To my astonishment, it was the exquisitely rare 1798 Paris (P. Didot) edition of Aretino’s sonnets, with engravings by Coiny after Carrache, something I had never seen before in all my bibliographic searchings.
‘I have presumed, Mr Glapthorn,’ he said, ‘that such a work is interesting to you – as a scholar and collector. I hope I have not offended in any way?’
‘By no means,’ I replied, turning over the volume slowly in my hands to admire the binding. With the content of the illustrations, as well as the accompanying verses, I was naturally familiar: the muscular bodies, fiercely entwined limbs, and tumescent members, the urgent couplings against tasselled cushions beneath great canopied beds. That my employer should also be familiar with them, however, was wholly unexpected.
The production of the volume led to a more general discussion of the field as a whole, and it soon became clear that, in this department of bibliography at least, Mr Tredgold’s knowledge was considerably in advance even of my own. He invited me back over to the cabinet, unlocked the doors again, and we spent a pleasant hour or so admiring together the gems of venereal literature that he had collected over the course of some twenty years.
‘These, too, may perhaps interest you,’ he said, taking out and opening one of the slim green boxes that I had noticed earlier.
It contained a complete collection, laid lovingly on a bed of soft embossed paper, of those prints by Rowlandson in which the artist had depicted various accommodating ladies in the act of revealing their charms to the fervid male gaze. The other boxes held prints and drawings of a similar nature, by some of the finest practitioners.
My amazement was now complete.
‘It appears, sir,’ I said, smiling, ‘that you have hidden depths.’
‘Well, well,’ he replied, beaming back at me. ‘The law, you know, can be a dreary business. A little harmless diversion is certainly required, from time to time. As a corrective.’
The conversation went on pleasantly over tea as we discussed various rarities in the field of voluptuous literature that we were each keen to locate. Mr Tredgold was particularly eager to augment his collection with a copy of The Cabinet of Venus, the partial, anonymous translation put out in 1658 of the celebrated Geneanthropeia of Sinibaldi. I made a mental note of this, believing that I might know where I could lay my hands on a copy, and thinking that its acquisition would ingratiate me even further with my employer.
At about five o’clock, much later than my usual hour for departing, I rose to take my leave. But before I could say anything, Mr Tredgold had jumped to his feet and had taken me by the hand.
‘May I say, Edward – I hope you will not mind if I presume to address you by your first name – that I have been extremely satisfied by your work.’ One of his hands continued to hold mine tightly, whilst the other he placed gently on my shoulder.
‘I am glad to hear it, Mr Tredgold, though I do not know in what way I can possibly have rendered satisfaction.’
‘You have done what I asked of you, have you not?’ he asked.
‘Of course.’
‘And you have done it to the best of your ability, diligently, without shirking?’ ‘I believe so.’
‘So do I. And if I were to ask you a question concerning any of the documents you have read, do you think you would be able to answer it?’
‘Yes – if you would allow me to consult my note-book.’
‘You took notes! Capital! But perhaps you found the task a little irksome? No need to answer. Of course you did. A man of your talents should not be confined. I wish to liberate your talents, Edward. Will you allow me to do that?’
Not knowing how to reply to this curious question, I said nothing, which Mr Tredgold appeared to take as assent.
‘Well then, Edward, your probationary days are over. Come to my office tomorrow, at ten. I have a little problem that I wish to discuss with you.’
So saying, he wished me a pleasant evening, beamed, and retired to his study.
*[One of the senior members of the Inns of Court. Ed.]
*[Pietro Aretino (1492–1556), Italian poet. In 1524 he wrote accompanying sonnets to sixteen pornographic drawings by Giulio Romano, pupil of Raphael. Ed.]
†[John Cleland (1709–89), author of the infamous Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure (1749), otherwise known as Fanny Hill. Ed.]
II
Madame Mathilde
The next morning, as requested, I presented myself at Mr Tredgold’s private office. When I left, an hour later, it was as the Senior Partner’s confidential assistant, a post which, as he was at pains to emphasize, would involve undertaking a variety of duties ‘of a discreet and private kind’. These duties, to which only Mr Tredgold and I were privy, I undertook for the next five years, with, I think I may say, some success.
It may be imagined that a distinguished, and successful, solicitor such as Mr Tredgold often needed to lay his hand on information essential for a case that was not – shall we say – readily obtainable through the usual channels. On such occasions, when it was best that he remain in ignorance of the sources of such information, as well as the means by which it came to him, Mr Tredgold would summon me, and suggest a turn or two round the Temple Gardens. A problem of particular concern for the firm would be set out – theoretically, of course – and discussed (in the abstract).
‘I wonder,’ he would say, ‘whether anything might be done about this?’
Nothing further would be said, and we would make our leisurely return to Paternoster-row, discoursing on nothing in particular.
No formal instructions were issued, no records of conversations kept. But when something needed doing – of a discreet and private kind – it became my task at Tredgold, Tredgold & Orr to ensure that it was done.
The first ‘little problem’ that Mr Tredgold placed before me, for theoretical consideration, concerned a Mrs Bonner-Childs, and may be taken as typical of the work that I subsequently undertook.
This lady had been a patron of an establishment in Regent-street called the Abode of Beauty, run by a certain Sarah Bunce, alias Madame Mathilde.* Here, Madame enticed gullible females dedicated to the pursuit of eternal beauty (a not inconsiderable market, one would suppose) into parting with their – or more often their husbands’ – money, by dispensing ingenious preparations with exotic names (to effect the complete and permanent removal of wrinkles, or to preserve a youthful complexion in perpetuity) at twenty guineas a time. The establishment also offered a room sumptuously fitted out as an Arabian Bath. The unfortunate Mrs Bonner-Childs, having been tempted to partake of this last amenity, had come back to her clothes to find that her diamond ring and earrings had vanished. Upon confronting Madame Mathilde, she was informed by the proprietress that if she made a fuss over the loss, then Madame would inform Mrs Bonner-Childs’s husband – Assistant Secretary at the India Board, no less – that his wife had been using the Bath for immoral assignations.
The success of Madame Mathilde’s establishment – like Kitty Daley’s Academy – depended on the fatal spectre of public scandal doing its work on those unfortunates who succumbed to this and to other similar ruses; but in this case, Mrs Bonner-Childs immediately informed her husband of what had happened, and he, trusting completely in his wife’s innocence in the matter, instantly consulted Mr Christopher Tredgold.
My employer and I duly took a turn round the Temple Gardens. Mr Bonner-Childs was ready to prosecute if it came to it, but had expressed the hope that Mr Tredgold might be able to suggest a way by which this might be avoided, and his wife’s jewels returned. Either way, the question of the firm’s fee – at whatever level it might be set – was immaterial.