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?”
“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 dramat
ic 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.”
The Shortest Way to Hades Page 2
