Smallbone Deceased by Michael Gilbert Read Free Book Online

a further communication on the 16th ultimo and the 8th inst, in all three cases without receiving any answer. If Mr. Smallbone is absent abroad or indisposed possibly you could so inform us—”
    â€œIsn’t that the funny little man whom father used to dislike so much?” said Bob.
    â€œI don’t think your father and Mr. Smallbone got on very well,” agreed Miss Cornel. “Unfortunately they were co-trustees—”
    â€œThe Ichabod Stokes Trust?”
    â€œYes; otherwise I think he’d have refused to have anything to do with him. Seeing that he was a fellow trustee, though, I expect he felt he could hardly refuse to look after his private affairs too—” “Did he have any private affairs? I mean—”
    â€œHe isn’t a person of very great substance,” said Miss Cornel, interpreting this remark accurately. “He was involved in some litigation just before the war, and we look after his annuity for him, and I think we made his will.”
    â€œI remember the fellow,” said Bob. “A scrawny little brute with an eye like a rat. I could never understand how Dad put up with him.”
    â€œI think,” said Miss Cornel, “that he found him very tiresome. If it hadn’t been that the Stokes Trust was such a big thing—and of course it was tied up with the Didcots and Lord Hempstead—I think he might have refused the trusteeship, rather than be forced to work with Mr. Small bone.”
    â€œAs bad as that, is he,” said Bob. “It must be a deuce of a trust. What does it figure at?”
    â€œWe’ve sold the real property now,” said Miss Cornel. “It’s all securities. At the last account they were worth just under half a million pounds.”
    â€œI expect you can put up with quite a lot for half a million pounds. The point is, however, what’s happened to the little blighter?”
    â€œHe really is a hopeless person,” said Miss Cornel. “He never answers letters. Whenever we didn’t particularly want to see him he’d be round here every day, and when we did want him, when we were selling the real estate, to sign the big conveyances and so on, as likely as not he’d disappear altogether and go on a walking tour in Italy.”
    â€œItaly?”
    â€œYes. He’s a great collector of pottery, though your father used to say he’s got as much knowledge of it as a market gardener. I believe that the two little rooms in the house in Belsize Park where he lives are full of urns and statuettes and heaven knows what.”
    â€œWell,” said Bob. “I can only see one thing for it. If the mountain won’t come to Mahomet you know. You’d better slip over to Belsize Park and stir him up.”
    â€œWhat, now, Mr. Horniman?”
    â€œWhy not-go after lunch.”
    â€œI’ve got an awful lot to do—”
    â€œTake a taxi,” said Bob. “The firm will pay.”
    â€œYes, Mr. Horniman.”
    IV
    Accordingly, that afternoon, Miss Cornel made her way out to Belsize Park. She went by Underground. She was not by nature dishonest over small matters, but she reckoned that if she was prepared to put up with the discomfort and pocket the difference, that was her affair.
    Wellingboro’ Road was some distance from the Underground station, and her search for it was made no easier by the fact that the first two persons of whom she inquired appeared to speak only Chechoslovakian, the third, a large and helpful lady, chiefly Polish, and the fourth, a starved-looking Indian, seemed willing to commit himself only to the language of signs.
    Eventually, more by good luck than judgment, she discovered herself outside No. 20 Wellingboro’ Road.
    A grey-haired lady opened the door, said, “No, Mr. Smallbone is not at home,” and prepared to shut it again.
    Twenty years of miscellaneous experience in a solicitor’s office had hardened