Beyond This Place

by A. J. Cronin

  He made a gesture of dismissal, cordial rather than curt. Without a word, Paul rose and left from the office, traversed the corridor and the charge room unmolested, and emerged to the cool night air. He was free. Sweating all over now, he walked rapidly away. The Chief Constable's outspoken candour had shaken him. There was no mistaking the other's honesty and sincerity of purpose. Yet through the tumult and disorder of his thoughts he felt, running deep and swift, an undercurrent of resentment. He had committed no wrong. In this free country no one had the right to dictate to him, he could not and would not surrender to Dale's demand. Instead, the very nature of that demand, and the circumstances which had preceded it, awoke in him a hot defiance, a longing for a stronger course of action which for some days had been developing in his mind.

  His need of advice upon this matter was immediate, and despite the lateness of the hour, he thought, a trifle desperately:

  "I must see Swann ... at once. It's true he told me to go slow . . . but then ... he didn't know this was going to happen. If I'm to be blocked here ... in Wortley ... I must, yes, I must take a more direct approach. After all, it was he who told me I would only get redress at the highest levels."

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  Striding through the echoing streets, he quickly reached the infirmary.

  But there, when he made his request at the entrance lodge the aged porter, first running a ragged finger nail over the register, raised his spectacled eyes, and mildly shook his head.

  "Swann . . . James Swann. I'm sorry, lad. He's off the list for good. He passed away quite peaceful ... at four o'clock this afternoon."

  Late that evening, after prolonged reflection, Paul made his decision. He wrote and mailed a letter to Westminster, in London.

  CHAPTER XV

  THE Liberal Member of Parliament for Wortley enjoyed his brief visits to his constituency, especially in November, when the partridge shooting was at its best. George Birley came of local country stock and his success in London, where, by marrying Lady Ursula Ancaster he had allied himself with one of the most influential Liberal political families in the land, had not dulled his affection for his old friends and his favourite sport. He was a popular figure in Wortley and, at fifty, ruddy, clean-shaven, genial, a great hand at a story, fine judge of a cigar, always well turned out — with a tendency to check suitings in his leisure hours — ever ready to help a friend, to subscribe to a local charity, he had become a kind of symbol for native worth unspoiled by success.

  True, his career in Parliament had not been especially noteworthy. He took his seat regularly, voted faithfully in the divisions, played golf annually for the Commons against the Lords. Every public man has his detractors, and there were some who said that Birley had neither the brains nor the qualifications for his position, that a good fellow was not necessarily a good statesman, that he was afraid of his noble spouse, and, indeed, of all

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  the lordly Ancasters, that his hail-fellow-well-met heartiness was merely an inverted snobbery, that were it not for his lady wife and her high connections in the cabinet and elsewhere, George might not, for so long, we have had his place in governing the nation.

  On this particular morning Birley was in an excellent humour. His journey to Wortley by the early express had been comfortable, and now, seated at breakfast in the suite they always kept for him at the Queen's Hotel, he had partaken of a healthy portion of eggs and bacon, with grilled kidneys and a mutton chop on the side, and was at toast and marmalade and his third cup of coffee. The Courier on his knee, had been pleasant to glance through: the party shaping well in the Cots wold bye-election, no strikes in the offing, the stock market still rising. There had been frost over night, just enough to crisp the ground, and now the sun was breaking through. In ten minutes his car would be at the door, in an hour he would be snuffing the rich earth of his boyhood, tramping through the county furrows, with three other good fellows, good shots also, though perhaps not quite so handy on the trigger as himself. He had a new cocker, too, just broken to the gun, that he thought would do well.

  A waiter entered, an oldish man with whiskers, very correct and deferential. George liked the atmosphere of the hotel, standing for the good old-fashioned traditions, opposing all that newfangled nonsense which he hated.

  "There's a young man asking for you, sir."

  Birley looked up from his paper and frowned.

  "I can't possibly see him, I'm going out in ten minutes."

  "He says he has an appointment, sir. He gave me this letter."

  Birley took the letter which the waiter tactfully handed him — his own letter, with the House of Commons heading. His frown deepened. What a nuisance! He had fixed this days ago, in response to a rather vague communication soliciting an interview, then forgotten all about it. Still, he was a man who prided himself on never going back on his word.

  "All right," he said. "Bring him up."

  A moment later Paul was shown into the room. Birley, who

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  was now lighting a five-shilling cigar, shook hands with him in an affable manner; motioned him to a chair at the table.

  "Well!" he exclaimed heartily, through a cloud of smoke. "I've been expecting you ever since you wrote. Will you have a cup of coffee?"

  "No thank you, sir." Paul was pale, but his firm expression and well set up shoulders made a distinctly favourable impression on Birley, who always liked to help a respectful, up-and-coming youngster.

  "Let's come to the point, then, young man." Birley used the tone of friendly, half-humorous patronage at which he was adept. "I'm rather pressed you know. Have an important conference outside the city. Taking the express back to London tonight."

  "I guessed you mightn't have much time, sir." Tensely Paul took a paper from his inside pocket. "So I prepared a typewritten statement of the facts."

  "Good, good!" Birley approved blandly, at the same time raising a restraining hand. He objected strenuously to reading statements — why, otherwise, would he maintain two secretaries at the House? "Tell me in a few words what it's about."

  Paul moistened his lips, took a swift deep breath.

  "My father has been in prison fifteen years for a crime he did not commit."

  Birley's jaw dropped, he stared at Paul with bulging eyes, as at something suddenly offensive. Paul, however, gave him no time to speak, he went on steadily with all he wished to say.

  At first it seemed as though Birley would stop him. Yet though his face lengthened progressively, though he kept darting at Paul these queer glances of distaste, he did not. He listened. And his cigar went out.

  The recital lasted exactly seven minutes, and when it was over Birley sat like a man caught in a most unpleasant trap. He cleared his throat.

  "I can't believe tin's is true. It sounds like a complete cock-and-bull yarn to me. And even if it isn't . . . it's very ancient history."

  "Not for the man in Stoneheath Prison. He's still living every minute of it."

  Birley made a peevish gesture.

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  "I can't accept that. And I don't believe in stirring up a muddy pond. In any case it's no affair of mine."

  "You're the Member of Parliament for Wortley, sir."

  "Yes, damn it. I'm not the member for Stoneheath. I represent decent people, not a bunch of convicts."

  He rose and strode up and down the room, furious at the blight put upon his day. If only he hadn't given this young fool an appointment. He couldn't stick his head into such a hornet's nest. No man in his senses would touch it with a barge pole. And yet, even while he glared at Paul, sitting quite still at the table, he experienced an uneasy qualm. Suddenly, with a fretful glance at the clock, he temporized.

  "All right, then. Leave me that damn statement of yours. I'll go through it sometime today. Come and see me again this evening at seven."

  Paul handed over the typewritten document with a suppressed expression of thanks, then rose and quiet
ly left the room. Outside, he filled his lungs with the morning air. If only he could induce the Member to act, in Parliament, the very fountain head of government, the whole matter must be opened up. As he hurried towards the Bonanza he was hopeful that he had made some impression on Birley.

  The day passed with intolerable slowness. Conscious of the fateful processes of thought now taking place in Birley's mind Paul kept glancing at the clock with anxious eyes. Several times Harris, the manager, came over and stood watchfully behind him as though hopeful of seeing him slack off. But at last the hour drew near. Just before closing time Paul went to the washroom, plunged his head in cold water, freshened himself up. He was at the Queen's at quarter past seven and after a short wait was shown upstairs.

  But on this occasion, as he entered the room, there was no affability in Birley's manner. The Member for Wortley stood with his back to the fire, his suitcase packed and ready, a heavy travelling ulster flung across the table. By way of greeting he barely nodded, then he favoured the young man with a long, unsociable scrutiny. Finally he spoke.

  "I've gone through that paper of yours . . . every word of it.

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  Read it in the car going down the country. Read it over again coming back. I must say you've put it together cleverly. Rut there are always two sides to a case. And you've only stated one of them."

  "Only one of them can be true," Paul countered quickly.

  Rirley frowned and shook his head.

  "Things like that simply don't happen with us. They might in some rotten foreign country . . . but not here. Haven't we the best system of legal justice in the world? We lead there, as we do in everything else. What could be fairer than trial by jury? Good God! It's been going on for over seven hundred years!"

  "That might be an argument against it," Paul answered in a low voice. "I've thought about this a great deal, sir. It's natural, in my circumstances. Don't you think that juries are sometimes composed of stupid, ignorant, and prejudiced persons, who can't understand technical points, have no knowledge of psychology, are easily swayed by circumstantial evidence and the emotional rhetoric of the public prosecutor?"

  "Good God!" Rirley exclaimed. "Are you slinging mud at the Lord Advocate next?"

  The passionate resentment which now, day and night, worked in Paul, a dark and bitter ferment, forced him to answer.

  "A paid official whose career depends upon his ability to take away the life of the man placed before him in the dock deserves as little respect, in my opinion, as the common hangman."

  "You forget that we need the common hangman."

  "Why?"

  "Hell and damnation!" Rirley exploded. "To hang our murderers of course."

  "Must we hang them?"

  "Of course we must. We have to protect the community. If it wasn't for the fear of the rope any blackguard would cut your throat on a dark night for a five-pound note."

  "In countries that have abolished the death penalty, statistics show that there has been no increase in crime."

  "I don't believe it! Hanging's the best precaution. And it's a humane death, better than the guillotine or the electric chair. It would be an act of the greatest folly to do away with it."

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  Under the deep stress of his feelings, Paul lost all sense of caution.

  "That's what Lord Ellenborough, the Chief Justice of England said, not so many years ago, when Samuel Romilly tried to get hanging abolished for thefts of more than five shillings."

  The blood mounted to Birley's head. He spluttered:

  "You damned young idiot! You can't pin that sort of thing on me. I'm a Liberal. I'm all for humanity! And so is our system. We don't want to hang people. Good God, you ought to know that from your own experience. A man can always be reprieved."

  "Your legal system, the best in the world, first convicts a man of murder and condemns him to hang; then, when it questions its own judgment, reverses itself, and sends him to a living hell in prison for the rest of his life. Is that an act of mercy? Of humanity? Is that justice?" Paul rose to his feet, his face white, his eyes blazing. "That's what happened to my father. He's in Stone-heath because of a system of criminal procedure which relies on circumstantial evidence and on witnesses who are unfit to testify, a system which permits manipulation of facts by the prosecution, calling of experts who are no more than paid 'yes' men for the Crown, and the employment of a public Prosecutor whose sole purpose is, less to secure justice, than, by every means at his command, to hang the prisoner in the dock."

  Ignoring Birley, and swept away by his obsession, Paul went on in a suppressed voice.

  "Crime is the product of a country's social order. Those who make that social order are often more guilty than the so-called criminals. Society should not deal with offenders on the same principles which made them hang a starving boy a hundred years ago because he stole a loaf of bread. But if we're determined to exact an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth, then at least we should expect some efficiency from the law. Instead, what do we get? In capital charges especially? Methods as antique as that ghastly relic, the black cap, as inexcusable as the gallows on which, after the polite burlesque of prayers, the last scene of vengeance is enacted." Breathlessly, Paul rushed on. "It's time for a newer, better system, yet you want things never to change, to remain exactly as they were 'in the good old days.' Maybe

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  you'd like to go back even further, to the feudal system, when, incidentally, trial by jury began. Well, you're entitled to your views. But, at the same time, you're the representative of the people, you're my representative in Parliament. Even if you don't believe the statement I gave you it's your duty to see that it gets a proper hearing. If you don't, I'll go out myself and shout it in the public square."

  Suddenly realizing what he was saying, Paul stopped short. His legs turned weak and he sat down, covering his eyes with his hand. In the long silence which followed he dared not look at Birley. He felt that he had utterly destroyed his chance of success.

  But he was wrong. While obsequious pleading left him unaffected, Birley could be genuinely won by a display of spirit. He admired courage and often took a liking to those who, in his own phrase, "could speak up to him." He did feel, also, that there might be something in this strange, unpleasant case. Moreover, in questioning his sense of duty, Paul had touched him on the raw. Birley was only too conscious that his increasing self-indulgence and the pattern of life laid down for him bv his autocratic wife, had in these later years occasionally made him shirk the more disagreeable functions of his office.

  He took a few paces up and down the carpet until his temper should cool. Then he said:

  "You youngsters seem to think that you have all the virtues. That's your trouble. You can't see good in anyone else. Now I don't set up as a plaster saint. But in spite of all the adjectives you've thrown at me I do stand for some things. And one of them is fair play. Now I don't like this business of yours one little bit. But, by heavens, I won't fight shy of it on that account. I'll take it and I'll bring it to the open, right on the floor of the House of Commons. Yes, by the Almighty, I give you my solemn oath, I'll land it right into the lap of the Secretary for State himself."

  Paul raised his eves. So unexpected was this declamation, so staggering the victory, he felt the room spin dizzily about him. He tried to stammer out his thanks but his lips would not move, the room whirled faster than ever.

  "In the name of God!" Birley hastilv tugged a large travelling

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  flask from his pocket, bent over and forced some of the spirit between Paul's teeth. "There! That's better. Keep your head down."

  He stood watching the colour come back to Paul's cheeks with a new air of patronage, meanwhile treating himself to a series of generous nips from the flask. The intensity of Paul's reaction dispelled the last of his anger, restored to him a comfortable sense of his own authority. And later on, when he had cleared u
p this nonsense about injustice, what a good story it would make at the Club! — "collapsed at my feet, the young idiot," he heard himself say. But time was getting on.

  "Are vou all right now? My train leaves at eight o'clock." Paul got to his feet, blindly accepted the hand which Birlev held out to him, and a few minutes later was in the street, with a singing in his ears, and even wilder singing in his heart.

  CHAPTER XVI

  NEXT day, Paul left an order with the corner news stand for the Wortley Courier, to be delivered to him every afternoon. This paper reported verbatim the previous day's proceedings in the House of Commons. And although he knew there could be no immediate result — in the press of Parliamentary business Birley must await his opportunity — Paul read it eagerly every evening after returning from his work.

  Buoyed by hope, he faced up to his present circumstances and cheerfully made the best of them. At his lodgings he widened his nodding acquaintance with the only other boarder of his own age — James Crocket, the accountant's clerk. Crocket, a sedate and rather stodgy character, regular as clockwork in his habits, favouring high stiff collars and made-up bow ties, was caution itself in returning Paul's advances; but one Saturday morning, as they came out of their rooms together, he speculatively produced two tickets from his pocket-book.

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  "Would you care to have these? I got them from the governor. He's a Fellow of the Society."

  Paul examined the tickets.

  "Don't you want them for yourself?

  "My young lady isn't well," Crocket answered, "so unfortunately we can't go. It's very nice. The public isn't admitted Sundays — only the Fellows and their friends."

  Unwilling to hurt Crocket's feelings, Paul accepted the tickets with a word of thanks and dashed off to the store. In his change of mood he found himself playing without boredom. From time to time he gazed at Lena Andersen across the aisle, trying to break through the barrier of her reserve. It was not by any means an easy matter — lately, following that period when she had spoken to him more freely, her earlier reticence seemed to have returned and sometimes, in her eyes, there was a stubborn, questioning pain. It hurt him, this apparent withdrawal from the friendship he offered and, at lunch time one day — it was Saturday — a sudden impulse took hold of him.