II.- Lady and Lord More-Money-Than-Sense

Part One: Triple-barrel names.

Money will not bring you happiness. Strangely, the people who say that don’t seem to have much money, so how could they possibly know? Once, the office received a call requesting that the lawyer make a house-call. Cassey knew that we didn’t do house-calls, and she made the appointment anyway. When I saw in the schedule book that I was going on an excursion, much to my dismay, I asked her what on earth could have possessed her to agree to the appointment. “These people have triple barrel surnames Charlie.” No further explanation was required.

The drive took me to the south-east end of the island. After leaving the motorway, I had to cross several little hamlets, each smaller and wealthier than the previous one. The area was so remote, it was as if people hadn’t quite managed to populate it yet. At one point I realized some of the buildings were much older and in much better shape than I was. There may not have been many folks around, but judging by the houses, those few that did live there, were well stocked for cash. I was very happy to have a smart phone with GPS as well as the correct destination address. Getting lost in this area would surely be expensive, or even worse, eye-watering.

The road became windy and smaller. At one point I was skirting the coastline down towards a harbour-village. According to Sally (that is the name I decided to give to the GPS voice on my phone) I had to drive past the harbour and cross to the opposing side of a bay bridge. There the road climbed back up the cliffs, where my destination was supposed to be. The fact that all the houses that I could see were stately mansions, did not escape my eye. Seeing my poor excuse for a car must have frightened some of the locals. I doubt they see many people with just one surname whose parents are not blood relatives.

“You have arrived at your destination.” Sally chimed away signalling her work had finished and she was going for a well-deserved rest. I was on my own now. As I parked the car, I took a second to look up at the property before me. It seemed to be a three-story house with a garden designed to act as a barrier. It kept the riffraff away from the people inside. The main building was plastered in a cream-coloured paint that in certain areas was starting to crack and chip. Around the property there was a waist high wall, behind which a line of hedge stood guard. The wall stopped around a large double-sided, iron gate. Its black paint contrasted with the rest of the house and gave it an ominous feel. The house was, in some ways, an imitation castle. All that was missing was a Merlin look alike, someone to act as King Arthur, perhaps a troll or a dragon.

After collecting my briefcase and donning my suit jacket, and making sure my tie was straight, I approached the gate and was thankful to discover a modern intercom. I half expected a herald with a trumpet to have to announce my arrival. The machine crackled for just a second and the clearest Oxbridge accent announced “Hello.”

“Hello, this is Mr Charles Francis Solomon. Lawyer here to see Mr Corrothers-Bamberg-McKenzie at his request, my office arranged the appointment.”

The voice was back within seconds “Yes, please do come in.”

As if commanded by magic, the megalithic gates began to open silently. They swung back slowly on railings embedded into the concrete. As I entered the garden, the gate closed behind me, moving once again without a sound. It was strange that there was no creaking noise as the huge things moved. This seemed to indicate that someone made sure the house was well maintained. The scene in front of me confirmed that.

There was a paved pathway, wide enough for a car, that led up to a horseshoe driveway with a fountain in the centre. It looked like a cupid statue was standing on top of the fountain, water cascading out from the arrow in his bow. The lawn spread in front of the main building and hugged the pathway. There were several flower beds which were meticulously tended. A double-door garage was on the left, with the pathway ending in front of it. Behind the fountain, three steps led up to the main entrance. The dark wooden doors were just as ominous as the gate and seemed to open with the same quiet precision. A man dressed in a dark suit walked out to greet me. He must have been about forty years old, as thin as a rake and as stiff as a ship’s mast.

“Hello, I am Mr Wesley, personal assistant to Mr Corrothers-Bamberg-McKenzie. He and his wife Camile are waiting for you on the front lawn. May I offer you a coffee or drink Mr Solomon?”

He was the owner of the Oxbridge voice on the intercom. Clearly this man had been trained for this job. Everything about his demeanour suggested he ran the household. The meticulous impeccable quality of his suit, accent and altogether presentation, was imitated in the orderly disposition of the perfectly kept garden and spotless pathway. This was the man you spoke to if you needed something done in this house.

“Thank you, a white coffee if it’s not too much trouble, and a glass of water.”

Mr Wesley did not wait a second before turning on his heels “Please accompany me Sir.”

Dutifully following my guide, I started to look around the wealthy surroundings. We entered a hall area through the main doors. Again, as if propelled by magic, which I suspected had something to do with Wesley being the resident Merlin of this castle, the large wooden doors began to close silently. The floor was tiled with impeccably polished marble that reflected the slightest spec of dirt. It was white, except for some silver veins here and thee. I looked down and had the impression I was standing on a mirror. At this point I realized my shoes needed to be polished. Wesley had also noticed this.

The hall had doors on either side, leading no doubt to the kitchen and service quarters on one side, and to an office on the other. A large double staircase framed sliding doors which had been left open. Wesley led me through the arch created by the cream stairways, into a huge living room and dining area. On one side, there were several oxblood leather-couches and armchairs, with dark bookshelves covering the walls. On the other, there was a large mahogany dining table with at least 8 chairs. The doors behind the dining area led to the kitchen no doubt. Strewn all around the room were huge paintings, statues, and all manner of art pieces. In a way the style was somewhat over the top. I had the feeling this room’s main function was to showcase the owner’s wealth.

The entire room was surrounded by windows with a view of the back garden, which was large enough to fit any house or apartment I’ve ever lived in. A large ornate set of sliding glass doors were in the middle of the perimeter. These had also been left open. I was led onto a terrace, complete with barbecue, outdoor couches, and another dining table. This one of course was not as swanky as the one indoors, but it was also a far cry from any cheap plastic table I’ve sat at when barbecuing. The grill was spotless.

A small path of cobblestones led away from the terrace to a gazebo area at the far end of the garden. Wesley led me all the way there. On the way there, I noticed the property had a small, shabby looking gate at the far end. It was not well maintained like the rest of the house, and it seemed like it had not been opened in years. There wasn’t even a path leading up to it. Was that the gate to the goblin’s grotto, or worse, the dragon’s den? Finally arriving at our destination, Mr Wesley announced my arrival to the king.

“The lawyer Mr Charles Francis Solomon to see you Sir.”

I was unaware it was possible to pronounce my name with six diphthongs. My Grandmother would be pleased. I suppose if you have money you can splurge on unnecessary verbal acrobatics.

A small elderly gentleman rose from the head of the table, that occupied the centre of the gazebo, offering me his hand. He spoke with an accent that I had always thought reserved for British royalty.

“Good day Mr Solomon, I am Mr Henry-Rupert-Wilfred Corrothers-Bamberg-McKenzie, the III. Pleased to make your acquaintance. This is my wife Camile, please make yourself comfortable, has Mr Wesley offered you refreshments?”

“Thank you. Yes, a pleasure. Mr Wesley has indeed. You have a very nice home Mr Corrothers”.

We had not finished exchanging pleasantries when Mr Wesley appeared with a tray with my coffee, a pitcher with ice water and crystal cups for the entire party. I could have sworn the tray was sterling silver, as was the sugar box that sat on it. My coffee was placed before me, and I was offered sugar. My required lumps were applied by Wesley. Apparently if you have enough money, other people sugar your coffee for you. The porcelain cup cost about as much as my suit.

Mrs Corrothers sat next to her husband eyeing me the entire time. If this house was a castle, I had found the dragon. She was the second wife of Mr Corrothers. They met shortly after his first wife passed away from cancer and had been married for the better part of the last decade. It was clear that Camile was in the habit of spending her husband’s money on clothing, shoes, jewellery, and anything else that caught her fancy. She was perhaps somewhat younger than Mr Corrothers, but not by much. Her spending was a coping mechanism. I couldn’t imagine what she of all people might have to cope with.

Mr Corrothers had made his money the old-fashioned way, inheriting it from his father, who again had received it from further up the family tree. This pattern repeated itself about once every generation, and you had to go back to William the Conqueror to see any Corrothers doing a bit of work. I suppose brutalizing peasants on horseback was considered work in those days. But the family had been wealthy since time immemorial (which coincidentally, according to English Law, is before 1066). Mr Corrothers had even purchased himself a title of Marquis recently. He had only one son from his first marriage, who stood to inherit absolutely everything his father had. Naturally, he too was workshy.

This house was only one of five owned by Mr Corrothers. He also had a house in Barbados, an apartment in the centre of London, a country estate in Scotland (not far from Balmoral, as Mrs Corrothers felt the need to inform me), and finally, perhaps the crowning glory of it all, Lewellen Hall. This was a house in the Welsh valleys which had been the birthplace of Mr Corrothers’ great-grandfather. They called it the family seat, but it was little more than a ruin nowadays. Despite his wealth, they were not peers of the realm.

They aspired to be nobility and took on the trappings of old British aristocracy. It was clear from Mrs Corrothers’ demeanour that they had once been much more influential. Even though she had no assets to speak of, by virtue of marriage, she owned Mr Corrothers. An attitude which no doubt would one day drive a wedge between her and the junior Mr Corrothers.

I took a few moments appreciate the surroundings. The gazebo sat at the end of the garden and overlooked the cliffs. I was able to notice that there was a small pathway carved into the craggy wall. It led from the small gate I had seen before, all the way down to the sea. A small private beach had formed at the end of the pathway, accessible only through this path. It was then that I noticed, the neighbouring plot also had an exit on to this path. It was blocked by one of the pillars of Mr Corrothers’ gate.

The neighbouring house was not in the same state of care as the Corrothers’. Clearly the owner could not afford the upkeep. It was at this point I began to suspect why I had been summoned today.

I decided it was time to ask my host “How may I help you Mr Corrothers?”

“Well, you see, it has to do with that gate you noticed on your way here. We have a problem with our neighbour wanting to have access to our pathway.”

Camile, who until this moment had been content with nibbling quietly on a piece of fruit, took this as her cue to jump in. The woman seemed very oddly shaped. She was short and fat, with legs and arms far too long for her frame, that looked as if they had once belonged to another person. She had a disagreeable look on her face. She pushed her chair back and walked over to me. Her accent was just as posh as her husband’s, however, in his case it was clearly his natural voice. In hers even the most tone-deaf person could tell she was putting on an act.

“If you come over here, you’ll see that there is a pathway leading down to the beach. It is ours. It has always been ours. That horrible German next door died some years ago, and the children have done nothing to keep the property in a decent state. Now they think they’ll sell it to some poor unsuspecting person. To do so, they want to gain access to the beach. Selling a house with a sea view is one thing. It’s quite another to have direct private access to your own little beach. They are just picking the bones.”

Inwardly I said to myself, looking at Camile, it takes one to know one. Apparently, Mr Corrothers had purchased the land while still married to his first wife, almost fifty years ago. Back then there wasn’t even a proper road through the town. He had then built the house and installed the pathway down to the beach. His property reached the sealine, and there was no legal impediment at the time against him doing so. However, his neighbour Mr Finch, a German dentist who had also built and developed his plot concurrently with Mr Corrothers, also wanted access to the sea. He considered that the pathway should be a public or common access to the coastline. This position was not without merit.

Finch approached Mr Corrothers years ago, requesting neighbourly access to the pathway. The client was willing to allow this, for a price of course. Building houses was not cheap work, and Mr Corrothers was not keen on having a person such as Finch building a holiday home next to him. After all, he was a working man, not the proper sort to be rubbing shoulders with Mr Corrothers on what he considered to be his private beach. It just wouldn’t do. He set an exorbitant price.

Mr Finch, undeterred, had used the pathway, nonetheless, against the wishes of Mr Corrothers of course. And his children, even more so. Things had come to a head some years ago when Mr Finch had finally done the decent thing, according to Camile, and dropped dead of a massive heart attack. The problem was he had left a widow, three children, and a companion lady (a mistress according to Camile) who from time to time had accompanied Mr Finch to the island, when the wife was not around. The rumour was that the mistress was in the house with Mr Finch when he expired. Camile seemed a little too happy, as she filled me in on the local gossip.

As a result of Mr Finch’s death, the children had all swarmed in and for about a year now, had tried to sell the house. The widow also wanted her pound of flesh and had taken up the claim once held by her straying husband, that the pathway was to be accessed by both houses. Camile had been surprised while swimming nude one morning, by workmen constructing the gate that was now on the Finch property. She had seen them off in her natural state, and I couldn’t help but wonder if that had something to do with the Finch gate remaining unfinished.

A registered letter had arrived in which the Finch clan, who were normally at each other’s throats, had united to insist Mr Corrothers grant them access to the pathway. Camile was beside herself at the time. That is when they decided to enlist our services.

“Mr Corrothers, I do have one question if I may. The gate on your side of the property line, where the pathway starts does not seem to have been used in quite some time. Are you sure that reaching some agreement with the Finch family is not at all possible?”

Camile gasped as if she had been slapped. Mr Corrothers began his measured answer but was interrupted by his wife “I’m afraid I cannot accept any agreement on principle. It’s the thin end of the wedge and I do not think…”

She had come around to my side of the table and taken the seat next to me. By this point in the conversation, she had parked herself on every unoccupied chair in the gazebo at one point or another. “We are not prepared to allow these upstarts to usurp our path and our beach. We are willing to go to the bitter end for this, and we want you to spare no expense to crush these people.”

A court case is an extremely complicated affair. A lawyer should prepare for a day in court with the similar frame of mind as a surgeon prepares to enter the operating theatre. Much the same way as with surgery, the procedure will be difficult, and the outcome may depend on factors far beyond the acting professional’s abilities. Therefore, both surgeons and lawyers, only resort to donning their gear as a last resort. A negotiated settlement is almost always the best solution to any legal dispute.

To hear a client charge you with destroying someone using the Law, is a sure-fire guarantee that nothing you will ever do will be sufficient to keep them happy, because the basis of the legal system is the Rule of Law, not the rule of some petty millionaire. In any case, at the time I was in no position to turn away work, the rent and expenses needing to be paid every month. I naturally took the case.

Essentially, we had to prove that Mr Corrothers was in fact the owner of the land all the way down the pathway. The opposing side would maintain that they had a right to cross Mr Corrothers’ land to get to the coastline (the little beach at the bottom of the pathway big enough for two deckchairs and a medium-sized umbrella, until the tide came in). There was one problem there though. These rights to cross other people’s land (referred to in the legal jargon as easements) only exist if there is no alternative access to the public beach.

It was simple then, we had to find a different way for the Finch family reach the beach, without the use of ropes and pullies.

“Mr Corrothers, I will need the Title Deed of the property as well as certain other documents to study the case. However, it will hinge on the Finch family having an alternative access to what is essentially a public beach. Is there any such access?”

Mr Corrothers was trying to speak but Camile soon put a stop to that “Why should we worry about them getting access to our beach? Honestly, how silly!”.

I was forced to explain tactfully to Camile, the world did not in fact revolve around her oversized ego, but that there were laws that we had to consider if we were going to file a lawsuit requesting that the Finch Family cease in their attempt to build a gate through the Corrothers’ wall. It didn’t quite work, as Camile was not interested in listening to me at all. In her consideration I was being paid to do what she ordered, and anything else was just background noise.

“Surely, we can bribe someone to overlook these things. How much would a Judge be inclined to accept to rule in our favour?”

The idea of bribing a Judge, as well as the pittance, which was offered by Mrs Corrothers, was beyond ludicrous. It was made even more hilarious by the fact that Camile was essentially offering her husband’s money, not her own. She had none of course, having been a professional wife to one rich husband, who had conveniently died under suspicious circumstances, shortly before she met Mr Corrothers. Lovely, salt of the earth people.

I was assured that Wesley would be able to provide me with all necessary paperwork, that we were to submit our fee requirements to him, and in general if we needed anything from his Royal Highness, we were to go through the Master of the Stool, Mr Wesley.

Mrs Corrothers at one point had decided she had dealt with me in her presence enough for one day, and signalled Wesley “Has Mr Solomon had a tour of the house? He must see Mr Corrothers’ car collection and painting studio before he leaves.”

I was first taken into the building that I had originally assumed to be a garage. It was in fact a museum of sorts. Mr Corrothers was an avid collector of classic cars. He had three arrayed on the island, one of which was an early version of a racing car. Most of this was lost on me, as my interest in cars relates mostly to them getting me from one place to another. Air conditioning, seatbelts and modern brakes are all highly prized features a car should have, in my opinion. These three had no such amenities. There were also several large, framed pictures of Mr Corrothers driving other classic and antique cars, which were parked in one of the other properties. The fact that some of these were older that their owner (and frankly, in much better shape) was not lost on me.

I was then taken through to see the guest quarters. These were a small apartment within the main house. Complete with their own access to the garden and pool area, I would have been quite content as a guest there. I felt, though, that Mrs Corrothers would have much rather had another cataract surgery than allow me to sully her Egyptian-cotton pillowcases, or the satin sheets. I was after all, not the right sort to be a guest in their house. We could not afford diphthongs when I was growing up.

After being shown the cars, and the guest house I would never be re-entering; I was taken into Mr Corrothers office, which was exactly what you would expect from someone born almost one century ago.

There were dark stately mahogany bookshelves embedded around the room, filled to bursting with all kinds of books from literature and poetry to the history of cars. A partner’s desk occupied the far end of the study, behind it there was an office chair that could have easily been used by Vlad the Impaler (the inspiration for Count Dracula), with a large bay window looking out to the garden and on to the sea. At the opposite end of the room, two armchairs and a couch flanked a small coffee table. Not a computer or electrical device was anywhere to be seen. Lamps were the most sophisticated electrical implements welcome in the chamber. I half expected Excalibur to be hanging on the wall.

From there I was taken up one side of the marble staircase, to the first floor, which held what was described to me as a great room and functioned as a dining area in winter. The difference with the downstairs floor was that this floor was seemingly reserved for the master and mistress of the house, with a breakfast area on one side, and a television system on the other. A bathroom and linen cupboard were the only two rooms of the entire house whose function I recognised. Not that Mr Corrothers or Camile ever went in them. I bet they never even knew they had them.

The next floor held on one side, the master bedroom and bathroom, which could easily have taken my small two-bedroom apartment. The other side of the floor was a large walk-in closet, which contained so many clothes, shoes, and all manner of personal items and apparel, that it put most department stores to shame.

The next floor was completely Mr Corrothers’ studio. The man was an amateur painter. His style was mostly impressionist art. Quite frankly I think that is what wealthy people will say when they’ve completely messed up a painting by spilling colours all over expensive canvas. If you’re poor like my good self, you admit when you make a mistake. If you’re rich, it’s an art style.

I was soon ferried down the marble staircase once more, into the kitchen area and domestic rooms, where Wesley had his apartment. Naturally this area was equivalent to a boiler room, so of no particular interest to Camile. Surely, she would have preferred all these rooms to be boarded off, with their inhabitants banned from ever getting to the main house. But alas a house must have a kitchen, and Mr Corrothers his Mr Wesley. I half expected Wesley to sleep upside down hanging from a tree, but a small studio apartment inside the master’s house was apparently more comfortable.

Once the “we have vast amounts of money” tour was over, I was summarily ejected from the property. Mr Wesley accompanied me to the gate through the service entrance at the side of the small car museum. This was an area of the house that was completely functional and would otherwise never be shown to guests. It was also the fastest and most direct route out of the house, Camile’s way of saying “Off with you now!”

I couldn’t help but notice there was a laptop in the middle of the pathway, with a hammer next to it. The curiosity got the best of me “Excuse me, is that a smashed computer? What happened there?”

Wesley stopped, sighed in resignation, and said “Mr Corrothers does not trust technology. It would seem someone was attempting to spy on him. He brought the computer here and proceeded to deal with the problem.”

By the time I got back to my car, I decided it would be best not to read too much into the Corrothers. The toffs are always a bit strange. Why else would they feel the need to have three names where one is more than enough? And what on earth are they doing to the English language?

Part Two: The interloper.

The Corrothers case turned out to be quite long in its preparation. An engineer was needed to certify the accurate measurements of Mr Corrothers’ plot. This in turn was necessary for the lawyer (yours truly) to be able to prepare the claim. Naturally the fee was paid without even the slightest blink of an eye. We did however receive a scathing mail directly from Camile, asking why we had chosen such an expensive expert.

At first, I thought not much more of it, wealthy people would not be wealthy for very long if they spent money without at least paying attention to how much things cost. I suppose I may have been somewhat to blame for this reaction as I did inform the engineer that he may be able to cover his Christmas budget on this one case (the man has four children and can use all the help he can get). But then things went from strange to outright weird.

I was in the city on an unrelated case, when Cassey called me “Charlie, I think you may need to get back to the office as soon as possible. The Corrothers people are here, and they have someone else with them. They are demanding to see their file and how much work has been done.”

I could hear Camile screaming in the background, asking what kind of law firm this was if the lawyer was not there. Cassey is well trained and naturally she would not allow anyone, not even the client themselves, to have access to the case file without me being present. At the very least not unless I gave her the go-ahead first.

“I’m just going into the Notary offices; this may take a while. Can they not come back later, maybe make an appointment for another day? The person with them is that Wesley, I told you about him. He is the personal assistant.”

It was not Wesley. He was there, but there was also another mystery man with them. He was called Rayland Bloom. She had no idea who he was, and he was making her feel very uncomfortable. The description Cassey gave was priceless “A turd in a silk stocking”.

I promised to get back to the office as soon as possible. I was assisting another client at the time and could not leave the sale that was about to take place, to drive forty-five minutes to assist a client who did not even bother to make an appointment. Cassey relayed my message, to which they replied that they would gladly wait. This answer was delivered via the medium of high-pitched Camile-screams.

The Notary appointment dragged on for close to three hours. By the time I was able to make it back to the office, Cassey was just about ready to resign. Mr Corrothers and Wesley were sitting side by side in the waiting room. At first glance they looked like those mimes you sometimes see that imitate statues and only move if you leave them a coin. Camile had apparently spent the last few hours complaining into the glass of water Cassey had offered her. Mr Bloom sat patiently waiting to witness the bollocking that was about to take place. He did not have to wait long.

Camile’s outburst as she heard me turning the handle startled Mr Corrothers into almost dropping his cane. “There you are!”

I didn’t even have time to say hello “Hello Mrs…”

“Never mind all that, where have you been? We have waited for ages to speak to you!”

I tried explaining to Camile that they did not have an appointment today, and I was otherwise engaged. Cassey’s face seemed to say: “Don’t bother, I’ve already tried fifty times.” In the meantime, Mr Bloom, who had not yet been introduced to me, was suppressing smirks like a schoolboy watching his friends get told off by the teacher for something he had done.

“We insist you sit down with us and render a report on our case. When will it go to court? When will we have a resolution to this issue? The Finch family have already found a possible buyer. You need to act swiftly! Why is everything in this country so bloody slow and difficult?”

Camile was not waiting for an answer. She was a kettle that had just reached boiling point. The whistling would not stop until She was removed from the cooker and allowed to cool down. “Why don’t we step into my office, and we can have a civilized conversation?”

Content with her victory, Camile led the party into my quarters. Casey was looking at me with apologetic eyes. Surely, she was thinking better you than me. In all fairness, she had put up with them for quite some time already. It was my turn now to bear the onslaught of Mrs Corrothers.

I was surprised to see Mr Bloom ready to step into the meeting. Since nobody had bothered to introduce us, and since it seemed as though nobody cared that there was a stranger in a lawyer’s office, I decided to take the initiative. Planting myself squarely in the doorway of the partition I offered my hand. “Hello, I’m Mr Solomon. I take it you’re Mr Bloom. My assistant didn’t mention in what capacity you are here.”

The gentleman did shake my hand, but we were both startled by the shrieks from Camile Corrothers “He’s with us! He is a friend who has come to help us. This is Mr Bloom, now please will you come in and sit down?”

Being invited to sit down in my own office was about as close to the bone as I could stomach. Turning I realized that the kettle-woman had taken my seat and was already banging on about how they had paid a lot of money for our services. I pulled their file out and decided to make this as quick and painless as possible. Camile clearly had other ideas. She wanted her pound of flesh after being made to wait. The menfolk were mostly ceremonial at this point.

I explained to the gathering, that the claim was mostly finished and would be submitted in the next two weeks. This was not enough for Camile, who was expecting a judicial ruling on the case in a matter of minutes. I took enjoyment in explaining how the court case would require several months at least to be brought before a judge. Only then would we be called to a hearing, and only after this hearing could we expect the judge to render a decision.

I was surprised by Mr Corrothers. I did not know he was brave enough to speak when his wife was this agitated. “How long will all this take?”

“As I informed you when we first met, at least a year since the claim is filed with the Courts.”

While Mr Corrothers took this in his stride, Camile started flailing, huffing, and puffing, as if I had just handed her a dead baby. “This is unacceptable. Bloom, we are going to the bakery downstairs. Will you please sort this out and meet us there after? Thank you.”

With these words the Corrothers and Wesley swiftly exited my office, leaving behind their pet, Mr Bloom, who wasted no time in closing the door behind them and turning to face me. “I’ve been retained by the Corrothers to act as your handler in this case. They are very unhappy and unsatisfied. From now on you’ll be taking your orders from me, and as a first step we are going to have you finish the claim, submit the paperwork, and work out how much money a judge will require to be encouraged to rule, rather quickly in favour of the Corrothers.”

It took me a second to convince myself that I had heard the man correctly. I glanced out through the partition glass at Cassey, who locked eyes with me. I ran the thumb of my right hand down the right of my cheek. This was a signal we had developed for me to let her know when it looked like the police would be required. She wasted no time and picked up the phone.

“Mr Bloom. Firstly, I have no idea who you are, what your job is supposed to be, or why you are even here. What I do know is that this is my firm. I would prefer it if you left without making a scene, but you should know that the police are on their way to escort you from the building…”

I let my words sink in before continuing “…Secondly, my client is Mr Corrothers. If he is unsatisfied with my work, he is welcome to choose a different lawyer at any time. Thirdly, you should know that attempting to bribe a judge is a criminal offence. Not only would you, Mr Corrothers and myself face gaol time, but I would most certainly lose my license to practice law. And despite what Camile Corrothers may believe, they have not purchased my entire practice. I am not their lapdog to be called on whenever the mood takes them. They seem to have you and Wesley for that.”

I was not aware that I had raised my voice considerably. The man’s face was ruby red and threatened to explode at any time. He stared at me from across my table with increasing hatred for me. for a few minutes he considered his next move. Sadly, for him there came a knock at the door and Cassey entered with two very large police agents.

“Sorry to bother you agents. This gentleman seems to have lost his way and cannot find the exit. Would you please be so kind as to assist him.”

With a final scowl in my direction, Mr Bloom collected himself and left my office.

When the door had shut behind the three men, Cassey came to see me. “What on earth is going on with these people Charlie?”

“I have no idea” I said loosening my tie and decompressing. The day was done, and so was I. “They are going to cause trouble. Make sure you don’t give them any information over the phone from now on, let me know if they request a meeting, and insist everything be done through an e-mail. I want to have a paper trail with these lot.”

The following weeks went by with no further incident from these clients. I finished preparing the claim, collected all the documents and, after informing them that we were going to submit the papers to court, they insisted on receiving a full copy of the entire dossier. They wanted to censor and approve my work before it went any further. It was not a usual request, but these were not usual clients. The icing on the cake was that a hard copy was needed. Diligently one was put together and, to my chagrin Mr Bloom appeared to collect it.

“I’m sorry unless you have a document signed by Mr Corrothers instructing me to hand you this paperwork, I won’t be able to hand over the file. Also, if you are going to be acting on his behalf, I will have to insist that you refrain from making unreasonable requests such as bribing a sitting judge, or anything that could be considered broadly illegal. This is a law firm after all, not some American gangster movie.” I must admit I enjoyed sending him packing.

He did return some days later with the required instruction order. It was handwritten and no doubt was produced by Wesley while Camile was shrieking her head off. I was not there at the time, and it was Cassey who handed over the documents. When he sat down at Cassey’s table and started flipping through the pages, it was her turn to be annoyed.

“If you are going to take up space on my table, I will have to insist you pay rent. I have a lot to do, and you are not actually a client. We have furnished you with a copy and now I will ask you to please vacate my table, and, if possible, for you to leave the office in general. Would it be too much to ask for you to exit the building while you’re at it? Of course not, happy travels.”

Mr Bloom simply pressed his lips together, and before leaving he demanded a translation of the entire dossier into English. I do not know what Cassey said to him, but in all probability, it was not polite. We received an e-mail from Camile shortly after his visit, complaining that she could not read anything as it was not in English. This of course did not stop her from criticising the claim brief I had put together and making helpful suggestions as to how best to present the case. Essentially, she was asking me to change a document she could not even read. As I read, I turned to Cassey for help.

“This woman is a special type of gobshite you know. Why don’t you call the sworn translator to see how much a translation of the entire dossier will cost, that should shut her up.”

The absurdity of the situation finally reached its high point on a Sunday morning, at four o’clock. It may come as a surprise that, like most people, lawyers require a certain amount of daily sleep to be able to function as human beings. Therefore, a phone call at an ungodly hour is, to say the least, not welcome. Naturally there are some cases that start with this kind of phone call, and they are usually of an urgent nature. This case did not warrant in any shape or form, a call like this one.

As is usually the case in our house, I did not hear the phone at first. I have inherited my father’s ability to ignore noise to continue with my much needed and highly prised sleep regime. Quite frankly, the house could be on fire or collapsing and maybe the draft would wake me, not the noise. My wife on the other hand, does not have such a sleep talent.

“Charlie! Wake up, the bloody phone’s ringing”.

It was more the slight push than the actual words that did the trick. Looking at the display, I thought I must be dreaming. I turned the lamp on and tried to focus. The number read Barbados. “Do we know anyone in Barbados? What time is it? Why is someone in the Caribbean calling me of all people at four in the morning. What time is it there?”

I was informed in the clearest voice my wife was able to muster, that the phone had been ringing continuously for about 10 minutes. It was always that number. What is more, if I did not answer it and make whomever it was stop calling, I would be sent to Barbados to spend the night, and I’d be wearing the phone for a hat.

“Hello, Charles Francis Solomon, lawyer. Who is this?”

The high-pitched voice of Camile Corrothers made me doubt that I was awake. I thought surely this must be a nightmare.

“Oh, there you are! We have been trying to reach you, there doesn’t seem to be anyone at the office! We have spent an awful amount of money on you Charlie, and we’re getting nothing out of it, have you presented the claim yet? We have not got an English copy, I hope you haven’t sent it in, we didn’t say you could…”

I must have sounded unhinged “Mrs Corrothers. It is four in the morning, on a Sunday. I should hope there is nobody in my office. If there is, they are burglars! And you would do well not to call me by my given name. It is Mr Solomon to you. I would appreciate if you did not call at these ungodly hours unless it is a rather impressive emergency. I have never had to deal with such difficult people in my life. I doubt any of my colleagues in any country would put up with this. I sincerely hope you will not insist on calling me again like this. If there is anything you need, please send an e-mail, and I will answer you as soon as I am awake. Thank you!”

My voice must have been louder than I expected. My wife was sitting next to me in the dark, but I could feel her eyes on me “What?”

“Nothing… since you’re awake, you could get me a glass of water.” Naturally that saw me out of bed and on my way to the kitchen.

The following morning, I was greeted to three e-mails. Two of them from Camile Corrothers. The last one, was sent from Mr Corrothers’ mail address, however I suspected that Camile was indeed the one typing. All three were not much more than a garbled complaint about how nobody had ever treated her in such an unprofessional manner, that she was going to have me removed from the case and complain to the Bar Association about my tactless behaviour. If she could line me up against a post and have me shot, she probably would have. She would be visiting the office as soon as she was back on the island to collect all necessary paperwork for a different lawyer to handle the case, we were issued with a Stop All Works order until further notice.

I should mention that my reaction to the mails was rather unpleasant and called for language that I could not possibly repeat here. Suffice it to say that no amount of money could come close to making it worth putting up with Camile Corrothers. I spent most of my Sunday thinking how the firm should deal with this case, and whether it was possible to continue given the behaviour of the client.

This issue became rather moot though by Monday. I was sitting at my desk when Cassey came in. She had taken a call from a very distraught Camile Corrothers. Mr Corrothers had keeled over and died during the night. Apparently, his last words were

“Camile, will you please be quiet.”

“Charlie, stop smiling!”

“Me smiling, you’ve got a big grin on your face! Isn’t this the pot calling the kettle black?”

It is not often that problems solve themselves. Camile never did come back to the firm. From what I heard, her relationship with Mr Corrothers’ son was septic at best. He wasted no time in having his lawyer chase her out of the Barbados property no doubt.

I did feel a little sorry for the widow. She was not of an age where she could find herself another victim (I mean husband!). After all this was husband number two to die under suspicious circumstances, both of whom were wealthy men. The last I heard of her she had moved in with her daughter who had apparently inherited her mother’s ability to beguile wealthy men. She had married a premier league footballer. I’m sure he was delighted to hear he was going to be starring in the pilot episode of Wags and Widows. God help him. Cassey agreed with me that we had, in fact, dodged a cannonball.

In the next weeks, a solicitor from London acting on behalf of Mr Spencer-Brian-Daniel Corrothers-Bamberg-McKenzie, the son of the deceased Mr Corrothers, contacted the office and instructed us, on behalf of the junior Mr Corrothers, to continue with the case we were building. Apparently, the son had different ideas than his father.

Driven no doubt by a philosophy of reducing problems, he wanted a settlement reached with the Finch family. It wasn’t long before the widow Finch was able to stroll down her new common path, to the beach to enjoy the sunset with her new love interest. Mr Finch was, as it turned out, not the only one who played away. If I was a betting man, which I have known to be on occasion, I would say the wealthier you are, the less likely to be faithful to your wife. That is what I learned from the Corrothers case.