My own attention remained preoccupied by the deplorable possibility which had presented itself and was beginning, the more I reflected on it, to seem increasingly probable.
“Basil,” I said, when at last I had a chance to be heard, “there is a question, if you would be so kind, which I should like to ask you. When you spoke a day or two ago of teasing Sir Arthur Welladay—”
I was interrupted, however, by the reappearance of Lilian, announcing the arrival of Colonel Cantrip. Knowing his concern for the safety of his nephew, she had telephoned him at his club to tell him of the telex message, and the old soldier had lost no time in coming round to New Square to see it for himself.
Expressing in graceful phrases his delight at the Colonel’s visit, Basil gave no sign that he had or could have any claim on his time more pressing than the entertainment of this new and honoured guest. The Colonel was settled in a comfortable armchair and provided with a cup of tea. Julia, after a moment’s hesitation — she no doubt wondered, but sensibly not for long, if his feelings might be wounded by the reference to himself — handed him the telex.
“My dear Hilary,” said Basil, extending his long hands in a gesture which seemed to promise a cornucopia of enlightenment, “there was some matter on which you thought that I might be of assistance?”
“It is concerned,” I said, “with the provisions of a discretionary settlement, of the kind which I understand to have been in vogue in the early part of the 1970s. Julia was telling me a few days ago that at that time the Revenue regarded the persons entitled in default of appointment, even if they never actually received anything from the settled fund, as liable for tax on gains realised by the trustees, A practice developed, I gather — Julia called it ‘teasing the Revenue’—of naming as the default beneficiary some person professionally committed, as it were, to upholding and defending their opinion — the Chancellor of the Exchequer, for example, or the chairman of the Board of Inland Revenue. Have I understood the matter correctly?”
“Perfectly correctly,” said Basil. “I cannot attempt to improve on Julia’s account of it. You must understand, of course, that it was not generally intended that the Revenue should ever become aware of the existence of the settlement, but it was thought that if they did, the inclusion of such a provision would embarrass them sufficiently to afford us all a little innocent amusement. Dear me, I’m afraid you will think us disgracefully frivolous.”
“And may I ask,” I continued, “whether you ever happened—”
Henry entered, his brow dark with displeasure, to apologise with heavy sarcasm for interrupting the tea party and to inform Basil of the arrival of those attending his next consultation: “Mr. Netherspoon, sir, of Netherspoon and Co. With his client, sir — and you know what His Grace is like if he’s kept waiting. I did remind you this morning, sir, I didn’t think you’d have forgotten again already.”
“I hadn’t forgotten, Henry,” said Basil. “I simply didn’t expect them quite so soon, if punctuality is the politeness of princes, then it seems rather presumptuous of a mere duke to be so ostentatiously on time. Dear me, how extremely tiresome. Colonel Cantrip — Hilary — I’m afraid, as you see, that you’ll have to excuse me.”
Selena had already begun to collect teacups, Ragwort to plump up cushions, and Julia to shepherd the Colonel towards the door.
“Basil, forgive me,” I said, “but I must ask you one further question. Did you ever happen, by any chance, to combine your teasing of the Revenue with your teasing of Sir Arthur Welladay by making him the default beneficiary under such a settlement?”
“Why yes,” said Basil, his attention already almost entirely engrossed by the papers for his consultation. “Yes, Hilary, now that you mention it, I believe I sometimes did. I don’t think I ever mentioned him by name — that would somehow have seemed rather crude. It seemed more elegant to bring him in by way of a class gift.”
“To the descendants of a named individual?”
“Exactly.”
“You would have had to know the name, then, of one of his parents or grandparents.”
“Yes, obviously.” He smiled gently at the notion of this presenting any difficulty. “But everyone knows, of course, that Arthur is a grandson of that very eminent judge, the late Sir Walter Palgrave.”
CHAPTER 12
“I cannot imagine,” I said with some asperity, “how any of you can hope to attain eminence in your profession when you are so shamefully ignorant of matters regarded as common knowledge by those whom you seek to emulate. If someone had told me yesterday that Mr. Justice Welladay was a descendant of Sir Walter Pal-grave…” I was obliged to pause, for I could not immediately think what use it would have been to me to have learnt this a day earlier.
“You would have wasted a great deal of time,” said Selena, taking rather unfair advantage of my involuntary aposiopesis, “trying-to arrange to meet him, when as it turns out he was busy chasing countesses across France and locking people up in cellars.”
We had adjourned by common consent to the first floor, where the Colonel, installed as by right of kinship at the desk usually occupied by his nephew, was continuing his perusal of the telex, chortling from time to time at those passages which evidently gave him particular satisfaction. It appeared, however, that he was not wholly inattentive to our discussion, for he now looked up from his reading.
“I say,” he said, “this Welladay you’re talking about — is he the chap that Mike calls Wellieboots?” We confirmed that he was. “I used to know an Arthur Welladay during the war — bit of a pompous young ass — wouldn’t be the same one, would it?”
Ragwort extracted from the bookshelf behind him the latest edition of Who’s Who. The particulars given there of the judge’s military career established beyond question his identity with the Colonel’s wartime acquaintance.
“Well, I’m damned,” said the Colonel. “What’s young Arthur Welladay doing locking Mike up in cellars?”
“That is indeed, sir, a most interesting question,” said Ragwort. “We had at first assumed that Sir Arthur had simply gone — was merely suffering from the heavy strain of his judicial duties. But in view of the information which we have just elicited from Basil, it may perhaps be suggested that his conduct has more rational and at the same time more sinister motives.”
“I say,” said the Colonel, “you don’t mean Arthur’s the one who’s going round bumping off people who get mixed up with this Daffodil business?”
Thus simply and directly stated, the proposition was at once perceived by the young barristers to be patently absurd. Sir Arthur Welladay was one of Her Majesty’s judges and a member of Lincoln’s Inn. Whatever one might say to his discredit — and Julia at least would have been willing to say a good deal — one could not suppose him capable of killing anyone.
The Colonel looked slightly surprised.
“Well,” he said cheerfully, “you can’t say that exactly, can you? I mean, he did the combined ops training at Achnacarry, so he damned well ought to know how to kill people. And you can’t say he’s never actually done it, because of course he has. Funnily enough, I think the first time must have been on Sark — I was there, in a manner of speaking.”
They stared at him, reduced to uncustomary silence.
“Colonel Cantrip,” I said, “I think that you had better tell us the whole story.”