EIGHTJames Lessiter sat back in his chair and looked across the table at Mr. Holderness, who appeared to be considerably perturbed. A flush had risen to the roots of the thick grey hair, deepening his florid complexion to something very near the rich plum-colour achieved by the original founder of the firm, a three-bottle man of the early Georgian period whose portrait hung on the panelling behind him. He stared back at James and said,
‘You shock me.’
James Lessiter’s eyebrows rose.
‘Do I really? I shouldn’t have thought anyone could practise as a solicitor for getting on for forty years and still retain a faculty for being shocked.’
There was a moment’s silence. The flush faded a little. Mr. Holderness smiled faintly.
‘It is difficult to remain completely professional about people wh
