by Henry Cecil
‘The blackguard,’ said Basil. ‘A tissue of lies. We’ve never had a quarrel — not that you could speak of. As I told you, she was devoted to me until that little rat started to come between us. Well, what are we to do?’
‘It’s not easy. At the moment you’ve nothing but your own evidence, and I can only guess at what your wife and Drewe will say.’ Mr Mallet thought for a moment. Then he said:
‘I think our next course will be to write and ask if Mrs Merridew has any objection to being examined by a psychologist. If she objects, we’ll have to think again. If she agrees, however, we should be able to find out whether she really is in the frame of mind Mr Drewe suggests. If their story is correct, she’s terrified of living with you. A psychologist should be able to find out whether she really is. If your story’s true, she isn’t in the least afraid.’
‘Of course my story’s true.’
‘Naturally, I accept your word, Mr Merridew. It isn’t for me to try the case, but to do my best for you. Now, d’you agree to my suggestion?’
‘I leave everything to you.’
The necessary letter was written and to Mr Mallet’s surprise Mr Drewe replied that Mrs Merridew was quite prepared to be examined by a psychologist. In consequence, a few days later Dr Shrewsbury Cannon called at Nicholas’s flat.
‘I’ve come to see Mrs Merridew,’ he said.
‘Come in. She’ll see you in here. Treat her gently, please, Doctor. We’re very worried about her.’
‘Of course.’
Shortly afterwards Elizabeth came into the room. ‘Please go away,’ she said to Nicholas and Petula. ‘I’d like to see the doctor alone.’ They went out. Elizabeth turned to the doctor.
‘Hullo,’ she said — but it was not just an ordinary ‘hullo’. There was everything in it which Elizabeth could put, and that was saying a good deal. The doctor began to wonder if he was wise to let Nicholas and Petula go away. However, he quickly recovered.
‘Well — now,’ he said. ‘What’s the trouble?’
‘Trouble?’ said Elizabeth, opening her large eyes. ‘Trouble? Can’t a woman leave her husband without being thought to be ill?’
‘Would you mind telling me why you left him?’
‘Are you a married man?’
‘I am.’
‘Well, I thought I wanted a change. Don’t you ever?’ and she looked at him.
‘I don’t feel called on to answer your questions,’ said the doctor a little brusquely. He was extremely happily married but few men could have looked at Elizabeth, when she was really trying, without feeling the need of a little moral support.
‘It looks as though I’ve been wasting my time,’ he went on.
‘It does,’ said Elizabeth and looked at the ground. Dr Shrewsbury Cannon’s report to Mr Mallet was short:
‘There is nothing whatever the matter with Mrs Merridew, except that she is very beautiful and knows it. She’s not frightened of anyone.’ He might fairly have added that, on the contrary, he had been a little frightened of her.
‘Good news, as far as it goes,’ said Mr Mallet, when Basil next called on him. ‘The doctor entirely supports what you say. That, combined with Drewe’s letter, gives us something to go upon. Why should he lie about her condition if he’s got nothing to hide? On the other hand, from what the doctor, told me on the phone — you don’t mind my saying this, I hope — it would seem that your wife is more inclined to entice than be enticed.’
‘That’s just her little way,’ said Basil. ‘I’ve been very stupid, I know. I ought to have kicked him out months ago, but I couldn’t believe there was anything wrong. Why shouldn’t he give her presents? We’ve lived practically as one family for years. Now I come to think of it, though, the presents have gradually become of a more intimate kind, if you understand what I mean. Clever devil. He’s always done it openly. Handbags, umbrellas, hats via nylons to other underclothes. I confess I did think it a bit odd when he brought home a brassiere for her — but, even then, I couldn’t suspect him or her. D’you know, I even made a joke about it, ass that I was. How they must have laughed.’
‘You say “they”.’
‘Well — she’s grown up, you know, and I can’t pretend she’s blameless, but she’d never have gone if Nicholas hadn’t persuaded her.’
‘What d’you suppose Mrs Drewe thinks about it?’
‘Oh, they’ve drawn the wool over her eyes good and proper, no doubt. She’s a complete nit-wit and adores Nicholas. She’ll do anything he says and accept anything he does without question.’
‘Well, it isn’t going to be easy, but we have got some sort of a case to go on. Have you those letters you said you’d try to find?’ These were letters which Elizabeth had written (or was supposed to have written) during temporary enforced separations.
‘I’ve only been able to find one. It was written when I had to go North on business — only for a few days — about a year ago. Is that recent enough?’
‘Better than nothing, anyway. Let me see.’
The letter began:
‘My own darling tuppenny.’
‘That refers to a rather stupid joke we had between us. I can explain it, if necessary.’
‘Not at the moment. Let me read it all first.’ Mr Mallet read on:
It seems ages since I last saw you (in point of fact it’s only twenty-four hours, but in each one of these hours I’ve been thinking of nothing but you — or very little else — I’ve had to eat, of course). How is my own sweet pumpkin? His bed looks so terribly empty at night — and it is, too. I played tennis with Nicholas and Petula and a queer-looking man called Tramp or Cramp or something. He’s an acquaintance of Nicholas. D’you know him? He never looks at you when he speaks, but sort of blinks at the ground and when he shakes hands with you it really is exactly like holding a limp rag. How he manages to use a tennis racket I just don’t know. How is my sweetest sniffkin and when is he coming back to his own threehalfpenny?
‘Well,’ said Mr Mallet, ‘that doesn’t look as though you ill-treated her a year ago. Have you got the envelope to prove the date of posting?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Well — never mind — it’s her handwriting at all events and you haven’t been away from each other so often, except in the war. All right, then. I’ll write him one more letter and, if she doesn’t come back, I’ll issue a writ, if you agree.’
‘I leave it entirely to you — but remember, most of all I want Elizabeth back — don’t miss a chance of that but, if I can’t, then let’s hit that swine for six.’
‘I quite understand.’
‘Now, about expenses. I can’t afford a great deal. How much will it cost me all told?’
‘That’s difficult to say, but I’ll keep the costs down as low as possible.’
Mr Mallet already saw some useful publicity for himself if the action came to trial, and he was quite prepared to take this into consideration in charging his client. It must, however, be said to his credit that in his conduct of the action he only had his client’s interests at heart, and, should it have been better for him for the action to be settled out of Court, he would cheerfully have tried to arrange it. So Basil gave him £25 On account, and a further letter went to Nicholas.
‘Your client,’ replied Nicholas, ‘can take a running jump at himself or you, whichever he prefers, and if you really want to serve a writ on me — which I doubt — I expect your client is bluffing as usual — like when he pretended to commit suicide — my solicitor will accept service on my behalf. His name is Theobald Gateshead and his address is 17 Birdston Street, Strand, WC.’
‘Suicide,’ said Basil with a fine show of indignation (a particularly good effort, in view of the fact that he had dictated the letter himself). ‘Just another of his lies. I was trying to re-light the refrigerator — we have a gas one and it had gone out. I came home and the place smelled of gas. While I was on the ground trying to re-light it, Nicholas and Elizabeth came in. “Tired of life
?” he said. As a matter of fact, it was just as well they did come in. I’d forgotten to get rid of the gas in the room and was just going to light the match. There might have been a nasty explosion. That’s all there is to that episode.’
‘Humph,’ said Mr Mallet. ‘Your friend Mr Drewe seems to be providing us with quite a bit of straw for our bricks. It’s a pity we can’t keep up this correspondence. We might get some more material. However, we’ve done quite nicely for a start. I’ll issue the writ tomorrow.’
Nicholas had already engaged the services of another keen young solicitor — Mr Gateshead — and, after the writ had been received, he and Elizabeth and Petula had an interview with him.
‘This will give you an idea of the sort of man he is,’ said Elizabeth, and handed to Mr Gateshead a letter in Basil’s handwriting:
You will do as I say, not just as you want. I’m getting a little tired of pretty Fanny’s way. You say you didn’t like the sherry. Well, you asked for it. And there’s plenty more where that came from.
‘That refers to a dinner we had at the Iron Duke.’ This was a most exclusive London restaurant. The food was not particularly good there, but the decorations and prices were superb. With a few exceptions, only really rich or really unpleasant people went there.
‘He threw a glass of sherry in her face and we all got turned out,’ said Nicholas.
‘D’you think we could get the manager to give evidence of that, if necessary?’ asked Mr Gateshead.
‘I don’t see why not,’ said Nicholas. ‘I dare say he wouldn’t like the publicity, but he can’t have forgotten the incident. It happened very recently, and he himself showed us to the door. He wouldn’t like to have to say that that sort of thing happened in his restaurant so often that he’s forgotten it.’
‘I’ll go to see him,’ said Mr Gateshead.
Mr Legotti had certainly not forgotten the incident. He had been appalled. The party had just ordered a particularly expensive dinner. They had banked on being turned out, as they could not possibly have paid for it. ‘Caviare, turtle soup, lobster thermidor, and wild duck à la presse. We’ll talk about a sweet or a savoury later.’ Then came the sherry incident and the dinner was stillborn.
Elizabeth had complained that the sherry was too dry.
‘It is not,’ said Basil, loudly.
‘But I do find it too dry,’ complained Elizabeth.
‘It is just right,’ said Basil more loudly.
By this time the rich and unpleasant customers of Mr Legotti were all staring at their table, and Mr Legotti himself could not refrain from casting a glance in their direction.
‘It really is too dry,’ said Elizabeth.
‘Well, see if this is less dry,’ said Basil and threw the contents of his glass in her face.
At another interview Mr Gateshead asked Petula if she had seen any undue familiarity between Nicholas and Elizabeth.
‘Well, you know how it is when people are so friendly as we all were. We all kiss each other, of course.’
‘Just ordinary good night and so on?’
‘And so on?’
‘I mean similar kisses — good-bye, good morning and so forth.’
‘Oh — yes, all those,’ said Petula.
‘Anything besides?’
Petula looked at Nicholas and Elizabeth. ‘Well, there was just that once when I came home, you remember.’
Nicholas and Elizabeth shifted a little in their chairs.
‘That was nothing,’ they said. ‘We told you so at the time,’ added Nicholas.
‘No, of course it was nothing,’ said Petula, ‘but the gentleman asked me and I’ve sworn to tell the truth.’
‘Well, you haven’t yet sworn, Mrs Drewe, but you’re quite right to tell me the truth now. Much better than it coming out first time in the witness box. Now, I must ask you this. I’m sorry, but I must. Is there anything between you two?’
‘Of course not,’ said Petula. ‘D’you think I’d allow it?’
Mr Gateshead was a little embarrassed. He was a young man and it was rather difficult for him. However, he stuck to his guns. ‘I’d just like you both to confirm that — for formality’s sake,’ he added.
‘You’ve heard what Mrs Drewe has said,’ said Nicholas. ‘Isn’t that good enough for you?’
‘Mr Gateshead thinks I’m a bad woman,’ said Elizabeth, giving him one of her looks.
Precisely, thought Mr Gateshead, but out loud he said: ‘I only want your denials. It’s necessary for me as your lawyer to have them.’
‘Just our denials?’ asked Elizabeth.
‘Yes.’
‘Well, of course,’ said Elizabeth. ‘He has them, hasn’t he, Nicholas?’
‘I wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t,’ said Nicholas, and Mr Gateshead felt he had to be satisfied with that. Just as they were leaving, Nicholas took Mr Gateshead on one side and asked to see him privately. An interview was accordingly arranged.
‘Well,’ said Mr Gateshead, ‘I felt there was something I didn’t know.’
‘It’s just this,’ said Nicholas. ‘This woman’s becoming a confounded nuisance. I don’t want her about the place.’
This was not what Mr Gateshead had expected.
‘But my wife insists on letting her stay. I can’t stand much more of it. What I want to know is, will it prejudice my case if I turn her out before it’s heard?’
Mr Gateshead thought. ‘That’s not an easy question to answer at all. In some ways it might be a good thing, but it would certainly be said that it had only been done for the purposes of bolstering up your defence. Then, if your wife said that she didn’t want her to go and it was you who made her, that might possibly prejudice your case. I don’t know. I think it’s one of those occasions where it’s best to follow the maxim: When in doubt, don’t. I should let her stay until the case is over.’
‘Well, for heaven’s sake, get it on as quickly as possible.’
‘I’ll do all I can.’
So the action proceeded at rather more than the usual speed, for both litigants and both solicitors were anxious to have it tried as soon as possible. Counsel had, of course, to be engaged on both sides. The solicitors were a little disappointed that their clients could not afford the services of fashionable silks. Indeed, it had been necessary to brief quite young counsel, having regard to the financial situation. For the Plaintiff was Mr G. U. Turnberry and for the Defendant Mr A. L. Malton. Mr Turnberry was aged thirty, Mr Malton rather younger. Each of them had only a small practice, neither of them knew very much law, and neither of them was at all expert at examining or cross-examining witnesses, though they were both certainly better in this respect than the distinguished and experienced Q.C.s depicted by the average playwright or film scenario writer. They were, of course, delighted at the publicity the case offered them.
Eventually the great day arrived and the trial began before Mr Justice Broad and a jury. Mr Turnberry started to open at some length, but he was in the middle of explaining to the jury somewhat pompously and not very accurately the meaning of enticement when the Judge interrupted.
‘Don’t make too heavy weather of this little case,’ he said. Mr Justice Broad did not care for the type of action and Mr Turnberry’s opening was more than he could stand.
The spanner which he threw into Mr Turnberry’s works was most effective for a time. Mr Turnberry blushed, stopped in the middle of a sentence, paused for a moment and said:
‘If your Lordship pleases,’ and then completely forgot what he’d been saying, where he was in his speech, what he had to say next — in fact, he forgot nearly everything except that he was standing on his feet that he had to find something to say, that he felt that everyone was laughing at him, and that he wasn’t so keen on doing an enticement case after all.
‘Yes, Mr Turnberry?’ put in the Judge genially. ‘Don’t let me put you out of your stride.’
‘If your Lordship pleases,’ said Mr Turnberry miserably. Somehow or other he got going
again and eventually Basil went into the witness box. He gave his evidence quietly and well and as a wronged man should. He made an excellent impression during his examination-in-chief on Judge and jury. When the Judge heard that misconduct was not alleged and saw what a good fellow the Plaintiff seemed to be, he somewhat revised his opinion about the action. Consequently, when Mr Malton rose to cross-examine, the Plaintiff was doing well.
‘I have to put it to you, Mr Merridew, that you have treated your wife with great cruelty.’
‘Never.’
‘I suggest you have.’
‘I haven’t.’
‘I put it you that you have.’
‘How many times do you want him to deny it, Mr Malton?’
‘If your Lordship pleases.’
‘Put some instances to him — if there are any — if you wish.’
‘Very good, my Lord.’
Mr Malton then proceeded to ask Basil about the sherry incident. He worked it up quite dramatically by requesting Mr Legotti to stand up in Court and asking Basil if’ he recognized him. Having laid all the foundations, he put the final question.
‘Did you not throw your sherry in her face?’
‘Well, yes and no,’ said Basil. ‘Most unfortunately, the sherry went in her face.’
‘Most unfortunate,’ commented Mr Malton.
‘I hadn’t finished.’
‘Not finished the sherry?’ asked Mr Malton with a smile. ‘My Lord,’ said Basil, ‘must I be treated like this? I have been perfectly polite to counsel. I was in the middle of a sentence which I want to finish and he starts making game of me.’
