exclaimed.
“I should say to various charities.” Mr. Rosseter, who had been standing all this time, relapsed into the swivel chair behind his desk. “In point of fact, I was occupied with the details of the administration when you came in; Miss Snaith appointed me as her executor.”
Cadogan felt blank. Unless Rosseter was lying, a superb motive had been whisked away from under their noses. Charities did not murder elderly maiden ladies for the purpose of obtaining benefactions.
That, then, is the position, gentlemen,” said Mr. Rosseter briskly. “And now if you’ll forgive me”—he gestured—“a great deal of work—”
“One more thing, if you’ll be so kind,” Fen interrupted. “Or, now I come to think of it, two. Did you ever meet Miss Tardy?”
It seemed to Cadogan that the solicitor avoided looking Fen in the eye. “Once. A very strong-willed and moral person.”
“I see. And you put an advertisement in the Oxford Mail the day before yesterday—”
Mr. Rosseter laughed. “Ah, that. Nothing to do with Miss Snaith or Miss Tardy, I assure you. I’m not so unpopular”—he grinned with unconvincing roguishness—“as to have only one client, you know.”
“A curious advertisement—”
“It was, wasn’t it? But I’m afraid I should be violating a confidence if I were to explain. And now, gentlemen, if ever I can deal with any business for you…”
The Dickensian clerk ushered them out. As he departed, Cadogan said wryly:
“My only second cousin. A millionairess. And she leaves me nothing—not even a book of comic verse,” he added, remembering Mrs. Wheatley’s comment on this prepossession of Miss Snaith. “Well, it’s a hard world.”
It was a pity he did not look round as he spoke. For Mr. Rosseter was gazing after him with an odd expression on his face.
The mild sun gleamed on the thronged street outside. Cycling undergraduates pushed between the jams of cars and buses, and the housewives of Oxford shopped.
“Well,” said Cadogan, “was he telling the truth?”
“We might know,” said Fen aggrievedly, as they pushed along the crowded pavement, “if you hadn’t started off by behaving like something out of a mental home.”
“Well, you shouldn’t suddenly foist these impostures on me. There’s one thing, the centre of interest seems to have shifted from Miss Tardy to Miss Snaith and her millions.”
“As far as I’m concerned, it’s shifted to Mr. Rosseter.”
How do you mean?”
“You see”—Fen cannoned into a woman who had suddenly stopped in front of him to look at a shop window—“you see, any ordinary solicitor, if two total strangers rushed into his office and demanded details of his clients’ private affairs, would quite certainly just kick them out. Why was Mr. Rosseter so candid, so open and informative? Because he was telling a pack of lies? But as he quite rightly remarked, we can check what he said from Somerset House. All the same, I don’t trust Mr. Rosseter.”
“Well, I’m going to the police,” said Cadogan. “If there’s anything I hate, it’s the sort of book in which characters don’t go to the police when they’ve no earthly reason for not doing so.”
“You’ve got an earthly reason for not doing so immediately.”
“What’s that?”
“The pubs are open,” said Fen, as one who after a long night sees dawn on the hills. “Let’s go and have a drink before we do anything rash.”
4. The Episode of the Indignant Janeite
“Which in effect,” said Cadogan, “leaves us exactly where we were before.”
They were sitting in the bar of the ‘Mace and Sceptre’, Fen drinking whisky, Cadogan beer. The ‘Mace and Sceptre’ is a large and quite hideous hotel which stands in the very centre of Oxford and which embodies, without apparent shame, almost every architectural style devised since the times of primitive man. Against this initial disadvantage it struggles nobly to create an atmosphere of homeliness
“I should say to various charities.” Mr. Rosseter, who had been standing all this time, relapsed into the swivel chair behind his desk. “In point of fact, I was occupied with the details of the administration when you came in; Miss Snaith appointed me as her executor.”
Cadogan felt blank. Unless Rosseter was lying, a superb motive had been whisked away from under their noses. Charities did not murder elderly maiden ladies for the purpose of obtaining benefactions.
That, then, is the position, gentlemen,” said Mr. Rosseter briskly. “And now if you’ll forgive me”—he gestured—“a great deal of work—”
“One more thing, if you’ll be so kind,” Fen interrupted. “Or, now I come to think of it, two. Did you ever meet Miss Tardy?”
It seemed to Cadogan that the solicitor avoided looking Fen in the eye. “Once. A very strong-willed and moral person.”
“I see. And you put an advertisement in the Oxford Mail the day before yesterday—”
Mr. Rosseter laughed. “Ah, that. Nothing to do with Miss Snaith or Miss Tardy, I assure you. I’m not so unpopular”—he grinned with unconvincing roguishness—“as to have only one client, you know.”
“A curious advertisement—”
“It was, wasn’t it? But I’m afraid I should be violating a confidence if I were to explain. And now, gentlemen, if ever I can deal with any business for you…”
The Dickensian clerk ushered them out. As he departed, Cadogan said wryly:
“My only second cousin. A millionairess. And she leaves me nothing—not even a book of comic verse,” he added, remembering Mrs. Wheatley’s comment on this prepossession of Miss Snaith. “Well, it’s a hard world.”
It was a pity he did not look round as he spoke. For Mr. Rosseter was gazing after him with an odd expression on his face.
The mild sun gleamed on the thronged street outside. Cycling undergraduates pushed between the jams of cars and buses, and the housewives of Oxford shopped.
“Well,” said Cadogan, “was he telling the truth?”
“We might know,” said Fen aggrievedly, as they pushed along the crowded pavement, “if you hadn’t started off by behaving like something out of a mental home.”
“Well, you shouldn’t suddenly foist these impostures on me. There’s one thing, the centre of interest seems to have shifted from Miss Tardy to Miss Snaith and her millions.”
“As far as I’m concerned, it’s shifted to Mr. Rosseter.”
How do you mean?”
“You see”—Fen cannoned into a woman who had suddenly stopped in front of him to look at a shop window—“you see, any ordinary solicitor, if two total strangers rushed into his office and demanded details of his clients’ private affairs, would quite certainly just kick them out. Why was Mr. Rosseter so candid, so open and informative? Because he was telling a pack of lies? But as he quite rightly remarked, we can check what he said from Somerset House. All the same, I don’t trust Mr. Rosseter.”
“Well, I’m going to the police,” said Cadogan. “If there’s anything I hate, it’s the sort of book in which characters don’t go to the police when they’ve no earthly reason for not doing so.”
“You’ve got an earthly reason for not doing so immediately.”
“What’s that?”
“The pubs are open,” said Fen, as one who after a long night sees dawn on the hills. “Let’s go and have a drink before we do anything rash.”
4. The Episode of the Indignant Janeite
“Which in effect,” said Cadogan, “leaves us exactly where we were before.”
They were sitting in the bar of the ‘Mace and Sceptre’, Fen drinking whisky, Cadogan beer. The ‘Mace and Sceptre’ is a large and quite hideous hotel which stands in the very centre of Oxford and which embodies, without apparent shame, almost every architectural style devised since the times of primitive man. Against this initial disadvantage it struggles nobly to create an atmosphere of homeliness
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