Good Omens

There was a small dapper man in a black raincoat standing on the doorstep. He was holding a cardboard box and he gave Newt a bright smile.

“Mr.”—he consulted a piece of paper in one hand—”Pulzifer?”

“Pulsifer,” said Newt. “It’s a hard ess.”

“I’m ever so sorry,” said the man. “I’ve only ever seen it written down. Er. Well, then. It would appear that this is for you and Mrs. Pulsifer.”

Newt gave him a blank look.

“There is no Mrs. Pulsifer,” he said coldly.

The man removed his bowler hat.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” he said.

“I mean that … well, there’s my mother,” said Newt. “But she’s not dead, she’s just in Dorking. I’m not married.”

“How odd. The letter is quite, er, specific.”

“Who are you?” said Newt. He was wearing only his trousers, and it was chilly on the doorstep.

The man balanced the box awkwardly and fished out a card from an inner pocket. He handed it to Newt.

GILES BADDICOMBE

Robey, Robey, Redfearn and Bychance

Solicitors

13 Demdyke Chambers,

PRESTON

“Yes?” he said politely. “And what can I do for you, Mr. Baddicombe?”

“You could let me in,” said Mr. Baddicombe.

“You’re not serving a writ or anything, are you?” said Newt. The events of last night hung in his memory like a cloud, constantly changing whenever he thought he could make out a picture, but he was vaguely aware of damaging things and had been expecting retribution in some form.

“No,” said Mr. Baddicombe, looking slightly hurt. “We have people for that sort of thing.”

He wandered past Newt and put the box down on the table.

“To be honest,” he said, “we’re all very interested in this. Mr. Bychance nearly came down himself, but he doesn’t travel well these days.”

“Look,” said Newt, “I really haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”

“This,” said Mr. Baddicombe, proffering the box and beaming like Aziraphale about to attempt a conjuring trick, “is yours. Someone wanted you to have it. They were very specific.”

“A present?” said Newt. He eyed the taped cardboard cautiously, and then rummaged in the kitchen drawer for a sharp knife.

“I think more a bequest,” said Mr. Baddicombe. “You see, we’ve had it for three hundred years. Sorry. Was it something I said? Hold it under the tap, I should.”

“What the hell is this all about?” said Newt, but a certain icy suspicion was creeping over him. He sucked at the cut.

“It’s a funny story—do you mind if I sit down?—and of course I don’t know the full details because I joined the firm only fifteen years ago, but … ”

. . . It had been a very small legal firm when the box had been cautiously delivered; Redfearn, Bychance and both the Robeys, let alone Mr. Baddicombe, were a long way in the future. The struggling legal clerk who had accepted delivery had been surprised to find, tied to the top of the box with twine, a letter addressed to himself.