He suddenly began to apologise, however, for having neglected to thank me for my helpful advice — that is to say, the advice I gave my aunt on the capital gains tax position of her investment syndicate. Disclaiming, of course, any need for thanks or apology, I added some comment or other on the success of their investment policy.
“Yes,” he said, but with a heavy sigh, as if taking no satisfaction from the thought. “Yes, we were successful, weren’t we? Remarkably so. I’m glad it turned out well for Reg and Griselda, of course. But I can’t say it turned out well for me — it ended in my losing something I valued very much, I think more than anything in the world. I suppose some people would think it a suitable punishment.”
“For what offence?” I asked, worried by his desolate tone and uncertain whether he wished to be questioned further.
“Oh, I suppose for allowing oneself to be blinded by greed. I always knew, you see, that it couldn’t be quite right — so much money so easily. Reg says you thought straightaway that there was something wrong about it.”
And then he began to tell me, having evidently forgotten or perhaps never known that I had already heard about them from my aunt, of the visits made to Isabella by the man in the black Mercedes. He had reached the same conclusion that we had — that is to say, that the visitor was the source of her information about probable takeovers.
But Maurice, of course, knew nothing about the connection with Renfrews’ Bank. This made the conversation slightly difficult: on the one hand, I was delighted to have come across a subject which seemed to stimulate his interest; on the other, I was rather worried that I might inadvertently mention something that I had learnt in confidence from Selena. In these circumstances I may not have reflected sufficiently on why the subject should be of such particular interest to him.
What he seemed to want to know was whether, in my opinion, the man in the Mercedes was guilty of any criminal offence and, if so, whether it was a serious crime or of a merely technical nature.
I told him that the question was outside the area in which I could claim any particular expertise; but from what I knew of the facts and understood of the law it seemed likely that Isabella’s visitor, in disclosing to her confidential information about prospective takeovers, was guilty of the offence of insider dealing.
“You mean,” said Maurice, “that if he were found out he would be sent to prison?”
I said that theoretically he could be sent to prison for a period of up to seven years; but that in practice convictions for insider dealing seldom led to imprisonment. The most serious consequence, for the sort of person that he seemed likely to be, would be the possibility of being disqualified from engaging in any investment business: a sentence of professional ruin might seem to such a man at least as bad as one of imprisonment.
Maurice at first appeared to think these penalties unduly harsh: it seemed to him that the man in the black Mercedes had not in fact done anyone any harm. I did my best to persuade him, however, that the severity of the law did no more than reflect the moral gravity of the offence. Though conceding that insider dealing was sometimes spoken of as a crime without a victim, I said that it almost inevitably involved a betrayal of trust; and usually of the trust which had been placed by simple, inexperienced people, investing their hard-earned savings in the equity market, in those with greater knowledge and financial sophistication. In short, while not actually asserting that insider dealing was a worse crime than child abuse, I described it in terms which might reasonably have been seen as pointing to that conclusion.
I put the case, as you may think, rather high, not really because I have any strong views on the matter, but in the hope of lending a little colour and excitement to the subject and so distracting Maurice from whatever was depressing him. I now fear that this may have been a mistake; but I thought at the time that I was doing rather well and was pleased that he seemed impressed by the argument.
“And I suppose also,” said Maurice, “that committing such a crime might make someone readier to commit another, perhaps far worse.
“I was under the impression,” I said, “that the Church nowadays no longer believed in hell.”
“We no longer believe in it as a geographical place, like Paris or Los Angeles. Not, of course, that one ever thought that it would be anything like Paris. But I think we still believe in it as a condition of the soul — something that follows from what I suppose one calls sin. Not a punishment, just an inevitable consequence, like darkness when you put the light out.”
He spoke with great despondency: I saw that I had been unduly optimistic in thinking that I had raised his spirits.
“But I assume,” I said, “that that is subject to the possibility of redemption?”
“Redemption? Oh yes, of course, one’s supposed to believe in that.” He did not say it, however, with the degree of conviction which I had thought might be expected from a man of his profession.
I must ask you to excuse me for a few moments: a warm and seductive smell of cinnamon and cloves has somehow found its way upstairs to my sitting room, and has inspired in me an irresistible impulse to neglect for a little while the duties previously mentioned and follow it back to the place from which it came.
Up to this point, the handwriting of the letter had been, by Julia’s standards, passably legible. The more erratic style of the succeeding paragraph would have led a graphologist to infer some change in circumstances — that the writer, perhaps, had consumed some quantity of wine, or instead of writing at a desk had adopted a semirecumbent posture on a sofa or chaise longue.
That is to say, the kitchen, where I found my aunt doing interesting and complicated things to various kinds of pastry. Though rigorously forbidden to assist directly in these activities, I was entrusted with a plateful of hot mince pies to take into the drawing room, where Griselda and Mrs. Tyrrell were putting up the Christmas decorations, and told to make sure that they had enough wine to sustain them in their labours. I performed these tasks without misadventure, and lingered for a while to share the wine and mince pies and to exchange gossip.
Having no hope of equalling Mrs. Tyrrell’s dexterity with silver paper and drawing pins, or her agility on a stepladder, I did not offer to help with putting up the decorations: decorations which I put up never seem to hang with much symmetry or elegance, or indeed for very long at all. I did suggest that I could stand beside the stepladder and catch her if she happened to fall; but Griselda claimed that responsibility as hers, and would not by any means relinquish it. (I should mention that Mrs. Tyrrell is rather attractive and has very prettily shaped legs.)
When I mentioned having seen Maurice, they both expressed anxiety about him. They seemed to think that he has financial problems, and that it is these that are affecting his health. I found this a rather surprising idea; but apparently Daphne made some remark to Mrs. Tyrrell a few months ago about Maurice being very short of money and terribly worried about it. Then she realised she was being rather indiscreet, and asked Mrs. Tyrrell not to repeat it to anyone; but if it’s what’s making him ill, Mrs. Tyrrell feels it isn’t right to keep it a secret from his friends.
I also told them, of course, about the appalling scene with Daphne, which I have already — or, no, I see that I haven’t yet told you about it, and shall therefore proceed to do so forthwith.
By the time Maurice and I walked back from the George and Dragon, it was almost midday, and I was beginning to feel slightly hungry. Having told Reg that I would fend for myself as far as lunch was concerned, I decided that the time was ripe for a glass of wine and a toasted sandwich in the Newt and Ninepence. Maurice declined to join me, saying he must return to the Vicarage and deal with a number of things which he had neglected.
Having browsed for a few minutes in the High Street bookshop, I was soon afterwards comfortably settled in the saloon bar of the Newt and Ninepence with all that a reasonable woman could require for absolute contentment — that is to say, a glass of wine, a toasted sandwich, and a detective story I had never read before. This happy state continued for about ten minutes, at the end of which I suddenly realized that a small, indignant-looking person was leaning over me and accusing me of being Reg’s niece, Julia.
Resisting a natural impulse to denial, I admitted that I was. “And I think,” I said, “that you must be Daphne?”
I recognised her without difficulty from the description my aunt had given, though the expression “not at all a pretty girl” was something of an understatement: she was one of the most unattractive girls I have ever met, and I
