David Dickinson - Death Called to the Bar

So Mrs Henderson had only one thought left in her mind. Sarah must be settled. Sarah’s future must be secure. And soon. Whatever was going to happen to her, Mrs Henderson had to know that her daughter’s future was assured. She felt that she would have to approach the matter in a roundabout fashion or Edward might simply bolt, or say he was going to help Sarah carry the shopping. Mrs Henderson had no belief in the ability of young men to last out this particular course. But she knew that she had only a limited time. The shops were not far away, and Sarah moved fast. She and Edward were sitting by the fire in the little sitting room in the house in Acton.

‘So, Edward,’ she began, with what she hoped was a friendly smile, ‘Sarah tells me you had a great triumph in court very recently, when you spoke in the great fraud case.’

Edward found the smile slightly disturbing. Something about it reminded him of the wolf in the nursery story who consumed the grandmother and sat up in her bed waiting for the arrival of Little Red Riding Hood, intending to eat her as well. And he, Edward, was Little Red Riding Hood. ‘It was nothing, Mrs Henderson,’ he said, ‘anybody who had been researching that case could have done it. And I was so glad Sarah was there.’

This admission, although Edward did not know it at the time, gave a slight opening and, it must be said, some hope to Mrs Henderson. The idea that Edward could not have managed his success without Sarah’s presence was grist to her mill.

‘Are you going to do more work in court, Edward? I know Sarah thinks you should.’

‘I’m not sure yet, Mrs Henderson, not sure at all. I want to wait until things have cleared up at Queen’s Inn.’

‘But if you did more speaking work, Edward, would you be better paid? Would you be able to settle down?’

Edward had a faint suspicion now of where the conversation was going. He supposed that if there were no fathers around to ask a girl’s young man his intentions, then it fell to the mother. But he wasn’t going to make life easy for the old lady. Sarah should be back soon.

‘Settle down?’ said Edward, as if this was a custom followed in some remote Patagonian island rather than in Acton, London W3. ‘I’m not sure what you mean, Mrs Henderson.’

The old lady was taken slightly taken aback. Surely everybody knew what settling down meant. ‘I don’t know, Edward,’ she said sadly, ‘in my young days people meant getting married, finding somewhere to live, that sort of thing, starting a family, all that was settling down.’

Something in the sadness of her voice touched Edward. He was now absolutely sure what she wanted to know. He thought she was looking rather ill. Just then they heard a slamming of the front door and a cry of ‘I’m back’ from Sarah.

‘It’ll be all right, Mrs Henderson.’ Edward had just time to speak before Sarah came into the room. ‘I promise you.’

Edward and Sarah had called round to Manchester Square and Edward had deposited a great pile of documents for Powerscourt to read. These were the remaining wills of the benchers and Edward had promised to come and discuss their contents in the next few days. Powerscourt began to work through them. He was sitting on the sofa in front of the fire in the drawing room on the first floor of the house in Manchester Square. Josiah Beauchamp, died 1861, he read, had left five thousand pounds and two houses in Holborn to the Inn for the relief of poor retired barristers. Horatio Pauncefoot, passed away 1865, had bequeathed seven thousand pounds for the upkeep of poor persons in pupillage. John James Tollard, died 1870, left five thousand pounds for bursaries for poor pupils. The names and the figures were swimming in front of him now. He wondered if he wouldn’t be more comfortable lying out on the sofa. Richard Woodleigh Fitzpaine. Peter Stirling Netherbury. Christopher John Knighton. Gradually the names faded from view. He was seeing huge numbers now, dancing across the courts of Queen’s Inn, besporting themselves over the Temple Gardens. A giant eight was walking south down Middle Temple Lane towards the river. On the far side of the road a pair of threes who looked as though they might have been hand in hand were dancing their way into the Royal Courts of Justice. A spindly eleven was mincing its way north through the gardens of Gray’s Inn. A fat four was wobbling east from the Inns of Court towards the City of Numbers above Ludgate Hill. Then the numbers disappeared. There was a strange distant noise that might come from a funfair. And then he was in the funfair, staring at one of those steam-driven roundabouts where people ride round on wooden horses adorned in bright colours that go up and down in regular patterns. Here was Mrs Dauntsey, still dressed in black, smiling enigmatically at him as she rode sedately around, her position never changing. Behind her on a ridiculously small pony was Porchester Newton, those butcher’s hands enormous as they held the reins, glowering at Powerscourt as his horse carried him round and the up-and-down motion rocked him on his way. There was Mrs Catherine Cavendish, riding in chorus girl costume, arm in arm with a friend, their long legs kicking out towards the spectators. Behind them on a black horse Barton Somerville himself, decked for some reason in fool’s gaudy, as if he was an aged Fool in attendance on the demented Lear. Round and round his suspects went. Behind the fool he saw another strange figure he did not at first recognize. It was clad in a very long white coat with a knife in its hand. Powerscourt realized it must be Dr Cavendish, come to lighten his last months with a spell on a wooden horse. The only person absent from this funfair of suspects was the missing Maxfield.

Lady Lucy called his name as she was entering the room, unaware that her husband had fallen asleep. ‘Francis,’ she began, then stopped when she saw that his eyes were closed. She smiled at him.

‘Lucy,’ he began, ‘I’ve been having a most peculiar dream. All the suspects were going round on wooden horses at a funfair.’

‘Did any of them whisper in your ear that they were the murderer?’

‘I’m afraid not, my love. If only they had.’

‘This has just come for you, Francis.’ She held out a letter for him, the writing slightly shaky.

‘Half past twelve tomorrow morning, Lucy. My appointment in Harley Street with Dr Rivers Cavendish.’ He gave Lady Lucy a firm hug. At the back of his brain those fairground horses were still going round and round.

There were two lions on the left-hand side of the fireplace, their stuffed features looking quizzically at the patients as if nothing would give them greater pleasure than to return to life and make a quick meal of the nearest humans. On the right-hand side was a tiger, a rather weary tiger, who looked as though the long journey from his place of capture to the waiting rooms of Harley Street had exhausted him. On the left-hand wall there were merely a couple of stags’ heads, complete with enormous antlers, looking rather mundane and civilized compared with the other wild life. And on the remaining wall Powerscourt saw what he presumed was a cheetah, the fastest of them all. He wondered if his children would like to come and inspect these savage heads. He wondered too if it was Dr Cavendish or his predecessor who had captured this collection on safari in Africa. Maybe he had some more at home to keep Catherine Cavendish in order, though Powerscourt suspected the animals would have had to be alive to have much impact on that young lady.

He was rather disappointed in the reading matter on display. Surely this room warranted magazines for explorers or geographical journals with detailed accounts of the latest expeditions to the lands where tigers roamed. Instead there were the normal daily newspapers and a religious magazine that had no details of any foreign ventures at all, not even to a missionary station. As the last patient before him went into the consulting room, he wondered how Catherine and Rivers Cavendish had actually met. He should have asked her. Lucy had been most indignant, he recalled, when he had been unable to answer her question on that point.