“I say,” said Cantrip, “do they really have witches?”
“Oh, certainly. I speak, I may say, with some authority on the subject, having once been fogbound for four hours at Jersey airport with nothing to read but a book about witchcraft in the Channel Islands. In ancient times, we are reliably informed, Jersey was the centre of certain mysteries in honour of Demeter and Persephone similar to those practised on the island of Samothrace in the Aegean. We may assume, of course, that they were also in honour of Hecate, Queen of the Witches, who is invariably associated with those two goddesses as the third member of the celebrated triad of maiden, mature woman, and crone. The priestesses of the cult were believed to have power by their singing to control the winds and sea, so that it was prudent for seafarers to the harbour of Le Rocq to pay them their required tribute, and similar powers were imputed in later folklore to the Jersey witches.”
“I’m going by plane,” said Cantrip.
“There are one or two stories, however, which suggest that the witches do not always confine their attentions to those travelling by sea. You would do well, perhaps, to avoid wandering after dark anywhere near Roqueberg Point in the parish of St. Clement, at the southeastern tip of the island. That, according to tradition, is where they gather to sing and dance in the moonlight and lure young men to their doom.”
“What kind of doom?” said Cantrip.
“The authorities are not entirely clear about that, but you would be unwise to assume that it was very agreeable. You should also remember that the witches have the ability, like the goddess Demeter herself, to transform themselves at will into beautiful young girls or hideous old hags. I would not wish, my dear Cantrip, in any way to inhibit your enjoyment of your time in Jersey, but I think I must advise you, just to be on the safe side, to steer clear of young girls, mature women, and crones.”
CHAPTER 2
Ragwort feared the worst.
On the evening of Cantrip’s departure I once more found myself sitting with Julia in the Corkscrew, at the same candlelit table and in the same convivial shadows. The absence from our table of Cantrip was made good by the presence there of Selena and Ragwort. Selena, who had spent the previous few days sailing in the Solent, was in blithe and springlike spirits — the sparkle of seafaring was still in her eyes, and the sunlight still gleamed in her hair. Ragwort, on the other hand, had composed his features in an expression of such marmoreal gravity as one might see in the monument to some young man of saintly character martyred in the reign of Domitian.
Despite every effort to attribute the desire of Miss Derwent for Cantrip’s presence in Jersey to some proper and decorous motive, Ragwort had been unable to think of any. He was compelled, with the utmost reluctance and distaste, to conclude that her motives were improper. He did not think it right to specify further.
“I thought,” said Selena, “that Clementine Derwent was engaged. To another solicitor.”
“So I believe,” said Ragwort, “and would naturally wish to draw the inference you suggest. I understand, however, that her fiancé is at present on six months’ secondment in Hong Kong, and she does not strike one as a young woman of ascetic temperament.”
“No,” said Julia, “she doesn’t, does she? The impression she gives is of robust health and vigorous appetite, like an advertisement for cornflakes. One doesn’t feel that she would take kindly to six months’ deprivation of the pleasures of the flesh.”
“You confirm my fears,” said Ragwort.
“A girl in Clementine’s position,” continued Julia, “would no doubt reflect that there are two kinds of young men. On the one hand, there are those, such as yourself, my dear Ragwort, to whom the least one could offer would be the devotion of a lifetime and a profoundly spiritual regard almost untainted by the gross-ness of carnality. From the pursuit of young men of that kind Clementine is plainly debarred by her existing obligations. On the other hand, there are young men who might be persuaded to settle for something less. Young men — how shall I put it? — young men of obliging disposition. It is pretty generally known, I believe, that Cantrip is one of the latter sort.”
“It is distasteful to think,” said Ragwort, “that a fellow member of Chambers is regarded as available on demand to gratify the baser appetites of any woman who happens to be temporarily short of a husband or fiancé. Knowing, however, that that is the case, I fear there is little doubt that Miss Derwent has resolved to take advantage of the position.”
Selena was unpersuaded. Though aware that a number of intelligent and otherwise discerning women had from time to time considered Cantrip attractive — at this point she looked rather severely at Julia — she saw no reason to suppose him an object of universal desire or, in particular, of Clementine Derwent’s desire.
Ragwort, happy as he would have been to do so, was unable to share this sanguine opinion. Selena, he supposed, must have forgotten the sordid episode which had occurred some eighteen months before, when Cantrip had escorted Miss Derwent home from a party given by a mutual friend.
Having heard nothing of the incident, I sought particulars.
“Alarmed,” said Selena, “by the increase in crimes of violence in central London, Clementine had very sensibly undertaken a course of lessons in the art of self-defence and was anxious to put her training to some form of practical test. She accordingly made a bet with Cantrip that she could successfully defend her virtue against the most vigorous and determined attack on it.”
“That,” said Ragwort, “was the ostensible contract. In substance, I fear, it was neither more nor less than a sordid and degrading bargain for the provision of services of a most personal nature for the sum of five pounds — a sum, I should have thought, which even Cantrip would consider humiliatingly modest.”
“But if that was indeed the contract,” said Julia, “then Clementine must have underestimated the effectiveness of her newly acquired skills. She laid poor Cantrip out cold, and when he came to he had lost all enthusiasm for the intended ravishment. It is fair to say, however, that Clementine behaved much better than solicitors usually do in their financial dealings with the Bar — she applied her winnings in taking him out to lunch.”
“And if,” said Selena, “she does have designs on Cantrip’s virtue, and he finds them unwelcome, he can always say no.” An upward movement of Julia’s eyebrows, a downward movement of Ragwort’s lips, signified disbelief in Cantrip’s ability to pronounce the word. “Oh well, perhaps not. But even if he can’t, it still seems to me to be of no undue concern.”
“No undue — My dear Selena,” said Ragwort, “reflect on what you are saying. Of no undue concern? Any attempt by a member of the Bar to ingratiate himself with a solicitor, whether by gifts or by offers of hospitality or by favours of any other kind, is grave professional misconduct. And even if the matter can be kept from the Conduct Committee of the Bar Council, it can hardly be hoped, though of course none of us here would dream of mentioning it to anyone except in the strictest confidence, that it can be kept entirely secret — people in Lincoln’s Inn are such dreadful gossips. If poor Cantrip should happen in future years to achieve any measure of professional success, malicious tongues will all too readily attribute it to his willingness to oblige his instructing solicitors in a manner unbecoming to Counsel.”
Selena remained unmoved. If we were to worry about anything, she said, it should be the possibility, unlikely as it was, that Clementine required Cantrip’s presence in Jersey in the misguided confidence that he was versed in fiscal matters. What was he to do if someone asked him to advise on Section 478 of the Taxes Act or construe a double tax treaty?