The Baker Street Letters Read online

  “Going to America to do Shakespeare somehow strikes me as casting pearls—”

  “That is precisely why they need to see it done right,” she said sharply.

  Then she seemed to reconsider, and she stepped in closer to Reggie. “Or better, anyway,” she said. “It’s only for a short time, after all. And there could be a film role in it.”

  “You can’t go to New York,” he said. “It’s a slime pit. They plunk each other like grouse on the motorways.”

  She pulled back. “That’s Los Angeles. And I’ve been to football at Manchester. A few rowdy Yanks won’t scare me.”

  Reggie was silent. Then, “I’ve never taken you to a Manchester match.”

  “There are places you have not taken me, Reggie,” she said, “where I have nevertheless been.”

  Laura crossed to the front door now, and Reggie had no choice but to follow.

  “When do you leave?”

  “Monday. I’m afraid I’ll be mostly packing until then. And getting ready to ‘contemporize’ Shakespeare.”

  “When is your flight? I may be able to drive you,” he said, immediately wishing he’d phrased it in a more committal way.

  “One-ish, but you don’t have to do that.”

  “It’s no trouble.”

  “Thank you, Reggie,” she said quite firmly. “But good night.”

  She shut the door, and Reggie found himself standing alone, outside, on the chilly step.

  And as he drove back to Butler’s Wharf, an image came to mind, pretty much unbidden, of himself, alone in his flat for the next half century, playing snooker in the billiards room with no one, putting a clever spin on the cue ball so that Reggie could not get a shot on the seven. Hair going thin and gray. Stubble on the chin. Stale cigar smoke and the odor of old clothes everywhere.

  Had he already waited too long?

  A prickly sensation on the back of his neck told him he might have made a mistake. It was a sensation he did not experience often, and he did not like it.

  He slept only fitfully that night, and his usual four-mile run along the Thames the next morning did not make the sensation go away.

  So he did the run again on Sunday, and by the end of it he had his plan.

  He would be careful not to ring her. In these things, as in all things, there was strategy to be considered. It was important not to seem too desperate.

  Anyway, she would be packing, and it wouldn’t do to get stuck having to explain himself over the phone.

  Better to catch her at the airport tomorrow.

  It would be a surprise.

  All the ambivalence she had shown of late would vanish; she would call off the trip, and then she would ring Buxton—no, too personal, she would fax him—and Buxton would have to find someone else for his damn play—and for whatever other purposes the pretentious bastard had in mind.

  Reggie still had Nigel’s hearing to attend, but it should be a quick formality. He would be out by half-past nine and easily make Heathrow before Laura.

  The next day, Reggie drove to the City in plenty of time. He parked in a space reserved for him at Lincoln’s Inn by a young female barrister who had once been his pupil—and something more. As he did so, it occurred to him that he would have to arrange for a new spot. He had not seen the young woman since meeting Laura. And he knew he would not see her again—given what he was going to say to Laura that morning—except in court.

  Reggie walked to the Law Society building and went inside to the tribunal’s meeting room. The Society had recently remodeled its digs, and the room smelled distinctly of thick, new forest green carpeting.

  Nigel had not yet arrived, but that was not cause for concern. Nigel was usually prompt, but never early.

  Reggie took his seat, down left, facing the tribunal that would decide whether Nigel kept his solicitor’s license.

  The three members of the tribunal were seated behind a new speaker’s dais, and not in the traditional deep burgundy leather, but in new, ergonomically sophisticated, plush velvet chairs with adjustable armrests that to all appearances were designed to collapse under the least bit of pressure.

  On the right was Samuelson. Reggie had handled briefs for him in the past. This would be an advantage. Samuelson would want Reggie’s services again in the future.

  On the left was Woolrich, the oldest of the three, who looked ready to nod off. Reggie guessed he would follow the path of least resistance, whatever direction it took.

  The two tribunal members on either side seemed to be having some difficulty with the movable armrests. In the center was Breckenridge, who had apparently given up trying to adjust his chair—the height of which made him appear at least a head shorter than the other two—and he sat, with a look of some annoyance, staring at the new built-in dais microphone in front of him.

  Breckenridge was the main challenge. Early in Reggie’s career, Breckenridge had shopped a brief at the chambers where Reggie was a junior; the clerk had tried to pass the brief to Reggie, but Breckenridge insisted on someone with more experience. By chance, Reggie was later retained by the opposing party in the same matter—and things worked out badly for Breckenridge

  It was two minutes till, and there was still no sign of Nigel.

  Now it was time to worry.

  Reggie got out his mobile phone and rang Nigel’s home number. No answer.

  He tried the office number. No answer there, either. But finally the call switched over to the secretary’s line, and Ms. Brinks picked up.

  “I’m at the hearing,” said Reggie. “But Nigel isn’t. Have you seen him?”

  “No,” said Ms. Brinks. “His office is still dark.”

  “Ring his flat. Call me the moment you locate him.”

  “I will,” said Ms. Brinks.

  “We’ll proceed, Mr. Heath, if it’s not too great an inconvenience for you,” said Breckenridge.

  “Certainly,” said Reggie, closing his phone.

  “I suppose you find it necessary to carry as much of the office business as possible with you, now that your chambers are no longer in the City proper?” said Breckenridge, sounding more smug now than annoyed.

  “Not typically,” said Reggie, standing to address the panel. “May I take this opportunity to congratulate you on the remodeling? It’s all really quite . . . remarkable.”

  “Congratulations noted,” said Breckenridge. “Can we get on with it?”

  “If I might briefly recount the facts for the tribunal?”

  “If you feel you must.”

  “I do so feel,” said Reggie. He cleared his throat and began, fully aware that there are occasions to be concise and to the point, and there are occasions for oratory, and with Nigel still running late, this was the latter.

  “A Mr. Throckmorton,” Reggie began, “a carpenter by trade, was hired by the Corning family to replace rotted wood in the back wall of the pantry. The pantry was adjacent to the kitchen, and on a table in the kitchen, Mrs. Corning had placed a frozen chicken to thaw. The plastic tray on which she so carefully placed the chicken was cracked, and as the bird thawed, it leaked, all the way down to the linoleum floor.

  “Very shortly thereafter, the workman—our Mr. Throckmorton—entered the kitchen, slipped on the watery-chickeny fluid, and fell on his backside. All of which was, of course, inevitable.”

  “Wait a moment, Mr. Heath.”

  “Yes?”

  “Inevitable?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why so?”

  “Members of the tribunal, you and I and all in this room know, in our hearts, that fate and chance were forever altered when the first tort law was created, such that the slightest opportunity for creating an injury will always give rise to one, if there is a lawyer available.”

  Breckenridge rubbed his forehead. “Please continue, Mr. Heath,” he said, “but without speculation as to what this panel knows in its heart. Or hearts. Or it’s collective heart.”

  “Of course,” said Reggie, and he cont
inued.

  “The only question was the extent of damages. And so Nigel called witnesses who testified that Mr. Throckmorton had debilitating pain and paralysis caused by this fall; and the Cornings’ lawyer called witnesses who said there was nothing of the kind, and in my humble opinion it was, at this point, a dead heat. What tipped the scales was Nigel’s summation. Nigel believed his client, and the jury believed in Nigel—and so it came back for the full amount.”

  “But what does this have to do with what your brother—”

  “I’m almost there.”

  “Get on with it, then.”

  “Rightly proud of this success and flush with his first commission, and happy in the knowledge that the law, God’s justice, and the solicitor’s pocketbook were all perfectly in sync, Nigel booked a weekend for himself at the most expensive golf resort in Scotland. I forget the name of it, I’m sure some of you know it.

  “It was June, and the weather was brilliant. And Nigel was playing so well that he had caught up with the party ahead of him.

  “He stopped at a polite distance and watched as the duffer ahead of him took a perfect stance over the ball, swung the driver easily back, and with a fully extended and explosive swing, sent a high arching shot a good hundred and eighty yards onto the fairway.

  “And then the man turned, and Nigel saw that this man with the excellent drive was his very own paralyzed client—Mr. Throckmorton.

  “Nigel immediately returned to London and told the ethics board what had transpired.”

  “We know this, Mr. Heath,” said Breckenridge. “And you will recall that the inquiry found no proof of bad faith on the part of the plaintiff and that therefore there was nothing to be done. The law is not perfect, especially on questions of evidence, and these things do happen. In fact, all that was necessary at that point was for your brother to let it go. But he did not. Unannounced, and with no apparent business necessity, he approached the daughter of defendant Corning at university.”

  “There was no other way to go about it,” responded Reggie. “Nigel wanted to put things right. But Mr. Corning was in hospital, having suffered a heart attack shortly after the judgment, and Mrs. Corning threw a plate of tomatoes and bangers at Nigel when he tried at their home.”

  “Mr. Heath, your brother intruded into the daughter’s single-gender residence hall after the curfew hour,” said Breckenridge.

  “The hours were not clearly posted. And it was the young Corning woman, not Nigel, who was in the corridor wearing nothing but skimpy knickers.”

  The tribunal members exchanged glances.

  “Be fair,” said Reggie. “They should ring a bell or something before they do that, shouldn’t they?”

  “Can be very embarrassing,” Woolrich mumbled, waking up a bit. “Had that same experience myself.”

  Samuelson nodded. “Fair warning would be the decent thing.”

  “Exactly. And those extraordinary circumstances caused the daughter to misconstrue Nigel’s intent. He was merely trying to return his fee,” said Reggie. “He felt it was his obligation to do so.”

  “Was it his obligation to have his hand in his pants?” asked Breckenridge.

  “He was just getting the bloody check out of his pocket,” said Reggie. “Everyone at the scene acknowledged that to be so when things calmed down, including the young woman herself, the residence hall guard who came running when she screamed, and all the other young women who came pouring out into the corridor. Nigel had it—the check—right there in his hand.”

  The tribunal members huddled together for a brief moment.

  “Are we to accept, then,” said Breckenridge, “that all this fuss was because your brother felt the outcome of the case was unjust to the opposing litigant?”

  “Spot on, sir. I could not phrase it better myself, though I tried mightily.”

  “If so, it’s not a characteristic that seems to run in the family, Mr. Heath. I’ve not heard of you having such compunctions.”

  “No argument there. You can see what good such concerns have done Nigel.”

  “If your brother takes one approach to the law,” Breckenridge said in a sly voice, “and you take the opposite, doesn’t it stand to reason that one of you is pursuing the wrong profession?”

  “Not at all,” said Reggie. “We average out. And in law, as in life, balance is everything.”

  “Very well,” said Breckenridge. “You’ve had your say, and we would like very much to dispose of the matter. But we must hear from Nigel Heath himself. It is now a quarter after the hour. Where is he?”

  “One moment, if I may,” said Reggie. He took out his phone and rang Ms. Brinks again.

  She told him that Nigel still had not shown and that there was no answer at his flat.

  Reggie didn’t take her word for it. He called Nigel’s flat himself.

  Still no answer.

  Reggie put away the phone and addressed the tribunal.

  “It is impossible for my brother to appear this morning. He begs your indulgence and conveys his deepest apologies and regrets.”

  “Perhaps you will now tell us the reason for his absence?”

  “Intestinal flu.”

  Everyone paused. Breckenridge drilled in.

  “Is your brother in hospital?”

  “Ahh . . . no.”

  “Then you’re saying he avoided a hearing that can determine his future licensing merely because he has a temporary and non-life-threatening illness?”

  “Because at this moment he is completely incapable of controlling bodily fluids from either of the most likely sources,” said Reggie, leaning back very slightly, enough so that he could casually caress, in full view of the tribunal, the plush and expensive green velvet of one of the newly upholstered chairs.

  Breckenridge cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably. Mr. Samuelson looked at Reggie, recognized the opportunity, and motioned for a huddle with the other two members. For a moment all three heads bowed and leaned in together, revealing one honestly balding spot, one bad comb-over of white hair over quite pink skin, and one insecurely seated toupee.

  Then all three looked up, the two on either side sat back in their chairs—one of them voluntarily—and Mr. Breckenridge spoke.

  “Very well, then. We will reconvene in three days. If your brother wishes to have his reinstatement considered, the courtesy to notify us would be advisable. Am I making this clear?”

  “Crystal, as always.”

  “Then we’re adjourned.”

  Under the circumstances, postponement was as clear a win as Reggie could expect. He exited the hearing chambers satisfied with the outcome for the moment—but annoyed with Nigel.

  The hearing had taken longer than he’d intended, and it was almost ten when he reached the street outside the Law Society building.

  The parade of black suits moving up Chancery Lane from the Strand—the male barristers in wigs and dark suits and the occasional chalk stripe, the women in black skirts, with long braided hair under their white wigs—had reached its morning peak.

  Reggie stepped back into the shelter of the entryway to ring Laura and was relieved to find her still at home.

  “I can’t talk long,” she said. “I’m not nearly packed.”

  “Has Nigel rung you?”

  “That would have been nice,” said Laura, “but no. Why? You sound . . . perturbed.”

  “The final disposition of his review before the disciplinary tribunal was this morning,” said Reggie, “and he’s nowhere to be found.”

  “Well, that’s odd.”

  “The hearing’s chaired by Breckenridge,” he added, “and Breckenridge has a memory as long as his nose. If Nigel doesn’t respond soon, Breckenridge will take it as a snub, and he doesn’t take snubs lightly.”

  “You must find Nigel and tell him.”

  “I don’t know that it will do any good. He’s a grown man; if he wants to toss his career away, I don’t know that I can stop him.”

  Ther
e was a long pause at the other end of the line, which Reggie interpreted as Laura waiting for him to say something more sensible. When he failed to do so, she spoke again.

  “Well, you are his only brother,” said Laura, “so I’m sure you know best.”

  Reggie surrendered. “I’ll check his office personally,” he said. “When he wants to convey something without having to hear my response, he’ll sometimes leave a note.” Now he paused.

  “Was there something else?” said Laura.

  “I would like to see you before you leave.”

  “That’s sweet,” Laura said brightly. “But you need to find Nigel, and I can’t miss my flight.”

  “Stop at chambers on your way. We’ll get a bite, and you’ll still make your plane.”

  There was a pause, then Laura said, “Fair enough. You know how I hate airline food.”

  Reggie arrived at Baker Street at midmorning. Clerical workers from the mortgage company that shared the building were still arriving at work, walking through the glass entrance and past the broad marble columns, carrying white paper sacks that smelled of cappuccinos and croissants.

  Reggie was already annoyed at Nigel; and hunger, as Laura would have reminded him, made him more so. He tried to keep that bit of self-knowledge in mind as he got out of the lift and headed toward Nigel’s office.

  He was halfway there when a commotion became apparent. A cluster of office workers from Dorset National had come upstairs to take a look at something, and Reggie soon realized that the object of their attention had to be in Nigel’s office.

  As Reggie approached, the group stopped trying to peer in past the closed blinds and dispersed.

  Reggie tried the door. Locked.

  He looked in through the corner edge of the window, as the crowd of gossips had been trying to do moments before.

  Now he could see why they had gathered.

  Only a portion of the room was visible from this angle, and even that was illuminated only by the residual corridor light around the edge of the blinds—but it was enough.

  Reggie saw that the drawers on the tall file cabinet had been yanked with such force that they lay open on bent hinges. And all the books on the shelf had been swept off onto the floor. Papers were scattered everywhere.