dismalness to the burial. The dead man wouldn’t have liked it. Appleby could almost hear him shouting clumsy jokes about maimed rites and churlish priests.
The service ended and the mourners dispersed. Appleby, who knew none of them, walked off alone under his umbrella. Outside the cemetery, he waited at a bus-stop. So – also under an umbrella – did the man presently to be revealed as Mr Rood. But Mr Rood didn’t appear to think that their late joint concern put Appleby and himself on speaking terms; and as he had some appearance of being the older man Appleby held his tongue. The rain increased; there wasn’t a bus; the rest of the funeral party seemed to have made a superior order of departure in private conveyances. Once Mr Rood dipped his umbrella to take a glance at the heavens, and the rain went plonk on his silk hat just as it had done on Packford’s coffin. Mr Rood made an impatient clicking noise with his tongue – perhaps because of this, or perhaps at the insufficiencies of London’s transport. Then a cruising taxi appeared, and Mr Rood with great promptitude agitated his umbrella. The taxi drew to the kerb. And at last Mr Rood spoke. ‘Would you care, sir,’ he asked politely, ‘to share my cab?’
Appleby agreed, and the two men compared destinations and climbed in. They had travelled some hundreds of yards before Mr Rood spoke. ‘A melancholy occasion,’ he said. His tone contrived to emphasize the bleakly conventional character of this utterance.
‘Yes indeed.’
There was a long silence. ‘Distressing circumstances.’ Mr Rood uttered this with a high degree of rock-like impassivity.
‘Yes.’
Mr Rood applied himself to gently shaking out his umbrella on the floor of the cab – but with a very proper punctiliousness in regard to Appleby’s legs. ‘My name is Rood,’ he said. ‘I was the dead man’s solicitor.’
‘My name is Appleby.’
‘How do you do.’ The inflection which Mr Rood gave this was far from interrogative, and he sank back gloomily in his corner of the cab. Appleby conjectured – without any marked sense of deprivation – that he had now achieved as close an intimacy with the late Lewis Packford’s solicitor as was to be permitted him. But in this he was wrong. ‘Balance of the mind disturbed,’ Rood presently said. ‘A theological rather than a legal fiction. Senseless – but little harm in it, save in cases where the deceased person had made some quite recent change in testamentary dispositions.’
‘Which I suppose Packford hadn’t done.’
Since this hadn’t been in the least a fishing remark, Appleby wasn’t convinced that it deserved to be met with the massive effect of silence which Rood now achieved. However, having thus sufficiently vindicated his professional discretion, the solicitor did proceed in a more conversable vein. ‘Not that I regard with any disfavour the spectacle of people of property making changes in their wills from time to time. From the solicitor’s point of view, it is grist to the mill, after all. And there is much to be said for having the courage to change one’s mind. Napoleon, you will recall, was celebrated for his ability decisively to alter his plans at short notice.’
‘So I’ve heard.’ Appleby wondered whether the correct and dim Mr Rood cherished a fantasy life in which he directed vast armies across the surface of Europe. ‘And I imagine, by the way, that Lewis Packford was the sort of man who would, on occasion, do odd and impulsive things. And suicide is no doubt commonly a matter of sudden impulse.’
‘It may be so. But I was a good deal surprised.’
‘By Packford’s taking that course?’
‘Precisely. And I am a good deal surprised still.’ Mr Rood contrived to lend to this statement the suggestion that it was itself surprising. The implication seemed to be that he wasn’t often surprised, since his sagacity commonly penetrated with perfect accuracy into the future. ‘I am assured
The service ended and the mourners dispersed. Appleby, who knew none of them, walked off alone under his umbrella. Outside the cemetery, he waited at a bus-stop. So – also under an umbrella – did the man presently to be revealed as Mr Rood. But Mr Rood didn’t appear to think that their late joint concern put Appleby and himself on speaking terms; and as he had some appearance of being the older man Appleby held his tongue. The rain increased; there wasn’t a bus; the rest of the funeral party seemed to have made a superior order of departure in private conveyances. Once Mr Rood dipped his umbrella to take a glance at the heavens, and the rain went plonk on his silk hat just as it had done on Packford’s coffin. Mr Rood made an impatient clicking noise with his tongue – perhaps because of this, or perhaps at the insufficiencies of London’s transport. Then a cruising taxi appeared, and Mr Rood with great promptitude agitated his umbrella. The taxi drew to the kerb. And at last Mr Rood spoke. ‘Would you care, sir,’ he asked politely, ‘to share my cab?’
Appleby agreed, and the two men compared destinations and climbed in. They had travelled some hundreds of yards before Mr Rood spoke. ‘A melancholy occasion,’ he said. His tone contrived to emphasize the bleakly conventional character of this utterance.
‘Yes indeed.’
There was a long silence. ‘Distressing circumstances.’ Mr Rood uttered this with a high degree of rock-like impassivity.
‘Yes.’
Mr Rood applied himself to gently shaking out his umbrella on the floor of the cab – but with a very proper punctiliousness in regard to Appleby’s legs. ‘My name is Rood,’ he said. ‘I was the dead man’s solicitor.’
‘My name is Appleby.’
‘How do you do.’ The inflection which Mr Rood gave this was far from interrogative, and he sank back gloomily in his corner of the cab. Appleby conjectured – without any marked sense of deprivation – that he had now achieved as close an intimacy with the late Lewis Packford’s solicitor as was to be permitted him. But in this he was wrong. ‘Balance of the mind disturbed,’ Rood presently said. ‘A theological rather than a legal fiction. Senseless – but little harm in it, save in cases where the deceased person had made some quite recent change in testamentary dispositions.’
‘Which I suppose Packford hadn’t done.’
Since this hadn’t been in the least a fishing remark, Appleby wasn’t convinced that it deserved to be met with the massive effect of silence which Rood now achieved. However, having thus sufficiently vindicated his professional discretion, the solicitor did proceed in a more conversable vein. ‘Not that I regard with any disfavour the spectacle of people of property making changes in their wills from time to time. From the solicitor’s point of view, it is grist to the mill, after all. And there is much to be said for having the courage to change one’s mind. Napoleon, you will recall, was celebrated for his ability decisively to alter his plans at short notice.’
‘So I’ve heard.’ Appleby wondered whether the correct and dim Mr Rood cherished a fantasy life in which he directed vast armies across the surface of Europe. ‘And I imagine, by the way, that Lewis Packford was the sort of man who would, on occasion, do odd and impulsive things. And suicide is no doubt commonly a matter of sudden impulse.’
‘It may be so. But I was a good deal surprised.’
‘By Packford’s taking that course?’
‘Precisely. And I am a good deal surprised still.’ Mr Rood contrived to lend to this statement the suggestion that it was itself surprising. The implication seemed to be that he wasn’t often surprised, since his sagacity commonly penetrated with perfect accuracy into the future. ‘I am assured
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