Clive’s cousin, Moira, died and left him eleven million.
Moira had lived alone all her life, and to all intents and purposes, Clive was her closest living relative; “closest” in the sense of blood, rather than “closest” in the sense of emotional attachment. Moira was thirteen years younger than Clive and they had never been close.
Moira had quite simply got all her money from her father. Poor old Clive was the nephew and never got a thing. He barely had two pennies to rub together.
And then Moira upped and died.
She upped and died! Upped and died! Silly old Moira upped and died at one o’clock in the morning.
And about time too! Clive had waited to get his hands on her millions for years. And at last! At last!
It was so annoying when two days later the doctor gave Clive his marching orders.