And Thereby Hangs a Tale

“This is the family home,” said Arthur proudly.

And it’s where I’ll be spending the rest of my life, thought Lynn as she gazed in admiration at the magnificent house situated in several acres of manicured lawns, bordered by flower beds and surrounded by hundreds of trees, the likes of which Lynn had only ever seen in a public park.

She soon settled into the room next door to Arthur’s master suite and continued to carry out her routine, always completing the day with a happy-ending massage, as they used to call it at the agency.

It was on a Thursday evening, after his second whiskey (only allowed when Lynn was certain Dr. Grove wouldn’t be visiting his patient that day), that Arthur said, “I know I don’t have much longer to live, my dear.” Lynn began to protest, but the old man waved a dismissive hand before adding, “And I’d like to leave you a little something in my will.”

A little something wasn’t exactly what Lynn had in mind. “How considerate of you,” she replied. “But I don’t want anything, Arthur . . .” She hesitated. “Except perhaps . . .”

“Yes, my dear?”

“Perhaps you could make a donation to some worthy cause? Or a bequest to your favorite charity in my name?”

“How typically thoughtful of you, my dear. But wouldn’t you also like some personal memento?”

Lynn pretended to consider the offer for some time before she said, “Well, I’ve grown rather attached to your cane with the silver handle, the one you used to take on our afternoon walks at Jackson Memorial. And if your children wouldn’t object, I’d also like the photo of you that’s on your desk in the study—the one taken when you were a freshman at Princeton. You were so handsome, Arthur.”

The old man smiled. “You shall have both of them, my dear. I’ll speak to my lawyer tomorrow.”

Mr. Haskins, the senior partner of Haskins, Haskins & Purbright, was not the kind of man who would easily have succumbed to Miss Beattie’s charms. However, he wholeheartedly approved when his client expressed the desire to add several large donations to selected charities and other institutions to his will—after all, he was a Princeton man himself. And he certainly didn’t object when Arthur told him that he wanted to leave his cane with the silver handle, and a photo of himself when he was at Princeton, to his devoted nurse, Miss Lynn Beattie.

“Just a keepsake, you understand,” Lynn murmured as the lawyer wrote down Arthur’s words.

“I’ll send the documents to you within a week,” Mr. Haskins said as he rose to leave, “in case there are any further revisions you might wish to consider.”

“Thank you, Haskins,” Arthur replied, but he had fallen asleep even before they’d had a chance to shake hands.

Mr. Haskins was as good as his word, and a large legal envelope, marked PRIVATE & CONFIDENTIAL, arrived by courier five days later. Lynn took it straight to her room, and once Arthur had fallen asleep she studied every syllable of the forty-seven-page document carefully. After she had turned the last page, she felt that only one paragraph needed to be amended before the old man put his signature to it.

When Lynn brought in Arthur’s breakfast tray the following morning, she handed him his newspaper and said, “I don’t think Mr. Haskins likes me.”

“What makes you say that, my dear?” asked Arthur as he unfolded the Herald Tribune.

She placed a copy of the will on his bedside table and said, “There’s no mention of your cane with the silver handle, or of my favorite photo of you. I’m afraid I won’t have anything to remember you

by.”

“Damn the man,” said Arthur, spilling his hot chocolate. “Get him on the phone immediately.”

“That won’t be necessary,” said Lynn. “I’ll be passing by his office later this afternoon. I’ll drop the will off and remind him of your generous offer. Perhaps he simply forgot.”

“Yes, why don’t you do that, my dear. But be sure you’re back in time for Phil Silvers.”

Lynn did indeed pass by the Haskins, Haskins & Purbright building that afternoon, on her way to the office of a Mr. Kullick, whom she had rung earlier to arrange an appointment. She had chosen Mr. Kullick for two reasons. The first was that he had left Haskins, Haskins & Purbright some years before, having been passed over as a partner. There were several other lawyers in the town who had suffered the same fate, but what tipped the balance in Mr. Kullick’s favor was the fact that he was the vice president of the local branch of the National Rifle Association.

Lynn took the lift to the fourth floor. As she entered the lawyer’s office, Mr. Kullick rose to greet her, ushering his potential client into a chair. “How can I help you, Miss Beattie?” he asked even before he’d sat down.

“You can’t help me,” said Lynn, “but my employer is in need of your services. He’s unable to attend in person because, sadly, he’s bedridden.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Mr. Kullick. “However, I’ll need to know who it is that I’d be representing.” When he heard the name, he sat bolt upright in his chair and straightened his tie.

“Mr. Sommerfield has recently executed a new will,” said Lynn, “and he wishes one paragraph on page thirty-two to be amended.” She passed over the will that had been prepared by Mr. Haskins, and the reworded paragraph she had neatly typed on Arthur’s headed notepaper above a signature he had scrawled after a third whiskey.

Once Mr. Kullick had read the emendation, he remained silent for some time. “I will happily draw up a new will for Mr. Sommerfield, but of course I’ll need to be present when he signs the document.” He paused. “It will also have to be countersigned by an independent witness.”

“Of course,” said Lynn, who had not anticipated this problem and realized she would need a little time to find a way round it. “Shall we say next Thursday afternoon at five o’clock, Mr. Kullick?”

The lawyer checked his diary, crossed something out, and entered the name Sommerfield in its place. Lynn rose from her chair.