Read Online The Summer of Sir Lancelot by Richard Gordon - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Richard Gordon
Ads: Link
brief chew at his hair. ‘Naturally, Sir Lancelot, there can be no doubt in your own mind about the rightness of your cause, and I can thoroughly sympathize with your attitude.‘
‘Good! Get your clerk feller to draw up the document.‘
‘Unfortunately, of course... ‘ Mr Dewberry put his dirty fingernails together. ‘There is a certain... shall one say, ambiguity? An area, one might put it, of vagueness? A clause in the deeds, one might express oneself, somewhat in doubt?‘
Sir Lancelot frowned. ‘What exactly are you trying to say, man?‘
‘I am doing my best, Sir Lancelot, to be quite explicit.‘ The solicitor sounded hurt. ‘I am only trying to put my opinion that the claim of both yourself and Mr Chadwick to Witches‘ Pool can be disputed.‘
‘Very well.‘ Sir Lancelot banged the desk. ‘We‘ll dispute it in court. Brief Sir Geoffrey.‘
Mr Dewberry helped himself to another bonnebouche of hair. ‘When I say, as I put it, the claim can be disputed, I mean, you understand, that in such a dispute you would not yourself, I fear... indeed, I very much regret... am very sorry to say... you would not... er, have a leg to stand on.‘
‘But that‘s outrageous!‘
‘I agree, Sir Lancelot, but it is also the fact of the matter. Shall I send the deeds back to you by registered post?‘
Half an hour later Sir Lancelot was in another office, in Grosvenor Square. The interview was even briefer. The tall pale man with the gardenia, who ran the manservants‘ bureau like an ambassador dealing with the heads of painfully dependent states, agreed that he certainly had chauffeurs but none who could equally handily gaff a salmon or net a trout.
‘I‘ll teach the feller,‘ Sir Lancelot offered handsomely. ‘A couple of afternoons on the river with me, and he‘ll be an expert.‘
‘My clients arc extremely particular,‘ observed the ambassador coldly, ‘and I do not think we have any of the rustic type.‘
Not before time, Sir Lancelot felt as he finally strode down Piccadilly, he could turn into a haven of sanity and peace.
You may have noticed the establishment of Brackett and Knockett, on the right opposite Green Park. You could describe them as fishing-tackle merchants, but that would be like calling Chateau Margaux a drink or the Mona Lisa a bit of wall decoration. The old gentlemen in striped trousers, moving gently behind the delicate screen of rods inside the door, admittedly sell lines, reels, spoons, wobblers, Devons, boot dryers, trout disgorgers, priests, tailers, creels, bottled minnows, and little paraffin things to keep your hands warm. But the transaction is merely incidental to swapping the latest gossip about fish. Sir Lancelot could spend hours in the place, describing a single battle of wits between him and a trout. It did him much more good than tranquillizers.
‘Afternoon, Pytchley,‘ he began, striding to the counter and mellowing at once. ‘Did you hear who won the Gold Cup?‘
‘Why, it‘s Sir Lancelot! Good afternoon, sir. Quite a pleasure to see you again. It was Oystercatcher, sir.‘
‘Har!‘ Sir Lancelot rubbed his hands. ‘Harry the gateman was right again. Now I can afford a really decent rod.‘
‘Would you care to browse through our selection, Sir Lancelot? I have another gentleman just choosing some waders. I shall be with you in a minute, sir.‘
Sir Lancelot ran an eye along the rods. Selecting one or two, he took them outside to the pavement and whisked them powerfully among the pedestrians, as though after a catch among the traffic. People stared, a cabby or two became witty, but such interruptions are midge-bites to a man concentrating on his casting. Sir Lancelot grunted. Any Brackett and Knockett rod was a work of art, naturally, but none seemed exactly what was wanted to belabour Percival‘s successors. Another caught his eye. The first switch told him this was the weapon of a fisherman‘s lifetime. He was like some master violinist at last
‘Good! Get your clerk feller to draw up the document.‘
‘Unfortunately, of course... ‘ Mr Dewberry put his dirty fingernails together. ‘There is a certain... shall one say, ambiguity? An area, one might put it, of vagueness? A clause in the deeds, one might express oneself, somewhat in doubt?‘
Sir Lancelot frowned. ‘What exactly are you trying to say, man?‘
‘I am doing my best, Sir Lancelot, to be quite explicit.‘ The solicitor sounded hurt. ‘I am only trying to put my opinion that the claim of both yourself and Mr Chadwick to Witches‘ Pool can be disputed.‘
‘Very well.‘ Sir Lancelot banged the desk. ‘We‘ll dispute it in court. Brief Sir Geoffrey.‘
Mr Dewberry helped himself to another bonnebouche of hair. ‘When I say, as I put it, the claim can be disputed, I mean, you understand, that in such a dispute you would not yourself, I fear... indeed, I very much regret... am very sorry to say... you would not... er, have a leg to stand on.‘
‘But that‘s outrageous!‘
‘I agree, Sir Lancelot, but it is also the fact of the matter. Shall I send the deeds back to you by registered post?‘
Half an hour later Sir Lancelot was in another office, in Grosvenor Square. The interview was even briefer. The tall pale man with the gardenia, who ran the manservants‘ bureau like an ambassador dealing with the heads of painfully dependent states, agreed that he certainly had chauffeurs but none who could equally handily gaff a salmon or net a trout.
‘I‘ll teach the feller,‘ Sir Lancelot offered handsomely. ‘A couple of afternoons on the river with me, and he‘ll be an expert.‘
‘My clients arc extremely particular,‘ observed the ambassador coldly, ‘and I do not think we have any of the rustic type.‘
Not before time, Sir Lancelot felt as he finally strode down Piccadilly, he could turn into a haven of sanity and peace.
You may have noticed the establishment of Brackett and Knockett, on the right opposite Green Park. You could describe them as fishing-tackle merchants, but that would be like calling Chateau Margaux a drink or the Mona Lisa a bit of wall decoration. The old gentlemen in striped trousers, moving gently behind the delicate screen of rods inside the door, admittedly sell lines, reels, spoons, wobblers, Devons, boot dryers, trout disgorgers, priests, tailers, creels, bottled minnows, and little paraffin things to keep your hands warm. But the transaction is merely incidental to swapping the latest gossip about fish. Sir Lancelot could spend hours in the place, describing a single battle of wits between him and a trout. It did him much more good than tranquillizers.
‘Afternoon, Pytchley,‘ he began, striding to the counter and mellowing at once. ‘Did you hear who won the Gold Cup?‘
‘Why, it‘s Sir Lancelot! Good afternoon, sir. Quite a pleasure to see you again. It was Oystercatcher, sir.‘
‘Har!‘ Sir Lancelot rubbed his hands. ‘Harry the gateman was right again. Now I can afford a really decent rod.‘
‘Would you care to browse through our selection, Sir Lancelot? I have another gentleman just choosing some waders. I shall be with you in a minute, sir.‘
Sir Lancelot ran an eye along the rods. Selecting one or two, he took them outside to the pavement and whisked them powerfully among the pedestrians, as though after a catch among the traffic. People stared, a cabby or two became witty, but such interruptions are midge-bites to a man concentrating on his casting. Sir Lancelot grunted. Any Brackett and Knockett rod was a work of art, naturally, but none seemed exactly what was wanted to belabour Percival‘s successors. Another caught his eye. The first switch told him this was the weapon of a fisherman‘s lifetime. He was like some master violinist at last
Similar Books
