by A. J. Cronin
I am, Yours, Paul
Two days later he received this reply:
Dear Sir,
I would like to meet you only be careful and don't come round the gardin nor the back door no mores. Just be at the same place as arranged and I will try and be there. With my best respecks no more no less at the present time.
L. B.
A stifled cry of satisfaction rose to Paul's lips. Burt was still unsuspecting, the opportunity remained open to him. He could scarcely wait for Wednesday to come. During the past forty-eight hours he had worried constantly lest Birley's action might compromise him further with the authorities. Now, with a sense of relief, he felt convinced that the insignificant paragraph in the Courier relating to his father had passed altogether unnoticed in Wortley.
In this belief, unfortunately, he was quite mistaken.
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CHAPTER XVIII
THAT same morning, at the precise moment when Paul received Burt's letter, a man of forty-five, slightly portly, but with the clean-cut features of an actor, stood after breakfast in the morning room of his house, gazing through the window towards the wide lawn cut with ornamental flower beds and flanked by rhododendron shrubberies. From the adjoining room came the chatter of his two daughters as they made ready for the St. Winifred's School pony show and, occasionally, in a lower key, interposing some gay remark, the beloved voice of his wife, Catharine. But despite these cheerful signs of family unity, Sir Matthew Sprott's mood was irritable.
The entry of a maidservant who began silently to clear the well-appointed table, disturbed his train of thought, and with that testy glance which he reserved for underlings, he went out into the hall. Here the little party stood ready, his wife pulling on her long gloves, looking particularly charming in a little fur toque with a necklet of the same soft brown fur, the girls neat and natty in jodhpurs and velvet riding caps, carrying the gold mounted switches he had given them last Christmas. The elder was sixteen now, slim, dark and serene like her mother, while the younger, who favoured him, with her short plump figure and ruddy colouring, had only just turned twelve.
His expression lightened as his two children pressed about him, urging him to accompany them, while his wife, watching the scene with a quiet smile, added persuasively:
"It would do you good, dear. You've been too hard at it lately."
She was a slender, delicate woman with a pale oval face, and an expression of great sweetness. At forty, with her fine face bones and unthickened figure, she still looked girlish, but she had the fragile air of one who, all her life, had struggled constantly with ill health. Her pure white skin bore a transparent texture. Her fingers were long and tapering.
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Gazing at her with unconcealed affection, Sprott hesitated, smoothing his lips with his forefinger — a habitual gesture. Then he softened his refusal with a joke.
"Who is to earn the pennies if I go gallivanting off with you?"
He opened the front door for them. The closed car was already waiting in the drive with Banks, the chauffeur, in attendance. Soon they were comfortably settled, tucked in with the rug. When they moved off Catharine turned to wave to him through the back window of the limousine.
Slowly, he came back through the library, towards his study, frowning a little, pausing to stare absently at the finest of his pictures. It was a rich and commodious home — over the past ten years he had set out deliberately, guided by his wife's inherent good taste, to achieve the highest in refinement and luxury. He prized his fine things, the petit point chairs, the Aubusson rugs, the Rodin and Maillol bronzes, his two Constable landscapes. These material possessions were, so unmistakably, the proof of his success.
He had risen, solely by his own efforts, from the humblest and most contemptible stratum of society — in his own phrase "from less than nothing." An orphan child, he had been brought up by an aunt, a gaunt woman who, in shawl and wooden clogs, begrimed ever} 7 day with coal dust, eked out an existence as a pithead screener in the impoverished colliery district of Gadshill, near Nottingham. From the beginning, despite these crushing surroundings, the squalor of the one-room dwelling in the miners' row, the kicks and cuffs bestowed upon him, Matthew Sprott had been dominated by one desire — to succeed. The motto "I will get on, get on, get on," was engraved, indelibly upon his heart.
As in the evolution of most self-made men there was, in his early rise, the usual pattern of feverish application and fortunate chance. He was a clever lad, and the Gadshill schoolmaster, a man who loved the classics, gave him education at nights, free. At fourteen, rather than enter the pit, he ran away to Wortley, became office boy, then clerk, in the legal printing and stationery firm of Marsden & Company. Here he got his first view of the machinery of the courts; spurred by that impressive sight, in his
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spare time he studied hard, and was given the opportunity to enter the office of old Thomas Hailey, a reputable county solicitor, as an articled clerk.
Sprott chose the law, not from predilection, not because he felt himself morally adapted for it, but because he sensed it offered ultimately the likeliest chance to power. "I will get on, get on, get on," the words throbbed endlessly, like whirling wheels, within his brain. He set out to make himself indispensable to his aged principal. He had, of course, no notion whatsoever of continuing in Hailey's office as a mere assistant, and at the end of five years, when he passed the final examination of the Law Society, he walked out of the office and set up for himself, leaving in the lurch his principal, who was in poor health and quite dependent upon him. What did that matter? Matthew Sprott was the new Under Sheriff of Wortley.
He was now a law agent, practicing, it is true, in the lowest court, charged only with the prosecution of minor crimes, holding inquiries in cases of suspicious deaths, attending upon the judges at assizes, executioning writs, preparing the panel of jurors and ensuring the safe custody of prisoners — an inferior position, yet allied to the Crown, which was the first step towards his main ambition. While carrying out his official duties with exemplary vigour he privately continued his studies in civil, public, and constitutional law. When he was ready, and had scraped together the requisite fee, he applied to have his name removed from the Roll of Solicitors, entered the Inner Temple and was finally cahed to the bar.
He was not blind to the magnitude of the task he had undertaken. He had little money and few connections and for many months he haunted the courts, a briefless advocate. Then a registrar's appointment at the Inns of Court was offered him. He accepted it, but only as a stopgap, a springboard from which to make himself useful to those in power. Gradually he became known as a man of intelligence and immense industry, with a specialized knowledge of criminal law. Better still, he was a good speaker, with a gift of repartee, cutting or jovial, as the occasion demanded, and a notable power, amounting almost to genius, of playing upon the emotions of the jury. In 1910, when the parlia-
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mentary elections came round he enlisted under the banners of the local Conservative candidate, Sir Henry Longden, sparing no effort, declaiming from the hustings at all hours. When Longden was elected, Sprott presently received his reward. He was appointed by the Crown Recorder to the City of Wortley.
Back again in his native county, though his salary was modest, his jurisdiction as principal legal officer was vastly increased. And for five years Sprott slaved in Wortley: to such purpose that at the quarter sessions he became a terror to the debtors, delinquents, and wrong-doers of the city. He cultivated, assiduously, the people who could be of use to him — and, indeed, when it suited him he could be the best company in the world. Yet, despite all his efforts, preferment did not come to him. He had married during this period and often his wife was hard pressed to keep him from despair. Would he never "get on, get on, get on?"
Suddenly, when he seemed doomed to a life of provincial officialdom, there occurred a heaven-sent opportunity. A mu
rder case, which had excited the popular interest, was due for trial at the County Assizes and, on the eve of the opening date, the distinguished counsel briefed by the Director of Public Prosecution was stricken with a serious fever. All other counsel on the circuit were engaged. Rather than postpone the trial, it was decided to entrust the conduct of the Crown case to Matthew Sprott.
This was the turning point of his career. While that inner voice whispered to him exultantly: "Get on, get on, get on . . . this, at last, is your chance," he flung himself, with every weapon at his command, into the prosecution of Rees Mathry. His intention was to focus attention upon his own powers, to stun, to overwhelm with his brilliance, come what may, to convict the prisoner. And he succeeded.
Before eight months had passed he had resigned his recorder-ship and, while retaining his provincial home — an easy matter considering the admirable express railway service between Wortley and London — gone into chambers in the Temple. Two years later he took silk, and partly because of his early training, partly also because of his remarkable forensic skill, he was more
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and more frequently briefed in capital charges as Prosecutor for the Crown, a position which he filled so admirably that, in 1933, he received a knighthood. Now, at forty-five, comparatively young and full of energy, his ambition further swollen by success, he felt himself poised, as it were, for even higher flights. His policy of maintaining his residence in Wortley had borne fruit — he had been asked to stand as Conservative candidate for the city, replacing George Birley — a safe seat — at the coming election. Once in the House, the Attorney Generalship was not far away. And then, in time, might he not become Lord Chief Justice, perhaps even in the end achieve the highest pinnacle of all — Lord High Chancellor, sitting in the House of Lords, the supreme legal officer in the realm.
Of course, in such a homeric upward struggle it had been essential to employ a certain ruthlessness. Sprott had no illusions regarding the qualities necessary for success — Hie was a stern battle wherein only the fittest could survive. As authority came to him his frown grew hard and heavy, his tongue cut like a lash. Obliged to ingratiate himself, at all costs, in high political circles, he had learned, to a nicety, when to discard a person who had served his purpose, when to pass a man whom he had wheedled and flattered, with an absent stare. And above everything, he had acquired the faculty of always maintaining himself one pace ahead of his rivals, constantly proving his worth, demonstrating his ability, by a formidable display of power.
Naturally, he had made enemies and he was not unaware of the reputation he had gradually acquired. It was said of him that he was a timeserver and a toady to the great, that with every upward step he had planted his foot squarely in the face of the man who stood beneath him. He was accused of having done certain people serious injury. In particular it was whispered that in the exercise of his official duties as Prosecutor for the Crown he brought to bear too strongly his great native talents for directing the course of justice.
Here, as he moved restlessly about his study, the prosecutor's frown deepened. He admitted at last the cause of his present irritation. Yes, that question raised so suddenly in the House of
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Commons had occasioned him the bitterest chagrin. Of course George Birley was a fool, and he had been severely reprimanded by the party leaders. Moreover the Secretary of State had at the very outset quashed the wretched affair with the utmost firmness. Nevertheless, the implications had been in the highest degree disagreeable. Within a restricted circle there had been considerable comment — the thing had even come to the ears of his dear wife, causing her to question him, mildly, the other evening when they were alone together.
Although not given to oaths, Sprott swore softly under his breath. The only truly disinterested passion in his life was bis affection for his family, especially for his wife. She had not brought him money or position, being no more than the daughter of a Wortley doctor, and in marrying her for love he had been for once inconsistent to his own behaviour pattern. Yet her gentle companionship, the sustaining admiration and pervading sweetness of disposition had more than rewarded him. He had no friends and the knowledge that he stood well with her, that she was always on his side, had sustained him in many a difficulty. It was the rankling mistrust that his reputation might perhaps suffer some slight slur in her eyes which at this moment finally decided him.
With a decisive gesture he took up the telephone, and put through a call to Police Headquarters at Wortley Central 1234.
CHAPTER XIX
TEN minutes later Chief Constable Dale put on his heavy silver-braided uniform coat and, in answer to the summons, set out across the Park towards Grove Quadrant.
Rather than take his official car he preferred to walk. The deference which was accorded to him when he traversed the West End — the brisk salutes of his own officers, the respectful glances, even the scurry of activity which the mere sight of his
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figure produced amongst the Park sweepers — in a grim way always gratified him.
At Sprott's house in the Quadrant he was shown, by an elderly maid in dark mauve uniform, into the small private study on the right of the hall. The woman told him, in the hushed voice used by superior servants, that Sir Matthew would see him immediately. Dale, in reply, gave her a brief nod. He well knew he would be made to wait, and he did not like it.
He eased himself into a leather armchair and, resting his portfolio on his knees, gazed around the room, winch was panelled in natural pine, thickly carpeted, lined by many books in finely tooled bindings. With a twinge of envy he reflected that he might have done as well, even better, if he'd only had the schooling. As things were he had to put his pride in his pocket — he couldn't quarrel with his bread and butter.
"Ah, there you are, Dale." Sprott entered the room, extending his warm hand, showing no trace of the ill-humor which had recently affected him. "Can I offer you some refreshment?"
"No thank you, Sir Matthew."
Sprott sat down.
"You're well, I hope."
"Quite well."
"Good." The public prosecutor paused for a moment and stroked his lip. "Dale . . . did you notice that bit of nonsense in the House . . . about the Mathry case?"
Dale was startled. But he concealed his surprise.
"I did notice it, Sir Matthew."
"Of course the whole thing is absurd . . . political mud-slinging. Still," Sprott shook his head, "we have to watch out these days that none of it sticks to us."
Dale slowly revolved his heavy 7 uniform cap in his huge hands, still somewhat at a loss.
Sprott continued to meditate.
"That voung fool . . . the son . . . what's the name again . . . Mathry ... is he still in the city?"
Dale shifted his eyes and contemplated his thick-soled boots.
"He's still here. We've had our eye on him for some time."
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"Yes," said Sprott. "He seems a troublesome sort. Oh, you know what I mean — the type that follows you around, tries to see you at all hours, shoves the usual petitions into your hands . . . the complete crank with a grievance. As if we weren't used to it."
There was a curious pause. Then, tapping his front teeth thoughtfully, Sprott added:
"The question is . . . what to do about him."
For a full minute the Chief Constable held his tongue. He perceived now why the prosecutor had telephoned to him and a curious sensation of doubt, touched by a vague malice, took hold of him. Deliberately, he raised his eyes.
"Do you wish to prefer a charge against him?"
"By no means," Sprott protested. "After all, misguided though he may be, this young man is scarcely a criminal. And we must be merciful, Dale. Mercy, it is twice blessed, it falleth like the gentle dew upon the plain beneath. I hope I am quoting correctly." He looked straight at the Chief Constable. "However, it might be that you could induce our
misguided young friend to leave this fair city of Wortley."
"I've already told him to clear out."
"Words, my dear Adam, as I know to my cost, mean so very little. I make no suggestions whatsoever. Nevertheless, you may find it possible, in your own way, to bring him to a more reasonable frame of mind."
Sprott rose to his feet and, with his back to the fireplace, authoritatively addressed the Chief Constable.
"I don't wish you to misunderstand me, Dale. I have taken the trouble, despite the immense amount of work upon my desk, to go through the records of the Mathry case."
"Ah!" thought Dale to himself with that same strange interior tremor.
"We have nothing to reproach ourselves with, simply nothing. We stand confirmed in the highest quarters. Nevertheless, the situation presents certain dangers. At the present time, with elections, both civic and national, falling due in a few months, the merest suggestion, no matter how unfounded, of a miscarriage of justice would be serious for all concerned. You know that I am
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standing for Parliament in the Conservative interest with, I trust, reasonable hopes of success. But my concern is not a selfish one. I am thinking not simply of my own future and yours . . . the effect on the people at this juncture, if such a diabolical falsehood were nursed into a scandal by mischievous parties, would be to undermine confidence in the whole judiciary, and in the government as well. That is why it is essential for this idiotic affair to be suppressed."
When he had concluded, Sprott again directed towards the Chief Constable that fixed and penetrating regard, then he held out his hand to terminate the interview. As Dale stepped out on the broad pavement of the Quadrant, there was no longer a flickering question in his mind. Somehow the thought had changed its form, was now fixed, a thorn piercing his natural honesty. With a frigid face he muttered stubbornly to himself: "There can't . . . no, there can't be anything in it." Yet his voice rang bleakly in his ears, and with his natural combativeness aroused, he resolved to temper Sprott's injunctions. He would watch young Mathry, but would not molest him unless he contravened the law.
