished me to prepare. I was — frankly appalled. I replied, as I hoped, temperately, asking her to take thought. She replied at once that I need concern myself no further in the matter, with additions of a — of an intemperate — I would go so far as to say a hostile, character. So much so that I concluded that I had been given the — not to put too fine a point upon it — sack.”

“Preposterous!” cried Verity. “She couldn’t!”

“As it turned out she didn’t. On my writing a formal letter asking if she wished the return of Passcoigne documents which we hold, and I may add, have held since the barony was created, she merely replied by telegram.”

“What did it say?”

“It said ‘Don’t be silly.’ ”

“How like Syb!”

“Upon which,” said Mr. Rattisbon, throwing himself back in his chair, “I concluded that there was to be no severance of the connection. That is the last communication I had from her. I know not if she made a new Will. But the fact that I — yah — jibbed, might have led her to act on her own initiative. Provide herself,” said Mr. Rattisbon, lowering his voice as one who speaks of blasphemy, “with A Form. From some stationer. Alas.”

“Since she was in cool storage at Greengages, she’d have had to ask somebody to get the form for her. She didn’t ask me.”

“I think I hear your telephone, my dear,” Mr. Rattisbon said.

It was Prunella. “Godma V,” she said with unusual clarity, “I saw you talking to that fantastic old Mr. Rattisbon. Do you happen to know where he was going?”

“He’s here. He’s thinking of visiting you.”

“Oh, good. Because I suppose he ought to know. Because, actually, I’ve found something he ought to see.”

“What have you found, darling?”

“I’m afraid,” Prunella’s voice escalated to a plaintive squeak, “it’s a Will.”

When Mr. Rattisbon had taken his perturbed leave and departed, bolt upright, at the wheel of his car, Prunella rang again to say she felt that before he arrived she must tell her godmother more about her find.

“I can’t get hold of Gideon,” she said, “so I thought I’d tell you. Sorry, darling, but you know what I mean.”

“Of course I do.”

“Sweet of you. Well. It was in Mummy’s desk in the boudoir top drawer. In a stuck-up envelope with ‘Will’ on it. It was signed and witnessed ten days ago. At Greengages, of course, and it’s on a printed form thing.”

“How did it get to Quintern?”

“Mrs. Jim says Mummy asked Bruce Gardener to take it and put it in the desk. He gave it to Mrs. Jim and she put it in the desk. Godma V, it’s a stinker.”

“Oh dear.”

“It’s — you’ll never believe this — I can’t myself. It starts off by saying she leaves half her estate to me. You do know, don’t you, that darling Mummy was Rich Bitch. Sorry, that’s a fun-phrase. But true.”

“I did suppose she was.”

“I mean really rich. Rolling.”

“Yes.”

“Partly on account of grandpa Pascoigne and partly because Daddy was a wizard with the lolly. Where was I?”

“Half the estate to you,” Verity prompted.

“Yes. That’s over and above what Daddy entailed on me if that’s what it’s called. And Quintern’s entailed on me, too, of course.”

“”Nothing the matter with that, is there?”

“Wait for it. You’ll never, never believe this — half to me only if I marry awful Swingles — John Swingletree. I wouldn’t have thought it possible. Not even with Mummy, I wouldn’t. It doesn’t matter, of course. I mean, I’ve got more than is good for me with the entailment. Of course it’s a lot less on account of inflation and all that but I’ve been thinking, actually, that I ought to give it away when I marry. Gideon doesn’t agree.”

“You astonish me.”

“But he wouldn’t stop me. Anyway he’s rather more than O.K. for lolly.” Prunella’s voice trembled. “But, Godma V,” she said, “how she could! How she could think it’d make me do it! Marry Swingles and cut Gideon just for the cash. It’s repulsive.”

“I wouldn’t have believed it of her. Does Swingletree want you to marry him, by the way?”

“Oh, yes,” said Prunella impatiently. “Never stops asking, the poor sap.”

“It must have been when she was in a temper,” said Verity. “She’d have torn it up when she came round.”

“But she didn’t, did she? And she’d had plenty of time to come round. And you haven’t heard anything yet. Who do you suppose she’s left to rest to? — well, all but twenty-five thousand pounds? She’s left twenty-five thousand pounds to Bruce Gardener, as well as a super little house in the village that is part of the estate and provision for him to be kept on as long as he likes at Quintern. But the rest — including the half if I don’t marry Swingles — to whom do you suppose—”

A wave of nausea came over Verity. She sat down by her telephone and saw with detachment that the receiver shook in her hand.

“Are you there?” Prunella was saying. “Hullo! Godma V?”

“I’m here.”

“I give you three guesses. You’ll never get it. Do you give up?”

“Yes.”

“Your heart-throb, darling, Dr. Basil Schramm.”

A long pause followed. Verity tried to speak but her mouth was dry.

“Godma, are you there? Is something the matter with your telephone? Did you hear me?”

“Yes, I heard. I–I simply don’t know what to say.”

“Isn’t it awful?”

“It’s appalling.”

“I told you she was crackers about him, didn’t I?”

“Yes, yes, you did and I saw it for myself. But to do this—!”

“I know. When I don’t marry that ass Swingles, Schramm’ll get the lot.”

“Good God!” said Verity.

“Well, won’t he? I don’t know. Don’t ask me. Perhaps it’ll turn out to be not proper. The Will, I mean.”

“Ratsy will pounce on that — Mr. Rattisbon — if it is so. Is it witnessed?”

“It seems to be. By G. M. Johnson and Marleena Briggs. Housemaids at Greengages, I should think, wouldn’t you?”