The thought was disturbing. Why should secrecy have been necessary? Hadn’t he trusted her? Or had he never got around to telling her, when Simon was killed? Or after Harry’s death? He had lost interest in everything then, including the will to live . . .

“Before I summon the servants to hear their bequests, there is one other matter that your grandfather wished you to deal with. A recent Codicil, in fact.”

“Indeed?” she said again, still wrestling with the puzzle of the properties.

“It involves the Murder Stone, whatever that may be.”

Caught completely unawares, Francesca stared at him. “But—that’s nothing more than a jest—a largish white stone in the back garden that my cousins were always making a part of their games!”

“Nevertheless, your grandfather has included in his Will a provision for its removal from Devon to Scotland.”

“Scotland? My grandfather has never been to Scotland in his life!”

“That may well be true. But I shall read you the provision: ‘I place upon my heir the grave duty of taking the object known to her as the Murder Stone from its present loction and carrying it by whatever means necessary to Scotland, to be buried in the furthermost corner of that country as far away from Devon as can be reached safely.’ This was drawn up only last month.”

Mystified, Francesca said, “The death of my cousins must have turned his mind—”

“Perhaps this stone reminded him too forcibly of their lost youth,” Branscombe said gravely. “When men are old and ill, small things tend to loom large.”

Francesca shook her head. “It’s such an insignificant matter.”

“Perhaps to you, my dear, But I assure you that to your grandfather it was very important. I was under the impression that Mr. Hatton was rather—superstitious—about this matter.”

“He was never superstitious!And he allowed my cousins to use the stone as they pleased. It was always a part of their games—we were never warned away.”

“I can’t answer that question. But I can assure you that the responsibility is yours and must be regarded as a solemn charge.”

“But surely not right away—not while the war is going on and getting anywhere is so difficult?” She couldn’t imagine how she would manage to dig up the stone, much less arrange for it to travel to Scotland. Not when petrol and tires were so dear. The elderly gardener and the coachman between them couldn’t budge it—it must weight more than both men. Meant to remain forever where it lay—

“At your earliest convenience, of course.” Branscombe’s tone of voice indicated disapproval of excuses.

Francesca was still rattled, but the solicitor sat there waiting for a more appropriate response than argument. She nodded and was relieved when he seemed to be satisfied.