“What’s over?” said Lady Elizabeth.
“Act One,” said her host shortly. “The spoiling process. My—er—tastes
being what they are, I must retire. If you want another reason, Hilton
hasn’t much use for me. I don’t know that I blame him, but that’s
neither here nor there. He hasn’t. And since he hasn’t, neither must
you. Incidentally, you haven’t, any way. I said it first.”
“You know I have, Dick. You know I have. I’m sorry I burst out just now.
You’re perfectly right, of course. You always are. To laugh about Hilton
to you was shocking form. To turn and rend you because you told me so
was painfully cheap. I was wild, because I was guilty. I was guilty,
because I was wild.”
“Dot, don’t——”
“Listen. You say I’ve spoiled you. What rot! What blazing rot! Why, all
my life you’ve spoiled me. You’re spoiling me now. And I’m wild because
I know that it ends to-night. ‘Nerves’? Yes, if you like. Call it
‘Nerves.’” With a queer, dry laugh, she glanced at the watch on her
wrist. “I’ll have to be going, my dear. Have you got the car?”
“She’s in St. James’s Square.”
“Good.” They rose to their feet. “See how I bank on your goodwill. If I
were a man, I wouldn’t drive a girl home when she’d just told me off
across my own table.”
“I think you would,” said Dick.
John Richard Shere, Viscount Pembury, was thirty-two. He had looked
thirty-two for years and was likely to look thirty-two when he was
forty. And there you have the man—steady, conservative, faithful. With
it all, he was never dull. He was gay, eager, brilliant—could have
taken his place anywhere: and his place was high. The tragedy of it was
that access to his place was denied him. If his ways were charming, his
means were unhappily of no account. What was worse, they would never be
anything else. The collapse of Russia had finished the House of Shere.
His father had sunk to an annuity and dwelled at a Club. His mother was
dead—mercifully. He had sought employment, of course, but his style was
against him. Besides, he had been bred to be an earl. He was certainly
offered six hundred a year to show motor-cars, but had declined the
honour. He was ready to sell his labour, but not his name. His greatest
regret was that he would never hunt hounds. Tall, slight, dark,
gentle-eyed, he was a man to look twice at. If you did so, you saw the
strength of his pleasant mouth and the firm set of his chin. At Oxford,
where he had been President of Vincent’s, he was known as ‘The Velvet
Glove.’
Lady Elizabeth Crecy was twenty-nine, dark and grey-eyed. She could, I
suppose, have married anyone. Her beauty, her wisdom, her excellence in
all she did made three distinct, forcible appeals. I do not think the
man lives who, had she pleased, could have resisted successfully so
dazzling a combination. That she did not please made little enough
difference. The result was the same. Men fell in love at first
sight—and Sir Hilton Shutter among them. People said he had proposed
six times.
Shutter believed in living and indulged his belief. He did himself very
well—on thirty-five thousand a year. His ocean-going yacht was the last
word. He was forty-six years old and had been handsome. He was also the
second baronet and had been High Sheriff of Berkshire, in which county
his name was respected almost as highly as he respected it himself. He
was well known in London and believed in writing to _The Times_. A
letter above his signature appeared about once a month.
Lady Elizabeth Crecy had, in her own right, three hundred and fifty a
year.
The wind had died and a fine rain was falling when Pembury turned into
King Street in quest of his car. The wet did not stop him from looking
the old Rolls over to see that she had taken no hurt. Besides, he feared
that rain might have forced an entrance. . . . But the coupé had been
built by men who knew their business. Cushions and floor were bone dry.
He started the engine and left for the Richelieu at once.
Elizabeth was waiting in the hall—all great fur coat and soft, dark
hair and little shining feet—as she had waited before, so many times.
As he came into the hall, their eyes met and she smiled—as she had
smiled before, so many times. As she stepped into the coupé, an
exquisite stocking flashed—as it had flashed before, so many
times. . . .
A moment later they were heading west.
“Slippery night,” said Pembury. “Oughtn’t to be, but it is.”
“That’s the way of the world,” said Elizabeth. “It’s an irrational age.
And Nature’s catching the disease.”
Neither spoke again, till the last turn had been taken and Pembury had
berthed the coupé under the shelter of some trees. My lady’s home lay
farther, by twenty paces.
The girl stared.
“Why have you stopped, Dick?”
The other smiled.
“Would you like a drink, Dot?”
Elizabeth caught his arm.
“Not my favourite beverage? I can’t bear it.”
“The same,” laughed Pembury. “In the pocket by your side is an imperial
pint of beer——”
“Dick, you darling!”
“—and here”—he produced a silk handkerchief—“is a perfectly good
glass. I brought it as a sort of stirrup-cup, just—just to show there’s
no ill feeling. You know. Wash out the good old times an’ wash in the
new. Come on, old lady. Forward with the bay rum.”
In silence the bottle passed. . . .
“Here’s your best, Dick,” said the girl uncertainly.
She emptied the glass, and Pembury filled it again.
Elizabeth put it aside.
“You drink that, Dick.”
“I brought it for you.”
“I know. I accept it and give it back. Drink it and wish me luck.”
Pembury raised the glass.
“Your best—now and for ever,” he said quietly.
He drank, laughed, slid bottle and glass into a pocket and set his foot
upon the clutch. . . .
An instant later they were before the broad steps.
At the top of the flight Elizabeth lifted her head.
“You see I’m crying, Dick.”
“Yes.”
“You’ve never seen that before.”
“Nerves, dear, nerves.”
My lady shook her head.
“And it’s not the beer, either,” she said shakily.
Pembury took off his hat and picked up her hand.
“Good night, Dot,” he said, and kissed the slight fingers.
These were very cold.
Then he opened her door, and she passed in. . . .
Pembury’s rooms were in Brook Street. Thither he drove mechanically,
gazing out of the windscreen with a strained, fixed stare.
As he was flying up Park Lane, a taxi shot out of South Street across
his path. . . .
Instinctively, he clapped on the brakes, and the Rolls skidded to glory.
Two buses were coming. He could see them.
By a violent effort he straightened the great car up.
Then she skidded again—the opposite way.
He accelerated—tried to get through. . . .
Then a taxi pulled out from behind the second bus. . . . A woman
screamed. . . .
With a soft crash, the Rolls came to rest against the taxi’s off side.
As collisions go, it was a slight one—a matter of running-boards and
wings.
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.