FIFTEEN

BRISTOL—JANUARY

“Strictly private and confidential”. The words stared at him from the envelope. The Judge’s Clerk confirmed the Order to appear before Sir Lawrence Proster. Mr Duncan was to telephone “forthwith” to fix the time for the apology. He crumpled the letter before hurtling it at the wall. It rebounded soggily, like a punctured squash ball and lay disowned on the red Wilton carpet. It was the first of the huge pile of mail to be opened.

There was a letter from a woman in Bath. She enclosed a copy of a libellous letter which she had sent to her M.P., instructing him to take steps to ensure that the public were protected from “idle bastards like Mr Alistair Duncan”. He laughed. “Thanks very much, Mr Justice Proster. You’re doing a grand job,” Duncan muttered. He picked up the phone.

“Oh! You’re back, Mr Duncan. I have some messages for you. Not very nice, some of them.” Marilyn sounded upset.

“Sorry about that. Get me the Law Society, can you? And no incoming calls, please. That’s if you don’t mind taking messages.”

“That’s all right, Mr Duncan. I have learnt some smashing new four-letter words since …”

“I doubt it, Marilyn, my love—” Duncan put on his most Partner-like voice, “I was listening when you spilt the coffee last week.”

Duncan explained the problems regarding Proster to the Law Society. They wanted a further Report after the apology at Cardiff.

“Nice to feel that people want to write, isn’t it?” Duncan commented to Lucy as he flourished a wodge of offensive letters.

“Bit of a mess. Are you worried?” She smoothed down her skirt.

“No. I’ll eat humble pie, I suppose.”

“That’s not like you.”

“I know when I’m beaten.” Lucy looked surprised. She guessed that the other Partners had pressurized him already.

“Anything I can do?”

“Besides putting arsenic in McKay’s coffee, you mean?”

“Consider him dead,” Lucy replied. “Now do I get my rise?” Duncan ignored the oft-repeated remark. Instead he said “I must finish my report on what happened in France.”

“The full story?” Lucy’s nostrils quivered inquisitively.

“Never you mind.”

At 10.15 p.m., Duncan was still clearing the backlog. The offices were silent as he padded along the corridor to Lucy’s room to collect a file. He was greeted by her gnome smiling across the chaos. A new message had been fixed.

“An angry old Judge called Proster

Was told ‘The Witness I’ve lost, Sir’.

Said the Judge, ‘That’s absurd,

Now I give you my word

That your Boss will be struck from the Roster’.”

Duncan laughed. Not even Proster could get him struck off from the Roll of Solicitors for this. But he had to admit that he would have to crawl thirty times round the Court Room to satisfy Proster’s ego. It wasn’t going to be easy.