Sarah Caudwell - The Shortest Way to Hades

The heavy oak door leading to the Clerks’ Room and the waiting-room was already open, as is usual in the daytime; but neither was occupied. I settled down in the waiting-room, in the little niche between bookcase and window, not troubling to provide myself with a chair; the Scholar, in pursuit of knowledge, is indifferent to physical comfort, and I was content to sit on the floor.

A few minutes later, happening to glance out of the window, I perceived the approach of a little group of people. They were led — I mean only that he seemed to know the way — by a man, as I judged, in his middle fifties. He wore the pin-striped subfusc which is the uniform of the professional man going about his business, and the signs of one who has prospered in his profession — a fullness of flesh and ripeness of complexion, claret-dark under thick white hair, not often seen in those obliged to frugality.

Tall as he was, an inch or two over six foot, he had no great advantage in height over either of the two women beside him, and a very slight inclination of the head was enough to show an attentive deference to the one walking on his right. She looked, I thought, accustomed to deference: iron-haired and angular of feature, she bore herself with that inflexibly upright carriage which can only be produced by a sound training in deportment and an absolute conviction of superiority. My attention was chiefly engaged, however, by the striking good looks of the girl on the man’s left. Tall, as I have mentioned, with a dark fur jacket swinging loosely from her shoulders, she walked with her head thrown back a little, as if to drink in the air of the clear February morning, and seemed consciously to restrain the athletic vigor of her stride to avoid out-pacing her companions. Straight black hair, straight black eyebrows, the brightness of her eyes and the brilliance of her smile emphasized by a slight suntan — yes, she was splendid to look at. There was nonetheless, and despite the difference in ages, a sufficient family resemblance between the two women to make one think that the elder must once have been very handsome; and that the younger might some day be rather formidable.

I had thought at first that there were only three of them; but then I saw that there was another girl, small, almost dwarfish by comparison with the others. She was a pudgy, mouse-colored, suet-faced little creature, pitifully plain by contrast with the dark girl — but I fear I flatter her, for her plainness was absolute, not comparative. She trailed along behind the others, head down, shoulders thrust forward, as though to advertise and reproach the effort she had to keep pace with them. By adopting this posture, and by stuffing her hands firmly into her pockets, she had begun to turn a rather elegant coat into something which could hardly be offered to a discriminating jumble sale.

They reached the flight of steps leading to the main door of 62 New Square. Obeying, it seemed, some instruction from the man, the plain girl remained at the foot. The others, ascending, were briefly hidden from my view; but a few moments later the door of the waiting-room opened, and they were within a few yards of me. Sitting, as I have said, on the floor between the window and the bookcase, I was perhaps in a rather inconspicuous position — at any rate, none of them appeared to notice me; and I, absorbed in my researches, did nothing to draw my presence to their attention.

“There seems as yet to be no one in the Clerks’ Room,” said the man in a tone of apology, as he ushered in his companions. “It is rather an early hour by the standards of Lincoln’s Inn, I’m afraid. If you would be kind enough to wait here for me, while I conduct Miss Robinson to Miss Larwood’s Chambers—”

“In view of what occurred yesterday,” said the older woman, in a voice like the crack of a glacier, “one can hardly regard with enthusiasm any further interview between Deirdre and this Larwood person. But I suppose it’s unavoidable.”

“I can only say again,” said the man, sounding harassed, “how sorry I am, Mrs. Fiske-Purefoy—”

“And I can only say, Mr. Tancred, that when one sends one’s niece to an interview with one’s family solicitor one does not expect her to return in the small hours of the morning in an advanced state of intoxication and demanding a hundred thousand pounds. At least, one would not have done in my day — no doubt I am very old-fashioned.”

“I can only say again, Mrs. Fiske-Purefoy, how much I regret—”

“Nonsense, Mr. Tancred,” said the girl, interrupting with vigorous firmness. She had a pleasant voice, though with echoes of the hockey-field. “There’s nothing for you to be in the least sorry about. I quite understand and it’s not your fault at all. And it was very kind of Miss Larwood, of course, to take Deirdre out to dinner.” She sighed. “Pity it wasn’t some nice young man, but there you are — just her luck, poor old Dreary.”

“Camilla, my dear,” said the solicitor gratefully, “you’re most kind. I was sure I could count on you to understand the position. Now, may I leave you to take care of your grandmother, while I see to Miss Robinson — I know Lincoln’s Inn holds no terrors for you.” A little fulsome, I thought, from an established solicitor to a second-year law student — but she was, after all, an heiress. “And then, I think, I had better look in at my own office again, to inquire if there is any news of your father or of Mrs. Demetriou.”

“Yes, of course, Mr. Tancred, I’ll take care of everything. If anyone arrives in the Clerks’ Room I’ll explain who we are and why we’re here.”

The solicitor made good his escape, and the two women sat down on the sofa of imitation leather at the far end of the room.

“Grans darling,” said the girl, “I know you’re cross, but don’t take it out on poor old Tanks. He’s a bit of a duffer, but he’s doing his best, honestly.”

“Millie dear, Ronald Tancred’s best is costing you a hundred and sixty thousand pounds. Would his worst be more or less expensive?”

“But Grans, I couldn’t have left poor old Dreary without a bean, could I? I’d have had to do something for her when the time came. After all—” she sighed again. “Well, one can’t see her making a marvelous marriage or having a fantastic career, can one? So I don’t lose anything by having it in the Court Order — it’s probably quite sensible, actually. I don’t mind that in the least — all I mind about is getting this wretched application over and done with.” Her voice was sharpened by a nervousness which surprised me, given the formal nature of the proceedings; but I remembered that some three million pounds were at stake.

Glancing again through the window, I saw that Tancred had fallen in with another tall man, wearing a camelhair overcoat, approaching from the direction of Lincoln’s Inn Fields. After a brief exchange, the solicitor pointed towards 62 New Square, and the other proceeded obediently in the direction indicated. His bearing and mode of dress were those of a man who believed himself good-looking: I was too far away to know if the belief was justified.

“Daddy, you’re here, how marvelous,” cried Camilla, springing up as he entered the waiting-room.

“Of course I’m here, Millie darling. I’m one of your trustees, you know. Besides, you didn’t think I’d leave my little girl to go through this all by herself, did you?” One might have supposed, from the sentimental quaver in his voice, that his daughter was on trial for her life.

“Rupert dear, what a relief to see you,” said the older woman. “I haven’t known where to turn — Tancred’s useless, quite useless.”

“Mama-in-law, wonderful to see you. And looking magnificent as always.” Though the matrimonial link between Rupert Galloway and Jocasta Fiske-Purefoy had been severed by the death of Petronella some seventeen years before, they were still, it appeared, on terms of mutual affection. “Now then, what’s all the fuss about? I’ve had all sorts of messages from Tancred, and then I met the man himself on the way here, but I still don’t know what’s happening. He said you’d explain it, Millie. So what’s it all about? I gather Deirdre’s been making a nuisance of herself somehow, the little beast — I’m sorry, Mama-in-law, I know she’s your niece and a sort of cousin of Millie’s and I shouldn’t say it, but she can be the absolute limit.”