George Passant (30 page)

Porson gave the sheet of paper to the jury. They passed it round: at last it came to Getliffe and myself. It was as neatly written as a page from the diary. We knew there was no hope of challenging it.

Pertinaciously, good-temperedly, Getliffe worked hard. Questions tapped out in the room as the sky darkened through the lowering afternoon. The illuminated zone from the chandelier left the judge half in darkness. Getliffe did not shake any of the three witnesses. He tried to test their memory of figures by a set of numerical questions which he often used as a last resource. Several times, still good-tempered but harassed, he became entangled in names, that odd but familiar laxness of his – ‘Mr Pass
more
,’ he said, ‘you say you were met by Mr Pass
more
.’

Then Porson called Exell, Martineau’s partner in the agency. Getliffe, breathing hard, sweat running down the temples from under his wig, asked me to take him.

‘You know, of course, the state of your business just before it was sold?’ Porson was asking.

‘Yes,’ said Exell. He had grown almost bald since I last saw him, at the time of Martineau’s departure.

‘Was it at its most prosperous just then?’

‘Nothing like it. Times had got worse,’ said Exell.

‘When was it at its most prosperous?’

‘Just about the time that Mr Martineau entered it.’

‘You would regard the circulation of your paper, the
Arrow
, as some indication of the state of the firm?’

‘I’m not certain.’ A series of questions followed, in which Porson tried to persuade him. He gave at last a rather unwilling and qualified assent.

‘Now you have accepted that figure as an indication, I want to ask you – when did it reach its highest point?’

‘At the time I told you. Seven years ago, nearly.’

‘What was the circulation at the highest point?’

‘Twelve hundred.’

‘I should like you to repeat that. I should like the jury to hear you say that again. What was the circulation at the highest point?’

Exell repeated the words.

‘There is just one thing else you might tell us, Mr Exell. The jury may find this important. We have been told this afternoon that the circulation at some time – never mind who told us or what the reason was – was estimated at five thousand. Was that ever a conceivable figure?’

‘Never. I have told you the highest.’

‘And just before the end it didn’t rise for any reason?’

‘It must have been lower.’

I tried everything I could invent. I asked him about the agency’s books. Weren’t they singularly carelessly kept? Hadn’t he neglected them for years before Martineau joined him? Wasn’t it Martineau’s task to supervise the books during the months he was a partner? Wasn’t it true that Exell could only have a vague knowledge of the agency’s finances in general, this circulation in particular, during Martineau’s time? Wasn’t it true that he was always concerned – and his partner also – with activities outside the ordinary run of business? That Martineau was entirely preoccupied with religion? That Exell himself gave much time to eccentric causes – such as spiritualism and social credit? Wasn’t it possible his estimate of the figure was simply a guess without any exact information? He was uneasy, but we gained nothing. His tone grew thinner and more precise. Once his eyes dropped in that mannerism of hampered truculence which in some men is like a child beginning to cry. He would not budge from his figure. ‘Twelve hundred’s correct,’ he said.

When I had finished, Porson said: ‘I want the jury to be certain of the figure, Mr Exell. First of all, you have no doubts whatever, despite anything that has been hinted?’

‘No.’

‘That’s right. You have been telling us, with expert authority, the largest figure that the circulation can ever have reached. Now will you let the jury hear it again – for the last time?’

‘Twelve hundred.’

As I left the court on that first night, Porson threw me a word, friendly, triumphant and assertive. I saw George hesitate in front of me; then Jack called him, and he walked away with the other two. Having dinner with acquaintances, I heard speculations going on, coolly and disinterestedly, over George and the others: I kept thinking of their evening together. It made me escape early, back to useless work on the case.

The farm evidence took up all the next day. It was heavy and suspicious, as Porson had promised, though there was nothing as clear as George’s statement of the circulation. It was a story of Jack mixing in odd company, making friends, inspiring trust: meetings of his new friends with Olive and George: talk of the farm as a business, mention of accounts, figures on the table.

The stories fitted each other: Getliffe could not break any of them: it only needed those figures to be preserved for our last hope to go. But no one possessed a copy. Miss Geary, the witness who gave the sharpest impression of accuracy, said that in her presence no written figures had ever been produced; the whole transaction had been verbal. She obviously blamed herself for a fool, she was bitterly angry with Jack in particular, and she showed herself overfond of money. Yet I thought she inclined, even now, to the side of George and Jack when she was not entirely sure. Once or twice, certainly, she seemed pleased to put Porson off with a doubt.

Her very fairness, though, acted against us. And she was followed by Iris Ward, whom Porson kept to the last.

As her name was called ‘Mrs Iris Ward! Mrs Iris Ward!’ I caught sight of George’s face. She had once been, before her marriage, an obscure member of his group; she was Mona’s half-sister, but George had never paid much attention to her. Now he showed an anxiety and suffering so acute that it was noticed by many people in the court.

Her face was pleasant-looking, a little worn and tired. She was a year or two from thirty. She smiled involuntarily in a frank and almost naïve manner when Porson addressed her.

‘Mrs Ward,’ he began, ‘did you hear Mr Passant and his friends talk about buying the farm?’

‘I did.’

‘When was this?’

‘The last year I ever went there. I mean, to the farm itself. Nearly three years ago.’

‘That is,’ Porson remarked to the jury, ‘ten months before the farm was actually bought. Can you describe the occasion for us?’

‘I went over one Saturday evening.’

‘Who was there?’

‘Mr Passant, Mr Cotery, Miss Sands (Rachel)–’ She gave several other names.

‘Was Miss Calvert there?’

‘No.’

‘Can you tell us anything that was said at that meeting – about the transaction?’

‘We were sitting round after supper. They were all excited. I think they had been talking before I arrived. Mr Cotery said: “It would be a good idea if we ran this place. So that we could have it to ourselves whenever we wanted it. We shan’t be safe until we do.”’

Porson stopped her for a moment: then he asked: ‘What was said then?’

‘Mr Passant said it would be useful if we could, but he didn’t see how it could conceivably be managed. Mr Cotery laughed at him and called him a good old respectable member of the professional classes. “Haven’t I got you out of that after all this time?” he said. “Of course it can be managed. Do you think I can’t raise a bit of money for a good cause?” and he went on arguing with Mr Passant, saying it was for an absolutely essential cause. He said: “It takes all the pleasure away. And it’s dangerous. I don’t propose to stand the strain if you do. Just for the sake of a little money.”’

Her voice was quiet, clear and monotonous. Everyone was believing her story. It sounded nothing like an invention: she seemed to draw on one of those minutely accurate memories, common among many people with an outwardly drab and uneventful life.

‘What did Mr Passant say?’

‘He argued for a while – he talked about the difficulties of raising the money. He said he didn’t propose to find himself the wrong side of the law.’

Getliffe made a note. She continued: ‘Mr Cotery said how easy it would be to raise the money. “You see,” he said, “as soon as we own the place we can kill two birds with one stone. We can make a good deal of money out of it ourselves. It would be a good investment for the people we borrow from. And it’s child’s play persuading them. We’ve got all the cards in our hands. We’ve been here more often than everyone else put together. No one else knows how many people might use a hostel like this. We can tell people what its possibilities are.”’

‘From that remark,’ Porson said, ‘you gathered Mr Cotery was suggesting they should give false information?’

‘I can’t say.’

‘That’s what you understood at the time, isn’t it?’

‘I’d rather not say. I may have got a wrong impression. I’m certain of what was said, though.’

‘Very well. What happened afterwards?’

‘Mr Cotery went on at Mr Passant. No one else said much. At last Mr Passant said: “It would be magnificent! It will have to be done! I’ve respected my obligations long enough and they go on ignoring me. Besides, the suspense is wearing us down.”’

‘We are hearing about this suspense again. What suspense did they both mean?’

Getliffe objected. He was getting on better with the judge than Porson was, and had begun to play on Porson’s truculence. He also knew that the case was important in Porson’s career, which hadn’t been a lucky one.

Porson turned to the judge. ‘I have just supplied what the jury will consider a discussion of a future conspiracy. I wish to carry this line further.’

The judge smiled perfunctorily. ‘You may ask the question.’

‘What suspense did they mean?’

‘He meant – they were afraid.’

‘What of?’

‘Some of their relations being discovered.’

‘You had no doubt of that at the time?’

‘None at all.’

Porson’s tone was comradely and casual: ‘You mean some of them had immoral relations with each other?’

‘Is this necessary?’ put in the judge. ‘I take it you only want to demonstrate that they had a strong reason for attempting to get this farm to themselves? Surely you have asked enough to make the position clear.’

‘I consider it’s desirable to ask one or two more questions,’ Porson said.

‘I don’t think I can let you proceed any further along this line,’ the judge said.

‘I wish to make the jury aware of certain reasons.’

‘They will have gathered enough.’

‘Under protest, I should like to ask one or two relevant questions.’

‘Go on,’ said the judge.

‘Well, Mrs Ward. I shan’t keep you long in the circumstances. Can you just tell us whether there was any change in the attitude of Mr Passant and his friends – the attitude of these people whom we have learned to call the
group
– when strangers came to the farm?’

The judge was frowning. Getliffe looked at him, half-rose, then did not object.

‘There was a great deal of talk about discretion after the scares began.’

‘What were these scares?’

‘You may not ask that,’ said the judge.

‘I should like–’

‘You may not ask that.’

Porson turned round to the witness box.

‘I hope the jury will have understood how afraid these people were of any discovery of their activities. Although I haven’t been permitted to establish the point to my own satisfaction. However, perhaps I’m allowed to ask you whether you thought any of them, Mr Passant for example, were afraid of having their careers damaged if their activities came out?’

‘I thought so.’

‘Would you say any of them felt an even more compelling fear?’

‘I can’t answer that,’ she said.

‘Why can’t you?’

‘I’m not certain.’

All of a sudden, Porson was back in his seat, leaning against the bench, his legs crossed and his lids half over his eyes.

Getliffe cross-examined at length. She had left the School and George’s company months before the farm was bought. This conversation was long before they made any attempt to raise money? She had not been in their confidence at the critical time? The conversation might have been utterly at random? Obviously this danger which had been so much stressed could not have been urgent – as they went on for months without acting on it?

She answered the questions as straightforwardly as Porson’s; she did not seem either malicious or burdened by her responsibility. I had learned only a few random facts about her; she had become a Catholic since she married, the marriage was apparently happy, she now lived in the school house of a country grammar school. She had always been intimate with her half-sister, Mona. None of us understood her part in the trial.

Getliffe finished by a number of questions on the after-supper conversation. Had she never heard people making plans for the fun of it? Had she never made plans herself of how to get rich quick? Had she never even heard people speculating on how to commit the ideal murder? For a moment, her answers were less composed than at the direct and critical points. Then Getliffe asked her about George’s remark: ‘I don’t propose to find myself the wrong side of the law.’ ‘You are quite certain that was said?’ Getliffe said.

‘Yes.’

‘You believed it at the time?’

‘It struck me as a curious remark to make.’

She replied to Porson’s re-examination just as equably. Now, however, with people excited by the scandal, he raised several bursts of laughter: it was, for the first time, laughter wholly on Porson’s side. It was a sound which George could not escape. A wind had sprung up, the windows rattled, and at times the sun shone in beams across the room; in that rich, mellow, domestic light the court grew more hostile through the afternoon.

AS soon as the court adjourned, we heard a great deal of talk upon Iris Ward’s evidence. Everyone who spoke to us seemed to have believed her account; there was a continuous stir of gossip and curiosity about the lives of George and his friends. They were disapproved of with laughter and excitement: people thought that Porson had been right to force a scandal into notice. ‘He’s won the case and shown them up at the same time,’ someone said in my hearing.