The Lacey Confession (11 page)

The cabbies of London were like the grown men who drove cabs in the big cities of America many years ago. It was a real job, one for men with wives and families. If not a profession, it was a full-time occupation, something you could be proud of, if that's what you did. Harry liked it that London's cabbies were polite— “Where to, sir?” they would ask. If they offered conversation at all, it too would be polite. Not like the cab drivers in America. Harry remembered them well. So many were Africans, men with poor language skills and no sense of direction. If they were white and spoke English, chances were all they talked about was “the fucking niggers” this, or “the fucking niggers” that. When they finished those filthy diatribes they always had to add something like “you know what I mean?” and Harry would be forced to reply, “Just drive.” England provided him many wonders, not least among them the return of his freedom, privacy and the sense of independence and security that waited for him in the back seat of a London taxi.

Arriving at Herndon, Sturgis, Wells & Nelson, Harry found the small side door to the old five-story building and presented himself at Sir Anthony's office exactly at ten o'clock. “Come in,” said Sir Anthony. “Please be seated. Do pour yourself some tea. I am Sir Anthony Wells.” He spoke with simple ease, aware that no one to whom he introduced himself could have been unaware. “And,” he said, “while I've not met you, I am pleased to see the duty officer was not a young lady. I hope that doesn't offend you. I've nothing against young ladies. Quite the opposite in fact. It's just . . .” and then he seemed to drift off, his attention sort of floating away on a gentle breeze, or maybe caught on the tide of some unseen ocean. His eyes even got kind of watery.

Sir Anthony's office was smaller than Harry expected, older and darker too. All the light in the room was provided by a single lamp on his desk. The building which housed this venerable law firm was probably three hundred years old, but the offices were new and modern, some obviously renovated recently. Not Sir Anthony's. His suite of rooms was probably as it had been for a century or more. The outside office, his secretary's, was by any reasonable description, tiny. Her desk—Harry pictured Sir Anthony's secretary as an older, very proper woman—took up nearly all the available space. Behind that desk, hung upon the shiny oak paneled wall, was a large oil portrait of Sir Charles Herndon, the firm's founder. Sir Anthony had actually seen him once in the summer of 1927 when Sir Charles, then in his late eighties, paid a final visit to “my place” as he called it. He died a few years later, just before Christmas. To Harry's right, as he stood in the outside office, was what should have been the office used by Sir Anthony's clerk. The door was halfway open and it appeared unoccupied, unused. No doubt, he had no need for a clerk any longer. To Harry's left was Sir Anthony's office. His walls, also oak from floor to ceiling, were completely lined with bookshelves, filled with law books and journals bound in special binders embossed with small letters. Harry couldn't make out the citations identifying these volumes, but guessed they were very old and not much use to a working attorney today. The far wall was interrupted by a small fireplace in which no fire presently burned. The large window to the right and behind Sir Anthony's desk looked directly out on the front of the building apparently near its center. Between the window and the fireplace was a glass table with no chairs and on it an elegant silver tea service for four complete with what appeared to be crackers and toast. Sir Anthony Wells sat behind a massive mahogany desk, far too large for an office this small. Two matching visitors' chairs faced it head on. Harry poured himself a cup of tea, as his host requested, and sat down directly across from Sir Anthony. He looked at the old man closely. It was not often he met someone 100 years old. Sir Anthony was a small man, hard to measure sitting, but surely not more than five feet six inches. He was extremely thin in the way only very old people sometimes get. He wore an expensive gray wool suit that looked fairly new to Harry, and he had on a shirt with an old-fashioned collar, one that almost covered the knot in his tie. As Sir Anthony's attention drifted, Harry thought he appeared ancient, delicate, probably breakable to the touch.

“My name is Harry Levine. I'm in the Trade Section, sir. It's a great honor to meet you, Sir Anthony. And I'm a lawyer. Like yourself.” He added that as if it might be a comfort to this old man. Harry stood, reached down and carefully shook the outstretched hand. Such an incredibly old and special hand, he thought. Meeting celebrities came easily with the Foreign Service, the worldwide adventure that was embassy life. Harry had met, and on occasion even worked closely with, a number of famous people. And, of course, there was his Aunt Chita. But this old hand, shaking his own, had known the shake of Kings and Queens, dictators and saviors. It held in its frail and aged palm almost all the history of the twentieth century. “How did you know,” asked Harry, “the Ambassador would not be coming himself?”

“Yes, well, we do know your Mr. Brown attends to certain matters of a personal nature most Saturdays.”

Harry was truly puzzled. “Then, why did you . . . ?”

“I had no choice. Which brings us right to the private matter for which I've asked you here.” Again the old man seemed to drift away, somewhere far off. For a moment he was no longer Sir Anthony Wells. He looked like any frightened, old man. Harry was struck with his use of the term “private matter.” What could the American Ambassador or, in his place, what could he, Harry Levine, possibly do for Sir Anthony Wells? And whatever it might be, in what way could it be called private?

“For many years,” said Sir Anthony, once again himself, “I have been the lawyer for Lord Frederick Lacey. You may be familiar with Lord Frederick.”

“Yes, I am of course,” Harry said. “Everyone knows . . . I mean he died just a few days ago.”

“Indeed,” said Sir Anthony. “Tuesday last.”

“I've read a few things about Lord Lacey. In fact, I assisted a client, an American company I mean, a few years ago and I had to do some research on Lord Lacey. A remarkable man.”

“Yes,” said Sir Anthony. “Remarkable.”

“I never associated his interests in any way with this firm, Herndon, Sturgis, Wells & Nelson.
”

“Quite right. Quite right. Never did such an association exist. I, however, have been, or rather—was—the private lawyer for Lord Frederick going back many years before he was Lord or anywhere near it for that matter.” Sir Anthony paused a moment, a small but warm smile crossing his aged lips. “We were young together.” He reached across his desk to his right and removed a stack of file folders that covered a large metal box, a box with a lock, a box more than a foot high and three feet long, a box of the sort found in a safe deposit vault. He needed to stand to open it, turning it sideways to make room on his desk for the long top which he promptly raised up and folded flat back. From inside it Sir Anthony withdrew a packet of legal-size papers which Harry took to be a will, plus a second thick document, which looked at first sight to be handwritten on regular size paper or perhaps personal stationery. Sir Anthony needed both hands to lift it.

“Lord Lacey liked to keep his varied interests separate from each other.” Sir Anthony went on. “And he treated his private affairs likewise. I never handled any of his business work and I saw to his personal affairs apart from my duties and obligations in this firm. Family things, from time to time. His wives. His daughter. Audrey, poor Audrey. And his will. I did his will. You know, Lord Frederick Lacey's was the largest non-royal fortune in the whole history of Europe.” Sir Anthony's voice, weak and frail like the man himself, cracked and wavered. The old man stopped and Harry didn't know what to say, so he said nothing.

“I was twenty-five and he not much older when he first came to me,” Sir Anthony continued. “He had a great deal of money even then. Of course it wouldn't be quite so much now, but it was an awful lot for 1930. I did his will then and every change since. I don't do much now, surely you know that.”

“Yes, I've heard that.”

“I'd never hand over his work to another lawyer. And, of course, he wouldn't have allowed it either. With that in mind, you should know the last time I did anything for him was many, many years ago, not since June 1968. That spring Lord Frederick instructed me to make some changes in his will. He came in, signed it, sealed it himself, in this envelope.” He held it with two hands. “Right here in this office. He sat just where you are now. Rather strange, but I recall it quite clearly. He placed my document, the will, together with his own, wrapped in a large, sealed package, in this very lockbox, shook my hand and clasped my shoulder rather like an old friend bidding farewell. Then he left and never set foot in this office again. I saw him, from time to time after that, but never again professionally. Given the enormous size of his estate, I did wish to certify the continuing validity of the will and, over the course of time, I would have him sign a letter simply stating there was no other will. It was all done by post. The last such letter is right here, signed by him, dated eight months before his death.” He stopped. Harry had the feeling Sir Anthony did not want to continue. What he had said Harry found fascinating; however, he had yet to say anything even remotely relevant to the American Ambassador, or his personal representative, who Harry was.

“When Lord Frederick Lacey died,” Sir Anthony resumed, “he left a will, a copy of which you see before you. While it serves to distribute an amount of money even some modern heads of state are not used to dealing with, his wishes are really quite uncomplicated and frankly not very interesting at all, not titillating, if you know what I mean. Lord Lacey lived to be a hundred and seven years old. Quite old, indeed. He'd outlived his brother, his sisters, his wives and his only child. He did not involve any of his relatives in any of his business interests. Although he leaves substantial sums of money to the surviving members of his family, no matter how distant, their share represents a tiny fraction of the real value of his estate. The bulk of his personal fortune will go to various foundations and charitable organizations. Its disposition will be private and, I assure you, lacking in any controversy. I suspect the news media will take no interest. For all his youthful celebrity, in the last half-century of his life Lord Frederick was really not well known. Private as were his financial affairs in life, he had no wish for them to be otherwise in death.” With that, Sir Anthony pushed aside the will and once more put his hands on the handwritten pages in front of him.

“Now, you do need to know why you're here, don't you? Lord Fredrick was quite plain. My instructions have been clearly conveyed. I was to open the sealed package that contained this document exactly four days after his death. That I did this morning, with the document as I said, still within its sealed envelope, its contents totally unknown to me until today, only a few hours ago. I knew he liked to write his thoughts down. Many more people of our generation did that than do today. He'd make notes, even in the midst of conversation. You got used to it. I suspected he kept a private journal of some sort.” Sir Anthony pushed the loosely gathered, handwritten document across the desk in Harry's direction. It was, Harry could make out, written on personal stationery paper and looked more like the first draft of a manuscript than anything else.

“A document of substantial weight, as you can see. There's no doubt it's the work of Lord Frederick Lacey. The handwriting is his. I attest to that. From start to finish. There's a cover page, also in his hand, and it instructs me to read this document, which as lawyers,” he said to Harry, meaning the compliment quite sincerely, “we understand is to make public.” Sir Anthony said that, lightly tapping the pile of handwritten pages. “I am to do so in a public forum, on the first business day following the fourth day of his passing. As today is Saturday, that would be Monday, the day after tomorrow.”

Harry looked at the top page of the document, only inches away from his fingertips. He read only the first few sentences. He read them again, then a third time and yet again once more.

“Quite shocking,” Sir Anthony went on. “Indeed, a great deal more than that, isn't it? I haven't read it all, by any means, but the page I have given you here is more than enough. I'm sure you'll agree. God only knows what else is in here. There are so many things he did in his life, so many places, so many prominent people, famous and infamous. God only knows, Mr. Levine.”

“Why,” asked Harry, “would he do such a thing? What possible reason . . . could there be?”

“Frederick Lacey was a special man, Mr. Levine. A very special man. Not like you and me. He came as close to real power in this world as one can get and you will find his mark in many places. Yet still, his legend—rumor, innuendo—true or false, as you have it—challenges if not exceeds the reality of his remarkable life. Only he knows why. Only he knew. I can't answer why any more than you can. Under our law, however, I've no alternative but to make this document public not later than about fifty-nine hours from now. You understand I have no choice other than to continue as faithful servant to my client, even in his death. Especially in his death. I do think, however, the Prime Minister has the ability to intercede and authorize postponement of such a reading for a period of time to be determined by Her Majesty's Government. I, however, am rendered helpless in this matter, unable to ask the PM, or anyone else, even the Queen, whom you shall see may have ample reason herself to keep this journal in darkness. For me to do that would create an unethical conflict of interest. Nonetheless, the Prime Minister could be appropriately approached, and he might take the necessary action, at the special urging of the American President. The ramifications of Lord Frederick's unfortunate disclosures—that which we see here and now, with our own eyes, and others I'm certain a careful reading will discover—appear quite unacceptable. And who knows?” he said, tapping the pile of pages he had yet to read as if they were some sort of bomb. “This is why I called your Ambassador, why I've no choice but to share this with you, allowing for your country's appropriate obligation and response, and why I suggest you get this document to your President without delay. Otherwise . . .”