“What is the explanation of this astounding volte-face on the part of the French? For that is what it was. People who say, ‘Oh, the French always hated us’, make me tired. The French were never mad about any foreigner, but they certainly liked the English better than anyone else. Up to the outbreak of war, if he behaved himself, the British resident was popular in France. Tradesmen were glad of his custom: servants were eager to enter his service – no servant who had been in an English house would ever again enter a French one. Why? Because in an English house they were properly used. Peasants were always courteous and more than ready to help at any time: officials were, for the most part, extremely civil, and, once they got to know you, would do you proud.
“Let me put on record one single instance of ‘service’. On the day on which we entered Gracedieu, the bulk of our furniture arrived very late: and when it did arrive, the men to unload it did not – for several hours. With the result that, though we all worked like madmen, the men were not out of the house till nearly eleven that night. We staggered into the library and sank down just as we were. We’d had no tea, we’d not even had a drink, and Daphne was trying to think what would be the easiest food for the chef to prepare and the butler to serve – for the two had worked just as hard as anyone else. Then the door of the library opened and the butler came in, changed and immaculate, with the cocktails, as usual, on a tray. As he brought them round, ‘Well done, —,’ said Daphne. ‘Now about what we’re to eat.’ The man looked faintly surprised. ‘Madame,’ he said, ‘will be served in a quarter of an hour.’ We just had time to wash. Then we sat down to the dinner which Daphne had ordered, perfectly cooked and served. By the time we had finished, it was a quarter to twelve.” Berry stopped there and looked round. “Is that reminiscence true?”
“Every word,” said everyone.
“Very well. That was the sort of devotion which our servants delighted to render before the war. Why, then, the astounding volte-face, which I have described?
“I have spoken with many people who knew the old France: I’ve spoken with Spaniards: I’ve spoken with British soldiers, high and low: and I’ve spoken with diplomats. From what I saw for myself and from what they said, I have formed certain conclusions, and here they are.
“The first is this – that ninety per cent of the French will never, never forgive us for fighting on. When they surrendered, they assumed we should follow suit: it never entered their heads that we should go on. And when we did go on, they were simply wild. Why? Because, by refusing to surrender, we showed them up. For years they had boasted of their honour – a thing which we never did. But, when they were shown the whip, they threw their honour away. And then we were shown the whip – a very much heavier whip, for we were entirely alone. But we hugged our honour more tightly and bade the Germans lay on – so that, while France had no honour left, ours was magnified. Then they comforted themselves by believing, as they had good reason to believe, that we should be broken in pieces – a fate which they had escaped. And then we weren’t broken in pieces… And that was gall and wormwood, and the very hell of a draught. So they came to hate us like poison.
“The second conclusion is this – that, under the Boche, the French did extremely well. I don’t have to tell you that their ruling passion is gain, that it always has been gain. To our way of thinking, that is an unfortunate trait: but they had many qualities. Be that as it may, not only did the Boche pay handsomely, but something which was called ‘The Black Market’ came swiftly to life. The Black Market meant gain – smart, surreptitious dealing, which not only flouted the law, but always ended in gain…sometimes prodigious gain – two or three months’ wages in one afternoon. Now this was right down the Frenchman’s street: soon everybody was in it, from bottom to top. The proportions which it assumed were unbelievable. Peasants became franc millionaires: typists smoked cigarettes at ninepence apiece: comparatively poor men’s wives dressed at the rate of fifteen hundred a year – pounds, not francs. It was, I think, after V Day, but whilst we were still in France, that a train-load of tyres vanished on the way to Paris from Havre. A whole train, loaded with nothing but tyres – brand-new Dunlop tyres. One of the Dunlop agents told me that. Think of the number of Frenchmen in on that deal: and every one got his rake-off. At that time there were, it was said – with how much truth I don’t know – eighty thousand American deserters in France. Many had deserted, bearing their sheaves with them. They would take with them a truck – of American cigarettes. They could live on that for six months. Three pounds fifteen a hundred was what we paid. (They talk about a black market in England. They’ve never started in England, compared with France.) The French never made so much money in all their lives. And then came the liberation…which dealt a mortal blow to this prosperity. And the nation they hated like poison brought it about. By her cursed interference, doubly Perfide Albion deprived the French of their cake. What was so bitter was that they had to pretend they were pleased.
“And here and now let me say this. There were some who did not share this outlook. There were some most honourable exceptions – glorious, gallant men and women, who never threw away their honour, who showed themselves faithful to death. But they were very few… We have heard of ‘La Résistance’. This was negligible. Discussing it with a British General who was in a position to know, I suggested one per cent. He looked at me. ‘Point o o one per cent,’ was all he said. Had France, as a whole, ‘resisted’, I doubt if the Boche could have held the country down. He could certainly have done nothing else – look at the troops it took to hold our prisoners-of-war: and they were behind barbed wire. It was fear of such a resistance that kept Hitler out of Spain. Still, as I say, there were some great-hearted exceptions, who loathed the Boche as we do, whose hatred was not for sale.
“Well, there we are. I’ve told our sordid story: and I’ve offered an explanation of what occurred. And now let’s forget a very bitter experience, which would, I think, have shaken Machiavelli himself.”
“One word,” said I. “Why did they try to prevent us from leaving France?”
“If you can’t answer that question, neither can I. I can only suppose it was malice – they wanted to keep us there and to twist our tails. And, of course, we’d have had to pay through the nose. Nowhere to lay our heads – except at a price. And the one night we spent at Pau cost us over thirty pounds.”
“I asked the Commandant, but he never replied. So I didn’t ask him again.”
“He must have known,” said Berry, “God bless his honest soul.”
“He was sweet to us,” said Jill, “the day you brought him to Gracedieu. D’you remember how he kept saying, ‘But this is an English house’? And he simply loved the terrace.”
“He was honest,” said I. “An honest gentleman.”
“Give us something to sleep on,” said Daphne. “I don’t want to dream.”
“Once upon a time,” said I, “a man and a woman fell out. And the woman went to law. I knew the man slightly. I knew the woman by name. I have always believed that the case was one of blackmail – that is to say that such allegations were made by the plaintiff in the pleadings as she and her advisers hoped would induce the defendant to pay up, rather than let them be repeated, false though they were, in open court.
“Well, it came off.
“The case was never tried. When it was called on, counsel for the plaintiff announced that ‘his lordship would not be troubled with the action, as the defendant had agreed to pay the plaintiff substantial damages’ – he mentioned a phenomenal sum – ‘as well as her costs’.
“I was very sorry for the man, who was one of the best. His father was dead. I was told that his mother had put great pressure upon him to settle the case.
“The solicitors for the plaintiff were Messrs. X and Y, not a very sweet-smelling firm. The solicitors for the defendant were Messrs. A and A, a firm of the best report.
“On the evening of the day upon which counsel made his statement, Mr X wrote
a short note to the senior partner of A and A. He did not know him to speak to, but that was beside his point.
Dear Wisdom,
— against —
Our costs in this case amount to five thousand pounds. May we have a cheque at your convenience?
Yours sincerely,
Simeon X
“On his way home that evening, Mr X paid two calls. The first was to a jeweller’s, where he chose for Mrs X a very fine string of pearls. The second was to a house-agent’s. There he acquired an option to purchase a highly desirable mansion in a highly desirable square.
“When a week had gone by, but Mr X had received no reply to his note, he sat down and wrote again.
Dear Wisdom,
— against —
I think, perhaps, you never received my note, saying that our costs in this case were five thousand pounds. May we have a cheque, please?
Yours sincerely,
Simeon X
“Again he received no reply. But two days later the following letter arrived.
Messrs. X and Y
Dear Sirs,
— against —
We shall be glad to receive your detailed bill of costs in this case.
Yours faithfully,
A and A
“This was extremely awkward. The making of bricks without straw nearly always is. Mr X was forced to the conclusion that Mr Wisdom was no gentleman.
“After a week’s Herculean labour, Messrs. X and Y rendered to Messrs. A and A the detailed bill of costs for which they had asked. This, of course, had been made to amount to five thousand pounds.
“Messrs. A and A acknowledged the bill and notified Messrs. X and Y that they would have it taxed.
“If a solicitor renders a bill of costs which his debtor considers excessive, the latter can require the former to appear before a Taxing Master and justify his charges. The Taxing Master will study the bill and listen to what each side has to say. If he thinks any charge excessive, he will reduce it. If he reduces the whole bill by one third, the solicitor has to pay the costs of the taxation.
“On receiving this notification, Mr X perceived that Mr Wisdom not only was no gentleman, but never had been and never would be a gentleman.
“The two firms appeared before a Taxing Master. The latter studied the bill, listened to all that was said and taxed off – that is to say, reduced it by – very nearly four thousand five hundred pounds.
“Mr X’s emotions may be imagined. In any event, the string of pearls went back to the jeweller’s shop and the option to purchase the mansion was not taken up.
“And here is a tail-piece, which I doubt if the defendant knew.
“About six months later the plaintiff consulted Mr N, a well-known and popular solicitor, whose office was in The Temple, as some solicitors’ are. She looked rather shabby and seemed very much depressed. ‘Yes, my girl,’ says N, ‘and what’s the trouble now?’ He had her measure all right. ‘Well, you know,’ says the lady, ‘I got — thousand pounds.’ ‘So I read,’ says N, grimly. ‘Well, X and Y won’t pay me. I’ve not had a penny yet.’ ‘D’you mean that?’ says N. ‘Well, look at me,’ says the lady. ‘Leave it to me,’ says N. ‘Your gains may be ill-gotten, but not the Pope himself may confiscate ill-gotten gains.’
“N got the money for her, and that was that.
“Now I knew X and Y: I knew Wisdom: and I knew N. I knew very well a personal friend of X: and a personal friend of Wisdom’s was a personal friend of mine. And that is how I was able to piece together this tale. I very much doubt if anyone else in the world knows the whole from beginning to end. But that is exactly what happened some forty odd years ago.”
“The iniquity of man,” said Berry, “passes belief. Why weren’t they struck off the Roll?”
“They should have been,” said I. “For that and for other things. But evidence in such cases is very hard to procure. And firms like that are very slippery. And in this case, their course was too easy: they would have got at the woman, and she’d have gone back on her proof. Why did Horatio Bottomley have the run he had?”
“I never could understand that, for he was the Prince of Rogues.”
“Let me enlighten you. Twice the Crown went for him. Each time, their case seemed copper-bottomed. Each time they firmly believed they’d got him cold. And if he had gone down, he’d have gone down for fourteen years. And each time, somehow or other, he slithered out of the net. I don’t know how he did it – I’d rather not think. The fact remains that he did. And were the Treasury wild? I’ll say they were. And, thereafter, they watched him like hell. But Bottomley went straight on and did as he pleased. For years, quite once a year – and I’m putting it low – the information they got was more than enough to convict any ordinary man. So a brief went to Treasury Counsel, asking him to advise whether or no another attempt should be made. And this was the answer which Treasury Counsel gave. ‘I will not advise proceedings against this man. Nothing short of the fiat of the Attorney-General, will induce me to draw the indictment in such a case.’”
“What’s a fiat?” said Jill.
“Fiat is Latin, my darling, for ‘Let it be done’. And Treasury Counsel was right. He knew his man, and he knew very well it would only be riding for a fall. They got him at last, as you know. But I think he was failing then. In his prime, he was marvellous. In court, I mean: for action after action was brought against him, and he always defended himself. And he was a lovely lawyer. I’ve heard him follow F E Smith on a point of law: and, by God, he was just as good. And always most respectful. If that man had run straight, he could have done anything. I suppose he preferred to be a rogue. They said he was Bradlaugh’s son, but whether he was or not, I have no idea. But to hear him cross-examine… Rogue or no, you’ve got to admire genius. And he was immensely popular.”
“Did you come across Arthur Newton?”
“I did indeed. I met him, time and again. He was often against Muskett. And he was charming to me.”
“He was a pretty blackguard.”
“So he was. But he was a gentleman. He was at one of the very best public-schools. Then he became a solicitor. He had his offices in Marlborough Street. He’d done time before I knew him. He was sent down for getting witnesses out of the way. God knows what he was paid to do it: but he made one stipulation. ‘If I do it, they’ll prosecute me and I shall be sent to jug. Well, I don’t mind going to jug. But a solicitor who goes to jug is struck off the Roll. Well, I must be the exception. I must not be struck off the Roll.’ Don’t ask me how it was managed, but, though he went to prison, he was not struck off. And he came back and carried on. He had a most charming manner, was always well turned out: but I think he lifted his elbow – I can’t be sure. I was told – but I can’t vouch for this – that, because of Arthur Newton, the staff of Marlborough Street Police Station was always changed every month. Myself, I believe it to be true: but I can’t say that it was.”
“But why was that?” said Daphne.
“For fear that he’d get at them. You must get to know a man, before you can blackmail him.”
“Good God,” said Berry. “What company you have kept.”
“It takes all sorts,” said I, “to make a world. And you couldn’t help liking him. He had a most pleasing address. But I always had the impression that most of the work he did never came into court.”
“He saw to that?”
“Probably. Anyway, he was very able. And always nice to me.”
“The old school tie?”
I shook my head.
“The honour was not Harrow’s. He came from another place.”
“Any more friends like that?”
“I can’t remember one. And that’s enough for tonight.”
“Would you call that a side-light on history?”
“Frankly, no. But we needn’t put it in.”
“I don’t know,” said Berry. “It is not everyone that has a personality so dangerous as to compel the Commissioner of Police
for the Metropolis to change the staff of one of his principal stations every month.”
“I can’t swear to that,” said I.
“But you believe it to be true?”
“I do.”
“Then bung it in,” said Berry. “Damn it, we must consider posterity. What wouldn’t we give today for such a reminiscence of the reign of Henry the Eighth?”
“I don’t want to damp your hopes: but I can’t see this book on sale four hundred years from now.”
“Neither can I,” said Berry. “But odd copies may survive. The Dark Ages will just be ending. The Barons will be hanging rich merchants up by their thumbs.”
“My God,” said Daphne, “I thought I told you I didn’t want to dream.”
11
Berry lighted a cigar and regarded his watch.
Then –
“What about half an hour at the Old Bailey? You know. Something worthy of Hogarth, just to take us to bed.”
“You are revolting,” said Jill.
“Not at all,” said Berry. “Hogarth was a great master. But he never left anything out. And that is what lends to his incomparable pictures a historical value which is beyond all price.”
“One day,” said I, “whilst I was still a solicitor’s pupil, I was at the Old Bailey. Why I was there, I can’t remember. But I had been sent up there about some case. I had done what I had to do and was just about to leave, when either some clerk or some policeman touched my arm. ‘If you want to see something, sir, which you’ll never see again, go into the Judge’s court.’ I thanked him, and made my way in. The court was pretty full, so I stood in one of the aisles just abreast of the dock. Bench, jury-box and dock were all empty: the jury was out. ‘Hullo,’ said a man that I knew. ‘Come to see some Grand Guignol?’ I shrugged my shoulders. ‘Somebody gave me a tip, and here I am.’ ‘Well, don’t be sorry for them: they’re pure-bred spawn of Satan – and that’s the truth.’
As Berry and I Were Saying Page 17
