“‘They duly appeared. Gill and Priestley were present. Then Clarke spoke. “In my opinion,” he said, “you will be well-advised to settle this case. Things are not going well. The Judge is dead against us. Our most important witness, the nurse, failed to come up to her proof. What is worse, the Judge is going to protect the other side and to sum up dead against us. If you take my advice – and my experience of these matters is very wide – you’ll settle, lest a worse thing befall. I mean, you don’t want to lose – as you very well may. And you
can
settle now on very favourable terms.”
“‘Well, the Trustees protested, of course. But Clarke snapped and bit and presently bore them down. Gill and Priestley never opened their mouths. So Clarke had his way.
“‘Now, why did Clarke force this course upon the Trustees? That is a matter of opinion, for Clarke alone knows the truth. But I’ll tell you what I believe. I think Bargrave Deane approached him, as he was leaving the court, and suggested that the case should be settled. Why did Bargrave Deane suggest that? I believe, in all honesty. He realized that he was on a loser and, though he can have had only a very faint hope that Clarke would agree, if he could get a settlement he would be doing his clients a very good turn, for half a loaf is better than no bread – especially when the half-loaf is worth fifty thousand pounds. So Bargrave Deane was perfectly right to try. I’ll go so far as to say that he was doing his duty. Very well. But why did Clarke agree? I mean, Bargrave Deane’s proposal was really ludicrous. Why then did Clarke virtually force the Trustees to accept it? Because he was sick and tired of Jeune’s behaviour. Jeune was twisting his tail, and Clarke could do nothing about it. But a settlement, however monstrous, offered him a way of escape. And so he took it. He used his powerful personality to force the Trustees’ hand.
“‘Mark you, I’m not going to say that the case could not have gone wrong. Any case
can
go wrong. But I simply cannot believe that, after Gill’s cross-examination of the three supporters of the new Will, any jury, Judge or no Judge, could have returned a verdict in their favour. And if I can see that, so could Clarke – with a very much keener eye.
“‘Had Clarke been a lesser man, he would not have done as he did. But when a professional man attains great eminence, whether he’s a lawyer or a doctor or anything else, unless he is very scrupulous, he sometimes subordinates his duty to his convenience.
“‘Of course, the Judge himself was greatly to blame. He took advantage of his high office to give Clarke offence, well knowing that Clarke could not hit back. A contemptible thing to do. But Clarke should have treated it with contempt – and gone on and won his case… That should have been his
riposte
.
“‘Now don’t forget, Boy, that all of this is surmise. I may be quite wrong. But I don’t think that I am wrong. I believe that what I have said is the very truth. I’m not sorry you’ve seen this side of the Bench and the Bar. I don’t believe in disillusioning people, but it is just as well that you should know that Bench and Bar have their failings like everyone else. The etiquette of the Bar is very strict, but the members of the Bar are men, and you will sometimes encounter an opponent who is not too scrupulous. That is inevitable. But I know you’ll always do your duty, whatever it costs.’”
“Most interesting,” said Berry. “A clash between two great personalities – and Justice goes down the drain. I imagine it’s often happened. Who’d ever go to law? Did you ever see the same sort of thing again?”
“Never,” said I. “But what a wise man Coles Willing was. Take the case of the famous surgeon. How often does such a man put his convenience first?”
“Are you right?” said Jonah. “All the same, what a blasted scandal! The three of them should have done time.”
“Indeed they should. It was a cruel and heartless crime, for which there was no excuse. If Jeune and Clarke had done their duty, the Trustees would have won their case and, as Berry said, the documents would have been impounded and sent to the Public Prosecutor. That he would have taken action, I have no doubt; and from what I remember of the doctor, my belief is that, to save his skin, he would have turned Queen’s Evidence – with the happy result that the brother and sister would have gone heavily down.”
“Why d’you think he would have turned Queen’s Evidence?”
“Well, I’ve told you that he looked very hang-dog, and Gill in his cross-examination would simply have flayed him alive. And I think he’d have said to himself, ‘Well, I’m not going through that again for anyone’, and so he’d have thrown in his hand.
“And that is a perfect example of a good case going wrong. Mark you, you can’t blame the Law any more than you can blame the apparatus when there’s a railway smash. It is the human element that fails four times out of five. And you can’t eliminate that.”
Berry looked at me with a hand to his chin.
“I should simply hate,” he said, “to speak out of turn; but in the last few days an unusual activity on your part and on that of your agreeable secretary has been apparent. I mean, as a rule she only comes twice a week: but lately she has appeared at odd times and the atmosphere of urgency has been unmistakable. I hope – we all hope that nothing untoward is afoot.”
I began to laugh.
“It’s all over now,” I said. “But about ten days ago I suddenly learned that the title I had given my new book had been unwittingly taken by somebody else.”
“Oh, my dear!” cried Daphne.
“But you’d passed the proofs,” cried Berry. “The final proofs.”
“The first edition had been printed,” said Jill. “And the dust-cover, too.”
“Good God!” said Jonah.
I nodded.
“It was most unfortunate. Mercifully, there was just enough time to change the title, yet keep to the publication date: but only just enough – for you can’t drive the printer today. Only a few copies had been bound. Had we found out a week or so later, we should have been sunk.”
“What a show!” said Jonah. “It’s never happened before?”
“Never,” said I. “Looking back, I think I’ve been lucky. Some of my titles have been unusual, but by no means all.
Cost Price
might well have been taken, and so might
Maiden Stakes
.”
“No copyright in a title?”
“Oh, no,” said I. “But – well, honour among thieves, you know. Dog mustn’t eat dog.”
“Supposing you’d only found out a week before your publication date?”
“Then it would have been too late to do anything. Thousands of copies would already have been distributed.”
“Very worrying, darling,” said Daphne.
“Just one of those things,” I said. “But I hope it doesn’t happen again.”
“He was worn out,” said Jill. “He was dictating straight on to the typewriter more than once. And cables too.”
“Had I been younger,” I said, “I shouldn’t have been so tired. But, when I’m up against time, high concentration takes its toll today. I used to take things in my stride, but I can’t any more.”
“You rose to the occasion,” said Jonah, refilling my glass.
“As you have done all your life.”
“Supposing,” said Berry, “supposing a book called
Wash Out
had a phenomenal success. That’s just the sort of title that the public would fall for today. Well, there we are –
Wash Out
. And then, six months later somebody else calls a book they’ve written
Wash Out
. Can’t the author of the original book do anything?”
I raised my eyebrows.
“I think he could,” I said. “I think he could get an injunction, for that would be, to my mind, a clear case of plagiarism. And plagiarism is so contemptible and disgusting an exercise that any proved plagiarist would get a very short shrift.”
“Have you ever suffered from it?”
“Once. But, if you’ll forgive me, I’d rather not talk about that.”
“Unheard of in the old days, of course.”
“Exactly. But the world was more scrupulous then.”
“
Florence
gets it in one. ‘This patent-leather scum that wouldn’t dream of stealing, but only lives by its wits.’”
“That,” said Jonah, “was a brilliantly pungent remark.”
“It’s so damned true,” said Berry. “
Florence
is among the godsends. No doubt about that.”
“Ah,” said I. “I wanted you to use that word.”
“It’s true,” said Daphne. “Already I find myself thinking, ‘What would
Florence
have said about this?’”
“That,” said Jonah, “is because, besides being damned amusing, she’s always right on the mark.”
“What did I tell you?” said Jill, slipping her arm under mine.
“You’re very good,” I said. “But not everyone will get her. You see, she’s a cook-housekeeper. And, as she herself proclaims, she knows her place. As such, today she’s a blackleg, or unbelievable. Now listen to this. Not very long ago, some film company toyed with the idea of buying the rights of
Blind Corner
. But they turned it down, ‘because’, they wrote, ‘it is felt that the audiences of today wouldn’t understand the servants’. Those were the words used.”
“God give me strength,” said Berry.
There was a little silence. Then –
“And Bridget and Fitch and Carson,” said Jonah. “And Carson, unless he’s blown it, is worth two thousand a year.”
There was another silence. Then –
“While we’re on it,” said Berry, “what films your romances would make.”
“It has occurred to me that films made from them would be better than some I have seen. But the film people don’t seem to think so.”
“Have you approached them?”
I shook my head.
“It’s for them to come to me.”
“But take
Blood Royal
. My God, what a splendid picture!”
“Yes, it would film very well.”
“All of them would – the romances, I mean. As they stand. The screen-writer would have nothing to do.”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“It’s just a matter of taste. After all, the film people are going to put up the money and take the risk. And they don’t, apparently, think the risk is good enough. I don’t agree with their decision, but I don’t blame them at all.”
“You’re very good about it,” said Daphne.
“My darling,” I said, “I can’t be anything else. My wares are for sale: if they don’t attract purchasers – well, that’s just too bad. After all, ‘the customer is always right’.”
“Well, I don’t get it,” said Jonah.
Something to my relief, they left it there.
“May I say,” said Berry, “how very much I appreciate the fact that on the back of your dust-covers there always appears something from your own pen.”
“That’s very good of you. I can’t remember how long I’ve been writing that. But I think the author’s the obvious person to do it.”
“How many authors do?”
“Not many, I think. I really don’t know why. The idea is – or should be – not so much to commend the book, as to give the public an idea of what it’s about. And the author is – or should be – best qualified to do this.” I began to laugh. “To be honest, I believe the reviewer reads it more faithfully than the prospective purchaser. It helps the reviewer quite a lot, if he’s pressed for time.”
“Dedication and preface?” said Jonah.
“I don’t think those are read by one per cent. They just get down to the book. Very natural, you know.”
“One thing you’ve never told us,” said Berry, “and that is – supposing one wants to get into some court when a case is being heard, how does one do it?”
“You mean, how does a layman do it, if he isn’t concerned in the case?”
“Yes. Assume he finds himself near the Royal Courts of Justice or the Old Bailey, with an hour to waste and thinks he’ll go in and sit down and listen to a case. How does he get in?”
“Well, in the Royal Courts of Justice, unless the court is crowded, it’s easy enough – at least, it used to be. There’ll be a tipstaff on the doors, but if you look respectable and you say you’d just like to go in or you’re interested in the case, he’ll make no difficulty. But you must be properly dressed. If the court is crowded, unless you happen to see some solicitor or counsel that you know, you probably won’t get in. Of course, there’s always the public gallery, but that’s not a pleasant place and it’s usually full.
“They’re more strict at the Old Bailey. They have police on the doors there, and, unless he is vouched for, a layman won’t get in.”
“People of note seem to get in to hear murder trials.”
“I know. The City Lands Committee have a right to certain seats in the Judge’s Court, and if you know a Sheriff or someone, he’ll give you a note or a pass to be admitted to them. In my time, to my way of thinking, this practice was sometimes abused. I’ve seen well-known actors and actresses in those seats at a murder trial. Well, that was just idle curiosity on their part, together with a desire for publicity. Myself, I think it was also very bad form. After all, the prisoner was on trial for his life and, if I had been he, I should have resented it bitterly.”
“It was inexcusable,” said Jonah.
“Things got better before I left the Bar. I rather think the Lord Chief had something to do with that.”
“If you wanted to listen to a case at the Old Bailey today, what would you do?”
“I should go in by the private door which Judges and Counsel use and up in the lift. I should stop at the Court floor and have a word with the police-officer on the door of the Judge’s Court. If I failed with him, I should send in my card to the Clerk of Arraigns, with a few words on it saying that I was an old hand.”
“Dirty work,” said Berry.
“Rubbish,” said Daphne. “D’you mean to tell me that, after all the hours Boy’s spent in that very court—”
“He’d be taking an unfair advantage.”
“Yes, you wouldn’t, would you?” said Jill.
“Certainly not. I should send for the Judge’s clerk and say that his lordship would wish me to be given a seat on the bench.”
Jonah began to shake with laughter.
“The silly thing is,” he said, “I’ve no doubt you’d be given one – and asked to lunch afterwards.”
“I should hope so,” said Berry. “Why should I go empty away?”
No one of us felt equal to answering this question, so Daphne said ‘Outrageous’ and left it there.
“Idiosyncrasies,” said Jonah. “Didn’t Kipling always write with a very special ink?”
“Indeed, he did. And he used a special nib. And he wrote upon special paper, made up into special pads. But that was in no way a pose. Kipling had a master brain; and in order to comfort his genius and give it every chance, he found it best to humour its special demands.”
“Your sub-conscious brain is less exacting?”
“Happily it is. All I ask is a pen or liquid pencil that writes easily and plenty of white quarto paper of good quality. Oh, and a typewriter, upon which I can roughly transcribe my longhand every now and then. But if I had a brain like Kipling’s, I can’t believe you’d consider any demand too high.”
“I shouldn’t,” said Jonah. “He was a very great man.”
“The last of the giants,” I said. “His work will see out Time.”