Gregory, quite understandably, had been on edge for days.

"Why do you suppose he has called us here?" he asked, nervously pacing the floor of my suite.

"Only heaven can hazard a guess, Gregory, but whatever it is, you can wager it is important."

I could not help but sense the humor in the situation. Sir Melvin, Lord of Farnsworth, hadn’t seen his immediate family in years, excluding me of course; the proximity of my dwelling to his estate did shape a certain bond between us, and now he had summoned all of us to Farnsworth. Gregory, who was last in succession and the Queen only knows where in the Lord’s estimation, had received his cable a day late and he strongly suspected that it was more than a mere oversight by the aged benefactor.

Gregory fumbled in his breast pocket and pulled out a long slender yellowish cigarette. As he put the flickering lighter to his lips a few particles of molten tobacco fell onto his lapel.

"Oh, honestly," he sighed de-featedly. "First the tennis mess and now this."

"You’re the only one left that still smokes that Turkish blend, Gregory."

"Yes, I know, David. Ever since father died and passed the business on to me I’ve tried to keep up a certain restrained decor. And you know this Turkish tobacco lends such an aura." He brushed his lapel and examined the cigarette. "However, I will have to speak to Taunton. It seems that his tobacco has lost its zest these days."

Gregory was a man of circumstances — all of them notoriously questionable. It was not that there was any maliciousness in his makeup, it was more as though he had irreparably bruised the funny bone of the gods at a very early age. And since that time, a sort of confettied Midas’ touch had lurkingly followed him about, showing itself only at the most inopportune times.

There was that horribly abortive year at Sandhurst; the abrupt exile to Brussels when his passport was held for a month; that small affair with the housekeeper in Kent that ended in the tabloids, and that blighted summer at Whetson when he lost his auto in the bay. Then the growth of that square, rather rakish mustache that still adorned his face. It was approximately two years ago, I believe, when I first noticed a stubbled growth shadowing his forelip. As I recall, he explained it as a sort of metabolic bandage for a rugby scar. The weekend edition of the Brighton Gazette, however, had a different and far simpler explanation involving something about a cigarette burn at Mrs. Lockwood’s Rooms. And finally there was that difficult period of readjustment after his father’s death. He had expected, of course, that whatever monies had been tied up in insurance would be at his disposal, but much to his consternation, the entire estate was put back into the barrel factory and Gregory was left the managerialship. And in four short years he had quietly mismanaged the company into a progressive state of bankruptcy.

As I glanced at his reflection in the mirror I could see the whole thing passing in a farcical charade, each incident adding in some way to that plump, rather paunchy, ebbing, late fortyish, puckish, figure I called my cousin, Gregory Clot. Actually it was rather difficult to tell whether at this point Gregory was concerned with Sir Melvin’s knowing anything or his not knowing all. I smiled and then laughed audibly.

Gregory grunted defeatedly, disgustedly. He snuffed out his cigarette and faced me squarely.

"Now listen, David, I’ve a great deal at stake here. I’ve been courting this inheritance for quite some time. And frankly if, if..."

His voice broke and he sat down at a loss for words, a wrinkle marring his ordinarily placid brow.

I glanced at my watch. "Jove, Gregory, we had better get a start on; they’ll be carrying on without us."

A cab was summoned and we made our way to Farnsworth. The first round of cocktails had barely disappeared when we arrived.

Sir Melvin was standing in front of the fireplace talking with a much younger gentleman. He caught my eye as we entered the parlor and beckoned to us with a jerk of the head. Sir Melvin was a short, squatty man, with a very large protruding stomach. His head was bald and his skin was splotched with red and hung down in wrinkles over his jowls. His voice was intriguing and completely unexpected. It was soft and high and always sounded like he needed to clear his throat.

"Ah, David, pleasure to see you," he said.

Gregory, who had trailed behind me across the room to the fireplace, positioned himself behind me and made himself as little as possible. Sir Melvin rose on his toes and peered over my shoulder.

"And, Gregory," he said in a tone of astonishment.

Gregory expanded and nervously played at his tie. "Good evening, Sir Melvin," he said reverently.

"This, gentlemen," said Sir Melvin, turning to the younger man beside him, "is my solicitor, Mr. Christopher Smail."

I extended my hand to the younger man. Gregory slid from behind my back, shook Mr. Smail’s hand and then retreated slowly. Mr. Smail was a tall man with speckled gray hair and a small thin mustache. He stood very straight and when he spoke he put his hand in and out of his coat pocket.

Sir Melvin put down his drink and stepped to the middle of the room. Sensing that the moment had arrived, the assembled heirs took their chairs and clustered — at a safe distance, of course — about the aged pot-bellied man. When the clatter died down he began to speak, looking at the design in the carpet and pacing back and forth with his thumb in his vest pocket. Gregory, very surreptitiously, eased himself forward to the edge of his chair and cocked his ear.

"It must be evident," Sir Melvin started, "that when I pass beyond, each and every one of you stands to inherit from my estate a sizeable annuity."

There was a general relaxation about the room. Gregory sat back and crossed his legs. Others unbuttoned their coats and lit cigarettes.

"But there is," the Lord continued, "a frightful thing to deal with — the inheritance tax. It’s rather large. That is why I have summoned my solicitor, Mr. Smail, here tonight. He has devised a plan whereby each of you may avoid this tax. Now, it is a bit tricky, but I believe that if you will bear with us, you will see the wisdom in it. Christopher, please."

Mr. Smail cleared his throat and put his hand into his pocket. He studied the heirs as if he were looking for someone he knew.

"I will try to make this as elementary as possible," he said. "If I lose anyone, please don’t hesitate to interrupt." He scratched the side of his face and ran his forefinger over his mustache. "When Sir Melvin expires each of you will inherit one-eighth of his estate, and a tax on that inheritance must be paid. Now, if Sir Melvin, instead of leaving you this money by will, were to make you a gift of it at the present time, there would be no tax, because Parliament does not exact a tax on gifts. Is that clear?"

He looked about the room and seeing that there were no questions put his hand back into his pocket and continued.

"Well, with this in mind then, I have suggested to Sir Melvin that he convert all of his holdings into cash immediately and give to each of you his due share now."

Gregory unwittingly nodded his assent and vainly tried to subdue a smile of contentment. Mr. Smail took his hand from his pocket.

"However," he said slowly, "there is one drawback to a gift."

A silence fell on the room. Gregory again eased himself to the edge of his chair. Mr. Smail continued.

"This trick of avoiding the inheritance tax has been tried before and in many instances the giver has died within a few months of the making of the gift. Consequently a few years ago Parliament decreed that a gift will not be valid unless the giver lives for one year thereafter. If the giver should die within that year the gift is automatically revoked and the money passes as if given by will — and in that event the inheritance tax must then be paid. Of course in our case, with so robust a man as Sir Melvin (nine glistening smiles flashed toward the fireplace) this is a mere technicality. In one year from tonight the money will be yours free and clear of any inheritance tax."

For two full minutes Gregory sat very quietly doubled up in the rear of the cab running his fingers through the gathering moisture on the window.

"Do you think the old boy can hold on for a year?" he asked.

"He ruddy-well better," I chuckled.

My chuckle struck Gregory with apathy. He turned to the window and went deeply into thought. Two more minutes passed quietly.

"Keep a lookout, David, and cable me if his condition worsens appreciably."

"You and your creditors shall be the first," I responded.

* * *

The months passed. Two, three, four, then with but five months wanting to complete the year, Sir Melvin, Lord of Farnsworth, took ill. A stroke of the devil. During dinner, Sir Melvin complained of acute gastritis. Then immediately preceding his nightcap, he developed a burning pain below the sternum. Doctor Appelby was summoned. His diagnosis was horrifying — a heart attack. Sir Melvin was expected to expire before morning. I cabled Gregory at once. In hours he arrived, pale and short of breath, but too late — Sir Melvin had passed on.

"Much pain?" asked Gregory.

"Minimum."

"Good show...." Gregory was pacing the floor fumbling for a cigarette in his pocket.

"Oh, dash it, David. Let’s not pretend. He had just five months to go. What’s to become of it now."

I was glad it had been brought out in the open because it had been preying on my mind for half the day. Even Doctor Appelby must have been aware that this was more than the passing of an old friend.

The doctor, satchel in hand, appeared at the door of the study.

"Good morning, Gregory, nice to see you," he said.

"Hello, doctor," mumbled Gregory.

The doctor smiled. "Pity we have to renew our friendship on such a forbidding occasion," he said.

"Yes, pity."

"What will you have me do with the body, David?"

I was thinking of the annuity. "Oh...contact Ashland and have him make the arrangements."

The good doctor turned to leave and then came back into the room, put his satchel down and stared at me with a straight, cold, medicinal look.

"You know," he said slowly and objectively, "it is possible to keep this death a secret for — five months."

I felt as though I had been struck. I sat down; my thoughts eddying. What is he saying? This can’t be Doctor Appelby speaking. Whatever could he...

Gregory snapped to. "Go on," he said.

"When refrigerated, a body may keep for days, and when frozen, indefinitely," said the doctor.

Gregory began to frame a question.

"The deep freezer in the basement would be suitable," said Doctor Appelby, anticipating his question. "At the end of the five month period remove the body, allow time for it to thaw, of course, set it up in bed, and fetch the coroner."

"Brilliant," exclaimed Gregory. "Splendid," was all I could muster.

"Now it —" Gregory stopped short and whirled about. "Stephens!" he said.

"Oh, yes," I thought — Stephens, the manservant who had been with Lord Farnsworth for years. "Something should be said to him. Suppose you talk to him, Gregory, you certainly get on well with him."

Gregory finished his drink. "Fine, David. You help the doctor; I’ll speak with Stephens."

Stephens was seated in the vestibule. "Oh, Stephens," I called, as I passed him on my way upstairs, "Mr. Clot would like to speak with you for a moment."

Stephens looked up, his eyes red and cheeks puffed up. Without saying a word he entered the parlor and stood erect. His unheralded presence startled Gregory who was arranging his thoughts.

"Oh, Stephens — yes, yes, come in, come in," he uttered, fumbling with a newly lit cigarette. Stephens stood unblinking as Gregory started what he had rehearsed.

"Now," he said by way of introduction, "we have all sustained a severe shock this evening. No one could have thought that so energetic, so robust a man as Sir Melvin could have — could have expired so unexpectedly. Yes, it was quite a shock. But it is in times like these that one must remain steadfast, one must..."

Thump, thump, thump, thump. Our footsteps, heavy and uncertain, echoed through the parlor. Stephens, unmoved, stared blankly ahead. Gregory continued.

"It is in times like these that one must..."

Thump, thump, thump, thump. The doctor and I, with Sir Melvin’s body sprawled upon a makeshift stretcher between us, excused ourselves and passed through the parlor to the storage room. A faint inaudible gasp escaped from Stephens and he dropped involuntarily into a tasseled Louis XIV loveseat. In a few minutes Gregory joined us in the storage room. As he closed the door to the parlor I could see Stephens. He was sitting in the same chair wiping his brow in disbelief. He seemed changed.

"Stephens understands," said Gregory.

We eased the body into the freezer, being careful not to disarrange the nightclothes terribly. Except for one foot it fit devilishly well.

"Had better dial it as low as possible," said the doctor.

"Right," added Gregory with a dash of adventure.

My next cablegram to Gregory was five months later. "Gregory Clot, Topsworthy, stop, frightful news, stop, Sir Melvin dead, stop, come quickly, stop, David."

Gregory arrived with confidence written all over his churlish face.

"Have you notified the coroner as yet?" he asked with his elbow atop the mantel on the fireplace.

"He will be here in a very few minutes," I answered.

The coroner arrived, extended his sympathies and explained that whereas this was death due to an unknown cause he would have to remove the body to the laboratory where an autopsy would be performed.

Gregory and I, confidently speculating as to the benefits to be derived from each annuity, awaited the morning and the coroner’s verdict.

At a quarter past eleven, much to our surprise, the coroner re-appeared at the door.

"Come in, come in," Gregory begged.

"The hour is late, I will not detain you," said the coroner. He paused to collect his thoughts. "Sir Melvin died of a heart attack — a coronary occlusion."

"What a pity," moaned Gregory. "He was such a robust man. Riding, hunting, tennis, there seemed to be no activity foreign to Sir Melvin. That’s why it’s so difficult to believe he was stricken so violently and quickly. At first it appeared to be merely gastritis. Why..."

The coroner interrupted. "Then you were here at the time, Mr. Clot?"

Gregory nervously took the cigarette from his mouth and flicked the ashes from it.

"Why— why — no, Mr. Whenton..," he said feebly, pointing to me.

"Yes," I said quickly. "Sir Melvin complained of a slight pain. It was just after dessert. We were about to...."

"Ah, yes, dessert," said the coroner, squinting his eyes inquiringly, "that’s one thing that bothers us, Mr. Whenton."

I glanced quickly to Gregory. His body was unmoving, his arm stopped halfway in a lifting motion, his eyes wide and his face pale and sallow.

The coroner paused for a few seconds and looked to Gregory and then to me.

"Upon examining the stomach," he said, "I found remains of fresh strawberries. Fresh strawberries in January?"

He looked at me. I looked at Gregory. Gregory, taking a few seconds to regain his composure, straightened up and smiled — the situation well in hand.

"Well, yes," he said, "you see, we have a deep freezer."

Hon. William J. Schafer is a Maricopa County Superior Court judge.