"Lord Oglethorpe murdered? Good God, Hounder, this is damned awkward!"

    Detective Sergeant Robert Hounder nodded in agreement. "Member of the Cabinet, sir; foreign affairs, I understand."

    Detective Inspector Ronald Gordon looked up with a vague stare. He was a young man for his position, barely past thirty, with an athletic build and eager round eyes that seemed to run to the heart of things.

    "Yes, yes," he responded impatiently, "but this thing puts the kaibosh on my squash game with Colonel Rillington."

    "I suppose it does, sir."

    "Beast of a thunderstorm last night. Tuffie was under the bed most of the time."

    Sergeant Hounder was familiar with Inspector Gordon’s bulldog, Tuffie. "Yes, sir, it was a rough night."

    "Couldn’t bring him in today; poor thing is still scared out of his wits."

    "Understandable, sir."

    Gordon picked up his telephone and punched in a number. "Milly? Do me a favour and call Colonel Rillington, will you? Tell him the game’s off for this afternoon; department business. …Yes, that’s right. Thank you, Milly." He put the receiver down. "Any preliminary work?" He asked Hounder.

    "Not a great deal, sir. The coroner’s at Oglethorpe Manor now, trying to sort things out."

    "Some kind of problem?"

    Sergeant Hounder moved uneasily on his feet. He didn’t like to pass on bad news. His twenty-three years of police experience had told him that bad news had a tendency to work its way back to the donor. He was a tall, stocky man, with greying hair that swept back from a square and lumpy face. "Well, sir, to be truthful, there is."

    "Well, sergeant, let’s start with the basics; do we have the killer?"

    "Not at the moment, sir. Death occurred sometime last night."

    "Can’t the coroner be a little more specific?"

    "That’s a part of the problem."

    "All right. What about the murder weapon?"

    "That’s the other part of the problem, sir."

    Gordon looked flustered. "You mean nobody knows how he was murdered? I find that very hard to believe, Hounder. After all, there are only so many ways: shooting, stabbing, poison and the proverbial blunt instrument, to name a few."

    "All of the above, sir." Sergeant Hounder confirmed, uncomfortably.

    "All? Stabbed, shot, clubbed and poisoned?"

    "All, sir."

    "Good God!"

    "One other thing, sir."

    "You’re not going to tell me..."

    "Yes, sir; a windowless locked room with only one door. Apparently, Lord Oglethorpe had the only key to his study, and there’s no sign of forced entry. The butler, Withers, called a locksmith early this morning and found the body. Then he called us. Nothing’s been disturbed, sir."

    Gordon was stunned! This one would make him or break him, and the latter seemed most imminent.

    "What about secret passages, I mean, it’s an old house."

    "No luck there, sir. The whole Manor has been gone over for any possibility of that. Place is as solid as a rock."

    "Did you question the butler?" Gordon asked, clutching at straws.

    "First thing, sir. Seems to have an iron-clad alibi."

    Gordon’s face fell. That had been his best shot. One thing was certain. He was lucky to have Hounder with him. Though the man was a little stolid and slow thinking, he had helped Gordon in the past. Some had said the impassive sergeant had saved Gordon’s hide on a number of occasions, but that was just petty departmental jealousy for Gordon’s remarkable success rate in solving homicides.

    "We’d better get out there."

    "Yes, sir. I’ve had the car pulled around. The coroner’s already out there with a forensic team and some extra constables, sir."

    "Thank God for small mercies."

    Gordon drove. He didn’t like to stand on ceremony by letting his inferiors assume menial positions like driving and he knew he was an excellent driver. Hounder filled him in on the two-hour drive to Oglethorpe Manor.

    "Seems we have all kinds of potential candidates, sir," he advised Gordon as the inspector swerved too violently to avoid a cyclist and barely missed a truck coming the other way. Hounder continued without skipping a syllable. "Of course, Lady Oglethorpe died some five years ago. Foreign extraction, I believe. Met his Lordship while he was abroad in Eastern Europe." Gordon hit a curve too fast, pumped the brakes and barely made it out the other side on the slick road. Hounder continued smoothly. "As Lord Oglethorpe was considerably wealthy, the three children - Chauncey, Elbert and Theodora - all in their twenties, stand to gain from his Lordship’s passing. Gordon shot a glance at the sergeant and wandered to the right side of the road. "We should keep to the left side, sir," Hounder admonished. Gordon snapped his head back to the road and jerked the car towards the left.

    "Was there anyone else in the house at the time of the murder?" He asked.

    "Well, sir, in all, there were: the evening maid, a Miss Emily Pottin, the butler, Arthur Withers and a Mr. Alexi Golindev – a Russian trade attaché staying with the Oglethorpes."

    "Golindev? What was he doing there?"

    "It’s not clear, sir, but I suspect he must have had some diplomatic business with his Lordship."

    "Yes, of course." Gordon hit the shoulder of the road and jerked the car back on course.

...

    Oglethorpe Manor was a large Tudor monstrosity, with anachronistic turrets, set way back from the road to Waddleton village. Flowers drooped, grateful for the heavy rain, on either side of the driveway.

    The butler, Withers, answered the door.

    "Yes?"

    "Detective Inspector Ronald Gordon," Gordon announced, flashing his identification card. "This is Detective Sergeant Hounder, my right-hand-man."

    Hounder was grateful for the way Gordon introduced him.

    "Yes, sir. I expect you would like to see the study. This way, if you please."

    Withers led them to a large room off the main hall and then discreetly retired.

    "Good God, Hounder, look at that ceiling!" Gordon exclaimed.

    The ceiling was high and patterned from end to end with parquet wood blocks. Near the centre of the room, a large, crystal chandelier dropped from the ceiling about three feet.

    "Impressive, sir," Hounder agreed.

    The entire room was panelled except for one of the side walls which was set with bookcases. Books of all kinds stared down at them.

    Gordon wandered over to the bookcases. "Must be a fortune in books here, Hounder." He reflected.

    "I wouldn’t know, sir."

    Towards the back wall, facing the door, was a large desk. To one side of the desk was the crudely drawn outline of a human figure. Alongside the outline was a bloodied fifteen-pound sledgehammer.

    "Look at the size of that!" Gordon commented.

    "Nasty business, sir." Hounder replied. He was wandering around peering at the shields, weapons and suits of armour that decorated the room.

    "Hello, what’s this?" Gordon questioned, bending down to check something on the floor in front of the desk.

    Hounder turned. "Some kind of imitation cannon, sir. I understand his Lordship kept it on his desk. It must have fallen to the floor when he was attacked."

    At that moment, a bemused man with spectacles, in his early sixties, entered the room.

    "Oh, I didn’t know anyone was here," he said, stopping close to the door.

    "And you are?" Gordon queried.

    "Doctor Blenfell – Doctor Darcy Blenfell, coroner."

    "Ah, doctor," Gordon smiled, walking towards the newcomer, "just the man I wanted to see. Detective Inspector Roland Gordon." He offered his hand. Blenfell took it absently.

    "Bit of a rum business." Blenfell offered.

    "An understatement, doctor." Gordon replied. "Can you give me what you have on the deceased?"

    "Well, inspector, it’s a bit of a mish-mash. Essentially, the victim suffered a bullet to the head, a knife to the heart, a traumatic blow to the head, (presumably by the sledgehammer), and possible poisoning. At the present time, I’m trying to determine which of these events came first. I can’t say, for sure, until I do the full autopsy this afternoon, and maybe not even then. The best I can tell you, at present, is that the blow to the head came last. I have marked the time of death at one a.m. I could be wrong about an hour or two either way. My guess is that the knife finished him, but the bullet could have done it first. The forensic team has cleared this room. The knife’s in the plastic bag on the desk. No prints. Peculiar-looking thing."

    "Thank you, doctor. I guess you have a few things to clear up."

    "Just a final check on the glass used for Lord Oglethorpe’s nightly claret, inspector. We have a third of liquid residue, so there might be a chance to check for poison. I can tell you, this one’s a nightmare. Perhaps more for you than me." He took the designated glass carefully from a tray on the desk and disappeared through the doorway.

    Gordon turned back towards the bookcase to check some of the books. "I think you could be right there, doctor," he responded, but Blenfell was already gone. After a moment, he returned to the desk and picked up the bag with the knife. "What do you think, Hounder?" The sergeant turned and wandered over to the desk.

    "Can’t say’s I’ve ever seen anything like it, sir. Smooth, small round handle like that, and a cylindrical blade; most unusual."

    "Probably some foreign souvenir his Lordship kept on his desk."

    "Not much use as a letter opener, sir; not with that round blade."

    "No, I suppose not. So where do we go from here, Sergeant?"

    "Perhaps we should interview the residents."

    "Yes, of course. Can you find that fellow Wethers?"

    "Withers, sir. I think he should be somewhere nearby." Sergeant Hounder stopped at the door. "By the way, sir, are you familiar with the work of Girandoni?"

    "No, Sergeant, can’t say that I am."

    "Might have some bearing on the case." Hounder replied. He left in search of Withers.

    "Girandoni," Gordon mused to himself and drifted towards a bookcase to scan the titles.

...

    The questioning of the occupants of the manor brought little further light. Given the violence of the previous night’s thunderstorm, everyone could claim they had heard nothing unusual. Most of them asserted they had retired and either slept through the storm or had suffered a sleepless night.

    Withers gave the chronology of Lord Oglethorpe’s last visible moments. His Lordship had apparently retired to his study shortly after nine o’clock. Withers had followed him in with a glass of claret on a tray, a ritual, nightly libation for his Lordship, which he had deposited on the desk. He had distinctly heard the key turn in the lock behind him when he left. Some minor duties had kept Withers up until about ten forty-five, at which time he had retired. In the morning, not finding his Lordship in his room and noticing his Lordship’s bed had not been slept in, Withers had repaired to the study and knocked on the door. Receiving no answer, he had immediately become alarmed and had called the locksmith and the police in that order. The locksmith had arrived in time to reveal the body, but Withers, on determination that his employer had indeed shuffled off his mortal coil, had allowed no one into the room.

    Each of the other residents had had varying times of retirement, but no one had seen fit to disturb his Lordship. By ten-thirty, everyone claimed to have been in bed.

    After warning everyone that he expected to see them at the manor the next day for further questioning, Inspector Gordon took his leave with Sergeant Hounder.

...

    "Damned messy business!" Gordon declared later, in his office.

    "Yes, sir." Hounder concurred.

    "What do we have on their backgrounds?"

    "I was hoping you’d come to that, sir. I put Barker on it while we were gone and there are some interesting points. And, by the way, sir, I think it would help us to look over his Lordship’s study once more tomorrow morning before we re-interview the residents."

    "Onto something, Sergeant?"

    "Perhaps a couple of things, sir, but it’s too soon to say."

    "What did Barker come up with?"

    "I’ll try to give you the short of it, sir."

    Hounder began to read from Barker’s notes. He paused here and there, to skip certain passages. "Theodora Oglethorpe – likes to be called ‘The’ by her friends. Athletic, tomboy type, enjoys hunting, gardening and horses. Presently studying botany at Cambridge. Seems there was an abortive previous marriage."

    "Really!"

    "Yes, sir, a few years back, but his Lordship had the marriage annulled. Apparently he paid off the man, a fortune-hunter, and Theodora resumed her maiden name."

    "Motive there, by George!"

    "Possibly, sir. Chauncey Oglethororpe – reading classics at Cambridge, interested in military antiques of the eighteenth century. Says here that he has a full set of eighteenth century military toy soldiers that he keeps in his room. Reputation as a womanizer. Tends to spend over his allowance to follow his hobbies, if you get my meaning, sir."

    Of course, sergeant. Wouldn’t mind a set of soldiers like that myself. Must have cost a bundle."

    "Yes, sir, as you say. Egbert Oglethorpe – the electronic genius of the family. Studying physics at Oxford. Keeps to himself, for the most part, tinkering with various projects. It appears he was once offered a scholarship at MIT, in the United States."

    "Really? Why didn’t he take it?"

    "His Lordship stepped in, apparently. Said he needed Egbert at home. Can’t see that, myself. Lord Oglethorpe never seemed to have had much to do with his children."

    "Bit of an iron-fisted old man. Distinctly Victorian."

    "Yes, sir."

    "Who’s the oldest?"

    "Egbert, sir. Then Theodora, then Chauncey."

    "Right. Who’s next?"

    "Golindev, the Russian. Trade attaché for Russia in this new trade agreement between Russia and Britain. Strange relationship there. Friend of the family for some years and a frequent visitor. Always takes the room above the study when he visits. Proud of calling himself a self-made man under the new regime. Apparently, he started life as a tradesman and then worked his way up. Heavy gambler and owes a number of people. Can’t see that his Lordship would offer him money, though."

    "You’re right there, sergeant."

    "The last two, Withers the butler, and Pottin, the maid, don’t seem to have much connection with the events. Withers has been a family retainer for nigh on thirty-five years and was apparently devoted to the old man. Can’t see him wielding a sledgehammer, sir. Pottin, a bit of a looker, has been at the Manor for about two years."

    "What about his Lordship, himself?"

    "Cabinet Minister, sir, Foreign Affairs, as you know. Something of a recluse. Kept his head in his work. Very disciplined, wanted everything just so. Very predictable behaviour. Did everything by the clock. He even dialed the observatory twice a day, noon and midnight, to check his pocket watch; a gift from his father. Beautiful antique ‘hunter’, sir."

    "Yes, I’ve seen it. Nice piece. Must be worth something. Well, that’s it, sergeant. Any ideas?"

    "I think we can draw something from the fact they got in each other’s way, sir."

    "In each other’s way? What the devil do you mean?"

    "Well, sir, presuming, and I’m only saying presuming, that they all planned to do the old man in, if you’ll excuse the expression, sir, then, although they didn’t know what the others were up to, they got themselves in a pickle by choosing the same night."

    "Yes, frightful coincidence!"

    "Not really, sir. Apparently his Lordship had called them together for an announcement he was to make the next day, after he’d seen his solicitor, Grimwold. And then there was the convenience of the storm, sir."

    "I see. Yes, that does make a difference. So you see the various attacks as independent? I suppose you’re right. Just makes our job a little harder. Better have Grimwold on hand for tomorrow’s interviews, sergeant."

    "Already taken care of, sir, and I’ve arranged for some extra constables to go with us."

    "Capital, sergeant! Now then, about this fellow Girandoni …"

    The two of them pored over what evidence they had for several hours, and then Sergeant Hounder made a number of phone calls.

...

    The next morning, Inspector Gordon and Sergeant Hounder arrived at the Manor and were shown to Lord Oglethorpe’s study by Withers.

    "Will you be wanting to see the residents again soon, sir?" Withers asked Gordon.

    "Give us an hour, Wethers."

    "As you wish, sir. I’ll have them assemble in the lounge at ten o’clock, if that would be convenient? Terrible business, if I might say so, sir. His Lordship was such a considerate man."

    "Yes, so I hear." Gordon responded.

    Withers withdrew discreetly.

    "You were asking about Girandoni, sir." Hounder prompted.

    "Ah, yes, sergeant. Show me."

    The sergeant led him over to a wall bookcase where two volumes leaned against one another.

    "Strange, don’t you think, sir, that these two consecutive volumes of the same set should have a gap between them?"

    "I hadn’t really noticed, but you’re right. He read the covers. ‘Cuthbert’s Plants.’"

    At that point, Egbert Oglethorpe wandered into the room. He didn’t seem to notice the two policemen until he was nearly upon them. "I’m sorry," he mumbled. "Didn’t realize you were here."

    "It’s alright, Mr. Oglethorpe, or I suppose I should say, your Lordship. You don’t need to worry about touching anything. This room has been cleared by the forensic boys," Gordon informed him.

    "Just wanted a book." Egbert explained self-consciously. He reached past them and took the second volume of Cuthbert’s work from the shelf.

    "Do you use this study often, your Lordship?" Sergeant Hounder inquired.

    "Lately, yes." Egbert admitted. "I’ve been doing some work that requires the books in this room. Most of them are first editions." He wandered over to the desk, looked at it and then shuddered. "Such a terrible thing." He remarked. He put down the book and picked up the cannon, which had been returned to the desk.

    "I’m told that’s a working model." Gordon remarked.

    "Yes, I believe so," Egbert responded, and put the cannon down quickly. He nodded at Gordon, picked up his book and left the room.

    "Another piece of the puzzle, sergeant?"

    "Most definitely, sir. It does tally with what we discussed yesterday. Might as well take a look at the desk and one or two other things before we go, sir. We may have to call in some of the forensics boys, again. To start with, I’d like to show you something by the chandelier, over the desk."

...

    They were all assembled in the lounge. Hardly any of them spoke. They sat apart and eyed each other suspiciously.

    "You know why we’re here," Inspector Gordon told them, "and believe you me, I find you a sorry lot."

    Chauncey began to protest. "You can’t think we had anything to do with this, Inspector, why, that’s outrageous!"

    "Is it?" Gordon snapped at him. "Rest assured, the sergeant and I know what went on and suspect who did what. The point that eluded us for some time, is who did it first? Who was the real murderer?"

    Alexi Golindev managed a wintry smile. "Quite a puzzle, Inspector, eh?"

    "Not really, Mr. Golindev, especially if we work backwards. Perhaps we should start with you."

    "Me, Inspector? What motive could I have had?"

    "The simplest motive of all, Mr. Golindev – greed. You needed money to pay your gambling debts and the former Lord Oglethorpe was no longer willing to provide that money."

    "Assuming I needed money," Golindev protested, "what reason would Lord Oglethorpe have to offer it?"

    "Blackmail." Sergeant Hounder provided.

    "Blackmail?" Golindev sputtered. "Ridiculous!"

    "It took a bit of research, sir," Sergeant Hounder explained, "but we did determine that the former Lady Oglethorpe was a countrywoman of yours whom you had known in the past. You also knew of a certain indiscretion she had committed against the regime. Hardly something that his Lordship would have wanted broadcast."

    "Regardless of what you might have found, I was in my room on the night of the murder."

    "Indeed you were, sir," Hounder agreed. "As you were on many other occasions when you wanted to complete your plan."

    "Plan?"

    "Oh, yes, sir, a very diabolical plan; innocent at first, to a degree, but then deadly."

    "You are indulging in a fantasy, sergeant."

    "Am I, sir? You were formerly a tradesman, I understand."

    "A very honourable profession, Sergeant, a carpenter. I have no shame in my origins."

    "It depends what use you put them to, sir; such as cleverly removing a portion of the flooring from your room and the ceiling of the study so that you could spy on Lord Oglethorpe. What did you find, sir? I suspect, that with a few tools and instruments, you could discover the combination to his Lordship’s safe. I suspect, too, that he was keeping a record of your demands. A record which was not found when the safe was opened. Did his Lordship’s call for a meeting disturb you? Or did his Lordship tell you that he was going to the police? Whatever the reason, you decided, on the night of the murder, to finish your relationship. There were tools enough in the garden shed. The one you chose to use last was the sledgehammer which you dropped on his Lordship’s head from your spy-hole! After which, you cleverly sealed the spy-hole again."

    Golindev sprang to his feet! "It’s a lie!" He cried.

    "No, Mr. Golindev, it’s no lie." Gordon informed him. "You were very careful to return all the tools and wipe your fingerprints from them. But the forensic boys did find a print on one of the ceiling slats of the study, where I told them to look. Something very difficult to explain away, if, as I suspect, that print belongs to you, sir."

    Golindev froze.

    "Sit down, Mr. Golindev!" Inspector Gordon told him. "We will deal with you later. Just be thankful that you could not have committed the murder you intended."

    "I don’t understand." Golindev mumbled sinking back to his chair.

    "It’s very simple, Mr. Golindev," Gordon explained, "your act forced the body of his Lordship to the floor. Given the circumstances of the other attacks, the body could not have been on the floor when the other attacks occurred. You ‘killed’ a dead man, Mr. Golindev."

    Golindev sat forward and buried his head in his hands.

    "One, down, and three to go," Chauncey remarked from his chair near the window, "if we are to accept your wild theories that the rest of us were involved, Inspector."

    "Ah, yes, Mr. Chauncey", the inspector responded. "May I remark that your attempt on your father’s life was the most pathetic."

    "Really, Inspector?" Chauncey seemed unruffled.

    "Yes, really! Thanks to the research of the good sergeant, here, and the report of the coroner, I am well aware that you are familiar with the properties of Conium maculatum, or, in layman’s terms - hemlock. Did you have to underline the passage describing the death of Socrates in the book on your bedroom shelf, Mr. Chauncey?"

    "Study notes." Chauncey retorted.

"Perhaps, if that is your claim. But did you have to involve the guileless Miss Pottin in your machinations? I am sure she could not have been the goal of your intentions, but to get her to slip the drug into his Lordship’s nightly claret on some pretence that it was harmless was a despicable act!"

    "It’s not true! Ask Emily."

    "You will notice that Miss Pottin is not with us. She is, at present, discussing your act with a detective in the kitchen. Apparently, your promises were not enough to ensure her loyalty."

    "Stupid cow!" Chauncey blurted savagely.

    "Fortunately for you, Mr. Chauncey," the Inspector continued, "there was a third of the glass unconsumed. Enough to mark you as a potential killer, but also enough to exonerate you as the actual murderer."

    Chauncey hung his head in his chair.

    "And me, Inspector?" Theodora asked.

    "Theodora Oglethorpe."

    "I prefer ‘The’ Inspector."

    "As I have heard. Well, Miss Oglethorpe, your approach to murder was better planned, given the circumstances, but you, too, fell victim to the panic that ensued at your father’s announcement. Believe you me, this case would have been much more difficult to solve if it hadn’t been for the fact that you all chose the same night. Of course, your attempt needed the cover of the storm. Out of curiosity, Miss Oglethorpe – tell me what you know about Girandoni."

    "Well done, Inspector! Bravo! Girandoni; a leader in the early development of pneumatic weapons, or airguns. Did you know they were used in the old days as military weapons? Quite effective, too."

    "I know now, thanks to Sergeant Hounder’s research, that there is a Girandoni air pistol, a present to the Austrian Emperor Joseph II, missing from the study collection and that you are an excellent shot. Minimal noise, and no powder residue or smoke. Let me make it clear, Miss Oglethorpe, if your fellow ‘murderers’ had not decided to work on the same night, you may well have succeeded. I am guessing that the Girandoni is concealed somewhere on the estate, ready to be disposed of, or even replaced, at an appropriate time. The good sergeant, noting your attire earlier this morning, has suggested the stable manure pile. It took us time to find your carefully concealed peephole from the adjacent library, Miss Oglethorpe, but, unfortunately for you, the sergeant noticed a gap between a two-volume set; a peculiarity, you will admit. It led us to a false wall section, which had a trace of blood on it. I suspect that blood to be yours."

    "I commend you, Inspector. Perhaps you will prove the blood to be mine. But you cannot possibly prove that my shot was the fatal blow. I overheard your own coroner suggesting that the knife had probably caused death. What do you intend to charge me with, Inspector? Desecration of a body? I’ll take that, given what he did to ruin my life."

    "Please let me finish, Miss Oglethorpe. Let us go on to deal with the knife; an ingenious murder weapon concocted by Mr. Egbert." Gordon turned to Egbert. "Sir, if this act were not so heinous in conception, I would accord you some praise. A knife, loaded into a mechanical cannon, and pointed precisely at the victim’s heart. Incredible! Method of firing? Remotely electronic. You, sir, are something of a twisted genius. Unfortunately for you, there was a slight problem related to your plan. You had to attach an electrical relay to the cannon and retrieve it later. You did the latter, Mr. Egbert, quite brazenly, this morning, when the sergeant and I were in the study. You may be dismayed to know that we suspected your intention and re-inspected the cannon immediately after you left. Your frequent visits to the study were not for books. No, they were to determine the exact placing of the cannon. Why was the cannon found on the floor? Simple - the force of the detonation. How was your end achieved? This is the most fascinating part. Essentially, working blind, you had to work to a specific time. That time, Mr. Egbert, was twelve o’clock midnight, precisely. At that time, you could be assured of the fact that his Lordship would be at his desk, calling the observatory to check the exact time. That is the time, Mr. Egbert, that you chose to fire your fiendish weapon, remotely."

    "You can’t prove which came first!" Egbert exclaimed.

    "Ah, but we can, sir," Sergeant Hounder interceded. "You see, the wine, a slow-acting but deadly concoction, was not finished. That exonerates Mr. Chauncey. Obviously, some previous act had prevented his Lordship from finishing his wine. Most critically, sir, the phone-receiver was still in its cradle! Without question, then, the shot to the head must have come first! If you had succeeded in your own attempt, the phone-receiver would have been free, and would have dropped to the desk. You, too, sir, are guilty of ‘killing’ a dead body."

    Theodora Oglethorpe looked stunned!

    "Will that be all, sir?" The sergeant enquired. "Shall I call the constables?"

    "No, sergeant, I have just a few more observations to make. Each of you that I have mentioned has attempted murder. Rest assured, I will find some article under which to charge you. As for the meeting, which Lord Oglethorpe called, you may wish to know what Mr. Grimwold, the solicitor, has told me. Apparently, Lord Oglethorpe had been unwell for some time with a weak heart. Something which he had concealed from you all. In fact, according to his personal physician, he had little more than three months to live. Mr. Grimwold tells me that his Lordship intended to prepare a new will in which each of his children would be amply provided for. Apparently, with the knowledge that his heart was weak, he had decided to soften his former rigid attitude towards you. Unfortunately, as his Lordship did not survive to sign the new will, the bulk of his estate will be divided amongst the charities named in his outstanding will."

...

    At the station, Gordon sat with Hounder and went over some of the paperwork.

    "One thing I never thought to ask you, Sergeant. What was Theodora Oglethorpe’s married name?"

    Sergeant Hounder maintained his impassive countenance. He was satisfied the way things had turned out, and his wife was coming to drive him home.

    "Butler, sir," he informed Gordon.

    "‘The’ Butler." Gordon mused to himself. He leaned back in his chair and indulged himself in a fleeting moment of satisfaction in knowing he had been right from the start.