The Tiger in the Well (14 page)

He opened the door for her, and she went up the step and into a corridor, where a porter was waiting to show them into a warm office. Three clerks were working in silence, scratching with steel pens under bright gaslight.

A clerk took them through another office and knocked deferentially at a door. There was no reply. He opened it carefully and stood aside for them to go in.

"Mr. Coleman will arrive in just a minute or two," he said in a soft voice, a voice with slippers on. "Please be good enough to wait in here."

Sally went in, conscious now in the luxurious warmth of how wet she was, how bedraggled she must look. Her boots left puddles on the polished floor. Mr. Adcock had acquired his hat from the porter and was twisting its brim between nervous fingers.

The clerk withdrew. Sally saw no reason why she shouldn't sit down, so she sat.

"I've discovered something about Mr. Beech," she said. "Are you not going to sit down, Mr. Adcock.'"'

"Beech.? Beech.'*" he said, sitting in the other upright chair which faced the desk.

"The clergyman who signed the marriage register," she said.

"To be sure. What have you discovered?"

"That he was resident for some time in—"

But Sally got no further, for the door was thrown open and

a large man, gown flying half-off one shoulder, entered briskly and dumped a fat pile of papers on the desk. Coarse black hair was trained over a bald crown; coarse reddish whiskers grew down his cheeks. His fleshy nose, puffy eyes, and heavy, brutal mouth were fit for carrying no expression at all except harsh, bullying scorn.

Mr. Adcock was on his feet in a moment, bobbing forward automatically, hands pressed together as if in supplication.

"Mr. Coleman, your clerk showed us in. We took the liberty of waiting for you—"

The barrister grunted. He took no notice whatsoever of Sally, but sat down and began turning over his papers.

"Well.'"' he said after a moment or two, without looking up.

"Er—my client Miss Lockhart was desirous of an interview, Mr. Coleman, if you recall. It was her feeling that, er, it might possibly clarify one or two minor—"

"Waste of time," said Mr. Coleman.

"I beg your pardon.'*" said Sally, startled.

He looked at her as if surprised. His small eyes radiated scorn.

"I said it's a waste of time. I've read all the papers; there's nothing to be gained from a meeting. Still, here you are."

He looked back at the papers in front of him and scanned the next one before making a note with a pencil. Sally could see that they concerned some commercial case—not hers at all.

"I was about to tell Mr. Adcock of a discovery I've made concerning the clergyman who—"

"Too late for that. You're not going to win this case by going around grubbing up so-called evidence."

"It may be important."

"It will only be important if it makes a difference and it won't."

"Then what will make a difference.'' How am I going to win this case, Mr. Coleman.'"'

"By not interfering with your counsel."

"I see. And will he win it by himself?"

His hot glare came up to seek her again. She met it with contempt. Beside her, Mr. Adcock was nearly melting with nervousness.

"I think Miss Lockhart would be anxious to affirm that—" he began, but the barrister spoke over him.

"Your case is a very poor one," he said gratingly, "and I do not hold out much hope of success. If you take the line that you are taking with me, I guarantee you will lose. Pert-ness and sarcasm do not impress me, and they will certainly not impress the court. Your only chance is to remain silent, to answer the questions you are asked as shortly and simply and politely as you are capable of doing, and not to presume that you know more than your betters about how to conduct something as subtle and difficult as a legal defense."

Sally was robbed of breath. She closed her eyes a moment, clenched her fists, heard him turn over another paper. She was aware of Mr. Adcock rocking gently back and forth beside her in an agony of apprehension. Then she took a breath and said, "And may I presume to ask what line you are going to take in my defense.'*"

"Not your business. I have read all the papers. That's all you need to know."

"If you have read all the papers, you will know that the issue of whether or not I was truly married to Parrish is central to the case. And if—"

He stood up, hooked his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, and glowered down at her.

"The issue is one of morality," he said. "Of decency. And don't think for a moment that any sleight of hand with marriage certificates and signatures is going to alter that for a moment. You come before me, a woman who by her own admission has given away her virtue, who has behaved in a manner no better than a common prostitute, who seeks to deny the bastard she has conceived the dignity and benefit of a legitimate name and a home. That's what you look like: lascivious, greedy, weak-minded, and mean-spirited. Oh, stop

trying to protest. Your only chance of keeping your child is to allow me to persuade the court that you are contrite. That you're ashamed. That you bitterly regret your rash and thoughtless action in abandoning your home. You keep quiet and cry a little, and the court might be persuaded with the help of my arguments that it would be in the unfortunate child's interests to remain with you rather than with the father. I do not want to be prevented from making the best of a bad job by your sentimental drivel about evidence—as if this were a sensational novel to amuse idle women. You know nothing about the law; it's not a woman's business. Stop filling your head with stuff you don't understand and then wasting my time with your stupid vaporings. Keep quiet and look ashamed, and let me get on with the business of defending you."

Sally sat unmoving for a few seconds, and then smiled sweetly.

"How much am I paying you for this experience.'^" she said. "On second thought, don't bother to answer. Gentlemen don't discuss money. Tell me: what will happen to my child if I lose tomorrow.''"

"You will be required to hand him over to his father at a time and a place that the court will decide."

Sally's eyes opened wide involuntarily, and she caught her breath. Plainly she wasn't as imperturbable as she'd thought.

"And you have, as you say, read the papers," she said with a shaking voice.

"Of course," he returned contemptuously.

"A pity you failed to notice the many references to the fact that my child is a girl, not a boy," Sally said, getting up. "Thank you for making things clear to me. I have every confidence that you will perform in court as effectively as you've done in here. Good day to you."

Without looking at Mr. Adcock, she turned and went out. She heard the solicitor begin to gabble an apology, heard the Q.C. cut him short, heard his hurrying footsteps leave the

building and hasten after her through the little passage into Middle Temple Lane.

She stopped at the end of the passage and let him catch up to her.

"Mr. Coleman," he began breathlessly, "is one of the most eminent, one of the most respected barristers in the kingdom. Had I thought that you would treat him to a display of—I'm afraid I must say it—pertness and insolence, I should never have—"

"Pertness and sarcasm, I think he said," Sally cut in. '*That's wrong, anyway. If he didn't know my child was a daughter, he had no business to claim he'd read the papers."

"A detail."

"Oh, she's a detail, is she.-* That's lawyers' language for my child.'' I've heard enough lawyers' language for one day, thank you, Mr. Adcock."

She tumed away, but felt his hand on her arm and stopped.

"Miss Lockhart, Mr. Coleman's intention, believe me, was to simulate for you the stress, the . . . discomfort that you will face in court tomorrow. It was a very valuable insight, a very helpful illustration of the kind of things which the other side will indubitably want to face you with. And if you recall, it was at your own insistence that I made this appointment for you. Mr. Coleman's time is so exceedingly valuable ..."

"Good night," she said, and removed her arm from his grasp and walked away.

Two HOURS LATER, thoroughly cold and wet, she arrived home. A hot bath, a sandwich, a glass of Webster's whiskey and hot water, some letters, a peep at Harriet, a sleepy kiss, bed. For the first time in weeks, she slept perfectly well. Her mind was made up. She knew just what she had to do.

lO

Custody

Cicely Corrigan sat at the back of the courtroom, on the public benches, trying to make sense of what she was hearing. She was neariy alone. At the other end of the bench there was a dark-haired man huddled up in a large gray overcoat, who spent the entire time scribbling in a little pad. Perhaps he was a starving poet, she thought, who spent his days in the law courts for the sake of a dry place to sit.

The case didn't take long. In the absence of the lady, the result was a foregone conclusion. Sally's counsel made a perfunctory effort to claim that she was so overcome with remorse and regret that she'd decided to mend her ways, and made an appeal to the court to put off the judgment for six months, during which time his side would attempt a reconciliation. But Mr. Parrish's counsel argued against that; the time for that had long gone, he said, and in any case Mr. Parrish had made numerous attempts both in person and through his solicitor to bring about a reconciliation already, to be met with nothing but contempt and rejection from the other party. Details and letters were, of course, available, should the court wish to examine them. The court did not. Mr. Parrish sat there looking modest and regretful, and rather noble, all things considered.

So not twenty minutes after it opened, the case was over and done with. The process of dissolving this invisible marriage was begun; and custody of the child Harriet Beatrice Rosa Parrish, known as Harriet Beatrice Rosa Lockhart, was

granted to her father, Arthur James Parrish. Sally's lawyers were given notice that she was to produce the child at the chambers of Mr. Parrish's counsel before five o'clock that afternoon, the time now being eleven o'clock in the morning. If she didn't do that . . . They didn't spell it out, but Sally knew, and she'd explained it to Cicely: she'd be in contempt of court and in danger of arrest. The die was cast.

"But what are you going to dof'

"Hide," said Sally. "And then prove him wrong. Have another teacake."

They were sitting in a tea shop in the Strand. Sally had been busy elsewhere all day, but she'd arranged to meet Cicely there at half past four. Margaret was with a client, or she'd have come as well. Cicely was still shocked by this new vision of her Miss Lockhart: the mother of a child. . . . She took the last teacake automatically and tried to stop staring at her.

"Where's the . . . where's your . . . where's Harriet now?" she said.

"With some friends. Quite safe. We'll be all right there for a day or so, and then I'll look for a place of our own."

"In London.?"

"Well, if I can't hide in London, I won't be able to hide anywhere. I've thought about nothing else for days; I'm sure I'm right. If I go abroad I won't be able to find out what's behind this; I need to be on the spot. I need to do some detecting. It would be the same if I went to, I don't know, some village in the country or something. And I'd stick out like a sore thumb there, wouldn't I.'' But no one notices people in London. We're all anonymous. It's the only place to be. I'm only sorry I'm throwing such a burden on Miss Haddow. And on you. I'm terribly grateful, Cicely. . . ."

Miss Lockhart had changed. She wasn't low anymore; her eyes were bright, her cheeks were flushed, it looked as if she was happy, of all things. She finished her tea and called for the bill.

'*Tell Miss Haddow I'll write to her tonight. I daren't come to the office, because they're bound to be watching, but I'll let her know where she can find me. I'll need to give as much time to this business as I can—she might need to take on extra help—but I'll say all that in my letter. Thanks for doing all this. It's not part of your job at all. . . ."

She left Cicely finishing her teacake, and pulled the fiir collar of her cloak high around her neck and cheeks before going out into the damp afternoon.

It was nearly dark, and the streets were crowded. Sally waited for an omnibus, and when it came she sat in the crowded, swaying interior between a fat lady with a muff and a gentleman with a wet umbrella, turning over in her mind what she was going to do. Supper for Harriet first, and then she'd put her to bed and tell her they were going on an adventure in the morning, like Uncle Webster and Jim, and then they'd have their favorite nursery rhymes and Harriet would say her prayers.

And then when Harriet was asleep Sally would arrange with Mr. and Mrs. Molloy for them to act as a halfway house, a place where she could retreat to if she needed to, a place where she and Margaret could meet, a place to which Sarah-Jane Russell could relay any news from Twickenham. And then supper, and then bed. She wasn't tired, but she knew she'd sleep.

The omnibus stopped. She squeezed her way out and into the street. It was completely dark now; the street lamps glowed in the mist like huge ghostly dahlias. Passers-by hurried along with their heads down, huddled in their upturned collars and mufflers. A little crossing sweeper hovered near the cabmen's shelter, waiting to dart out and clear the road if anyone wanted to cross. At the corner of the square she was turning into, a hot-chestnut man stood hunched forlornly over his brazier, not even bothering to cry his wares and only stirring the chestnuts over the flame when they threatened to catch fire.

Sally entered the square. She'd lived here herself for some

time, before Harriet was conceived; the boardinghouse belonged to old friends of hers, a man called Trembler Molloy and his wife. Trembler had worked for Frederick when Sally had first met the Garlands, and when his wife had inherited a bit of money, Sally had advised them how to buy the house and set up in business.

The house itself was on the far side, beyond the trees in the little central garden, and she couldn't see it until she was halfway along one side. When she did, she stopped at once.