The man in front of him didn’t bear much resemblance to Felix, although there was the same set to the jaw. But this Slater was fuller, much fuller in his body, and more slack in the face. Where the Canon had a pale complexion, his brother was ruddy with a nose covered in broken veins. Not quite so tall as the churchman either, Tom thought, and without a trace of the bird-like characteristics of the other.
‘It is a long time since I have met a representative of Scott, Lye amp; Mackenzie,’ said Percy. ‘Indeed, when they handled my affairs there was no Mackenzie in the picture. Drink, Mr Ansell?’
Tom had already caught the whiff of alcohol and seen a bottle of sherry together with some drinking glasses and a pile of magazines on a table near the window. ‘Thank you,’ he said, following a dictum of Mackenzie’s that one should always respond positively to the hospitality of a client — or even a non-client, in this case. Leaning his stick against a convenient chair, Percy Slater poured Tom a glass and refilled his own.
Tom glanced around. The room was sparsely furnished apart from a glass-fronted cabinet containing a couple of shotguns and, opposite, a single wall which was covered in sporting prints. The prints looked fresh but everything else, the drapes, the chairs, the occasional tables, had a worn and battered appearance. Percy held out the glass of sherry and Tom went across to take it. He noticed that the magazines piled on the table by the window were a mixture of Bell’s Life and Sporting Life. Percy saw where he was looking.
‘You a betting man, Mr Ansell?’
‘Not really, no.’
‘Wise probably. I was sitting in that window-seat just now and watching the progress of two drops of rain down one of the panes. A fitful, zigzag progress but always down, down, down. They will reach the bottom eventually like all of us. I thinks to myself, if there was someone here with me, I’d lay a bet on which drop would reach the bottom of the pane first. I suppose you wouldn’t care to take that bet, Mr Ansell?’
There was an almost wistful quality to the question as if he already knew what the answer would be. Tom shook his head. There were some invitations from a client, or a non-client, which you were not compelled to accept. Percy Slater settled himself into a battered armchair near a coal fire which was giving off more smoke than warmth. He indicated that Tom should sit in an equally battered armchair on the other side of the fireplace. Slater kept his walking stick cradled between his legs.
‘Yes, wise probably,’ he repeated, ‘wise not to be a betting man. Wise to husband your resources. Between ourselves, that was the reason that I. . dispensed with the services of your firm. It was Alexander Lye who was responsible for my decision — is Lye still alive, by the way?’
‘Though Mr Lye is getting on now, he still comes into the office,’ said Tom, not elaborating on how Mr Lye turned up only to sign the papers pushed in front of him.
‘Lye — always thought that was an excellent name for a man of law. Anyway, Alexander Lye made some comment to me about my betting habits. I couldn’t be doing with it. I already had enough of that sort of thing from my father. Lye’s words were to do with a loss which I incurred at Dwyer’s. You wouldn’t remember Dwyer’s, Mr Ansell. Sold cigars and cheroots in St Martin’s Lane but their real business was taking bets. Well, they took too much on the favourite for the Chester Cup, back in ’51. A favourite isn’t the favourite for nothing. The results used to come in from Chester quite late in the day so they had the leisure of a whole night to strip the place of all the movables and by the morning there was nothing left but the shell of a shop. The shell of a shop, I say.’
Percy Slater seemed half amused, half angry at the memory as he shifted in his chair. His walking stick waggled in sympathy.
‘Took twenty-five thousand with them. Not all mine, of course. Fact, I got off quite lightly. But it was enough to cause Mr Alexander Lye to make a few unwelcome remarks about my betting habits — as if it was my fault that Dwyer’s was a bunch of rogues! I did not choose to be lectured at and took my business elsewhere.’
‘I’m sorry to hear it, Mr Slater,’ said Tom.
‘No, you’re not,’ said Percy sharply. ‘I wasn’t what you would call one of their respectable clients. No doubt they were glad to see the back of me, as you would be if this were happening today.’
His eyes narrowed as he said this and he fixed Tom with an expression that challenged the younger man to deny what he’d just said. The time for niceties seemed to be over.
‘Why did you ask to see me, Mr Slater?’
‘I understand that my brother Felix, the good and respectable Canon, is employing your services at the moment. What for?’
‘Mr Slater, even if you were still a client of ours, I could hardly pass on that information without your brother’s consent. And as you say, you ceased to be represented by my firm many years ago.’
‘This is a family matter, Mr Ansell. It is not up to Felix to do exactly as he pleases.’
Percy Slater was getting agitated. He spilled some of the drink from his glass. Tom wondered about the time of the return train from Downton.
‘Not so long ago I sent some stuff to my brother,’ said Percy, ‘old papers and the like, relating to our father George and to the history of this place. I thought he would interested in them, being a historical sort of person. He has had them long enough. I would like those items back.’
‘I am sorry, Mr Slater, I should not even be discussing this. But — supposing such articles to exist — then I am informed that they were freely given to the Canon. And, furthermore, that there is a letter written by you to that effect.’
‘Dammit, sir!’ Percy became more agitated. There was no more drink to spill from his glass but his stick clattered to the floor. ‘All this legal supposing and ‘furthermores’. I can’t stand it. Furthermore, Mr Ansell, I have no recollection of writing the letter you’re talking about. Have you, by chance, seen any of these items?’
‘I may have done.’
‘But none of them are currently in your possession?’
‘No. They are in the hands of Canon Slater.’
Tom felt uncomfortable. It wasn’t merely the other man’s display of anger, and the odd question as to whether he actually had any of them in his possession. There was also the fact that he himself had not seen the letter which Felix Slater had referred to, the one from Percy surrendering the papers to him. He had taken the Canon’s explanation on trust. But he should have asked to see the letter, all the same. Tom made an attempt to be conciliatory.
‘I am sure the material is in good hands, sir.’
‘Oh, you are, are you, sir? Good hands?’
Tom tried again. He said, ‘It is not as if these things have passed out of the family. There is Walter to consider as well.’
‘Walter?’
‘Your son, Mr Slater. The son who lodges with your brother.’
‘Yes, there is always my son, isn’t there?’ said Percy. He spoke wearily. Plainly there wasn’t much of a bond between them. Perhaps Percy considered his son to have abandoned or betrayed him by going into the Church. This seemed to be borne out by what Percy said next, ‘He has turned Walter’s head, has Felix.’
Tom made to get to his feet. He didn’t see much point in prolonging the encounter. Mr Percy Slater didn’t have to be humoured. He wasn’t a client. Tom went to stand by the window, down which the raindrops were still trickling. The view beyond was one of neglect: a weed-strewn terrace, flower beds where either nothing grew or there was a profusion of unkempt plants. The parkland beyond was dotted with clumps of trees. He heard a sound behind him and turned. Percy was waving him back to his chair.