"He was my mother's uncle. Name of Ferguson. Eccentric old boy. I was rather a favourite of his."
"It looks like it. Was that all he left you?"
"Imph'm. He said a good digestion was the most precious thing a man could have."
"Well, he was right there. Is this his? Was it a good one?"
"Good enough. He lived to be ninety-five, and never had a day's illness."
Wimsey looked at the jar with increased respect.
"What did he die of?"
"Chucked himself out of a sixth-story window. He had a stroke, and the doctors told him—or he guessed for himself—that it was the beginning of the end. He left a letter. Said he had never been ill in his life and wasn't going to begin now. They brought it in temporary insanity, of course, but I think he was thoroughly sensible."
"I should say so. What was he when he was functioning?"
"He used to be in business—something to do with ship-building, I believe, but he retired long ago. He was what the papers call a recluse. Lived all by himself in a little top flat in Glasgow, and saw nobody. Used to go off by himself for days at a time, nobody knew where or why. I used to look him up about once a year and take him a bottle of whisky."