Cupplebaum cleared his throat. “Mr. er…”
“Snoddergas,” said Mr. Snoddergas.
“… Snoddergas, while I would be the first to agree with the brief you have offered regarding the legality of Lord Paul Sanderson’s claims to the titles of his uncle, I would like to put forward three points which might tend to influence any action on your part on behalf of His Grace to bring this before the Probate Registry. First, I would like to mention two properties not included on my lists.”
“What properties are they?” asked Mr. Blatherbell.
“His Grace’s uncle bought two small farms last year,” said Mr. Snoddergas. “They are on our lists.”
Mr. Cupplebaum nodded. “I congratulate you, Mr. Snoddergas, on your keen observation. I wish to state that the Crown is prepared to allow all property purchased during the past two years to pass without challenge to the present Duke of Wesfumbletonshire, if…” he let the word dangle heavily before them, “. . no action is taken to contest the validity of his uncle’s previous will.”
“That is blackmail!” snapped Mr. Blatherbell.
“Mr. Blatherbell,” said Mr. Cupplebaum menacingly. “I strongly advise you to reconsider your ill-founded remark. I might add that the advisors to the Crown were exceedingly magnanimous in permitting this offer to be made, especially in view of my third point, Shall I continue?”
Blatherbell merely nodded.
“The second point,” continued Mr. Cupplebaum, “is to consider the lengthy and costly litigation to be incurred on behalf of His Grace by seeking to set aside our claim in the High Court.”
“The reward is large enough to justify all costs,” said Mr. Blatherbell.
“Then may I alter your opinion by introducing the third point,” said Mr. Cupplebaum, with a smug, self-satisfied, triumphant gleam in his eyes. “I will do this by asking you a number of questions, Mr. Blatherbell, Did His Grace, moments before his death, order you to draw up another will?”
Mr. Blatherbell’s face paled and he remained silent
“Very well,” went on Mr. Cupplebaum. “I see no need for you to answer. But, I shall continue. Was not his last wish that his entire estate - let me emphasize that again - his entire estate be left to the Crown? I should explain that we already have several signed statements to that effect. Furthermore, did not His Grace grasp a quill and attempt to sign his name to this bequest at the moment of his death? And last, but not least …” his teeth flashed in a quick, lethal smile, “… did not His Grace state publicly at least twice that he did not want his nephew, Lord Paul Sanderson, to receive a worn farthing, a withered blade of grass, a stale turd from the stables?”
The silence in the room could be cut with a blunt knife. Finally Paul leaned back in his chair and lifted his booted feet onto the table,
“How much are the two farms worth?” he asked.
Mr. Blatherbell swallowed. “Ten thousand pounds for the two - at the most.”
Paul chuckled. “Well, that will at least take care of the Madrid, Riviera and Baden Baden venture.”
“But, Your Grace,” blurted out Mr. Blatherbell. “How can you sit there so calmly after losing over five million pounds?”
“That’s easy,” said Paul. I never had them.” He laughed aloud. “What do you think of that old bastard? Sinking the knife to the hilt even from his grave.” His eyes followed the line of portraits of previous Dukes extending the length of one wall and stopped on the last one - a painting of his uncle. “But, by the Lord,” lie mused softly, “I bet you’re whirling in your coffin to think that my picture will be hanging next to yours.”
Paul and the three solicitors ate supper in the dining room, waited on by the half-naked servants of the house. It was a cheerless meal, even though bottle after bottle of wine was consumed. Paul finally pushed his plate away and lit a cigar.
“What about your commission?” he asked Mr. Blatherbell.
“There will be very little,” said Mr. Blatherbell sadly. “Our agreement concerned only the final will or the administering of the property if he died intestate. The Crown owes us nothing.”
“We’ll share the money from the sale of the farms,” said Paul.
“Thank you, Your Grace, we are grateful. It will help to defray our expenses.”
Paul sat up in his chair. “Let’s search the castle. Maybe the old bastard had bought something else. After all, he took in eight hundred thousand pounds during the past two years, and, knowing him, he wouldn’t have spent much of it. Where should we start?”
“I would suggest the library,” said Mr. Snoddergas. “I know he did most of his work there before he became ill.”
“Let’s go,” said Paul, rising from his chair. He led them to the library. It was a huge, cold-looking room of stone, one wall literally covered by shelves of books with a captive ladder fixed to a rail at the top to reach the upper tiers. In front of the heavily-draped windows stood a large double-desk containing rows of drawers on each side, its top littered with piles of papers and books tied with pieces of string. It was a rat’s nest. They lighted candles standing on the desk and in wall holders.
Paul took command. “Mr. Poopendal, you will look in the boxes. Mr. Blatherbell, you will glance through the books. It would be characteristic of my uncle to hide something where no one would think of searching for it. Mr. Snoddergas, you will take the desk drawers. I’ll look over the things on the desk.”
Each one set to work. Mr. Blatherbell moved the ladder into position and climbed to the top shelf, pulling out books and examining them. Mr. Poopendal cut the string of one box, drew out a handful of papers, and sat on the floor to study them.
“The drawers are locked,” said Mr. Snoddergas.
Paul picked up a paper-knife and snapped the lock, then went back to the litter on top of the table.
The candles had burned nearly halfway down when Paul rose, arched his weary back, and went to the door. He whistled, and instantly the female butler appeared. “Bring some wine,” he told her, pinching her cheek.
She purred like a kitten. “At once, Your Grace,” she said, tripping over her feet as she hurried away.
Paul went back into the room. Mr. Blatherbell and Mr. Poopendal were gathered around Mr. Snoddergas, excitedly reading a document he was holding.
“Look, Your Grace!” shouted Mr. Snoddergas. “Your uncle does own some other property.”
“What is it?” asked Paul.
“The deed to a … a ranch, in a place called the Territory of New Mexico.”
“The Territory of New Mexico? Where the devil is that?”
“It is in the United States,” said Mr. Blatherbell. “I believe it is in the west, or the southwest, of that country.”
“But there are only Indians in the west of the United States,” said
