As Berry and I Were Saying

by Dornford Yates

  “‘No, I won’t change them,’ he said. ‘These notes have been stolen, and–’

  “But King was gone.

  “The old fellow pursued him in vain.

  “King returned to duty with his heart in his mouth. But we were not ready yet. A week or two later, on a Saturday afternoon, King was asked to keep an appointment in Leicester Square. This, at three o’clock. Ten minutes before that time, the old Dutch banker sat down on a seat in the square. He was to keep his eyes open and to raise his hat if he saw anyone he knew. Precisely at three King appeared, and at once the old fellow rose and lifted his hat. King did not see him do so, but two plain-clothes men did. King was arrested and taken to Bow Street forthwith. On the way, he did an incredibly foolish thing. Though he had already been cautioned, he asked the police a question. ‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘Supposing I’m sent down for this, could they stop me using the money when I come out?’ Naturally, this statement was given in evidence against him and had a lot to do with sending him down.”

  “But what a madman,” said Berry.

  “It was typical of the man. The fraud was impudent. The sending of the typewritten letter was infernal cheek. His behaviour in the dock was impertinent, and his answers in the witness-box were daring. His attitude conveyed the impression that he would have liked to say, ‘Yes I did it all right; but you damned well prove I did.’

  “Directly after this, Windell was arrested in Spain: but most of his share of the plunder had disappeared. King’s was in a safe-deposit – so much we knew.

  “I have entirely forgotten the proceedings at the police court. I imagine that he pleaded ‘Not guilty’ and reserved his defence. That is what I should have done, for such a case was bound to be sent for trial.

  “Bodkin, of Treasury counsel, appeared for the Crown. King was defended by Lever – most ably defended, too. The Judge was Forrest Fulton, the Recorder, whom I have mentioned before. Travers Humphreys was Bodkin’s junior.

  “At the time in question, no typewriters were used by the Bank. At least, the Managers did not dictate their letters, but wrote them themselves in longhand. So all twelve of the forged letters had been written in longhand, too. And in each case, the hand was exactly that of the Manager of the Harlesden Branch. Not only the signature – the whole text. There was only one tiny, tiny difference. I’m afraid it’s hard to explain, but I’ll do my best.

  “Think of copper-plate writing, and think of a capital Y. The first down stroke of the Y is a deep, bold curve. Now think of a capital H, or a capital K. In these letters, the first down stroke is a miniature copy of the first down stroke of the Y. A copy, but very much smaller – a fifth of the size. Now when King wrote copper-plate, as sometimes he had to do – a name in a ledger, or something – he wrote very well. But his copper-plate hand had one peculiarity. This was that the first down stroke of his H or his K was always almost as large as the first down stroke of his Y. And when he copied the Harlesden Manager’s hand, he failed to conceal this one peculiarity. As Bodkin put it in his opening speech, ‘Out of his imitation of the Harlesden Manager’s writing, there emerged a characteristic of his own.’

  “We had several extracts from the forgeries photographed, and some of King’s own entries in the ledgers photographed, too. These photographs were greatly enlarged. When the two were compared, there was no mistaking the little peculiarity which was apparent in both. In all other respects, the forgeries were superb. And twelve fairly long letters, remember. It was a great achievement – you can’t get away from that.

  “I’m not sure, but I don’t think we used against him the fragments of the letter found by the charwoman. Why, I don’t know. There may have been something unsatisfactory about that evidence. Anyway, it had served its turn, for it led us to King. But with the peculiarity of his handwriting, his identification by the Dutchman, his very foolish question to the police and other evidence, I think we should have got home comfortably, if a sheer catastrophe had not befallen us at the trial. Of course it was never reported, for nobody knew.

  “The principal and by far the most important witness for the Crown was Anderson, the General Inspector of Branches. His proof was very long, for he represented the Bank. In that capacity, he was to detail much of the working of the Bank: to explain, for instance, how it was that King had access to letters from the Harlesden Branch and could have abstracted and restored them, without anyone’s knowing that he had done so: to speak to discipline, supervision, practices, notepaper, postage – all sorts of things to which only a man in his position could speak with authority. I had no fear, for Anderson was a most exceptional man. He had everything at his finger-tips. And I knew he’d make the perfect witness. As for cross-examination, Lever would get not a pennyworth of change out of him.

  “If I remember aright, he was due to be called after luncheon on the second day. As I entered the hall of the Old Bailey about a quarter to ten that morning, Chief Inspector Bower, the principal police witness, hurried to my side. ‘Bad news, sir,’ he said. ‘Anderson’s here all right, but he’s very ill.’

  “‘Ill?’ I cried. ‘Well, sick, sir. He’s got some stomach trouble. The man’s in agony.’ ‘Where is he?’ said I. ‘Over there, on the bench.’ I almost ran to his side. Anderson looked at me, but he could hardly speak. As he opened his mouth, another terrible spasm racked his frame. When it had passed, ‘I’ll do it somehow,’ he said. I asked him if such an attack had occurred before. He nodded. ‘I’m subject to them,’ he said. ‘But they last for twenty-four hours.’ ‘Have you got a doctor?’ I said. ‘Yes. If he was here…’ I turned to Bower. ‘Send a man for his doctor,’ I said. ‘He’s to tell him that Mr Anderson’s got one of his attacks.’

  “Then I entered the court. Bodkin had just come in. I told him what had happened. ‘He’s not fit to give evidence,’ I said. ‘He’s got to,’ said Bodkin. ‘The case can’t be postponed.’ ‘He may get better,’ I said. ‘If he doesn’t, I don’t know what will happen. He can’t stand up.’ ‘He’s got to do it,’ said Bodkin. ‘If he doesn’t do it, then Mr King will walk out.’

  “By way of making things worse, before the case had begun, Lever had requested that all witnesses should be out of court. This meant that, if Anderson went to pieces, no other witness would know and so could not try to repair the damage which he had done.

  “When the case was again under way, I slipped out to see what Anderson was like. Whilst I was there, his doctor arrived hot-foot, with a plain-clothes man. ‘I must give him an injection,’ he said. ‘It’s the only thing.’ The doctor stayed with Anderson all that day. And he kept on giving him stuff, to quell the pain. When the Court adjourned for luncheon, I took the doctor aside. ‘For God’s sake,’ I said, ‘don’t give him any more dope. You’re dulling his brain.’ So he was; Anderson’s eyes were half shut. ‘But I must relieve such pain.’ ‘Not at that cost,’ said I. ‘If he were himself, I’m sure he wouldn’t let you. He knows what there is at stake.’ Needless to say, I got no luncheon that day.

  “I’ll say that man was game. He entered the box somehow, and he wouldn’t sit down. I think he feared to sit down. And there he stood for nearly three hours – examined and cross-examined. I never saw him writhe, but his eyes looked glazed. As I had feared he would, he made a lot of mistakes in examination-in-chief. He forgot: he tied himself up: he contradicted himself: he made mis-statements of fact. Bodkin, of course, could do nothing, for he had to take his answers. I could do less. But I remember wiping the sweat from my face and thinking, ‘If this is what he does now, what on earth is he going to do under cross-examination?’”

  “I can imagine,” said Berry, “few more agonizing ordeals.”

  “I think it shortened my life. I had to be there and listen: but I was powerless to act. I knew his proof as well as he knew it himself, and, over and over again, I wanted to get up and cry, ‘Oh, you don’t mean that.’ A merciful God, however, tempered the wind. For some strange reason, under cross-examination he did very mu
ch better – far better than I had dared hope. And then at last it was over, and he came out of the box. Then the Recorder rose, and I made my disconsolate way to Bedford Row. When I rendered my report, Muskett shrugged his shoulders. ‘These things happen,’ he said. ‘I expect it’ll be all right. Have you had any tea?’”

  “One to Muskett,” said Berry.

  “You’re perfectly right. My report must have shaken him, for he knew far better than I how vital Anderson’s evidence was: and he knew that the Bank would be wild if King got off. (Windell had to be extradited from Spain, and two of the Bank Managers who had interviewed him were sent out to identify him. They were a little uneasy, for they’d only seen him once, say, six months before. Bower was at the station when Anderson saw them off, and he told me that Anderson’s parting words to them were, ‘If you fail to identify Windell, you needn’t come back.’) Receiving such bad news, many a man would have taken it out on me – unfairly, of course: but he would. But Muskett – never. He was very reserved, very just, and always most kind to me.”

  “I saw the letter,” said Berry, “he wrote to Coles, when you left. ‘I’ve lost my right hand,’ he said.”

  “I know. That was far too handsome. And now let’s get back to King.

  “Muskett was right. I think it was two days later that King went down. But the betting was even right up to the very last. Lever made an excellent speech, and the jury was out a long time. I watched them when they came back, but I hadn’t a clue. Neither, I think, had Bodkin. And then the foreman said, ‘Guilty’ – and that was that. King got seven years – I think that’s right. It would have been a scandal, if he had got off. And the Bank would have been beside themselves. King took his sentence in silence, waved to some women in court and turned and ran down the stairs.

  “Windell, whose real name was (I think) Bernard, was tried separately. I think he pleaded guilty. He was very young and was said to have mastered six languages. The proceedings seemed to amuse him. After all, he had blown his money. I think he was given two years. He was obviously no more than a catspaw.

  “King was as good as his word and went to his safe-deposit, as soon as he was let out. But the police went, too. I think there was some fuss about it: but, of course, he was not allowed to use his stolen notes.

  “I think you may fairly say that King cut his own throat: it was his insolent assurance that brought him down.”

  “Forgery has always been regarded as a very serious crime.”

  “Quite rightly,” said I. “For forgery of a Will, you can get penal servitude for life. Have you ever seen a Bank of Engraving five-pound note?”

  “That’s a new one on me.”

  “Well, it was exactly like a Bank of England note, only, instead of the word ‘England’, it had the word ‘Engraving’. So it wasn’t forgery. But I’ll lay any money that, if you’d been given one, you wouldn’t have noticed the difference. I was shown one at Scotland Yard. They were most beautifully done.”

  “But what a brain,” said Berry.

  “It was very clever, for it let the printer out. The man who uttered it could be got for false pretences. I think the law’s altered now. But a lot of money was made.”

  “Let us talk for a little,” said Berry, “about Trustees.”

  “That sounds very dry,” said Jill.

  “It will be my privilege,” said Berry, “to clothe the dry bones with flesh. I have been a Trustee in all some thirteen times; sometimes, a most active Trustee; but always against my will. I have done it, because, as a fool, I conceived it to be my duty. If you except the professional man, such as a solicitor or banker, who is allowed to charge for his services, no Trustee may make so much as a penny out of his Trust. So it’s not a paying business. But it can be very trying – at least, I’ve found it so.”

  “It’s very tiring,” said Daphne, “for it means a great deal of work. To give you your due, I think you’ve been awfully good. But why do you say ‘trying’?”

  “Because, every now and then, you have to put down your foot. I’ve always tried to put mine down very gently: but the beneficiary or co-trustee who necessitates that gesture invariably resents it, and unpleasantness usually results. But that’s by the way.

  “Now I only want to make two points, both of which have emerged from what I have found or discovered as a trustee of many years standing. Many people regard, or used to regard, their trustee as a VIP. ‘Got to be careful who you ask to meet him.’ To them, a trusteeship resembles a decoration. I’m not sure it oughtn’t to be – in which case I should have twelve bars. And now let’s look at the other side of the coin. It is my considered opinion that in the last hundred years private trustees have – almost invariably with impunity – got away with more money than have all the convicts of that period put together. Often enough, the money has gone into the trustee’s pocket: in other cases, it has gone into the pocket of somebody else owing to the criminal negligence of the trustee. I could tell you of case after case in which, to my knowledge, considerable fortunes have dwindled to pittances. It was always too late to do anything about it, for the money was gone. Where? Only the previous trustees could tell you that: and they were dead. Of course, the thing’s too easy. Look at the cestui que trusts.”

  “Whatever’s that?” said Jill.

  “You’re one, my sweet. The cestui que trust is the person who has a trustee. Sometimes – often enough with unconscious humour – he is called ‘the beneficiary’. In nine cases out of ten, these are completely ignorant of money matters and are bored stiff by any attempt at explanation: they accept without question anything the trustee says and do without question anything he tells them to do, such as signing documents. Careless young men and maidens, only too thankful to have someone to think for them: old ladies who can’t understand, but always find their trustee a most charming man: casual blokes who never answer a letter and don’t care a hoot, so long as they’re not overdrawn… They are the sort of people who have trustees. And because nearly all are either grossly ignorant or incurably lazy or both, they are fair game. The vast majority can’t be bothered. ‘Money’s such a bore.’ ‘My trustee does all that.’ Which makes things so very easy – for the trustee. I could have got away with thousands, if I’d been so inclined. And it’s The Mint to a monkey-nut that I should never have been suspected, much less pinched. I’m not going to go into details, because it would take too long, but – well, Boy will bear me out in all that I’ve said.”

  “I will indeed – as regards the private trustee. The Public Trustee and the Banks and many firms of solicitors are, of course, above suspicion. By no means all firms. And the solicitor-trustee has the biggest chance.”

  “There you’re quite right. He has – because of his special knowledge. And, by God, a lot of them take it. Say a rich fellow goes out, and leaves two trustees to his Will. One’s his widow, and one’s a solicitor. Well, what does the widow know? Nothing at all. And so the solicitor’s virtually sole trustee. If he says, ‘Sign here’, she signs. Then again, she’s much to think of, and she forgets. But the solicitor doesn’t forget. She mayn’t lose twenty thousand, all in one lump: but she loses a thousand a year for twenty years: by the constant changing of investments, of mortgages, and, of course, in costs. I’ve actually found it happening, when I’ve come in.

  “And my second point is this. When it was first suggested that I should be a trustee, Coles Willing showed me a textbook. It was by Augustine Birrell, a famous QC. And in it Birrell set out, quite shortly, the nine duties of a Trustee. ‘I’ll have that passage copied,’ said Coles. ‘It’s little more than a page. And I want you to learn it by heart.’ I could recite it now. The point is that from that moment I knew what my duties were. And I will lay you five thousand sovereigns to one that not one trustee in five thousand could today recite three of the duties which, by virtue of his appointment, he has undertaken to do.

  “Somebody dies, and a couple of relatives find that they have been appointed trustees. They sw
ell with pride. The Will has dressed them in authority. They can put it across their brothers and sisters and cousins and lesser breeds. Their word is law. It never enters their heads that they have nine duties to do. They know that they mustn’t steal, but no more than that. But, then, they knew that before. Beyond that they have some power, they know nothing at all. They don’t even know how to wield it. So they’re forced to depend upon some solicitor: and often enough they’re fooled to the top of their bent. Accounts are rendered to them, which they don’t understand: but they daren’t say they don’t understand them, for that would mean loss of face. And so they pass them – sign them with a hell of a flourish; for their signature is the warrant, without which no man can act.

  “Such people are dangerous. And there are hundreds of thousands all over the place. Supposing their luckless victims, the cestui que trusts, were to ask them to retire. They’d laugh like hell in their faces. ‘Yes, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? You see, they’ve not the faintest idea that, if they are asked to retire, it is their bounden duty to retire. If anyone told them that, they’d say he was a liar. In fact, it’s true. If a trustee is asked to retire and he won’t retire, you can go to the Court. I once came across such a case. The trustee was a solicitor – a low-class fellow; but he was on the Roll. I advised that he should be asked to retire. He blandly refused. So then I wrote to him. After that, he retired all right.

  “Well, there we are. The trustee who has no idea of his duties – doesn’t dream that he’s got any duties, is very nearly as bad as the wilfully defaulting trustee. Shakespeare, as always, has him perfectly taped – ‘But man, proud man, Drest in a little brief authority; Most ignorant of what he’s most assured, Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven, As make the angels weep.’ No one could call me an angel, but the tricks I’ve seen them playing have damned near made me weep. In more than one case that I’ve come across, beneficiaries have been refused information. They have been told, ‘That is the trustees’ affair.’ Such a refusal was a breach of trust. But neither the trustees nor the luckless beneficiaries knew that.”