B-Berry and I Look Back

by Dornford Yates

  “I’m much obliged,” said Berry. “But such prosecutions are rare.”

  “They used to be. I do remember one. I wasn’t concerned in it, but I was in court for part of the time. I was then a solicitor’s pupil and, as such, as I sometimes did, I got wind of what was afoot. And when I told Muskett, he kindly gave me leave for two or three hours. I was very lucky, for the court was not at all crowded: if people had known what was going to happen, it would have been packed out.”

  “How did you get to hear?”

  “As that of the Solicitors to the Commissioner of Police, the office was always well-informed.”

  “Very interesting. Please go on.”

  “A man called Crossland, a poet and the Editor of some highbrow periodical, had published a libel or what was alleged to be a libel on a man of whose name I can’t be certain, so I’d better call him John Doe. And John Doe was prosecuting him. The trial was to take place before the Common Serjeant at the Old Bailey. But what made the case stand out – and what nobody seemed to know – was that Crossland proposed to call Lord Alfred Douglas to give evidence on his behalf.

  “I don’t have to tell you that Alfred Douglas was a stormy petrel. He had been a devoted friend of Oscar Wilde and had stuck to him to the end. I don’t believe for one moment that he was concerned in any of Wilde’s abominable practices; but he greatly admired Wilde’s undoubted ability and thought him an ill-used man.”

  “Alfred Douglas,” said Berry, “was born before his time. In those dark days decent feeling ran so high that a man who was convicted of a crime which is sometimes described as ‘not to be mentioned among Christians’, had to leave the country when he emerged from jail. The humblest inn would have turned him from its doors.”

  “Wasn’t it on Douglas’ account,” said Jonah, “that his father, Queensberry, thrashed Wilde in St James’s Street?”

  “Yes. Alfred Douglas was then very young, and his father was justified. As the indirect result of that assault, Wilde’s case was investigated and he was charged and sent down. But, so perverse are some natures, these things seemed only to stiffen Alfred Douglas’ resolve to champion his dreadful friend. Mercifully, the latter only lived for three years after his release from jail, and those he spent abroad. But Douglas looked after him, cared for him when he was dying and stood by his grave. Always remembering that he was not in any way concerned with Wilde’s misconduct – for that is my firm belief – such devotion to an outcast must command some respect; but in all the circumstances it was a most unfortunate association and Douglas, who was extremely able, not to say brilliant, was simply written off. So he ran with people like Crossland, for whom, I believe, he wrote provocative articles.

  “I seem to have strayed a long way from the Old Bailey, but now I’ll go back.

  “All I knew of the case was that George Elliot had been briefed for the prosecution, but that when it was learned that Alfred Douglas was to be called for the defence, Marshall Hall was brought in to lead George Elliot, who was himself a ‘silk’. And I thought it certain that two such powerful personalities as those of Lord Alfred and Marshall Hall would not so much clash as collide.

  “My luck was in, for, when I entered the court, Lord Alfred was giving his evidence-in-chief…

  “He was a handsome man and looked astonishingly young for his age. And he gave his evidence with clarity and vigour. His way was compelling and he held the Court. Bosanquet was on the Bench. He was a sound lawyer, a very good judge and a very nice man. He should have been a Justice of the Queen’s Bench. As Common Sergeant, he was, to my mind, thrown away.”

  “Didn’t he succeed Forest Fulton?”

  “Yes. And that was all wrong. If he wasn’t to be a High Court Judge, he should have been made Recorder, in Fulton’s stead. He was a far better man. But that is the way things go.

  “And now let’s get back.

  “Lord Alfred’s evidence-in-chief was concluded, and Marshall Hall rose to cross-examine.

  “You could see the two men measuring one another. Then–

  “‘I think,’ said Marshall Hall, ‘I think that you were a friend of Oscar Wilde.’

  “In a ringing voice –

  “‘You know that I was,’ said Douglas. ‘And let me tell you this – that it was because Mr George Elliot refused to consent to question me about that association that you were hired to come here and do it.’”

  “O-o-oh,” said everyone.

  “Yes. Talk about a broadside. Well, that was the beginning. And as Alfred Douglas began, so he went on. To say that he wiped the floor with Marshall Hall is no more than the truth. I never saw counsel so used in all my life. And this was no sucking barrister. This was Marshall Hall. Before my eyes, that famous man was reduced. Again and again Alfred Douglas hit him for six. Twice Marshall Hall turned to Bosanquet and asked for ‘the protection of the Court’. And each time Bosanquet only said grimly, ‘Go on’. I think he felt that the questions should not have been put and that, if the witness liked to lash out, he was not going to interfere. I may say I entirely agreed with him. George Elliot was right and Marshall Hall was wrong. More. He was extremely foolish to consent to endeavour to discredit a witness in such a way.

  “After about twenty minutes, Marshall had had enough and resumed his seat. But of course the case was over. Douglas had won it hands down. No jury that ever was foaled would have found Crossland guilty after that. It’s the only time I ever saw counsel drawn and quartered. And this was Marshall Hall, who knew how to brow-beat men.

  “It was a most astonishing show, and most dramatic. I’m only so very sorry that I can’t remember more of the questions and answers: but after fifty years, one tends to forget. But I can see the two now – Marshall Hall in his splendour (for he had a magnificent presence) leaning forward to put his question and then recoiling before Lord Alfred’s riposte, and Douglas, his eyes alight, whipping out these bitter answers, always perfectly phrased and soused with contempt.

  “I remember feeling very sorry for George Elliot, who looked ready to sink through the floor. And I couldn’t help feeling sorry for Marshall Hall. Never was so famous a counsel so hoist with his own petard. However, there were very few there to see it.

  “Whether Crossland deserved to get off, I really can’t say. I have an idea that he didn’t, but as I’m not quite sure what the libel was, I’d better leave it there. I don’t think the result really mattered very much, for the libel was presumably true or Crossland would have been sued. And the prosecutor was a man of substance. Crossland was tall and dark and rather a strange-looking man. He could have sat down in the dock, but he never did. He stood the whole time, continually tapping his heart, as if he were afraid of its stopping. I don’t think he did this for effect. I think he was genuinely nervous about his state of health. And old Bosanquet sat there like an image, as always he did.”

  “Douglas was certainly a loyal friend.”

  “He was indeed. His loyalty was unhappily misplaced. Which shows the damage that a blackguard like Wilde could do. ‘The evil that men do lives after them.’ I shall always believe that Lord Alfred Douglas could have had a brilliant career. He had one of the most striking personalities I’ve ever seen.”

  “Well, I’m much obliged,” said Jonah. “Our idea of asking you questions has brought forth most excellent fruit. We shall have to do it again.”

  27

  “Darling,” said Daphne, “you’ve remembered so very well so many things: but wasn’t Muriel G— mixed up in some shop-lifting case?”

  “Well done indeed,” said I. And then, “You’re perfectly right. It had gone clean out of my mind. Give me a minute or two to marshal the facts.”

  “When you’re ready,” said Jonah…

  For a minute we sat in silence. Then Berry addressed himself to Daphne, speaking low.

  “Who was Muriel G—?”

  “You might not remember her. She was very sweet – the only child of the L—s. Very fond of Boy, whom she’d known a
s a child. But happily married and ten years older than him.”

  “I’ve got her,” said Berry. “Very fair and quick in the uptake. Her father was a ‘back-woods’ peer.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “And I’ve got it straight now.

  “She rang me up one evening and asked if I was in court the following day. If not, would I help her out? I asked what it was she wanted. She said she wanted me to take her to Marlborough Street Police Court. ‘That,’ I said, ‘I will never do. No Metropolitan Police Court is a fit place for you.’ And then she was off.

  “A friend of hers had been charged with shoplifting. And she wanted to be in court, to hold her hand. ‘It’s a hideous mistake, of course.’

  “In the end I promised that if there was nothing in Chambers to prevent me, I would be at the court at eleven o’clock – but only on the condition that she stayed outside in her car.

  “‘I promise,’ she said at last. ‘But come at a quarter to, and I’ll put you wise.’

  “There was no question of my appearing. Bodkin had been instructed for the defence. But the woman and her husband were friends of Muriel’s and had turned to her in their extremity.

  “Well, I arrived on time: and there the three were in her car. I was greeted and introduced. The woman was much older than Muriel – just about fifty, I’d say: but young for her age. Her husband was a soldier, retired. They were obviously well-bred people – quiet, perfectly dressed, of impeccable demeanour. The husband was a very nice-looking man. They didn’t look rich. I studied them carefully. The woman was gay and seemed to regard the affair almost as a jest. ‘I’m sure, Mr Pleydell, you’ve never been put in a cell… Then I’m one up on you. Not that the police weren’t nice. They were perfectly charming to me. And they gave me such excellent tea. I was really quite sorry to leave, when they came and bailed me out.’ Her husband subscribed to her mood – but I saw the strained look in his eyes.

  “After a little, he and I took a short turn.

  “‘Must she stand in the dock?’ he said.

  “‘I’m afraid she’ll have to,’ I said. ‘But I’ll have a word with the jailer, and you shall stand – not in the dock, but just by her side.’

  “‘That’s very good of you. Er, is Bodkin any good?’

  “‘The best man you could have,’ I said. ‘If you had asked me who to have, I should have put him first.’

  “‘He advises that she should reserve her defence and be committed for trial. Would you have said the same?’

  “‘I haven’t seen the papers,’ I said. ‘But I hope I should.’

  “‘Why d’you say that?’

  “‘Because Bodkin’s brain is a far better brain than mine.’

  “There was a little silence. Then–

  “‘Things do go wrong,’ he said.

  “‘I’d lay you fifty to one that this one won’t.’

  “He stared.

  “‘But you haven’t seen the papers,’ he said.

  “‘I’ve seen the accused. Do as Bodkin says, and you’ll find I’m right.’

  “I shall always be glad to remember that he seemed more or less relieved.

  “I saw the jailer, with the result that, when the case was called on, he was allowed to stand just beside the dock, with his hand on the rail. I also saw Bodkin – before the case was called on. When I told him why I was there, he gave me a whimsical look. ‘We shall go for trial,’ he said. ‘I think even you would have given that advice.’ ‘As bad as that?’ I said, laughing. ‘You listen to the evidence,’ said Bodkin.

  “This was damning. Selfridge’s. The woman had had a portfolio. She had been seen to pick up two baby’s garments, open the portfolio and drop them in. When she was taken to a manager’s room and the portfolio was opened, the garments were there. She denied all knowledge of them.

  “She duly reserved her defence and was committed for trial. And when she was tried, she got off, as I knew she would. Wallace was then Chairman of the Sessions and I really don’t believe he ever sent a shoplifter down.

  “When it was all over, Muriel asked me to dine.

  “‘What do you think?’ she said.

  “‘I imagine,’ I said, ‘she’s a kleptomaniac. She’s no children and, therefore, no grandchildren. The garments were useless to her. But she had an impulse to steal them; and so she did. And her husband knew she was guilty. I’ll lay any money you like she’d done it before. The moment I saw his face, I knew there was something wrong. And when I heard that she was to go for trial, I knew that Bodkin knew that that was the only way to save her skin. They all get off at the Sessions. But she wouldn’t have stood an earthly at Marlborough Street.’

  “‘D’you know,’ said Muriel, ‘I did begin to wonder. She was so very bright. I mean, I should have been devastated.’

  “‘Of course you would.’

  “‘You think there’s no doubt, Boy?’

  “‘I haven’t the slightest doubt that she stole the things. But in view of the things she stole, I don’t think she’s a shoplifter. I think she’s a kleptomaniac. Have you missed anything?’

  “Muriel shook her head.

  “‘But I shan’t have her here any more.’

  “‘I’m glad of that,’ I said. ‘For I don’t think kleptomania knows any law.’

  “Well, there’s the sordid story, for what it is worth. A shocking thing for a husband to have a thief for a wife. And they were – well, distinguished people. No doubt about that.”

  “What a terrible thing,” said Daphne.

  “It was indeed, my sweet. But the man was the one to be pitied. I felt damned sorry for him.”

  “Didn’t you bring shoplifting into one of your tales?”

  “Yes. Into Period Stuff. A girl is arrested by mistake. That can happen, of course: but I think it’s rare.”

  “Weren’t the goods being passed?”

  “That’s right. The girl was wearing a squirrel coat: so was ‘the receiver’: and the thief slipped her spoil into the girl’s cuff by mistake. Fortunately a stranger was there, and he saw the whole thing.”

  “In such a case,” said Jonah, “an action could have been brought.”

  “Yes. For the girl was detained. An action for false imprisonment. You may remember the manager’s relief when, in response to his apology, the girl said, ‘I don’t think it’s anyone’s fault.’”

  “Such actions have been brought?”

  “Oh, several. And won. It’s very hard lines on the stores. They lose – or used to lose – thousands of pounds a year, thanks to the activity of shoplifters. Naturally, they do what they can to catch the thieves out: but mistakes – or alleged mistakes – are easy to make. When you consider the crowds of people – all potential customers – continually on the move on every floor, to me the wonder is that more mistakes are not made.

  “One such action, I remember, was brought against Selfridge’s not very long after that famous store had opened its doors, while it was still the wonder of London and its name was still in everyone’s mouth. A woman had been detained and was presently charged with stealing three or four of those little, fluffy chickens – toys, of course – that used to be sold.”

  “I used to love them,” said Jill. “They really looked alive.”

  “So they did,” said I. “Well, her defence was that she had bought the chickens off a street-vendor, before entering the store. They used to be sold in the streets by fellows with trays. The magistrate gave her the benefit of the doubt and she was discharged. Whereupon she issued a writ and claimed damages for false imprisonment and, I think, malicious prosecution.

  “The case was heard by Darling J. I can’t remember which way it went, though I was in court part of the time. But I do remember that when the plaintiff’s counsel, who was opening her case, stated that she was taken to Marylebone or Marlborough Street, Darling looked up. Then, with the most innocent of airs, ‘Isn’t there a resident magistrate at Selfridge’s?’ he said.

  “It mayn�
��t seem very funny at this distance of time, but I can still hear the roar of delighted laughter which greeted his remark.”

  “I think it was brilliant,” said Berry. “And very typical.”

  “Yes, it was typical of Darling. He had a very pretty wit.”

  28

  “In The Pickwick Papers,” said Berry, “one of the drawings by Phiz (whose name, I believe, was Hablot Browne) shows Pickwick in Serjeant Snubbin’s chambers. On the table there is a wig-block, and on the block there is a wig. I believe that wig-blocks have been out of fashion for years. Did ever you see one, except in a robe-maker’s shop?”

  “Only once. I was very young – I mean, I was still at school – when Coles Willing took me with him to Lincoln’s Inn. He wanted a word with a Chancery counsel he knew – John E Harman, by name, whose son is now on the Bench. He was a first-rate lawyer and a most charming man. Coles Willing took me that I might see a barrister at work in his chambers. The fact that he knew that Harman wouldn’t mind shows, I think, what a very nice fellow he was. Of course I only sat still and used my eyes. And the first thing I saw was a wig-block and, on the wig-block, a wig. I don’t remember much else. I expect I looked round the room, but I always came back to the wig-block and its burden. Harman must have observed my fascination, for when the conference was over, he got up, took the wig from the block and fitted it on my head.”