Smallbone Deceased: A London Mystery

"One hundred and ninety thirdly (and lastly) Professional Gentlemen, as solicitors, attorneys, proctors, engineers, architects, medical practitioners, artists, literary men, merchants, master manufacturers, scientific professors, and others not engaged in manual labour, farming of land or retail trade, are considered to possess some station in society, although the Law takes no cognizance of their ranks inter se."

Precedence: from Dod’s Peerage, p. 434

Chapter One

—Monday Evening—

Parties to the Deed

First will be set out the Parties, each by his full name and address and by a Description, as, Lieutenant-Colonel in His Majesty’s Grenadier Regiment of Foot-guards, Solicitor to the Supreme Court of Judicature, Clerk in Holy Orders, Butcher, or as the case may be and (where of the female sex) wife, widow, spinster or feme sole.

I

The thoughts of all present tonight, said Mr. Birley, will naturally turn first to the great personal loss—the very great personal loss—so recently suffered by the firm, by the legal profession and, if I may venture to say so without contradiction, by the British public.

No one did contradict him; partly, no doubt, owing to the fact that Mr. Birley was personally responsible for the salaries of the greater number of those present, but also because the principal speaker at a staff dinner very rarely is contradicted; Mr. Birley, therefore, proceeded.

It is difficult to speak without emotion of such a loss. Abel Horniman, our founder and our late senior partner, was a man whose name will be long remembered. Even those who are not qualified to appreciate the worth of his legal—ah—laurels, will remember him in connection with those innovations in office management which bear his name. The Horniman Self-Checking Completion System, the Horniman Alphabetical Index—

The Horniman High-Powered Raspberry, said John Cove to his neighbour, Mr. Bohun.

—Abel Horniman was not only a great lawyer, he was also a great business man. Some of you will remember his boast: ‘In thirty seconds,’ he used to say, ‘I can lay my hand on any paper which has come into this office in the last thirty years.’ How many firms of solicitors, I wonder, could say the same? In this age of slipshod methods, of rule-of-thumb litigation, of printed-form conveyancing, how salutary it is to stop and think for a few moments of the career of a man who learned his law the hard way, a man who had perfected himself in every branch of a solicitor’s work, a man who asked nothing of his subordinates that he could not himself do better—and yet—Mr. Birley unwound this long relative clause with the ease of a practised conveyancer—and yet a man who, as we know, was quite prepared to offer freely to his partners and his staff the fruits of his knowledge and his hard work.

If he’d offered me a tenth of the money he made, I shouldn’t have said no to it, observed Mr. Cove, desisting for a moment from his attempts to hit Miss Mildmay, three places away on the opposite side of the table, with a bread pellet.

A grand old lawyer, went on Mr. Birley. The founder and the inspiration of his firm—of our firm—perhaps I may say of our happy family—Horniman, Birley and Craine.

Sustained applause.

In the Rhodian room of the Colossus restaurant in Holborn one long and three shorter tables were set in the form of a capital E, and round them were gathered some fifty men and women ranging in age from an exceedingly venerable party with a white beard, who was sleeping fitfully at one end of the top table, down to three young gentlemen of fifteen-plus (of a type normally described in police reports as youths) who had collected at a point furthest from the eye of the chairman and were engaged in a game of blow-football with rolled-up menus and a battered grape.

Miss Mildmay looked up as a bread pellet struck her on the cheek and remarked in a clear voice: If you hit me again with one of those things, John Cove, I shan’t type any more of your private letters for you in office hours.

Delilah, said John.

Henry Bohun was engaged, meanwhile, in a mathematical computation the answer to which seemed to puzzle him.

How do they fit them all in?

Fit all what into what? said John Cove.

Into the office. When Birley was showing me round this afternoon I counted twelve rooms. One was obviously a waiting-room. That leaves eleven. If the partners have a room each—

"Oh, these aren’t all our people, said John. Very few of them, in fact. We control three other firms, you know. Ramussen and Oakshott in the City, Bourlass, Bridewell and Burt in the West End, and Brown, Baxter and thingummybob in some impossible place like Streatham or Brixton—"

An indignant glare from a young man with long hair and a pillar-box red tie warned John that he was speaking perhaps a trifle loudly for the promotion of that happy family feeling which Mr. Birley had just commended.

Oh Lord, he went on. There’s Tubby getting up. I do think all this speechmaking is a mistake.

Mr. Tristram Craine rose to reply to the toast of The Firm. He was a plump little person, in appearance two-thirds of Charles Cheeryble to one-third of Lord Beaverbrook; in fact, an extremely sharp solicitor.

What he said is not important, since one after-dinner speech tends to be very like another. However, it afforded an opportunity for Henry Bohun to take a further quick look round the table in an endeavour to identify some of the people with whom he was going to work.

He himself was the very newest thing in solicitors.

He had qualified precisely three days previously and joined the firm only that afternoon. His single close acquaintance so far was the flippant Mr. Cove. Birley and Craine he knew, of course. The other reverend parties at the head table were, he suspected, the Ramussens, the Oakshotts, the Bourlasses and the Bridewells of the confederate firms.

There was a dark-haired youngster, wearing heavy horn-rimmed spectacles and looking a little out of place among the augurs. He suspected that this might be Bob Horniman, the late Abel Horniman’s son. They had been to the same public school, but Bob had been three years his junior and three years is a long time when it marks the gap between fourteen and seventeen.

Mr. Craine unconsciously resolved this uncertainty for him by saying: And I feel we should take this opportunity of welcoming our new partner, our founder’s son, who steps forward now to take his father’s place. (Applause.)

The dark young man blushed so hotly and took off and wiped his spectacles with such unnecessary gusto that Henry concluded that his guess had been correct. He also reflected that to have a great man for a father was not always an entirely comfortable fate.

A Richard for an Oliver, said Mr. Cove, reading his thoughts accurately.

Pardon? said the young lady on his right.

Granted as soon as asked, said Mr. Cove agreeably.

Then there was that man with the rather sharp face and the unidentifiable, but too obviously old-school tie—he’d seen him somewhere about the office. The girl next to him was a good looker, in a powerful sort of way. She was the possessor of auburn hair and very light blue eyes, elements which may be harmless apart but can be explosive when mixed.

He died, said Mr. Craine—apparently he had reverted to the founder of the firm—as I am sure he would have wished to die—in harness. It scarcely seems a month ago that I walked into his room and found him at his desk, his pen grasped in his hand—

It really is rather an inspiring thought, murmured John Cove, that the last words he ever wrote should have been ‘Unless we hear from you by an early post we shall have no option but to institute proceedings’. There’s a touch, there, of the old warrior dying with his lance in couch and his face to the foe.

After Mr. Craine had sat down the old gentleman with the white beard, who proved indeed to be Mr. Ramussen, awoke and proposed the health of Mr. Oakshott, whereupon Mr. Oakshott retaliated by proposing the health of Mr. Ramussen; whereafter the Bourlasses and the Bridewells and the Burts toasted each other oratorically in a series of ever-decreasing circles. Even the despised Mr. Brown succeeded in putting in a word for Streatham before Mr. Birley, by pushing back his chair and undoing the two bottom buttons of his waistcoat, signified that the ordeal was at an end.

As people got up from the table and the more informal side of the evening began the junior members of the four firms, who up to now had sat in strictly anti-social groups, began to intermingle a little, a certain nice degree of stratification being observed. Partner opened his cigar-case to partner, managing clerk took beer with managing clerk, and secretary exchanged small talk with secretary. Someone started to play the piano and a pale costs clerk from the Streatham office sang a song about a sailor and a mermaid which would certainly have been very entertaining if anyone had been able to hear the words.

Bohun, as a newcomer, was beginning to feel rather out of things when he was buttonholed by a dark-haired, horse-faced woman of about forty-five whom he recognised.

Miss Cornel, in case you’ve forgotten, she said.

You’re Mr. Horniman’s—I mean, you were Mr. Horniman’s secretary, he said.

Still am, said Miss Cornel. Sensing his surprise she explained. I’ve been handed down. I’ve been devised and bequeathed. I’m young Mr. Horniman’s secretary now.

Bob Horniman.

Yes. I believe you knew him, didn’t you?

I was at school with him, said Bohun. I didn’t know him very well. He came ten or twelve terms after me; and we weren’t in the same house, you know.

Never having been to a public school myself, said Miss Cornel, with a dry but not unfriendly smile, I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. However, come and meet some of the staff. I won’t waste you on members of the outside firms because you probably won’t see them again until next year’s office party. Here’s Miss Chittering now. She works for Mr. Birley, and Miss Bellbas, who works for Mr. Duxford and also for John Cove, God help her.

She waved forward a hipless off-blonde and a startlingly vacant-looking brunette, neither of whom seemed to have much to say for themselves.

And why should Miss Cornel consider it such a penance to have to work for Mr. Cove? asked Bohun helpfully.

The brunette Miss Bellbas considered the matter seriously for a moment or two and then said: I expect it’s the things he says. This seemed to have exhausted the topic, so he turned to the blonde.

And how long have you been with the firm, Miss Chittering?

So long, said Miss Chittering coyly, that I never admit to it now, for fear people might start guessing my age.

She looked at Mr. Bohun as if inviting him to indulge in some daring speculation on the subject, but he refused the gambit and said: I understand you work for our senior partner, Mr Birley. That must be quite a responsibility.

Oh, it is! said Miss Chittering. Have you met Mr. Birley yet, Mr. Bohun? That was him who made the first speech tonight.

Yes, said Henry. Yes, I heard him. Quite an inspired orator, he added cautiously.

Miss Chittering accepted this at its face value. He’s very clever, she said, and such an interesting man to work for, isn’t he, Florrie?

Frightfully, said Florrie. I can never understand a single word he says. But then, I don’t think I was really cut out for the law. Oh, thank you.

This was to John Cove who had appeared alongside and was contriving, with an expertness which suggested considerable practice, to carry four pink gins.

You mustn’t believe a word of it, said John. I don’t know what we should do without our Miss Bellbas. To watch her spelling ‘cestui que trust’ and ‘puisne Mortgage’ by the light of pure phonetics—

Really, Mr. Cove! said Miss Chittering.

But never mind, Miss Bellbas. What are brains beside beauty?

Well, what are they? asked Miss Bellbas, who seemed to be a very literal-minded girl.

Fully to explain that, said John, I should have to take you to a secluded corner for a course of private instruction.

Really, Mr. Cove, said Miss Chittering. You mustn’t talk like that. Mr. Bohun will be thinking you mean what you say. Tell me, why didn’t you recite for us this evening?

The committee, I regret to say, censored both my proffered contributions. Well, ladies, we mustn’t be keeping you from your admirers. I see old Mr. Ramussen has one of his ancient but inviting eyes on you already, Miss Bellbas— He piloted Henry away: Come and meet Sergeant Cockerill.

Who?

Sergeant Cockerill, our muniments clerk, desk sergeant, post clerk, chief messenger, housekeeper, librarian, butler and tea-maker in chief. The Admirable Crichton in person.

Despite his title, Sergeant Cockerill proved to be a most unmilitary-looking person. He was a neat spare man and had something of the look of a Victorian Under-Secretary of State, with his stiff, chin-prop collar, his correct deportment and his intelligent brown eyes.

Bohun found, rather to his relief, that little was expected of him here in the way of conversation and he was entertained for the next fifteen minutes by a discourse on the subject of futures. He missed the significance of some of the earlier remarks owing to a mistaken belief that futures were commodities dealt with on the Stock Exchange. It was some time before he realised they were things which the sergeant grew in the garden of his house at Winchmore Hill.

As ten o’clock approached there was a tendency amongst the elder members of the party to think about the times of trains and the crowd began to thin out. Bohun drifted with the current, which had set towards the stairs leading down to the ground floor and the cloakrooms.

Immediately ahead of him he noticed Bob Horniman and the red-haired girl. As they reached the foot of the staircase he heard Bob say: Would you like me to see if I can get you a taxi?

Thank you, Mr. Horniman. I can look after myself quite easily.

Now this was an answer which might have been made in any tone of voice and denoting any shade of feeling ranging from indifference to something fairly rude. The red-haired girl managed to invest it with a degree of venom which surprised Mr. Bohun considerably. He saw Bob Horniman flush, hesitate for a moment, and then dive down the stairs leading to the cloakroom.

The girl stood looking after him. There was a quarter of a smile on her lips but her light blue eyes said nothing but Danger.

It’s far too early to go to bed, said John Cove. Come and have a drink.

All right, said Bohun. He wondered whether John had observed the curious little scene; and if so, what he had made of it.

Who’s the redhead? he asked.

That’s Anne Mildmay, said John. She works for Tubby Craine. Lecherous little beast. Craine, I mean, he added. Come on, I know a place in Shaftesbury Avenue which stays open till midnight.

Over the bar of the Anchorage (which is in Shaftesbury Avenue in approximately the same sense that Boulestins is in the Strand) John Cove fixed Bohun with a gloomy stare and said: Tell me. What brought you into the racket?

Which racket? enquired Henry cautiously.

The law.

It’s hard to say. I was a research statistician, you know.

Well, I don’t, said John, but it sounds quite frightful. Who did you research into statistics for?

"It wasn’t a question of researching into statistics, said Henry patiently. I collated statistics and other people used them for research. It was a nice job, too. All you needed was a fairly good memory and a head for figures."

Decent hours?

First class. Come when you like, go when you like.

Congenial company?

Very much so.

Then I say again, said John, why come into our racket at your age? No offence—I’m not a dewy-eyed youngster myself—two more, please, Ted. But at least I’ve got the excuse that I was in the game before the war. I would have finished my articles in 1941 had Hitler not willed otherwise.

Well, said Henry slowly. I couldn’t go back to my old firm. It was an oil combine, and it went and got itself amalgamated whilst I was away, and although mine was a good sort of job they’re pretty few and far between. So I thought I’d take up law as a soft option.

You thought what? John was so overcome that he spilt a good deal of his whisky, and quickly drank the rest of it before it could come to any harm.

Why, certainly, said Henry. What I really like about the law is that it’s so restful. You never have to think. It’s all in the books.

Two more whiskies, said John to the barman. Doubles.

No fooling, said Henry. "I did two years as a medical student when I left school, and I can assure you there’s absolutely no comparison. Think how easy it would be to perform a surgical operation, if you had Butterworth’s Forms and Precedents ever at your elbow. One, take a scapula, size six, in the right hand. Two, grasp the appendix firmly round the broad end—"

Bung-ho! said John.

Can’t I buy you a drink for a change?

Not unless you’re a member.

Well, let’s go somewhere where I can.

At Raguzzis, which is near the Berkeley Square end of Bruton Street, the conversation turned, not without a certain amount of wilful steering on Henry’s part, on to the subject of the firm of Horniman, Birley and Craine.

John had, by now, reached that well-defined stage in intoxication when every topic becomes the subject of exposition and generalisation, when sequences of thought range themselves in the speaker’s mind, strewn about with flowery metaphor and garlanded in chains of pellucid logic; airborne flights of oratory to which the only obstacle is a certain difficulty with the palatal consonants.

Horniman, Birley and Craine, said John, "is not one firm but four firms. It is a quadernity. It is the Gordon Selfridge of solicitors, different departments to suit all tastes and purses. For the humble but well-meaning citizens of Streatham or Brixton Mr. Brown and Mr. Baxter labour unceasingly, resting not day nor night. For the hard-faced, stern-browed moguls of commerce and industry our City offices are ever open, and the warm hearts and subtle brains of Mr. Bourlass, Mr. Bridewell and Mr. Burt beat in a mighty diapason, and their cunning fingers are never still—here underwriting a charter party, there endorsing a Bill of Exchange sans recours; and if all else palls, why, bless me, they can always fill in the time between lunch and tea by forming a limited company. In Piccadilly, those gilded darlings of fortune, Osric Ramussen and Emmanuel Oakshott, pin carnations to the palpitating bosoms of a horde of comely divorcees and spend their time, or such time as they can spare from race meetings and first nights, in drawing fantastic leases of flats in Half Moon Street and shops in the Burlington Arcade—"

Two more whiskies, said Henry. "What do we do in Lincoln’s Inn?"

I’ve never really found out, said John, but it’s all most terribly gentlemanly. Our books of reference are Burke and Debrett and we’re almost the last firm in London that draws up strict marriage settlements and calls the heir up on his twenty-first birthday to execute a disentailing deed and drink a glass of pre-1914 sherry.

I thought that the peerage were all broke these days.

So they are, said John regretfully. So they are. I expect that’s why we bought up the other offices. All the real money’s in Streatham.

At the Silver Slipper, which is between Regent Street and Glasshouse Street, and of which Mr. Bohun appeared to be a member, John found occasion, between glasses of champagne, to ask:

You didn’t seriously mean what you said, did you?

What are you talking about now?

About solicitoring being so easy.

Certainly I did. If you want a really difficult job you ought to try actuarial work. I trained for eighteen months as an actuary in New York.

At the Lettre de Cachet, a small club off the west end of Old Compton Street, John swallowed his thimbleful of apricot brandy, started to say something, folded neatly forward over the table and fell into a dreamless sleep.

When he woke up the electric clock beside the band platform showed four, the band was packing up and the last of the clientele were leaving.

Henry Bohun finished his drink and rose to his feet.

I think we ought to be getting along, he said regretfully. It’s been a splendid evening.

Splendid, said John. Something odd about his companion struck him.

Aren’t you tired? he asked.

No, said Henry.

Don’t you ever get tired?

Not often, said Henry.

Why not? said John. For himself