But he was wrong. There, in as plain English as the law can use, was the bequest by Mrs Bowden of all she might die possessed of to ‘her nephew, Richard Langham, son of her brother Richard Langham, who in the year 1850 married Marion Trench, and died at Lowborough in the year 1855.’ Mrs Bowden had made sure of the important dates in my father’s history, that there might be no difficulty in identifying her legatee.
Once assured that his eyes were not playing him false, Mr Bowden began to swear that the will was a forgery, of which I had been guilty in order to secure Mrs Bowden’s money for myself. In vain I protested my entire ignorance of the relationship between the dead lady and myself.
‘I don’t believe you are related; it’s all a fabrication. If you put these names in the will, of course you knew what to reply to Mr Godding’s questions.’
‘But,’ I exclaimed, ‘I couldn’t forge the impression of a seal which you had in your possession all the time.’
‘Hang the seal!’ cried the little man. ‘What’s a seal? A seal isn’t evidence. I swear that the thing’s a forgery, and I’ll contest it in every court in the kingdom.’
‘But if you do,’ interposed Mr Godding, ‘and though you should prove your case, you would not profit in the least. If this will is a forgery, we must assume that Mrs Bowden died intestate, for any disposition of her property she may have had drawn up would now, in all probability, be destroyed. In that case, all she possessed will descend to Mr Langham, as her next of kin.’
Mr Bowden glared from one to the other of us with the fiendish impotence of a caged hyena. ‘You’re both in the plot,’ he snarled; ‘but I’ll fight it out. I’ll have justice, though it should cost me my last penny; and I won’t grudge it, if only I see you both doing penal servitude before I die. I hope I shall!’ With this benevolent aspiration on his lips, Mr Bowden departed, leaving me alone with the lawyer, and too bewildered by the occurrences of the last half-hour to be elated by my sudden good fortune.
‘Do you think he will carry out his threat?’ I asked.
‘It is most unlikely. Twenty-four hours’ reflection will convince Mr Bowden how unwise it would be for him to spend his own money without the hope of getting anybody else’s. You may rely on being undisturbed in your good fortune.—And now, let me say how glad I am to make the acquaintance of the man for whose kindness to my poor father I have always felt grateful, and express my hope that I may enjoy the privilege of your friendship.’ Before my dull brain could furnish any reply to Mr Godding’s words, he spoke again: ‘By-the-bye, there is in the will, not a charge, but merely a recommendation that you should make some adequate provision for a Miss May Atherton, whom Mrs Bowden describes as her “beloved companion and adopted child.” I hope you have no objection to doing so?’
I blushed like a school-girl as I explained how I had already proposed to provide for Miss Atherton; and I think I may truthfully say that she has hitherto—and several years have passed since my aunt’s death—been satisfied with her share in Mrs Bowden’s property.