Chapter V: Front Matter (5)

The buses stopped, and their two conductors appeared. In blasphemous terms, the cab-driver called the world to witness that it was not his fault. His fares alighted indignantly. A crowd began to collect. . . .

Then the police came up.

* * * * *

“Were you drunk?” said the Earl shortly.

“I was not, sir. But just now the police have got drunkenness on the brain.”

“What evidence have you?”

“None.”

“Who did you dine with?”

“I can’t say, sir.”

“You mean, you can’t drag her in?”

“Exactly.”

“For her sake, or ours?”

“Hers.”

Lord Larch pointed to a table.

“Give me pen and paper,” he said.

Pembury did as he was bid, and the Earl lay back on his pillows and wrote a note.

_Mr. Forsyth,_

_Be good enough to attend to this matter. Lord Pembury was not
drunk and so should not be convicted. Call me if you think it
advisable._

_Larch._

“Take that to Forsyth,” he said. “And dine with me here to-night.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Father and son understood each other perfectly.

The latter went his way and duly surrendered to his bail at eleven o’clock.

Evidence of arrest was given, and then, at Forsyth’s request, the case was adjourned.

Some evening papers gave much prominence to the affair. So did some morning papers of the following day. Down in Somerset, with the Fairies, Lady Elizabeth Crecy never saw the reports. Out of regard for her, none of the house-party drew her attention to them. It was known that she and Pembury were very old friends.

As for Pembury himself, the man prayed hourly that, ere the news reached her, the case would be over and done. She was not a reader of news-sheets: she was well out of Town; that anyone would inform her was most unlikely. Of course, she would know one day, but, with luck, not until it was . . . too late . . . with luck. . . .

* * * * *

Mr. Quaritch, of Treasury Counsel, removed his pince-nez.

“The police contend that you were drunk. Three things, they say, corroborate their contention. First, Lord Pembury, you collided with another vehicle. Secondly, you smelt of liquor. Thirdly, a bottle and glass, both of which had recently contained beer, were found in a pocket of your car. Very good. Our answer to the first is that the collision was due to a skid, which was itself due directly to the fact that a taxi shot without warning across your path and indirectly to the fact that you were admittedly driving rather faster than the condition of the streets was warranting. Am I right?”

“Perfectly,” said the delinquent.

The lawyer inclined his head.

“Our reply to the second is that, very shortly before the accident happened, you had consumed one half of a small bottle of beer.”

“I had.”

“Very good. What is our answer to the third?”

Pembury shrugged his shoulders.

“I’ve no explanation to give. Finding a bottle and glass doesn’t prove I was blind.”

“It’s pretty strong evidence of drinking. Mind you, I _know_ you weren’t drunk. But we’ve got to satisfy the Court. What construction will the Court put upon the discovery of that bottle and glass? Assuming the Magistrate is reasonable, he will consider it peculiar. Even if they’re addicted to drink, people of your position do not as a rule go about with a glass and a bottle of beer. So, finding the discovery peculiar, the Magistrate will expect an explanation. If you don’t give him one, he will very naturally put the worst construction upon those unfortunate utensils.”

“What’ll he think?”

The lawyer raised his eyebrows. “I don’t know what he’ll think. He’ll certainly assume that your explanation is not forthcoming because you know very well that it wouldn’t assist your case. And if he thinks any further, I suppose he’ll class you with the thirsty and prudent undesirable who carries a flask in his pocket wherever he goes.”

“And he’ll send me down?”

“Wait. The time is late in the evening—ten-twenty-five. That is the hour when those who do get drunk may be most easily encountered. You have a smash—which ought to have been avoided. You smell of liquor. Real evidence of liquor, recently consumed, is found. The police say you were drunk. If you were on the Bench, would you accept the accused’s unsupported statement that he was sober?”

“Frankly, I don’t think I should.”

“Add to all this two scandalously irrelevant facts, which, because the Magistrate is human, will be constantly present to his mind. One is that of late the crater of public indignation upon the subject of drunken drivers has been in violent eruption: the other is that at the present moment there are hundreds of thousands of people who are simply living for an opportunity of demonstrating that there is one law for the poor and another for the rich.”

“And he’ll send me down?”

“I think he will have no alternative.”

Lord Pembury laced his fingers and put them behind his head.

“Can’t be helped,” he said. “I’ve nothing to say.”

Forsyth put in his oar.

“Look here,” he said. “The most formidable position we’re faced with is that which is erected upon that bottle and glass. If we can reduce that position, the moral effect upon the Magistrate’s mind will be precisely as powerful as the position was formidable. You always get most credit for doing what seems to be the hardest thing to do. If you won’t explain the presence of those infernal vessels, it’s not the slightest good insisting that all you had recently consumed was half a small bottle of beer.”

“Well, there’s the blinkin’ bottle to bear me out. I tell you, I shared it with a friend.”

“Then produce the friend.”

“I can’t,” said Pembury.

“‘Can’t’?” said Forsyth. “Or ‘won’t’?”

“Won’t.”

Forsyth threw up his hands.

Quaritch leaned forward.

“You do see the point, Lord Pembury? The introduction of the friend makes it a shade more palatable, but it doesn’t eliminate that distressing element of eccentricity. Is it your practice to—er—sport a bottle of beer? Of course not. Then why did you do it? From hospitable motives? For a wager? Why?”

“I’m not going to say any more,” said Viscount Pembury. “I’m sorry to be so graceless. I know you’re trying to help me and I’m carefully crampin’ your style. But there you are. Please do what you can with what you’ve got.”

There was a long silence.

“He mayn’t . . . mayn’t be content with a fine, you know,” said Forsyth.

“I know. It can’t be helped.”

Counsel folded his Brief and rose to his feet.

The conference was at an end.

As the door closed behind Pembury—

“Who the devil is he shielding?” said Quaritch.

“I wish to God I knew,” said Forsyth bitterly.

* * * * *

Sir Hilton Shutter was thoroughly pleased with life. For one thing, he was standing with his back to a roaring fire: for another, he was a guest at Castle Charing, a pleasant residence to which he had long hoped to be invited: for another, his future wife, seated on a sofa before him, was looking particularly lovely in a frock of powder-blue and gold: finally, from the solemn, almost subdued demeanour of his host and hostess, he perceived that his discourse was creating a profound impression.

A booming note slid into his voice.

“Leadership. To-day, more than ever before, people require a lead. Point them the way, and they’ll move. But you must point it definitely. Your indication must be downright, courageous.” He paused to flick his cigar ash into the grate. “I wrote to _The Times_ to-day,” he continued, frowning.

“Did you?” said his hostess pleasantly. “What about?”

“This question of drunken motorists,” was the reply.

Mrs. Fairie started, and her husband’s hand flew to his moustache.

“It’s more than a public scandal,” continued Shutter. “It’s a national disgrace. I don’t mean——”

“I know,” said Fairie nervously. “There’s been a lot of agitation about it, but——”

“I agree. But the evil remains.”

“Oh, they’ll stamp it out,” said Fairie. “Trust them. People are beginning to see it’s not good enough. By the way——”

“By ‘national disgrace,’” said Shutter, “I mean that the failure of the authorities to observe the will of those who appoint and pay them to do their will is a state of affairs which would not be tolerated in any other country in the world.”

“I agree,” said his host heartily. “It’s wicked.”

“Monstrous,” said Mrs. Fairie. “What about some Bridge?”

“One minute,” said Lady Elizabeth. “What’s monstrous?”

“This drunkenness stunt,” said Fairie. “Let’s——”

“No, no, no,” cried Shutter. “I thought you didn’t quite follow me. My point is that, outrageous as is the offence, the failure of those whose signal duty it is to eradicate it is still more infamous.”

“That’s the word I was trying to think of,” said Fairie. “‘Infamous.’ So it is. What about roping in the others an’ havin’ a quiet game of——”

“As I said in my letter to-day,” said Sir Hilton, frowning, “the community no longer asks for protection—it demands the abolition of these pests: and that, by the infliction in every case, without fear or favour, of a penalty—imprisonment, of course—so harsh as, once for all, to frighten would-be offenders back into the path of decency.”

“You are fierce,” said Elizabeth. “Why——”

“Yes, isn’t he?” cried Mrs. Fairie. “Never mind. Let’s——”

“Isn’t it time someone was?” demanded Sir Hilton. “Look at the latest——”

“_Ouch!_” squealed Fairie, leaping to his feet.

“Whatever’s the matter?” cried Elizabeth, considerably startled.

“Must’ve sat on a pin or something,” said Fairie desperately. “What about that poker? It’s much——”

“As I was saying,” boomed Shutter, “look at the latest case. There’s a man with all the advantages which birth and education can offer——”

“Excuse me, Sir Hilton,” blurted Fairie, “but—I know you’ll forgive my saying so, but the fellow in question’s rather a friend of mine, and——”

“Pembury is?”

“WHO?”

Elizabeth was on her feet, flushed, blazing-eyed.

“_Who?_” she repeated.

Fairie sank into his seat with a groan.

“Pembury, Elizabeth,” said Shutter. “Young Pembury. Haven’t you seen the papers?”

“No,” said Elizabeth, “I haven’t. What do the papers say . . . about . . . Lord Pembury?”

The broad shoulders were shrugged.

“Oh, he’s the latest instance of the drunken driver. That’s all. I’m not particularly surprised, but——”

“Hang it, man,” cried Fairie, “you’ve no right to——”

“Why aren’t you surprised?” said Lady Elizabeth.

Her fiancé stared. Then he gave a short laugh.

“Oh, I don’t know. But don’t let’s pursue it. Didn’t you hear Fairie say that he’s——”

“Does it occur to you that Lord Pembury’s a friend of mine?”

“I know he was,” said Sir Hilton.

“Is,” said Elizabeth. “Is. And always will be. Never mind. Who says he was drunk?”

“The police, dear,” said Mrs. Fairie, putting an arm about her waist. “He ran into something—a taxi, on Sunday night—— _What is it, darling?_”

Elizabeth was trembling violently.

“Nothing,” she said. “Nothing. Let me sit down. ‘On Sunday night,’ you were saying. Yes?”

“On Sunday night, in Park Lane. He wasn’t hurt. And the police—you know what they are—immediately jumped to the conclusion——”

“Be just, Mrs. Fairie,” said Shutter. “It wasn’t a question of jumping to any conclusion. Finding him drunk, they——”

“If you’ll forgive my saying so,” said Fairie, setting a brandy and soda in Elizabeth’s hand, “whether they found him drunk or sober has yet to be decided. At present he’s merely charged with being drunk.”

“Of course,” said Shutter, “if you like to split hairs——”

“It isn’t a question of hair-splitting,” said his host. “It’s a question of cold facts. If the charge is dismissed—as it will be—he could sue you for slander for this, and just waltz home.”

Elizabeth was speaking.

“Will somebody please tell me exactly what’s happened?”

“I will,” said her host. “Dick had a smash late on Sunday night. Nobody was hurt. He was arrested and charged. They say he smelt of liquor and a bottle was found in the car. He appeared on Monday morning and pleaded ‘Not guilty.’ Evidence of arrest was given and the case was adjourned for a week.”

“What’s to-day?” said Elizabeth.

“Friday.”

“Thank you. Go on.”

“That’s all, dear,” said Mrs. Fairie. “We didn’t tell you, because——”

“You did, though, didn’t you?” said Elizabeth, looking Sir Hilton in the face.

“I naturally assumed——”

“Quite a hobby of yours, isn’t it? Recreations—golf, yachting, assumption. You assumed that he was drunk. You assumed that I knew about it. I suppose you assumed that, in view of my knowledge, I should relish your recent conversation, including the fact that you had written to _The Times_, urging ‘the infliction of penalties—imprisonment, of course—so harsh . . .’” She stopped dead there. Then her voice rang out. “_Why did you write that letter?_”

Sir Hilton started.

“‘Why?’”

“Yes. Why?”

“Well—er—because, I suppose, I felt——”

“Was it in the hope that it would appear on the day Dick’s case came on?”

“Good Heavens, Elizabeth! What——”

“Cut it out,” said the girl, quietly. “I know. And so do Madge and Harry. We all three know. And so do you. And I’ll tell you another thing we know—we three. We know Dick wasn’t drunk.”

“Right!” cried the Fairies in a breath.

“And so do you,” said Elizabeth, rising.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Shutter. “If I like to——”

The girl stretched out her hand.

“Just hold my drink for a minute, will you?” she said.

Mechanically, Sir Hilton received the glass.

Elizabeth took off her pearls and slid an enormous emerald off her finger. She pitched the gems together at Shutter’s feet. Then she looked into his eyes.

“How I came to make such a mistake, I can’t conceive. I think I must have been mad. To be perfectly honest, I liked the idea of being rich. As far as you’re concerned, I’m not so terribly to blame, because, when you asked me to marry you, you dangled your rotten wealth before my eyes. You prayed it in aid of your suit. And I thought it was good enough, I did. . . . Well, I find I was wrong.”

“But, Elizabeth——”

“My good sir, _I wouldn’t be seen dead with you._” She stretched out her hand. “Thank you.”

She took the glass from his fingers and flung the liquor in his face.

Sir Hilton recoiled and Madge Fairie started to her feet. Lady Elizabeth and Fairie stood perfectly still.

Floating from behind closed doors, the lilt of the latest fox-trot disputed possession of the silence with the pleasant flare and crackle of the logs in the grate.

* * * * *

“What’s Mr. Forsyth want?”

“I don’t know at all, my lord. He simply told me to find you, wherever you were, and bring you back in a cab to Lincoln’s Inn Fields.”

Pembury, who was at his tailor’s, adjusted his tie.

“All right,” he said slowly. “If you’ll get a cab, I’ll be ready in two minutes’ time.”

The clerk bowed and withdrew.

Pembury wondered, frowning, what was afoot.

Had Forsyth got hold of something? Had he been making inquiries and come on the truth? Had the Richelieu been talking? Had . . . Forsyth had found out something. Not a doubt of it. Something about Sunday night. And Forsyth was going to try to force his hand. He was going to threaten to put Elizabeth wise. . . .

Pembury smiled a grim smile.

As he entered the lawyer’s room—

“Good morning, Dick,” said Elizabeth. “Where did they pick you up? I told them to try——”

“Forsyth,” said Pembury sternly, “I don’t remember instructing you——”

“One minute,” cried Forsyth. “One minute. My hands are clean. I haven’t moved in the matter. I never found the lady. She found me.”

“But——”

“It’s perfectly true,” said Elizabeth. “I only heard last night. Of course, it’s my own fault. I really must read the papers: but they’re so frightfully dull—usually.”

“Who told you?” said Pembury.

“Hilton, of course. But observe how astute I am. A fool would have rushed to you. The woman of the world goes to a lawyer.”

“Why does she do that?”

“Because,” said Elizabeth, “it’s Saturday, and lawyers are closed at one. By the time I’d had it out with you, the lawyers would have been closed. As it is, we’re in just nice time. My statement’s being typed now.”

“I won’t have you called,” said Pembury.

“Quite sure?” said Lady Elizabeth.

“Positive. That’s flat. You can’t be called without my consent, and, short of pressin’ me to death, you won’t get that.”

“But, Dick——”

“My dear, it’s no earthly. I’m absolutely resolved. I not only won’t call you, but I won’t have you near the Court.”

He flung himself into a chair and crossed his legs.

“Now, Dick, just listen. Put yourself in my place. Supposing I was charged with something I hadn’t done. And everything——”

“Dot,” said Pembury, “it’s not the slightest good. You know as well as I do that it’s a question of sex. What’s sauce for the goose may be sauce for the gander—but it can’t always be served. For people to know that we were dining ’ld be bad enough, but what about the beer?”

“Well, what about it?” said Dot. “What’s the matter with the truth? Remembering my affection for the beverage, you were considerate enough——”

“My dear girl,” said Pembury, “it’s out of the question. You can’t parade intimate nursery incidents in a Court of Law. Possibly, if we were brother and sister——”

“We are, practically. As I was telling Mr. Forsyth——”

“Well, it’s not the moment to advertise it. Forsyth knows that as well as I do. Of course, he’s out to pull me out of the muck, but I’m not takin’ any. Either I get out myself, or I stay where I am. _I won’t have you called._ More. Unless you give me your word not only to hold your tongue but not to come within a mile of the Joy Shop till it’s all over, I’ll—I’ll plead ‘Guilty.’”

Forsyth shifted in his chair.

Lady Elizabeth raised her delicate eyebrows.

“Well, there you are,” she said. “If you will cut your own little throat, I can’t stop you. Only, I can’t marry a man who’s been convicted of drunkenness.” Pembury leaped to his feet. “I can’t, really. You see, I’m funny like that. It’s—it’s against my principles.”

“Dot!” shouted Pembury. “Dot! What on earth d’you mean? You’re engaged to——”

“Finish, my dear, finish. I’ve turned him down. You’ll see it in _The Times_ on Monday. I just couldn’t stick the swine. If we could have lived apart, I might have managed it. But together—no thanks. Charing opened my eyes. I was happy enough there, until he came. Then everything crashed. Better is a cold tub, where love is, than a tiled bathroom and hatred therewith. Don’t you agree, Mr. Forsyth?”

“Dot! Dot, my darling, is this a have?”

Pembury had her hands and was gazing into her eyes. The man was transfigured, blazing.

“No,” said Elizabeth. “It isn’t. It’s ordinary, natural love. Don’t go, Mr. Forsyth. I’ld rather like you to stay. I say it’s ordinary love. I’ve loved you for years, Dick. But when you never spoke, at last I came to the conclusion that you didn’t care for me—that way. And so—I turned elsewhere. Not to another man, because there was no other man and never could be. So I turned to money, instead. I told you I was degenerate. . . . And then, when on Sunday night you showed your hand—the hand you’d never played, the hand I’d been waiting for you to play for such a long, long time—I didn’t know what to do. You see, things had gone rather far. . . . And then—Sir Hilton Shutter very kindly showed me the way.”

A door closed. Forsyth had disobeyed.

“But, Dot, my darling, we’ll be awfully poor.”

“D’you think I care? I only worshipped riches because I hadn’t got you. Luxury was the god I set up in your place. I tried to drown my love in a butt of Malmsey. But, you see, it couldn’t be done. Malmsey’s sickening stuff. I’ld much sooner drink beer. And now about this old trial. I’m to be in attendance, in case——”

“Oh, damn the trial,” said Pembury, taking her in his arms. “I haven’t kissed your blessed mouth since——”

“August the seventh, 1914,” said Elizabeth. “I’ve got it down in a diary. ‘He kissed my lips.’”

“My sweet, my sweet. . . .”

The girl just clung to him.

After a moment or two she lifted a radiant face.

“I think I shall have to marry you, whether you’re convicted or not. You see, you’re not only my Best Man—you’re so much the very best man I ever saw.”

* * * * *

On Monday, those sections of the Press which had been hoping to be able to announce _Sensational Developments_ under the heading WELL-KNOWN VISCOUNT CHARGED were more than satisfied.

Before the case was called on, the Magistrate left the Bench, and Quaritch and his opponent were summoned behind the scenes. This was unusual. By the time the three reappeared excitement was running high.

The Magistrate’s clerk nodded, and the case was called on.

Pembury stepped into the dock, and the Magistrate cleared his throat.

“Mr. Shorthorn,” he said. The Solicitor to the Police rose to his feet and bowed. “I have decided, before proceeding with this case, to tell you that I have formed a very definite opinion.

“The position in which I stand is one of peculiar difficulty. If the charge was less grave, if the social position of the defendant was less considerable, if all the circumstances did not combine, rightly or wrongly, to attract to this case a good deal of attention, my path would be plain and easy to follow. As it is, I have thought proper to consult the Chief Magistrate and I may say that he agrees with me that the course which I am about to take is the only one which is at once convenient and just.

“By the merest accident, I am in possession of information which has a direct and powerful bearing upon this charge. That information would become evidence, if I could be put into the box.”

He paused.

Except for the noise of breathing and the flick of a reporter’s page, the Court, which was crammed with people, was still as death.

In a retired waiting-room Lady Elizabeth sat fretfully straining her ears, continually crossing and recrossing two sweet pretty legs and striving desperately to possess a mutinous spirit.

The Magistrate proceeded.

“In view of what I have said, Mr. Shorthorn, would you prefer that another Magistrate should deal with this case?”

“I am more than content, sir, that you should deal with it.”

Mr. Shorthorn resumed his seat.

“And you, Mr. Quaritch?”

Treasury Counsel smiled whimsically.

“The best, sir,” he said, “is good enough for me.”

An attempt at applause, which succeeded the roar of laughter, was instantly suppressed.

“Very well, then. On the evening of the defendant’s arrest I was dining out. Though he is probably unaware of the fact, I patronized the same restaurant as he did and, what is more, I sat at the next table.” Everyone’s gaze shifted to the accused. The latter stood like a rock. “And I observed—if I may say so, with surprise—that he drank nothing but water.”

A nervous ripple of laughter ran through the Court.

“I see that my words were equivocal. I should say that my surprise was provoked not by his personal failure to drink wine—for I do not know his habits and I never set eyes on him before—but by the spectacle of anyone of his age who to-day considers water fit for internal use.”

The Court laughed tremulously.

“The results of my observation do not end there. We are told that the collision occurred at ten-twenty-five. As luck will have it, I saw the defendant leave. I did not notice the time, for there was, of course, no reason at all why I should: but, recalling my own movements, I am satisfied that he finally left that restaurant not earlier than ten-fifteen. He was then unquestionably sober.

“The opinion I have formed is that in no circumstances is it possible for a man who is sober at ten-fifteen, who for the last two hours has touched no alcohol, to be drunk at ten-twenty-five.”

That upon the evening in question the learned Magistrate’s watch was ten minutes fast was not his fault. The man was scrupulous.

The case for the prosecution died there and then.

The prosecution was withdrawn, apologies were offered, the defendant left the dock, applause was suppressed.

Mr. Quaritch knew his job.

He rose to his feet.

“If, sir, I may complete the solution of this matter by disclosing what happened in the ten minutes of time during which my client was under observation neither by the judiciary nor the executive, I must confess that he seized the opportunity to consume a small glass of beer.”

The Court roared its merriment.

“Possibly, the discovery of a small bottle of Bass—grim relic of some picnic—was responsible for his lapse from grace. Upon that point I have no instructions. It follows that at the time of the collision he indubitably smelt of liquor, and, while personally I should become uneasy if to smell of liquor were to be regarded as the peculiar privilege of drunkards, it was presumably his indignant recognition of that mocking perfume which provoked the constable, whose name, I observe, is Worthington, to . . .”

The rest of the sentence was lost in an explosion of delight—which the defendant missed.

In a retired waiting-room, cheek against cheek, Pembury and Lady Elizabeth let the world slip. . . .

And, as I have said, certain sections of the Press were perfectly satisfied. Could they have perused one document, reposing in Counsel’s Brief, I imagine their satisfaction would have melted like snow upon the hearth. The very first words would have fused it—_THE LADY ELIZABETH CRECY will say_. . . . As it was, they were perfectly satisfied. And, when they were able to announce the lady’s engagement to _the hero of a recent cause célèbre_, they could have thrown up their hats.

It was generally admitted that Lady Elizabeth was to marry by far the best man. Harry Fairie, of Castle Charing, put it much more strongly.

JO

JO