Mrs. Jeffries Sweeps the Chimney

Luty glared at the three men sitting on the other side of the long mahogany table. “All I’m asking for is an itty, bitty favor,” she said. “It’s not like I’m wantin’ you to bust into Westminster Cathedral and steal the gold plate.” She thumped her parasol on the carpeted floor for emphasis.

None of them so much as blinked. They were used to her tantrums. Herndon Rutherford, Thomas Finch and Josiah Williams had been her solicitors for over thirty years. Rutherford, a tall man with a long face, gray hair and a perpetually disapproving expression, spoke first. “Madam, it’s not that we don’t wish to accommodate you, it’s that what you’re asking us to do is quite difficult.”

“I don’t see why. This feller’s already dead,” Luty exclaimed. “Before too long, his will is gonna be a matter of public record. Nellie’s whiskers, they publish that kind of information in the Times.” Blasted lawyers. Why wouldn’t they just do what she told them to do and stop giving her so much trouble? Generally, she got her information through other, less rigid, sources. But she’d been in a hurry to find out who was going to benefit the most from Jasper Claypool’s death.

“That’s correct, madam,” Thomas Finch agreed, “but only after the estate’s been through probate and all the other necessary legal steps.” He was a short, rotund, balding man with brown eyes and a perpetually worried expression.

“Now, now, madam,” Josiah Williams, the youngest of the three, waved her back into her chair. “Let’s not be hasty, here. I’m quite sure we can get this information for you, it’s simply going to take us a day or two.”

“A day or two,” Herndon snapped. He glared at his associate. “I don’t think we’ll be able to get it at all. We have no business snooping about in this deceased person’s business.”

“But I already told ya, Claypool’s dead. He ain’t goin’ to give a tinker’s damn about whether or not we find out who his heirs might be.”

“Reverend Claypool’s attitude isn’t relevant.” Herndon’s frown deepened. “Our firm has a reputation for discretion, and I intend to see that we keep it.”

“Can you tell us, madam, why you want this information?” Josiah asked softly. Despite the fact that she was an American, he’d always liked her more than their other clients.

Luty shrugged. “I need it for a friend.” She was sure that she’d made a mistake. She should have known better than to come here for her snooping. “I don’t have any more time to waste with you all. Since ya can’t help me, I’ll be on my way.” She got up, shot them one last frown and started for the door. “I ought to fire the bunch of you,” she muttered.

“But then you’d just end up hiring us back,” Herndon replied. “We’re the best, and whether you’ll admit it or not, you’re actually quite fond of us.”

Luty snorted and thumped her parasol on the floor again. What he said was true. She did like them, even if they were a bunch of nervous nellies.

“Let me get that for you, madam,” Josiah reached past her for the handle to the front door. “If you’ll give me a day or so,” he said softly, “I’ll get that information for you.”

“I’m fairly certain I can find out something,” he replied. He shot a quick look over his shoulder to make sure neither of his partners had followed him out. “As you pointed out, the man is dead, so it’s just a matter of time until the contents of the will are a matter of public record. I’ll stop around to see you as soon as I know one way or the other.”

Witherspoon wrinkled his nose as the clerk led him and Barnes down a long corridor toward the offices. The air had an acrid, chemical smell that wasn’t very pleasant. As a matter of fact, it made his eyes water. He wondered how the people who worked here could stand it, and then assumed they must be used to it.

“It’s just in here, sir.” The clerk opened a door and ushered them into a large office with two young men sitting opposite one another at desks. Both of them had open ledgers in front of them. At the far end of the room was a door leading to an office, and opposite that, on the other wall, was another office. The clerk turned to his left and popped his head into the nearest office. “The police are here to see you, Mr. Riley.” He turned to the two policemen. “Go on inside.”

A tall, thin man who looked to be in his mid thirties rose to his feet. He had dark brown hair, deep-set brown eyes and a fine-featured face. “Hello, I’m Eric Riley. I’ve been expecting you. Please make yourselves comfortable.” He gestured at the empty chairs in front of the desk.

“Thank you. I’m Inspector Gerald Witherspoon and this is Constable Barnes.” They each took a chair, and Riley sat back down behind his cluttered desk.

Eric sighed sadly. “Horace told me what happened. I can’t fathom it. No one even knew Uncle Jasper was coming home. Who would want to kill him?”

“That’s what we’re going to find out,” Witherspoon replied. “When was the last time you had any communication with your uncle?”

“Let me see,” he stroked his chin. “I’m not really certain. We didn’t correspond regularly. But I did send him the occasional letter, and he always replied. I received a letter from him at Christmas.”

“No, he wrote about his congregation and how he wished they’d more money as the church roof needed repair and the hymnals needed replacing. That sort of thing.” Eric leaned back in his seat. “He mentioned a few mundane family matters.”

Eric’s dark eyebrows shot up. “I don’t really think it’s of any consequence. It was just the musings of an elderly man. He wished my brother and I were closer, he wished we’d all spent more time together when we had the chance; he wished that my cousins, Hilda and Edith, were closer. He was getting on in years, Constable, and frankly, I think he was getting a bit maudlin. But he never said a word about coming to England.”

He shook his head. “I’m afraid not. My clerks leave at half past five, and the night watchman doesn’t come on duty until eight. I saw no one, Inspector. But I assure you, I often work late here on my own.”

“Was your uncle one of the owners of this concern?” Witherspoon waved his hand about, indicating the factory. He already knew the answer, but he wanted to hear what Riley had to say and, more importantly, how he said it.

“He owns half an interest,” Eric replied. “But he controls more than that, and of course, it isn’t just the factory. There’s a good bit of adjacent property.”

“He owns half an interest. The other half is divided up into four shares. Horace and I each inherited a share when our father died, and each of the twins inherited their shares when their mother died.”

“Edith Durant. Their mother was Uncle Jasper’s sister, Elizabeth Claypool Durant. For what it’s worth, Horace and I have control of our shares, but Uncle Jasper controls the twins’ share. So even though he only owns half, for all intents and purposes, he’s a majority shareholder in the concern. But he wasn’t interested in running a business. He was a clergyman, a servant of his church.”

“None whatsoever,” Eric replied. “He never interfered. He left the day-to-day running of the business to Horace and myself.”

“Then can you explain, sir, why in his letter to Mr. Horace Riley, he asked for a full report on the company’s profits and losses?”

“I’ve no idea why he’d want to know such a thing, Inspector,” Eric replied slowly. “It certainly isn’t like him. He’s shown no interest in the factory whatsoever for the past ten years. We only send him an annual report out of courtesy. I’m sure he never reads it.”

“Of course, they’re part of the property. Horace and I both have had occasion to examine them. But I’ve no idea who that corpse you found up the chimney could possibly be. Those houses haven’t been inhabited for years.”

Witherspoon had no idea what he ought to ask next. He was profoundly grateful the constable was taking such an active part in the inquiry. It gave him a chance to think. But no matter how hard he thought about the matter, between the dead vicar and the corpse in the chimney, he was completely confused. What he needed was a nice long chat with Mrs. Jeffries. She was so very helpful in helping him to sort all the bits and pieces out correctly.

“I’ve already had my clerk make up a list,” Eric replied. “Good luck finding these people. It’s been ten years. Most of them have probably moved on.”

“We wanted to do just that,” Eric replied, “but my uncle wouldn’t let us . . .” His voice faltered as he spoke. “Oh my God, I’ve only just realized. It was Uncle Jasper who wouldn’t let us tear the wretched things down. He wouldn’t hear of it. He kept putting it off, saying that we couldn’t stand the expense.”

Barnes looked at the inspector. He could tell by his expression that both of them were thinking along the same lines. “So it was your Uncle Jasper who refused to let them be torn down? Are you certain of that?” the constable asked.

“Absolutely,” Eric replied. “I remember it very well. We met with Jasper only hours before he boarded the ship because he kept putting off making a decision. But he was in a foul mood that day, which was very unusual for him. He’d just had a terrific row with Edith, and that had upset him. She was always his favorite. Horace told Uncle Jasper he was going to get an estimate for a tear-down price from a local firm, and Jasper had a fit. He told us to board the cottages up and leave them alone. He was adamant about it. We were both rather stunned.”

“For a man who didn’t take any interest in the running of the business, Reverend Claypool certainly seemed to have strong opinions about the cottages,” Witherspoon pointed out softly.

“He was occasionally a bit eccentric,” Eric replied. His voice had a defensive edge to it. “After all, he took it into his head to go out to India at the age of sixty-five.”

“From the way the ground has shifted, it doesn’t look like those cottages will ever be safe,” Barnes said. “Do you have any idea why your uncle wanted them left alone?”

“Horace wrote him a number of times about the issue,” he replied. “But Horace never saw fit to confide our uncle’s reasons to me. At that time, I’d just started here and was a lowly office clerk.” He smiled bitterly. “Unlike my dear brother, I actually had to work my way up in the family business.”

Witherspoon was as confused as ever, but that didn’t stop him from forging ahead. “But you owned equal shares in the company.”

“Yes, but Uncle Jasper had appointed Horace the general manager. You’ve got to understand my position, Inspector. I was very much the odd man out. My mother didn’t come from money. Her people were in trade. She was our father’s second wife and not overly popular with the rest of the Claypool-Riley clan. Horace was very put out when I was born.” He gave a short bark of a laugh. “Our family isn’t in land, sir. No primogeniture. When my parents died, our father’s fortune was split between Horace and I. But there wasn’t a lot of cash, just his share of the factory and some shares of stock.”

Eric laughed. “All of us, I expect. Uncle Jasper was always very fair in his dealings with the nieces and nephews. Not that cousin Hilda needs anything from this place. Their father was very rich. When he died, she inherited his estate outright.”

“Edith was the second born of the twins.” Eric shrugged. “She inherited some of the money, but the bulk of it went to Hilda as the eldest. Their father was very old-fashioned, he didn’t believe in splitting up the family money. Besides, Edith had already shown herself to be a good deal more independent than their father thought proper. I expect he thought that Hilda, who was always the sensible one, would take care of her sister.”

Again, Eric laughed. “Edith is the last person to need taking care of, Constable. She’s . . . how can I say this without being indelicate? . . . I suppose the kindest thing one can say is that she is an adventuress, or perhaps a better word would be courtesan. She never lacks for male companionship. The family never speaks of it, but I do believe that she’s been seen cavorting about Brighton with the heir apparent.”

It took a moment before Witherspoon understood. “Oh, dear,” he murmured. “Then I expect she doesn’t know her uncle has been murdered.”

“I don’t expect she’d much care,” Eric replied with a sad smile. “As I told you, the last time she and Uncle Jasper had any contact was just before he left for India. They had a fierce row over how she was living her life. She was involved with a married man at the time. Horace later told me that Uncle Jasper told Edith he never wanted to see her again. It must have broken his heart, too.” He sighed and looked away briefly. “Poor Uncle Jasper. I hope he was happy in India. Frankly, we were all amazed at how long he lasted out there. We fully expected the place to kill him.”

“I’ve got you a sherry already poured, sir,” Mrs. Jeffries said as she took the inspector’s bowler from him. “Dinner will be a bit tardy, sir. The butcher’s delivery didn’t get here until quite late this afternoon.” The truth was, she wanted to hear what he’d learned that day. She’d already decided that a case this complex was going to require all of her mental agility and listening skills.

Witherspoon slipped off his coat. “That’s quite all right, Mrs. Jeffries. I could do with a drink. It has been a very difficult day.”

They went into the sitting room and took their usual places. Mrs. Jeffries picked up her sherry from the table. “I take it the investigation isn’t going very well?”

He sighed and took a sip. “That’s just it. I don’t really know. I feel we’ve learned an awful lot, but I’m not terribly certain that everything I’ve learned has anything to do with the case. For instance, we went along and had a chat with Horace Riley—he’s Jasper Claypool’s nephew.” He told her everything about his visit to the Riley household. “And of course, I felt a bit odd reading his private letter from his uncle, but then again, he did offer to let me see it, and this is a murder investigation.”

“Not much, really. Just the usual sort of thing one would expect an elderly vicar to be concerned about. His church in India needed new hymnals and pews, and there was never enough money to do anything properly. He was distressed by the lack of converts but he found the local people wonderfully kind. You know, that sort of thing, grousing about the lack of support from the church here in England.”

“Not completely,” Witherspoon frowned. “At the very end he did mention that he wished the family was closer to one another.”

“So perhaps he was hinting that he might be thinking about coming home,” Mrs. Jeffries suggested. “Which would mean that perhaps Horace Riley wasn’t completely surprised by the news that his uncle had come to England.” She had no idea what the letter might or might not have meant. She was merely throwing suggestions out to see if any of them might useful. It never hurt to stir the waters a bit and then have look after the silt had settled.

“I hadn’t thought of it like that,” he replied. “But I suppose it’s possible.” He took another sip from his glass and then told her about the rest of his day. “I must say the smell around that factory is rather appalling. I can’t think how the workers stand it.”

“I expect they’re used to it,” she replied. “And of course, a smelly factory would be quite handy if one wanted to stuff a body down a chimney. It would hide the scent of decompostion.”

“I should think it would be much easier to put the body in the chimney from the top rather than trying to stuff it up from the inside of the fireplace. That would have taken enormous strength.”

“But putting a body down a chimney would require you going outside and carrying the corpse up to the roof. That’s very risky for the murderer. He might have been seen.”

“Not really. Only that it was a young woman.” He sighed. “We’ve got a list of former tenants, and we’ll be interviewing anyone who lived there that we can find. Perhaps that’ll shed some light on this mystery. I’ve also got some lads going over old missing-persons reports for young women. But frankly, that’s not going to be worthwhile. There are a lot of young women that go missing, and we’ve no real idea how long that body was up in the fireplace. Dr. Bosworth’s expert could only give us a guess. Mind you, he was fairly sure she’d been up there close to ten years. Something about the bones being weathered . . .”

Her mind worked furiously. She had dozens of ideas and questions racing around her head, yet she knew she needed more facts before any of them could coalesce into a useful pattern.

They discussed the case for another fifteen minutes, and then Betsy popped her head into the drawing room and announced that dinner was served. Mrs. Jeffries accompanied him to the dining room, got him settled and then went down to the kitchen for her own dinner.

The kitchen was empty except for Fred. Dutifully, he wagged his tail, but Mrs. Jeffries could see his heart wasn’t in it. “I’m sorry, boy, but he’s still not back.” She leaned down and patted his head. “I’m sure Wiggins misses you as much as you miss him. I’ll tell you what, let’s give it a few minutes, give the inspector time to eat his meal and then I’ll take you upstairs. He’ll take you for a nice, long walk.”

“Smythe’s gone to Howards to give the horses a bit of a run, and Betsy’s upstairs putting the linens away so she won’t have to bother with it tomorrow. It’s going to be a busy day for all of us.”

“That’s true. Do you think we ought to send Wiggins another telegram?” She still felt very guilty about the lad not being there.

“He knows we’ve a murder,” the cook replied. “So his not being here is more or less his own doing. He’s not bein’ held against his will.”

“That’s true.” She smiled suddenly. “I guess he needs to take care of his relations with his family. They’ve obviously become important to him.”

“Get out of my way.” Albert shoved Wiggins to one side and hurried over to the kitchen table. He gave him one last glare and then sat down and picked up his fork. “Well, what are you waitin’ for?”

“Hurry up, Wiggins, it’s time for supper,” Aunt Alice snapped. “I don’t want to spend all evening cleanin’ up this kitchen because you can’t get to the table when it’s ready.”

“I was reading the newspaper to Grandfather,” Wiggins replied. He sat down at the table. But he had no appetite. His relatives were a sorry lot. They obviously hated him. He wished he’d not given the old man his promise to stay. But what was done was done, and now he was stuck here with this miserable bunch. Cor blimey, but having a conscience could sometimes cost a body a lot. He’d give anything to be back in London with the others.

“Don’t know why he needs to have the paper read to him,” Uncle Peter muttered. “Seems to me he ought to be resting, not getting all upset over the troubles of the world.”

“He asked me to read it to ’im,” Wiggins said defensively. “And I didn’t want to leave ’im till he’d fallen asleep. I was only tryin’ to be nice.”

“You two stop it now, and eat your dinner,” Aunt Alice warned. “These walls are thin, and sound carries right up them stairs. You don’t want to be waking Grandfather now that he’s finally asleep.”

But Albert apparently wasn’t in the least concerned with waking his grandfather. “You show up here and all of a sudden the rest of us is no more to the old man than a tick in a feather bed,” he snapped at Wiggins. “Let me tell you something, no matter how much you lick his boots, you’ll not be getting your hands on this farm. It’ll belong to us when he goes. You understand. Us. Not you.”

“Hush, Albert,” his father warned. He shot Wiggins a quick glance. “He didn’t mean that. He’s just a bit jealous is all.”

“I’m not jealous of him,” Albert snapped as he glared at Wiggins. He shoved his chair back and got to his feet. “I don’t know why everyone’s fallin’ all over themselves to be nice to him. He’s nothing more than the blow-by of a whore who wasn’t even properly married to his father.”

Wiggins jumped to his feet with such force his chair went flying. “You take that back,” he shouted, his hand balled into a fist. “My mother was no . . .” He couldn’t bring himself to repeat the word.

“Whore,” Albert laughed maliciously. “That’s the word you’re looking for, boy. She was a whore. A common, street-walking whore who got her hooks into poor Uncle Douglas. . . .”

Luty and Hatchet arrived only moments after the inspector had left for the day. “I’ve got a lot to do today,” Luty announced as she plopped down at the table, “so let’s get this meetin’ started.”

“Really, madam.” Hatchet took the seat next to his employer. “I do believe we can take the time to be properly civil to one another.”

“I wasn’t sayin’ we ought to be rude.” Luty put her muff on the table and pulled off her green kid gloves. “I was sayin’ we ought to be fast. We’re a man short on this investigation, and in case you’ve forgotten, we’ve got us two murders.”

“We’re well aware of that, madam,” Hatchet replied. He smiled at the others. “But I, for one, am of the opinion that the two killings are connected.”

“So am I,” Mrs. Jeffries added. “We just have to keep moving right along. Luty is correct, though. We do have a lot to cover this morning. If you don’t mind, I’ll start.” She told them everything she’d learned from the inspector, taking care not to leave out even the smallest detail.

“I heard about Eric Riley,” Betsy said as soon as the housekeeper had finished. She told them about her meeting with Horace Riley’s housekeeper. She left out the bit about the pub. “She was ever so chatty. I think she hates Mrs. Riley.”

“And she was sure about the time that Mrs. Riley left the house?” Mrs. Jeffries pressed. This might be very important information.

“She was, and equally sure of the fact that both the Rileys were late getting home that night,” Betsy said. “I only wish I could get my hands on that telegram.”

“Maybe we can,” Smythe said softly. “If she tossed it in the dustbin, it might still be on the property.” He looked at Mrs. Jeffries. “How important do you think that telegram is?”

“Very,” she replied. “The contents of it sent Mrs. Riley out of the house without her lunch. It might have been from Jasper Claypool.”

“Mind you don’t take any risks, Smythe,” Betsy said lightly. “It’d be ever so awkward if you got arrested for trespassing.” She tried to keep her tone casual, but he could tell she was concerned.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be careful.” He patted her arm under the table. “I’ll nip over and suss out the lay of the land this afternoon.”

Betsy opened her mouth to speak, to tell them the best part about her meeting with Lilly Staggers, but before she could get the words out, Mrs. Jeffries started asking questions.

He shook his head. “I’m still working on that one. But I did find out that Claypool’s murder wasn’t a robbery. At least that’s the word down at the docks. I got that from a good source, too, so we can rule out a common by-your-leave bit of pilferin’ gone bad.”

“And I’m workin’ on getting names of the other passengers from the ship,” Smythe added. “But that might take some doin’.”

“Perhaps I might be of some assistance there,” Hatchet offered. “I could stop by the Far East and India offices and see what I can learn. Frankly, it would be a relief. I’m not having a lot of luck finding out any information about the Christophers.”

Smythe could hardly admit he’d already hired Blimpey to find out that information. “Thanks, that would be good. Save me a bit of trouble.”

“I take it that means you’ve not had much success,” Mrs. Jeffries queried. She knew how easy it was to get downhearted when one hadn’t found out anything useful.

Hatchet sighed. “Not really. The best I managed was a bit of old gossip about Mrs. Christopher’s sister. Apparently, Edith Durant was a complete hoyden, and the only person who had any influence on her whatsoever was her Uncle Jasper.”

“So you weren’t able to find out if either of the Christophers had an alibi for the time of the murder?” Mrs. Jeffries pressed. They already knew about Edith. What they needed now was to know where everyone was at the time of the killing.

He shook his head in disgust. “The only person from the household that I managed to speak to was the tweeny, and she didn’t know much of anything.” He didn’t reveal that he’d paid the girl for the pathetic scraps of information he’d brought to their table. “Unfortunately, the day of the murder there were painters at the Christopher house, so most of the staff had gone out. She knew nothing.”

“Oh, but she had,” Hatchet replied quickly. “Apparently, Edith Durant visits her sister every once in a while. She never stays more than a few hours, but the girl had glimpsed her going in and out.”

“We do need more information about the Christophers,” Mrs. Jeffries said. She looked at Betsy. “Do you think you could have a chat with the local shopkeepers tomorrow?”

“Of course, but before I nip along there, you might want me to go back over to the Riley neighborhood. I wasn’t finished with my telling. I found out something else today, something that I think is important. Apparently, Eric Riley knew his Uncle Jasper was back in London.”

“From Lilly Staggers, she sort of yelled that at me as she was leaving today and I didn’t have a chance to ask her any more questions. I’ve got to talk to her again.”

“Of course you must,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. She was annoyed with herself for not realizing that they’d all interrupted the girl. “And from now on, if you’re not finished with your report, do let us know.”

Betsy shrugged. She’d planned on watching the pub tomorrow about the same time she’d been there today. To her way of thinking, the Riley housekeeper probably visited that pub quite often. “Not really. She’s got quite a loose tongue on her.”

“It seems to me that if the housekeeper to the Horace Rileys told Betsy that Eric Riley knew Claypool was coming home, then it stands to reason that there’s a good chance the Horace Rileys knew he was comin’ home too,” Luty said.

She was a bit put out. Suddenly, learning the contents of Jasper Claypool’s will didn’t seem so very important. But then again, you never knew what was going to be useful or not till you got to the very end.

“I do,” Mrs. Goodge put in. “Unless she had reason to be talking to Eric Riley directly, Lilly Staggers probably overheard Horace Riley telling Mrs. Riley he’d heard from Eric that Claypool was coming home.”

“I think she did have reason to talk to him herself,” Betsy said quickly. “She seemed to know quite a bit about Eric Riley and his doings. Did I mention that she said he’d been trying to get control of the factory for the past two years?”

“I’m sorry, I’m getting sloppy.” Annoyed with herself, she shook her head. “Now that I think of it, her whole manner was odd.”

“Odd in the sense that she seemed almost like she was used to reporting on her employer.” Betsy smiled sheepishly. “I’m sorry. I’m being silly, it’s just now when I look back on the whole thing, that’s the impression I get.”

“Your impressions are usually very reliable,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Do you think it’s possible that Lilly Staggers is working for Eric Riley? Reporting to him about the Horace Rileys?”

“I think it’s worth finding out,” Betsy replied. She wondered how much gin it was going to take to get Lilly to tell her the whole truth. “And I think I know how I can do it.”

“You be careful now, lass,” Smythe warned. “This woman may not take kindly to bein’ accused of spyin’ on her employers.”

“I’ll be very subtle.” Betsy gave him a reassuring smile. “I’ll be talking to her in broad daylight in front of dozens of people. I don’t think she’ll try and box my ears if I offend her.”

“Can I have my turn now?” Mrs. Goodge asked. At the housekeeper’s nod, she told them about her visit from her old colleague, Letty Sommerville. “So you see, according to Letty, both the Riley men have big plans for that factory and all the property.”

“Not necessarily,” Mrs. Goodge replied. “Letty only gets gossip thirdhand, it might not be worth much. Besides, from what Mrs. Jeffries told us, it looks like Hilda’s the only one who doesn’t need an inheritance from her uncle.”

“It would be nice if we just knew her address,” Mrs. Jeffries added. “But apparently, not even the police have been able to find out where the woman lives.”

“I expect once the word that he’s dead gets spread, she’ll come out into the open,” Luty said. “Especially if she’s one of his heirs. Money always brings relatives sniffing around, even ones that don’t need it.”

“But he’d told her he never wanted to see her again,” Betsy reminded her. “So maybe she doesn’t care if he’s dead.”

“He told her that ten years ago,” Smythe said. “They might ’ave made it up by now.” He looked at Mrs. Jeffries. “Do you want me to try and find out where she lives?”

“From everything we’ve learned about Jasper Claypool,” Mrs. Goodge muttered, “it seems he liked his nieces a good deal more than his nephews. Who knows what he actually left them in his will?”