"Well," said Wimsey deprecatingly, "if this will business comes into court, I shall probably have to give evidence, because I was the bird who found the thing, don't you see?"
"Well, then?"
"Well, then. They might ask how long the will was supposed to have been where I found it."
Haviland appeared to swallow something which obstructed his speech.
"What about it, curse you!"
"Yes. Well, you see, it's rather odd when you come to think of it. I mean, your late father must have hidden that will in the bookcase before he went abroad. That was—how long ago? Three years? Five years?"
"About four years."
"Quite. And since then your bright caretaker has let the damp get into the library, hasn't she? No fires, and the window getting broken, and so on. Ruinous to the books. Very distressin' to anybody like myself, you know. Yes. Well, supposin' they asked that question about the will—and you said it had been there in the damp for four years. Wouldn't they think it a bit funny if I told 'em that there was a big damp stain like a grinning face on the end of the bookshelf, and a big, damp, grinning face on the jolly old Nüremberg Chronicle to correspond with it, and no stain on the will which had been sittin' for four years between the two?"
Mrs. Haviland screamed suddenly. "Haviland! You fool! You utter fool!"
"Shut up!"