Read The Shortest Way to Hades Online
Authors: Sarah Caudwell
The Shortest Way to Hades (21 page)
During the week that I had been his guest, I had hardly seen Timothy for five minutes together—the members of Lincoln’s Inn, in the weeks which lead up to the Long Vacation, become tediously over-occupied with the concerns of their profession. On the Friday, however, in recompense for his unsociable conduct, he had undertaken to buy me lunch at one of the better restaurants in Chancery Lane.
My confidence in the arrangement was not unqualified: I knew all too well how characteristic it would be of Henry to conjure up in the course of the morning some obstacle to Timothy’s lunching at leisure or at all. I judged it prudent, therefore, before proceeding to the restaurant, to seek confirmation at 62 New Square that our plans were unchanged.
Entering the Clerks’ Room with a certain diffidence—Henry does not quite approve of me—I perceived that the only occupants were the temporary typist and the solicitor Tancred: he was seeking to persuade her of the urgency of an Opinion, to be written by Timothy in the course of the weekend, which would be entrusted to her for typing on Monday morning.
“So you see, Muriel, my dear,” said the solicitor, reinforcing the persuasiveness of his tone with an avuncular pat on her shoulder, “if you would be so kind as to give it your immediate attention, I should really be most grateful.”
“I’ll do my best, Mr. Tancred,” said the temporary typist, unimpressed by the mellow tone and avuncular manner, “but I’ve only one pair of hands, and you’re not the only one that wants things urgently, you know.”
I gave a discreet cough to draw attention to my presence. The solicitor turned towards me and nodded coldly: he had again forgotten, I gathered, how he had made my acquaintance, but remembered that he did not much want to renew it.
“If you’re looking for Mr. Shepherd,” said the temporary typist with dark satisfaction, “you’ve missed him. He’s gone to lunch and I don’t know when he’ll be back.”
In the restaurant in Chancery Lane, Timothy was seeking the views of Ragwort and Cantrip on one of those fine questions of professional propriety which are so dear to the Chancery Bar.
“Suppose,” said Timothy, “that your instructing solicitor is one of the trustees of a settlement. He is being urged by his co-trustee to concur in the investment of trust funds in a manner not authorized by the provisions of the settlement or by the Trustee Investments Act. The consent has been obtained both of the income beneficiary and of the person presumptively entitled to capital, but your client wishes to know what steps, if any, he should take to ensure that it is an informed and genuine consent: that is to say, that the beneficiaries understand the nature of the transaction and are aware that they are not obliged to agree to it.”
“I suppose,” said Ragwort, “that the life tenant is a person of advanced years, whose intellectual powers have for some time been failing and who is now—” He paused and sighed.
“Completely round the twist,” and Cantrip, perceiving his friend at a loss for the
mot juste.
“Too nutty to tell the difference between a letter of consent and an old bus ticket.”
“As it happens,” said Timothy, “the difficulty is not with the life tenant. Although she is in her eighties and not, alas, in the best of health, her mental faculties are unimpaired. No, the difficulty is with her great-granddaughter, who is entitled to capital contingently on surviving her. She is a sensible, well-educated girl, and could normally be counted on to take care of herself. It so happens, however, that she is the daughter of the importunate co-trustee: your client fears that filial respect and affection may prevent her from exercising an independent judgment. She is at present abroad, and he is unable to discuss the matter with her in person. Still, he has been presented with a letter of authority bearing her signature, and he would find it embarrassing to refuse to act on it unless firmly so advised by Counsel.”
“I can see,” said Ragwort, “that it is a somewhat delicate matter. I don’t see, though, that it presents Counsel with any problem of professional propriety.”
“Not even,” said Timothy, looking at the ceiling, “if Counsel has reason to believe, on the basis of information from an entirely different source, that the beneficiary has in fact declined to sign the letter and that there is therefore a strong possibility that the signature is forged?”
“My dear Timothy,” I said, “do you mean to tell us that Rupert Galloway—?”
“I don’t mean to tell you anything,” said Timothy, directing his gaze towards some point in the middle distance beyond my left shoulder. “That is to say, I don’t mean to tell you anything which would involve a breach of professional confidence. The problem, as I have said, is a hypothetical one.”
Before I could comment further, the sound of coatstands being knocked over and handbags being dropped on the floor proclaimed the arrival of Julia. She was clutching, but too agitated by its contents to read aloud, another letter from Selena. While she restored herself with gin and tonic, we passed it round the table.
SV
Kymothoe
at anchor off Paxos.
Friday morning.
Dear Julia,
As you will see, I have cut and run for it. The Remington-Fiske family may be free of any homicidal tendencies; but they are remarkably accident-prone, and it seems to be catching.
On Wednesday evening, when Sebastian seemed fully recovered from his misadventure with the motor-scooter, I ventured to suggest that we might be outstaying our welcome: we had, after all, only been invited to dinner. It appeared that the same thought had already occurred to him, and he had said something to Dolly about not wishing to impose on her hospitality; this had brought down on him many reproaches for even thinking of such a thing, and assurances that neither she nor her husband would willingly see us leave any sooner than we had to.
“But I do see,” said Sebastian, “that you may not be getting as much sailing as you’d like. You will say, won’t you, when you want us to be on our way?”
He looked so downcast, however, at the idea of leaving that I could not have accepted the offer without feeling selfish and mean-spirited, and seeing myself in a bad light: this, as I have said, is something I wish to avoid. I proposed by way of compromise that on the following day we might sail down to Gouvia, and from there visit Corfu town to see the Museum and the Castle; if there was not enough time to sail back to Casiope, we could leave the boat at Gouvia and return by bus or taxi to the Villa Miranda.
When during dinner we told the others of these plans, I felt obliged to say that if any of them would like to join us they would of course be very welcome. Dolly’s children all declined; but Camilla said that she would be delighted to come with us. I tried fairly hard to persuade myself that I would enjoy having on board a girl of forceful personality who knew more than I did about sailing in these waters and would probably expect to take the helm all the way to Gouvia.
As it turned out, the effort was unnecessary. After breakfast, when Dolly was preparing to drive us down into Casiope, Camilla said that she was feeling “a bit fragile” and thought she had better stay at home.
I had a feeling, as we went aboard the
Kymothoe,
that something was not quite as it should be; but decided, seeing nothing to account for it, that this must be another example of my interesting neurosis. Still, I opened the after-hatch with caution and peered suspiciously down into the cabin as if expecting it to be full of armed desperadoes. Having satisfied myself that it wasn’t—the cabin is only eight feet by six and they would have been conspicuous—I went below, leaving the crew on deck to make ready to weigh anchor. I looked round carefully to make sure that everything was in order, and could see nothing out of place apart from a dead wasp on the floor beside the stove: this I swept up and disposed of.
I found, as I began to go back up the companionway, that I was rather worried about the wasp. I thought it had chosen an eccentric place to expire: wasps, it seemed to me, do not make a habit of dropping dead on the floor; they usually try to escape from a confined space through a window or porthole; when exhausted, they breathe their last somewhere near the window-frame. I decided, feeling rather foolish, to take a closer look at the stove.
The fuel supply to the stove is from a cylinder of bottled gas, connected by a pressure valve to the pipes which lead to the burners. I noticed that although the taps had been turned off the valve was still in the “on” position. Well—a safety expert might have raised an eyebrow, but many people leave the pressure valve on the whole time: it ought not to matter provided the pipes are sound. I tested them with soapy water and saw no ominous bubbles. Thinking, however, that if I was going to do a safety check I might as well be thorough, I lifted up the burners and examined the pipes underneath the grill: there was no need to make any more soapy water tests—at the junction between the pipe and the pressure valve there was a clearly visible crack, nearly an eighth of an inch wide.
The gas cylinder had been full when we went aboard at Preveza and we had made comparatively little use of the stove. Since bottled gas is heavier than air and therefore sinks, I concluded that most of its contents would by now have settled down peacefully in the bilges.
At this point the crew called down the after-hatch saying that all was now ready above decks and offering to make coffee while I started the engine.
“No,” I said. “Don’t let’s do either of those things for a little while. Let’s pump the bilges instead.”
It is wrong for a ship’s captain to spread unnecessary alarm among the crew. I therefore thought it better not to mention that the
Kymothoe
was at present not so much a sailing-boat as a floating bomb and liable, if the engine were started or a match struck, to disperse herself rather messily all over the harbor.
“Sebastian,” I said, when we had been pumping for ten minutes or so, “it is one of the duties of a ship’s captain to prevent the crew from falling into the clutches of sirens.”
“Sirens,” said the crew, “are predatory birds with the voices of women, who lure men on to the rocks and devour them alive.”
“That seems to me,” I said, “a very fair description of Camilla and Lucinda. I have been observing them closely, and they both look at you as if you were something savory on the breakfast menu.”
“Skipper,” he said, with an astonishment understandable in a man who for three days has paid no attention to anyone but a middle-aged Greek poet, “you don’t seriously think—?”
“No,” I said, in a tone not designed to carry much conviction, “no, not exactly, but if you continue to find Corfu a more attractive anchorage than Ithaca—”
A touch of plain, straightforward jealousy seemed to me to provide a flattering and persuasive pretext for wishing to resume our voyage immediately, without returning to the Villa Miranda. I was unlikely, I thought, to be suspected of duplicity in admitting to feelings so unbecoming to a reasonable, civilized woman; and despite the convention that jealousy is to be resented, I have met few people who are not just a little pleased to be its object and do not at all enjoy the sense of magnanimity which comes from indulging it. The crew did not prove to be one of them—though it is fair to say that he behaved very well, and was not nearly as insufferable as many men would have been about being magnanimous and indulgent.
Before setting sail I went ashore again and found Dolly still bargaining for eggs and aubergines in one of the village shops. I accounted for our change of plan on sentimental grounds, explaining apologetically that Sebastian and I had few opportunities to be alone together and that I had been overtaken by a fit of possessiveness. She thought she understood perfectly, and assured me that neither she nor her husband would take offense at our abrupt departure. This was on condition that I brought Sebastian back to Corfu in time for the cricket match between the Writers and Artists: foreseeing that nothing I could say would keep him away from it, I promised that I would.
I allowed her to think that we still meant to sail first to Gouvia, on the east side of the island, and take a look at Corfu town; but once out of harbor I headed westwards. It was absurd, of course, but I somehow found it more comfortable to think that no one at the Villa Miranda, not even Dolly, would know our exact whereabouts. I continued on a westerly course until we reached Cape Cefali and then made all speed south, using the engine when the wind slackened and not stopping for anything until we reached Paxos.
I am slightly anxious about Camilla, but can’t see what to do about it. One can hardly suggest to her, can one, that until her inheritance vests in possession she would be wise to avoid the company of her relatives? It’s a monstrous suggestion, and there’s no real evidence for it. Indeed, seeing things from an objective distance, you may already have decided that I am making much out of nothing, with the subconscious motive, perhaps, of finding a respectable reason to leave the Villa Miranda. Very well, Julia—if you choose to have such a low opinion of my subconscious, I won’t argue with you. It’s true that the pipe could have broken by accident, though I checked it at Preveza and it looked sound enough. On the other hand…
On the other hand, Julia, when one has been sailing for a number of years, there are various safety precautions which one takes more or less instinctively and without needing to think about them any more than cleaning one’s teeth in the morning; and whatever you may say about my subconscious, one thing I don’t think I would forget is to turn off the pressure valve of the gas cylinder before going ashore.
I will send you postcards from Ithaca, but expect to be back in London before them.
With very much love,
Selena.
Soothed by gin, and the thought that Selena was now at a safe distance from any persons of homicidal tendency residing at the Villa Miranda, Julia was restored to her usual cheerful spirits and displayed a healthy appetite for lunch. I refrained from any comment which might reverse these happy consequences; but I could no longer deflect my thoughts from a chain of disquieting speculations which my conscious mind at least had hitherto managed to exclude.