Smallbone Deceased

“Well,” said Bohun, “perhaps you can tell me the answer to a question that’s been puzzling me all evening. How can a man raise money on something he hasn’t got?”

The young man thought for a moment. “That’s dead easy,” he said. “Pawn the same article twice. It’s the quickness of the hand deceives the eye. My old man used to do it with cuff links. It’s quite a lark… Oh, here come our feathered friends… Remind me to tell you about it some time.”

It was half-past five when Bohun got home. A City police car gave him a lift as far as the end of Chancery Lane. As he walked up the Rents the answer came to him in all its stunning and beautiful simplicity.

“Pawn the same thing twice.”

Bohun climbed into bed. For the first time in years he slept for a full three hours.

‌Chapter Thirteen —Friday— A Very Puisne Mortgage

But here a grievance seems to lie

All this is mine but till I die

I can’t but think ’twould sound more clever

“To me and to my heirs for ever.”

Lines inserted by Pope in Swift’s

Imitation of the Sixth Satire of Horace

I

Friday was quite a day.

Bohun spent the first hour of it down in the firm’s strong-room. This was the kingdom of Sergeant Cockerill, and like everything about the sergeant, it was neat and well-ordered and artistically efficient.

The deeds and papers which, in a normal solicitor’s office, lie about in insubordinate bundles loosely constrained with red tape, had been strait-jacketed into card and canvas folders; and these, in their turn, stood dressed by the right on shelves of slab slate. Occupying the serrefile rank, two paces to the right and two paces to the rear, stood the Ledger of Wills, the Ledger of Securities and the Ledger of Deeds. It was through this last book that Bohun was searching.

“Was there any particular deeds that you had in mind, sir?” enquired Sergeant Cockerill.

“Well—no. Not really. I know the sort of thing I’m looking for, but I don’t know exactly what it is. I shall probably recognise it when I see it, if you see what I mean.”

“If it’s any help to you,” said Sergeant Cockerill, “you’ll find all the deeds indexed under the name of the client and cross-indexed under the name of the partner who deals with them.”

“Yes, that should help,” said Bohun. “I know it was Abel Horniman.”

Sergeant Cockerill looked up rather sharply at this, but said nothing.

Bohun also paused in his search and for a moment there was silence in the vaulted tomb-like room with its door of eight-inch steel.

“You were very attached to him, weren’t you?” said Bohun.

The sergeant did not pretend not to understand him.

“Yes,” he said. “More than thirty years I knew him. He was a good man to work for. I’d say he was a great man.”

This struck a chord all right. Bohun had to think for a moment, then he remembered that Miss Cornel had used almost exactly the same words.

“I was his batman in 1914,” went on Sergeant Cockerill. “That surprises you. You didn’t know that Mr. Horniman went to France in the Gunners. He was too old for such capers, really: but go he would. Lucky for him, I always thought, he got pneumonia on top of a sharp nip of muscular rheumatism. It was the damp and the cold. Between ’em, they nearly did for him. But I reckon they saved his life, none the less. He had a medical board and got taken out of the army. We were all sorry to see him go. Yes, a great man.”

For all practical purposes the sergeant was now talking to himself.

“He was waiting outside the depot on the day I was demobbed. I hadn’t told him. He’d found out. That was the sort of man he was. He stood me a drink and offered me a job. Well, that was longer ago than I care to think of.” The sergeant turned about abruptly. “I must go and make them their teas. I can’t trust that young Charlie with it. Sixteen years in this mortal vale and he still hasn’t learnt to warm the pot.”

When the sergeant had gone, Bohun did not immediately resume his search of the register. An illusive memory was teasing him. He thought it was something to do with Cockerill. He couldn’t put his finger on it. After a bit he gave up trying.

Using the index it took him surprisingly little time to trace the deeds he wanted. He made a careful note of dates and parties on a piece of paper and then turned to the deed containers on the shelf. They were numbered to correspond with the ledger and he soon had his hand on the right envelope. It was empty except for an old deed receipt. Some minutes later he was upstairs in his room talking to John Cove.

“Do you remember the sale of Longleaf Farm?”

“It is inscribed on the tablets of my heart,” said John. “It was the very first piece of conveyancing that I did in this office.”

“I thought I made out your initials on the deed receipt. Can you tell me about it?”