“You wrote nothing during the War.”
“Never a line. During the first war, I mean. I had neither inclination nor opportunity. Some people managed to do it – I never knew how. And now, by George, it’s your turn.”
“Tomorrow,” said Daphne, rising. “I can’t say I’m tired; but it’s nearly one, and I have an engagement to keep at half past nine.”
“Not a perm?” said I.
“For my sins.”
“How any woman,” said Berry, “can—”
“Yes, I know that bit,” said his wife. “The blue-based baboons wouldn’t do it.”
“Of course they wouldn’t,” said Berry. “When they require de-lousing…”
The hurricane of indignation was, I think, justified.
“In remembering Oxford,” said Berry, “I find it peculiarly difficult to observe our excellent rules. My own personality becomes immediately obtrusive. I shall, therefore, confine myself to an episode which no one but I can relate, for the other participant is dead. Many would dismiss it as a coincidence. But that, I am unable to do. And I don’t think you’ll do it, either. God knows, I am no moralist. I’m sure you’ll support me there. But I should be, I think, a strange man, if, having subscribed to this business, I thought agnosticism the only creed.
“And now for a brief introduction to this most true report.
“It seemed good to my elders and betters – for I belong to a school that allowed that there might be men who were better than they – that I should take pains to acquire an Honours Degree. This was, of course, so much tripe, for an Honours Degree is of just about as much use as a—”
“Now do be careful,” said Jill.
“–flute in a fanfare. I didn’t dare put it like that, for I was afflicted with respect, a vile and malignant malady, now very nearly unknown. I think Lord Dunghill touches for it – I can’t be sure. He used to run the dockers’ strikes. When he’d lost five million working hours, they shoved him up. Still, I pointed out more than once that academic distinction was not a line of country which I could ride and that it was but the froth upon the tankard of life. But they thought otherwise. In return for a handsome allowance, I had to undertake so to satisfy the examiners that they would award me a class. I made immediate inquiry which was the easiest school. And everybody said ‘Law’. And so I turned to Law. But I had many calls upon my time, and I must confess that lectures bored me stiff. The text-books, I couldn’t stomach: I don’t think they were compiled by understanding men. When I’d still one year to go, I took to a coach. And Cousins was one of the best, as you can testify.”
“That’s very true,” said I. “Learned, efficient, human. And he was very modest. It never occurred to him that he was a brilliant man.”
“Well, things got steadily worse. With my last year, my engagements seemed to increase, yet Time maintained his steady, inexorable pace. I wrote down all Cousins said, but I couldn’t read what I’d written, and, when I could, it didn’t seem to make sense. Now there was a bloke, Roy —, of BNC: and he and I and some others were in the same desperate state. And it came to our knowledge that Cousins had taken an inn in Cornwall for the whole of the Easter recess. And that there he proposed to throw a reading-party… Now we’d read about reading-parties in lady-novelists’ works: and I’m sure Dean Farrar must have had one in his ‘Tale of College Life’. Till now, we hadn’t fallen for the ultra-gorgeous prospect they seemed to present: but ‘Schools’, as we used to call them, were drawing unpleasantly near, and we felt we must cling to Cousins in whom were all our hopes. So down to Cornwall we went towards the end of March. We didn’t do so badly. The weather was set fair and we all got as fit as fleas. Out and about all day. And the village rose to the occasion. I used to strike for the blacksmith – and his wife and his pretty daughters would give us tea.”
“A nice reading-party,” said Daphne. “I can’t believe Dean Farrar’s—”
“Not on your life,” said Berry. “If they saw a maiden approaching they offered up a short prayer and went and hid in a wood. And the one who didn’t was ‘sent to Coventry’. Never mind. The blacksmith’s wife had a very fat reminiscence.”
“Bung it in,” said I. “Hadn’t the daughters any?”
“Too young,” said Berry. “They seemed to live for the present. But there you are, you know – youth must be served. Well, their mother told me this. Her father was a notable smuggler; and a number of kegs of brandy were safely delivered to his house at the moment at which her mother was herself to be delivered of the lady who told me the tale. But on that particular night the excise officers were out. So the kegs were carried upstairs and hidden beneath the great bed. Armed with a warrant, the officers came to the house. They searched the rooms downstairs, but when they came to the bedroom, the midwife barred their path. They were allowed a glimpse. When they saw there was a woman in labour, they searched the rest of the house and went empty away. Very soon after they left, the blacksmith’s wife was born. The birth was surprisingly easy. This was because her mother had been anaesthetized. The fumes of the brandy, rising through the mattress, had put her out.
“Well, Time went pleasantly on. March gave way to April, and the weather was that of June. After dinner we always studied, but, after all day in such air, our powers of concentration were not at their best.
“We had three more days to go, and Roy and I were alone, in a ground-floor room. I’ve called the house an inn, but it was half a hotel. The room was on the small side, but it had a fine French window and this was open wide. And we were sitting at a table, trying to get the hang of a subject called ‘Torts’. The time was half-past ten, and the night was windless and dark. We were well up above a cove, and the tide was on the ebb. The regular lap of the waves enchanted the ear. But we were too much depressed to fall under any spells.
“At last I shut my volume and looked at Roy.
“‘We’ll never do it,’ I said, ‘because it can’t be done. In eleven weeks from now the slaughter-house doors will open and we shall go in. In gowns and caps and white ties. And after a fortnight of nightmares, we shall emerge. But it won’t be worth going in, for the subjects are eight in number and we are familiar with none. I don’t know what some of them mean. As for knowing their habits and manners – when Cousins tries to explain them, I cannot construe his words.’
“‘I can’t put it better,’ said Roy. ‘But I can put it more shortly. Dress it up as you please, we both of us know we’re sunk.’
“‘But I can’t be sunk,’ I cried. ‘I gave my word I’d get a degree with honours.’
“‘So did I,’ said Roy. ‘But we’ve missed the tide. We should have worked for three years. You can’t compress three years’ study into eleven weeks.’
“This was an obvious truth. And the obvious truth is always the most unpleasant. Like any bull of Basan, it gapes upon you with its mouth.
“‘You’ve said it,’ said I. ‘But I’d give six months of my life to get an honours degree.’
“My words seemed to make Roy think.
“‘So would I,’ he said quietly. ‘And I mean that. Do you?’
“‘I certainly do,’ said I. ‘What the hell’s six months?’
“‘Then let’s do a deal,’ said Roy. ‘A deal with the Prince of Darkness. He gets us through Schools and we give him six months of our lives.’
“‘I’m on,’ said I.
“I’ve no defence to offer for what we did. But we were young and foolish and, I fear, like Gallio, we ‘cared for none of those things’. We rose and recited our contract. And then we resumed our seats.”
“My darling,” said Daphne, “I’m inexpressibly shocked.”
“You have every right to be. But let me go on.
“For some moments neither of us spoke. But I think I shall always hear the lap of the waves below. And the darkness seemed thicker than ever.
“I took a sudden resolution.
“‘Roy,’ I said, ‘we’re damned fools. Let’s take our words back.’
“He laughed what I said to scorn and accused me of having cold feet. ‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘I have. I’m going to revoke what I said and I beg that you’ll do the same.’ But he only laughed the more.
“I stood up and ate my words. I solemnly revoked my contract, while Roy sat there and laughed. And then I sat down. Soon after, we went to bed.
“The reading-party dispersed. I went back to White Ladies and Roy went up to Scotland to get a week or two’s fishing before the term began.
“I went up to Oxford early, and when I was settled in, I had a word with my servant and sported my oak.”
“Translation, please,” said Jill.
“Every set of rooms in Oxford has a massive outside door, which is called ‘the oak’. Except when the owner is ‘down’, it is never shut. When it is shut or ‘sported’, it cannot be opened from without, except with a key. The key is in the charge of your servant. If, therefore, you pay a call, to find ‘the oak sported’, it means that your friend is away or must not be disturbed. Except in my own case, I’ve never known an oak sported, unless the fellow was ‘down’. But I was determined to work with all my might, and I knew that I could not do this, unless my front door was shut. My acquaintance was too wide.
“For the next eight weeks, I worked ten hours a day. I came out to go to Cousins and dine in Hall. I took no exercise. My servant served my breakfast and luncheon: thereafter he brought me cider every two hours: and a clean towel and fresh water, for I worked with a towel round my head.
“Roy never went to Cousins. One day I asked where he was.
“I was told – in a nursing-home, very seriously ill. Blood-poisoning. Whilst he was fishing in Scotland, he had knelt on a pen-knife’s blade. This had entered the knee-cap. He had been within an ace of losing his leg. They might have to take it off yet, unless he improved.
“Time went on, and I worked like any madman, week after week. My system was simple. There were, for instance, two papers on Roman Law. I didn’t know what that meant, but I had a first-rate text-book three hundred pages long. One hundred and fifty pages, I learned by heart. I learned half of everything, and prayed for a question or two in the half that I knew. For one subject, I had no time. It was called ‘Jurisprudence’. I didn’t know what the word meant, but when I looked it up, it said ‘The Science of Law’. Well, I didn’t know what that meant, either. I had two enormous textbooks on Jurisprudence alone. The sight of them gave me a pain. But their leaves were uncut; so my servant took them back to the shop and they credited my account. But I learned ‘Cousins’ spots’ by heart.”
“Translation, please.”
“Cousins was a very good coach. And he had been a coach for a number of years. He always kept the papers which had been set, and when he saw that some questions had not been asked for some time he used to select those questions as likely to be asked. This, on every subject. Then to his chosen band he would dictate those questions and follow them up with the answers which they should give. It was the purest gamble. The questions were ten in number. He thought he’d done very well, if he’d spotted three. We called them ‘Cousins’ spots’.
“I was very scared when I’d only a week to go. I knew half my Roman Law: but if all of the questions came in the other half – well, I was properly sunk. I knew, let us say, a third of everything else. And knew it perfectly. I didn’t know what it meant, but I knew the words. But of Jurisprudence, I knew nothing – except ‘Cousins’ spots’. And the Jurisprudence paper was almost the last.
“At last the day came. We had ten days of it then…morning and afternoon…two papers a day. I had luck all along the line. Two-fifths of the questions asked were in the sections I knew. That meant four out of ten. Not too good, perhaps. But those four answers were perfect, for I knew the stuff by heart. But the Jurisprudence paper had yet to come. You see, the thing was this. I knew Cousins’ spots by heart,
but I didn’t know what they meant
. Cousins gave question and answer. Very good. But if the question was phrased in a different way, to recognize it would be beyond my power. Do you wonder that I was uneasy?
“When the paper was laid before me on a Friday afternoon, I was afraid to read it, and that is the honest truth. And when, at last, I did, I could hardly believe my eyes. Cousins had spotted eight of the ten questions
in the very same words
.
“I have no hesitation in saying that my papers on Jurisprudence were among the very finest that ever were handed in. I was still writing at the end of the long three hours. Still pouring out Cousins’ knowledge. Three hours was not long enough to get it all down.
“So I got my Honours Degree.
“Roy got his, too. He was given an
Aegrotat
.”
“Sorry. Translation, please.”
“
Aegrotat
is Latin. It means ‘He is sick’. To be awarded an
Aegrotat
Degree, a man must be too ill to enter the Schools. More. He must be in Oxford: the Examiners must see him and must be satisfied that he is too sick to attend: they must also question him, but that is a matter of form.
“Roy was brought down from Scotland by motor-ambulance. He then was carried into The Acland Home. There the Examiners saw him. Then he was driven to London and put back to bed. In time, he recovered completely. But the time from the day on which he knelt on the knife to the day on which he left his nursing-home was almost exactly
six months
.
“I have told you nothing but the truth. And now may I add a postscript to what I’ve said. The burden of The Bible apart, I’ve seen so many paintings – all of them works of art – of Heaven and Hell. In all the great galleries of Europe. I’ve studied their composition and found it beyond belief: I’ve studied their infinite detail and found it a miracle: but until I returned from Cousins’ reading-party, I fear I gave little thought to their
raison d’être
. Thereafter, I did. For I had been taught that the Powers of Good and of Evil do exist. You see, I had brushed against one…one lovely April night…on the Cornish coast.”
“Bedford Row,” said Berry. “Your office was there, and I find it a comfortable name.”
“It was once a most comfortable house. And The Row was a blind alley, so it was very quiet. For all I know, it is now. We had the whole house. Each partner had one floor. There wasn’t a typewriter in the building. Every single letter was written by hand. And we had to do many indictments. These had to be written on sheepskin, and the clerk that was writing them out in a copper-plate hand, had to pounce the skin as he went, or the ink would have run.”
“The middle ages?” said Daphne.
“Very near. But that was how it was done in 1909. There were any number of clerks and they all worked early and late. But they were always cheerful. And one or two were wits and made me laugh very much. I was very happy there. High and low were terribly good to me.”
“You worked damned hard.”
“So did everyone else. The work that was done in that office would have made many think. But it was never dull.”
“Were you concerned in the Stinie Morrison case?”
“No. But I saw him in court. And I know something about it that didn’t appear in the press. And I’m giving nothing away, for it wasn’t our case. The Treasury dealt with that from first to last.”
“Proceed.”
“Well, Stinie Morrison was an unpleasant man. If I told you his main occupation, you’d ask me to leave the house. But he had a side line or two. One was robbery with violence. He’d done seven years for that. And then he added murder. He was a strapping fellow – a great, big Jew. To judge by his demeanour, he rather fancied himself. His features weren’t too bad, but they were terribly coarse and more than life-size. His hands were simply enormous – I’ve never forgotten his hands. He used to strike attitudes – at least, he did in the dock. And his eyes were glittering.”
“I gather,” said Berry, “that his charm was, shall we say, fleeting?”
“It was not conspicuous. One night he kept an appointment. This was on Clapham Common. The man who also kept it, failed to return. This was because he was dead. Twenty-four hours later, Morrison was under arrest. The evidence against him was clear, but not altogether conclusive. The information against him left no shadow of doubt; but, as I have said before, information is not always evidence.
“At the police-court he pleaded not guilty and reserved his defence. At the Old Bailey he was defended by what is known as ‘a thieves’ lawyer’.”
My sister sat up.
“Whatever’s ‘a thieves’ lawyer’, Boy?”
“It was a survival. I don’t for a moment suppose that there are any left. I think this particular fellow was one of the last; and he died a long time ago. For convenience, I’ll call him Rose. You see, for many years now no man has been called to the Bar, unless a Bencher has vouched for him: but in the old days you didn’t have to be vouched for. Hence, ‘the thieves’ lawyer’. The latter knew no law and never attempted to learn. The etiquette of the Bar meant nothing to him. He touted for work and often enough was never instructed by a solicitor. He was quite unscrupulous; and his name was better known in Seven Dials than it was in his Inn of Court. But – he had the gift of the gab. By God, he could talk. And in his crude way he was able. He knew what prisoners want – and that is their money’s worth. And the lower-class prisoner thinks that he has his money’s worth, if his counsel browbeats the witnesses for the Crown, harangues the jury, lodges absurd objections and wastes the time of the Court. His conviction, which usually follows, he attributes not to the incompetence of his counsel, but to the malice of the jury or the injustice of the Judge.”
Jill laid a hand upon mine.
“Didn’t you put ‘a thieves’ lawyer’ into
Anthony Lyveden
?”
“Yes, my darling, I did. I called him Blink, and I must at once confess that I had Rose in mind. I’m afraid I stretched a point, to put him in, for the ‘thieves’ lawyer’ never went Circuit. The Old Bailey and the Sessions were the covers he used to draw.
“The doyen of them in my day was old Daniel —. He provided so much amusement that you couldn’t help having a weakness for ‘Dannel’, as he was called. But he must have been nearly eighty and he was past his prime. He hadn’t an ‘h’ to his name. He knew the practice all right, but he knew no law at all. For him, the rules of evidence didn’t exist. He didn’t know what they meant. And to hear ‘Dannel’ arguing in the Court of Criminal Appeal—”
“Oh, go on,” said Berry.
“It’s true. I’ve seen him there. The Judges loved him. He was like an old clown. When he made some absurd observation and everyone laughed, he laughed as loudly as any, as if he’d made a good joke. But the Judges were very gentle. Darling would lean forward. ‘But, Mr —, if you admit, as you do, that the jury had every reason to bear that fact in mind, there goes your case.’ ‘That is me point, me lord.’ And Darling would sigh and bury his face in his arms, and the Lord Chief would shake like a jelly, and Channell would strive ’n vain to master his voice.”
“Who was the Lord Chief Justice – I mean, of your time?”
“Lord Alverstone. He was a splendid chief and a splendid Judge. So far as I ever saw, he had only one fault. And that was that he was impatient. But he couldn’t fairly be blamed, for he had a lightning brain. If ever I was before him, I always bore this in mind and cut what I had to say as short as ever I could. With the result that he used to remember my name and was always kindness itself. And now let’s get back to Stinie Morrison.”
“Who tried him?”
“Darling. And there was a Judge. Taking him all round, Darling was the best Queen’s Bench Judge of my day. He was an admirable lawyer. His perception was most acute. He was intensely human. And he had a brilliant wit. The Press very seldom got it – his wit was too fine for them. Real Attic salt. Sometimes he tossed them a trifle which was not worthy of him. The connoisseur sat in his court, when he had time to spare. And savoured his quiet asides. I never once saw him smile. He was always point-device, and his wig was always powdered – the last on the Bench. He was a very fine scholar, as many Judges were. He could jest in Latin and Greek. And French. When his son was at Harrow, Mr Justice Channell used to write to the boy in Greek. I don’t commend the practice, but I don’t think a High Court Judge could do that today. I may be wrong. And now let’s get back to Stinie Morrison.
“Stinie Morrison had a bad record. He had three previous convictions, all for crimes of violence, for one of which, as I’ve said, he had done seven years. But I don’t have to tell you that a previous conviction must never be mentioned in court. The Judge knows all about them – the list’s lying on his desk. But, for obvious reasons, the jury must never know. To this rule, there is one exception. If the prisoner (or the prisoner’s counsel) should attack the character of a witness for the Crown, then the Crown may give his previous convictions in evidence. If, therefore, you are defending a man who has been convicted before, when you are cross-examining a witness for the Crown, you take particular care to ask no question which might be said to reflect upon his integrity.
“Stinie Morrison’s counsel took no such care. He went all out for one of the CID. This was jam for the Crown; and as soon as Rose sat down, Treasury Counsel rose and asked the Judge’s permission to prove the prisoner’s previous convictions there and then. This, as a matter of form, for he had the clear right. Darling nodded assent, and the three convictions were proved.”
“Incredible,” said Berry. “I mean, even I knew that.”
“So, I confess, I found it, for Rose was an old hand: and, hopeless lawyer as he was, I never could have believed he would make so elementary a mistake. But it was pure ignorance. While he was attacking the policeman, his junior kept pulling his gown. At last Rose turned. ‘What the devil d’you want?’ he spat. ‘Man alive, you’ve let his convictions in.’ ‘Good God, have I?’ says Rose. ‘Well, why on earth didn’t you stop me?’ A man who was sitting behind him told me that.
“That was virtually the end of the case. I mean, juries aren’t fools. So Morrison was found guilty, and Darling sentenced him to death. A week or so later, to everybody’s amazement, the Home Secretary commuted the sentence to one of penal servitude for life. No one could understand this, for Morrison was a monster and quite unfit to live.
“I cannot remember who told me what had happened and so I cannot vouch for its truth. But Darling tried the case, and I was so familiar with Darling’s outlook that I’ve never had any doubt that my informant was right.
“When a man is sentenced to death, the Judge who presided at his trial always sends to the Home Secretary his own observations regarding the merits of the case. In this case Darling did so in the usual way. He certainly made it quite clear that there had been no miscarriage of justice and that Stinie Morrison richly deserved to die. But, having a cold contempt for any counsel of experience who could make a mistake which no articled clerk would have made, he added something like this. ‘At the same time I venture to doubt whether this man would in fact have been convicted, but for the inexcusable incompetence of the member of the Bar whom the prisoner’s friends had instructed – and, probably, handsomely paid – to save his life.’
“The Home Secretary of the day was a very foolish man, and, ignoring the fact that Morrison had been rightly convicted, decided that it was unfair that, because he had been badly defended, the convict should forfeit his life.
“To Darling’s horror, therefore, Morrison was reprieved. As a convict, he gave much trouble, but I’m honestly glad to report that he didn’t live very long.
“Let me say once again that I cannot declare that that is the true explanation of what occurred. But it is, to me, a very reasonable explanation of the most surprising – not to say, most improper reprieve that was ever granted.”
“When you say it’s a reasonable explanation, you mean that it is exactly what you would have expected of the personalities concerned?”
“Yes. The only chance which Darling had of chastising the thieves’ lawyer was in his report to the Home Secretary. And the man deserved to be chastised. I simply cannot see Darling failing to seize such an opportunity. I mean he was very hot on incompetence in a member of the Bar, when incompetence should not have been displayed. Before Horace Avory was appointed to the Bench, he was appointed Commissioner of Assize. That is to say, a Judge fell sick or something, and Avory was sent down to take his place. Such an appointment, which is purely temporary, sometimes precedes a Judgeship. When, as Commissioner, he was trying some case, he made an elementary mistake. The man he was trying was convicted – and immediately appealed. When his case came to be heard by the Court of Criminal Appeal, Darling was a member of the Court. He was, I think, presiding, because the Lord Chief was away. Anyway he gave judgment, very properly quashing the conviction, because of Avory’s mistake. And in the course of his judgment he said, ‘A man might be pardoned for thinking that the learned Commissioner had looked at the wrong page of Archbold’ – that is to say, the Bible of the Criminal Bar. That, of course, was scathing. About a month later Avory was made a Judge. The appointment, no doubt, had been made before the mistake.
“Everyone thought the appointment a bad one, partly, no doubt, because Avory was by no means popular. And as Senior Treasury Counsel, he used to press his cases, which nobody liked, which, in fact, he should not have done. He was appointed at the same time as Eldon Bankes, who was very much liked. And everyone considered that his appointment was as good as that of Avory was bad. I saw them walk in procession through the great hall on the first occasion on which they wore the scarlet and ermine. They were side by side. And Bankes was loudly applauded. He never bowed once, but Avory bowed right and left.”
“Poor man,” said Daphne.
“It didn’t matter,” said I. “Nobody undeceived him. What is so curious is that Avory made a very much better Judge than Bankes did. That Bankes had a pleasant manner with juries was – unfortunate. I mean, they ate out of his hand. And if juries will eat out of a certain Judge’s hand, then, if justice is to be done, that Judge has got to be a most exceptional man; for, though the jury is present, he’s really deciding the case. And Bankes was by no means a most exceptional man. (I don’t suggest he resembled Weston Gale; but Gale was a fool. In two cases within my own knowledge, entirely thanks to his folly, gross injustice was done.) Avory, on the other hand, went from strength to strength. He wasn’t anything to write home about in the Civil Courts, but he became an excellent criminal Judge. And he matured. The older he grew, the better he got. I can’t remember who was the Lord Chief Justice, when Avory died in harness: but I remember that he made a public statement which was quite unworthy of any thinking man. ‘We shall as soon see another William Shakespeare as another Horace Avory.’ That is, of course – and I say it without respect – arrant rubbish. In the first place, I could name off-hand half a dozen Judges of Avory’s day, all of whom were unquestionably better Judges than Avory ever was.”
“Do it, please,” said Berry.
“Alverstone, Darling, Channell, Rowlatt, Scrutton and Warrington. In the second place, the linking of the two names suggests a comparison which is so fantastic as to be indecent. It would be far less preposterous to compare Edgar Wallace with Julius Caesar. But Avory fully justified his appointment to the Bench.”
“O-oh,” cried Jill. “Do you remember when you were asked to lecture?”
“Yes,” said I. “But there’s nothing doing.”
“This,” said Berry, “is a new one on me. What happened?”
“Well they wanted Boy to lecture out here – on English Literature. And Boy said No, he wasn’t qualified. So they said, Well So-and-So lectured last week. So Boy thought, Well, if So-and-So can, I can. And he said, What did he say? And they said, Oh, he was most interesting. He completely debunked Shakespeare. He showed what a plagiarist and what a charlatan he was. So Boy said, Well, if you liked him, I’m afraid you wouldn’t like me. And no man can debunk Shakespeare. You might as well try and fill in The Caspian Sea.”