For years, the butler, Charles, had planned carefully for this day. Now, his wealthy, elderly employer was dead and buried, he would finally get his hands on her millions …

Charles Thomson jumped to his feet and tore his fingers through the remainder of his thinning brown hair. “But it can’t be true!” he cried.

“I’m afraid it is Mr Thomson,” Mr Roberts replied calmly. “It states here in black-and-white—”

Before the solicitor could finish his sentence, Charles bent over, snatched the document from his hands, and as tears of anger and frustration filled his eyes, he read the hateful words.

 I, Sheila Montgomery, hereby bequeath my entire estate in all my millions to my loving dog, Shakespeare, and upon the event of his death, the estate will be sold and all remaining funds donated to the RSPCA …

“As you can see. Mr Thomson, I wasn’t lying to you,” Mr Roberts said quietly. “I’m sorry. Miss Montgomery made absolutely no mention of view in her will at all.”

“I can read,” spat Charles, slumping back in his chair and suddenly feeling twice his forty years. “And so where does that leave me now?

Appearing unperturbed, the solicitor wearily regarded the outraged little men over the rim of his glasses. “I suggest you start looking for somewhere else to live. I’m not even able to make you Shakespeare’s Guardian as the will instructs me to get someone who is properly qualified. However, that should take at least a week. You may stay in the mansion until then.”

“You’re too kind,” Charles muttered sarcastically. Storming from the room, he slammed the door behind him.

 Once outside, he immediately headed to the nearest public bar and proceeded to drown his sorrows.

When Charles was employed as Sheila Montgomery’s butler, five years ago, it seemed at first it was just another job. However, when he discovered that the wealthy elderly woman, who was constantly bedridden with illness, had no next of kin, he saw an opportunity to become a very rich man.

He felt sure that if he used his quite considerable charm to win her confidence, she would leave everything in her will to him. Once he gained her trust, she allowed him to file all her servants and take her care totally upon himself. He wanted to be sure there were no other competitors for the money.

He never once considered Shakespeare. The mutt had been a nuisance right from the beginning. A bulldog, it had the disgusting habit of drooling everywhere. He had never been house-trained either, so Charles was forever finding unpleasant little surprises all around the house. He had contemplated arranging an accident for the dog back then, but decided nothing was worth jeopardising the fortune he was sure he would inherit.

So he had plodded on, year after year after year. When Sheila Montgomery finally died just two weeks after his 40th birthday, he sank to his knees in a silent prayer of thanks. The revolting dog getting the fortune was like a bad joke.

Suddenly, he struck out angrily at the half-full beer glass in front of him, sent it flying to the floor, and then slammed his fist down on the bar. “Another beer, bartender!” he called.

The Barman shook his head. “You’ve had enough. It’s time you left Mister.”

Charles sneered and forced himself to his feet. “I was going to leave this dump anyway. I’ve got things to do. Got me a dog to kill!”

Once outside, the cold evening air hit him, causing his head to clear slightly. His mouth contorted into a sickly smile. It would be justice, he reasoned. Why shouldn’t he kill the dog? After all, it had robbed him of his expected inheritance.

With this deadly intention, Charles staggered back to the mansion to fetch the baseball bat he always kept in his car to ward off any would-be attackers. He went into the house calling out, “Shakespeare, where’s my lovely little doggie? Uncle Charles has a little present for you.”

Remembering the dog often slept on Sheila’s bed upstairs, Charles peeked in the room, and sure enough, there he was, curled up fast asleep.

When he opened the door fully, it made a creaking noise and a dog awoke, stood up and growled. It had never liked Charles and seemed to sense he meant it harm.

“Take this you four-legged freeloader!” Charles called as he aimed an intended death blow at the dog’s head.

The bat missed Shakespeare by inches as the dog yelped and jumped off the bed.

“Come back here, you darned mutt,” Charles yelled and lumbered out of the room in hot pursuit.

Whimpering in terror, Shakespeare ran down the stairs at full speed. Charles intended to do the same, but on the second step, his foot discovered one of Shakespeare’s little surprises. He slipped, and as he plummeted head first down the stairs, Charles could have sworn that Shakespeare, watching from down below, was grinning in triumph.

Hanging onto the last few conscious minutes of his life, a crumpled heap at the foot of the stairs, the telephone rang. Unable to move, Charles could only listen as the answering machine went into operation.

“Hello, you’ve reached Miss Montgomerie’s residence, and I’m Charles Thomson, the butler,” the recorded voice said. “The phone is unattended at the moment, so if you wish to leave a message, please do so after the beep … BEEEEEP!”

“Hello, Mr Thomson? It’s Miss Montgomery’s solicitor, Mr Roberts. I have wonderful news. There appears to have been an oversight. I have been going through Miss Montgomery’s papers and discovered another, more recent will …