Jeffrey Archer
To Cut a Long Story Short
To Stephan, Alison and David
Preface
Before you begin this volume of fourteen short stories, as in the past I would like to acknowledge that several of them are based on true incidents. On the contents page you will find these indicated by an asterisk (*).
In my travels around the globe, always searching for some vignette which might have a life of its own, I came across ‘Death Speaks’, and was so moved by it that I have placed the story at the beginning of the book.
It was originally translated from the Arabic, and despite extensive research, the author remains ‘Anon’, though the tale appeared in Somerset Maugham’s play Sheppey, and later as a preface to John O’Hara’s Appointment in Samarra.
I have rarely come across a better example of the simple art of storytelling. A gift that truly lacks any prejudice, it is bestowed without regard to birth, upbringing or education. You only have to consider the contrasting upbringings of Joseph Conrad and Walter Scott, of John Buchan and O. Henry, of H. H. Munro and Hans Christian Andersen, to prove my point.
In this, my fourth volume of stories, I have attempted two very short examples of the genre: ‘The Letter’ and ‘Love at First Sight’.
But first, ‘Death Speaks’:
Death Speaks
There was a merchant in Bagdad who sent his servant to market to buy provisions and in a little while the servant came back, white and trembling, and said, Master, just now when I was in the market-place I was jostled by a woman in the crowd and when I turned I saw it was death that jostled me. She looked at me and made a threatening gesture; now, lend me your horse, and I will ride away from this city and avoid my fate. I will go to Samarra and there death will not find me. The merchant lent him his horse, and the servant mounted it, and he dug his spurs in its flanks and as fast as the horse could gallop he went. Then the merchant went down to the marketplace and he saw me standing in the crowd and he came to me and said, Why did you make a threatening gesture to my servant when you saw him this morning? That was not a threatening gesture, I said, it was only a start of surprise. I was astonished to see him in Bagdad, for I had an appointment with him tonight in Samarra.
The Expert Witness*
‘Damn good drive,’ said Toby, as he watched his opponent’s ball sail through the air. ‘Must be every inch of 230, perhaps even 250 yards,’ he added, as he held up his hand to his forehead to shield his eyes from the sun, and continued to watch the ball bouncing down the middle of the fairway.
‘Thank you,’ said Harry.
‘What did you have for breakfast this morning, Harry?’ Toby asked when the ball finally came to a halt.
‘A row with my wife,’ came back his opponent’s immediate reply. ‘She wanted me to go shopping with her this morning.’
‘I’d be tempted to get married if I thought it would improve my golf that much,’ said Toby as he addressed his ball. ‘Damn,’ he added a moment later, as he watched his feeble effort squirt towards the heavy rough no more than a hundred yards from where he stood.
Toby’s game did not improve on the back nine, and when they headed for the clubhouse just before lunch, he warned his opponent, ‘I shall have to take my revenge in court next week.’
‘I do hope not,’ said Harry, with a laugh.
‘Why’s that?’ asked Toby as they entered the clubhouse.
‘Because I’m appearing as an expert witness on your side,’ Harry replied as they sat down for lunch.
‘Funny,’ Toby said. ‘I could have sworn you were against me.’
Sir Toby Gray QC and Professor Harry Bamford were not always on the same side when they met up in court.
‘All manner of persons who have anything to do before My Lords the Queen’s Justices draw near and give your attendance.’ The Leeds Crown Court was now sitting. Mr Justice Fenton presided.
Sir Toby eyed the elderly judge. A decent and fair man, he considered, though his summings-up could be a trifle long-winded. Mr Justice Fenton nodded down from the bench.
Sir Toby rose from his place to open the defence case. ‘May it please Your Lordship, members of the jury, I am aware of the great responsibility that rests on my shoulders. To defend a man charged with murder can never be easy. It is made even more difficult when the victim is his wife, to whom he had been happily married for over twenty years. This the Crown has accepted, indeed formally admitted.
‘My task is not made any easier, m’lud,’ continued Sir Toby, ‘when all the circumstantial evidence, so adroitly presented by my learned friend Mr Rodgers in his opening speech yesterday, would on the face of it make the defendant appear guilty. However,’ said Sir Toby, grasping the tapes of his black silk gown and turning to face the jury, ‘I intend to call a witness whose reputation is beyond reproach. I am confident that he will leave you, members of the jury, with little choice but to return a verdict of not guilty. I call Professor Harold Bamford.’
A smartly dressed man, wearing a blue double-breasted suit, white shirt and a Yorkshire County Cricket Club tie, entered the courtroom and took his place in the witness box. He was presented with a copy of the New Testament, and read the oath with a confidence that would have left no member of the jury in any doubt that this wasn’t his first appearance at a murder trial.
Sir Toby adjusted his gown as he stared across the courtroom at his golfing partner.
‘Professor Bamford,’ he said, as if he had never set eyes on the man before, ‘in order to establish your expertise, it will be necessary to ask you some preliminary questions that may well embarrass you. But it is of overriding importance that I am able to show the jury the relevance of your qualifications as they affect this particular case.’
Harry nodded sternly.
‘You were, Professor Bamford, educated at Leeds Grammar School,’ said Sir Toby, glancing at the all-Yorkshire jury, ‘from where you won an open scholarship to Magdalen College, Oxford, to read Law.’
Harry nodded again, and said, ‘That is correct,’ as Toby glanced back down at his brief — an unnecessary gesture, as he had often been over this routine with Harry before.
‘But you did not take up that offer,’ continued Sir Toby, ‘preferring to spend your undergraduate days here in Leeds. Is that also correct?’
‘Yes,’ said Harry. This time the jury nodded along with him. Nothing more loyal or more proud than a Yorkshireman when it comes to things Yorkshire, thought Sir Toby with satisfaction.
‘When you graduated from Leeds University, can you confirm for the record that you were awarded a first-class honours degree?’
‘I was.’
‘And were you then offered a place at Harvard University to study for a masters degree and thereafter for a doctorate?’
Harry bowed slightly and confirmed that he was. He wanted to say, ‘Get on with it, Toby,’ but he knew his old sparring partner was going to milk the next few moments for all they were worth.
‘And for your Ph.D. thesis, did you choose the subject of handguns in relation to murder cases?’
‘That is correct, Sir Toby.’
‘Is it also true,’ continued the distinguished QC, ‘that when your thesis was presented to the examining board, it created such interest that it was published by the Harvard University Press, and is now prescribed reading for anyone specialising in forensic science?’
‘It’s kind of you to say so,’ said Harry, giving Toby the cue for his next line.
‘But I didn’t say so,’ said Sir Toby, rising to his full height and staring at the jury. ‘Those were the words of none other than Judge Daniel Webster, a member of the Supreme Court of the United States. But allow me to move on. After leaving Harvard and returning to England, would it be accurate to say that Oxford University tried to tempt you once again, by offering you the first Chair of Forensic Science, but that you spurned them a second time, preferring to return to your alma mater, first as a senior lecturer, and later as a professor? Am I right, Professor Bamford?’