‘The honorarium for my memoirs? By all means, my dear fellow,’ said Sir Lancelot. ‘I shall put the cheque in the post tomorrow. You will understand that I am a little too preoccupied to attend to it this very morning.’
‘Oh, quite, sir. Forgive my mentioning it at all.’
‘I am sorry you are feeling the pinch of poverty, Grimsdyke. I always assumed from Miles that you had liquid assets.’
‘A bit of a freeze seems to have set in at the moment,’ I explained.
I’d had a pretty miserable few days in the basement. Razzy had a row with his opera singer you could hear all the way from Covent Garden to Charing Cross, so he could last through his afternoons again. My landlady was indicating that I’d shortly be taking up residence in the street. Worse still, the weather stayed absolutely beastly all the weekend. ‘A duller spectacle this earth of ours has not to show than a rainy Sunday in London,’ said De Quincey, and look what happened to him.
But I still had my duty towards Sir Lancelot, and on Monday morning interrupted my scheduled activities on the novel to appear at his house with a new notebook and accompany him to court. I still had my duty towards old Basil, too, I remembered, as we drove past Ophelia twelve feet high explaining how she liked a nice milky night-time drink.
‘Darling,’ she’d said, when I’d telephoned again a couple of days before and caught her doing the washing. ‘It’s absolutely impossible to spare a minute. I’m just dashing out again this evening.’
‘It’s a rather important message, old girl,’ I returned solemnly. ‘From Basil.’
‘Basil? Basil who?’
‘Basil Beauchamp.’
‘You can tell that stage-struck oaf that if he thinks he can go round haunting me like some pantomime demon–’
‘Quite the opposite, I assure you. He wants me to hand you a rather nice little parting present. It glitters.’
There was hesitation on the wire.
‘Oh, all right, darling. Give me a ring tomorrow. I might be able to fit you in.’
But as usual she wasn’t at home, and it took a good deal of the Grimsdyke strength of character to avoid using the bracelet as a chaser for the grandpa’s cuff-links.
‘What do you think of our chances, Grimsdyke?’ Sir Lancelot interrupted my thoughts in the traffic that raced round Trafalgar Square, now enjoying a bright May morning’s sunshine.
‘I should think, sir, that a high-powered barrister like your brother ought to impress the beak–’
‘Good gracious, I mean in the Test Matches. The other matter is perfectly open and shut. You know, of course, who is giving evidence as the expert witness against me?’
‘Lord Tiptree, I thought, sir?’
Sir Lancelot turned his Rolls into the Strand.
‘I must apologise for not informing you before that Clem Tiptree was unexpectedly called to lecture in Australia. His place has been taken by that nasty little man McFiggie.’
‘McFiggie, sir?’
‘But as the feller has to my certain knowledge never stuck a knife into living flesh for his entire professional career, I cannot understand anyone being interested for a minute in his views on clinical surgery. Or on anything else much, for that matter.’
‘He’s got a terrific reputation in the courts,’ I mentioned cagily.
‘Clem Tiptree was prepared to stand up and attack me in public because he was handsomely paid for it,’ Sir Lancelot went on, ignoring this. ‘And I don’t blame him. But McFiggie is unhappily motivated by personal spite. He has become remarkably unfriendly since I was obliged to put him in his place over spreading scurrilous stories about me round the hospital. But here we are at the Law Courts, Grimsdyke. Now the fun begins.’
The old boy seemed in a cracking mood. I supposed it was because he’d had
The Times
to himself that morning, not to mention wallowing in the Bishop’s share of the bathwater.
I’d never been in the Royal Courts of Justice before, my own little brushes with the Law being settled in those depressing rooms round the back of town halls. The place struck me as needing a few slot machines and a bit of steam to turn it into a jolly good railway station. It was filled with severe looking birds in wigs hurrying past at a tremendous rate, I suppose like the doctors at St Swithin’s, to give onlookers the impression that chaps of their importance were wanted pretty damn urgently somewhere. One or two seedy-looking coves wandered about with armfuls of equally decayed reference books, a couple of old dears were mopping the floor, and the only representative of legal majesty was a porter in a little round cap like a Victorian warder, sitting by the door reading the
Daily Mirror
.
‘
Possett v. Spratt
, Court Sixteen,’ read Sir Lancelot from the notices displayed like train timetables in the middle of the hall.
He clasped his hands under the tails of his coat. The old boy had appeared in full morning dress and cravat, which I supposed he felt the correct costume for being sued.
‘I only wish we had time to hear some of the other cases,’ he remarked. ‘What, for instance, could Imperial Crab Fisheries possibly be suing Swindon Hosiery manufacturers about? Or Ebineezer Novelties the Home for Indigent Gentlewomen? Perfectly intriguing! But we must not delay, Grimsdyke. Beckwith is meeting us at the Court.’
Mr Beckwith now had the brightly confident air of a family doctor shepherding his patient into hospital for a major operation.
‘What’s happened to Alfie?’ demanded Sir Lancelot at once.
Mr Beckwith explained the QC was several corridors away, urging the complaint of a poultry breeder against an incinerator manufacturer.
‘An absolute disgrace,’ Sir Lancelot snorted. ‘What do you imagine they’d say at St Swithin’s if I left in the middle of a pancreatectomy to remove a pair of tonsils? The administration of justice in this country is laughably haphazard. Which I suppose is all you can expect when everyone gives themselves thumping long holidays and knocks off at four.’
‘I’m afraid there’s a slight delay with your case, anyway,’ Mr Beckwith apologised. ‘Apparently Fishwick is rather bilious this morning, and wants a short rest.’
‘Damnation! If I held up my entire theatre staff every time I felt a bit off-colour–’
‘Fishwick always takes very good care of himself, Sir Lancelot.’
‘Another way of saying the feller’s a shocking hypochondriac, as I could have told you years ago. I wonder what the devil he did with my fountain-pen in the end, anyway?’
We filed into the court, which was all carved oak canopies, ink-stained forms and varnish, and struck me as a cross between a revivalist chapel and the lecture room at St Swithin’s.
There were more seedy-looking chaps messing about with books, and an usher in a gown who seemed to be asleep, and we all three sat on a bench while Mr Beckwith started going through his bundles of papers. After about half an hour the room started to fill up, there was a bit of muttering all round, the usher woke up and opened a door behind the bench, and everyone stood up politely as Mr Justice Fishwick appeared.
I was pretty interested to take a look at Sir Lancelot’s former fellow lodger, who was a long thin chap with a long thin nose and long thin earpieces on his gold-rimmed glasses. There was a good deal of fussing as a tartan rug was tucked round his knees and a couple of bottles of white pills placed next to the judicial water-jug, then he stared round as though wondering how we’d all been let in from the street, and the case of Possett
v.
Spratt began.
‘My Lord–’
A fat, red-faced barrister like a bewigged bookie stood up. Now I come to think of it, all English judges are pretty thin and all English barristers are pretty portly, I suppose through all those dinners they make them eat.
‘My Lord,’ said the barrister, after explaining who he was and which side he was on. ‘I can put my case very briefly–’
‘I am glad to hear it, Mr Grumley. The longer we are here, the longer we are dissipating public money.’
‘Quite so, My Lord. I am very much indebted for Your Lordship’s most salutary reminder.’
‘Please get on, Mr Grumley.’
‘He’s in a pretty bad mood this morning,’ whispered Mr Beckwith, seeming to be familiar with the signs and symptoms.
‘The feller always had a nasty little temper,’ agreed Sir Lancelot under his breath. ‘Particularly when he’d eaten something that made him itch a bit.’
‘I well know Your Lordship’s concern over expedition of the Court’s business,’ continued the fat barrister fruitily. ‘I much appreciate Your Lordship’s consideration in drawing attention so early–’
‘Get on with your case, get on with your case,’ muttered the Judge.
‘As Your Lordship pleases. I was saying, My Lord–’
‘You haven’t said anything yet, Mr Grumley.’
‘Hasn’t changed a bit,’ hissed Sir Lancelot, slapping his thigh.
Mr Grumley finally hit form, and delivered a speech with the general effect of making Sir Lancelot Spratt look like Sweeney Todd the Barber. The surgeon meanwhile sat beside me staring at his finger-nails, giving no hint of his feelings apart from turning steadily from pink to magenta.
‘I now call my first witness,’ he ended. ‘Herbert Egbert Thomas Possett.’
‘Herbert Egbert Thomas Possett,’ repeated the usher, waking up.
Sir Lancelot’s patient was a vacant-looking youth in a tight blue suit, with the air of wishing he were at that moment in the middle of the Sahara desert. He started off by giving his name, address, birthday and date of admission to St Swithin’s Hospital, none of which he seemed particularly sure about.
‘Now, Mr Possett.’ Mr Grumley came to business. ‘What exactly was your operation performed for?’
There was a silence, except for the judge tapping his false teeth with his pencil.
‘I dunno.’
‘What? Didn’t the surgeon tell you?’
‘Nobody told me nothing.’
Mr Justice Fishwick cleared his throat.
‘I have stated before in this Court, and I have no hesitation in stating it again, that the manner in which the medical profession keeps its patients in utter ignorance of matters of life and death is perfectly reprehensible. It is nothing more than an ill-judged attempt to perpetuate the aura of obscurity and witchcraft in which doctors have delighted in wrapping themselves for generations.’
‘What absolute rubbish!’ exclaimed Sir Lancelot.
‘Shhhh!’ hissed his brother, who had mysteriously appeared among us.
‘Why, hello, Alfie! I was just beginning to wonder where the devil you’d got to. Fishwick has just made a perfectly outrageous remark–’
‘Be quiet, please,’ muttered Mr Beckwith.
‘But it
is
outrageous,’ persisted the surgeon.
‘Silence!’ cried the usher, whom I thought was fast asleep.
‘Mr Spratt.’ The Judge scowled at the QC and then at Sir Lancelot. ‘Perhaps you can kindly control your client?’
‘I am extremely sorry, My Lord. I apologise most freely to Your Lordship. I fear my client suffered a momentary lapse.’
‘I trust he will not suffer anything worse. Please proceed, Mr Grumley.’
Sir Lancelot glared at his brother in disgust. ‘Despicable boot licking,’ he muttered.
I was rather relieved myself when everything settled down for a bit. Young Possett recited a list of symptoms he’d suffered since his operation, which ranged from going to sleep over the telly to fits. Mr Grumley, the crafty chap, kept asking if he wanted to sit, have a glass of water, or take a nice lie down for half an hour, and generally gave the impression that he, for one, was enormously surprised to see the poor fellow walking about at all.
‘I have no questions, My Lord,’ announced Alfie, as his rival finished.
‘Call Mrs Possett,’ said Mr Grumley.
Herbert’s mother was one of those little sharp-faced women you often see waving umbrellas at motorists from the middle of zebra crossings.
‘It’s a crying shame,’ she began at once.
‘Quite,’ said Mr Grumley.
‘A perfect disgrace.’
‘Quite. Now, when your son was admitted to St Swithin’s Hospital–’
‘He was a fine healthy boy. And look at him now. Just look at him! Can hardly eat his dinner, he can’t. Not without pangs. Pangs, that’s what he has.’
‘Yes, quite, Mrs Possett.’ Mr Grumley began to look as though he wished he were in the middle of the Sahara, too. ‘When your son was admitted–’
‘I know. I’m a mother. I know.’
‘I am sure we all, His Lordship included – particularly His Lordship – sympathise with a mother’s distress. But if you will kindly tell the Court when your son was–’
‘Indigestion?’ the Judge asked her bleakly.
‘Something cruel, Your Lordship.’
‘I have suffered from it all my life. I fear it is hopelessly beyond the ability of the medical profession to cure. Please proceed, Mr Grumley.’
‘Did you hear that, Alfie?’ demanded Sir Lancelot loudly.
‘Shut up, Lancelot.’
The surgeon looked shocked. ‘What the devil do you mean, “Shut up?” I am trying to assist you by pointing out a blatant piece of misinformation–’
‘Silence!’ shouted the usher, and went to sleep again like Alice’s dormouse.
‘Proceed, Mr Grumley.’ The Judge gave a stare in our direction that looked as unfriendly as a trephine. Sir Lancelot sat muttering, but the only words I could distinguish were ‘Star Chamber.’
We had peace for half an hour, while Mrs Possett described how Sir Lancelot had turned her son from something like Tarzan into the present dyspeptic wreck.
‘To what, Mrs Possett,’ demanded Mr Alphonso Spratt, rising on his brother’s behalf, ‘do you ascribe your son’s present indisposition?’
‘To ‘im down there!’ She pointed at Sir Lancelot like a
sans-culotte
having a go at the aristocrats. ‘’E’s the one what’s gone and ruined our Herbert. I don’t care what nobody says about–’
‘Madam!’ Sir Lancelot leapt to his feet. ‘It is quite bad enough for a man in my position to be dragged into a public court at all, but to be subject to ill-mannered harangues–’
‘Sit down,’ snapped the Judge.
‘Really, Your Lordship! If you cannot in your own court control the irresponsible accusations–’
‘Sit down!’
Mr Beckwith and I pulled Sir Lancelot to his seat.
‘Silence!’ cried the usher, having woken up a bit late.
‘Mr Spratt–’ said the Judge.
‘May I assure you, My Lord, I do most humbly–’
‘Mr Spratt, after your cross-examination you will kindly enlighten your client on the penalties for contempt of court.’
‘Yes, My Lord. Of course, of course, My Lord. I am very grateful to My Lord–’
‘I would advise you to be perfectly explicit.’
‘Naturally, My Lord. I am much indebted to Your Lordship’s most thoughtful suggestion.’ He turned to glare at his brother. ‘You bloody fool,’ he hissed.
‘Proceed,’ added the Judge.
Sir Lancelot sat breathing heavily. I edged up a bit and sat on one of his coat tails.
‘Dr Angus McFiggie,’ announced Mr Grumley, when Mrs Possett had escaped.
The Judge looked up.
‘Your only expert, Mr Grumley?’
‘He is, My Lord.’
‘I am quite prepared to hear his evidence, but from what has passed already I feel it my duty to suggest to the defendant, in the interests of saving my time and public money, that he should seriously consider the possibility of a settlement. I am perfectly willing to grant an adjournment for the purpose.’
Sir Lancelot looked as if a junior nurse at St Swithin’s had contradicted his diagnosis.
‘What a preposterous suggestion!’
‘Will you be quiet, Lancelot?’ snapped his brother.
‘I wish you’d make up your mind, Alfie,’ returned the surgeon angrily, ‘exactly which side you are on.’
‘I take it you are disinclined to settle?’ demanded Mr Justice Fishwick bleakly.
‘Never!’ Sir Lancelot folded his arms.
‘I will charitably assume the defendant’s refusal to be uttered by counsel, who is the only person entitled to address the Court. You will explain that to him as well, Mr Spratt.’
‘I am most indebted for Your Lordship’s most helpful and considerate–’
‘Proceed, Mr Grumley.’
As McFiggie appeared in the box Beckwith passed me a note saying, ‘Hope Sir Lancelot is a sporting loser.’ I thought it best to make no reply.
I must say, I felt pretty miserable about the morning’s proceedings. Apart from Sir Lancelot’s saving the Grimsdyke life, I’d developed a pretty strong respect for the old boy in our adventures over the last few months. It was pretty galling to see him not only going down the legal drain, but being treated by Fishwick much the same as I was treated myself by Miles.
McFiggie was, of course, totally different from the chap who’d sat sucking his teeth in Sir Lancelot’s drawing-room. He was as at home in the Court as in the saloon bar of his local. He stood glaring round, his eyebrows slowly going up and down like a pair of peculiar hairy insects likely to fly off and sting someone. Even Mr Justice Fishwick seemed impressed, and helped himself to a couple of pills and a glass of water.
‘Dr McFiggie,’ began Mr Grumley, after reciting our pathologist’s qualifications and appointments like reading out a Royal Proclamation. ‘Would you say, on the basis of your many – your many and most highly valued – years as a specialist in forensic medicine, that the symptoms complained of by Mr Possett are a perfectly possible result of his operation?’
‘I would.’
Sir Lancelot growled.
‘You mean to tell the Court that the present pitiful condition of this previously healthy and virile young man might indeed have resulted from the operative interference of the defendant?’
‘It might.’
I anchored Sir Lancelot a bit more firmly.
‘Dr McFiggie, have you performed post-mortem examinations on the defendant’s deceased patients?’
‘I have.’
‘And is it your opinion that in many cases the operation performed was necessary or unnecessary?’
‘Unnecessary.’
Sir Lancelot jumped up, ripping off a coat-tail.
‘I challenge that!’
‘Silence!’ called several people at once.
‘I challenge McFiggie to produce one jot of clinical evidence–’
‘Sit down and shut up!’ snapped his brother.
‘You keep out of this, Alfie–’
There was a good deal of confusion, through which I could hear the Judge shouting at someone to send for the Tipstaff.
‘It is perfectly clear to the meanest intelligence you have not the slightest idea what you’re talking about, McFiggie,’ Sir Lancelot persisted hotly. ‘If you had taken the bother to look up an elementary students’ surgical textbook–’
‘Sir Lancelot Spratt!’ The Judge turned pale. ‘I intend to commit you to Brixton Prison.’
Sir Lancelot stared at him. ‘You intend to
what
?’
‘I intend to commit you for contempt.’
‘Oh, God,’ muttered Mr Beckwith.
I didn’t know what to say. I could only see our distinguished consultant – the chap who’d slammed death’s door in my face – shuffling about in broad arrows breaking stones.
‘Alfie, put this matter straight at once,’ Sir Lancelot commanded.
‘Damnation, Lancelot! If you insist on behaving without the least vestige of respect–’
‘Mr Spratt!’ rapped out the Judge.
‘I am sorry, My Lord. Extremely sorry. I beg Your Lordship’s pardon. I can only say–’
‘If you’d controlled your client properly this unhappy situation would never have arisen.’
‘Control him? You try and control him–’
‘Mr Spratt!’
‘I’m sorry, My Lord. Extremely sorry. This case has left me quite overwrought.’
‘Look here, Alfie, I am perfectly certain a judge in a civil action hasn’t the slightest right to make threats like that.’
‘For God’s sake, Lancelot! Can’t you shut your big mouth?’
‘Mr Spratt! Your language!’
‘Dammit! Fishy, don’t you see I’m at the end of my blasted tether?’ complained Alfie. ‘I warned you in the club last night my brother’s completely impossible. I mean, I crave Your Lordship’s pardon–’
‘Stop crawling, Alfie,’ urged Sir Lancelot. ‘It makes me want to vomit.’
‘Control your client, I say!’
‘I’m doing my level best,’ exclaimed Alfie angrily. ‘But you’re not making it any easier sitting up there threatening to hand out terms of imprisonment–’
‘Mr Spratt! You forget yourself–’
‘As a matter of fact, it’s about time somebody protested from the Bar about the way you’ve been carrying on recently towards a perfectly respectable succession of litigants–’
‘That’s the stuff, Alfie!’
The Judge jumped up. ‘I intend to commit you
both
to Brixton Prison.’
‘What?’ Alfie stopped short. ‘But that’s absolutely–’
‘Where’s the Tipstaff? Summon the Tipstaff! Send for the–’
I was just wondering whether to cause a diversion by setting a match to the papers, when the Judge gave a groan, reached for his pill bottle, and pitched over his desk.
‘Good gracious me,’ exclaimed Sir Lancelot. ‘Grimsdyke!’
‘Sir?’
‘Hand me that water bottle. Right you are, everyone. I’ll take charge. McFiggie – don’t just stand there, pick up his feet. I recall now he did this once before, when I brought a foot home from the anatomy rooms for a lark and put it in his bed.’