The Girl in Blue (3 page)

She had
just come up from the direction of Trafalgar Square, and many admirers of
feminine beauty who were coming the other way had almost dislocated their necks
looking after her. Nor could one reasonably blame them for these acrobatics.
One felt that they had exercised laudable self-restraint in not whistling.

There
are girls who are rather pretty and girls who are all right: there are girls
who aren’t too bad and girls who have a certain something: but it is only
seldom that one encounters a girl who is really spectacular and takes the
breath away. Into this limited class Vera, only daughter of the late Charles (‘Good
old Charlie’) Upshaw and his wife Dame Flora Faye, the actress, unquestionably
fell.

She had
started with every advantage. Her father, till he came out in spots from too
much champagne, had been one of the handsomest men in London, and everyone with
a liking for the theatre was familiar with the radiant loveliness of her
mother. The only asset which she had not inherited from the latter was her
velvet voice. Her own tended to be harsh.

There
was harshness in it now, ignoring Jerry’s ‘Oh, hullo’, she said ‘Who was that?’,
and Jerry, who for some time had been vaguely conscious of something left
undone, realized that he had omitted to ask his colleague of the jury box her
name.

‘I don’t
know her name. She was on the jury with me and we got talking after the show.’

‘Oh,’
said Vera, losing interest. ‘Is that your best suit?’ she continued, changing
the subject. She had always been critical about his outer crust, for Jerry in
the matter of clothes went in, as so many artists do, for the comfortable
rather than the glamorous, and it was apparently her aim to convert him into
what a songwriter earlier in the century once described as a specimen of the
dressy men you meet up West. ‘I should have thought you would have smartened up
a little for the Savoy. Oh, well. When is your lunch?’

‘One-thirty.’

Then we’ve
time to talk. Who will be there?’

‘Just
us chickens.’

‘What
on earth do you mean?’

‘Nobody
but Uncle Bill and me.’

Then he
must want to discuss the trust.’

‘I
doubt it. He’ll probably talk golf all the time.

‘You
mustn’t let him. This is your big chance. You must get that money out of him.
You ought to have done it long ago.

She
spoke with the imperious curtness of a princess of the Middle Ages giving
instructions to one of the scullions or scurvy knaves on her pay roll, and
Jerry found himself regarding her with disfavour. Even before his soul mate had
come into his life he had begun to entertain doubts as to whether in
contracting to link his lot with that of Vera Upshaw he might not have been a
little precipitate. It had seemed a good idea at the time, but after a while
something uncomfortably like regret had begun to creep in. Had it, he asked
himself, been altogether wise to sign on the dotted line with one in whom the
bossiness which too often goes with extreme beauty was so marked? Those
lustrous eyes of hers, though admittedly like twin stars, could flash in a very
disconcerting manner when she was displeased. And there was so much about him that
seemed to displease her, notably his reluctance to badger his trustee about
that damned money.

He
curbed his irritation and tried to speak with his usual amiability.

The
trouble about getting anything out of Uncle Bill is that he’s always kidding.
You try to make him stick to the point, and he puts you off with a wisecrack or
starts talking about that collection of his. It’s difficult to pin him down.’

‘You
could do it if you tried.’

‘I have
tried.’

‘Well,
try again. We can’t talk here,’ said Vera petulantly as the third passer-by in
two minutes bumped into her. ‘Let’s go to the Savoy and have a cocktail at the
bar. What I can’t understand,’ she said as they sat with their drinks before
them, ‘is why your money should be in trust at all. Your father left it to you,
so why didn’t you just get it? Why all this nonsense about your not having it
till you’re thirty unless Mr Scrope releases it?’

‘I
explained that,’ said Jerry, and indeed he had done so on more than one
occasion, but either her memory was as treacherous as his own or, like the deaf
adder in Holy Writ, she was a bad listener. ‘I have it from Uncle Bill that
Father was a total loss as a young man, couldn’t settle to anything, couldn’t
save any money, couldn’t get out of debt, just drifted. Then when he was thirty
everything suddenly changed. I think he must have had one of those religious
conversions you read about. He married, settled down, got a job, stuck to it,
saved money, and then went into business for himself and was a big success. And
that apparently gave him the idea that no man amounted to anything till he was
thirty and wasn’t to be trusted with money till then.’

‘Utterly
ridiculous.’

‘I’ve
always thought so, too. But I wasn’t consulted. So I’ve three more years to
wait.’

‘No,
you haven’t.’

‘Surely?
Thirty is the magic number, and I’m twenty-seven. ‘There’s no earthly need for
you to wait three years. I’ve seen a lawyer about it. He says it all depends on
whether the trust is perpetual and irrevocable, and yours can’t be, because Mr
Scrope can give you the money whenever he likes. So you examine what they call
the original indentures, just to make sure, and then you draw up a summons and
complaint and have them served, demanding the termination of the trust. So you
tell Mr Scrope at lunch today that that’s what you’re going to do.’

‘Oh,
golly!’

‘I
shall be furious if you don’t.’

Jerry
nodded unhappily. He could well believe her.

CHAPTER THREE

W
hile
Jerry and his colleagues were deciding the fate of the Lincolnshire glass
bottlers in Queen’s Bench Division 3, business had been proceeding as usual at
the offices of Scrope, Ashby and Pemberton in Bedford Row.

The
days when London lawyers conducted their affairs in dark and depressing dens
have long been past, for the modern lawyer likes his comforts and feels that
the best is none too good for him. The premises of Scrope, Ashby and Pemberton
were bright, airy and tastefully furnished, and their waiting-room was rendered
additionally attractive by the presence there of a receptionist with an
hour-glass figure and a good deal of golden hair. She reminded the caller who
had just crossed the threshold of barmaids he had known in his youth, when
barmaids had entered rather largely into his life. He approached her desk
nervously, for circumstances had made him a nervous man. He had to clear his
throat before he could speak, and when he spoke he spoke humbly.

‘Could
I see Mr Scrope?’

‘What
name, sir?’

‘Mr
Scrope.’

‘Your
name, sir.’

‘Mr
Scrope.’

‘Mr
Scrope?’

‘Mr
Crispin Scrope. I am Mr Scrope’s brother.’

‘Oh, I
beg your pardon, Mr Scrope. Mr Scrope is engaged at the moment, Mr Scrope. Will
you take a seat, Mr Scrope.’

Mr
Scrope took a seat and settled himself to wait till Mr Scrope should find
himself at liberty. He was an elderly man with thinning hair, watery blue eyes
and a drooping moustache, and he was wearing the anxious look so often seen on
the faces of elderly men with thinning hair when they are about to try to
borrow money from their younger brothers. From time to time a twitching shudder
ran through his gaunt frame. The recent exchanges on the subject of Scropes had
robbed him of the little confidence he had possessed when starting out on his
mission, and the longer he sat, the less did it seem to him probable that his
brother Willoughby, good fellow though he was and kindly disposed though he had
shown himself in the past to applications for loans on a smaller scale, could
be relied on for the stupendous one of two hundred and three pounds six
shillings and fourpence — a sum roughly equivalent, or so it appeared to
Crispin’s fevered mind, to what it costs to put a man on the moon.

Time
limped by, and he was just thinking that if he had any sense, he would have
sent his brother a telegram arranging a meeting elsewhere instead of calling
without notice in the middle of a busy morning, when the door with the legend ‘Willoughby
Scrope’ on it opened, and a large, prosperous-looking man appeared, ushering
out another large, prosperous-looking man. Hands were shaken, the visitor went
on his way, and the first large, prosperous-looking man turned to the
receptionist.

‘I beat
him hollow, Mabel.’

‘I beg
your pardon, Mr Scrope?’

‘Putting
into a tooth glass. He was corn before my sickle. My score was twenty-three, his
a meagre eleven.’

‘Congratulations,
Mr Scrope.’

‘Well
earned, though I say it myself. Do you know what the secret of successful putting
is, Mabel? Perfect co-ordination of hand and eye, and to obtain these the
stance must be right, not too rigid, but at the same time not too limp.’
Willoughby Scrope turned to the visitor. ‘You agree with me, sir?’ he said, and
paused, staring. ‘For heaven’s sake! Crips!’

‘Hullo,
Bill.’

There
is generally a physical resemblance, if only slightly, between brothers, but it
was hard to believe that these two were so related. Crispin was thin and
diffident; Willoughby plump and exuding the self-confidence which comes with
success. Crispin looked the typical poor relation, Willoughby obviously the
rich one. Nor would anyone who so classified them have been in error.
Willoughby had one of the most lucrative practices in London, while all that
Fate had allotted to Crispin was a large country house with insufficient money
to maintain it. The Scropes of Mellingham Hall had functioned more than
comfortably through a number of centuries, but the present owner of that
ancient pile, as he often said, did not know which way to turn, all he had to
console him was the memory of the costly fun he had enjoyed in his youth.
Willoughby, the younger son, who after the fashion of younger sons had been
thrust out into the world to earn his living, was now in the highest income tax
bracket:

Crispin,
the heir, was forced to take in paying guests in order to make both ends meet:
and now there was yawning between those ends a gap of two hundred and three
pounds six shillings and fourpence.

Willoughby
was still staring. A visit from his brother was the last thing he had been
expecting. He had always accepted it as one of the facts of life that Crispin
never came to London. Negotiations for those small loans of which mention was
made earlier had always been conducted over the telephone.

‘I didn’t
know you were here, Crips. Why didn’t you tell me, Mabel?’

‘I
assumed you would not wish to be interrupted while you were in conference, Mr
Scrope,’ said the receptionist with a dignity that became her well, and
Willoughby had to admit that this was a proper spirit.

‘Quite
right. It would have interfered with the perfect coordination of hand and eye.
Well, come along in, Crips,’ said Willoughby, and Crispin, as he followed him
into his office, was conscious of a faint but distinct thrill of hope. Bill, it
was plain, was in merry mood this morning. Whether it was merry enough to make
him write a cheque for two hundred and three pounds, six shillings and
fourpence only time would tell, but the omens seemed favourable.

In the
office there was no diminution of Willoughby’s exuberance. He was all bounce
and effervescence. He hummed little snatches of song, he skipped rather than
walked. If there was a sunnier lawyer in Bedford Row that morning, he would
have been hard to find.

‘Fancy
you bobbing up, Crips. Have a cigar?’

‘No,
thank you, Bill.’

‘You’ll
lunch, of course?’

‘I’m
sorry. I have to catch the one-fifteen.’

‘Pity.
I’m giving Jerry lunch at the Savoy. He would have liked to see you.

Crispin
welcomed the opportunity to postpone for a few minutes the subject of loans and
cheques. Eager though he was to discuss the main item on the agenda paper, at
the same time he shrank from bringing it up. This, a familiar attitude with
cats in adages, is also almost universal among diffident men trying to key
themselves up to asking for large sums of money. One might put it that they let
‘I dare not’ wait upon ‘I would’.

‘How is
Jerry these days?’ he asked.

‘Seems
pretty fit.’

‘How’s
he doing?’

‘All
right, I imagine. I haven’t heard any complaints.’

‘Have
you let him have that money his father left him?’

‘No.’

‘I
think you ought to, Bill.’

Crispin
spoke with feeling. He knew that the sum in question was a substantial one, for
the late Joseph West had done well manufacturing chinaware up North, and Jerry
was a young fellow with a kindly heart, who, if in possession of a large bank
account, could be relied on to do the right thing by an impecunious uncle.