Rumpole and the Killing Curse, Part Three
If I had been in my right mind, I would have said something at this point. Dodgy cases were my meat and drink, but this was altogether beyond my experience. But I think it was that very dodginess, combined with the presence of all that not-at-all-filthy lucre (and the promise of more to come), that held me enthralled.
Without a word, Severus Snape ( Read more... )
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The rest of the day had a dream-like quality to it. I attended the memorial piss-up for Old Tom, said the proper obsequies, was given an inordinate amount of respect by my Chambers brethren simply for being old and alive, drank the expected amount of Chateau Thames Embankment, and then went on my wobbly way home to Froxbury Mansions, the domain of Hilda, she of the scrub-brush and the late father who was Head of the very same Chambers I inhabited, and whose shoes, as she would not-so-subtly remind me, I was not even attempting to fill -- not that I could ever fill her dear Daddy's shoes (he was a Size Eleven, and my feet have never been above Size Ten).
Even with the aid of nearly-paralyzing amounts of alcohol, my conscious mind was having difficulty reconciling the events that had just transpired with the rest of what normally made up my existence. The demise of Uncle Tom, and my subsequent hemi-semi-demi-elevation to something approaching respectability, would have sufficiently disconcerting in themselves. The other events -- well, suffice it to say that I would have put them all down to a very interesting post-prandial dream brought on by too much lobster bisque and cheap plonk, were it not for the clink and heft (a heft and size which Miss Granger, in consideration of my years and crook ticker, managed to substantially reduce before handing the loot over to me) of one thousand solid gold sovereigns in my briefcase.
Notwithstanding the wobbliness of both body and mind, I made it home without incident. Miracle of miracles, I had telephoned ahead to explain my reasons for being late -- well, some of them -- so I expected to find Hilda in a reasonably good mood when I opened the front door to our abode.
What I did not expect to see, however, was the sight of Hilda Rumpole talking rather cheerfully to a picture on the wall.
"Oh, I quite agree, Professor," I heard her saying to the figure in the painting above fireplace as I stepped over the threshold. "And I do believe that Horace is just the man to do it." Hilda turned to me with a smile on her face, the sort of smile I hadn't seen her direct my way in eons -- the smile of wholehearted approbation. "And here he is now. Horace, dear, I'd like you to meet Albus Dumbledore."
(to be continued...)
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