“So that Mr. Ryland and Miss Inez Fratten will each get over £200,000.”
“Presumably.”
“Large sums,” said Poole, “even in these days. Very large compared with the other legacies, I gather. What was the largest of those?”
“Mine and Mr. Hessel’s. None of the others amounted to more than an annuity of £100.”
“Hardly enough to invite murder—still, one never knows. Now, Mr. Menticle, I am going to ask you a straight question. Do you believe that any of these legatees, residuary or otherwise, had any inducement to bring about the premature death of the testator?”
Mr. Menticle rose abruptly from his chair and, walking over to the window, pulled aside the curtain and looked out on to the November night. Coming back into the room, he stood in front of the fire, with one foot on the fender, seeming to seek for inspiration from the blazing logs.
“That is a very direct question,” he temporized.
“It is,” said the detective, “and I want your answer, please, Mr. Menticle.” The expression of Poole’s face would have told anyone who knew him that, having got his grip, nothing now would cause him to relax it.
At last the lawyer straightened his shoulders and, turning his back to the fire, looked down at his interlocutor.
“I think I must tell you,” he said, “that a week or so before his death, Sir Garth instructed me to draw up a new will. I was to have brought it to him to sign the morning after he actually died.”