Good Omens

It had contained certain instructions and five interesting facts about the history of the next ten years which, if put to good use by a keen young man, would ensure enough finance to pursue a very successful legal career.

All he had to do was see that the box was carefully looked after for rather more than three hundred years, and then delivered to a certain address …

“. . . although of course the firm had changed hands many times over the centuries,” said Mr. Baddicombe. “But the box has always been part of the chattels, as it were.”

“I didn’t even know they made Heinz Baby Foods in the seventeenth century,” said Newt.

“That was just to keep it undamaged in the car,” said Mr. Baddicombe.

“And no one’s opened it all these years?” said Newt.

“Twice, I believe,” said Mr. Baddicombe. “In 1757, by Mr. George Cranby, and in 1928 by Mr. Arthur Bychance, father of the present Mr. Bychance.” He coughed. “Apparently Mr. Cranby found a letter—”

“—addressed to himself,” said Newt.

Mr. Baddicombe sat back hurriedly. “My word. How did you guess that?”

“I think I recognize the style,” said Newt grimly. “What happened to them?”

“Have you heard this before?” said Mr. Baddicombe suspiciously.

“Not in so many words. They weren’t blown up, were they?”

“Well … Mr. Cranby had a heart attack, it is believed. And Mr. Bychance went very pale and put his letter back in its envelope, I understand, and gave very strict instructions that the box wasn’t to be opened again in his lifetime. He said anyone who opened the box would be sacked without references.”

“A dire threat,” said Newt, sarcastically.

“It was, in 1928. Anyway, their letters are in the box.”

Newt pulled the cardboard aside.

There was a small ironbound chest inside. It had no lock.

“Go on, lift it out,” said Mr. Baddicombe excitedly. “I must say I’d very much like to know what’s in there. We’ve had bets on it, in the office … ”

“I’ll tell you what,” said Newt, generously, “I’ll make us some coffee, and you can open the box.”

“Me? Would that be proper?”

“I don’t see why not.” Newt eyed the saucepans hanging over the stove. One of them was big enough for what he had in mind.

“Go on,” he said. “Be a devil. I don’t mind. You—you could have power of attorney, or something.”

Mr. Baddicombe took off his overcoat. “Well,” he said, rubbing his hands together, “since you put it like that … it’d be something to tell my grandchildren.”

Newt picked up the saucepan and laid his hand gently on the door handle. “I hope so,” he said.

“Here goes.”

Newt heard a faint creak.

“What can you see?” he said.

“There’s the two opened letters … oh, and a third one … addressed to … ”

Newt heard the snap of a wax seal and the clink of something on the table. Then there was a gasp, the clatter of a chair, the sound of running feet in the hallway, the slam of a door, and the sound of a car engine being jerked into life and then redlined down the lane.

Newt took the saucepan off his head and came out from behind the door.