‘It doesn’t seem to me quite like that—’ Martineau began.
I had to leave them, as I saw Getliffe climbing the hall steps.
The court was not so full as the afternoon before. Getliffe opened, and from his first words everyone felt that he was worried and dispirited. He told the jury more than once that ‘it may be difficult for you to see your way through all the details. We all feel like that. Even if you’ve been forced to learn a bit of law, you often can’t see the wood for the trees. You’ve got to remember that a few pieces of suspicion don’t make a proof.’
Much of his speech was in that dejected tone.
The first witnesses before lunch were customers of the advertising agency. Getliffe’s questions did not go beyond matters of fact; he was untidy and restless; several times he took off his wig and the forelock fell over his brows. Porson, resting back with his eyes half-closed, did not cross-examine.
As I met the three at lunch, Jack said: ‘How was that?’
‘He’s trying to begin quietly, and go all out in the last speech. It’s his common-man technique,’ I said.
Olive looked into my face.
‘Why are you lying?’ she cried. ‘Is it as bad as that?’
Jack said: ‘It’s got no worse. What do you expect him to say?’
‘It’s your own examination that matters most,’ I said. ‘Not anything he says. You’ve got to be at your best tomorrow—’
‘We can put a face on it. If you tell us the truth,’ she said.
‘You’ve got to be at your best,’ I said to George, ‘you above all.’
He had not spoken to the others. Once he looked at a stranger with a flash of last night’s fear. On the outside, his manner had become more indrawn than before. It was seconds before he replied to me: ‘It’s scarcely worthwhile him putting me on view.’
After lunch there was one other witness, and then Martineau was called.
‘Howard Ernest Martineau!’ The call echoed in the court, and was caught up outside: it occurred to me inconsequently that we had never before heard anyone use his second name. When he mounted into the box he apologised with a smile to the judge for being late. He took the oath and stood with his head a little inclined; he was wearing a suit, now creased, dirty, and old-fashioned, that I thought I had seen in the past.
‘Mr Martineau, you are a qualified solicitor?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’ve practised in this town?’
‘Yes.’
‘How long were you in practice here?’
‘Quite a long time.’ Martineau’s voice made a contrast to the quick, breathless question; he seemed less self-conscious than anyone who had spoken in the court. ‘Let me see, I must think it out. It must have been over twenty — nearly twenty-five years.’
‘And you gave it up a few years ago? How long ago, exactly?’
There was a pause.
‘Just over six years ago.’
‘And you joined Mr Exell in his advertising agency?’
‘Yes.’
‘What were the arrangements, the business arrangements, I mean, you understand, Mr Martineau — when you joined that firm?’
‘I think we worked out the value of the business roughly, and I bought half of it from Mr Exell.’
‘How much did you pay?’
‘Five hundred pounds.’
Getliffe had asked the question at random. The answer went directly against us: George and Jack had borrowed half as much again.
‘You ran the business yourself for a time?’
‘I helped, I can only say that. I was also interested in — other fields.’
‘You remember the little paper, The Advertisers’ Arrow, which the agency used to publish?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Your other interests didn’t leave you much time to keep acquainted with it, I suppose?’
Martineau hesitated for a moment.
‘I think they did, on the whole. I think I knew more about it than anyone else.’
Many people noticed the dejection and carelessness that Getliffe had shown at the beginning of the examination; only a few realised the point at which his manner changed. Actually, it was when he heard this answer. He immediately became nervous but alert, pertinacious, ready to smile at Martineau and the jury. No one understood completely at the time; myself, I suddenly felt that he must be getting a different response from his last night’s talk with Martineau.
‘How long were you busy with the agency?’
‘Not quite a year, not quite a year.’
‘And towards the end of that time you received suggestions that you might sell again?’
‘Not quite, not quite. It was after I had already got on the move once more. We talked over the possibility of other people buying it. You must forgive me if my memory isn’t perfect — but it’s some time ago and my life has changed a little since.’ He turned to the judge, who smiled back. ‘I think that was the first step, though.’
‘Whom did you talk over the matter with?’
‘Mr Passant, chiefly.’
‘What kind of conversation did you have with Mr Passant?’
Martineau laughed.
‘That’s rather a tall order, I’m afraid. I talked to him a great deal then,’ he looked in a friendly way at George, ‘and I have talked a good deal since of different things, you know. I can’t guarantee to remember very exactly. But I think we discussed the natural things — that is, whether Mr Passant ought to try to buy this business, and the state it was in, and its prospects in the future. My impression is, we touched on all those things—’
‘You touched on the Arrow, did you?’
‘Yes, we certainly did that.’
‘Did you come to the conclusion that Mr Passant ought to try to buy the agency?’
‘I think we did.’
‘Can you recall what you said about its state just then?’
‘That’s a little difficult.’
‘You stated that you did discuss the — condition at that time?’
‘Naturally he was interested in those matters, I told him all I could.’
‘You must have discussed profits and the turnover and the expenses — and the circulation of the Arrow, I expect?’ Getliffe was still eager and excited.
‘I think so, I think we did.’
‘I’m afraid I’ve got to push on about the circulation. We should all be clearer if you could remember, do you think you can remember? — if you gave him a definite figure?’
‘I may have done, but I can’t be certain.’
‘Is it likely you did?’
‘I should have thought I told him in general terms, so that he could make an estimate of the possibilities for himself. I should have thought that was the most likely thing.’
‘You think you told him that the circulation was, say, large — or in the thousands, or very small?’
‘That was the way. I’m sure that was the way.’
‘Now, Mr Martineau, can you think what indication you actually gave him? Did you say that it was very small?’
‘No, no.’
‘That it was reasonably large?’
Martineau smiled.
‘I think I said — something of that nature.’
‘If you put it in numbers?’
‘I don’t believe we were absolutely exact.’
‘But if you had to, what would “reasonably large” have meant? More than a thousand?’
‘Yes, surely.’
‘Several thousand?’
‘Something like that, perhaps.’
‘You don’t mind repeating that, Mr Martineau?’
‘Of course not.’
‘You’re fairly certain that was the kind of number Mr Passant gathered from your discussions?’
‘Yes, yes.’
‘Thank you very much, Mr Martineau,’ Getliffe said. He sat down, and as he took up a pencil to write a note his fingers were trembling. He leaned close to me: ‘That’s something, anyway,’ he whispered.