After Dukie had left, Willoughby put through a call to Stevens. ‘Have you seen Valerian?’
‘He came round this morning. He says he’s the client, or rather he and she are the clients. They’ve hired us, he said, or rather me. He doesn’t know what you’re doing in it.’
‘Doesn’t he just?’
‘He says it’s a simple negotiation with the family, see what they’ll pay to settle. If that fails, it’s a legal claim. A job for a lawyer, he said.’
‘Did you explain to him what we want?’
‘As best I could.’
‘Did you talk money?’
‘No, he wasn’t interested. But he understood what I was getting at. He said if I was worried about his ugly mug I wasn’t to worry as he wouldn’t be a witness. He said he was here to help her as he always had.’
For a time there was silence. Then Willoughby said, ‘He’ll have his price. Keep trying.’
11
With one hand gripping the banister, the other his two sticks, Mordecai Ledbury worked his way down the narrow circular stair of the dining club to the basement floor where there was an open fire in the sitting area and beyond, in another room, the circular table where the members dined. If the descent was slow, the ascent later in the evening would be slower, and if anyone offered to help, they would be answered with a growl and an angry jerk of the great head. As a result those members not fleet enough to get ahead of him when he struggled to his feet from his chair as he prepared to leave had to fall in behind him and follow patiently as the crab-like figure made its way slowly up the narrow staircase. From the back, the hump and the head growing neckless out of the broad shoulders made him appear even more misshapen than did his front where the twisted face was at least illuminated by dark, restless eyes. Some, generally women, were sometimes privileged to see a strangely beautiful smile, but usually it was only his voice, low and melodious, that compensated for the distortion of face and figure. Like the womanising, squint-eyed John Wilkes in the eighteenth century, he said what he needed was time, and at first it was usually politeness that made the listener stay; then fascination; and finally, for one or two women, passion.
However, the members of Penns, the dining club whose stair he was now descending and where he dined every Wednesday, never saw that side of Mordecai Ledbury QC, only brusqueness and a caustic wit, usually at their expense. As a result, most avoided him; the newer members because of his appearance; the older because they feared his ill-temper and the savagery of his talk.
The conventions of the place demanded that when dining all sat at a single central table set in the candle-lit dining area where James, the steward, put their places – which he did in the order in which they had given their order. On a Wednesday the wiser members either dined early or waited until the steward tipped them off that Mr Ledbury had finished. It was the new or the unwary who found themselves sitting beside him, and the wise then ate in silence. Among them were many brave if now elderly warriors who had won every decoration for valour, but they blanched when they found they had been placed next to Mordecai Ledbury at the dining-table at Penns.
On this particular evening when he emerged from the stairs into the sitting-room there were only one or two members reading newspapers; from the hum of conversation from the dining-room, most were already at table. But in the furthest corner, reading from a narrow black notebook, a tall whisky-and-soda in front of him, was Oliver Goodbody. Mordecai limped across the room and lowered himself into an armchair in front of him.
The pair made a striking contrast; Oliver upright and slender with aquiline features and a full head of silver hair; Mordecai hunched and saturnine, with what hair he had plastered in streaks across his large head.
James, unbidden, brought a pint of champagne in a silver tankard and Mordecai began to drink, not sipping but gulping as if it were ale.
‘I had a retainer delivered to your chambers this afternoon,’ Oliver began.
‘So I’ve heard.’
‘It’s a case of particular importance to me personally.’
Mordecai looked at him over the rim of his tankard. ‘My clerk said it was a retainer for the Caverel family.’
‘It is. I’ve been their solicitor and adviser for very many years, as was my father before me. I’ve known them all, even as far back as the great-grandfather of the present Lord Caverel, who is a child. I’m very close to the whole family.’
Mordecai raised his thick, black eyebrows. ‘It’s never wise for the lawyer engaged in litigation to be too involved personally,’ he growled.
‘That’s my business,’ Oliver said.
Mordecai bowed, smiling slightly at the sharpness of the reply.
‘The defendant to any proceedings which may be commenced –’ Oliver continued.
Mordecai interrupted. ‘There are none as yet?’
‘No, but there will be. The formal defendant will be the child and it will be a claim for possession of Ravenscourt and all its lands and treasures brought in the name of a young woman who says she’s the rightful heiress to all the settled land – and to the barony.’
Mordecai drank from his tankard. ‘Then I’m not your man.’
‘Yes, you are. It is the kind of case in which you excel.’
Mordecai Ledbury was the most formidable cross-examiner of the day. He was helped by his appearance – the hunched back, the twisted face under the dirty, grey wig usually perched askew on his enormous head, the two walking-sticks laid on the bench in front of him which were noisily snatched when he moved along the barristers’ bench. The sight of him rising to cross-examine made most witnesses uneasy. But as an advocate he was flawed, for his bad temper led him at times to cross-examine too fiercely, which could alienate juries and judges. He only ever appeared in the Common Law courts, occasionally at the Old Bailey, and was never briefed in cases which required abstruse legal argument before an appellate court. Recently his practice had declined. Whereas it was once axiomatic that Mordecai Ledbury would be one of the counsel briefed in every prominent libel suit, now it was not. He had angered too many newspaper managements by the savagery of his cross-examination of editors and journalists or by the insults he showered on proprietors; and he had frightened off plaintiffs’ solicitors by his quarrelling with the court. He had few personal friends either in the profession or outside it. He never attended functions at the Inns of Court or mixed with fellow members of the bar. He was part of no social circle. Penns was his only club. Oliver Goodbody was unique in that, perhaps once every two months, he dined with Mordecai on a Wednesday.
Mordecai put down his tankard on the table with a bang, beckoning the steward to bring more drink. He turned back to Oliver. ‘If you’ve got yourself too involved with the troubles of this family, you’re a damned fool. And you’re an even greater fool to brief me in a case about inheritance law and a peerage claim.’
‘I know which counsel I need to brief,’ Oliver replied. ‘I’ve retained you because I think you’re the best man to do what will have to be done.’
‘What you need is a quiet, reliable, Chancery lawyer guaranteed to be polite to the judge. I’ve never appeared in the Chancery Division in my life. I ought to reject your retainer in order to save your skin.’
‘I can look after my own skin, Mordecai.’
‘Can you? You’re retaining me because we are what passes for friends and we’re both getting old and once upon a time won battles together and you probably think I’m not doing so much work as once I did and that I need the money. Well, I don’t, and if I did, I wouldn’t take your charity.’
‘Now it’s you who are being the fool. There’s no question of charity. I want you because I think you’re the best man for the job.’
‘It will mean arguing law and keeping one’s temper with some boy or girl of a judge who’s hardly out of short pants or petticoats. No, the man you need is Percy Braythwaite. If you’re sensible you’ll brief Percy, not me.’
Oliver leaned forward, a flush now on his pa
le face. ‘You’re wrong, and anyhow Braythwaite’s been retained by the other side. He’s not the man to represent the family. But he’s certainly the best man to represent the claimant. He’ll provide the villains with some cloak of respectability. No, I want you, Mordecai – you, at your best.’
Mordecai looked down at the tankard. For a time he said nothing. ‘Me, at my best,’ he said at last. ‘The old me, what I once was.’
‘Nonsense, what you are today.’ Oliver stretched out his hand and laid it on the other’s arm. ‘You’re the only man at the bar who can do what will be needed – which is to expose a conspiracy by a pack of unscrupulous rogues.’
Mordecai looked up at him, an eyebrow cocked. Oliver went on, ‘A conspiracy by a gang who are using a young girl to get their clutches on a vast estate and a great deal of money. You’re the right man to expose them.’
Mordecai’s dark eyes were searching Oliver’s face. For quite a time he said nothing. Then he said, ‘You’re very deep into this, Oliver. I hope for your sake that is wise.’ He sat back in his chair. ‘I’m hungry. James,’ he shouted. ‘We want to order.’
Mordecai bent forward so that his chin rested on his two hands holding one of his sticks, his eyes on the floor. ‘A battle royal,’ he said with one of his rare smiles. ‘So that’s what you’re after.’ He looked up at Oliver. ‘You will have to provide me with ammunition if we are to destroy what you say is a conspiracy.’
‘I shall.’
‘Then we’d better celebrate now, before it begins – in case we’re weeping when it’s over.’
He banged the floor loudly with the ferrule of his stick.
12
Stevens talked to Paul Valerian a second time. All that Valerian would agree was that when Fleur got possession of the estate, generous fees, greater than the lawyer could reasonably expect, would be paid. Not a penny more. When he was informed, Willoughby was angry. Stevens was being too amenable. He would send Jameson. He was determined to get rid of Paul Valerian and when they had, he’d take Fleur Caverel under his wing – and keep her there.
Richard Jameson and Paul Valerian met in a bar near Paddington station. Valerian was slouched over a glass of brandy; Jameson sitting very stiff before an untouched glass of soda water.
‘Ten thousand pounds, immediately,’ Jameson said. ‘It will be paid whenever you wish and it will be yours whatever the result. You take it – and go.’
Valerian put down his glass, leaned across the table and poked a stubby finger in Jameson’s chest. Jameson drew back, icy.
‘Fleur has been my friend for a long, long time. We began this together and we’ll finish it together. We are partners. You cannot separate us.’
‘It is ten thousand pounds certain, even if at the trial her claim is dismissed and she gets nothing.’
‘My answer remains no.’
‘Be reasonable, Mr Valerian. My principal believes that she has less chance of success if you remain.’
Valerian shook his head. ‘I know what he’s after. He’s after her. He wants to get his hands on her, and then he’ll cheat her out of everything. I’ll not allow it. My answer is no, no, no.’
Jameson got slowly to his feet. ‘My principal won’t like your attitude. And my principal is very important – and very powerful.’
Valerian looked up at him ‘Is that a threat?’
‘No, it is advice.’
‘I don’t need advice from you. I know what that man is after. Go back and tell him no. And leave me alone.’
Jameson reported to Willoughby. ‘Give him a few days,’ Willoughby said. ‘Then one more attempt, one last offer.’
‘And if he still refuses?’
Willoughby looked at Jameson long and hard and shrugged.
13
Greg was having a swim in his lunch break when he had a message to call the office. It was urgent. Cursing, he clambered out of the pool and with a towel round him went to the telephone. Margaret told him he had to be back by two to take an urgent call.
‘From home?’ Greg asked.
‘How should I know?’ Margaret snapped. ‘All I know is you’re to be here. Jason will be at a meeting.’
But the call wasn’t from Sydney. It was from Lincoln’s Inn Fields.
‘Mr Oliver Goodbody for you.’ For a moment Greg was puzzled. Then he remembered the tall, elderly man who had chatted to him in the hall at Ravenscourt.
‘We met at the cricket when you were looking at the Caverel portraits,’ the silken voice began.
‘I remember,’ Greg replied. ‘The Poms in wigs on the staircase.’
Oliver laughed. ‘Exactly. You may remember you asked me about Julian Caverel, and Jason West tells me your interest in him was aroused by a visit from a young woman.’
Not a day had passed since that visit when Greg’s thoughts about her had not been aroused. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said guardedly.
‘I think I told you then that I act for the Caverel family.’
‘You did.’
‘Well, we have had a letter from a firm of lawyers making a quite extraordinary claim on behalf of a young woman. I believe she might be the same young woman who visited you.’
‘Oh, yes.’ So she had found lawyers.
‘I wondered’, the smooth tones continued, ‘if you and I could have a talk about what was said when she saw you.’ There was a long pause.
‘Hullo, are you still there?’ Goodbody asked.
‘Yep,’ Greg replied at last. ‘I am.’
‘We could meet wherever’s convenient for you, either here at my office or –’
‘What do you want to talk about?’
‘What she said to you. You may be the first person she spoke to about Julian Caverel after she arrived in London, and as we now have this claim by her lawyers –’
‘Who did you say her lawyers were?’ Greg asked. If he had their name, he’d be able to trace her.
‘Michael Stevens and Co. of Clarges Street. In view of their letter, it is important to learn exactly what she was saying when she first arrived in this country. I would very much like to talk and hear your report of –’
‘No way,’ said Greg. ‘No way.’
This time it was Oliver Goodbody who paused. ‘Do I understand that you are declining to talk to me about what was said when she spoke to you about Julian Caverel?’
‘You understand right,’ Greg said. ‘What was said was private.’
This time the pause was even longer. The voice went on coldly, ‘You appreciate that if this ever comes to litigation, you could be forced to tell a court what was said? You would be brought to court under a subpoena.’
‘Sure, I understand. But I told you that what was said was private. Between her and me. So you just subpoena me. I’ll look forward to it.’
Greg replaced the receiver. He sat back in his chair. So she’d gone ahead. Already she had the stuffed shirts twittering. He’d be damned if he’d lift a finger to help any of them against her. But if she wanted help, that would be different.
He asked in the office about Michael Stevens and Co. and then looked up their number. When he’d got through, he asked for Miss Fleur Caverel’s address. He was refused it. He asked to leave a message for her and gave his name and telephone number. From the tone at the other end of the line, he knew Fleur would never get it. Then he thought of Henry Proctor. Henry was back from Milan.
‘Lunch, tomorrow,’ Greg said.
‘Why?’ said Henry.
‘You’ll see.’
‘There’s no such thing as a free –’
‘I know, and this one isn’t either. Morton’s, one o’clock, Berkeley Square. I’ve got an acting job for you.’
Later that afternoon Jason sent for him. ‘I’ve just spoken to Oliver Goodbody, Gregory. I gather you have refused to meet him and tell him what that young woman said about the Caverels when she came to see you – the young woman who embraced you in the hall.’
‘That’s correct.’
�
��But why won’t you?’
‘Privilege,’ said Greg. ‘She came to consult me.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, you’re not a lawyer.’
‘Perhaps not. Still, it was private. What she said was confidential.’ And that was all he would say.
In the afternoon of the following day, Henry presented himself at the offices of Michael Stevens and Co. He asked if he could see Mr Stevens’ secretary. It was about Miss Caverel, he said, and it was important.
To the secretary Henry was at his most winning. ‘I’d be so grateful for your help. Miss Caverel and I are old friends. We worked together last year, acting, you know, in Paris,’ he added grandly, so grandly that the secretary thought she ought to have recognised him. ‘I’ve been abroad in Italy, doing a part in a film which is being shot there, and I’ve lost contact with Fleur. I was told I might be able to get hold of her through you. Could you ask her to get in touch with me?’
‘I’m not sure…’ the secretary began.
Henry turned on his grandest manner. ‘She and I talked only a week or so ago when she first arrived in London, just before I had to go to Milan. She wanted me to fix something for her. I took down her number but I’ve mislaid it. Now I need to see her. I believe I may be able to help her.’
‘In what way?’
‘Just help her. She’ll understand. Tell her Henry, Henry Proctor, was asking for her. Ask her to call me.’
Henry had done well, for that evening Fleur rang.
‘Darling,’ Henry began, ‘I’m just back from Milan, a far better job than the one in Paris last year. Much more money. Do let’s meet and have a talk. Where are you staying?’
‘At a hotel in Paddington, with a friend. By the way,’ she added quickly, ‘your friend was no bloody use.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ For a moment Henry hesitated. Then he ploughed on. ‘But I gather you’re fixed up all right now. I’d just love to see you again. I’m across the park in Fulham. Come and have a drink tomorrow evening. I have some news for you.’
‘What kind of news?’
The Caverel Claim Page 6
