His glance became fixed on Francis. Francis had stood up. He was very white and shaking. He said in a loud, drawling, melodramatic tone which only Sophia knew was meant to be quietly impressive:

‘Mr Marriot. Just a moment. I’ve got something rather interesting here.’

And he held out a small, folded paper.

Everyone turned to stare at him except Harry, who, with his arms folded, was staring down at his shoes. Uncle Preston was heard to mutter ‘T-t-t!’

But Mr Marriot’s dislike of the Garden passion for melodrama rose to the occasion. He certainly looked a little startled, but he said, with just the right amount of elderly impatience:

‘Well, what is it? I am afraid I cannot see it from that distance. Will you kindly bring it over here?’

‘Certainly,’ said Francis, twisting his mouth on one side, and he slowly made his way to the front of the room, in a satisfactorily complete hush. Bless him! he is enjoying himself, thought Sophia, as he brushed past her, but he’s wishing he hadn’t said anything, too, and I suppose that’s Father’s will. Bang goes my share of the practice … I bet you.

Mr Marriot took the piece of paper, unfolded it, read it, read it again paying particular attention to the date at the top and the three signatures at the bottom, while Aunt Grace and Auntie Loo exchanged the wildest of glances with Aunt Maxine, and Uncle Preston sat and glared at Francis, who was looking down over Mr Marriot’s elbow at the piece of paper, resting his shaking fingers on the table.

‘Well,’ said Mr Marriot, looking up after what seemed an extremely long pause, ‘this seems to be Dr Garden’s Will. It is very short, but quite legally correct, and properly dated, signed and witnessed.’

His face was as expressionless as he could make it. He was very annoyed indeed, deeply angered by the dramatic manner in which Francis had produced the will, by this fresh evidence of Dr Garden’s disdain of his services as a lawyer and advice as an old acquaintance, and above all, by Francis’s concealment of the will for so long. For it was dated September 3rd, a good four months before Dr Garden’s death. The miserable boy must have been carrying it round in his pocket for all that time, telling nobody about it, and enjoying the joke in a perverse, morbid way which was most unsuitable in a lad of sixteen, but quite in keeping with the Garden temperament. And how the boy must have laughed to himself when he, Arthur Marriot, confessed that his attempts to get Dr Garden to make a fresh will had been snubbed!

However, the will must be read. He stood up again clearing his throat, and said:

‘The will, which appears to be written upon a leaf from a prescription pad, is quite in order. It is dated September 3rd, 1934, and it says simply, ‘I leave everything I possess to my eldest son, Harold Hartley Garden.’ It is signed in full by Dr Garden, and witnessed by M. E. North and George Bailey.’