“None. And I have none now. Why should I? As I expect you know, a holograph will is as valid as any other, provided it’s signed, dated and witnessed, and no one familiar with Peregrine Westhall’s hand could possibly doubt that he wrote this will. The provisions are precisely those made in a previous will—not the one immediately preceding this, but one which was typed in my office in 1995, taken by me to the house in which he was then living and witnessed by two of my staff who came with me for that purpose. The provisions were eminently reasonable. With the exception of his library, which was left to his school if they wanted it, but otherwise was to be sold, all that he possessed was left in equal shares to Marcus, his son, and his daughter, Candace. So in this he was just to the despised sex. I had some influence on him while I was in practice. I exercised it.”

“Was there any other will which preceded this for which probate has now been granted?”

“Yes, one made in the month before Peregrine Westhall left the nursing home and moved to Stone Cottage with Candace and Marcus. You may as well have a sight of it. This, too, was handwritten. It will give you the opportunity to compare the writing. If you’ll kindly unlock the bureau and lift the lid, you’ll find a black deed box. It’s the only one I have brought with me. Perhaps I needed it as a kind of talisman, an assurance that one day I might be working again.”

He insinuated his long deformed fingers in an inner pocket and produced a key. Dalgliesh brought over the deed box and placed it before him. The smaller key on the same ring unlocked it.

The solicitor said, “Here, as you will see, he revokes the previous will and leaves half the estate to his nephew, Robin Boyton, the remaining half to be divided equally between Marcus and Candace. If you compare the handwriting on both these wills, I think you will find it’s by the same hand.”

As with the later will, the writing was strong, black and distinctive, surprisingly so from an old man, the letters tall, the downward strokes heavy, the upward lines thin. Dalgliesh said, “And of course neither you nor any member of your firm would have notified Robin Boyton of his prospective good fortune?”

“It would have been seriously unprofessional. As far as I know, he neither knew nor enquired.”

“And even if he had known, he could hardly challenge the later will once probate had been granted.”

“And nor, I suggest, can you, Commander.” After a pause, he went on: “I have submitted to your questions; now there is one I need to ask. Are you completely satisfied that Candace Westhall murdered both Robin Boyton and Rhoda Gradwyn and attempted to murder Sharon Bateman?”