CHAPTER XIV
IN THE NIGHT
Autumn was approaching. The long vacation had begun, and London lay sweltering beneath a heat-wave in the early days of August. Legal business was nearly at a stand-still, and Hensman with his wife had gone for three weeks to that charming spot amid the Welsh mountains, the Oakwood Park Hotel, near Conway in North Wales. Half the clubs were enveloped in holland swathings for their annual cleaning. Pall Mall and St. James’s Street were deserted, for the world of the West End seemed to be in flight, northward bound for the “Twelfth,” or crossing to the French coast.
At the office I was simply “carrying on” with such occasional matters as demanded immediate attention. But legal business was almost dead, half the staffs in London, our own included, were away. The time hung heavily on the heads of those left in town. I found life insupportably dull and had no energy, when the day’s scant duties were over, to do more than crawl back to my dull room in Russell Square and sit sweltering in the torrid heat.
In accordance with the usual arrangement, I had taken my holiday in the winter and was looking after the office while Hensman was away. He was one of the “sun-birds”; the delights of snow and frost had no attraction for him, while to me the hot weather was trying in the highest degree. Heat for him—cold for me!
Bedford Row in August is indeed a sorry place. The great wheels of the law machine almost cease their slow remorseless grinding; lawyers and clients seem able to forget their troubles and worries for a brief spell. I lounged my days away, heartily wishing myself elsewhere, but, with the help of the only lady secretary left, perfunctorily getting through such work as could not be shelved.
Late one afternoon, after an unusually busy day—for I had instructed counsel to appear for a client who was to be charged with a serious motoring offence at Brighton—I had risen from my chair and was about to take my hat and leave, when the telephone rang.
On answering I found a trunk call had come through from a village called Duddington, near Stamford, in Lincolnshire. The speaker was a young man who gave his name as Edward Pearson, the son of one of our oldest clients, a large landowner in the district.
Having told me his name he said:
“I wonder if you could come to Stamford tonight, Mr. Yelverton? My father is ill and has expressed his wish to add a codicil to the will you made for him three years ago.”
“Is it a matter of urgency?” I asked. “My partner is away, and it is a little difficult for me to leave London.”