A RAINY NOVEMBER night in London. Roads like black satin ribbons, reflecting restless pools of bright lamplight, and the shifting, stabbing beams of car headlights. In the small streets behind Belgrave Square, a few scurrying pedestrians under black umbrellas, a few dark-suited men trying to hail taxis, while their pale-chiffon ladies shiver under the inadequate protection of neo-classical porticoes; a few cars—like cats, all black in the dark—making their hesitant, rain-blinded way on the slippery tarmac.
Ambrose Quince, peering at the street ahead through the metronome-swish of windshield wipers, thought longingly of his snug drawing room in Ealing, of a mellow Scotch and soda, and of his wife, Rosalie, warm and supple in a silky housecoat, her bare feet tucked under her as she sat on the floor in front of the log fire. Ordinarily, he would have been home an hour ago, but, on this filthy evening, the telephone had had to ring just as he was leaving the office in Theobald’s Road. Miss Benedict, his secretary, had announced that Lord Charlton’s office wished to speak with him, and shortly afterward an authoritative male voice had informed him that Lord Charlton would be grateful if Mr. Quince would wait upon him at his London residence at eight-thirty. It was in connection with His Lordship’s will, so Mr. Quince would be kind enough to bring the document with him. Thank you very much, Mr. Quince.
Well, a modestly situated solicitor in his late thirties does not hesitate when his only really important client requests his presence, even at eight-thirty on a December night. He makes it his business to be there, even with bad grace. In fact, Ambrose knew very well that he was extremely lucky to have retained even a small part of Lord Charlton’s business. It was a sentimental gesture on the old man’s part, a recognition of the days when Ambrose’s father and three uncles had formed the law firm of Quince, Quince, Quince and Quince, and when His Lordship had still been plain Alexander Warwick, a pushy young businessman with unorthodox ideas. By now, Ambrose was the only Quince in the establishment that bore his name fourfold. His current partners—Mr. Rudley and Mr. Silverstein—were not, if one faced up to it, really very good. Ambrose, in his own mind, felt that he himself could have been good if he had had enough interesting cases to hold his attention. As it was, the firm jogged along, minimally efficient and completely uninspired, and Alexander Warwick—now Lord Charlton, the textile millionaire—provided a steady income by confiding his most personal but least important affairs to the last of the Quinces.
Lord Charlton’s will, which now reposed in Ambrose’s briefcase on the empty passenger seat of the car, was a document that had caused Ambrose many headaches in its time. Charlton was a bachelor, and his only brother and sister-in-law had both been killed by a German flying bomb that hit their London home near the end of the Second World War. With no close relatives or dependents, Lord Charlton had decided to leave his fortune to charity, apart from a few bequests to personal staff. This was not so much from a desire to help the worthy causes concerned, as from a determination that the collateral branches of the family should not lay their hands on a single penny. As a young man, Alexander Warwick had experienced nothing but hostility from his family, and he remembered his uncles and aunts with particular dislike. It infuriated him to think that their children’s children might now have some legal claim on the money that he had worked so hard to amass. Ambrose’s job was to provide a list of suitable charities as legatees, to set up a foundation to administer the money after Lord Charlton’s death, and to make sure that the wording of the will itself was legally impeccable. As far as he knew, he had succeeded. He wondered what the trouble was now.
Twenty-one, Belgrave Terrace, was an imposing house on a quiet but piercingly expensive street near Hyde Park Corner. Ambrose drove his three-year-old Ford up to the front door, got out under the shelter of the portico, and rang the bell. At once the door was opened by a courteous butler, who requested the car keys so that the footman might park the car in the mews behind the house. His Lordship was expecting Mr. Quince, and was in the library. If Mr. Quince would kindly step this way…?
The house was very quiet. No traffic noise permeated those thick Georgian walls, and the pale Wedgwood-green carpet muffled Ambrose’s footsteps. A French marble clock in the hallway chimed the half-hour with a thin, silver note. The butler opened a door, said, “Mr. Quince, Your Lordship,” and stood back to let Ambrose enter the room.
Where the hall had been white and pale green, the library was brown and crimson. Floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookcases, stacked with leather-bound volumes; well-worn, comfortable leather armchairs; deep-red Persian rugs matching the velvet curtains; a great fireplace with the remains of two huge logs dissolving softly into glowing embers.
From one of the armchairs, a voice said, “Come in, Ambrose. Sit down.”
“Thank you, Lord Charlton. Good evening, Lord Charlton.”
Clutching his briefcase, Ambrose sat down in the chair on the far side of the fireplace. Every time he came to this house, he was determined not to be overawed by the old man. After all, what was Charlton but an opportunist who had made a fortune by getting into the synthetic-fabric market just ahead of his rivals? Nevertheless, there was something about the man. Something about the house. Ambrose could not deny it, even if he resented it.
He became aware that Charlton was looking at him steadily. The craggy face seemed thinner than usual, and more deeply lined. A trick of the flickering firelight, probably.
Ambrose said, “I believe there’s something about your will, Lord Charlton. I have it here…”
Charlton did not appear to hear him. He sighed, then smiled and said, “Your father and I were good friends, Ambrose.”
There did not seem to be a suitable reply, so Ambrose said nothing. Charlton went on, “I look forward to meeting him again.”
This time, Ambrose did a small double-take. His father had been dead for eight years. Charlton, watching Quince’s face, said, “Yes. You’re quite right. The doctor told me today. Six months at the outside. So…” Suddenly the old man stood up, became brisk. “So there’s no time to waste. We must get working on that will.”
“Working, Lord Charlton?” Ambrose was on his feet, heartily thankful that Charlton’s sudden switch of mood made it unnecessary for him to proffer condolences. “I thought you were quite satisfied with the will, sir. We went through the list of charities together only last—”
“No, no, no.” Charlton spoke quietly but decisively. “I am changing my will entirely. Everything I possess is to be left to my nephew.”
“To your—?” Ambrose Quince sat down again, abruptly.
“Did you not know that I have a nephew? At least, I hope I have.”
“No, Lord Charlton, I didn’t.”
“I also, apparently, have a conscience. Interesting, isn’t it, Ambrose? I only discovered it this afternoon, after the doctor left. If I am to look your father in the eye, wherever it is that we may meet again, I shall have to account to him for what I did not do. I shall—” He paused. Then, “I see that all this comes as news to you. I thought that your father might have—but no, of course he wouldn’t. He was far too discreet. Well, then, I had better explain. You know, don’t you, Ambrose, that there was only one member of my family who was close to me—whom I loved?”
“I have heard…your brother…”
“That’s right. My young brother Dominic. He married Mary Cheverton during the war—1943, it must have been. A very beautiful and charming girl. They had a little boy, you know. Not very long before they were killed in that flying-bomb attack.”
Ambrose said, “They were all killed.”
Lord Charlton, who was leaning against the mantelpiece gazing into the fire, suddenly turned to face Quince. “No,” he said. And again, “No.” There was a long pause. “It was given out later…we let it be understood…that the baby had died with them. That’s not true. The baby survived.”
“Then what on earth—?” Ambrose began.
Charlton silenced him with a small gesture. “Your father,” he said, “got in touch with me at once. The baby had been taken to a children’s hospital. Bobby Quince told me that I should adopt the child. I was the only living relative, you see.”
“Was there nobody on the mother’s side who—!”
Charlton smiled, a little grimly. “Nobody who wanted to know. Dominic Warwick was considered ill bred, a wastrel and maybe worse. So was I, you must remember, Ambrose. It’s only quite recently that I have become respectable. Mary Cheverton—the Honorable Mary Cheverton—was cut off with the proverbial shilling when she married my brother. No, I was the only person the little fellow had in the world—and I refused him.”
“Why?” Ambrose had not intended to ask the question, but it came out of its own accord, and hung for a moment, unanswered.
Then Charlton said, “Who knows? Ostensibly, I was too busy. I had no wife, I was no fit person to look after a small baby. I had just begun to make money, and I wanted complete mobility, complete independence. Do you understand that?” There was an appeal in his voice.
Ambrose had no difficulty in replying. “I understand it absolutely, sir.”
“Besides,” added Charlton, “there was old Humberton.”
“Old Humberton?”
“A solicitor. Friend of your father’s. Practiced in Marstone, down on the south coast. He’d arranged some private adoptions during the war, and it seems he told your father that he could fix up young Simon—that was the baby’s name, Simon—that he could arrange for Simon to be adopted by a very eligible young couple. An American army officer and his English bride. The girl had some sort of female internal trouble…could never have children of her own. The husband had been wounded in Normandy, and they were due for repatriation to the States in a matter of days. They wanted to take the baby with them.” Another pause. “It seemed suitable. I agreed. And that was the end of Simon Warwick—until this afternoon.”
Ambrose Quince swallowed, and said, “Well, sir, if you want to trace your nephew, you’ll have to contact Mr. Humberton and get the name of the adoptive parents. Then—”
Charlton had walked over to the sideboard. He interrupted to say, “Whiskey or brandy, Ambrose?”
“Whiskey, if you please, sir. With water.”
Charlton poured two whiskeys, added water, and carried them across the room to Ambrose Quince. “Here,” he said.
“Thank you, sir. Your good health, sir.” The words came out automatically, before he could stop them. He became aware that he was going very red in the face.
Charlton looked at him with a sardonic smile. He said, “We have already discussed my health, Ambrose. Of course, the doctor has told me that I mustn’t drink spirits. One small glass of wine a day, perhaps. Otherwise, I am likely to die even sooner than predicted. Well, the few weeks of grace are not worth it.” He raised his glass. “To your health, Ambrose. To my death.”
Ambrose looked at his feet and mumbled something about being sorry.
“Nothing to be sorry for, for heaven’s sake. The thing to do now is to find my nephew Simon.”
“Well, sir, as I was saying—”
“No. No use. Humberton himself died five years ago, and his firm died with him. Papers relating to living and active clients at the time of his death were returned to them. All others, as far as I have been able to ascertain, were destroyed.”
“But how—?”
Lord Charlton smiled, and lit a large and aromatic cigar. “Another pleasure prohibited by the medical profession. I must say, it gives a man a great sense of release to be beyond the aid of doctors.” He took a leisurely puff. “Yes, some of my other lawyers have been investigating Humberton this afternoon. You must know that I employ other lawyers, Ambrose.”
“Of course, sir.”
“They did the footwork,” said Charlton smoothly. “You can take it from me that nothing connected with the late Alfred Humberton will lead us any closer to Simon Warwick. In my dealings with Humberton over the adoption, he referred to the American couple as Captain and Mrs. X. I believe this is usual. The child is supposed to start life with a new identity, and no connection with his previous family.”
Ambrose said, “It’s a very strange story, sir.”
“Strange? What d’you mean, strange?”
“Well…a private adoption arranged by a lawyer in a matter of a few days…and to a foreign couple who were taking the baby out of the country. I don’t see how the formalities could have—”
“The war, my dear boy. The war. You’re too young to remember. A lot of people sent their small children across the Atlantic to avoid the air raids during the blitz, and the rocket attacks set off a new exodus. Many of the children traveled alone, with labels on their coats, to be picked up by relatives or friends on the other side.”
“They still needed passports,” said Ambrose.
“Yes, of course. My inquiries have led me that far. A British passport was issued to the infant Simon Warwick in 1944. Presumably that was the document with which he entered the United States.”
“So he was not officially adopted when he left England?”
“Apparently not. The formalities must have been concluded in America. I never heard any more about it, from Humberton or anybody else. I regret to say that at the time it was a great weight off my mind. But now…” Lord Charlton sat down slowly, like the old man he was. “First of all, let’s get that new will drafted.”
“But, sir—”
“Don’t argue with me, Ambrose. Just get out pen and paper, and we’ll do it in no time. I, Alexander Warwick, Baron Charlton, being of sound mind et cetera, do give and bequeath—got that?”
“Yes, sir, but—”
“Do give and bequeath all my worldly possessions…goods and chattels…whatever the legal mumbo-jumbo is, you fill that in, Ambrose, I mean everything…to my nephew Simon Warwick. That’s simple enough, isn’t it?”
A near groan from Ambrose Quince indicated that it was far from simple. “Lord Charlton…I beg you…surely you must find the young man first and alter the will afterwards?”
“Certainly not. I’ve told you, Ambrose, the doctor remarked with some relish that I might drop dead at any moment. Change that will, and find Simon for me.”
“How, Lord Charlton?”
“I don’t know what’s the matter with you, Ambrose. Perfectly simple. Start off by drafting an advertisement, which you will run in all prominent newspapers, both here and in the United States. Start with the name, in block capitals. ‘SIMON WARWICK. Will Simon Warwick, only son of Dominic and Mary (née Cheverton) Warwick, get in touch with Messrs. Quince and Quince and—however many there are of you. Will hear something to his advantage.’ What’s difficult about that?”
“Lord Charlton,” Ambrose said, “the boy…the man…he must be in his thirties by now…the man won’t know who he is. I mean, who he was. The name Simon Warwick will mean nothing to him.”
“We can’t be sure, Ambrose. Humberton, quite rightly, never told me the identity of the new parents, but they knew whose son they were adopting. They may have told him. More likely, they’ll see the advertisement themselves. And then, as you so rightly pointed out, there was that childhood passport in the name of Simon Warwick. It’s perfectly possible that somewhere, in some American suburb, there lives a rising young executive who knows very well that he is Simon Warwick, and who will turn up with that passport to prove it. I want him. I want him here, if possible before I die.”
“I begin to see,” Ambrose said, forgetting his diffidence. “It’s the business, isn’t it? You’re facing the prospect of dying without being able to keep the business in the family.”
Charlton gave him a sharp look. “You are bright, young man,” he said. “If you hadn’t been, I would never have employed you, father or no father. Very well. I’ve outlined your job. Change the will—I shall expect it for signature tomorrow. Then find Simon Warwick for me. It will be worth your while, I can assure you.”
“Look, sir,” said Ambrose. “There’s something I simply have to say.”
“What’s that?”
“Well…if you…if we put those ads in the papers, we’re going to attract a whole lot of frauds.”
“Frauds?”
“Once you put in the words ‘something to his advantage,’ you attract their interest. Crooks, I mean. Adventurers. Then, you want to print the name, Simon Warwick. It’s not difficult for anybody to connect that up with you, and the Charlton fortune. Somerset House will produce a copy of the birth certificate for anybody.” Ambrose sighed. “I’m afraid we may be saddled with quite a few pseudo Simon Warwicks, sir.”
Lord Charlton said, “Don’t worry about that, Ambrose.”
“Sir, I think we must worry. In the absence of proper documentation, if somebody turns up with a plausible story…”
“I told you not to worry.”
“I mean, there’s a great deal of money at stake—”
Charlton turned and looked at Ambrose Quince. He said, “I shall know my brother’s son when I meet him.”
“Of course, there’s such a thing as a family resemblance, but I don’t see how you can possibly rely on—”
Sharply, Lord Charlton said, “Just concentrate on drawing up the will, if you please, Ambrose, and drafting the advertisements.”
Ambrose stood up. He said, “About the will, sir.”
“What about it?”
“Well…supposing that we don’t find Simon Warwick. Supposing he’s dead, for instance.”
“Then the money is to go to his eldest legitimate child. Nobody else. Not to the adoptive parents.”
“I see. Eldest legitimate offspring—”
“So long as it’s Simon’s own child. I won’t have any adopted brat taking over Warwick Industries.”
Ambrose sighed again. “That may be tricky to draft,” he said, “but I’ll do my best. Now, supposing he’s dead, leaving no children. Or supposing we just fail to trace him—”
“In that case, we shall have to revert to the old will, and those tiresome charities with which you deal so efficiently, Ambrose.”
Ambrose’s brain was ticking over fast. He said, “You see, sir, things that sound simple may have all sorts of legal complications.”
“We must consider many contingencies.”
“Such as?”
“You know nothing about this young man, Lord Charlton. He might show no interest whatsoever in the business, and simply sell out and fritter the money away.”
There was a moment of silence. Then Charlton said, “I don’t believe that would happen. However, I take your point, Ambrose. I suppose we must attach some strings.”
“Exactly, sir.” Ambrose was relieved. “Shall we say that if we can trace Simon Warwick and prove his identity, he shall inherit provided that he takes his seat on the board of Warwick Industries and is active in the affairs of the company?”
“Very well. If you wish.” Charlton sounded old and tired and bored.
“And if,” Ambrose went on, “he should by disinclination or disability not concern himself in the business—”
“What do you mean by disability?” asked Lord Charlton sharply.
Ambrose said, a little desperately, “Well, sir, I’m just trying to cover everything. I mean—your nephew might be fatally ill or even legally insane. He might be in prison, or—oh, there are all sorts of situations which could prevent him from—”
Charlton held up his hand, and Ambrose fell silent. Then the old man said, “You are quite right, of course, Ambrose. I had a simple idea, and there is no such thing in law. Very well. Put in your insomuches and whereinafters and notwithstandings. Just make sure that if he is alive and legally competent and agreeable to the idea, my nephew shall inherit my interest in Warwick Industries. The same provisions to apply to the eldest legitimate child of his body, on reaching the age of twenty-one. Otherwise, we go back to the old will.”
“There’s another thing, Lord Charlton,” said Ambrose.
“Good God. Another? Are you lawyers never satisfied?”
“I’m only trying to protect your interests, Lord Charlton. Surely you see that you must set a time limit?”
“A time limit?”
“Yes. A clause stipulating that if Simon Warwick, or his eldest legitimate offspring, has not appeared to claim the inheritance within a certain period after your death—I would suggest a year—then the money goes to charity, as previously intended.”
Lord Charlton considered. “A year is too short a time,” he said at last. “Five years.”
“I submit, sir, that five years is too long. If, after the most active and exhaustive inquiries, we have not located your nephew within a year—”
“Very well. Make it three years. No less.”
“Could we not compromise with two, sir? The legal complications and the burden on the estate—”
“I said three years, Ambrose. You have three years after my death to find Simon Warwick. All expenses for the search will be paid from the estate, of course.” He stopped, and frowned. “What am I doing, talking as though I were dead already? Get moving, Ambrose, my boy. I intend to meet my nephew Simon before I die.”
Later that evening, by the fireside in Ealing, Rosalie Quince said to her husband, “Is there a hope in hell of finding him, Ambrose?”
“I don’t know, darling. I doubt it. But I shall certainly have to try. The old man has made up his mind.”
The following day, Ambrose drafted the new will and took it to Belgrave Terrace for Lord Charlton’s signature. Later in the week, the advertisements appeared in the columns of the Times, Telegraph, Guardian, Washington Post, The New York Times, Christian Science Monitor, and other prominent British and American newspapers. A couple of days later, journalists began besieging Lord Charlton’s place of business and his residence, smoking with questions. Ambrose deflected them as best he could, but in no time the rumor was running that the mysterious Simon Warwick was Lord Charlton’s long-lost nephew and stood to inherit a fortune. As Ambrose remarked morosely to Rosalie, there was no need to advertise any more. Anybody, on either side of the Atlantic, who read a newspaper must know that Simon Warwick was requested to contact Messrs. Quince, Quince, Quince and Quince, where he would learn something to his advantage.
Three weeks later, Lord Charlton died, very peacefully. It was after dinner, and he was sitting in his favorite armchair in the library, with a glass of fine old brandy in one hand and a big cigar in the other. A smell of burning attracted the butler from the hall. He found his master dying, with the Georgian brandy bubble, miraculously unbroken, rolling on the floor beside him, its contents sinking into the crimson carpet. The cigar had burned a neat round hole in the leather upholstery of the chair.
The butler telephoned the doctor, and then returned to Lord Charlton, who murmured just three words. “Ambrose…Simon…I…” Then he died.
It was a week after Lord Charlton’s death—on Christmas Eve, to be precise—that the first claimant turned up in Ambrose’s office, asserting that without any possible doubt he was Simon Warwick.