Thus Was Adonis Murdered

To J.G.F.C.G.
for all the letters I’ve failed to write you

Scholarship asks, thank God, no recompense but Truth. It is not for the sake of material reward that she (Scholarship) pursues her (Truth) through the undergrowth of Ignorance, shining on Obscurity the bright torch of Reason and clearing aside the tangled thorns of Error with the keen secateurs of Intellect. Nor is it for the sake of public glory and the applause of the multitude: the scholar is indifferent to vulgar acclaim. Nor is it even in the hope that those few intimate friends who have observed at first hand the labour of the chase will mark with a word or two of discerning congratulation its eventual achievement. Which is very fortunate, because they don’t.

If the events in which Julia Larwood became involved last September had not been subjected to the penetrating scrutiny of the trained scholar—that is to say, my own—well, I do not say it is certain that Julia would even now be languishing in a Venetian prison. The crime being thought to be one of passion, great lenience might have been shown; the Italian Government might have declared an amnesty; the Foreign Office might have done something. Very possibly. I do say, however, that it was only as a result of my own investigation that Julia’s innocence was conclusively established and that she returned to England without a stain on her character.

As an instance of what the methods of Scholarship may achieve, the affair seems not unworthy of some written record. And you may think, dear reader, that those who had been able—modesty forbids me to say, if others do not choose to, privileged—to observe for themselves the process of my reasoning would have competed in eagerness to undertake the task. How little, if you think so, do you know the Chancery Bar. Timothy Shepherd—additionally inspired by the reverence which ought to be felt for his former tutor—that is to say, myself—Timothy, you might imagine, would have been delighted by the opportunity. But no—Timothy has a case on the Companies Act coming up in the House of Lords; he is weeks behind with his paperwork; he cannot do it. Selena Jardine, who is fond of Julia and would have been distressed by her prolonged incarceration—no, Selena is engaged in a planning enquiry on behalf of certain objectors to a road-widening scheme; she is months behind with her paperwork; she cannot possibly do it. Michael Cantrip and Desmond Ragwort, of the same Chambers—Cantrip is instructed on behalf of a lady who claims by custom immemorial to be entitled to hang her washing across her neighbour’s garden; the neighbour has instructed Ragwort to oppose the claim; they confidently expect the matter to occupy their attention for the best part of term, and that of a High Court Judge for at least a fortnight: no, clearly they cannot do it.

I am obliged, therefore, with some reluctance, to do the thing myself. It means my own work must be laid aside: the day must be deferred to a yet more distant future which sees the publication of
Causa in the Early Common Law
by Hilary Tamar and the appearance in learned journals of such phrases as “Professor Tamar’s masterly exposition,” “Professor Tamar’s revolutionary analysis” and so forth. But I am content to make the sacrifice—if I hesitate, it is for fear that some of my readers will suspect that my motive for publication is mere self-advertisement. The danger of incurring so contemptible an opinion has almost deterred me; but I cannot allow mere personal delicacy to deprive the public of a possibly useful and instructive chronicle. I shall set down what happened, as it happened: and if, in the cause of Truth, I am unable to minimize my own achievement, I hope that the wiser spirits—I refer, in particular, dear reader, to yourself—will not think the worse of me for it.

I had decided to spend September in London—my work on the concept of
causa
required me to study various original documents in the Public Record Office. And Oxford in September is not at all amusing.

I had at first been uncertain where I should stay. For the occasional night or two, I am sure of a welcome at Timothy’s flat in Middle Temple Lane. I feared, however, that my presence for a whole month might place an excessive strain on his hospitality. Fortune came to my aid: a former colleague of mine, now the owner of a house and two cats in Islington, had arranged to spend the month in the United States of America and had realized, at a late stage, the difficulty of taking the cats with him to that country—he wrote in piteous terms, begging me to come and care for them. Happy to be of assistance to a fellow scholar, I consented.

On my first day in London I made an early start. Reaching the Public Record Office not much after ten, I soon secured the papers needed for my research and settled in my place. I became, as is the way of the scholar, so deeply absorbed as to lose all consciousness of my surroundings or of the passage of time. When at last I came to myself, it was almost eleven and I was quite exhausted: I knew I could not prudently continue without refreshment.

If, at eleven o’clock on a weekday morning, you leave the Public Record Office, turn right down Chancery Lane and continue past the Silver Vaults to the nearest coffee house, you will generally find gathered there (professional obligations and their Clerk permitting) the junior members of 62 New Square. They are a decorative little group—it would be a difficult taste that was pleased by none of them. Between Ragwort and Cantrip there are certain points of resemblance: they are the same age; of similar height; both thin; both very pale. But it is for those whose pleasure lies in the conquest of virtue that Ragwort’s delicate profile and demure autumnal colouring have a most particular charm. Cantrip, in sharp contrast, has eyes and hair of a witchlike blackness, more pleasing to those whose preference is for a savour of iniquity. Selena—I can think of no especially striking feature by which you might distinguish Selena from any other pretty woman in her middle twenties, average in height and roundness of figure, with hair an inconstant shade of blonde; I mean, until she speaks: for her voice is unmistakable, smooth and persuasive, the envy of rival advocates. But until then—well, if you can imagine a Persian cat which has just completed a successful cross-examination, that will give you some idea of her. Timothy, my former pupil, being by some two or three years the senior in call to the Bar, is detained more often than not by the claims of his profession and was absent on the morning of which I write—there is little point, therefore, in my describing him.

They will be debating one of those diverse questions which interest the minds of the Chancery Bar—when to apply by summons rather than by motion, what to do about Ireland, or whose turn it is to pay for coffee.

“Perfectly scandalous,” Ragwort was saying as I entered the coffee house. The object of his disapproval might have been almost anything—Ragwort has such high principles. It turned out on this occasion to be the price of coffee. But he is a young man of graceful manners—on seeing me he ordered another cup, almost without hesitation.

I had feared, in the middle of the Long Vacation, to find Lincoln’s Inn deserted. I expressed my surprise and pleasure at finding them.

“My dear Hilary,” said Selena, “you surely know by now that in the period ironically called the Long Vacation, Henry allows us to be away from Chambers for no more than a fortnight. Cantrip and I have already taken our fortnights—Ragwort is saving his for the end of the month.”

Henry is the Clerk at 62 New Square. From references which will from time to time be made to him some of my readers, unfamiliar with the system, may infer that Selena and the rest are employed by Henry under a contract more or less equivalent to one of personal servitude. I should explain that this is not the case: they employ Henry. It is Henry’s function, in exchange for ten per cent of their earnings, to deal on their behalf with the outside world: to administer, manage and negotiate; to extol their merits, gloss over their failings, justify their fees and extenuate their delays; to flatter those clients whose patronage is most lucrative; to write reproachfully to those who delay payment for more than two years or so; to promise with equal conviction in the same morning that six separate sets of papers will be the first to receive attention. By the outside world, I mean, of course, solicitors: nothing could be more improper than for a member of the English Bar to have dealings, without the intervention of a solicitor, with a member of the general public.

I asked if Timothy’s absence, at least, was attributable to pleasure. Selena and Ragwort shook their heads.

“Got nobbled,” said Cantrip.

“Nobbled?” I repeated, a little perplexed by the expression. Cantrip is a Cambridge man—it is not always easy to understand what he says. “Nobbled? By whom, Cantrip? Or, to adopt the Cambridge idiom, who by?”

“Henry, of course,” said Cantrip. “Spotted old Tim trying to make a break for it and sent out the guards to head him off. Had him hauled back to the stalag.”

“Cantrip means,” said Selena, “that as we were leaving for coffee Henry sent a message by the temporary typist that Timothy’s presence was required in Chambers. It appears that a rather distinguished firm of London solicitors needs the advice of Chancery Counsel on a matter of some urgency.”

“That’s right,” said Cantrip. “So while we’re swilling coffee, poor old Tim is listening to the demented ravings of the senior partner in Tiddley, Thingummy & Whatsit.”

“So you see, Hilary,” said Selena, “no one’s on holiday. Except Julia, of course. She should be in Venice by now.”

“Julia?” I said, much astonished. “You haven’t let Julia go off on her own to Venice, surely?”

“Am I,” asked Selena, “Julia’s keeper?”

“Yes,” I said, rather severely, for her attitude seemed to me to be irresponsible. She likes, I know, to pretend that Julia is a normal, grown-up woman, who can safely be sent round the corner to buy a loaf of bread; but, of course, it is quite absurd. Poor Julia’s inability to understand what is happening, or why, in the world about her, her incompetence to learn even the simplest of the practical skills required for survival—these must have made it evident, even in childhood, that she would never be able to cope unaided with the full responsibilities of adult life. She must have been, no doubt, a docile, good-natured child, with a certain facility for Latin verbs and intelligence tests—but what use is that to anyone? Seeking some suitable refuge, where her inadequacies would pass unnoticed, her relatives, very sensibly, sent her to Lincoln’s Inn. She is now a member of the small set of Revenue Chambers in 63 New Square. There she sits all day, advising quite happily on the construction of the Finance Acts, and doing no harm to anyone. But to let her go to Venice—I imagined her, wandering alone through those devious alleyways, looking—as, indeed, she does at the best of times—like one of the more dishevelled heroines of Greek tragedy; and I could not forbear to chide.

“Furthermore,” I added, “it is no use your implying, Selena, that your part in the enterprise was a merely negative one. If you tell me that Julia could have managed to purchase a travel ticket, find her passport, pack her suitcase and catch an aeroplane, all without the aid of some competent adult, I shall be obliged to disbelieve you.”

Selena admitted to having provided such assistance. She had accompanied Julia to a travel agent and had represented, on her behalf, the necessity of a holiday in Venice being arranged at five days’ notice. (I did not ask why Julia had made no earlier arrangements—to plan five days in advance is, for her, a remarkable achievement.) The travel agent had found a vacant place on something called an Art Lovers’ Holiday. Asked in what manner this differed from other holidays, the agent had explained that it included guided tours of various places of historical and artistic interest: additional tours were available on an optional basis.

“This made,” said Selena, “a great impression on Julia. If some of the tours are optional, the remainder, she reasons, must be compulsory. For most of the time, therefore, she will not be on her own, but travelling about the Veneto in a group of respectable Art Lovers under the supervision of a qualified guide. So you see, Hilary, that all this alarm and despondency is quite unjustified.”

“You naturally prefer,” I said, “to look on the bright side. So far as I am aware, however, the qualifications for a guide are not those of a nursemaid or a guardian of the mentally infirm. The poor fellow will take his eye off her for a moment and she will wander off. What then?”

“She will ask the way back to her hotel.”

“She will have forgotten the name of her hotel.”

“We have made her write it down on a piece of paper.”

“She will have lost the piece of paper. She will find herself alone in a strange city. She will not know where she is or what she ought to do.”

“The same thing,” said Selena, “happens in London at least once a fortnight.”

There was some truth in this. In her native city Julia is still unable to find her way with confidence from Holborn to Covent Garden. Even so—“Julia,” said Ragwort firmly, “will not get lost in Venice. I have lent her my guide books, both to Venice itself and to those cities of the Veneto which she is likely to visit. I wasn’t always able to get the English version, so one or two of them are in Italian. Still, I don’t think it matters—the main thing is that they all have maps in them. Perfectly clear, simple maps. Julia will be able to see at a glance where she is, where she ought to be and how to get from one to the other.”