As Berry and I Were Saying (11 page)

“What was his name?” said Berry, speaking between his teeth. “I demand his name, that I may load him with everlasting contumely. Debunking the Swan of Avon in a foreign field! Seeking the spittle Notoriety even in the sewer’s mouth!”

“That’s more than enough,” said I. “We’ll leave it there. Besides, I want to add something to what I said just now.

“A few moments ago, I said that Weston Gale made a bad Queen’s Bench Judge, because he was a fool. That is a strong thing to say, unless I adduce some evidence which, submitted to the average man, will prove my case. This, I propose to do. I referred to two cases ‘within my knowledge’. I think I should set one of them out.

“Not long before the first war, the mother of a well-known lady of title determined to give her daughter a run-about car. Neither mother nor daughter had any money to spare. But the mother, who loved her daughter, knew very well that a little run-about car was what she most desired. She could not afford to pay more than a hundred pounds, but she went to a dealer she had heard of and asked him to fix her up. And please remember that before the first great war one hundred pounds was exactly one hundred pounds…one hundred golden sovereigns, if you like to put it that way.

“Well, the dealer fixed her up, as dealers will. He sold her a second-hand car which was worth about fourteen pounds, took her cheque for a hundred and then delivered the car to her daughter’s address. The daughter, who knew something of cars, perceived what had happened and told her mother the truth. Her indignant parent demanded her money back. The dealer refused to refund it, and an action was brought.

“The head of my Chambers was briefed, and I went to Court with him, to help and to take the note. The case came before Gale.

“While Harker was opening the case, which he always did very well, Gale looked down from the Bench.

“‘One moment,’ he said, smiling. ‘Are you going to tell the Court that the plaintiff really believed that she could purchase a car for one hundred pounds?’

“Harker looked up at him – dazedly.

“‘I am, my lord,’ he said.

“‘What, a thing that moved?’ says Gale.

“‘Certainly, my lord. And I am going to suggest that it was a perfectly reasonable belief. I am going to prove, my lord, that one hundred pounds is a very respectable price for a small, second-hand car.’

“Gale turned and smiled at the jury. Still smiling at them, he replied.

“‘All right,’ he said. ‘Go on. Of course some people will believe anything.’

“The jury smiled back at him, and Harker and I looked at one another in dismay.

“The thing was incredible – like
Alice in Wonderland
. We had often heard of ‘judicial ignorance’, but this was beyond a joke.
There were then upon the British market at least half a dozen cars, listed at between one hundred and one hundred and fifteen pounds – NEW. For one hundred and thirty-five pounds, you could buy a BRAND-NEW twenty-horse-power Ford
. (That was the famous ‘Tin Lizzie’, still to be seen on the roads in twenty years’ time.) And this damned fool of a Judge was as good as telling the jury that anyone who was such a fool as to think they could buy a
second-hand car
for a hundred pounds deserved what she got. And the jury was accepting this doctrine. The nice old gentleman knew and was putting them wise. But, you see, the nice old gentleman lived in Belgrave Square and the only cars he knew cost three thousand pounds apiece. That there might be cheaper makes never entered his head.

“We brought our experts, but he laughed the case out of court. And the jury laughed with him. He was the wiseacre. He knew. He really thought he did. His complacency was invulnerable. He was sorry for us, with our hundred-pound second-hand car. But there you were. A fool and his money were soon parted. So long as there really were people who liked to think… He smiled at the jury, and the jury smiled back. He rammed home the truth that a little knowledge is a dangerous thing. He spoke of sadder and wiser women…”

“Oh, I can’t bear it,” screamed Berry.

“I had to bear it,” said I. “And Harker, too. And I tell you, it shortened my life. But hear me out.

“…who would come to realize that cars that could move and have their being were not to be purchased for the sum of one hundred pounds. And while he was talking this slush, brand-new Fords were being driven up Fleet Street, a hundred paces away. And the price which their owners had paid was one hundred and thirty-five pounds.

“The jury didn’t even retire. They found for the defendant without leaving the box.

“The plaintiff refused to appeal. For all she knew, there were other Judges like that. In fact, there weren’t, but she had had enough of the Royal Courts of Justice. And I’m damned if I blame her.

“Well, there you are. That is exactly what happened, from first to last. And in view of that reminiscence, I think I’ve the right to say that Gale was a fool.”

“One moment,” said Berry. “You spoke of another case.”

“I know,” said I. “But I can’t remember the facts. I think it was a running-down case, and a bus was involved. But exactly the same thing happened. I ran into Harry Dickens, the son of the Common Serjeant. I knew him quite well. He’d just lost the case before Gale and tears of impotent rage were running upon his cheeks. He was so mad with the Judge he could hardly talk straight. I remember his catching my arm and crying, ‘What about that?’”

“There are men,” said Berry, “who can suffer fools gladly. I’ve always envied them. I knew one once. The bigger the fool, the more he enjoyed his pranks. To watch a fool in his folly was meat and drink to him. But I am not like that. The fool, who has no excuse, I have always found provoking. And when I am at his mercy, it sends the blood to my head. My God, who’d go to law?”

“Except in the last resort – only a fool.”

“I’m sure you’ll forgive me for saying that I don’t remember a Judge called Weston Gale.”

“Neither,” I said, “do I. Nor does anyone else. In this particular case, I’ve used a pseudonym.”

“Which is considerably more,” said Berry, “than his memory deserves.”

“There is,” said Daphne, “a lot of The Law in your books.”

“I’m afraid there is. I’m half a lawyer, you know, and it seems to creep in.”

“It may be dull,” said Berry: “but at least it’s accurate.”

“If it wasn’t,” said I, “I should deserve to be flogged.”

“I was always sorry,” said Jill, “that you didn’t unmask
Rowena
in open Court.”

“Let me confess,” said I, “that it would have been more dramatic. Unfortunately, it would not have been true to life. Except in plays or novels, no villain is ever unmasked in open Court. It’s always behind the scenes that he gets it between the eyes.”

“I seem to remember,” said Berry, “an occasion in one of your books – a rather famous occasion, if I may go so far.”

“You mean
Mr Bladder
? Yes. You have me there. In my defence, let me say that nobody dreamed that the chauffeur would not come up to his proof. Nor did the chauffeur himself, till he saw me in court. So it couldn’t have happened ‘off’.”

“I accept that plea. The case was exceptional. Do witnesses often fail to come up to their proofs?”

“Not very often. In that case the witness went right back on his proof, and that, I must confess, I have never seen, although it has actually happened in many a case. Usually, when they’ve been got at. A curious thing happened once. When I was a solicitor’s pupil, I was sent up to the Old Bailey, to manage an important case. We had instructed Bodkin to appear for the Crown, and, though I didn’t do badly, I fear he felt that I was rather too young. (That was the first time I met him. I got to know him much better later on and I have much to thank him for. He was a very good lawyer and he had a delightful wit. He was easily the best Treasury Counsel of my day and I shall always maintain that he should have been made a Judge. He would have adorned the Bench, which is more than some Judges do.) Well, our case had been closed just before luncheon on, I think, the second day. Before the Recorder came back—”

“The Recorder,” said Daphne. “That’s a new one on me.”

“The Recorder of London, my darling. A very coveted post. He has the status of a Queen’s Bench Judge, but he sits only at The Old Bailey. Sir Forest Fulton was the Recorder of my day. He was quite good on the Bench, but he liked a long luncheon interval. I always remember that – I may say, with gratitude. I liked a long luncheon interval, too.

“Well, as I was saying, before the Recorder came back, Bodkin sent for me. ‘I want to recall one witness, for I have a question to ask.’ He told me which witness it was. ‘Have him all ready, please.’ ‘I’ll have him all ready,’ I said. ‘May I know what you want to ask him?’ ‘No.’ Had I been more experienced, Bodkin would not have said that. I was at once uneasy, for I knew the case backwards, though he didn’t know that I did: and I couldn’t imagine what question he was going to ask.”

“Why wouldn’t he tell you?” said Daphne.

“I suppose he was afraid that I might put the answer into the witness’ mouth. That I would never have done. But to recall a witness for one question only, after your case has been closed, means that you are going to focus a powerful beam of attention upon the question you ask. And I felt that, before he asked it, I ought to know what it was. However, there was nothing to be done.

“The Recorder took his seat. Bodkin applied for permission to call the witness back. The Recorder gave it, and I brought the witness in. He went into the box, and Bodkin rose. Then he asked his question. The answer he expected was, ‘Never’. The answer he got was, ‘Frequently’.”

“Oh, my God,” said Berry.

“Yes, it was a fair knock-out. And it couldn’t be covered up. Bodkin could only sit down. And the defence were thrilled. It certainly hit us hard, though we just got home. It wasn’t Bodkin’s fault, for there was a mistake in the brief though not in the witness’ proof. But if only he’d told me the question which he was going to put…”

“What would you have done?”

“I should have said, ‘But that’s wrong. The witness won’t say that.’ And if Bodkin had insisted, I should have asked the witness before he came into court. Bodkin, of course, was wild: but he was a just man and he didn’t take it out upon me.”

“Did you get many letters about
This Publican
?”

“He got a lot of rude ones,” said Berry.

“Indeed, I didn’t,” said I. “I never got one. As a matter of hard fact, I’ve only had about four in forty years. I’ve had some criticism, of course – nearly always very pleasantly made. Once or twice it’s been of very great value.”

“Only once or twice?”

“Yes. The other has been – well, curious. One fellow, who said he was a consulting physician, who had read
Perishable Goods
, took the trouble to advise me to consult a doctor before I again described the condition of a dying man. (I need hardly say that I had taken that precaution.) ‘You see,’ he added, ‘a man in
Mansel’s
condition could not have a rapid pulse: he would have a very slow one.’ In my reply, I pointed out that not only had I not said that
Mansel
had a rapid pulse, but that the word ‘pulse’ did not appear in the book. Another wrote at some length, about
Lower Than Vermin
– saying that ladies of Scottish descent did not refer to themselves as ‘Scotch girls’. He added that he had learned this truth at his mother’s knee. In my reply, I pointed out that nowhere in
Lower Than Vermin
had
Ildico
been described as a ‘Scotch girl’ either by herself or by anyone else. In each case, they had simply got their facts wrong.”

“And what,” said Berry, “is the matter with people like that?”

“I can beat those two. D’you remember the drive to Bordeaux at the end of
Jonah and Co.?”

“I do. John Prioleau wrote and asked your permission to include those pages in his
Anthology of Travel
. He said it was the finest—”

“He was very kind,” I said. “But I did take a lot of trouble. I covered that ground six times, to get it right. Anyway, Pau to Bordeaux, one hundred and fifty miles – and less than three hours to do it. That meant shifting – in 1922. Well, one fellow wrote me a heavily sarcastic letter, saying that he knew the road from Pau to Bayonne (Bayonne,
not
Bordeaux) and inquiring whether it was really necessary to drive quite so fast, to cover the sixty-seven miles in three hours. He’d mixed up his towns, of course.”

“Of course, people like that,” said Berry, “should be confined or removed. I mean, they cumber the earth.”

“They mean no harm,” I said. “But their zeal outruns their discretion. Others correct my grammar. I ought to know, they say, that you don’t say ‘different
to’
. But these are exceptions. More than once I have had a delightful letter, very gently pointing out a mistake. And I have been immensely obliged.”

Jill laid a hand on my arm.

“You’ve had one more than once that wasn’t too good.”

“I know what you mean. They’re not fan-mail, but blackmail. But they’re very rare. I had one once beginning, ‘Dear old Pal of long ago, Do you remember how we discussed the shape of
Valerie French
?’ Well I didn’t discuss the shape of Valerie French with anyone for the very good reason that I had no idea what its shape would be. Added to that, I don’t discuss my books. So I wrote back and said that it seemed to me that they had made a mistake. I received a threatening reply, demanding a share of the royalties which had accrued. This, I ignored. Then they began to cable – I was in France. The second cable ran, ‘Will not be responsible for tragedy which may occur.’ This was inconvenient. The butler took the cables and he was visibly impressed. So I rang up the Postmaster, who was a friend of mine. I explained what had happened and that I was being blackmailed. He quite understood. The French are realists. ‘Rest assured, Monsieur. You will receive no more cables from this outrageous source.’ Nor did I. I assume that he simply returned them, marked ‘Address unknown’.

“Regarding
This Publican
, I had an argument, which I shall always value, with an eminent Chancery Counsel who is now a High Court Judge. It’s dry as dust, so I won’t say what it was. He pointed out that I’d made a mistake in law. So I had. A judgment of Scrutton’s was against me. But I just scraped home, for Scrutton had given judgment in 1937, but my ‘mistake’ had been made in 1936.”