As Berry and I Were Saying

by Dornford Yates

  “They took advantage of their sex?”

  “My sweet, you said it. There are some jobs in which the sexes must not be mixed. And the Law is one of them.”

  “I confess,” said Berry, “that I was but a Justice of the Peace: but I held that insignificant position for nearly thirty years. I don’t think you could say that I was pronouncedly susceptible, and few, I think, would deny that I was a male. But, if there had appeared before me two female advocates – one a damned good-looker, with an engaging address and what I believe is called ‘it’ in a marked degree, and the other a blear-eyed hag, with a full-bottomed face and an offensive air – to adjust the scales of Justice would have been very hard. Ex uno disce omnes. Judges, at present, are males; and unless they’ve tea in their veins, they’re bound to be affected in just the same way. If either of you two beauties put on wigs and gowns and walked into the Court of Appeal, they’d have to hold the Lords Justices down on the Bench.”

  “Thank you, darling,” said Daphne. She turned to me. “Boy, please tell us more of the suffragettes.”

  “So he shall,” said Berry. “But let me subscribe a preface to what he is going to say.

  “In the years immediately preceding the first great war, the period of militant suffragist disturbance was gradually displaced by a period of militant suffragist outrage. All over the country, attempts, frequently wholly successful, were made to destroy by fire buildings of note. Several lovely old churches were burned to the ground. But churches were easy money, for the house of God cares for itself by night. A bomb was placed and exploded in Westminster Abbey, damaging the Coronation Chair. The greens of well-known golf-courses were ravaged beyond repair. One summer evening half the windows of Old Bond Street were smashed to smithereens, to the great provocation of their owners and of all who passed that way. His Majesty’s mails were burned, to the loss and inconvenience of His subjects, high and low. The running of The Derby was interfered with and at Tattenham Corner the King’s horse was brought down. As a result of this vulgar and intolerable behaviour, the tide of the public temper was running high, and, had a plebiscite been taken in 1913, there can be no shadow of doubt that the voting against Women’s Suffrage would have been at least fifty to one. Then, in the twinkling of an eye, came the first great war. And throughout that war the women of England pulled far more than their weight. With the result that, when the war was over and the electors were asked whether women should have the vote, most people felt they deserved it – and said as much. But the British memory is notoriously short. And so, in the fullness of time, it came about that the women who inspired and directed conduct so monstrous as to kill their cause, are now most honourably mentioned as creditors to whom all women owe their right to vote.”

  “That’s perfectly true,” said I. “But for the war, the movement would have been smashed. The British Public would have smashed it, for they would have taken the law into their own hands. Take that famous Derby alone. The King’s horse was lying fifth and couldn’t, I think, have won. But if Craganour, the favourite, had fallen, the anger of England would have known no bounds. I almost wish he had, for he only won to be disqualified.”

  “In favour of Aboyeur,” said Berry. “Give me strength.”

  “One is forced to assume,” said I, “that the Stewards were temporarily insane.”

  “An unfortunate moment for such a blinding attack.”

  “I agree, but there you are. And it’s all over now.”

  “Don’t run out,” said Daphne. “You were going to speak of the suffragettes.”

  “As you will,” said I.

  “In the autumn of 1908 I became a solicitor’s pupil: my tutor was the Senior Partner of the Solicitors to the Commissioner of Police. At the end of one year I left, to be called to the Bar. H G Muskett had never had a pupil before and, being a stern man, rather naturally regarded me with grave suspicion. This, I contrived to allay, and we soon became good friends and I went with him everywhere. One of his many duties was to appear for the Crown at Bow Street, when militant suffragists were required to answer charges of obstruction and assault in the vicinity of the Palace of Westminster.

  “We had already appeared on several occasions, when Mrs Pankhurst announced that on a certain evening in June she proposed to lead a great number of her adherents from Trafalgar Square to the Houses of Parliament. She was at once informed by the Commissioner of Police that she and her followers would not be permitted to approach the Palace of Westminster. This notice, she ignored. On the evening before the day she had fixed for the demonstration, the Commissioner rang up Muskett and suggested that, since many arrests would almost certainly be made, it would be as well for him to see for himself the kind of conduct for which it would be his duty to prosecute the offenders at Bow Street on the following morning. Muskett agreed, and it was then arranged that he should join the Commissioner at Cannon Row Police Station at, I think, eight o’clock. Muskett then asked if he could bring me, and the Commissioner said yes.”

  “This conversation,” said Berry, “was on a private line?”

  “Yes,” said I. “As well as the ordinary telephone, we had a private line to Scotland Yard. The operators were, of course, police.”

  “Speed or secrecy?”

  “Both. There were certain conversations one didn’t wish overheard.”

  Daphne put in her oar.

  “For years after you entered that office, darling, you were terribly quiet.”

  “That’s right,” said Jill.

  “The first day I came,” said I, “Muskett said, ‘You will see and hear many things in this office which you must never repeat.’ He stopped there and looked at me. Then, ‘I never speak twice,’ he said. ‘You needn’t be afraid, sir,’ I said. ‘I shall never talk.’ And then, after that, for a year I was in Treasury Chambers. I think, perhaps, those two years rather tied up my tongue.”

  “I’ll give you this,” said Berry – “you kept your word.”

  “Thank you,” said I. “I know you’d’ve done the same.”

  “And now,” said Jill, “go on with the suffragettes.”

  “Well, we dined early, walked across the park and then across Whitehall to Cannon Row. It was a perfect evening: more people were about than usual, because, I suppose, they wanted to see the show: and there were a lot of police. The militant suffragist rally was in Trafalgar Square, and the latest news at Cannon Row was that the women were about to march. Almost at once the Commissioner arrived. I was introduced, and we then proceeded, all three, under police escort to an island in the middle of Whitehall, quite close to Parliament Square. As we gained the island, a police cordon was being drawn about fifteen paces further on across Whitehall. There were mounted police waiting in Parliament Square, but they didn’t want to use them if they could help it, because, on former occasions, the horses had been stabbed with hat-pins, and things like that.”

  “The filthy beasts,” cried Jill.

  “I entirely agree. That was vile.”

  “Well, there were police reserves all over the place, and Superintendent Wells was on horseback moving from spot to spot. Inspector Jarvis, a very nice man whose age was about forty-five, was in charge of the cordon and was standing just in front. There still was plenty of light, and after a little we saw the procession approaching along Whitehall. Onlookers were approaching with it, on the pavements on either side. The procession was led by Mrs Pankhurst. I think her daughters were behind her, but I can’t be sure. They passed us and had almost reached the cordon, when Jarvis stepped forward. ‘Good evening, Mrs Pankhurst,’ he said, for they knew one another well. ‘I’m afraid you know that we can’t let you and these ladies go any further.’ Whilst he was speaking the women behind Mrs Pankhurst were moving half-right and half-left, so that, by the time the conversation was over, there was a thick line of women confronting the cordon of police. ‘I demand,’ said Mrs Pankhurst, ‘to be allowed to pass.’ ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Pankhurst,’ says Jarvis. ‘But you were advis
ed that you and your supporters would not be permitted to approach the Houses of Parliament, and we are here tonight to prevent any such attempt.’ ‘You refuse to let me go by?’ ‘I’m afraid that’s so,’ says Jarvis. ‘Very well,’ says Mrs Pankhurst – and swung to the jaw. I saw her do it. She hit him a swinging blow as hard as she could. I heard her hand meet his face, and his cap fell off. One of his men picked it up, and he put it back on his head. Then he took hold of her arm. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but I shall have to take you to Cannon Row.’ She went quietly. But, as she was arrested, her followers went for the police. Screaming ‘Votes for Women’, they flung themselves at the cordon, fighting like so many beasts. It was a shocking scene, and, had I not seen it, I never would have believed that educated women could so degrade themselves. Indeed, I decline to believe that any woman, however low and vile, has ever so behaved, unless she was drunk. And these women were not drunk. Arrests were made right and left, and a constant stream of women was flowing to Cannon Row. Some fought and struggled, demanding to be ‘let alone’: others went quietly enough. Police reinforcements continually filled the gaps in the cordon, and were assailed in their turn. After about half an hour we left the scene. In that time I only saw one woman roughly used. She had been arrested and was resisting savagely. The constable who was taking her to Cannon Row, took her by the shoulders and shook her. He was immediately reproved: but he had my sympathy. The woman had laid his face open from temple to chin.”

  “My God, what with?” said my sister.

  “Her nails, my sweet.”

  Daphne covered her face.

  “Well, there we are. As you have seen, I never forgot that night. The next morning at Bow Street, nearly one hundred women were due to appear. On charges of assault and obstruction. Of such were the Militant Suffragists.

  “One or two flashes from Bow Street, where they invariably appeared.

  “The interruption to the ordinary work of the Court – or perhaps I should call it ‘the addition’ – was serious. More than once the Magistrate sat until ten o’clock at night, to try and dispose of the charges with which he was overwhelmed. And we, of course, had to be there. It wasn’t so bad for me, but Muskett was on his feet for nearly the whole of the time.

  “On one occasion the women subpoenaed the Chancellor of the Exchequer and the Home Secretary. I don’t know why they were allowed to get away with it, for neither of the Ministers was in a position to give any evidence of any kind regarding the offences with which the women were charged. But they only wanted them to serve as cock-shies. We were rather worried as to how the Home Secretary, Herbert Gladstone, would show up, for he had the reputation of being a weak and foolish man. Naturally enough, we were in no way uneasy about Lloyd George, who was the Chancellor of the Exchequer. Never were expectations so falsified. Gladstone did terribly well. He was firm and dignified, and more than one of his answers was very much to the point and made everyone laugh. But the figure Lloyd George cut was almost contemptible. His demeanour was craven, and he tried to be funny and failed – and laughed at everything he said. Nobody else did. I can’t explain this, and never met anyone who could.

  “On another occasion, the militant suffragist leaders were defended by —, QC, an Irishman. His eloquence was undoubted. Lack of material never embarrassed him. This was as well, for there were, of course, no answers to the charges of obstruction and assault. He was, I suppose, accustomed to making bricks without straw. So he made a most admirable speech – but his peroration included a comparison which I would give much to forget. No English paper printed it, so that only those who heard it can repeat what he said. It was, to be frank, sheer blasphemy of the most atrocious sort. Had I not heard it, I never would have believed that any Christian would have spoken a sentence so shocking in open court. It was by no means a question of taste: it was a question of instinct. The effect of his words was most painful. Incredulous horror was reflected by every face. The Magistrate, Curtis Bennett, went white to the lips: Muskett turned red as fire: I thought the Magistrate’s Clerk was going to faint: Wells, who was sitting beside me, went purple: and everyone present seemed to have stopped breathing, as though they were expecting the hand of God to strike. Their demeanour shook—. He faltered in his speech, and his voice, so to speak, tailed off. Then he recovered, added a word or two, asking for his clients’ discharge, and resumed his seat. Had the matter been brought to the notice of the Bar Council, I sometimes think that he would have been disbarred. But the blasphemy was so shocking that nobody, I suppose, was minded to repeat it. I know I wouldn’t have repeated it for any money.

  “Superintendent Cresswell Wells of ‘A’ Division of the Metropolitan Police was a first-rate officer, a well-known and popular figure and a very nice man. To me, he was always kindness itself. On one of the days on which we were dealing with the militant suffragists at Bow Street, when the Magistrate adjourned for luncheon, Muskett and I hastened to the old Gaiety Restaurant, which did you very well. We had hardly taken our seats, when I noticed that I had forgotten to replace my wrist-watch, which I had laid on the pile of towels before me, before I washed my hands.”

  “Even,” said Berry, “even a blue-based baboon—”

  “I know,” said I. “It was the act of a fool. I never did it again.”

  “Go on, Boy,” said Jill.

  “Well, I went straight back to the lavatory, to find the watch gone: and the liveried attendant swore that he had not seen it. I’d no time to pursue the matter, but, as you may remember, it was a very nice watch. We got back to Bow Street a few minutes before two o’clock and I took my usual place between Muskett and Wells. Naturally enough, I told Wells about my loss. He listened to me. Then he beckoned to Jarvis, another friend of mine. He spoke with him for a moment and added ‘Go yourself’. Twenty minutes later he laid my wristwatch beside me with a quiet smile.”

  “What had happened?” said Daphne.

  “I never asked. When the Court rose, of course I thanked them both. But as neither offered any explanation, I left it there.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t have borne it,” said Jill.

  “My sweet,” said Berry, “your husband’s not always a fool. Two of the biggest shots in ‘A’ Division had, between them, effected the return of some stolen property. Had Boy inquired how they had done it, his stock would have fallen very low.”

  “Look here,” I said, “I’m afraid we’re breaking our rule.”

  “No, we’re not,” said Berry. “Let’s have some more about stolen property. Why is it so seldom recovered?”

  “You mean, in robberies of consequence?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because in all such robberies the disposal of the swag is arranged before the robbery is done. The fence is all ready to receive it and pass it on. (At least, this is how it was in 1909.) A big receiver will have his own appraiser, waiting to value the stuff. Then someone else picks it up… Twenty-four hours later it’s lying in Amsterdam. Or, if there’s a hitch, it may go into a Safe Deposit. It is the fence that matters. If there were no receivers, there wouldn’t be any thefts. No big ones, I mean. Now here’s a simple, illuminating case. On a wet autumn evening, three men were standing in a row, regarding a jeweller’s window in the Waterloo Road. The man in the middle was a fence, and the other two were thieves. They’d brought the fence along, to have a look at the stuff which they proposed to steal – and to say what he’d pay them for it. Apparently, they were satisfied; for that night the job was done, and an hour or so later the stuff was handed over in the bar-parlour of a pub in Notting Dale.”

  “Did they go down?”

  “No action was taken – I think, by our advice. The information was full, but the evidence was too thin.”

  “What does that mean?” said my wife.

  “Evidence is information which can be given in Court. Most information can’t be, because it’s hearsay or the informer can’t be called. But it’s almost invariably true. If all information were evidence, not one d
efendant in fifty thousand would get off. I’m speaking of forty years ago, but, so far as indictable offences were concerned, unless the police were dead certain, they never made an arrest.”

  “Which means that no innocent man was ever sent down?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about poor Adolph Beck?”

  “That was a case of pardonably mistaken identity. Beck was the very image of the man who committed the crime. There was…one other case. But, by the grace of God, no damage was done.”

  “Proceed,” said Berry.

  I hesitated. Then – “I shall have to leave out a little.”

  “Even now?”

  “Even now. However, I’ll do my best, for it is an astonishing tale. I wasn’t in the case, but I knew rather more about it than most people did.

  “A man of means dwelt at his country place. This was known as The Grange. He kept no men-servants, though the house was solitary. He was broad and strong and courageous. One night he was sitting at dinner with his wife and his sister-in-law. The dining-room windows gave to a terrace: the windows were shut, but the curtains were not drawn, although it was dark. A shot was fired from the terrace, and the bullet went by his head. Wisely enough, he didn’t go for the windows, but, instead, rushed from the room, through the hall and down a passage. This led to the terrace from which the shot had been fired. He was out to get the man, unarmed though he was. But the man was out to get him. He must have known the house, for he was in the passage before his victim was. And he had a knife in his hand. They grappled in the passage, and staggered and swayed, still grappled, into the hall. There the women were gathered, helpless and horrified – the wife, the sister-in-law and one of the maids. And there, before their eyes, the husband was stabbed to death. His murderer turned and ran the way he had come.