“I’m Mrs. Fletcher,” Miriam repeated patiently. “I’m supposed to be seeing Mr. Bates. Is that right?”
“Ah, yes.” Bates nodded congenially at her. “If you’d like to come this way, please?”
The differences from her own world became vanishingly small inside his office, perhaps because so many lawyers back home aimed for a traditional feel to their furnishings. Miriam glanced round. “Burgeson isn’t here yet,” she observed disapprovingly.
“He’s been detained,” said Bates. “If you’d care to take a seat?”
“Yes.” Miriam sat down. “How much has Erasmus told you?”
Bates picked up a pair of half-moon spectacles and balanced them on the bridge of his nose. His whiskers twitched, walruslike. “He has told me enough, I think,” he intoned in a plummy voice. “A woman fallen upon hard times, husband dead after years abroad, papers lost in an unfortunate pursuit—I believe he referred to the foundering of the Greenbaum Lamplight, a most unpleasant experience for you, I am sure—and therefore in need of the emolient reaffirmation of her identity, is that right? He vouched for you most plaintively. And he also mentioned something about a fortune overseas, held in trust, to which you have limited access.”
“Yes, that’s all correct,” Miriam said fervently. “I am indeed in need of new papers—and a few other services best rendered by a man of the law.”
“Well. I can see at a glance that you are no Frenchie,” he said, nodding at her. “And so I can see nothing wrong with your party, ft will take but an hour to draw up the correct deeds and post them with the inns of court, to declare your identity fair and square. Erasmus said you were born at Shreveport on, ah, if I may be so indelicate, the seventh of September, in the year of our lord nineteen hundred and sixty nine. Is that correct?”
Miriam nodded. Near enough, she thought. “Uh, yes.”
“Very well. If you would examine and sign this—” he passed a large and imposing sheet of parchment to her—“and this—” he passed her another, “we will set the wheels of justice in motion.”
Miriam examined the documents rapidly. One of them was a declaration of some sort; asserting her name, age, place of birth, and identity and petitioning for a replacement birth certificate for the one lost at sea on behalf of the vacant authorities of—“Why are the authorities of Shreveport not directly involved?” she asked.
Bates looked at her oddly. “After what happened during the war there isn’t enough left of Shreveport to have any authorities,” he muttered darkly.
“Oh.” She read on. The next paper petitioned for a passport in her name, with a peculiar status—competent adult. “I see I am considered a competent adult here. Can you just explain precisely what that entails?”
“Certainly.” Bates leaned back in his chair. “You are an adult, aged over thirty, and a widow; there is no man under whose mantle your rights and autonomy are exercised, and you are deemed old enough in law to be self-sufficient. So you may enter into contracts at your own peril, as an adult, until such time as you choose to remarry, and any such contracts as you make will then be binding upon your future husband.”
“Oh,” she said faintly, and signed in the space provided. Better not marry anyone, then. She put the papers back on his desk then cleared her throat. “There are some other matters I will want you to see to,” she added.
“And what might those be?” He smiled politely. After all, the clock was ticking at her expense.
“Firstly.” She held up a finger. “There is a house that takes my fancy; it is located at number 46, Bridge Park Lane, and it appears to be empty. Am I right in thinking you can make inquiries on my behalf about its availability? If it’s open for lease or purchase I’d be extremely interested in acquiring it, and I’ll want to move in as soon as possible.”
Bates sat up straight and nodded, almost enthusiastically. “Of course, of course,” he said, scribbling in a crabbed hand on a yellow pad. “And is there anything else?” he asked.
“Secondly.” She held up a second finger. “Over the next month I will be wanting to create or purchase a limited liability company. It will need setting up. In addition, I will have a number of applications for patents that must be processed through the royal patent office—I need to locate and retain a patent agent on behalf of my company.”
“A company, and a patents agent.” He raised an eyebrow but kept writing. “Is there anything else?” he asked politely.
“Indeed. Thirdly, I have a quantity, held overseas, I should add, of bullion. Can you advise me on the issues surrounding its legal sale here?”
“Oh, that’s easy.” He put his pen down. “I can’t, because it’s illegal for anyone but the crown to own bullion.” He pointed at the signet ring he wore on his left hand. “No rule against jewelry, of course, so long as it weighs less than a pound. But bullion?” He sniffed. “You can perhaps approach the mint about an import license, and sell it to the crown yourself—they’ll give you a terrible rate, not worth your while, only ten pounds for an ounce. But that’s the war, for you. The mint is chronically short. If I were you I’d sell it overseas and repatriate the proceeds as bearer bonds.”
“Thank you.” Miriam beamed at him ingratiatingly to cover up the sound of her teeth grinding together. Ten pounds for an ounce? Erasmus, you and I are going to have strong words, she thought. Scratch finding an alternative, though. “How long will this take?” she asked.
“To file the papers? I’ll have the boy run over with them right now. Your passport and birth certificate will be ready tomorrow if you send for them from my office. The company—” he rubbed his chin. “We would have to pay a parliamentarian to get the act of formation passed as a private member’s bill in this sitting, and I believe the going rate has been driven up by the demands of the military upon the legislature in the current session. It would be cheaper to buy an existing company with no debts. I can ask around, but I believe it will be difficult to find one for less than seventy pounds.”
“Ouch.” Miriam pulled a face. “There’s no automatic process to go through to set one up?”
“Sadly, no.” Bates shook his head. “Every company requires an act of parliament; rubber-stamping them is bread and butter for most MPs, for they can easily charge fifty pounds or more to put forward an early day motion for a five-minute bill in the Commons. Every so often someone proposes a registry of companies and a regulator to create them, but the backbenches won’t ever approve that—it would take a large bite out of their living.”
“Humph.” Miriam nodded. “Alright, we’ll do it your way. The patent agent?”
Bates nodded. “Our junior clerk, Hinchliffe, is just the fellow for such a job. He has dealt with patents before, and will doubtless do so again. When will you need him?”
Miriam met Bates’s eye. “Not until I have a company to employ him, a company that I will capitalize by entirely legal means that need not concern you.” The lawyer nodded again, eyes knowing. “Then—let’s just say, I have encountered some ingenious innovations overseas that I believe may best be exploited by patenting them, and farming out me rights to the patents to local factory owners. Do you follow?”
“Yes, I think I do.” Bates nodded to himself, and smiled like a crocodile. “I look forward to your future custom, Mrs. Fletcher. It has been a pleasure to do business with such a perceptive member of the frail sex. Even if I don’t believe a word of it.”
Miriam spent the rest of the morning shopping for clothes. It was a disorienting experience. There were no department or chain stores: Each type of garment needed purchasing from a separate supplier, and the vast majority needed alterations to fit. Nor was she filled with enthusiasm by what she found. “Why are fashion items invariably designed to make people look ugly or feel uncomfortable?” she muttered into her microphone, after experiencing a milliner’s and a corsetiere’s in rapid succession. “I’m going to stick to sports bras and briefs, even if I have to carry everything across myself,” she grumbled. Nevertheless, she managed to find a couple of presentable walking suits and an evening outfit.