But I came past soon afterwards, between then and the time Belvoir and his party reached the tower—and there was no Cosgrove staring at a battle-axe then! What does Belvoir’s evidence imply, if it is evidence? Did the axe leap up and smite him while he gazed, and was he lying there unnoticed by me when I returned from the cottage of the sisters Delambre? And that “friend” of Cosgrove’s, who was to come at a little after a quarter past nine—did he arrive so soon? Precious little he could have done to harm the Irishman at the appointed time. If only Wheeler had kept the tryst in the storm, instead of forgetting it completely in the horror of the night until Blenkinson nagged it into his memory again! Was this “friend” the same whose indeterminate face Doctor Aire had perhaps seen, perhaps not? To ask these questions is to realize how vain they are! Yet if we are to know the obscure, impalpable limbo of truth that lies behind this man’s death, must we not know the answers?
The click of the door-lock startled us in the midst of almost lively discussion. Paula Lebetwood and her friend re-entered the conservatory, and Salt stood on the threshold with a thin sheet of bluish paper in his hand. The American girl was paler than before, and, I thought, exercising great self-restraint. While she took her seat beside me, I could see the tremors pass along her throat with each breath. But her eyes were staring at the Superintendent, and my glance followed hers.
Salt said, “This paper, I expect, is Mr. Cosgrove’s Will and Testament.” He held it up for us to grasp at; it was a single translucent page, a tiny thing to dictate the disposal of great riches. “With Miss Lebetwood’s permission—I mean by her request—I’m goin’ to read it to you.”
“One moment,” darted in his Lordship as Salt was about to begin without taking breath: “don’t you know that it is highly irregular to read a copy of a Will until all the legatees—”
“You’ll see why, sir, in a minute. Besides, this is sure to be the original of the Will, and all the heirs happen to be present!”
“Eh?”
“There’s not much to it, you might say, sir. And Miss Lebetwood particularly wants there to be no misunderstanding.”
Forthwith, in that zone of awe, he read the instrument, dated two months ago. It contained fewer than two hundred words. I do not know which to admire most, the clear-cut terseness of it, or the hard cynical sense of its incidental comments, such as, “my body to be buried as soon as possible after my death and as near as practicable to the place of my death, with the least emolument to lawyers, priests, and undertakers.” And withal, according to those of us who have scanned the law most thoroughly, the Will is adamant to any who may attempt to break it.
As for its sense, it devises Cosgrove’s entire fortune to Miss Lebetwood “for her own absolute use and benefit without exception, limitation, reservation or condition, forever.” Cosgrove’s brother, mentioned as having self-denied a share in the estate, is made sole executor. Rather pathetic, those words:
“IRELAND DELIVERED is the cross in whose sign I would conquer; but should I die, without me I know the good work can never go on. Therefore to her who is, or is to be, my dearest helpmeet and sharer of these the Lord’s bounties, best fit to use them wisely, I bequeath all my worldly goods.”