Smallbone Deceased

Miss Cornel suspended her search in the Law List and said: “Well, it would take all morning to explain the office system in detail—”

“Horniman on Office Management I have already had from John Cove,” said Bohun. “What I really want to know are the more practical points. Who works for who? Who am I under? Who signs my letters for instance—”

This simple question seemed to give Miss Cornel considerable food for thought. “I’m not sure,” she said. “In the old days it was quite straightforward. Mr. Duxford—I don’t think you’ve met him—works under Mr. Birley. John Cove with Mr. Craine. And young Mr. Horniman, of course, worked under his father. If they’re going on with that, I suppose you will be working under Bob Horniman.”

“You sound doubtful.”

“You must forgive an old retainer’s licence,” said Miss Cornel. “I’ve known Bob since he was a prep-school boy in shorts when he used to come up here on the day he travelled back to school, and swing his legs in the waiting-room until his father was free to take him out to lunch—”

“Those awful last-day-of-holiday lunches,” said Bohun. “Indigestion tempered by the hopes of an extra ten shillings pocket-money.”

“Yes—well, he came in here as soon as he left his public school which, in my humble opinion, was a mistake. Then he’d only just qualified when the war broke out, and he went straight into the Navy. So what with one thing and another he doesn’t know all he might about the practical side of a solicitor’s work. He did very well in his exams, I believe—but that’s not quite the same thing—”

“You’re telling me.”

“If it hadn’t been for his father, I think he’d have stayed on in the Navy. He was doing very well—”

Miss Cornel broke off rather abruptly—possibly with the feeling that she had said more than she intended. (“He’s got such a damned insinuating way of saying nothing,” she confided afterwards to Anne Mildmay, “that you find yourself telling him the most surprising things.”)

“I see,” said Bohun. “But look here, if Bob’s taking over his father’s work, and I’m taking over Bob’s work—what are all these cards? Are these the things Bob used to do himself, because if so—”

Miss Cornel picked up some of the cards and ran an expert eye over them. “Well,” she said. “You’ve got some soft options to start with. There’s nothing much here to worry about. ‘Lady Buntingford—Affairs.’ That practically only means we pay her laundry bills once a month. ‘The Marquis of Bedlam, deceased.’ That’s a probate matter, but the accounts have all been settled. If you really want some stuff to get your teeth into, I’ll slip you some of Bob’s. He’s got some matters there that—why, they even tied his old man up—”

Something in the tone of this last remark led Bohun to say: “You liked working for Abel Horniman, didn’t you?”

“Well, yes, I did,” said Miss Cornel. “He was a great man, he really was. And a good man to work for, too. I ought to know—I was his secretary for nineteen years.”

“He certainly seems to have been a man of method.”

“Now you’re laughing at him,” said Miss Cornel. “Perhaps he did overdo order and method a bit. Usually it made things easier. Of course, it didn’t always work that way.” She gave a particularly masculine chuckle. “I expect you’ve grasped that we’ve got rather a peculiar type of client here—upper five hundred and so forth. When Abel or his partners were dictating the letters themselves it was all right. They put in all the correct little twiddly bits and personal touches. Some of the assistants we had didn’t quite get it—I mean, their law was sound enough, but you need something more than law when you’re writing a personal letter to a duke. Of course, Abel tackled the problem in his own unique way. He sat down and made out a list of suitable sentences for ending every letter with—you know the sort of thing: ‘I hope the pheasants are coming over strongly this year,’ and ‘Did you have any luck with your runner in the National?’ and so on. Of course, the first thing John Cove did when he arrived in this office was to include the whole boiling lot in all the letters he wrote—and it just happened that Mr. Craine was away that day, so John signed his own letters and sent them off. When Abel saw the carbons next morning he nearly had a fit… Well, I mustn’t stop to gossip. Ask me if you want anything.”

“Right,” said Henry. “Yes, I will.” After she had gone he sat for some time, then resummoned Mrs. Porter from the typists’ room and dictated a vigorous letter to Lady Buntingford’s laundry.

III

Bob Horniman was reading slowly through a letter and frowning as he did so. When he had finished it, he pushed back his rather long black hair and read it through again. Then he placed it in the In-basket, regarded it with distaste, transferred it to the Out-basket, where it looked no better, and rang the bell for his secretary.

“This Anthrax-Plumper insurance, Miss Cornel,” he said.

“I’ll get you the file,” said Miss Cornel, lifting down a fat-looking folder.