The Palliser Novels: Complete Parliamentary Chronicles (All Six Novels in One Volume). Anthony Trollope
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that he would go to Mr Tombe. What if there should be an understanding between John Grey and Alice, and Mr Tombe should be arranging his money matters for him! Would not anything be better than this,—even that little tragedy down in Westmoreland, for which his ingenuity and courage would be required? He could endure to borrow money from Alice. He might even endure it still,—though that was very difficult after her treatment of him; but he could not endure to be the recipient of John Grey’s money. By heavens, no! And as he got into a cab, and had himself driven off to the neighbourhood of Doctors’ Commons, he gave himself credit for much fine manly feeling. Mr Tombe’s chambers were found without difficulty, and, as it happened, Mr Tombe was there.
The lawyer rose from his chair as Vavasor entered, and bowed his powdered head very meekly as he asked his visitor to sit down. “Mr Vavasor;—oh, yes. He had heard the name. Yes; he was in the habit of acting for his very old friend Mr John Grey. He had acted for Mr John Grey, and for Mr John Grey’s father,—he or his partner,—he believed he might say, for about half a century. There could not be a nicer gentleman than Mr John Grey;—and such a pretty child as he used to be!” At every new sentence Mr Tombe caught his poor asthmatic breath, and bowed his meek old head, and rubbed his hands together as though he hardly dared to keep his seat in Vavasor’s presence without the support of some such motion; and wheezed apologetically, and seemed to ask pardon of his visitor for not knowing intuitively what was the nature of that visitor’s business. But he was a sly old fox was Mr Tombe, and was considering all this time how much it would be well that he should tell Mr Vavasor, and how much it would be well that he should conceal. “The fat had got into the fire,” as he told his old wife when he got home that evening. He told his old wife everything, and I don’t know that any of his clients were the worse for his doing so. But while he was wheezing, and coughing, and apologizing, he made up his mind that if George Vavasor were to ask him certain questions, it would be best that he should answer them truly. If Vavasor did ask those questions, he would probably do so upon certain knowledge, and if so, why, in that case, lying would be of no use. Lying would not put the fat back into the frying pan. And even though such questions might be asked without any absolute knowledge, they would, at any rate, show that the questioner had the means of ascertaining the truth. He would tell as little as he could; but he decided during his last wheeze, that he could not lie in the matter with any chance of benefiting his client. “The prettiest child I ever saw, Mr Vavasor!” said Mr Tombe, and then he coughed violently. Some people who knew Mr Tombe declared that he nursed his cough.
“I dare say,” said George.
“Yes, indeed,—ugh—ugh—ugh.”
“Can you tell me, Mr Tombe, whether either you or he have anything to do with the payment of certain sums to my credit at Messrs Hock and Block’s?”
“Messrs Hock and Block’s, the bankers,—in Lom—bard Street?” said Mr Tombe, taking a little more time.
“Yes; I bank there,” said Vavasor, sharply.
“A most respectable house.”
“Has any money been paid there to my credit, by you, Mr Tombe?”
“May I ask you why you put the question to me, Mr Vavasor?”
“Well, I don’t think you may. That is to say, my reason for asking it can have nothing to do with yours for replying to it. If you have had no hand in any such payment, there is an end of it, and I need not take up your time by saying anything more on the subject.”
“I am not prepared to go that length, Mr Vavasor,—not altogether to go that length,—ugh—ugh—ugh.”
“Then, will you tell me what you have done in the matter?”
“Well,—upon my word, you’ve taken me a little by surprise. Let me see. Pinkle,—Pinkle.” Pinkle was a clerk who sat in an inner room, and Mr Tombe’s effort to call him seemed to be most ineffectual. But Pinkle understood the sound, and came. “Pinkle, didn’t we pay some money into Hock and Block’s a few weeks since, to the credit of Mr George Vavasor?”
“Did we, sir?” said Pinkle, who probably knew that his employer was an old fox, and who, perhaps, had caught something of the fox nature himself.
“I think we did. Just look Pinkle;—and, Pinkle,—see the date, and let me know all about it. It’s fine bright weather for this time of year, Mr Vavasor; but these easterly winds!—ugh—ugh—ugh!”
Vavasor found himself sitting for an apparently interminable number of minutes in Mr Tombe’s dingy chamber, and was coughed at, and wheezed at, till he begun to be tired of his position; moreover, when tired, he showed his impatience. “Perhaps you’ll let us write you a line when we have looked into the matter?” suggested Mr Tombe.
“I’d rather know at once,” said Vavasor. “I don’t suppose it can take you very long to find out whether you have paid money to my account, by order of Mr Grey. At any rate, I must know before I go away.”
“Pinkle, Pinkle!” screamed the old man through his coughing; and again Pinkle came. “Well, Pinkle, was anything of the kind done, or is my memory deceiving me?” Mr Tombe was, no doubt, lying shamefully, for, of course, he remembered all about it; and, indeed, George Vavasor had learned already quite enough for his own purposes.
“I was going to look,” said Pinkle; and Pinkle again went away.
“I’m sorry to give your clerk so much trouble,” said Vavasor, in an angry voice; “and I think it must be unnecessary. Surely you know whether Mr Grey has commissioned you to pay money for me?”
“We have so many things to do, Mr Vavasor; and so many clients. We have, indeed. You see, it isn’t only one gentleman’s affairs. But I think there was something done. I do, indeed.”
“What is Mr John Grey’s address?” asked Vavasor, very sharply.
“Number 5, Suffolk Street, Pall Mall East,” said Mr Tombe. Herein Mr Tombe somewhat committed himself. His client, Mr Grey, was, in fact, in town, but Vavasor had not known or imagined that such was the case. Had Mr Tombe given the usual address of Nethercoats, nothing further would have been demanded from him on that subject. But he had foolishly presumed that the question had been based on special information as to his client’s visit to London, and he had told the plain truth in a very simple way.
“Number 5, Suffolk Street,” said Vavasor, writing down the address. “Perhaps it will be better that I should go to him, as you do not seem inclined to give me any information.” Then he took up his hat, and hardly bowing to Mr Tombe, left the chambers. Mr Tombe, as he did so, rose from his chair, and bent his head meekly down upon the table.
“Pinkle, Pinkle,” wheezed Mr Tombe. “Never mind; never mind.” Pinkle didn’t mind; and we may say that he had not minded; for up to that moment he had taken no steps towards a performance of the order which had been given him.
Chapter LII.
What Occurred in Suffolk Street, Pall Mall
Mr Tombe had gained nothing for the cause by his crafty silence. George Vavasor felt perfectly certain, as he walked out from the little street which runs at the back of Doctors’ Commons, that the money which he had been using had come, in some shape, through the hands of John Grey. He did not care much to calculate whether the payments had been made from the personal funds of his rival, or whether that rival had been employed to dispense Alice’s fortune. Under either view of the case his position was sufficiently bitter. The truth never for a moment occurred to him. He never dreamed that there might be a conspiracy in the matter, of which Alice was as ignorant as he himself had been. He never reflected that his uncle John, together with John, the lover, whom he so hated, might be the conspirators. To him it seemed to be certain that Alice and Mr Grey were in league;—and if they were in league, what must he think of Alice, and of her engagement with himself!