Good Omens

said Newt, but a certain icy suspicion was creeping over him. He sucked at the cut.
    â€œIt’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 …
    â€œ. . . 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.”
    â€œI didn’t even know they made Heinz Baby Foods in the seventeenth century,” said Newt.
    â€œThat was just to keep it undamaged in the car,” said Mr. Baddicombe.
    â€œAnd no one’s opened it all these years?” said Newt.
    â€œTwice, 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—”
    â€œâ€”addressed to himself,” said Newt.
    Mr. Baddicombe sat back hurriedly. “My word. How did you guess that?”
    â€œI think I recognize the style,” said Newt grimly. “What happened to them?”
    â€œHave you heard this before?” said Mr. Baddicombe suspiciously.
    â€œNot in so many words. They weren’t blown up, were they?”
    â€œWell … 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.”
    â€œA dire threat,” said Newt, sarcastically.
    â€œIt 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.
    â€œGo 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 … ”
    â€œI’ll tell you what,” said Newt, generously, “I’ll make us some coffee, and you can open the box.”
    â€œMe? Would that be proper?”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œGo 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.
    â€œHere goes.”
    Newt heard a faint creak.
    â€œWhat can you see?” he said.
    â€œThere’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.
    He picked up the letter and was not one hundred percent surprised to see that it was addressed to Mr. G. Baddicombe. He unfolded it.
    It read: “Here is A Florin, lawyer; nowe, runne faste, lest thee Worlde knoe the Truth about yowe and Mistrefs Spiddon the Type Writinge Machine slavey.”
    Newt looked at the other letters. The crackling paper of the one addressed to George Cranby said: “Remove thy thievinge Hande, Master