‘I said nothing.’
‘Jack said that he heard I was very worried. I mentioned it to no one but you.’
Casting back in my mind, I was beginning to reassure myself: then, suddenly I remembered asking Roy to send word at any sign of trouble — because of Morcom’s anxiety.
Morcom said: ‘You know?’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘I mentioned it to Roy Calvert. It was my last chance of getting the whole truth. I made it clear—’
‘I told you in confidence,’ said Morcom.
I took refuge in being angry with Roy. I knew that he was subtle and astute about human feelings — yet he had been so clumsily indiscreet. But I ought to have known that he, like many others, was in fact, subtle, astute — and indiscreet. The same sensitiveness which made him subtle, which gave him antennae to reach another’s feelings, also caused this outburst of indiscretion. For it was from the desire to please in another’s company, Jack’s or George’s, that he produced the news of Morcom’s concern — from the same desire to share an emotion with another which is the root of all the deepest subtlety, the subtlety, which, whatever it is used for ultimately, arises from a spontaneous realisation and knowledge of another.
Just as, ironically, Morcom himself had once broken into a graver indiscretion in Eden’s drawing-room.
It is one of the myths of character that subtlety and astuteness and discretion go hand in hand by nature — without bleak experience and the caution of age, which takes the edge both from one’s sensitiveness and the blunders one used to make. The truth is, if one is impelled to share people’s hearts, the person to whom one is speaking, must seem, must be, more vivid for the moment than anyone in the world. And so, even if he is irrelevant to one’s serious purpose, if indeed he is the enemy against whom one is working, one still has the temptation to be in a moment’s conspiracy with him, for his happiness and one’s own against the rest. It is a temptation which would have seemed, even if he troubled to understand it, a frivolous instability to George Passant. But, for many, it is a cause of the petty treasons to which they cannot look back without shame.
Morcom was speaking with a restrained distress. Some of it I should have expected, whatever the circumstances, if he heard that he was being discussed in a way he felt ‘undignified’. But tonight that was only the excuse for his anger. He was suffering as obviously as George. His cold manner was held by an effort of self-control; he was trying to shelve the anxiety in a justified outburst. Yet his anxiety was physically patent. With a mannerism that I had never seen him use before, he kept stroking his forehead as though the skin were tight.
We talked over the inquiries. Information must have been laid, I said, a week or two ago. I went on: ‘Jack told me that he could easily have raised money just before that time. If there had been any call. He said you made your first offer then — is that true, by the way?’
‘I ought to have done it in the summer,’ said Morcom. ‘I suppose it came too late. But I couldn’t resist doing it at last. I’ve always had a soft spot for Cotery, you know.’
That was true: it had been true in the days of his bitterest jealousy. It was true now. He was filled with remorse for not having tried to help them until too late.
In a moment he asked me: ‘What are the chances in this case?’
‘It’s impossible to say. We don’t even know they’ve got enough to prosecute on.’
‘What’s your opinion?’
I paused: ‘I think they’ll prosecute.’
‘And then?’
‘Again I don’t know.’
‘I’d like to have your view.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘if you remember it’s worth very little at this stage — I think the chances are against us.’
‘Look,’ he said, ‘I can’t do anything in the open. I’ve got to tell you that again. I insist that nothing I’ve said shall be repeated to anyone else. For any reason whatever. That’s got to be respected.’
‘Yes.’
‘But if I can help in private—’ he said. ‘You’ve got to ask. Whatever it is. Remember, whatever it is. You aren’t to be prevented by any sort of delicacy about dragging up my past.’
He had spoken very fast. I answered: ‘I shall ask. If there’s any possible thing you can do.’
‘Good.’
‘There may be — practical things. We shall probably want money.’
‘I should like to give it.’
26: A Guilty Story
WHEN I arrived at George’s lodgings the next afternoon, I found his father just on the point of leaving. Mr Passant said, with the old mixture of warmth and hesitation: ‘It’s not — Lewis?’ He had aged more than anyone I knew. His breathing was very heavy.
‘I’m glad you’re helping us, Lewis,’ he said. He began to talk hurriedly, about the inquiries. His eyes were full of puzzled indignation against the people who had instigated them. ‘You’ll help us deal with them,’ he said. ‘They’ve got to learn that they suffer if they let their spite run away with them.’ It was not that he did not know’ of the danger of a prosecution. George had been utterly frank. But injured as he was, Mr Passant was driven to attack.
‘At the end, when it’s the proper time, you’ll be able to go for compensation against them,’ he said. ‘The law must provide for that.’
During these outbursts, George was quiet, once augmenting his father’s with an indignation of his own. For a moment they looked at each other, on the same side, the outer anxiety pressing them close. But when Mr Passant said, tired with his anger: ‘It’s a great pity they were ever given the excuse, Lewis—’
George said: ‘We’ve had all this out before.’
‘After it’s over,’ said Mr Passant, ‘I still want to think of you yourself.’
George replied: ‘I can’t alter anything I’ve already said.’
Both their faces were strained as they parted. Without a word upon his father’s visit, George came to the table and brought out his papers. He sat by me through the afternoon and evening, helping me arrange the facts.
The extraordinary precision of his memory might have been laughable in another context. But now I heard his voice on the edge of shouting, when from time to time he burst out: ‘It’s ludicrous for them to try to manufacture a case like this. We’ve got an answer for every single point the swine bring up. Do they think I decided to take over Martineau’s paraphernalia simply for the pleasure of cooking the figures? When it was perfectly easy for him to check them? A man who’d been used to figures all his life. The suggestion’s simply monstrous. If I’d wished to swindle in that particularly fatuous way, I should have chosen someone else—’
‘He’d gone away, though, before you took over—’
‘Nonsense. That is simply untrue. We bought Exell out in November ’28’ — he gave the exact date — ‘Martineau had been in the town all July. He came back for a couple of weeks continuously the next January. Settling up his house and his other affairs. He could have investigated at any time. Do they think that a man in his senses — whatever else I may be, I suppose they’d give me credit for that — would take a risk of that kind?’
Yet several times I returned to Martineau’s statement, in particular the figures of the Arrow.
‘It seems such a tremendous lot,’ I said.
‘I thought it was rather large,’ George said.
There was a silence.
‘I’d have thought if they could reach as wide a public as that,’ I went on, ‘they’d have made more of a show of it themselves.’
‘Jack’s magnificent at making things go,’ said George. ‘He’s full of ideas. I left that side to him. It’s probably the explanation.’ He stared at the paper. ‘In any case, I don’t think we shall get very far by speculating on Exell’s and Martineau’s incompetence.’