by Henry Cecil
The next witness for the defence was Elizabeth. She went gracefully into the witness box, and took the oath quietly and reverently. Then she looked the Judge full in the face. He returned her gaze. One of them had to give way in the end, but it was not Elizabeth, although the Judge tried very hard.
‘Are you the wife of the Plaintiff?’ asked Mr Malton.
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Why did you leave him?’
‘Oh — so many reasons, but chiefly, I suppose, because I was tired of him. You understand that, my Lord,’ and she gave the Judge one of her looks.
‘Don’t ask me questions,’ said the Judge.
‘Oh, my Lord, I’m so very sorry.’
‘Any other reason except that you were tired of him?’
‘That covers so many things. I was tired of the way he said “Good morning”.’
‘Are you being serious, madam?’ said the Judge. Elizabeth looked Yes at him.
‘Will you kindly answer the question?’
She looked Yes again and gave one of her low murmurs.
‘Madam,’ said the Judge, ‘will you kindly say something which the shorthand writer can take down?’
‘Oh, my Lord,’ began Elizabeth. Whenever she said ‘Oh, my Lord,’ she spoke as though she were a member of an Eastern harem addressing her lord and master. The Judge found it very irritating, but he did not know quite what to do about it. The case was inclined to get out of hand, anyway, what with brassieres and belts and games under the kitchen table.
‘Oh, my Lord,’ repeated Elizabeth, ‘yes. And I got tired of the way he said “Good night”, and the way he shaved, and the way he ate and the way he undressed and — oh, my Lord, shall I go on?’
‘You were thoroughly tired of him?’ said the Judge.
‘Oh, my Lord, yes.’
‘You needn’t say “Oh, my Lord” each time you answer a question.’
‘What shall I call your Lordship? looked Elizabeth. She looked it so well that the Judge was about to tell her to behave herself when he realized she hadn’t said anything. He felt he couldn’t very well tell her not to look like that. She would say or look ‘Like what?’ and they wouldn’t get anywhere.
‘Just answer the questions.’
‘Did he ever ill-treat you?’
‘Well, it depends what you mean by ill-treat. He never hit me or anything like that.’
‘Then you never felt frightened of him.’
‘Oh — no — not frightened.’
‘Then you didn’t threaten to throw yourself in the Thames?’
‘Oh — yes, I did. You see — perhaps it was very wrong of me, but I wanted to stay with Nicholas — with Nicholas and Petula.’ As she added ‘Petula’, Petula nodded brightly from the well of the Court.
‘And I thought he — they — mightn’t keep me unless I made up some kind of a story. Do you think me very wicked?’
‘Don’t ask me questions,’ the Judge almost shouted. ‘Did Mr Drewe do anything to make you leave your husband?’
‘Did he do anything?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, my Lord,’ said Elizabeth. ‘I’m so sorry, my Lord,’ she added, ‘but it’s a difficult question to answer. Did he do anything? He didn’t say anything, if that’s what you mean. He didn’t ask me to leave.’
‘What did he do then, if anything?’
‘He just was Nicholas, I think. Looking at them down there, it doesn’t seem possible that I should have made such a mistake.’
‘Mistake?’
‘In marrying my husband.’
‘Have you not considered Mrs Drewe’s feelings in the matter?’
‘She’s very understanding, my Lord.’
‘I’m beginning to doubt it.’
‘What is your relationship to Mr Drewe?’
‘Friendly, my Lord, very friendly.’
‘What were you doing under the table?’
‘A sort of game, my Lord, rather a nice sort of a game.’ So the case went on and eventually the evidence was completed and counsel on each side addressed the jury. Finally, the Judge summed up. Among other things he said this:
‘I am very glad to have your assistance, members of the jury, in this somewhat extraordinary case. I confess I should have the greatest difficulty in making up my own mind as to the truth of the matter. Fortunately I shall not have to do so. That will be your duty. You have to decide whether the plaintiff has proved to your satisfaction that the defendant has deliberately enticed his wife away from him. The fact that she was tired of him, if you believe that she was, did not entitle the defendant to take her away. On the other hand, if the wife left the husband entirely of her own free will and uninfluenced by any deliberate act of the defendant, this action must fail. There is at the moment, in my view, insufficient evidence of any misconduct between the wife and the defendant, but, even if you think that it had taken place, that would be no ground for finding in favour of the plaintiff by itself. The possibility of misconduct is only material as showing a motive for the defendant’s enticing the wife away from the plaintiff.’
The Judge then reviewed the evidence, gave some directions on the question of damages and the jury retired. Poor Judge, poor jury. In the normal case the truth has a nasty habit of coming out, but in Merridew v. Drewe, Basil and Nicholas, with the assistance of their wives, had so arranged the evidence that it was a very difficult task to come to any conclusion at all. They did not in fact mind what view the jury took, and if the jury disagreed Basil would have found an excuse immediately for discontinuing the action so as to enable comment to be made in the Press. They had introduced into the case a large variety of subjects which many members of the public and all the popular newspapers love. There was a wealth of headlines from which editors or sub-editors could choose. Kisses and corsets, games under the kitchen table, the trusting wife, the beautiful next-door neighbour, they were all there and many other things besides.
Small wonder that all the parties concerned were approached outside the Court while the jury was considering its verdict. Elizabeth was the chief attraction, but Petula was a good second, and journalist after journalist made his approaches. Basil and Nicholas, too, as they had hoped, were also invited to provide a story.
‘I have a picture of my wife in the bath,’ said Basil. ‘Quite decent, you know, but I’d throw it in for another £50.’
‘Let me see it,’ said the journalist.
The jury was a long time out.
‘If the plaintiff hasn’t proved his case, he fails,’ said the foreman. ‘That’s what the Judge said.’
‘There’s something funny between those two,’ said another. ‘Can you believe that any man would get a brassiere for a woman if he didn’t want to put it on her?’ He turned to Mrs Jones and added: ‘I’m sorry, ma’am, but we’ve got to face the facts.’
‘Body belts and nylons,’ said another woman on the jury, ‘I’d like to see my husband buying them for the next-door neighbour. He wouldn’t do it twice.’
So they chatted away, now referring to the sherry incident, now to the kitchen table and so on. After two and a half hours, they were still not agreed.
‘Well,’ said the foreman, ‘let’s see if we can do a deal on the damages. I might be prepared to find for the plaintiff if the damages were small enough.’
‘What about £50?’ said another.
After a further half-hour’s discussion, the jury finally agreed on awarding Basil £75 damages, and judgement was given to him for this sum with costs.
The parties and their wives were so taken up with the journalistic attack on them that there was only time for Basil and Nicholas to shake hands with their respective solicitors and to arrange to meet them another day. Basil called to see Mr Mallet in the week following. He paid him his costs mounting to about £150 and then said: ‘Don’t take any steps to enforce the judgement, unless you hear from me. I have a feeling that this may have done the trick. I can’t tell you why. Of course, if she com
es back, that’s all I want and I shan’t pursue Nicholas for the £75 and the costs.’
‘That’s very generous of you,’ said Mr Mallet. ‘I don’t see why he shouldn’t pay your costs.’
‘I don’t suppose you would, being a lawyer,’ said Basil, ‘but all I want is my wife back, and if she comes back I shan’t in the least grudge having spent £150 to get her back, and I shan’t let her go again.’
So Basil and Mr Mallet parted company quite happily. After all, from the solicitor’s point of view the case had been won, the costs paid, and the publicity plentiful and useful.
At about the same time Nicholas was seeing Mr Gateshead, and paying his costs, also about £150.
‘It was bad luck,’ said Mr Gateshead. ‘Plainly what we call a compromise verdict.’
‘Oh, I’m quite satisfied,’ said Nicholas, ‘and very grateful for all your help. Now, I can send her back again, can’t I?’
‘You can certainly send her away, but I don’t know if she’ll go back to her husband.’
‘Stranger things have happened,’ said Nicholas. ‘I shall let him whistle for his £75 and the costs. Don’t accept service of any more proceedings, please.’
‘I expect he’ll instruct the Sheriff to levy execution. What shall I say to his solicitors when they ask for payment?’
‘Tell them to take the usual running jump or translate that into legal language if you prefer. “My client has no suggestion to offer,” I suppose you’ll say.’
‘Very well, then, Mr Drewe. Is there anything further I can do for you?’
‘No, thank you very much. You’ve no idea how much you’ve helped me.’
Nor had he.
The net result from the financial point of view was a profit of well over £2,000 to the plaintiff and the defendant and their wives. There was no spectacular news at the moment and the papers eagerly accepted almost anything they were able to sell. Nicholas and Elizabeth even posed for a photograph under the kitchen table for an extra £550. It was really quite an achievement and, when you come to think of it, no one was any the worse off. The Judge and jury would have had to try another case if they hadn’t tried that one. So they lost nothing. Counsel and solicitors were not only paid their fees, but had some useful advertisement. So they gained. The newspapers got what they wanted and were very willing to pay the price asked. Those members of the public who liked reading about kisses and brassieres arid so on had their fill of entertainment. No one lost, some people gained, while the conspirators made over £2,000. It sounds very much like solving the insoluble and getting a quart out of a pint pot. So everyone was satisfied. The nearest approach to the discovery of the conspiracy — and it was still a long way off — was quite unknown to the four concerned in it, so that they had no uneasy moments. It happened when Mr Justice Broad was going to bed one night. His attention had been drawn to a few of the articles in the newspapers and, as he was turning over in his mind some of the details of the case, he had a sudden thought. However, it never went beyond his saying to himself ‘I wonder’ as he took off his cholera belt.
Chapter 3
THE GROPISTS
====
‘I WANT you to look really expensive,’ said Basil to Elizabeth. ‘We’re going out.’
‘I am expensive,’ replied Elizabeth. ‘At least, I intend to be.’
‘Well, unless this idea of mine is a success, you won’t be much longer.’
‘Are funds getting low again?’
‘We’ve just enough to try this out.’
‘What is it?’
‘I’ll tell you later.’
An hour afterwards Basil and Elizabeth were strolling in the West End of London. Basil could always tell if Elizabeth had really tried by the way people looked at her. If only men did so, she was a failure, but if women had to do so too it was all right. On this occasion she was a great success, once even causing a slight traffic jam when a very human policeman was unable to keep his eyes on his work.
‘We are going to visit most of the art galleries in London.’
‘What a bore. I’ve been to the National Gallery. At least, I think I have. It’s that place in Trafalgar Square, isn’t it? Mother took me there once.’
‘No; I don’t mean those galleries. We are going to the commercial galleries, where they sell pictures — or try to.’
‘Whatever for? We don’t want a picture. You haven’t gone long-haired and artistic, have you? At any rate, not artistic?’
‘We are all going artistic in a sort of a way — you, Nicholas, Petula, and I.’
‘But how and why? I’m very happy as I am.’
‘Why? In order to live. How? I’ll explain in due course. In the meantime, I’ll tell you what you have to do. We’re going to visit the West End galleries every day for about a fortnight until they get to know us. We are prospective purchasers of pictures. Don’t you say anything at all except “Yes” or “No”. Leave the talking to me. But you’ll have to look at the pictures as though you liked doing so.’
‘For a whole fortnight? That’s worse than going to a concert of chamber music. I can at least go to sleep there.’
‘You like oysters and Chablis, don’t you?’
‘Oh, I didn’t know they provided them. That’s different.’
‘They don’t. I provide them, when I’ve got the money. And that’s the object of this exercise. To make money. To begin with, we’ll have to spend some. We’re going to buy a picture in the end.’
‘That seems an awful waste. I could do with five pounds for some stockings.’
‘We’re not going to spend five pounds.’
‘What do they cost, then?’
‘They vary. We shall probably spend about £300 or so.’
‘£300? Have you gone mad? Just think what I could do with that.’
‘Think what I could do with it. Nevertheless, it’s all going into a picture. But not until they know us. Just when they’re beginning to think that we’re not serious buyers, we shall buy one. I’ll tell you more later. Come on. In here. Pretend you’re enjoying yourself. Think of the new clothes you’ll get if this comes off.’
‘Yes — perhaps — if whenever I look at a picture, I can be thinking of a new hat or a new dress, I shall just be able to manage.’
They walked into the Samson Galleries, where an exhibition of French Impressionists was being held. There were not many people there, and one of the directors of this old-established gallery circled round them and decided to make an approach.
‘Good afternoon.’
‘Good afternoon,’ said Basil. ‘I like that one.’
‘Ah — that’s a beauty. It glows — doesn’t it? Look at it from here.’
‘Yes,’ said Basil critically, ‘very nice. Don’t you like it, my dear?’
‘Yes,’ said Elizabeth with a new hat in mind.
‘And you’ll be surprised,’ said the director, ‘when I tell you how much it is.’
‘Indeed? How much is it?’
‘I’ll tell you. You see, we only want to make our normal margin of profit. We picked it up cheaply and so we can sell it far below the market price. I’d like you to guess what it is first — if you don’t mind.’
‘Not much below £1,750,’ said Basil.
Elizabeth took a quick look at him. When he had mentioned paying £300 she had thought it mad enough. But
£1,750 for a picture. What possible enjoyment could be worth £1,750? A mink coat perhaps. But, even if you liked pictures, £1,750 would require a lot of looking before you had your money’s worth. And, she thought, I can always look in the glass for nothing. Still, she knew Basil was after something and so she kept quiet.
‘£900,’ said the director.
Basil patted himself on the back. If he had said much more than double, he would have appeared too stupid, but twice the price being asked was just about right.
‘Really,’ said Basil. ‘That’s remarkable.’
‘It is. Look how it glows.’<
br />
They watched it glowing for a few seconds. Then Basil walked right up to the picture, put on his glasses and examined it closely.
‘The quality of the paint,’ he said, admiringly. He had little idea of what it meant, but he knew it was the right thing to say.
‘Lovely,’ said the director. ‘Much better than Defence Bonds,’ he added.
‘You’re right,’ said Basil. ‘Pictures like that can’t lose their value.’
‘On the contrary, if you brought that back to us in a year or two, I expect we could show you a handsome profit.’
‘But I couldn’t do that,’ said Basil. ‘It’s pictures I want, not profit.’
‘Ah, but it’s nice to know you’ve got the value there. Then, again, if you saw another one you wanted very badly and couldn’t afford both, you might be able to exchange them and even have a holiday abroad with the difference.’
Elizabeth wanted to say that she would just like the holiday abroad without the trouble of having to buy a picture and find somewhere to hang it, put it up, take it down and sell it again, but she knew Basil was serious and so she controlled herself and thought hard about a pearl necklace.
‘£900,’ said Basil, as though reflecting. ‘I wonder.’
‘What use are Defence Bonds?’ said the director. ‘You can’t look at them and, with the pound falling every day, a picture’s a much safer investment.’
‘I agree with you about that,’ said Basil, ‘but it’s a question of which. I’d like to buy the lot — but there, I’m not a millionaire.’ He made another close scrutiny of the picture. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘Really lovely,’ and then, quite casually, he added: ‘You don’t happen to be giving an exhibition of the Gropists soon, do you? I can’t really afford both and, at the moment, they’ve rather got me.’
‘The — ?’ asked the director.
‘Gropists,’ said Basil distinctly. ‘You know.’
‘Gropists?’ repeated the director slowly, as he considered whether to admit his ignorance at once or whether to make an excuse and go to look them up. Perhaps they were like the Nabis, whom most writers mentioned by name without stating who or what they really were.
