Sarah Caudwell - The Sibyl in Her Grave

“But look here,” I said. “You don’t actually believe that Isabella could foretell the future?” From the way he’d told me the story, it seemed to be the only explanation.

“Oh,” said Ricky, “anyone can foretell the future, if their information’s good enough.”

According to Ricky, Isabella hadn’t always been a fortune-teller. In her younger days, she was a hostess at a London nightclub which was popular at that time with businessmen and stockbrokers and so on. In the course of her conversations with customers — well yes, Julia, I think that probably is a slightly expurgated version — she learnt a great deal about what was going on in financial circles, including a lot of things that no one was supposed to know were going on and some things that weren’t supposed to be going on at all. That, in Ricky’s view, was the basis of her success as a fortuneteller.

I was surprised, if her information was as reliable as that, that she hadn’t simply used it to make money on the stock market, instead of bothering with the fortune-telling business. But she seems to have had some kind of superstition about that — she thought it would be unlucky for her to invest in shares herself, and she never did.

“But Ricky,” I said, “all this must have been at least twenty or thirty years ago. How could she still go on getting information?”

“Information’s like money,” said Ricky. “Once you’ve got it, you can use it to get more. You can buy one secret by keeping another. ‘I’m keeping your secret because you’re my friend — prove you’re my friend by telling me—’ Well, whatever it is you want.”

I thought this was all beginning to sound rather unpleasant — almost as if Isabella had been a professional blackmailer.

“Yes,” said Ricky. “That’s right. That’s what she was. There must be quite a number of people who aren’t sorry she’s dead — as a matter of fact, I’m one of them. I’ve had a pretty rotten two years of it, Reg.”

I didn’t really feel, after this, that I could ask him to deliver the eulogy.

Selena had allowed her first cup of coffee to grow cold. She ordered another and sat gazing at it with a look of judicial severity, as if it were a witness she suspected of being evasive.

“According to Madame Louisa,” said Julia, “this ought to be a good day for me to solve problems. But she doesn’t seem to mean that I can be any help with yours — knowing that Ricky Farnham’s information came from Isabella doesn’t really take you any further.”

“Oh,” said Selena, “I wouldn’t say that exactly. At least it means I know what question I’m trying to answer. I thought what I had to guess was which of the directors wanted money enough to take the risk of insider dealing. Whereas what I actually have to guess is which of them was being blackmailed by Isabella into giving her confidential information.”

“You sound quite sure that that’s what was happening.”

“How else could she have known about the shares? Unless she really did have prophetic powers, of course — but it would be rather odd, wouldn’t it, if they only applied to takeovers involving one particular investment bank?”

“But how could she make use of the information if she never invested in the stock market?”

“Oh, by selling it — that’s to say, by passing it on to one or two favoured clients in the form of a psychic prediction. But the fee, I imagine, would have been considerably larger than people usually get for crystal gazing or reading tea leaves. It’s really rather clever — it would be almost impossible to prove that any offence had been committed.”

“Well,” said Julia, “if you’d like to tell your client about Isabella, I don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t — it can’t cause any embarrassment to my aunt.”

“No,” said Selena, frowning slightly. “No, I suppose not, but — all the same, I don’t think I’ll tell him. What he knows at present is that one of his codirectors is guilty of insider dealing. He doesn’t know which and it’s making him very unhappy. If I tell him about Isabella, he’ll know that one or the other of them must also be guilty of something else — something serious enough to be blackmailed for — and he still won’t know which. I don’t think that’s going to make him feel any happier. And since it’s the duty of Counsel, so far as humanly possible, to keep the client happy, I’m not going to tell him.”

Her decision was taken, as my readers will have observed, with full and proper regard to the interests of her client. If I say that it might have been better had she decided otherwise, I speak with the benefit of hindsight.

Anyway, as it turned out, I needn’t have worried at all about the eulogy — Daphne wants to do it herself. There’s no reason why she shouldn’t, of course — we all just assumed that she’d be too upset, and nervous of speaking in public.

The only problem now is making her look presentable — we really can’t let her go to the funeral looking like some sort of vagrant, especially if all Isabella’s friends from London are going to be there. So I’m giving her my grey silk Chanel dress, with the little jacket — I’d have to lose half a stone to wear it again and I’m quite resigned to never doing that.

I’ve told her to come round here to change into it, in good time for me to see that it fits properly — it needed a bit of taking in — so I’ll be able to make sure she’s properly washed and brushed and doesn’t have a chance to get it dirty before the funeral.

She had some idea at first that this wasn’t a suitable time to be worrying about her appearance, but I told her that it would be disrespectful to Isabella not to try to look her best. I said that if my niece didn’t wash her hair and wear a nice dress for my funeral I’d be so cross I’d jump out of my coffin — and I would, so don’t dare forget it when the time comes. Anyway, Maurice said he agreed with me and since, in Daphne’s eyes, he is now the fount of all wisdom, there was no further argument.

We’ve also persuaded her to invite people here, rather than the Rectory, for something to eat and drink afterwards. The only room for entertaining guests at the Rectory is the drawing room, where Isabella died — it really would be too macabre. It’s absolutely typical of Isabella — oh dear, I know the poor woman didn’t do it on purpose, but it’s quite the most inconvenient room for anyone to die in.

I’ve no idea how many there’ll be. Daphne seems to be expecting hundreds—”all the people Aunt Isabella helped so much”—though after what Ricky’s told me I’m not at all sure how many that means. I’m simply going to assume that I’m catering for about three dozen — if it’s a hopeless underestimate, she’ll just have to be selective about who she asks back.

Anyway, I’m not doing anything elaborate — mostly sandwiches, with a choice between ham and chicken and prawns and so on. And some stuffed eggs and some cheese puffs and odds and ends like that. And some little éclairs, in case they want something sweet. And Daphne says she’s bringing some sponge cakes, made from a recipe Isabella taught her.

Mrs. Tyrrell’s coming in to help, though it isn’t one of her mornings, and won’t let me pay her for it — something to do with Daphne being an orphan. And Griselda’s doing all the flowers, of course.

I must admit, I’m very curious to see all these friends of Isabella’s. I’ll let you know in due course how it all goes.

Yours with much love,