Porson gave the sheet of paper to the jury. They passed it round: at last it came to Getliffe and myself. It was as neatly written as a page from the diary. We knew there was no hope of challenging it.
Pertinaciously, good-temperedly, Getliffe worked hard. Questions tapped out in the room as the sky darkened through the lowering afternoon. The illuminated zone from the chandelier left the judge half in darkness. Getliffe did not shake any of the three witnesses. He tried to test their memory of figures by a set of numerical questions which he often used as a last resource. Several times, still good-tempered but harassed, he became entangled in names, that odd but familiar laxness of his — ‘Mr Passmore,’ he said, ‘you say you were met by Mr Passmore.’
Then Porson called Exell, Martineau’s partner in the agency. Getliffe, breathing hard, sweat running down the temples from under his wig, asked me to take him.
‘You know, of course, the state of your business just before it was sold?’ Porson was asking.
‘Yes,’ said Exell. He had grown almost bald since I last saw him, at the time of Martineau’s departure.
‘Was it at its most prosperous just then?’
‘Nothing like it. Times had got worse,’ said Exell.
‘When was it at its most prosperous?’
‘Just about the time that Mr Martineau entered it.’
‘You would regard the circulation of your paper, the Arrow, as some indication of the state of the firm?’
‘I’m not certain.’ A series of questions followed, in which Porson tried to persuade him. He gave at last a rather unwilling and qualified assent.
‘Now you have accepted that figure as an indication, I want to ask you — when did it reach its highest point?’
‘At the time I told you. Seven years ago, nearly.’
‘What was the circulation at the highest point?’
‘Twelve hundred.’
‘I should like you to repeat that. I should like the jury to hear you say that again. What was the circulation at the highest point?’
Exell repeated the words.
‘There is just one thing else you might tell us, Mr Exell. The jury may find this important. We have been told this afternoon that the circulation at some time — never mind who told us or what the reason was — was estimated at five thousand. Was that ever a conceivable figure?’
‘Never. I have told you the highest.’
‘And just before the end it didn’t rise for any reason?’
‘It must have been lower.’
I tried everything I could invent. I asked him about the agency’s books. Weren’t they singularly carelessly kept? Hadn’t he neglected them for years before Martineau joined him? Wasn’t it Martineau’s task to supervise the books during the months he was a partner? Wasn’t it true that Exell could only have a vague knowledge of the agency’s finances in general, this circulation in particular, during Martineau’s time? Wasn’t it true that he was always concerned — and his partner also — with activities outside the ordinary run of business? That Martineau was entirely preoccupied with religion? That Exell himself gave much time to eccentric causes — such as spiritualism and social credit? Wasn’t it possible his estimate of the figure was simply a guess without any exact information? He was uneasy, but we gained nothing. His tone grew thinner and more precise. Once his eyes dropped in that mannerism of hampered truculence which in some men is like a child beginning to cry. He would not budge from his figure. ‘Twelve hundred’s correct,’ he said.
When I had finished, Porson said: ‘I want the jury to be certain of the figure, Mr Exell. First of all, you have no doubts whatever, despite anything that has been hinted?’
‘No.’
‘That’s right. You have been telling us, with expert authority, the largest figure that the circulation can ever have reached. Now will you let the jury hear it again — for the last time?’
‘Twelve hundred.’
As I left the court on that first night, Porson threw me a word, friendly, triumphant and assertive. I saw George hesitate in front of me; then Jack called him, and he walked away with the other two. Having dinner with acquaintances, I heard speculations going on, coolly and disinterestedly, over George and the others: I kept thinking of their evening together. It made me escape early, back to useless work on the case.
The farm evidence took up all the next day. It was heavy and suspicious, as Porson had promised, though there was nothing as clear as George’s statement of the circulation. It was a story of Jack mixing in odd company, making friends, inspiring trust: meetings of his new friends with Olive and George: talk of the farm as a business, mention of accounts, figures on the table.
The stories fitted each other: Getliffe could not break any of them: it only needed those figures to be preserved for our last hope to go. But no one possessed a copy. Miss Geary, the witness who gave the sharpest impression of accuracy, said that in her presence no written figures had ever been produced; the whole transaction had been verbal. She obviously blamed herself for a fool, she was bitterly angry with Jack in particular, and she showed herself overfond of money. Yet I thought she inclined, even now, to the side of George and Jack when she was not entirely sure. Once or twice, certainly, she seemed pleased to put Porson off with a doubt.
Her very fairness, though, acted against us. And she was followed by Iris Ward, whom Porson kept to the last.
As her name was called ‘Mrs Iris Ward! Mrs Iris Ward!’ I caught sight of George’s face. She had once been, before her marriage, an obscure member of his group; she was Mona’s half-sister, but George had never paid much attention to her. Now he showed an anxiety and suffering so acute that it was noticed by many people in the court.
Her face was pleasant-looking, a little worn and tired. She was a year or two from thirty. She smiled involuntarily in a frank and almost naïve manner when Porson addressed her.
‘Mrs Ward,’ he began, ‘did you hear Mr Passant and his friends talk about buying the farm?’
‘I did.’
‘When was this?’
‘The last year I ever went there. I mean, to the farm itself. Nearly three years ago.’
‘That is,’ Porson remarked to the jury, ‘ten months before the farm was actually bought. Can you describe the occasion for us?’
‘I went over one Saturday evening.’
‘Who was there?’
‘Mr Passant, Mr Cotery, Miss Sands (Rachel)—’ She gave several other names.
‘Was Miss Calvert there?’
‘No.’
‘Can you tell us anything that was said at that meeting — about the transaction?’
‘We were sitting round after supper. They were all excited. I think they had been talking before I arrived. Mr Cotery said: “It would be a good idea if we ran this place. So that we could have it to ourselves whenever we wanted it. We shan’t be safe until we do.”’
Porson stopped her for a moment: then he asked: ‘What was said then?’
‘Mr Passant said it would be useful if we could, but he didn’t see how it could conceivably be managed. Mr Cotery laughed at him and called him a good old respectable member of the professional classes. “Haven’t I got you out of that after all this time?” he said. “Of course it can be managed. Do you think I can’t raise a bit of money for a good cause?” and he went on arguing with Mr Passant, saying it was for an absolutely essential cause. He said: “It takes all the pleasure away. And it’s dangerous. I don’t propose to stand the strain if you do. Just for the sake of a little money.”’