Before long, so insistent had his attentions become, whenever I appeared at the office of a morning, that I took to avoiding the front door altogether, and instead would gain my room by means of the side stairs; but still I would often encounter him, at the end of a day, hovering in the street, waiting for me. ‘There you are, Mr Glapthorn,’ he would say, in his strange high-pitched voice. ‘I thought we might walk back together. A little company and a friendly chat at the end of the day, so pleasant.’
Jukes’s most unwelcome interest in me had begun on my very first morning in Paternoster-row. As I entered through the front door, he jumped down from his desk and began bowing obsequiously.
‘Honoured to make your acquaintance, Mr Glapthorn,’ he said, shaking my hand furiously as he spoke, ‘honoured. I hope we may see much of each other, in a social as well as a business capacity. Neighbours, you know. New blood always welcome, sir – lubrication for the great Tredgold engine, eh? We must move forward, mustn’t we, Mr Glapthorn? Yes, indeed. So clever of the SP to bring you to us, but then we expect no less of the SP.’
He went on in this vein until we reached the door of Mr Tredgold’s office. He conducted me into the room, giving yet another oily obeisance, and then, with reiterated bobbings of his head, closed the door softly behind him.
The Senior Partner rose from his desk, beaming.
‘Welcome, welcome, Mr Glapthorn!’ he said, shaking me warmly by the hand. ‘Please sit down, sir. Now, is there anything you require? Shall I ring for some tea? It is a little cold this morning, is it not? Would you like to move nearer to the fire?’
He continued in this warmly considerate manner for some minutes, until I convinced him at last that I was not in the least bit cold, and that I did not require any warming beverage to fortify me. I then asked him what duties I would be expected to undertake at the firm.
‘Duties? Yes, of course. There are certainly duties.’ He gave his eye-glass a little polish, and beamed.
‘Might I ask, Mr Tredgold, what those duties might be?’
‘Of course you may. But first, Mr Glapthorn, you ought to know something of my colleagues. We are called Tredgold, Tredgold, & Orr, but there is only one Tredgold now – myself. Mr Donald Orr is the Junior Partner; and then there is Mr Thomas Ingrams. There are six clerks, including Mr Jukes, who is the most senior of their number. It is a varied practice. Criminal work, divorce, bankruptcy and insolvency (the particular interest of Mr Donald Orr), probate, the management of estates and properties, and so on; and of course we represent the interests of a large number of distinguished persons.’
‘Such as Lord Tansor?’
‘Indeed.’
‘And in which particular area of the practice will my duties lie?’ ‘You are a great one for duty, I see, Mr Glapthorn, and it is apparent you are keen to be at it.’
‘At what, Mr Tredgold?’
‘Well, now, let me see. I thought, to begin with, you might wish to cast your eye over some papers relating to a bankruptcy case that we recently conducted. Would that please you?’
‘I am not here to be pleased, Mr Tredgold,’ I replied, ‘I am here to please you, and to earn a living.’
‘But I am pleased,’ he cried, ‘and will be even more so if you will kindly consent to look over these papers.’
‘May I enquire whether you require me to do anything other than read the documents?’
‘Not at this time. Come!’
And with that, he took me by the arm and ushered me down the corridor and into a dark little room, with a large desk in the centre, and a cheerfully crackling fire.
‘Wait here, if you please,’ he said. A few minutes later he returned with a large bundle of papers, and set them down on the desk.
‘Will you be comfortable here?’ ‘Perfectly.’
‘Then I shall leave you to your labours. I shall be out of the office today. Leave when you wish. Good-day, Mr Glapthorn.’
I duly applied myself to the documents that Mr Tredgold had given me. When I had finished reading them, having nothing else to occupy me, I returned to Temple-street. For the remainder of the week, I would come into my little room every morning to find another bundle of papers waiting for me, which I would diligently read through, to no apparent purpose, and then return home. On Friday, as I was about to depart, the door of Mr Tredgold’s office opened.
‘An excellent week’s work, Mr Glapthorn. May I have the pleasure of your company on Sunday, at the usual time?’
Once again, I found myself in Mr Tredgold’s private residence, enjoying a most appetizing collation. Afterwards, as always, we fell into talking about books. As I was being conducted down the side stairs by the man, Harrigan, he handed me a key.
‘Please to use this, sir, at Mr Tredgold’s request, when you next come. No need to knock.’
Astonished at this sign of my standing with the Senior Partner, I looked at Harrigan for a moment, but his face showed no expression. As I did so I noticed, just behind him, a woman of about my own age, regarding me with a similar impassivity. These two persons – whom I had been told were husband and wife, Albert and Rebecca Harrigan by name – were the only other inhabitants of the building on the Sundays when I was entertained by Mr Tredgold. I would catch glimpses of them from time to time, going about their duties silently, and never saying a word to each other.
Another week passed. Every day I walked from Temple-street to Paternoster-row, read carefully through whatever papers Mr Tredgold had left on my desk, and then walked home. As I was leaving my room on the second Friday afternoon, a beaming Mr Tredgold issued another invitation to join him on Sunday in his private residence. This time, I had my key, and let myself in by the side door.
After luncheon was over, and we had settled ourselves on the ottomans in front of the fire, the conversation soon turned towards books. During our bibliographic chats, Mr Tredgold would often get up to pick out some volume from his collection to make a point, or to ask my further opinion on some matter of typography or provenance. On this occasion, he had been speaking of some of the unusual testamentary provisions that the firm had occasionally been asked to prepare, which led me to mention the mock last will and testament drawn up by Aretino* for Pope Leo X’s pet elephant, Hanno, in which the poet solemnly bequeathed the beast’s private parts to one of His Holiness’s Cardinals.
‘Ah, Aretino,’ said Mr Tredgold, beaming and polishing his eyeglass. ‘The infamous Sixteen Postures.’
Now, having become something of a connoisseur in the history of warm literature during my time in Heidelberg (and possessing, as I did, good editions of Rochester and Cleland,† as well as rare examples of the genre from earlier periods), I was instantly familiar with the reference, but taken aback somewhat by my host’s unabashed mention of this celebrated masterpiece of the erotic imagination.
‘Mr Glapthorn.’ He put down his red silk handkerchief and looked steadily at me. ‘Would you mind giving me your opinion on this?’
He stood up and walked over to a large walnut-fronted cabinet that I had often noticed, standing between the two doors that gave access to the room. Taking out a key on a delicate gold chain from his waistcoat pocket, Mr Tredgold unlocked this cabinet to reveal six or eight shelves of tightly packed books, as well as a number of slim, dark-green wooden boxes. Taking down one of the volumes, he re-locked the cabinet, and returned to his seat.