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.
It read:
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.
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.”