‘If he doesn’t,’ I said, ‘you recognise what your chances are?’
‘Yes,’ said George.
His face was heavy as he thought.
‘I don’t necessarily accept the view that he won’t come back,’ he said. ‘But if he doesn’t — I can’t alter my position. I shan’t go.’
‘For God’s sake think it over,’ I said. ‘We’ll make it as easy for you as we humanly can.’
He was silent.
‘I’ve a right to ask you to think it over tonight,’ I said. ‘I beg you to.’
‘I’m sorry. There is no point in that,’ George said. ‘I shall stay here and let them try me.’
Part Four
The Trial
33: Courtroom Lit by a Chandelier
THE morning of the trial was dark, and all over the town lights shone in the shop windows. In front of the old Assize Hall, a few people had gathered on the pavement, staring at the policemen on the steps.
It was still too early. I walked into the entrance hall, which was filling up. George came in: when, after a moment, he saw me in the crowd of strangers, his face became suddenly open and bewildered.
‘There are plenty of people here,’ he said.
We stood silently, then began to talk about the news in the morning papers. In a few minutes we heard a call from inside which became louder and was repeated from the door.
‘Surrender of George Passant! Surrender of George Passant!’
George stared past me, buttoned his jacket, smoothed down the folds.
‘Well, I’ll see you later,’ he said.
In the robing-room Getliffe was sitting in his overcoat taking a glance at his brief. As I came in, he stood up hurriedly.
‘Time’s getting on,’ he said. ‘We must be moving.’
I helped him on with his gown; he chatted about Eden.
‘Pleasant old chap, isn’t he? Not that he’s as old as all that. He must be this side of sixty. You know, L S, I was thinking last night. First of all I was surprised he has been contented to sit in a second-rate provincial town all his life — and then I realised one could be very happy here. Just limiting yourself, knowing what you’ve got to do, knowing you’re doing a useful job which doesn’t take too much out of you. And then going away from it and remembering you’re a human being. Clocking in and clocking out.’
He was speaking more breathlessly than in normal times. This nervousness before a case — which he had never lost — was mainly a physical malaise, a flutter of the hands, a catch in the voice: perhaps it had once been more, but now it was worn down by habit. He was putting on his wig, which, although it was faintly soiled, at once gave his face a greater distinction. He stared at himself in the mirror; his bands were awry, he was still a little dishevelled, but he turned away with a furtive, satisfied smile.
‘All aboard,’ he said.
He led the way into court. Olive and George were in the dock, looking towards the empty seats on the bench, which spread in a wide semi-circle round the small, high, dome-shaped room. It had been repainted since the July afternoon when George won a verdict in it; otherwise I noticed no change.
We came to our places, two or three steps beyond the dock; I turned and glanced at it. Jack was not there. I heard Porson, the leader for the prosecution, in court ten minutes early, greet Getliffe, in a rich, chuckling voice: I found myself anxious about nothing except that Jack should appear for the trial.
The gallery was nearly full. The case had already become a scandal in the town. Suddenly, I heard the last call for Jack and saw him walk quickly towards the dock. The judge entered, the indictment was read, they pleaded. George’s voice sounded loud and harsh, the others’ quiet.
‘You may sit down, of course,’ the judge said. His eyes were dark, bright and inquisitive in a jowled, broad face. There was only a small bench in the dock, barely enough for three. ‘Why are there no chairs for them? Please fetch chairs.’ His voice was kindly but precise.
The voice of the clerk swearing the jury fell distantly on my ears, deafened by habit. I looked round the courtroom. Eden was sitting upstairs, near the benches set aside for the Grand Jury; Cameron, the Principal of the School, had a place close by. Beddow, the chairman of that meeting over seven years before, bustled in, fresh and cheerful, to an alderman’s seat. In the small public space behind the dock, several of George’s friends were sitting, Mr Passant among them; Roy Calvert was looking after Mr Passant, and stayed at his side throughout the trial.
Just before Porson opened, a note was brought to me from Morcom. ‘They say I’ve just missed rheumatic fever. There is nothing to worry about, but I can’t come.’ That was all. I kept looking at it; the oath had reached the last man on the jury. In the diffused light of the winter morning, added to by the single chandelier of bulbs hanging over our table, our fingers made shadows with a complex pattern of penumbra, and faces in the court were softened.
The case for the prosecution took up the first two days. It went worse for us than we feared.
Porson’s opening was strong. From the beginning he threatened us with George’s statement over the circulation of the Arrow.
‘We possess a piece of evidence that no one can deny,’ he said. He drew everyone’s attention to a sheet of notepaper which was to be produced at the proper time. He concentrated much of his attack on the agency; then he pointed out how, when they had ‘obtained some practice’ in their methods, George and the others had gone ‘after bigger game’. The farm business needed larger sums, but they had found it easy to misrepresent what its true position was. ‘They didn’t trouble to change their methods,’ said Porson. ‘They had learned after their little experience with the Arrow that it was child’s play to give false figures. This time they needed larger sums, and you will hear how they obtained them from Miss Geary, Mrs Stuart and—’
He finished by telling the jury that he would produce a witness, Mrs Iris Ward, who would describe an actual meeting at the farm when the three of them decided they must buy it — ‘decided they must buy it not only as a business, but because they had reasons of their own for needing somewhere to live in private, out of reach of inquisitive eyes’.
Porson did as he threatened.
The only point which Getliffe scored was made before lunch on the first morning. One of the witnesses over the agency, a man called Attock, said that, before he lent Jack money, he had looked over all the figures of the firm with an accountant’s eye. He was a masterful, warm-voiced man, with a genial, violent laugh: Getliffe saw through him, and brought off an ingenious cross-examination. In the end, Getliffe revealed him as a man always priding himself on his shrewdness and losing money in unlikely ventures: and as one who had never managed to finish his accountant’s examinations.
At lunch on that first day, Jack and Olive were more composed than before the trial. Even George, sunk in a despondency which surprised those who remembered his optimism but did not know him well, referred to Getliffe’s handling of Attock.
It was, however, a false start. First thing in the afternoon, Porson produced the quiet kindly witness of the police court, who told the same story without a deviation. Then two more followed him, with the same account of the acquaintanceship with Jack, the meetings with George, the statement of the circulation of the Arrow. They testified to a statement written by George, which now, for the first time, Porson produced in court. It read:
‘We are not in a position to give full figures of the Agency’s business. So far as we have examined the position they do not seem to exist. One important indication, however, we can state exactly. The advertising paper run by the Agency — The Advertisers’ Arrow — has had an average circulation of five thousand per issue. This figure is given on the authority of Mr Martineau, now retiring from the firm.’