Cyril Hare - Untimely Death aka He Should Have Died Hereafter

Once, many years before, Pettigrew had had the good fortune to find himself in the company of an aged ornithologist at the very moment when a hoopoe descended from the sky on to the lawn outside his drawing-room window. He had never forgotten the varied expressions on his face at that moment-the look of blank incredulity merging into excitement as certainty succeeded doubt, the excitement itself subsiding into blissful contentment at the achievement of a lifelong ambition. With astonishment he realized that Manktelow’s prosaic words had produced exactly the same effect on Mr. Justice Pomeroy as the hoopoe had on the birdman all those years ago.

“Barred the entail, Mr. Manktelow?” he was saying. “Is it your case that Jack created a base fee?”

Manktelow was smiling proudly. It was his hoopoe, all right, there was not a doubt of it. “Precisely, my lord,” he said.

“Bless my soul! A base fee! How remarkable! I don’t know when I last- A base fee! This is really very interesting indeed! Pray go on.”

I wish, thought Pettigrew, that I had paid more attention to those lectures on real property when I was a student. I wish I had gone into Chancery chambers- no, I don’t really, of course, but I wish I had at least learnt a little about what goes on inside them. Above all, if I am to give evidence in this damnable piece of litigation, I wish somebody would condescend to tell me what it is all about.

Even as he suppressed an insane desire to jump up and demand an explanation, there was an interruption from a bench behind him. Mrs. Gorman, untrammelled by the inhibitions that kept Pettigrew speechless, was doing that precise thing.

“Excuse me,” she said in her quiet but forceful voice, “but what are you talking about? You’ve been saying a lot, but it doesn’t mean anything-not to me, it doesn’t. Of course I’ve known about Uncle Sam’s money ever since I was married and what he did with it, but all this stuff-”

By this time, the usher, the associate, three solicitor’s clerks and both counsel were uniting in an attempt to suppress her. Support for her came from an unexpected quarter. With all the geniality to be expected of a man who has a hoopoe actually under his eyes on his lawn, Mr. Justice Pomeroy not only condoned the interruption but seemed to welcome it.

“Let Mrs. Gorman come forward,” he said.

With Mrs. Gorman standing before him in the well of the court, he proceeded: “I quite understand your difficulty, madam. The position is a little complicated and unusual, but it is perfectly clear. Since you have no advocate, let me explain. This property was settled in such a way that on Gilbert Gorman’s death it would pass to your husband for his life and on his death to his son, if any. If your husband were to die before his cousin, it would go to that son direct, of course.”

“I know all about that, sir.”

“I am usually addressed as ‘my lord’, but no matter. Now there is a process known to the law as ‘barring an entail’, by which the man in possession-your husband, let us say, after Gilbert’s death-can alter that arrangement, so that the succession to the property is no longer limited to sons. Once he has barred the entail, he can leave it to whom he likes-his wife or daughters. Do you follow me?”

“Indeed I do, sir-my lord. That was what my husband did when he left me two year ago. Made a will, he did. My father made him do it, so that my little girls would be looked after. He said if he didn’t do that he’d prosecute him for taking all that money out of his shop.”

“Very well. Now comes the really fascinating part of the story,” his lordship continued, licking his lips. “That is to say-I recognize that its fascination may not be readily apparent to you, but it is a really interesting position none the less. The effect of that disposition of your husband, made in Gilbert’s lifetime and without his consent, was that if he survived Gilbert the property would pass as he directed by his will, but if he died before Gilbert, it would all go away from his family to the next in succession, who is his cousin Dick.”

“Why?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said, Why?-my lord.”

“Well, really, I don’t know that I can answer that question. That is the law, and has been for many hundreds of years. You must take it from me that that is so.”

“It seems an odd sort of law to me,” observed Mrs. Gorman dispassionately. “After all, Gilbert had been a sick man for years, no one thought he’d live as long as he did, and Jack was young and strong as a horse-”

“No doubt, madam. That would perhaps explain why your father took the course he did. But those are hardly circumstances that affect the position in law.”

“I suppose not.”

Mrs. Gorman looked very lonely, standing there looking up at the bench. As though for the first time Pettigrew realized that she was the only woman in that assemblage of men. At the same time, he realized something else that gave him the answer to a lot of problems.

“May I ask you one question, my lord?”

“Certainly.”

“If this child I’m carrying now turns out to be a boy, what happens to the money then?”

“Edna!”

Mr. Joliffe, who up to that moment had been sitting listlessly watching the proceedings as though they did not concern him, suddenly rose to his feet, his face scarlet.

“You shameless girl-” he began. He got no further.

“Sit down,” said Mr. Justice Pomeroy.

He spoke quietly, but Mr. Joliffe sat down as though his legs had been pulled from under him, his red face suddenly pale.

His lordship turned to Mrs. Gorman as though the interruption had not occurred.

“I understood you to say that your husband left you two years ago,” he said.

“True enough, my lord. But he came to me on the Friday night, the night before he was killed. It wasn’t the first time either, though my father never knew. He wanted money, of course-he always did-and I had little enough to give him. But he was my husband, and what I had, I gave.”

“What you had, you gave?” the Judge repeated quietly. “I see.”

There was silence in the court for a moment. Pettigrew was seeing once more the farmyard of Sallowcombe in the half-light of dawn and the blended shadows of a man and a woman at the window opposite his own. He marvelled that he should ever have been so blind as not to guess the truth.

“Mr. Manktelow,” said the Judge, “this raises rather an interesting question, does it not?”

“My lord, it does. This has taken me entirely by surprise. I need hardly say that those instructing me were quite unaware-”

“So I should have imagined.”

“If your lordship would be good enough to grant an adjournment to allow me to consider the position…”

“I don’t see the necessity for an adjournment, Mr. Manktelow. The situation is unusual and involved, but I think it is perfectly clear. If this child proves to be a girl, nothing is changed. Matters remain in statu quo ante. But if it should be a boy”-Mr. Justice Pomeroy licked his lips-“it is a really delightfully complex proposition, Mr. Manktelow-he will preserve the base fee for his mother’s enjoyment, will he not?”

“I should apprehend so, my lord.”

“Preserve it, that is, so long as he lives-” he went on in a rising tone of excitement. Manktelow caught his mood, and chimed in:

“And he has only to live till he is twelve years old-”

“Just so. The Limitation Act, 1939-”

“Section 11, my lord-”

“And in that case his mother’s interest will become-”

“Indefeasible!”

The two men, smiling broadly, chanted the last word in perfect unison. Under a capable producer, Pettigrew thought, they could have made a reasonably good pair of cross-talk comedians. Then Mr. Justice Pomeroy abruptly recovered his dignity and said: