Nothing Ventured(6)

“Hawksby … Hawksby…” said Sir Julian, the lines on his forehead growing more pronounced. “Why do I know that name? Ah yes, we once crossed swords on a fraud case when he was a chief inspector. An impressive witness. He’d done his homework and was so well prepared I couldn’t lay a glove on him. Not a man to be underestimated.”

“Tell me more,” said William.

“Unusually short for a policeman. Beware of them; they often have bigger brains. He’s known as the Hawk. Hovers over you before swooping down and carrying all before him.”

“You included, it would seem,” said Marjorie.

“What makes you say that?” asked Sir Julian, as he poured himself a glass of wine.

“You only ever remember witnesses who get the better of you.”

“Touché,” said Sir Julian, raising his glass as Grace and William burst into spontaneous applause.

“Please give Commander Hawksby my best wishes,” added Sir Julian, ignoring the outburst.

“That’s the last thing I’m going to do,” said William. “I’m hoping to make a good impression, not an enemy for life.”

“Is my reputation that bad?” said Sir Julian, with an exasperated sigh worthy of a rejected lover.

“I’m afraid your reputation is that good,” said William. “The mere mention of your name in the nick evokes groans of despair, with the realization that yet another criminal who should be locked up for life will be set free.”

“Who am I to disagree with twelve good men and true?”

“It may have slipped your notice, Father,” said Grace, “but women have been sitting on juries since 1920.”

“More’s the pity,” said Sir Julian. “I would never have given them the vote.”

“Don’t rise, Grace,” said her mother. “He’s only trying to provoke you.”

“So what is the next hopeless cause you will be championing?” Sir Julian asked his daughter, thrusting the knife in deeper.

“Hereditary rights,” said Grace, as she took a sip of wine.

“Whose in particular, dare I ask?”

“Mine. You may well be Sir Julian Warwick Bt, but when you die—”

“Not for some time, I hope,” said Marjorie.

“William will inherit your title,” continued Grace, ignoring the interruption, “despite the fact that I was the firstborn.”

“A disgraceful state of affairs,” mocked Sir Julian.

“It’s no laughing matter, Father, and I predict that you’ll see the law changed in your lifetime.”

“I can’t imagine their lordships will readily fall in with your proposal.”

“And that’s why they’ll be next in line, because once the Commons realizes there are votes in it, another sacred citadel will collapse under the weight of its own absurdity.”

“How will you go about it?” asked Marjorie.

“We’ll start at the top, with the Royal Family. We already have a life peer willing to present a primogeniture bill to the House, which would allow a woman to succeed as monarch if she was the first born, and not be pushed aside by a younger brother. No one has ever suggested that Princess Anne wouldn’t do as good a job as Prince Charles. And we’ll cite Queen Elizabeth I, Queen Victoria, and Queen Elizabeth II to prove our case.”

“It will never happen.”

“In your lifetime, Dad,” Grace repeated.

“But I thought you disapproved of titles, Grace,” said William.

“I do. But in this case it’s a matter of principle.”

“Well, I’ll support you. I’ve never wanted to be Sir William.”

“What if you became commissioner, and earned it in your own right?” said his father. William hesitated for long enough for his father to shrug his shoulders.

“Did that poor young woman you were defending last week manage to get off?” Marjorie asked Grace, hoping for a break in hostilities.

“No, she got six months.”

“And will be out in three,” said her father, “when she will no doubt go straight back on the street.”

“Don’t get me onto that subject, Dad.”

“What about her pimp?” asked William. “He’s the one who should be locked up.”

“I’d happily boil him in oil,” said Grace, “but he wasn’t even charged.”

“In oil?” said her father. “We’ll have you voting Conservative yet.”

“Never,” Grace responded.

Sir Julian picked up the carving knife. “Anyone for seconds?”

“Dare I ask if you’ve met anyone recently?” asked Marjorie, turning to her son.

“Several people, Mama,” said William, amused by his mother’s euphemism.

“You know exactly what I meant,” she chided.

“Fat chance. I’ve been working on the roster for the past month, seven nights in a row, finishing up at six in the morning, by which time all you want to do is sleep. Then you’re expected to report back for duty two days later, to start an early shift. So let’s face it, Mum, PC Warwick isn’t much of a catch.”

“Whereas if you’d taken my advice,” said his father, “by now you’d be an eligible barrister, and I can assure you there are several attractive young women in chambers.”