Mr Bailey, thought Sophia. Mr Bailey, the pale, tubby, little dispenser who made up the medicines in his damp little cavern smelling of chip boxes and iodine, behind the big waiting room. Mr Bailey had been very fond of her father; he had worked for him for fifteen years, and knew how to keep a secret.

And Mrs North, the red-haired beauty with the large eyes and thin lips, was also fond of Dr Garden and knew how to keep a secret, though her period of service had not lasted for fifteen years, and had been stopped by death.

The elders were too distressed and outraged at Francis’s behaviour to say a word. They all looked towards Mr Marriot as sheep towards the sheepdog; they seemed to feel that the affront had been aimed at him, and he must therefore administer the reproof. Their turn would come later; like anything, it would.

But all Mr Marriot said was:

‘Well, this alters matters considerably, of course. It means that your eldest brother inherits everything …’

‘But that won’t make any difference,’ said Harry suddenly, looking up. ‘I shall split it with the others just the same.’

He resumed his shoe staring. He was no longer merry and elated, but quite sober, and looked pale and distressed; he was wishing that the old Deedle hadn’t written to him suggesting this plan a few days ago.

It would have been much more sensible to destroy the will, as he, Harry, had suggested four months ago, when Francis first told him about it. He did so hate fuss, but Francis rather enjoyed it.

‘That is generous of you,’ said Mr Marriot disapprovingly, ‘and shows a fine spirit. May I ask,’ turning to Francis, ‘how this document came to be in your possession, and for how long you have had it, and why you thought fit to conceal its existence from everybody?’

‘Father told me not to tell anyone about it,’ said Francis defiantly. ‘He said people were too fond of trying to run him. He wrote it one evening, after surgery, when Mrs North had come in to see him, and we were playing poker with her and Strang. (Strang was a railway porter that Father liked; he used to play cards a lot with him.) He wouldn’t sign it, so Father called in Bailey and made him sign it, instead. And he gave it to me (I was home for the weekend) to take care of, and said I was to hang on to it, and not tell anyone till he was dead. That’s all.’

‘I see. And why did you not inform your uncle, or one of your aunts, or even your sister of the existence of the will, as soon as your father was dead?’

Francis said nothing. He had his reasons, but they could not be aired here.

‘Well, well, it does not matter,’ said Mr Marriot. ‘It is a little irregular, and I consider that you have behaved in a peculiar, not to say impertinent, manner. But no harm is done. No harm at all. I am delighted to see that your father reposed so much confidence in you. Mr Garden, I must now congratulate you,’ and he turned to the unhappy Harry, and held out his hand.