“True. But they want the development to go east, not west.”
Mr. Hiscoe thought about it. The ultimate responsibility, as he well knew, was his. He was, as Anthony had discovered that day, a very different man on his feet to his cautious self in chambers. He enjoyed a fight and was the last person to avoid one merely because it spelled unpleasantness. But there was a limit beyond which aggression became stupidity.
He said, “I think we shall have to rely on my cross-examination of their witnesses, and on what I can do for you in my final speech.”
“And not call Ambrose.”
“No.”
“Someone will have to stun him then,” said Sellinge.
“And a large gin for my friend,” said Crawford.
“How do you think it went, Jack?”
“I thought it went very well, didn’t you, Raymond?”
Southern said, “Very well. And if that prize cuckoo Ambrose goes on talking out of turn, it’ll go better and better.”
“The Inspector didn’t give him much rope, did he?” said Lincoln-Bright.
“Enough to hang himself with,” said Crawford.
The bar of the Country Club was filling up steadily as the offices emptied. Apart from Saturday night this was the busiest time at the Club, the oasis of the gin hour.
“Is it true what I heard about the Mayoress?” asked Lincoln-Bright.
“Perfectly true,” said Southern, lowering his voice. “Her resignation was handed in, in writing, this afternoon, to be effective as from this evening.”
“What happens now?”
“I’m not sure. Normally, her term of office wouldn’t end until October. Either we shall be without a Mayor until then or the next senior alderman will take office at once and hold it for fifteen months.”
“The next senior alderman being you, Raymond.”
“That’s right,” said Southern. He sounded preoccupied.
“What happens in Council?”
“The Mayoress was Chairman ex officio. In her letter of resignation she made it clear that she wanted to give up the chairmanship too.”
“Did she say why she was doing this?”
“No. I happen to know that she went to see her solicitor on Tuesday afternoon, and the letter of resignation was written on Tuesday evening. It doesn’t mean that there’s any connection between the two things, of course.”
“Who is her solicitor?”
“Anthony Brydon.”
“That young man,” said Crawford, “is showing signs, I’m afraid, of growing too big for his boots.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” said Southern. “I think he’s a very clever young man.”
“As long as he doesn’t get too clever. The same again, please Jack, and not so much water in mine this time.”
“If you’re Chairman now,” said Lincoln-Bright, “you’ll get the casting vote.”
“Certainly,” said Southern, “Why? Are you getting cold feet about the election, Gerald?”
“I’m not worrying,” said Lincoln-Bright. “I think it’ll be a walk-over – particularly if this planning enquiry is the big flop it looks like being. From that point of view it couldn’t have been better timed. But one’s got to face possibilities. If we lost three seats, and the opposition picked them up, we should be eight-all. Then the Chairman’s casting vote would be vital.”
“Talking about the election,” said Crawford, “do you know that there’s been some highly unofficial canvassing going on in your Ward?”
“Who by?”
“Castle House School boys. The headmaster gave them the day off yesterday, and told them to take a practical lesson in Civics by doing a little door-to-door canvassing.”
“I call that very enterprising,” said Lincoln-Bright. “One up to the old usher, I’d say.”
“Except that the whole lot of them were rooting for your opponents.”
Lincoln-Bright spluttered into his drink – and Southern burst out laughing.
Anthony went back to the office after the hearing to clear up a little of the work which was piling up. He toyed with the idea of asking Ann to have dinner with him at the Eversley and funked it. When he had finished at the office he walked home. There was a young policeman at the corner of his street, and he felt a momentary gratification at the thought that he should be important enough for police protection.
The policeman ignored him, and he walked up the path and let himself in by the front door.
Although the house had only been empty for three days it felt dusty, chill and forlorn. Mrs. Stebbins, as was her custom when she was preparing for a thorough clean, had rolled up the carpet on the stairs and in the hall. Anthony picked up half-a-dozen bills and circulars which had tumbled through the letter-box, and then stumped upstairs, his feet clattering on the bare boards. As he reached the top, he thought he heard another footstep, ahead of him, but knew that it was imagination.
He dumped his shirt and collar in the laundry basket, put on clean stuff and packed a spare shirt, two collars and some handkerchiefs and socks in his grip and came downstairs again.
As he was on the point of slamming the front door a thought struck him. He had left the house before the post arrived on Monday. Mrs. Stebbins would have taken in Monday’s letters and put them on the table in his father’s study.
He went back and looked into the study, a dark little room on the left of the hall. He had hardly been into it since his father died. There were three letters lying on the table and he saw, with a tightening of the muscles in his throat, that the nearest was addressed to him in the thin, scholarly writing of James Sudderby.
“I thought that chap Southern spoke rather well,” said Mr. Burgess to Mrs. Burgess as they came down to dinner at the Eversley Hotel.
“Very well,” said Mrs. Burgess. “Good evening, Mrs. Foster. We’ve just been to an election meeting.”
“Sooner you than me,” said Mrs. Foster. “I can’t take much interest in politics. As my husband says, they’re all as bad as each other.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Mr. Burgess. “Someone’s got to do it, haven’t they.”
“I don’t see why.”
“There are certain municipal functions. Someone has to carry them out. I think it’s very public-spirited of the people who take it on.”
“My husband says they’re all in it for what they can get out of it.”
“I think he’s just being horrid and cynical,” said Mrs. Burgess. “My husband is thinking of standing as a candidate for our Council.”
“Oh well, if he does it, I expect it’ll be all right,” said Mrs. Foster.
“Good heavens,” said Mr. Burgess. “Look who’s here. That tall man, with the bald patch, who’s just come in. It’s old Hiscoe.”
“Isn’t he a Q.C.?”
“I don’t think he’s actually a Q.C., but he’s a very well-known barrister. He appeared for one of our clients in a most important tax case last year.”
Mrs. Burgess said, “Let’s go over and say hullo to him. Perhaps he’d like to share our table.” Since their only son had reached an age at which he preferred to take his holidays with his own friends, Mrs. Burgess had been conscious of something lacking. She was fond of her husband, of course, but there was a limit to the entertainment to be got from someone as predictable as Mr. Burgess.
“I don’t think we ought to intrude,” said Mr. Burgess. “I see that his table is laid for two and – yes – this looks like the person he is waiting for.”
Anthony had appeared, and was making for Mr. Hiscoe’s table. It was clear, even across the width of the room, that something had upset him badly.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Thursday
The Council Chambers had been uncomfortably full the day before. Now a second row of chairs had been squeezed in at the back and it looked as if it was going to be oversubscribed.
Walking to the hearing that morning, Arthur Ambrose had noted the signs. Groups of people on their way
to work who had stopped to talk, a rash of rosettes, mostly the red of the Progressive party, two vans with loudspeakers operating along the crowded pavements. There was thunder somewhere behind the bright sunshine.
The hall was filling up as Ambrose reached it and squeezed his way in to the press benches, which had been inconveniently located at the far end of the room. The young reporter with him touched his arm and said, “I’m sure I’ve seen that chap before somewhere.” Ambrose looked where he was pointing. The man was sitting in the corner at the back, reading a folded newspaper and glancing from time to time over the top of his horn-rimmed glasses. He had a face like a tired whale. It was familiar to Ambrose, too, but he couldn’t place it.
“He was here all yesterday,” said the reporter.
“Slip across and see if you can find out who he is. The attendant may know. Good morning, Mr. Brydon.”
“Good morning,” said Anthony, shortly. Ambrose thought he looked worried. Before he could say anything more, Mr. Hiscoe appeared with Chris Sellinge, and the three of them sat down together in the roped-off section at the top of the line of tables. Ambrose, straining his ears, thought he heard his own name mentioned, and then the three of them were looking in his direction and beckoning to him.
He moved across quickly to join them.
Mr. Hiscoe said, “Oh, Mr. Ambrose. Sit down a moment, would you. We talked things over yesterday evening, and we came to the conclusion that it wouldn’t be necessary to call your evidence after all.” He added, with a smile, “Sorry to disappoint you.”
Ambrose ignored the smile. A slow flush spread over his face, starting at his cheekbones and working its way up to his forehead.
“Not necessary? Why?”
“It’s always difficult, before an enquiry begins, to know exactly how it will shape. In the light of events yesterday, we’ve had to change our plans somewhat—”
“You mean,” said Ambrose, “that you can’t trust me not to make a fool of myself.”
Anthony who was staring down at the table and looking sick said, without lifting his head, “It isn’t that at all, Ambrose.”
“Don’t mind me. Say it if you think it. My feelings aren’t important. It’s the case that matters.”
“That was our view too,” said Mr. Hiscoe, smoothly.
“Tell me this, though. If I don’t give evidence for you, how the hell do you imagine you’re going to upset their case?”
Before Mr. Hiscoe could answer, the door behind the dais had opened and Mr. Parnell had walked in. As he took his place he glanced around him. The extra chairs were already full, and latecomers were pushing their way through the entrance and distributing themselves round the room. The four window-sills had been commandeered as seats, and people were standing behind the back row of chairs and jamming the open space in front of the door.
“It’s rather hot, isn’t it,” said Mr. Parnell. “Perhaps we might have another window open. That’s better. Now, Mr. Paradine—”
“My next witness,” said Mr. Paradine, “is Frederick Hinton. Mr. Hinton is the Deputy Town Clerk of this Borough, and I should explain that he is deputising, at very short notice, for the late Town Clerk, Mr. Sudderby, who took his own life, in tragic circumstances, four days ago.”
The Inspector said, “I had heard something of that. We will make every allowance for Mr. Hinton’s difficulties.”
Mr. Paradine bowed gracefully to the Inspector, and then turned to Mr. Hinton, who was looking worried and fingering a large-scale plan. In fact, he acquitted himself very well. When Mr. Paradine had finished with him, Mr. Hiscoe, without getting up, said, “I congratulate Mr. Hinton on his very able performance as an understudy at such short notice. Since, however, he has told us nothing about this plan which we did not know already, I will not waste the Inspector’s time by attempting to cross-examine him.”
Mr. Paradine looked surprised, Mr. Hinton looked relieved, and the Inspector said, “I should like to be clear on one point, Mr. Hinton. This plan, for the development of the town to the east, has the full support of your Borough Council, I take it.”
“That is correct, sir.”
“It is the official plan, worked out by your Council?”
“Yes, sir. We had the services of a firm of architects and planning consultants, Messrs. Grey Dorfer & Co., to help us—”
“One of whom I now propose to call,” interjected Mr. Paradine.
“Very well,” said the Inspector.
“Mr. Dorfer, please—”
Mr. Dorfer who, like all Town Planners, seemed to have no objection to the sound of his own voice, held the floor for most of the morning session. Mr. Hiscoe’s cross-examination was brief. He said, “We have listened with close attention, Mr. Dorfer, whilst you expounded to us the merits of the Council’s pet plan for the development of Barhaven to the east. It has been described by the learned Inspector, as the ‘official plan’, although I take it that, as an expert in these matters, you would agree with me that this is an incorrect description.”
“Well—yes—”
“There can only be one official plan, and that is the five-year plan, produced by the County Council.”
“Certainly. But the Borough has a delegated authority to work out the details.”
“I’m not disputing it. But if you look at the county plan you will see that considerable areas both east and west of Barhaven are zoned for residential development.”
“That is so.”
“So that, had the Borough Council decided, instead, to develop in a westerly direction, there was nothing in the official plan to prevent them from doing so.”
“No—no. I must agree with that.”
“I felt sure you would,” said Mr. Hiscoe, with a smile, and reseated himself.
Mr. Paradine said, “In view of the observations which my learned friend has seen fit to make, it is perhaps opportune that my final witness should be Mr. Lincoln-Bright. He was Chairman of the Lands Development Committee, set up more than two years ago by the Council, and will be able to tell us something of the careful thought and deliberation which went into the preparation of what I understand I am not allowed to call the official plan—”
Mr. Paradine directed a knife-edged smile towards Mr. Hiscoe, who grinned.
“—and which I will therefore call, if I may, the Council Plan. Mr. Lincoln-Bright—”
The member for Victoria Park arose to his feet with a flashing smile. He may have been reflecting that this public tribute to his hard work during the past two years could hardly have come at a more opportune moment. By the time Mr. Paradine sat down he felt that he had done himself more than justice. He straightened his tie, cleared his throat and faced with confidence whatever barbs Counsel for the opposition was preparing to place in him.
Mr. Hiscoe seemed, for a moment, doubtful whether he wished to question him at all. He rose, almost hesitantly, to his feet, and said, “Was your committee aware, Mr. Bright, when it decided to employ them, that the firm of Grey Dorfer & Co. was a part of the Greyslates Organisation?”
“Certainly.”
“It didn’t occur to you that it might have been better to have planning consultants who were independent of the builders who were going to do the work?”
“I’m afraid you’ve got the order wrong,” said Lincoln-Bright with a smile. “We only chose Grey Dorfer & Co. after the Greyslates Organisation had won the tender for the work.”
Mr. Hiscoe considered this answer for a long moment whilst a puzzled frown puckered his child-like face. It was a nice piece of acting, which impressed everyone except Mr. Paradine, who was busy working out what was coming and wasn’t liking it much.
“You’ll have to clarify that for us, Mr. Bright,” said Mr. Hiscoe. “If you already had the job out to tender, you must already have decided which way you were going to develop.”
“Well—yes. We had.”
“And if you had decided to go east before you employed Messrs. Grey Dorfer & Co., how were they abl
e to advise you which way it was best for you to go?”
Lincoln-Bright hesitated. He didn’t like being addressed as Mr. Bright, and he didn’t like Counsel’s tone. He made the mistake of snapping. “I should have thought it was quite obvious to anyone who knew anything about this sort of thing. Grey Dorfer & Co. had nothing to do with the decision about which way we went. That was purely a Council decision. They advised us on the detailed lay-out.”
“In that case,” said Mr. Hiscoe, “we appear to have wasted a great deal of time this morning. We have been listening for nearly two hours, whilst Mr. Dorfer expounded the technical merits of developing east but apparently none of these arguments was in front of the Council when it made its mind up.”
“Well—no.”
“What arguments were in front of it?”
Lincoln-Bright looked round for support. It seemed to him that he had been jockeyed into a false position. He said, “We thought the matter out as best we could, on general grounds.”
“On general grounds. Not on personal grounds?”
“I’m afraid I don’t follow you.”
“I mean,” said Mr. Hiscoe, “that no member of the Council, in coming to this decision, had any personal motive whatever for preferring the eastern to the western development.”
A dead silence had settled on the room. Even the coughing and shuffling had stopped. Lincoln-Bright arranged his features into what he hoped was a dignified, and even intimidating look, and said, “Any suggestion of that sort is defamatory and untrue.”
“Allow me to correct you on a point of law,” said Mr. Hiscoe. “It could only be defamatory if it were untrue.”
The Inspector said, “I take it, Mr. Hiscoe, that these suggestions are not being made to the witness without your having grounds for them.”
“I can assure you,” said Mr. Hiscoe, “that I should not have made them unless I had the most cogent grounds for doing so,” and sat down.
No one seemed to know what to do next.
Mr. Paradine looked uncertainly at Lincoln-Bright, and said, “I have no more questions,” and the Inspector said, “Then in that case—”
“Before addressing my closing remarks to you,” said Mr. Hiscoe, rising again, “I should like your permission to call one additional witness. My instructing solicitor, Mr. Anthony Brydon—”
The Crack In the Teacup Page 20