No Comebacks (25 page)

'Yes, of course, one sees your concern, Mr Chadwick. But I'm afraid a personal interview with Mr Buxton is simply not possible. A very busy man, don't you see. I... ah... understand a solicitor representing you has already communicated with the editor.'

'A letter was written,' said Chadwick. 'The reply was from a secretary. It said a letter to the correspondence column
might
be considered. Now I am asking for him at least to hear my side of it.'

St Clair smiled briefly. 'I have already explained that that is impossible,' he said. 'The letter on behalf of the editor is as far as we are prepared to go.'

'Could I see Mr Gaylord Brent himself, then?' asked Chadwick.

'I don't think that would be very helpful,' said St Clair. 'Of course, if you or your solicitor wished to write again, I am sure the letter would be considered by our legal branch in the usual way. Other than that, I'm afraid I cannot help you.'

The commissionaire showed Chadwick out through the swing doors.

He had a sandwich lunch in a coffee bar just off Fleet Street and spent the time it took to eat it lost in thought. In the early afternoon he was seated in one of those reference libraries to be found in Central London which specialize in contemporary archives and newspaper cuttings. His perusal of the file of recent libel cases showed him his solicitor had not been exaggerating.

One case appalled him. A middle-aged man had been badly libelled in a book by a fashionable author. He had sued and won, being awarded £30,000 damages and costs against the publisher. But the publisher had appealed, and the Appeal Court had quashed the damages, making each party pay their own costs. Facing utter financial ruin after four years of litigation, the plaintiff had taken the case to the Lords. Their Lordships had reversed the Appeal Court decision, re-awarding him his damages, but making no order as to costs. He had won his £30,000 damages, but after five years had a legal bill of £45,000. The publishers, with a similar legal bill, had lost £75,000, but were insured for the great bulk of that sum. The plaintiff had won, but was ruined for life. Photographs showed him in the first year of litigation as a sprightly man of sixty. Five years later he was a broken wreck, made haggard by the endless strain and the mounting debts. He had died bankrupt, his reputation restored.

Bill Chadwick determined no such thing was going to happen to him, and took himself to the Westminster Public Library. There he retired to the reading room with a copy of Halsbury's
Laws of England.

As his solicitor had said, there was no statute law on libel in the same way there was a Road Traffic Act, but there was the Law of Libel Amendment Act of 1888, which gave the generally accepted definition of a libel or defamation as:

A defamatory statement is a statement which tends to lower a person in the estimation of right-thinking members of society generally, or cause him to be shunned or avoided, or to expose him to hatred, contempt or ridicule, or to convey an imputation on him disparaging or injurious to him in his office, profession, calling, trade or business.

Well, that last part applies to me at least, thought Chadwick.

Something his solicitor had said in his homily about the courts nagged at his mind. 'In court all allegations can be printed publicly and do not have to be substantiated.' Surely not?

But the lawyer was right. The same Act of 1888 made that clear. Anything said during the sitting of the court can be reported and published without reporter or editor, printer or pub-Usher fearing a suit of libel, provided only that the report be 'fair, contemporaneous and accurate'.

That, thought Chadwick, must be to protect the judges, magistrates, witnesses, police officers, counsel and even the defendant from fearing to state what they believe to be true, regardless of the outcome of the case.

This exemption from any reaction by any person, however insulted, slandered, defamed or libelled, providing only that the allegation v/as made in the body of the court during the sitting of the court, and the exemption for anyone accurately reporting, printing and publishing what was said, was called 'absolute privilege'.

On the underground back to the outer suburbs, the germ of an idea began to grow in Bill Chadwick's mind.

Gaylord Brent, when Chadwick finally traced him after four days of searching, lived in a trendy little street in Hampstead, and it was there that Chadwick presented himself the following Sunday morning. He estimated that no Sunday-paper journalist would be at work on a Sunday, and took pot luck on the Brent family not being away in the country for the weekend. He mounted the steps and rang the bell.

After two minutes the door was answered by a pleasant-looking woman in her mid-thirties.

'Is Mr Brent in?' asked Chadwick, and added without pause, 'It's about his article in the
Courier.'

It was no lie, but enough to persuade Mrs Brent that the caller was from the office in Fleet Street. She smiled, turned, called 'Gaylord' down the hallway and turned back to Chadwick.

'He'll be here in a minute,' she said, and withdrew towards the sounds of small children somewhere in the house, leaving the door open. Chadwick waited.

A minute later Gaylord Brent himself appeared at the door in pastel linen slacks and pink shirt, an elegant man in his mid-forties.

'Yes?' he inquired.

'Mr Gaylord Brent?' asked Chadwick.

'Yes.'

Chadwick opened the cutting he carried in his hand and held it out.

'It's about this article you wrote in the
Sunday Courier.'

Gaylord Brent studied the cutting for several seconds without touching it. His expression was of perplexity touched with petulance.

'This is about four weeks old,' he said. 'What about it?'

'I'm sorry to disturb you on a Sunday morning,' said Chadwick, 'but it's a risk it seems we must all take. You see, in this article you libelled me, and did so rather badly. It has hurt me considerably in my business and social life.'

The perplexity remained on Brent's face, but shifted to give way to an increased level of irritation.

'Who on earth
are
you?' he demanded.

'Oh, my apologies. The name is William Chadwick.'

Enlightenment came at last to Gaylord Brent on hearing the name, and the irritation took over completely.

'Now look here,' he said, 'you can't just come round to my house to complain. There are proper channels. You'll have to ask your lawyer to write ...'

'I did,' said Chadwick, 'but it did no good at all. I also tried to see the editor, but he wouldn't receive me. So I have come to you.'

'This is outrageous,' protested Gaylord Brent, making to close the door.

'You see, I have something for you,' said Chadwick mildly. Brent's hand on the door jamb paused.

'What?' he asked.

'This,' said Chadwick.

On the word, he raised his right hand, fist closed, and dotted Gaylord Brent firmly but not viciously on the tip of his nose. It was not the sort of blow to break the bone, or even damage the septum cartilage, but it caused Gaylord Brent to retreat a pace, emit a loud 'Ooooooh' and clap his hand to his nose. Water welled into his eyes and he began to sniff back the first trickle of blood. He stared at Chadwick for a second as if confronting a madman, then slammed the door. Chadwick heard steps running down the hallway.

He found his police constable at the corner of Heath Street, a young man enjoying the peace of the crisp morning, but otherwise somewhat bored.

'Officer,' said Chadwick as he came up to him, 'you had better come with me. An assault has been committed on a local resident.'

The young policeman perked up. 'Assault, sir?' he asked. 'Whereabouts?'

'Only two streets away,' said Chadwick. 'Please follow me.'

Without waiting to be asked more questions he beckoned the policeman with his forefinger, turned and set off at a brisk walk back the way he had come. Behind him he heard the policeman talking into his lapel radio and the thud of official boots.

The officer of the law caught up with Chadwick at the corner of the street in which the Brent family lived. To forestall more questions, Chadwick kept up his brisk pace, telling the policeman, 'Here it is, officer, at Number Thirty-Two.'

The door, when they reached it, was still closed. Chadwick gestured to it.

'In there,' he said.

After a pause and with a suspicious glance at Chadwick, the constable mounted the steps and rang the bell. Chadwick joined him on the top step. The door opened, carefully. Mrs Brent appeared. Her eyes widened at the sight of Chadwick. Before the policeman could say anything Chadwick chipped in.

'Mrs Brent? I wonder if this officer could have a word with your husband?'

Mrs Brent nodded and fled back into the house. From inside, both callers heard a whispered conversation. The words 'police' and 'that man' were discernible. After a minute Gaylord Brent appeared at the door. With his left hand he clutched a cold, wet dishcloth to his nose. Behind it he sniffed repeatedly.

'Yed?' he said.

'This is Mr Gaylord Brent,' said Chadwick.

'Are you Mr Gaylord Brent?' asked the officer.

'Yed,' replied Gaylord Brent.

'A few minutes ago,' said Chadwick, 'Mr Brent was deliberately punched on the nose.'

'Is that true?' the policeman asked Brent.

'Yed,' Brent nodded, glaring over his dishcloth at Chadwick.

'I see,' said the officer, who plainly did not. 'And who did this?'

'I did,' said Chadwick at his side.

The policeman turned in disbelief. 'I beg your pardon?' he asked.

'I did. I hit him on the nose. That's a common assault, isn't it?'

'Is that true?' the policeman asked Brent.

The face behind the towel nodded.

'May I ask why?' inquired the policeman of Chadwick.

'As to that,' said Chadwick, 'I'm only prepared to explain it all in a statement at the police station.'

The policeman looked nonplussed. At last he said, 'Very well, sir, then I must ask you to accompany me to the station.'

There was a panda car on Heath Street by this time, summoned by the constable five minutes earlier. He had a brief conversation with the two uniformed policemen inside, and he and Chadwick both climbed into the rear. The car brought them to the local police station inside two minutes. Chadwick was led up to the duty sergeant. He stood silent while the young constable explained to the sergeant what had happened. The sergeant, a middle-aged veteran of world-weary patience, contemplated Chadwick with some interest.

'Who is this man you hit?' he asked at length.

'Mr Gaylord Brent,' said Chadwick.

'Don't like him, do you?' asked the sergeant.

'Not much,' said Chadwick.

'Why come up to this officer and tell him you've done it?' asked the sergeant.

Chadwick shrugged. 'It's the law, isn't it? An offence in law has been committed; the police should be informed.'

'Nice thought,' conceded the sergeant. He turned to the constable. 'Much damage done to Mr Brent?'

'Didn't look like it,' said the young man. 'More like a gentle thump on the hooter.'

The sergeant sighed. 'Address,' he said. The constable gave it to him. 'Wait here,' said the sergeant.

He withdrew to a back room. Gaylord Brent had an unlisted number, but the sergeant obtained it from Directory Inquiries. Then he rang it. After a while he came back.

'Mr Gaylord Brent doesn't seem very eager to press charges,' he said.

'That's not the point,' said Chadwick. 'It's not up to Mr Brent to press charges. This is not America. The fact is, an offence of assault has plainly been committed, against the law of the land, and it is up to the police to decide whether to press charges.'

The sergeant eyed him with distaste.

'Know a bit about the law, do you, sir?' he asked.

'I've read some,' said Chadwick.

'Haven't they all?' sighed the sergeant. 'Well now, the police might decide not to press the case.'

'If that is so, I shall have no option but to inform you that if you do not, I'll go back there and do it again,' said Chadwick.

The sergeant slowly drew a pad of charge forms towards him.

'That does it,' he said, 'Name?'

Bill Chadwick gave his name and address and was taken to the charge room. He declined to make a statement, other than to say he wished to explain his action to the magistrate in due course. This was typed out and he signed it. He was formally charged and bailed by the sergeant on his own recognisance of £100 to appear before the North London magistrates the following morning. Then he was allowed to go.

The next day he appeared on remand. The hearing took two minutes. He declined to enter a plea, knowing that such refusal would have to be interpreted by the court as meaning that in due course he might plead not guilty. He was remanded for two weeks and bail was renewed for the sum of £100. As it was only a remand hearing, Mr Gaylord Brent was not present in court. The remand was on a charge of common assault and did not make more than one inch in the local newspaper. No one in the district where Bill Chadwick lived ever read that paper, so no one noticed.