meeting was also to be attended by a representative of their neighbours in 63 New Square — that is to say, Julia. The proceedings were to include lunch: it was in this aspect of them that I was invited to participate.
The architect of the Corkscrew, as I believe I have mentioned elsewhere, does not seem to have cared much for daylight or windows. Arriving there shortly after midday, I paused for a moment in the doorway to accustom myself to the dimness of the interior after the midsummer sunlight outside.
Selena was sitting at one of the round oak tables between two young men in some respects similar — both thin, and of pale complexion — but at the same time presenting a pleasing contrast, as if created by two different artists: Ragwort by one working in watercolours to convey the subtle tints of autumn; Cantrip by some no less skilled but more impatient draughtsman, using a few strokes of charcoal on a background of white paper. A bottle of Nierstein had already been purchased, and a glass had been filled for me by the time I reached the table.
“Tell me,” I said, not wishing to be accused of distracting them from the business for which they were gathered, “what exactly is the purpose of this building work for which you are responsible?”
“We’re going to be modernised,” said Cantrip triumphantly. “Hot-and-cold running everything and state-of- the-art communication systems. When the twenty-first century hits us, we’ll be there waiting to hit back.”
“We intend,” said Ragwort, “to restore Chambers to the simple yet dignified elegance which prevailed in Lincoln’s Inn during, let us say, the reign of the later Stuarts.”
These objectives seemed to me to be not identical. I wondered if it might have been prudent, before engaging builders, to make a choice between them.
“Not at all,” said Selena. “It’s simply a question, you see, of how you look at it. On the one hand, as I hope you know, Hilary, we yield to no one in our respect for the great traditions of the English Bar. On the other hand, it has sometimes occurred to us that it might be possible, without gravely compromising those traditions, to make certain minor improvements to our working environment.”
“Such as central heating that actually works,” said Ragwort.
“And a proper computer system,” said Cantrip, “instead of a couple of laptops that our junior Clerk got cheap because they’d been obsolete for ten years.”
“And even,” said Selena rather wistfully, “somewhere to have a shower before one goes out for the evening. But whenever we suggest anything of that kind — I don’t know, Hilary, whether you’ve ever heard Basil Ptarmigan pronounce the word ‘modernisation’?”
“Seldom,” I said, “and only in accents of the utmost distaste, as if picking up some unpleasant object with his fingertips and holding it as far away as possible.” I could imagine that Basil Ptarmigan, QC, the most silken of Chancery Silks, would have little sympathy for any proposal requiring the use of the word.
“Basil takes the view,” said Ragwort, “that modernisation goes hand in hand with reform, and we all know what that leads to. Some of the older members of our Chambers do tend to be a little conservative in their thinking.”
“The way they see it,” said Cantrip, “everything’s been pretty much going to pot since someone went and abolished the rule in Shelley’s Case. And that was in 1925.”
“And naturally,” said Ragwort, “we’ve always felt that we must defer to their wisdom and experience.”
“Because they’d have to put up most of the cash,” said Cantrip.
It had seemed that there was an impasse and that dreams of showers and computer systems must remain mere dreams. The possibility of a solution revealed itself unexpectedly, when Ragwort was invited to a small drinks party by Benjamin Dobble—
“Whom, of course, you know,” said Ragwort, for Benjamin is a fellow scholar and, I hope I may say, a friend of mine. I have described him elsewhere: he plays too small a part in my present narrative to justify my repeating the description.
The party was intended to celebrate the recent refurbishment of his flat in Grafton Street. His guests had been called upon to admire in particular the oak-panelled cupboards and bookcases, Jacobean in style, which concealed the collection of filing cabinets, computers, printers, fax machines and other impedimenta nowadays considered indispensable to the pursuit of learning. The craftsman responsible for designing and building them, a young man by the name of Terry Carver, had naturally been the guest of honour.
Congratulating Terry Carver on his achievement, Ragwort had been inspired to ask whether he might be interested in carrying out a similar scheme of refurbishment at 62 New Square.
“So Terry came round to Lincoln’s Inn,” said Selena, “and measured things and took photographs and so on and seemed rather excited at the idea — he said he was thinking Inigo Jones.”
“Inigo Jones?” I said. “Isn’t that rather early for New Square?”
This comment, however, being thought unconstructive, I hastily withdrew it.
“And in due course he sent us some drawings, showing how we could have as many showers and computer terminals as we liked and at the same time look like a set of Chambers where Lord Nottingham’s just invented the Rule against Perpetuities. We showed them to Basil and the others, and they were even more impressed than we’d hoped.”
“Absolutely knocked sideways,” said Cantrip. “And couldn’t wait to get started.”
“So they did us the great honour,” said Ragwort, looking at the ceiling, “of entrusting us with the organisation of the project.”
“Well, yes,” said Selena. “Because it was clear, of course, that someone was going to have to do a good deal of work to make it all happen, and whatever anyone says about the senior members of our Chambers, no one’s ever said they were stupid. So we’ve had a rather exhausting few months, drawing up specifications and getting permission from the Inn and inviting tenders and so on. But we’ve finally got it all sorted out, and the builders are starting work at the end of next month.”
“My dear Selena,” I said, “you sound as if you thought that once the builders arrive your troubles will be over. That is not the universal experience.”
“Well, there’ll obviously be a certain amount of noise and mess while they’re actually there. But they’ve promised to finish by the end of the Long Vacation, so it shouldn’t be too disruptive.”
She leant back and drank her wine, with the serene contentment of a young woman who has agreed on a satisfactory estimate and a convenient timetable, and has never had builders in before.
“It sounds,” I said, “as if this young man Terry Carver were very much the lynch pin of your enterprise. Are you sure he’s reliable?”
“He does have one or two little failings,” said Selena.
“His tendency, for example, to flutter his eyelashes in a way that distracts Julia from her Finance Act. And of course his habit of falling on one’s clients from the top of ladders. What one has to remember is that he’s good at making bookcases.”
“According to Benjamin,” said Ragwort, “he is not only one of the finest craftsmen in London but extremely dependable.”
Knowing that Benjamin, in the matter of eyelashes, is almost as susceptible as Julia, I feared that his judgment might not be entirely objective; but I felt that this too might be thought an unconstructive comment.
Julia joined us soon afterwards, with apologies for her lateness. She had received another letter from her aunt, evidently posted on the way to a further interview with the young man from the Revenue: she had been trying to telephone to learn the outcome, but had found Mrs. Sheldon’s number constantly engaged.
“I don’t suppose,” said Selena, “that her letter happens to say anything about those shares?”
“A certain amount,” said Julia. “Would you like me to read it to you over lunch?”
“Well …” said Selena, looking doubtfully in my direction. She has the curious notion that no one but a fellow member of the Bar can be trusted with a confidence.
I explained to her, as I have already to my readers, that by the purest chance the identity of her client was no longer a secret from me. She gave me a rather sideways look; but with various admonitions unnecessary to repeat she resigned herself to relying on my discretion.
24 High Street
Parsons Haver
