“The surgeon looked embarrassed, as well he might.
“Then–
“‘Yes, my lord, I do.’
“With a shrug of his shoulders, the Judge sat back in his chair.
“‘Go on, Mr Muir,’ he said.
“I was told that the Lord Chief was responsible for a something grim jest, which was current about that time. ‘Oh, the Crippen Case. Tried for the murder of his wife – and she was in court all the time.’ ‘Nonsense.’ ‘She was, indeed. But she was too cut up to say anything.’
“The trial had been going for three days, and the time was a quarter to three. All of a sudden loud snores rang out in court. Everyone looked at the dock, only to see that Crippen’s eyes were fast on the jury-box. (I must take back something I said, for I can see him now, and he was sitting down.) So everyone looked at the jury. At the end of the panel, in the front row, a juryman was hanging out of the box, snoring like hell. It was, of course, stertorous breathing. I whispered to Pepper, ‘Whatever’s the matter with the man?’ ‘Epilepsy.’ My heart sank. If Pepper was right, the jury must be discharged, another jury empanelled and the whole case begun again. But, mercifully, Pepper was wrong. The juror was dragged from the box and carried bodily into an empty court. Wilcox and Spilsbury went with him. The Court sat in silence till Wilcox came back. Wilcox entered the box, and the Lord Chief questioned him. ‘What is the matter, Sir William?’ ‘An acute attack of indigestion, my lord. I think the man lunched too well.’ ‘Will he be fit to resume?’ ‘Oh, yes, my lord. If your lordship would please to adjourn for half an hour.’ So the Court adjourned, and then went on with the case.
“We called one witness who did not appear at Bow Street. This was Belle Elmore’s sister. She had been brought by the Crown from the United States. She spoke to the operation, which her sister had had, as a result of which her abdomen bore a scar. I shall never forget the way she looked upon Crippen. And Crippen wilted and cringed, as he met her gaze.
“And then at last it was over, and the jury found Crippen guilty, and that was that.
“Horace Avory, Clerk of Arraigns, called upon him.
“‘Hawley Harvey Crippen, you have been found guilty of murder. Have you anything to say why the Court should not give you judgment of death?’
“In a very thick voice – it really
was
thick – Crippen replied.
“‘I still protest my innocence.’
“Then came the proclamation, and the doors of the court were locked.
“When the Judge assumed the black cap, for the third and last time I saw that strange tide of crimson rise in a dead straight line from Crippen’s throat to his brow. For a moment or two the whole of his face was suffused. Then, exactly as it had risen, the tide went down.
“The sentence pronounced, he turned and left the dock.
“He appealed, of course. So far as I remember, the Crown was not called upon. I remember that the defence suggested that the outlook of the juror, who had been taken ill, might have been affected by the distinguished doctors who ministered to him in the privacy of the empty court. You may imagine how this suggestion was received by the Court of Criminal Appeal.”
“How very disgraceful,” said Daphne.
“It was, indeed. I don’t think Tobin made it, but somebody else. I may be wrong.
“The trial of le Neve took place a day or two later. Our case against her was, of course, very thin. We had next to nothing at all. I mean, we could not prove that, either before or after, she was aware of the crime. Naturally enough, we didn’t press the case. Crippen was what we wanted, and he was in the bag. F E Smith came down to defend her and made a lovely speech. But it was supererogatory. Any one could have got her off. So she was discharged.”
“Well, I’m much obliged,” said Berry. “There’s only one question which I should like to ask. You said that the murder was done on the night on which the Martinellis were entertained. And you gave the date – the thirty-first of January, 1910. You were quite definite about it. I know that that was the last occasion on which Belle Elmore was
seen
alive, but how can you be sure that that was the very night upon which the murder was done?”
“I’m sorry,” I said,” but I’d rather not answer that question. I had an idea that you’d ask it – you don’t miss much. But I beg that you’ll take it from me that we had no doubt.”
“That’s interesting,” said Berry. “I’ll never ask you again, but I can’t think how you knew.”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“We just did,” I said.
“Last night,” said Daphne, “we had drama taken from life. Which was the most dramatic scene you ever wrote?”
“I think the last scene in the life of
Vanity Fair
.”
“I’m inclined to agree,” said Berry. “And the way in which it was observed was very neat. Isn’t there an orchestra’s gallery like that, concealed in the wall of a dining-room at Windsor?
“Yes. That’s how I got the idea.”
“Like the table that sank through the floor in
Perishable Goods
?”
“Yes. I saw a table like that in the summer palace of Ludwig, the poor, mad King of Bavaria. At one time he took a dislike to having servants in the room. As he could hardly wait upon himself at dinner, he devised a table that sank through the floor at the end of every course.”
“Slightly disconcerting,” said Berry. “Supposing one of his guests didn’t draw back his feet… And supposing you hadn’t finished your Tokay…”
“Be quiet,” said Daphne. “Which would you say was your most moving scene?”
“I think, perhaps, the end of
Lower Than Vermin
. But I’m no judge.”
“I confess,” said Berry, “that hit me very hard. The forced conversation, each trying to cover up…and Philip’s last words were exactly what he would have said. It wasn’t a brilliant saying: but it was the one remark which such a man would have made.
“You’re not a great writer by any means. I doubt if your stuff will live. But every one of your people is true to life. Dead true. And those who say that they aren’t, declare their ignorance. Take
Ewart
in
Maiden Stakes
– I’ve met the man. And the young men and maidens in
And Five were Foolish
etc. – I’ve met the lot.”
“I’m half a writer and half a reporter,” I said.
“Rogues, too?” said Jill.
“Yes,” said I. “They weren’t on the job, when I saw them – so far as I know. I took them out of the bus, or the Tube, or the street, or the bar, and put them in Austria. I got to know them quite well – to recognize
Bunch
and
Punter
and
Dewdrop
and
Rush
.
“Lots of reviewers have said that the well-to-do ‘Gadarenes’ – as I called them in
Aesop’s Fable
– that I have so often drawn, are unheard of…imaginary figures, belonging to a ‘never-never world’. The plain answer is that they know no better. If they had attended the opening night of the
Palais Royal
night-club outside Biarritz in about 1925, they would have seen dozens.”
“By God, what a night!” said Berry. “George —’s party, wasn’t it?” I nodded. “Alfresco dancing on glass, which was lighted from underneath…to the very hell of a band…and the thunder of the Atlantic, breaking upon the headland about thirty paces away. I think we sat down to dinner sharp at eleven o’clock. What were the jewels worth – the jewels that we saw that night?”
“More than three million sterling, I should say. But there you are. We were there, so we know. And at that particular time there were more than twenty night-clubs in and around Biarritz, and all of them paying their way. I don’t commend these things – I’m merely stating the fact. And a third of the people were English.”
“It was outrageous,” said Daphne: “but I wouldn’t have missed it for worlds.”
“I was at
Irikli
,” said Jill.
“And much better off,” said Berry. “How did you think of the title
And Five Were Foolish
?”
“As a matter of fact, I can tell you. A fellow was lunching with me – a most amusing bloke – and he would talk about my stuff. And he asked me how I came by my titles. And I said, ‘Oh, they just occur to me. It’s no good sitting down and trying to work one out. They just come into your head. Some ordinary expression, or quotation – “And five were foolish”, for instance. There you are. That will do very well for my new book.’ And that is how I chose it. The others came to me in much the same way: but that’s the only one whose arrival I actually remember.”
“You saw the Spanish Grand Prix?”
“Oh, yes. You’ve got to see it, to do a tale like
Maiden Stakes
. But that account is dead accurate. In fact, I saw the race twice – once before I wrote the tale, and once a few years later: and I remember thinking I wouldn’t have changed a word. And I saw it from the point I described, the point at which
Gyneth
was standing, watching the cars go by.”
“Each time?”
“Each time. It was a spot in a million from which to watch such a race.”
“Talking of San Sebastian, what about the Casino in
Jonah and Co
?”
“I went twice to San Sebastian to get that picture right. It wasn’t so easy as it looked. And I did once see Zero turn up seven times in ten spins. At Madeira, I think. I was on it the last four times, and we broke the Bank.”
“Your places are real?”
“A great many are. I could show you the site of
Jezreel
in
She Fell Among Thieves
. I tell you, I’m half a reporter. I report what I’ve seen and heard.”
“You ‘hold the mirror up to Nature’?”
“That is what I have always tried to do.”
“Will you tell me this?” said Daphne. “Why do so many writers report ‘the sordid side’?”
“I can’t imagine,” said I. “Sometimes they do it very well. And reviewers seem to love it. The more sordid the tale, the higher their commendation. I could have done it, of course. I’ve seen ‘the sordid side’ again and again. But I can see no object in presenting it in fiction. Life’s sad and hard enough, without adding some sordid picture, to wring men’s hearts.”
“By God, I’m with you,” said Berry. “But, as you most justly say, the viler the picture presented, the better are the reviews. Anyone would suppose that reviewers lived in squalor and never saw anything else. Which is, of course, absurd. Look at the sales of —. And that masterpiece opened with one of the most revolting incidents that a man can ever have conceived.”
“Don’t talk about it,” said Daphne. “I wish I could forget it. I never read any further, but the memory makes me feel sick.”
Jill put in her oar.
“Could you have written that, darling?”
“Of course I could, my sweet. As could any writer who knows his job. But it wouldn’t have amused me to write it. Frankly, I should have been ashamed to set such things down. Much of this book will be sordid; but then it is, none of it, fiction. Every statement is true. If I was to tell the stark truth of the Crippen case, I had to paint a very sordid picture – no doubt about that. But, when you are writing fiction, you don’t have to do the same. The ‘mirror’ reflects fair things, as well as foul.”
“I know one thing,” said Jill, “that some reviewers say that always annoys you.”
I smiled.
“I know what you mean, my darling. But not for long. You see, for me to be annoyed is just what they want.”
“When they say that
Berry
’s family always scream with laughter at everything he says.”
“That’s right. But such statements are made of malice. I’m afraid there’s no other word.”
“They’re completely false,” said Daphne.
“They’re simply lies,” said Jill.
“That shows them to be malice,” said I. “If the accusation – for that is what it is – were true, I should be guilty of a very offensive fault – a sick-making fault. That is why the accusation is made – in the hope of prejudicing potential purchasers of the book.”
“It ought to be actionable. If they told lies about some tooth-paste, to put people off they’d have to pay damages.”
“I entirely agree,” said Berry. “And, speaking wholly objectively, I don’t think you do it enough. If someone makes an unquestionably side-splitting remark, it is natural for those within earshot to laugh: if they don’t, it’s unnatural.”
“I agree. For that reason, I did it occasionally – as unobtrusively as possible – in my earlier books. But a very pleasant review of one of them – I think it appeared in
Punch
– suggested that it was a mistake. That ruling, I at once accepted: and, since then, I don’t think I’ve done it ten times in four hundred thousand words. And when I have done it, I’ve done it deliberately, for the reason you’ve just advanced – namely, that it would be manifestly unnatural for those present not to laugh. Laughter at a predicament, as distinct from a saying, is, of course, different. I
have
to mention that; for, if a predicament is entirely ludicrous, not to declare that the witnesses found it so would be to suggest that they were inhuman.”
“Allow me to say,” said Berry, “that I think you take it very well. I mean, malice enrages me.”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“I can’t do anything,” said I. “And if I allow it to annoy me, I’m simply playing their game.”
“It makes me feel sick,” said Daphne. “Let’s have a fair reminiscence – to wash out the taste.”
“When I was at Harrow,” said I, “I got to know Herbert Channell, the son of the Judge. As I think I’ve told you before, Channell used sometimes to write to his son in Greek. Herbert was younger than I. His father, an Old Harrovian, was always cheered on the steps. But Herbert was ashamed of his dress, as children will be. As a matter of fact, he always looked very nice, in grey morning dress and, always, a grey top-hat. Ten years later, when I was in Brick Court, Herbert arrived as a pupil, and he and I became friends. He never had any work, and I don’t know how he’d have done it, if he had: for he didn’t take to the Law. But he was most entertaining. We used to lunch together and we would walk home together often enough. To his distinguished father, he must, I fear, have proved a disappointment: his friends were more fortunate. Whenever his father went circuit, Herbert would disappear; for he always marshalled his father, wherever he went.
“Now a Judge’s Marshal was a very nice thing to be. I don’t have to tell you I’ve been one, but I think my week with Channell might be set down. The Marshal is a kind of equerry: I fancy he is a survival of the days when the King himself used to go on Assize. The Marshal is in constant attendance upon the Judge. At meals, he takes the head of the table – at breakfast, for instance, he pours out the coffee and tea. When the Judge is on the Bench, the Marshal always sits on his left, and he walks behind the Judge in any procession formed. He takes his Judge out for walks, when the work is done; and he travels with the Judge from town to town. He answers official invitations addressed to the Judge. And he used to swear the Grand Jury – no easy task. For doing all this, he got three guineas a day.
“One Sunday afternoon, when Channell was on Assize – he was taking the Western Circuit – Herbert rang me up. It was in the summer, I know, though I can’t be sure of the year. ‘Listen, Boy,’ he said. ‘I’ve had to come back. I’ve a carbuncle on my neck, and it’s giving me hell. My father wants you to go down and take my place. Can you do it?’
“‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I can. I mean, I’ve got nothing on.’
“‘I’ll be all right in a week, the doctor says. But if you can take my place, my father will be much obliged.’
“‘I will,’ I said. ‘Where is he?’
“‘At Winchester. With Coleridge, as the second Judge. The Assize there opens tomorrow, and my father’s taking the crime. That means you must swear the Grand Jury. I’ve got the oaths here.’
“‘I’ll come round and see you,’ I said.
“I’d never been a Marshal before.
“I went round and saw Herbert, who gave me the dope – more or less. He also gave me a card, on which were printed the oaths.
“‘Only three things,’ he said. ‘The first is this. Never call him ‘Sir’, for he can’t bear that. The second is, never ride in the coach, for he can’t bear the Marshal in the coach – I don’t know why. And the third is that you must not
read
the oaths. That he will not allow. You must learn them by heart.’
“With my eyes on the card–
“‘Good God,’ said I.
“There were two oaths. The first was addressed to the foreman, and it was one hundred and twenty-six words long. One hundred and twenty-six. The second oath was shorter. This was addressed to the other members of the Grand Jury, and had to be repeated twenty-two times. But the foreman’s oath was the devil.
“‘It can’t be done,’ I said. ‘I never could learn repetition. It’s now nearly half-past four: and I’ve got to administer it tomorrow at ten o’clock.’
“‘You’ve
got
to do it,’ said Herbert. ‘He’s counting on you. But he will never forgive you, if you go and read the oath.’
“I won’t say what I said that time, but Herbert only laughed.
“Well, I couldn’t go down that night, so on Monday morning I caught the early train. That was due at Winchester at five and twenty past nine. The Judges had to be ‘churched’, so they would reach the Castle just about ten o’clock. And there I must be to receive them. I should have just nice time.
“I knew what to do on arrival – go straight to the Judge’s room and write a note. This, to the foreman of the Grand Jury, asking him, as soon as the Judge had taken his seat, to rise and request the Judge that he and his fellows should be sworn in the old-fashioned way. For the new way would take about three times as long. Then I must send the note off and repair to the Castle’s doorway, to meet the Judge.
“All was well – except for the foreman’s oath. I knew the other all right: but I was afraid of the foreman’s. I’d sat up half the night, trying to learn the thing; and sometimes I could say it, and sometimes I broke down. All the way down, I kept on reading it over and saying it to myself. Suddenly I found, with a shock, that the train was behind its time. We were nearing Winchester, but we were ten minutes late. And the train was slowing down. We reached the skirts of the city at twenty to ten. And there the train came to a halt. Before this new
contretemps
, I forgot all about the oath. But I had the sense to do one thing. I found a scrap of paper, and scribbled my note to the foreman. Then I hung out of the window and stared up the line.
“There were two silks in my carriage. One, I think, was Charles – one of the best of fellows, who later became a Judge.