At half past nine on Friday morning I found myself climbing the stone stairs which lead to the second floor of 62 New Square. The members of the
Nursery were already gathered in the largest of its three rooms, Ragwort and Cantrip at their desks, Selena in the large leather armchair. Ragwort had been explaining, it seemed, the theory I had suggested to him on the previous afternoon. It was not going down well — they all looked despondent.
“If I was advising a client,” said Cantrip, “I’d say that if that’s our case we jolly well ought to settle.”
“I understand,” said Ragwort, “that one cannot dispose of a criminal charge by way of compromise. I suppose one can offer to plead guilty to manslaughter if they’ll drop the more serious charge.”
“I dare say,” said Selena, “that one would so advise a client. But this is not a matter where we should allow our professional judgement to interfere with our personal feelings.”
I assured them that there was no need for anxiety and that matters were proceeding satisfactorily.
“Well, I’m glad you think so, Hilary,” said Cantrip. “As far as I can see, they’re proceeding with total loopiness. Even if there’s anything in this idea that Eleanor’s in cahoots with the Bruce chap — and personally I think it’s a dead loss — it still wouldn’t get us anywhere, because we don’t know who the Bruce chap is. And why on earth you think he’s still in Venice—”
“And even if he is,” said Ragwort, “why you think Marylou’s going to recognize him—”
“I don’t,” I said.
“But Hilary,” said Selena, with something less than her customary composure, “you have led Marylou to believe—”
“Nonsense,” I said. “I have done nothing of the kind.”
“But we were discussing,” said Selena, “how we could find out who Bruce was and you asked Marylou if she could go to Venice.”
“Ah yes,” I said. “I remember now that you were discussing something of that kind. It was, however, mere coincidence; I was paying but little attention. No, I don’t expect her to recognize Bruce. My dear children, it is surely clear to you by now that Bruce does not exist?”
They were rather cross with me, on two alternative grounds, apparently; that Bruce did exist and I was wantonly deceiving them; or, if he did not, that by some remarkable alchemy I had mischievously caused his nonexistence. Such expressions as “frivolous dilettante” and “irresponsible academic” were freely used. They quietened at last, however, to the point of demanding an explanation.
“I suppose,” I said, “that none of you have ever studied the science of textual criticism and that you are all, therefore, unfamiliar with the principle of the
“You suppose,” said Selena, “correctly.”
“Very well. I shall begin accordingly with a brief exposition of that principle.”
“I say, Hilary,” said Cantrip, “do you absolutely have to?”
“Yes. I must begin by reminding you that a great part of Scholarship consists of the study of ancient or medieval documents. It is but rarely, however, that we are fortunate enough to have available the original manuscript in the hand of the author. The older the document, the more probable it is that we shall have to rely on a copy. Or a copy of a copy. So multiplies the possibility of error, through the carelessness or ignorance of the copyist. The reconstruction in such cases of the original — the discovery of the correct reading — that is the art of textual criticism.”
“A moment ago,” said Ragwort, “you called it a science.”
“It is both an art and a science. It demands the exercise, to the highest degree, of every aspect of human genius. It requires the most rigorous logic, the most diligent application of experience, the most heroic flights of creative imagination.”
“Yes, Hilary,” said Selena. “I’m sure it does. Could we return to the point?”
“Certainly. As I would by now have explained, if Ragwort had abstained from captious interruption, there have been developed by scholars versed in the art or science of textual criticism certain principles. Among the most important of these is that of the
“Hilary,” said Selena, “please—”
“The same phenomenon, of course, occurs in the context of the spoken word. We all know, for example, that Cantrip, being, due to the deficiencies of his education — for which, as I have always said, he is rather to be pitied than censured — unfamiliar with the term ‘rococo’, is under the impression that there is a style of architecture known as rocky cocoa — after, I suppose, some beverage of popular consumption in Cambridge.”
“What,” said Ragwort, “has all this to do with Julia?”
“It has everything to do with Julia. And everything to do with Bruce. For you will remember that the only evidence of Bruce’s existence is a conversation between Eleanor and Kenneth as overheard by Julia.”
“But there is,” said Ragwort, “no alternative reading. We have no other account of the conversation.”
“No direct account, no. There is, however, secondary evidence which conflicts with Julia’s, in that both Eleanor and Kenneth deny knowing anyone called Bruce. We must consider, therefore, the possibility of an error in Julia’s account. Reporting the conversation in
“Well?” said Selena.
“One of the most celebrated makers of furniture in Venice in the seventeenth century was Andrea di Brustolon — Benjamin, you may remember, mentioned him the other evening. Julia, however, has probably never heard of him — she is not well up on the baroque and rococo periods.”
I cannot say that they yielded gracefully; but I eventually persuaded them that a mention by Eleanor of a “Brustolon armchair,” as an item in the Tiverton Collection which she would like to acquire, was more probable than any reference to some unknown larcenist; that the person against whom she had warned Kenneth in the earlier part of the conversation was almost certainly, in the light of what we had since learnt about him, the Major; and that what had to be kept under lock and key was not some mysterious object of value kept by Kenneth in his room, but the Collection itself, Eleanor having inadvertently disclosed to the Major Kenneth’s connection with it.
“But if Bruce doesn’t exist,” said Selena, “what’s Marylou doing in Venice?”
“That,” I answered, “I am expecting to learn very shortly. But nothing can happen before eleven o’clock. It’s now only just after half past ten — there’s plenty of time for someone to make some coffee.”
There was, while we drank our coffee, an absence of conversation rare in Lincoln’s Inn. My companions kept looking warily at the telephone, as if it might spontaneously deliver some Delphic utterance.
“Selena,” said Ragwort, at about quarter to the hour, “did you tell them downstairs that any calls for you should come through to this room?”
“Yes,” said Selena. “Of course.” And at ten to rang the Clerks’ Room to remind them.
We drank more coffee. The clocks within earshot of Lincoln’s Inn began to strike the hour.
“From your statement, Hilary,” said Ragwort, at five minutes past, “that nothing would happen before eleven, we have been assuming that something would happen after that time. You are now going, I suppose, to explain to us the fallacy in our reasoning.”
“My dear Ragwort, I would not dream of such heartless casuistry. Something will certainly happen — but how long after eleven, I cannot definitely say. Timothy may have difficulty getting in touch with us.”
At twenty past eleven the telephone emitted a buzz. Ragwort stretched out his hand towards the receiver.
The door, at the same moment, was thrown open with such intemperate violence as caused it to bang against the skirting-board and there irrupted into the room a young man of threatening aspect. I recognized, from seeing him at Heathrow, the belligerent thrust of the shoulders and the pugnacious jut of the wide jaw.
“Which of you,” asked our visitor, glaring furiously about him, “is Desmond Ragwort?” His accent was similar to Marylou’s, but his tone far less agreeable.
“I am,” answered Ragwort, without hesitation. He was, after all, among friends, and divided from the visitor
