PROFESSOR TAMAR — MR. SHEPHERD RANG AND SAID PLEASE COME TO LONDON AS SOON AS POSSIBLE. YOU CAN STAY AT HIS FLAT AND HE WILL GIVE YOU DINNER. HE SAYS IT HAS SOMETHING TO DO WITH A MURDER.
Awaiting me in my pigeon-hole at the porter’s lodge of St. George’s College, the message perplexed me more than a little. If my former pupil Timothy Shepherd, now in practice as a barrister in Lincoln’s Inn, wished to offer me hospitality, I was more than willing to oblige him: by the sixth week of the Trinity term my academic responsibilities were weighing heavy on my shoulders, and the prospect of a day or two away from Oxford was delightful. I could not account, however, for the pressing nature of the invitation; and as for this question of murder — My step quickened by curiosity, I crossed the quadrangle and mounted the staircase to my rooms. Dialing the telephone number of Timothy’s Chambers, I was answered in the tone of glum hostility which is characteristic of the temporary typist. She admitted with some reluctance that Timothy was available.
“Hilary,” said my former pupil, “how good of you to ring back. How soon can you come to London?”
“Timothy,” I said, “what is all this about murder?”
“Ah yes,” said Timothy, sounding pleased with himself. “I thought that might interest you. Do you happen to recall, by any chance, the Remington-Fiske application?”
“Was that the one with the Greek boy, who had such a deplorable effect on Julia?”
“That’s right. Do you remember it?”
I did, I did indeed.
It had been about three months earlier, a Thursday in late February. I had been persuaded by an obligation of friendship to attend a seminar in the London School of Economics. By a quarter past five I could endure no more: I slipped out into Lincoln’s Inn Fields and sought refuge in 62 New Square.
Not pausing to announce myself in the Clerks’ Room — Henry, the Senior Clerk, does not altogether approve of me — I ascended the bare stone staircase to the second floor, occupied by the more junior members of Chambers and commonly known as the Nursery. Timothy’s room was empty. Knocking, however, on the door opposite, I was invited to come in.
Desmond Ragwort and Michael Cantrip, the usual occupants of the room, were seated facing each other at their respective desks, in attitudes which suggested a rather decorative allegory of Virtue reproving Wantonness. From the pinkness which qualified the chaste pallor of Ragwort’s marble cheek and the unsanctified sparkle in the witch-black eyes of Cantrip I gathered that Cantrip had done something of which Ragwort disapproved — it was not so rare a circumstance as to arouse my curiosity.
Timothy, some three or four years senior to the other two, stood by the fireplace, supporting his long and angular frame by resting his elbow on the mantelpiece: he seemed to disdain the comfort of the large leather armchair facing the window, which from my position in the doorway appeared unoccupied. I was gratified by the warmth of his greeting.
“My dear Hilary, what a pleasant surprise. What brings you to Lincoln’s Inn?”
“I am a refugee from a gathering of sociologists,” I said. “I thought that your company would raise my spirits.”
“You mean,” said a voice from the depths of the armchair, “that you thought we would take you for drinks in the Corkscrew.” The voice had once been described to me by an impressionable county court judge, a guest on High Table in St. George’s, as resembling Hymettus honey slightly seasoned with lemon juice. Hearing it, I did not need the glimpse of blond hair and retroussé nose afforded by a second glance at the armchair to know that it was occupied after all by the fourth member of the Nursery, Selena Jardine.
“Some such notion,” I said, “had crossed my mind. What a fortunate coincidence that none of you is busy.”
“Not busy?” said Ragwort. “My dear Hilary, you surely do not imagine that we have abandoned our labors at this early hour of the afternoon to engage in idle gossip? We are in conference.”
“That’s right,” said Cantrip. “We’ve all got to zoom along to old Loppylugs tomorrow to get him to do a trust bust.” Cantrip was educated — I use the expression in its broadest possible sense — at the University of Cambridge, and I do not always find it easy to understand him. From my acquaintance with him, however, I was now sufficiently familiar with the Cambridge idiom to gather that the members of the Nursery were all instructed in connection with an application under the Variation of Trusts Act to be made on the following day before Mr. Justice Lorimer.
“With a view to saving our clients a large sum in capital transfer tax,” said Selena, “we are varying the trusts in reversion on the interest of a lady in her late eighties, and not, alas, in the best of health. The saving depends on this being done in her lifetime, and we’re rather anxious that there shouldn’t be any defect in our evidence which might oblige us to ask for an adjournment. So we’re going through it now to make sure it’s in order.”
They decided, after some debate, that the evidence was not of a confidential nature, and that I might remain to hear it; they promised that after this we would adjourn to the Corkscrew. When I had settled myself in the least uncomfortable of the chairs provided for lay clients and solicitors, Selena began to read her client’s affidavit.
I, Jocasta Fiske-Purefoy of Fiske House, Belgrave Place, London S.W. 1, Widow, make oath and say as follows:
I am the Plaintiff in these proceedings and save where the contrary expressly appears the facts herein stated are within my own knowledge.
The purpose of this application is to seek the approval of this Honorable Court of an Arrangement varying the trusts of the Will dated 20th March 1934 of Sir James Remington-Fiske, Baronet (hereinafter called “the Testator”) who died on the 16th day of April 1934 and Probate of whose said Will was granted out of the Principal Probate Registry on the 30th day of May 1934.
A family tree showing the persons at present in existence who are or may become beneficially interested under the said Will is now produced and shown to me marked “J.F.-P.1.” The relevant certificates of birth, marriage and death are now produced and shown to me tied together in a bundle marked “J.F.-P.2.”
For the assistance of my readers, I have arranged for a copy of exhibit J.F.-P.1 to be reproduced at the beginning of this volume. It will be observed, however, that the precise dates of birth, marriage and death of the baronet’s descendants have been left incomplete — a circumstance which caused Selena some vexation: she did not, she said, expect much of her instructing solicitors, but she had imagined that even a dozy firm like Tancred’s would have known how to prepare a family tree.
“We have the certificates,” said Ragwort. “If I go through them while you’re reading your affidavit and make a note of the dates, we can hand it to the judge at the hearing.”
“With apologies,” said Selena, still displeased, “for it’s not being properly sworn. Yes, thank you, Ragwort, that would be most kind.”
As appears from the said family tree the Testator was survived by his widow Lady Frances Remington-Fiske, who is still living, and by six children. His three sons, however, have all since died unmarried and without issue, the younger two having been killed in action in the Second World War and the eldest having died some years later.
I am the eldest of the Testator’s three daughters, being now 65 years of age, and have been married once, namely to the late Leonard Charles Purefoy. There was one child of my said marriage, namely my late daughter Petronella. Petronella was married once, namely to Rupert Galloway, and my granddaughter, Camilla Fiske-Galloway, is the only child of the said marriage.
The second of the Testator's daughters was my late sister Lalage, who was married once, namely to the late Arthur Robinson. My niece Deirdre Robinson is the only child of the said marriage.
“There are persons of great eminence,” I remarked, “whose surname is Robinson. But I somehow suspect a certain coming down in the world.”
“You suspect rightly,” said Selena. “After spending her first youth — and indeed most of her second youth — in dutiful spinsterhood, Lalage sniffed the permissive air of the Sixties and ran off with a garage mechanic. I gather that the family weren’t too pleased.”
My daughter Petronella and my sister Lalage both died in a tragic accident when travelling in a motor-car driven by my sister’s said husband, who also suffered fatal injuries.
At the time of the tragedy Camilla was five years old and Deirdre was one year old. It was decided that both children should come to live at Fiske House, where I myself had resided with my mother since the death of my husband. They both still reside with my mother and myself at that address. Camilla is now 21 years of age and is in her second year at the University of Cambridge, where she is reading Law. Deirdre is now 11 years of age and accordingly still a minor and is in her last term at school.
My sister Dorothea is the youngest of the Testator’s daughters, being now 52 years of age, and has been married twice. Her first marriage, namely to George Edward Fairfax, ended in divorce. She now resides with her second husband, namely Constantine Demetriou, who is of Greek nationality, at the Villa Miranda near the village of Casiope in the island of Corfu. There are two children only of her first marriage, namely Lucian and Lucinda Fairfax, who are twins and are now 23 years of age. There is one child only of her second marriage, namely Leonidas Demetriou, who is now 16 years of age and accordingly still a minor. All three children normally reside with my sister in the said island of Corfu, though the twins engage extensively in travel and Leonidas is a pupil at Godmansworth College, an English boarding-school.
The Testator by his said Will—
“I say,” said Cantrip, “shouldn’t she say that someone’s just waved a copy of the Will at her marked J.F.-P. thingummy?”
From the scandalized response of his colleagues I gathered that this was a very shocking suggestion. The Probate copy of the Will — that was to say, the photographic copy made in the Probate Registry and bound up in the document confirming the title of the executors to administer the estate — the Probate copy was considered to form part of an order of the Court and to need no verification. The Probate would be among the papers already left with the Judge’s Clerk and would prove itself: to suppose otherwise was a grave solecism.
“It’s all very well you talking about solipsisms,” said Cantrip. “If I was poor old Loppylugs I’d rather have a few solipsisms than be made to plough through the Probate thingy. I bet it’s one of the old-fashioned kind, all in handwriting with no punctuation or paragraphs and running to umpteen pages.”
“No one is suggesting,” said Selena, “that Mr. Justice Lorimer should actually read the Probate. The solicitors, I devoutly hope, will have provided him with a nice typed copy, just like the ones we have ourselves. But that’s for convenience, you see, not as part of the evidence.”
I endeavored to look less perplexed than Cantrip by the fineness of this distinction.
— devised his residuary real estate (which principally consisted of certain agricultural land in the County of Wiltshire) to his trustees in strict settlement upon trust for his widow Lady Frances Remington-Fiske during her life with remainder to his eldest son James for life with remainder in tail to the eldest son of James to attain 21 with remainder in tail to the second and every other son of James to attain that age successively according to seniority with remainder in tail to the eldest daughter of James to attain that age or previously marry with remainder in tail—
“Selena,” I said, “is there any end to all this?”
“My summary,” said Selena, “is almost ruthlessly concise. If set out in full, these provisions would run to eight pages.”
“I expect it’s all this stuff about tails that’s getting you down,” said Cantrip kindly. “If a chap’s got a tail, you see, what it means is that everything’s got to be passed on to his eldest son, and then to his eldest son’s eldest son, and so on until the Last Trump. So the chap with the tail can’t get his paws on the loot and it might all be a bit sickening for him, but he can do a thing called barring the entail.”
Though a member of the Faculty of Laws in the University of Oxford, I am the first to admit that I am an historian rather than a lawyer. The concept of the entailed estate, however, was well developed by the end of the thirteenth century, and I may claim without immodesty to be familiar with it. I did not tell Cantrip this, for I knew he would not have believed me.
“It is the dearest hope of the English landowner,” said Selena, “to father an unbroken line of male offspring, all large and red-faced and fond of hunting. But when making his Will he has to contemplate the possibility of an elder son dying, leaving only daughters, and to decide whether, in that regrettable event, his property should pass into the incompetent hands of a daughter or to some person of the preferred sex in a junior branch of the family. Sir James may be said to have preferred seniority to sex — that is to say, daughters of an elder son come in before sons of a younger son. I suppose,” she added with a sigh, “that that’s really rather progressive.”
She continued inexorably to recite the remainders over in favor of each in turn of the Testator’s three sons and three daughters and their respective issue; but I cannot take so austere a view of the duties of the historian as to demand the attention of my readers for what failed to hold my own. I gathered, however, that the interests of the beneficiaries under the baronet’s Will were conditional on surviving his widow, and that the interests of his daughters were subject to protective trusts — they would be forfeited on bankruptcy or alienation: in these circumstances, it was impracticable for the Will to be varied without the assistance of the Court.
My attention was revived by a mention of the value of the settled funds: a fortune of five and a quarter million pounds somehow excites interest.
The property now subject to the trusts of the Testator’s Will consists of the agricultural land described in Part I of the valuation now produced and shown to me marked “J.F.-P.3” and the investments (representing the proceeds of sale of certain farms formerly comprised in the estate) specified in Part II of the said valuation. It will be seen that the present value of the said land is approximately £4,500,000 without vacant possession and that the value of the said investments on the day prior to the swearing of this affidavit was £753,000.
“That sounds,” I said, “like a very comfortable little nest-egg — who in the end is actually going to get it?”
“If you had been paying attention,” said Selena, “you would know that Camilla was going to get it, as the only descendant of the eldest daughter, provided she survives her great-grandmother. If she dies before Lady Remington-Fiske but leaves children, then her children will get it. If she dies without children, then Deirdre Robinson gets it, as the only child of the second daughter. If she also dies before the widow, then Lucian gets it, and so on. If all the Testator’s descendants predecease his widow there’s an ultimate remainder to the estate of his eldest son; but the eldest son, as it happens, left all he had to Camilla, so there’s no problem about that.”
“And which of you,” I asked, “is representing whom?”
“My client is Jocasta, but I’m going to be led at the hearing by Basil Ptarmigan. Technically, you see, though all this is really for the benefit of Camilla, it’s Jocasta who’s making the application. I thought the sums involved were large enough to justify her having leading Counsel.”
“And I,” said Timothy, “appear for the trustees — Mr. Tancred of our instructing solicitors and Camilla’s father, Rupert Galloway. My responsibility on their behalf is to consider the Arrangement from the point of view of any unborn or unascertained beneficiaries who may become interested in the settled fund. Ragwort is in a rather similar position — he appears for Dorothea Demetriou, who has been appointed guardian for the purpose of these proceedings of the two minor beneficiaries.”
“Mrs. Demetriou,” said Ragwort, “has made it clear that she herself does not wish to receive anything from the settled fund. It accordingly seemed quite proper and convenient for her to act as guardian ad litem for her niece and her younger son and for me to represent her in that and her personal capacity.”
“I’ve got Camilla,” said Cantrip, “but I couldn’t swing it that I ought to see her in conference. Absolutely sickening, having a fantastically attractive bird on one’s brief and not managing to meet her.”
“If you haven’t met her,” I said, “how do you know she’s fantastically attractive?”
“If a bird’s all set to come into five million quid,” said Cantrip, “you don’t need to meet her to know she’s fantastically attractive.”
I am advised that the settled fund will be exempt from capital transfer tax on the death of my mother but that if no action is taken before that time the tax prospectively payable on the termination of my own life interest at any time thereafter will be not less than three million pounds and may be substantially more. The purpose of the proposed Arrangement is to avoid this liability.
A draft of the proposed Arrangement is now produced and shown to me marked “J.F.-P.5.” It provides for my reversionary life interest to be extinguished in exchange for a capital sum of £200,000 to be paid to me on my mother’s death. It also provides for the reversionary life interest of my sister Dorothea, which would be unlikely ever to fall into possession, to be extinguished without payment.
The Arrangement further provides for two funds of £20,000 each to be set aside on my mother’s death and held upon the trusts therein mentioned for the benefit of the minor and unborn issue of Lalage and Dorothea respectively: in all practical probability, one such fund will be payable to my niece Deirdre Robinson absolutely and the other to my nephew Leonidas Demetriou absolutely.
“I don’t quite see,” I said, “why they should get anything. If they don’t inherit, the Arrangement will have cost them nothing: if they do, they have the benefit of the tax saving.”
“Absolutely right,” said Cantrip, much pleased by this remark. “Just what I said—‘Don’t give the little perishers a bean’ was what I said. But Timothy and Ragwort went all obstructive about it.”
“On behalf of the unborn and minor beneficiaries,” said Timothy, “we felt obliged to ask for some modest payment in respect of our negotiating position.”
“What they meant was,” said Cantrip, “that if the little varmints were of age they could stymie the whole thing by just saying no. So if Camilla didn’t want this thumping tax bill she’d probably have to slip them a few thousand quid to get them to cooperate. That’s what they call a negotiating position.”
“We thought it right,” said Ragwort, looking up from his sheaf of certificates, “to do no less for our young clients than they might, if of age, have reasonably done for themselves. Endeavoring to steer a moderate course between the avaricious and the quixotic, we suggested that a sum of forty thousand pounds, to be equally divided, would represent an acceptable douceur.”
I inquired whether Dorothea’s adult children did not also want a douceur.
“No,” said Selena, “they’re being all noblesse oblige—delighted to help Camilla save tax and wouldn’t dream of taking a penny for it. Their father, George Fairfax, is a successful merchant banker — I dare say they can afford to be high-minded. So we’ve simply put them on Cantrip’s brief along with Camilla. Now, Hilary, if you’ll stay quiet and not interrupt while we read the evidence about the protective trusts, explaining that there’s no danger of Jocasta or Dorothea going bankrupt or anything, we’ll all be able to adjourn to the Corkscrew.”
My solicitor has carefully explained to me the nature of the acts and events whereby I might incur a forfeiture of my protected life interest. I have conscientiously considered whether I have ever done so and am satisfied that I have not. I am not extravagant, and live without difficulty within my present income, which derives from a settlement made on the occasion of my marriage. My mother intends to leave to me by her Will the house where we now reside and the sum payable to me under the Arrangement will be sufficient to enable me to discharge those household expenses which are at present borne by her. I respectfully submit that the protective trusts no longer serve any useful purpose.
I further respectfully submit that the Arrangement is for the benefit of all minor, unborn and unascertained persons who may become interested in the settled fund and ask that the same may be approved on their behalf.
Sworn before me, a Commissioner for Oaths—
“And so forth,” said Selena. “Would you like to read Dorothea’s affidavit, Ragwort, as she’s your client?”
“I haven’t quite finished going through the birth certificates,” said Ragwort. “Would you be kind enough to read it for me?”
Dorothea’s evidence regarding her protected life interest closely resembled that given by her sister — naturally so, since Selena and Ragwort had used the same precedent. Her solicitor had explained to her with similar care the ways in which she might have forfeited her interest; she had considered with similar conscientiousness whether she might have done so; she was similarly unextravagant and able to live within her income. The house where she lived in Corfu was owned jointly by herself and her husband and she also owned a flat in Hampstead, used by her children and herself on visits to London. She earned a salary as artistic designer for a small ceramics factory near Casiope, of which she was part owner, and enjoyed a generous income — very generous, it sounded, in the circumstances — from the settlement made by her first husband on the occasion of their divorce. She respectfully submitted, and so forth.
“Ragwort,” said Selena, “you look anxious. Is something the matter?”
“Do you happen,” said Ragwort, “to know what the date is?”
“The twenty-sixth of February.”
“That’s what I thought,” said Ragwort in tones of gloom. “Deirdre’s birthday was on the twenty-third.”
“Oh well,” said Cantrip, “I don’t suppose she expected us to send her a present.”
“Her eighteenth birthday,” said Ragwort. “She’s of age.”
Without perfectly understanding why, I perceived that the prospects of adjourning to the Corkscrew had receded. Ragwort, I would have supposed, could as competently represent a girl of eighteen as one of seventeen. But no, it was out of the question — it was the duty of her Counsel, now that she was of age, to make clear to her the nature of the Arrangement and her right to give or withhold consent; she might instruct him, after receiving such advice, to negotiate other terms than those agreed by Ragwort: Ragwort, if still representing her, would be severely embarrassed.
“It’s no use,” said Timothy. “They’ll have to instruct separate Counsel for her. We’d better ring the solicitors and tell them. It’s a pity, of course, given the urgency of the application — I don’t suppose they’ll manage to find anyone in time for it to be heard tomorrow.”
“Nonsense,” said Selena, “we’ll tell them to instruct Julia. I’ll just ring through to 63 and make sure she’s still there.”
Selena’s expression, when she joined us an hour later in the Corkscrew, was that of a woman who thinks the past hour well spent. She took her place at the candlelit oak table and allowed Timothy to pour her a glass of claret.
It had turned out, she thought, rather satisfactorily. Julia was content to accept instructions, Tancred’s to give them; the appropriate telephone calls had been successfully made; and the girl Deirdre was now in a taxi on her way to Lincoln’s Inn, where Julia waited to advise her.
“It will be good for Julia,” said Selena, “to be involved in an ordinary, down-to-earth Chancery matter. With a pure Revenue practice, she’s sometimes in danger of becoming a little out of touch with real life.”
Knowing that Julia’s strategy for dealing with real life, on those rare occasions when she came across it, was to keep very quiet and hope it would go away, I feared that the grim practicalities of an application under the Variation of Trusts Act might prove too much for her; but the financial rewards, I supposed, would justify the risk.
“I did mention to Tancred’s,” said Selena, “that they were asking Miss Larwood to take the case at very short notice and that her Clerk would expect this to be reflected in the brief fee. Then I rang her Clerk, and told him what he was expecting. So I think that the fee should be not ungenerous.”
Timothy purchased another bottle of claret, and the conversation turned, as it so often does among the Chancery Bar, to the imperfections of their administrative and clerical arrangements. The tyranny of their Clerk Henry and the incompetence of the temporary typist were recalled in lingering detail and with copious illustrative anecdote. The time was passing pleasantly in this manner, and a third bottle had just been opened for us, when there stumbled through the doorway of the Corkscrew the figure of a woman: her dark hair was dishevelled, her clothing in some disorder; she gazed about her with anxious bewilderment, as if not knowing where she was, or where she ought to be. This being Julia’s habitual demeanor, we suspected nothing amiss.
Traversing successfully — that is to say, without knocking anything over or tripping on anyone’s briefcase — the distance from the doorway to our table, she sank wearily into one of the oak armchairs. I perceived at once that something was troubling her: her manner, when she greeted us, was more than usually distrait, and even her compliments to Ragwort lacked their accustomed fervor. She lit a Gauloise, drank a deep draught of claret, and looked apologetically at her friends.
“I don’t quite see that it’s my fault,” said Julia, “but I don’t think you’re going to be pleased.”
“Of course it’s not your fault,” said Selena kindly. “What exactly is the difficulty? Didn’t your client arrive?”
“No — no, it’s not that. The solicitors delivered her in good order about half an hour ago, and left me to explain the Arrangement to her.”
“Can’t she understand what it’s about?”
“Oh, I think she has a reasonable grasp of the essential features.” Julia drank more claret, and drew deeply on her Gauloise. “I was, of course, at pains to explain to her that she was not obliged to agree to it and could say no if she liked.”
“Of course,” said Selena. “That was very proper of you, Julia.” Julia looked doubtful.
“Dear me,” said Timothy, “you don’t mean she does say no?”
“She can’t say no,” said Cantrip indignantly.
“Oh yes she can,” said Ragwort.
“I wouldn’t say,” said Julia, draining her glass and gazing thoughtfully into its depths, “that my client says no, exactly.” She brightened, as at some happy inspiration. “It would be better to say, I think, that she instructs me to ask for an amendment to the Arrangement. A very small amendment, really — there would hardly be any re-drafting required. I do like this claret, I’m feeling much better now — may I have some more?”
“Of course,” said Selena. “Would you like to tell us the precise nature of this small amendment?”
“The Arrangement as at present drafted provides, if my memory serves me, for a sum of twenty thousand pounds to be paid to my client on the termination of the existing life interest?” They nodded. “The amendment we have in mind,” said Julia, “is the substitution of a figure of one hundred thousand pounds.”
There was a shocked silence.
“A hundred thousand quid?” said Cantrip eventually, with apparent difficulty in finding his voice. “If you think my client’s going to fork out an extra eighty thousand quid, you must be even further round the twist than I’ve always thought. Come off it, Larwood old thing.” The professional exchanges of Chancery Counsel are not always characterized by such robust informality; but Julia and Cantrip were once on those terms conventionally called more intimate than friendship, and this perhaps accounts for it.
“My dear Cantrip,” said Julia, “it’s no use your saying ‘come off it.’ If your client wants our consent to the Arrangement, it will cost her a hundred thousand pounds. I should add that the figure is not negotiable. No doubt you will wish to take instructions — I gather Camilla’s in London this evening, so there should be no difficulty.”
“Well, I’m going to advise her to tell your client to get lost. It’s blackmail.”
“I’m sorry you feel like that about it, Cantrip, Isn’t ‘arm’s length negotiation’ more the phrase you’re looking for?”
“No, it jolly well isn’t. ‘Blackmail’ is the phrase I’m looking for.”
“Ah, well — we have been friends too long, I hope, to quarrel over a question of semantics. You must advise your client as you think best, of course. I understand, however, that the prospective liability to capital transfer tax, if nothing is done in the lifetime of the widow, is not less than three million pounds. You will surely not allow a temporary sense of pique to expose your client to so severe an encroachment on her inheritance?”
“Look here, Larwood, do be reasonable — you can’t seriously expect me to tell Tancred’s to drag Camilla out of bed in the middle of the night—”
“It’s only half past seven,” said Selena mildly.
“—well, drag her away from dinner in the middle of the evening, and tell her she’s got to cough up another eighty thousand quid—”
“I’m afraid,” said Timothy, “that it will be another hundred and sixty thousand. I’m sorry to add to your troubles, Cantrip, but if Deirdre’s going to get a hundred thousand, I don’t see how Ragwort and I can agree to less for the minor and unborn issue of Dorothea. The judge would think it very odd, you must see that.”
“Sweet suffering swordfish,” said Cantrip, clutching his forehead in an interesting dramatic gesture, “there ought to be a law against it. All right — tell Camilla that she’s got to cough up an extra hundred and sixty thousand if she wants this thing to go through and she’s got until ten-thirty tomorrow morning to decide about it.”
“The urgency,” said Julia, “is of not of my client’s making. If Camilla needs more time to reach a decision, no doubt the application can be adjourned. I don’t know, of course, how soon we could have another date for the hearing — I hear that the list is rather crowded… and the widow, I gather, is in her late eighties, and not, alas, in the best of health… Still, Cantrip, it’s entirely for you to advise your client.”
“Time was,” said Ragwort, “when a young woman just of age would not have thought it proper to obstruct the arrangements made by her elders for the preservation of the family fortune. Or, if indifferent to propriety, would not have thought it expedient. Has your client considered, Julia, how her present conduct may affect her expectations?”
“My client seems to think,” said Julia, “that she can expect little from the generosity of her relations. In reaching this conclusion, she is perhaps influenced by the fact that the occasion of her eighteenth birthday passed entirely unnoticed by the rest of the family.” Julia, a sentimental woman, looked reproachfully at Cantrip, as if holding him personally responsible for this neglect.
“Oh dear,” said Selena. “You mean they forgot it altogether? Not just its legal significance?”
“Altogether. There was not so much as a postcard. It was in striking contrast, I gather, to the celebration of Camilla’s coming of age four years ago. So my client feels that she should take advantage of the present opportunity to secure her financial independence, and it seems to her that a sum of a hundred thousand pounds is the minimum required. She realizes that she won’t have it until her grandmother dies, and that in the meantime the atmosphere in the home may be a little strained, but the prospect does not seem to trouble her unduly.”
“I see,” said Selena, rising from her chair. “I’d better ring Tancred’s, I suppose, and see if they can arrange for us all to have further instructions from our clients before half past ten tomorrow. After that, perhaps we can all go and eat something. Aren’t you joining us, Julia?” For Julia had begun that process of gathering things together which signifies her intention to depart.
“I’m afraid I can’t. Deirdre’s waiting for me in the bar at Guido’s — I said I’d take her to dinner there.” She again looked reproachfully at Cantrip. “Someone ought to do something to celebrate the poor girl’s birthday.”