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He spent ten minutes writing a short note to Richards apologizing for the white he of a fortnight earlier and asking that Martin Pound be telephoned at his home immediately. The letter he laid ostentatiously on the floor at the threshold of the library where it stood out against the dark parquet. Then he rang Richards and told the sleepy voice that answered that he would not need Mrs Richards for an early breakfast, but that he would need the chauffeur, in the library, in thirty minutes.

When he had finished he took from his locked bureau the shotgun from whose barrel he had sawn ten inches of metal to render it more easily manageable. Into the breech he loaded two heavy-gauge cartridges and retired to the library. '

Meticulous to the last, he covered his favourite buttonback-leather winged chair with a heavy horse blanket, mindful that it now belonged to someone else. He sat in the chair cradling the gun. He took one last look round, at his rows of beloved books and the cabinets that had once housed his cherished collection of rare coins. Then he turned the barrels against his chest, fumbled for the triggers, took a deep breath, and shot himself through the heart.

Mr Martin Pound closed the door to the conference room adjacent to his office and took his place at the head of the long table. Halfway down the table to his right sat Mrs Armitage, sister of his client and friend, and of whom he had heard. Next to her sat her husband. Both were dressed in black. Across the table, seeming bored and indolent, sat their son, Tarquin, a young man in his early twenties who appeared to have an inordinate interest in the contents of his oversized nose. Mr Pound adjusted his spectacles and addressed the trio.

'You will understand that the late Timothy Hanson asked me to act as sole executor of his will. In the normal course of events I would, in this capacity, have opened the will immediately upon learning of his death, in order to ascertain whether there were any instructions of immediate importance concerning, for example, preparations for the burial.'

'Didn't you write it anyway?' asked Armitage senior.

'No, I did not,' replied Pound.

'So you don't know what is in it either?' asked Armitage junior.

'No, I do not,' said Pound. 'In fact the late Mr Hanson pre-empted such an opening of the will by leaving me a personal letter on the mantelpiece of the room in which he died. In it he made a number of things plain, which I am now able to impart to you.'

'Let's get on with the will,' said Armitage junior.

Mr Pound stared at him coldly without speaking.

'Quiet, Tarquin,' said Mrs Armitage mildly.

Pound resumed. 'In the first place, Timothy Hanson did not kill himself while the balance of mind was disturbed. He was in fact in the last stages of terminal cancer, and had known this since the previous April.'

'Poor bugger,' said Armitage senior.

'I later showed this letter to the Kent county coroner and it was confirmed by his personal physician and the autopsy. This enabled the formalities of death certificate, inquest and permission for burial to be hurried through in only a fortnight. Secondly, he made plain he did not wish the will to be opened and read until these formalities had been completed. Finally, he made plain he wished for a formal reading, rather than any correspondence by mail, in the presence of his only surviving relative, his sister Mrs Armitage, her husband and son.'

The other three in the room looked round with mounting and less than grief-stricken surprise.

'But there's only us here,' said Armitage junior.

'Precisely,' said Pound.

'Then we must be the only beneficiaries,' said his father.

'Not necessarily,' said Pound. 'The attendance here today was simply according to my late client's letter.'

'If he's playing some kind of joke on us.. said Mrs Armitage darkly. Her mouth adopted, as of much-practised ease, a thin straight line.

'Shall we proceed with the will?' suggested Pound.

'Right,' said Armitage junior.

Martin Pound took a slim letter opener and carefully slit the end of the fat envelope in his hands. From it he withdrew another bulky envelope and a three-page document, bound along the left-hand margin with narrow green tape. Pound placed the fat envelope to one side and opened out the folded sheets. He began to read.

'This is the last will of me, Timothy John Hanson, of…'

'We know all that,' said Armitage senior.

'Get on with it,' said Mrs Armitage.

Pound glanced at each with some distaste over the top of his glasses. He continued. 'I declare that this my will is to be construed in accordance with English law. Two, I hereby revoke all former wills and testamentary dispositions made by me…'

Armitage junior gave vent to the noisy sigh of one whose patience has been too long tried.