Free Doctor On The Boil by Richard Gordon Page B

at the desk.
    On the eighth floor, Mr Wormsley came to meet him in person.
    ‘Good afternoon, Sir Lancelot. What a great pleasure, if an unexpected one. Splendid day, is it not? Just look through the window, how the sun glints upon the Monument.’
    Sir Lancelot grunted. ‘Erected by Sir Christopher Wren, in 1677. Two hundred and two feet high, the exact distance from the spot in Pudding Lane where the Great Fire broke out. An inscription on the foot originally describing London’s arsonist as His Holiness in Rome was erased by King James the Second, put back by William and Mary, and finally obliterated by William the Fourth. Which just proves that the interpretation of history, like the interpretation of dreams, is a highly treacherous business.’
    Mr Wormsley gave a nervous laugh. He was a young, pale, jumpy man in a smart blue suit, shirt with broad stripes, and a hard white collar. ‘It’s refreshing to meet someone who appreciates the unfolding of events in our world.’
    ‘From which most of your clients are making energetic and complicated preparations to depart,’ observed Sir Lancelot. ‘As you specialize in the avoidance of estate duty. Shall we go into your office?’
    As they sat on each side of a desk in the small, plain room, Sir Lancelot continued, ‘Of course, I had your father as my accountant for years. But I expect you know all the tricks.’
    Mr Wormsley looked pained. ‘Not tricks , Sir Lancelot. All is perfectly legal. We do not countenance tax evasion .’
    ‘I am past caring what you call it. I am going to die.’
    ‘So am I. So are we all.’
    ‘Yes, but not in six months, I hope,’ he said testily.
    ‘Oh! Sir Lancelot, I’m terribly sorry–’
    ‘Look here, Wormsley, I’ve made a fair pile and I don’t feel inclined to leave it all to provide National Health teeth and glasses for lots of people I’ve never met and probably wouldn’t care to. I have never complained about paying taxes – that is like complaining about the twentieth century. The rabble used to burn down the nobs’ houses and hang them from the lamp-posts. Now the nobs buy ’em off with pensions and free education and suchlike, a simple arrangement and much more comfortable all round.’
    Mr Wormsley looked worried. ‘Have you any relatives?’
    ‘Only a brother, who’s well off. Made it all from smuggling, I fancy. The wife’s dead, of course.’
    ‘You haven’t thought of marrying again?’
    ‘Good God, man, between the wedding and the funeral there wouldn’t be time for the honeymoon.’
    ‘But it might help from the tax angle.’ The accountant tapped a pencil against his teeth. ‘In the good old days all sorts of loopholes were open to us. Insurance policies–’ He gave a little laugh. ‘You’d be amazed, the number of times I’ve been called on the heels of your profession, to insure a life which is already departing from its body. “Death-bed jobs”, we call them. Some of those experiences were really funny–’
    ‘Quite,’ said Sir Lancelot. ‘At least I have come to you before I am a corpse emitting horrible odours and accountancy problems. Pray suggest something.’
    Mr Wormsley scratched his cheek slowly with the end of the pencil. ‘Agricultural land is out, of course. Forests aren’t much good. I can only suggest taking up permanent residence abroad. As permanent as your circumstances allow, naturally.’
    ‘Where?’
    ‘The Bahamas? Bermuda? Though they have a water shortage and a racial problem. The Isle of Man is convenient, but inclined to be rheumaticky, and all those motor-cycle races must be rather noisy. Curaçao is remote, but has Dutch drains. Perhaps the Channel Isles. Are you fond of tomatoes?’
    Sir Lancelot stroked his beard in silence. ‘You are familiar with Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World , doubtless? The punishment for crimes against the social order was banishment to some small island. I suppose it is now a crime to be rich. Well, it’s amusing to