A tall woman appeared in the lobby behind the maid.
‘Ah, Mr Ansell, isn’t it? Mary Mackenzie. You’ve come to see my husband.’
Tom was gratified that Mrs Mackenzie remembered him after what had been only a single supper visit.
‘That’ll do, Bea. Take Mr Ansell’s coat and hat and I will show our guest in.’
‘Very well, ma’am,’ said the servant without much grace. She took the overcoat and hat, then moved off down the hall.
Mary Mackenzie extended her hand. She had a strong, bony grasp, which suited her height and slightly masculine features.
‘Mr Mackenzie’ll be glad to see you. He doesn’t take well to being shut up all the time.’
‘I am sorry that he’s laid up,’ said Tom.
‘Not as sorry as I am. I’m used to having the house to myself during the day.’
She gave a barking laugh so that Tom was unsure whether she was genuinely irritated. She gestured him to follow her. In keeping with the castle-like exterior of the house, the hall beyond the lobby was panelled in dark oak on which were arranged small circular shields and pairs of crossed swords which Tom recalled from his first visit and which, to his eye, had a distinctly Scottish look. They had their own special name. Claymores, was it?
‘I suppose you imagine that these are all heirlooms, Mr Ansell?’ she said, noticing his glance. ‘These swords and shields which are all dinted and tarnished. All this military paraphernalia.’
‘They certainly look, ah, well established,’ he said.
‘Well, I can tell you that Mr Mackenzie bought them all in one fell swoop from a Scottish gentleman who had gone bankrupt. My husband has made only one trip north of the border in his entire life and that was to purchase these items. Mr Mackenzie would like to think that he has military forebears, martial ancestors. But you can take it from me that he does not.’
Tom was faintly surprised at the disrespectful tone in Mrs Mackenzie’s voice but he was accustomed enough to the way that wives talked about their husbands, and vice versa. He wondered if Helen would ever talk like that about him after they’d been married for as many years as the Mackenzies had been. He hoped not. He vowed he would never refer to her disparagingly. First of all, naturally, they had to get married. Or rather, Helen had to agree to marry him. And before that, he had to propose. The dragon-lady’s acquiescence would be desirable though not essential. As for Helen, Tom thought she was on the verge of agreeing. .
‘What? I beg your pardon.’
He realized that Mrs Mackenzie had said something to him. He was so wrapped up in visions of Helen consenting to marry him that he hadn’t been listening.
‘I asked whether your father was a military man. He was, wasn’t he?’
‘Yes, he was,’ said Tom. He wondered how Mrs Mackenzie was aware of this. ‘But I scarcely recall my father. He died when I was small. I can remember a tall man in a blue uniform but not much more.’
‘How romantic,’ said Mrs Mackenzie. ‘Did he die on campaign?’
‘In a manner of speaking. He was on his way to the Dardanelles when he caught a fever on board ship. He was buried at sea.’
‘Perhaps I should not say this but that also sounds romantic. You were not tempted to follow your father and serve your country?’
‘My father’s profession sometimes seems to belong to another age,’ said Tom. ‘The war in the Crimea was a long time ago.’
‘To you perhaps. But you are young, Mr Ansell. So, the age of heroes being past, you decided to take up the dry business of law?’
‘There can be blood and fury and death in the law too, Mrs Mackenzie. All the emotions of a battlefield but drawn out and buttoned up.’
‘No blue uniforms though?’
‘Not those, no.’
Mrs Mackenzie nodded her long face, though Tom could not tell whether it was in agreement or mild mockery. ‘Well, each to his own. You will find my husband in his snuggery if you go up those stairs there at the end. The first door you come to. Knock loudly for he may be napping.’
Thanking Mrs Mackenzie, Tom went down a short passageway which led off the hall and up a flight of spiral stone steps. He was in the turreted area of the house. Gas lights set in elaborate sconces reinforced the impression of being in a corner of a cramped castle. On a landing Tom rapped at an oak door whose stout ribs and redundant ironwork might have been designed to repel a siege by a bunch of medieval marauders. If David Mackenzie had been asleep it must have been a light one for almost straightaway there was an answering ‘Come in.’
At first Tom thought that a portion of the London fog had been piped up from town and into the room since he could hardly see to the far side. As his eyes adjusted and as the pipe smoke began to eddy through the open door, he made out the figure of the only active partner in Scott, Lye amp; Mackenzie sitting in a wing-chair close to an open fire.
‘Be quick, Ansell!’ said Mackenzie. ‘Shut the door. Keep the warmth in. Sit down. Have a drink.’
Tom wondered that his employer could recognise him through the fug. David Mackenzie levered himself slightly upwards on the arms of his chair. His right leg, encased in a plaster cast, was resting on a stool. He was well equipped for a prolonged siege with a pipe in one hand, a glass in the other and a newspaper on his lap, and further supplies of tobacco, brandy and water on a table next to the wing-chair. Tom made some comment about how sorry he was to see him in this state.
‘It’s nothing, dear boy,’ said David Mackenzie, seeming pleased at Tom’s concern. ‘The result of a foolish accident. The ground was slippery, you know.’
The only active partner in Scott, Lye amp; Mackenzie looked like a favourite uncle with his broad face and monk’s tonsure of white hair. But Tom knew that appearances could be deceptive. Mackenzie was sharp enough when it came to law business. He nodded benevolently but his ears missed nothing. He outlined a client’s chances succinctly.
‘Have a drink, I say. Help yourself to a glass from over there and then help yourself from this.’
Mr Mackenzie picked up the decanter and poured himself a generous measure. Tom would have preferred to drink tea or water or nothing at all — the debris of a pie which he’d bought at a coster’s stall on the way up to Highgate sat greasily in his stomach — but it wouldn’t do to refuse his employer. He fetched a glass from the sideboard and lined the bottom with brandy, adding plenty of water. He sat down on the opposite side of the fire to Mackenzie. Feeble daylight penetrated through the leaded window but a stronger illumination came from the gas jets on either side of the fireplace.
‘What d’you make of this?’ said Mackenzie, tapping the newspaper on his lap with the stem of his pipe. ‘Of the Claimant case?’
The criminal trial of the Tichborne Claimant was drawing to a close during these autumn days. At least, it was generally believed that it must be drawing to a close soon since it had begun in the spring and had already broken records for occupying court-time with a single case. But Tom sometimes wondered why it shouldn’t go on for ever. Just as things seemed to be winding down, the Claimant’s counsel introduced some sensational claim or wild accusation against the presiding judge. The case was amusing to those engaged in the law, not least because the judge who was on the receiving end of counsel’s accusations was the Lord Chief Justice, but it had extensive appeal beyond the law and could be relied on to sell the papers.
‘Is he genuine or isn’t he?’ said Mackenzie.
‘Surely there can be no question that he isn’t,’ said Tom.
‘Not a niggling doubt?’ said Tom’s employer, tapping the paper for emphasis. ‘Doubt is our business, you know. Doubt is the lever which can move legal mountains.’
Tom nodded. He sometimes felt that he should produce a notebook and write down David Mackenzie’s little asides, or perhaps it was rather the feeling that Mackenzie would have liked him to do so.