“That’s for you,” he said. “Father left it to you in his will. Strictly, I suppose, I ought to wait for probate before handing it over, but since you’re here—”
“What is it?”
“It’s his medals. Three from the First War, and one from this. I think it’s a sort of memento, really, of the good times you and he had in the Home Guard together.”
Southern slipped the box, unopened, into his pocket. “What a very nice thought,” he said. His voice was light, almost amused, and he took his departure with the same neat and unruffled grace as he had entered the room. Anthony thought, nevertheless, that it was the first time he had ever seen Southern thrown off balance.
Chapter Eighteen
Anthony has an Interrupted Morning
When Anthony arrived at the office on Wednesday morning he found Arthur Ambrose waiting for him.
“I know how busy you are,” said Ambrose, “and my only chance was to get at you before you got immersed in your morning’s work—”
Anthony looked at the pile of letters on his desk and sighed. Behind Ambrose’s back Ann was making faces. He guessed that she had put up a fight to keep him out.
“All right,” said Anthony. “Five minutes. Is someone else suing you for libel?”
“Not this time. I did have another letter from Mentmore. A lot of huffing and puffing. I am to publish ‘a full retraction of my scurrilous and unfounded attack on the head of the Barhaven C.I.D.’. If I do this, he may be instructed to let the matter drop. Ha ha!”
“What are you going to do?”
“I thought of publishing his letter with an editorial footnote saying that the Gazette cannot be gagged.”
“No,” said Anthony.
“Why not?”
“You can’t start publishing solicitors’ letters in the newspaper.”
“If you say so,” said Ambrose, regretfully. “These two issues of the Gazette – the one that comes out this Friday, and next week’s one. They’re going to be pretty vital issues. You realise that?”
“I suppose they are.”
“It’s no exaggeration to say that they could settle the Council election. And this Council election could decide the future of the town. Barhaven has never, in the six hundred years of its corporate existence, had a more important decision to make. It must decide, once and for all—”
“This sounds like your next editorial.”
“As a matter of fact, it is. I’ve got a proof of it here. And I want you to cast an eye over it—”
“To see whether it’s libellous or not.”
“I’d welcome your views on it generally.”
“I’m not a politician,” said Anthony. “But push it across.”
He read it through carefully whilst Ambrose, who found it very difficult to sit still for any length of time, prowled round the room, read the titles on the backs of the law books, the names on the deed boxes, and, when he had exhausted these, the names under a photograph of the school cricket team which Anthony had captained in its Lord’s match in his last term at Tonbridge.
“As far as libel goes,” said Anthony, “I’d be inclined to give it a clearance. It’s certainly a lot less scurrilous than your last effort.”
“We learn,” said Ambrose. “We learn.”
“As a matter of fact, I think it’s rather good stuff. I like the idea of appealing to the voters to elect a ‘balanced’ Council, so that politics can be kept out of local government. A lot of people will go for that.”
“We must concentrate on kicking out Crawford and Lincoln-Bright. The Progressive candidates, Masters and Hopper, are both sound men. If people started to think about them as people, and didn’t just vote the colour of their own convictions, they’d get in by a mile.”
“If anything could make them stop and think,” said Anthony, “I should think your editorial will.”
Ambrose turned pink with pleasure.
When he had got rid of him, Anthony turned to his heaped-up in-basket, and started to sort it through. It seemed incredible that so much could have accumulated in two or three days. There was a lot of routine conveyancing and one or two county court matters which could be handed over to their two unqualified managing clerks, although Anthony was aware that they were neither of them really experienced enough to be working on their own. That was the way a lot of solicitor’s firms got into trouble. An ageing or overworked principal left more and more of the work to the managing clerks—
“What’s up?” said Ann, who had come back into the room after seeing Ambrose off.
“Why?”
“You’re looking like a hanging judge. Has Mr. Ambrose been making a fool of himself again?”
“I wasn’t thinking about Ambrose at all,” said Anthony, and explained to Ann what was worrying him. It seemed a natural thing to do.
“It’s the sort of thing that happens in solicitors’ offices,” agreed Ann. “Look at Uriah Heep and that silly old ass, Mr. Wickfield. I never had any patience with him. If he was so overworked, why didn’t he get another partner?”
“Easier said than done,” said Anthony. “Now—what are we going to tackle first?”
“There’s a letter from Moule Mainwaring & Co.,” said Ann. “It came in yesterday afternoon after you’d gone. It’s got a further opinion from Counsel on the planning appeal, and Powell suggests you ought to go up – tomorrow if you can – and have a talk with Counsel about witnesses. There’s nothing in your diary for tomorrow that can’t be put off.”
When he said nothing she looked up and found him staring out of the window.
“I’m sorry,” he said, apologetically, “a sudden thought.” And to himself, “I wonder if it would work out. It’d be rather fun if it did.”
“This is a fine moment for the Town Clerk to be walking out on us,” said Jack Crawford.
“Not until after the elections, I trust,” said the Lady Mayoress.
“What’s wrong with him?” said Lincoln-Bright. “Don’t we pay him enough?”
Southern said, “I don’t think money comes into this. He’s a bachelor, and although he’s not rolling in wealth, I imagine he’s got enough to get by on.”
“Then why’s he doing it?”
“When we were discussing it, he said he was a keen naturalist and antiquarian, and wanted more time to pursue those hobbies.”
“Can’t blame him, really,” said General Crispen. “If the alternatives were watching wild birds and listening to us, I know which I’d choose.”
“All right,” said Southern. He cast an eye round the table in the small committee room. Except for the inarticulate George Gulland, the Independent caucus was there in full strength. “We’re not here to talk about the Town Clerk, or his successor. In fact, unless we pull our socks up, we may not have any interest in the question of his successor.”
“I don’t see any reason for defeatist talk myself,” said Lincoln-Bright. “The voters in the Victoria Park Ward whom I’ve spoken to have all assured me of their continuing support. They realise that Masters and Hopper, whatever they may call themselves, are a pair of left-wing socialists. Hopper, I believe, once belonged to the Communist Party for a short time.”
“Who are these people you’ve spoken to?” said Miss Barnes abruptly.
Lincoln-Bright looked put out.
“If you want a list of their names,” he said, “I dare say I could supply you with it.”
“What I mean is,” said Miss Barnes, “that if you’ve just been chatting to your own cronies, of course they’ll say they’re going to support you. They always do. Have you done any actual canvassing—?”
“I’ve—well—yes, a certain amount.”
“Because I hope you’ve had a look at the new Register. There’re a lot of little shop-keepers on it, from Paston Street and Park Street and Marine Square. Leaseholders mostly. And Hopper and Masters have been calling on all of them. I’ve seen them at it.”
Raymond Southern said, “Well I have done s
ome canvassing in the Ward. And I think we shall get both seats. I don’t say it’s going to be a walk-over, though. And we shall have to keep hard at it from now till next Friday.”
“And how are things going in Marine East, Mr. Crawford?” enquired the Lady Mayoress.
“It should be a push-over,” said Crawford. “If the town extension goes east, as we plan it, they’ll all benefit. If it goes the other way, they’ll lose. Simple as that.”
“It may be simple, but do they appreciate it?” said General Crispen. He found it difficult to keep the distaste out of his voice when he spoke to Crawford.
“They will when they get my election circular on Saturday,” said Crawford. “It’s hot stuff.”
They started talking about circulars.
When Mrs. Lord left the Council offices she hesitated for a moment at the bottom of the steps, then crossed the road and entered the Memorial Garden. Several people nodded to her as she passed, moving like a frail boat drifting on the setting tide. Friends who were walking with Mr. and Mrs. Burgess pointed her out to them. “A fine old lady,” they said. “Three times Mayoress. You don’t see them like that nowadays.”
At the western end of the gardens she paused. She seemed to be in such a mood of indecision that a puff of wind would have served to divert her course. Then she crossed the road, very slightly quickening her pace as if she had come, at last, to some conclusion.
“Who?” said Anthony.
“Mrs. Lord,” said Ann. “It’s gospel truth. I saw her myself. In the waiting-room.”
“Show her up,” said Anthony. “We don’t often get visits from royalty.”
He swept a clutter of papers and an empty coffee cup from his desk, straightened his tie, smoothed down an untidy lock of hair, and was seated behind his desk looking serious and professional when Ann showed Mrs. Lord into the room. He got up and placed a chair for her.
“I have come to consult you professionally, Mr. Brydon. I thought it right to make that clear at the beginning. Our family solicitor, for a great many years now, has been Mr. Shard – I expect you know him—”
Anthony did indeed know Samuel Shard, who was the doyen of Barhaven solicitors, and almost as venerable as Mrs. Lord herself. He had flabbergasted Barhaven six months previously by marrying a nineteen-year-old assistant in a tobacconist’s shop and had then gone quietly off his head.
“Since he had his misfortunes, I have found no occasion for legal advice, but it has been in my mind that I should look for a new solicitor. I could not approve of either of Mr. Shard’s partners. One is a Presbyterian, and the other wears a woollen waistcoat at the office.”
“I’d be very pleased to help you,” said Anthony. “I think anyone in Barhaven would.”
“You are all too kind.” She opened her black alligator handbag, and produced a letter, written on familiar buff paper. “I received this communication two days ago. My first indication was to ignore it. On reflection, I was not sure that that would be wise.”
Anthony read the letter slowly. It was from the Special Commissioners of Inland Revenue and was couched in their familiar tones; half-subservient, half-arrogant, the voice of the servant turned master.
“Our attention has been drawn,” said the letter, “to the wording of Section Three of the Barhaven (Toll Bridge) Private Act of 1829 and the effect on Section Three of the Finance Act 1946 read in conjunction with the Municipal Offices Act of 1888—”
“This isn’t going to be very easy,” said Anthony, “when the Revenue starts talking about the effect of one section on another. And have you got a copy of the Toll Bridge Act?”
“Mr. Shard’s firm had one, I know.”
“I’ll see if I can borrow it,” said Anthony. He turned to the end of the letter. “What they seem to be saying is that your receipts from the toll bridge would stop being a return of capital and would become taxable if you happened to be occupying a paid municipal office in Barhaven. I bet some busy bee in the Special Commissioners’ Office had fun working that one out.”
“But is it true?”
“If they say so there’s probably an arguable case. I’d have to look at all three Acts to see.”
“Then it’s just as well,” said Mrs. Lord, “that I have always refused all emoluments for acting as Mayoress.”
“You have?”
“It was the only condition on which my late husband would allow me to accept office. I remember him saying, ‘The honour is enough. The pay will tarnish it.’”
“It’s extremely fortunate that he did.” Anthony could just remember the late Colonel Lord, a stringy little man with a face like a well-fed weasel. Was it possible that he had realised the effect of the Income Tax Act of 1946 on the Toll Bridge Act of 1829? Improbable. It had simply been snobbishness. Very lucky though. If the tolls were taxed, they would clearly be unearned income, and Mrs. Lord would be lucky if she got a quarter of them.
“I was paid my expenses, of course.”
“Expenses would be all right—I think.”
“You’ll look into it, and tell me what I have to say to them.”
“I’ll draft an answer for you,” said Anthony.
When Mrs. Lord had gone, he dispatched Bowler to see if he could borrow a copy of the Toll Bridge Act from Mr. Shard’s junior partner, whom he happened to know, having once played cricket with him. He then sat staring at the irreducible pile of unanswered letters which cluttered his desk, sighed, and rang his bell. Three minutes later, when nothing had happened, he rang it again. Ann arrived looking flustered.
“I told him it was a busy morning,” she said, “and that you were miles behind with your letters, and couldn’t he make a proper appointment, but he didn’t take any notice. He just sat there, looking at me, and saying that he had to see you.”
“You’ve left out the subject of the sentence.”
“I’m talking about Mr. Sudderby.”
“What on earth does he want?”
“The same as everyone else in Barhaven this bright morning,” said Ann. “You.”
“Well, I suppose—”
“Couldn’t you be firm for once?”
“Now that he’s here—”
“Look at those letters.”
“Anyone else,” said Anthony. “But not James Sudderby. He took me out on my sixth birthday, on to the downs, to show me the nest of a red-backed shrike. It had a secret larder, with bumble bees impaled on thorns—”
“All right,” said Ann.
“I really am most terribly sorry to disturb you,” said Sudderby. “Your young lady told me how busy you were. I’m glad of that, by the way. It’s splendid to be busy, when you’re young—”
He smiled the smile which had always captivated Anthony’s heart.
“What can I do for you?” he said. “In ten minutes,” he added, hastily.
“It’ll hardly take that long. I have to raise some money. Not a great deal. Five hundred pounds would do. Or I could get by with three hundred.”
Anthony had acquired sufficient professional aplomb not to ask, “What do you want it for?” or even, “Why are you so hard up?” He said, “That oughtn’t to be too difficult. I imagine your bank would oblige. They might need some extra security. How do you stand with them?”
“I saw my bank manager yesterday. He said the same thing. They’d need some security.”
“How about your house?”
“There’s a mortgage on that. With a building society.”
“How much for?”
“I’m not quite sure. I took it out when I bought the house, about twelve years ago.”
“How much was it?”
“Two thousand pounds.”
“In that case,” said Anthony, “there’s really no problem at all. There can’t be more than about eight hundred pounds of the old mortgage outstanding. And your house – it’s freehold isn’t it? – then it can’t be worth less than four thousand. More probably you could either get a second mortgage, or you could pay off t
his one—”
Anthony spoke quickly, and cheerfully, to conceal a sense of distress. His visitor was sitting full in the light of the window, and the signs of collapse and defeat were clear.
Mr. Sudderby looked as though he had not slept for a long time. His eyes were red-rimmed with weariness and the flesh on either side of his face had fallen away, pulling down the corners of his mouth and leaving his cheeks hollow. Anthony wanted to say, “Please, tell me what it’s all about, and let me see if I can’t help.” If he had been a little older, he might have done it, too.
Mr. Sudderby hardly seemed to be listening to him. In the end he said, “Will it take long?”
“Not too long. Two or three weeks to get it all fixed up.”
“Oh dear—then I’m afraid—”
“When do you want the money?”
“I must have it by the end of the week.”
Chapter Nineteen
Anthony’s Second Visit to London
“You got a copy of Mr. Hiscoe’s opinion,” said Powell. “Don’t let it put you off. He really is better on his feet than he sounds on paper.”
“Well, I’m glad of that,” said Anthony, “because when I read his opinion I thought he meant that we were chucking our money away fighting the case at all.”
“Counsel always back themselves both ways. If they lose, they can say, ‘I told you so’, and if they win, you think they’re jolly good chaps. Let’s walk down and see what he’s got to tell us.”
As they went, Anthony broached the idea which had come to him the day before. Powell heard him out in silence.
“It’s a serious offer,” he said. “I’m badly in need of help. Pincott, who’s the only other partner, wants to get out and look after his private appointments, and there’s more work than I can possibly cope with. If you took a half share, and we did as well this year as we did last, it’d bring you in nearly five thousand. I could show you the accounts if you’re interested.”
“I’m very interested,” said Powell. “As a matter of fact, I’ve been thinking of making a move for some time. I’m perfectly happy with Moules, but there’s not much future in it. The other partners aren’t a lot older than me, and two of them have got sons, anyway.”
The Crack In the Teacup Page 13