Death Knocks Three Times by Anthony Gilbert Read Free Book Online Page B

case, our man of affairs, Mr. Twemlow, will be down tomorrow, to give me his advice. He was unable to come today, as he had to attend the funeral of another client.”
    “Very tactless,” murmured John. “Of the other client, I mean.”
    There was clearly nothing to be gained by prolonging his stay, so next morning he repacked his bag and came back to town. He couldn’t help wondering who came into all the cash when the last of the sisters died. There was nothing in the old man’s will to suggest that it would come to him. And with any one as unreliable as Clara it was hopeless to count on anything. Still, he was the last relative. He couldn’t forget diat. Indeed, he brooded on it continuously.
    Some time later he heard from Mr. Twemlow that a will had been found among Isabel’s possessions, correctly drawn up and witnessed, leaving her personal belongings to Locket and any monies outstanding to her dear nephew, John Sherren. (Under the late Mrs. Bond’s will the daughters’ portions did not come to them absolutely; they might spend the income how they pleased, but on the death of one the interest passed to the survivor.) John’s share of Isabel’s fortune was not a large one; still, even a little ready cash was warmly welcomed, and presently Mr. Twemlow turned up some war bonds that Isabel had bought without consulting the lawyer, and a post office account, and it was agreed that these also were part of John’s legacy. Nice little bonus, thought John, if it isn’t the income I’d half counted on. Sweet of the old dear. And then … Poor Aunt Isabel. Didn’t seem to get much out of her life.
    The next news was contained in a letter from Clara to the effect that she was selling the house at short notice and moving into a hotel. Seaview was too big and then Locket was most inconsiderately going to look after a newly widowed brother, who had, declared the irate Miss Bond, no claim on her at all, seeing they had hardly corresponded in twelve years. When John got that news he felt as though a weight had fallen off his shoulders. He had been haunted by the dread that his aunt might take a companion, one of those unscrupulous elderly women so popular in radio drama, who wind their tentacles around the heiress and are discovered, after the funeral, to have Inherited All. He went down at Christmas, as usual, only this time he put up at the Railway Hotel. As he anticipated, his Aunt Clara had already impressed her personality on her fellow guests, and a certain chair, the best, was regarded as hers, and newcomers were warned that she did not care to find it occupied when she came into the lounge. John exerted himself to talk of his own books, and an American offer his agents had managed to get for the latest of them. Miss Bond, however, had no intention of playing second fiddle to the boy she had brought up.
    “I can’t imagine why you write the sort of stuff you do,” she observed clearly. “If I had time, I should write like Charles Dickens.”
    The next day he went back to London and dug himself in for a few weeks, until he adjudged it time to go north and visit his eccentric uncle. And once again, within forty-eight hours of his return, he was summoned to an inquest and a funeral.
    So that made two inquests in the family in a little over six
    months. There was only one of the trio left, but she was devilish tough. Quite likely to outlast him, thought John shrewdly and a little dejectedly, unless Providence or someone stepped in. That reflection cheered him a little. She must be worth a pretty penny, and she saved half her income. She had never said anything definite about her will and it was important to know where he stood. He was forty-one and he didn’t trust the Government schemes to provide him with enough for his old age. His standards were too high for democracy. Still, who else was there to inherit? Locket? But no, he was sure Locket was out. There had been a very chill note in Clara’s voice when she