George Passant

by C. P. Snow

  ‘This you must,’ I said.

  ‘I want to know exactly what basis you’re going on.’

  I told him the facts – that Olive believed Jack would return to stand his trial: that no one else did.

  ‘If he doesn’t,’ I said, ‘you recognise what your chances are?’

  ‘Yes,’ said George.

  His face was heavy as he thought.

  ‘I don’t necessarily accept the view that he won’t come back,’ he said. ‘But if he doesn’t – I can’t alter my position. I shan’t go.’

  ‘For God’s sake think it over,’ I said. ‘We’ll make it as easy for you as we humanly can.’

  He was silent.

  ‘I’ve a right to ask you to think it over tonight,’ I said. ‘I beg you to.’

  ‘I’m sorry. There is no point in that,’ George said. ‘I shall stay here and let them try me.’

  Part Four

  The Trial

  33: Courtroom Lit by a Chandelier

  THE morning of the trial was dark, and all over the town lights shone in the shop windows. In front of the old Assize Hall, a few people had gathered on the pavement, staring at the policemen on the steps.

  It was still too early. I walked into the entrance hall, which was filling up. George came in: when, after a moment, he saw me in the crowd of strangers, his face became suddenly open and bewildered.

  ‘There are plenty of people here,’ he said.

  We stood silently, then began to talk about the news in the morning papers. In a few minutes we heard a call from inside which became louder and was repeated from the door.

  ‘Surrender of George Passant! Surrender of George Passant!’

  George stared past me, buttoned his jacket, smoothed down the folds.

  ‘Well, I’ll see you later,’ he said.

  In the robing-room Getliffe was sitting in his overcoat taking a glance at his brief. As I came in, he stood up hurriedly.

  ‘Time’s getting on,’ he said. ‘We must be moving.’

  I helped him on with his gown; he chatted about Eden.

  ‘Pleasant old chap, isn’t he? Not that he’s as old as all that. He must be this side of sixty. You know, L S, I was thinking last night. First of all I was surprised he has been contented to sit in a second-rate provincial town all his life – and then I realised one could be very happy here. Just limiting yourself, knowing what you’ve got to do, knowing you’re doing a useful job which doesn’t take too much out of you. And then going away from it and remembering you’re a human being. Clocking in and clocking out.’

  He was speaking more breathlessly than in normal times. This nervousness before a case – which he had never lost – was mainly a physical malaise, a flutter of the hands, a catch in the voice: perhaps it had once been more, but now it was worn down by habit. He was putting on his wig, which, although it was faintly soiled, at once gave his face a greater distinction. He stared at himself in the mirror; his bands were awry, he was still a little dishevelled, but he turned away with a furtive, satisfied smile.

  ‘All aboard,’ he said.

  He led the way into court. Olive and George were in the dock, looking towards the empty seats on the bench, which spread in a wide semi-circle round the small, high, dome-shaped room. It had been repainted since the July afternoon when George won a verdict in it; otherwise I noticed no change.

  We came to our places, two or three steps beyond the dock; I turned and glanced at it. Jack was not there. I heard Porson, the leader for the prosecution, in court ten minutes early, greet Getliffe, in a rich, chuckling voice: I found myself anxious about nothing except that Jack should appear for the trial.

  The gallery was nearly full. The case had already become a scandal in the town. Suddenly, I heard the last call for Jack and saw him walk quickly towards the dock. The judge entered, the indictment was read, they pleaded. George’s voice sounded loud and harsh, the others’ quiet.

  ‘You may sit down, of course,’ the judge said. His eyes were dark, bright and inquisitive in a jowled, broad face. There was only a small bench in the dock, barely enough for three. ‘Why are there no chairs for them? Please fetch chairs.’ His voice was kindly but precise.

  The voice of the clerk swearing the jury fell distantly on my ears, deafened by habit. I looked round the courtroom. Eden was sitting upstairs, near the benches set aside for the Grand Jury; Cameron, the Principal of the School, had a place close by. Beddow, the chairman of that meeting over seven years before, bustled in, fresh and cheerful, to an alderman’s seat. In the small public space behind the dock, several of George’s friends were sitting, Mr Passant among them; Roy Calvert was looking after Mr Passant, and stayed at his side throughout the trial.

  Just before Porson opened, a note was brought to me from Morcom. ‘They say I’ve just missed rheumatic fever. There is nothing to worry about, but I can’t come.’ That was all. I kept looking at it; the oath had reached the last man on the jury. In the diffused light of the winter morning, added to by the single chandelier of bulbs hanging over our table, our fingers made shadows with a complex pattern of penumbra, and faces in the court were softened.

  The case for the prosecution took up the first two days. It went worse for us than we feared.

  Porson’s opening was strong. From the beginning he threatened us with George’s statement over the circulation of the Arrow.

  ‘We possess a piece of evidence that no one can deny,’ he said. He drew everyone’s attention to a sheet of notepaper which was to be produced at the proper time. He concentrated much of his attack on the agency; then he pointed out how, when they had ‘obtained some practice’ in their methods, George and the others had gone ‘after bigger game’. The farm business needed larger sums, but they had found it easy to misrepresent what its true position was. ‘They didn’t trouble to change their methods,’ said Porson. ‘They had learned after their little experience with the Arrow that it was child’s play to give false figures. This time they needed larger sums, and you will hear how they obtained them from Miss Geary, Mrs Stuart and–’

  He finished by telling the jury that he would produce a witness, Mrs Iris Ward, who would describe an actual meeting at the farm when the three of them decided they must buy it – ‘decided they must buy it not only as a business, but because they had reasons of their own for needing somewhere to live in private, out of reach of inquisitive eyes’.

  Porson did as he threatened.

  The only point which Getliffe scored was made before lunch on the first morning. One of the witnesses over the agency, a man called Attock, said that, before he lent Jack money, he had looked over all the figures of the firm with an accountant’s eye. He was a masterful, warm-voiced man, with a genial, violent laugh: Getliffe saw through him, and brought off an ingenious cross-examination. In the end, Getliffe revealed him as a man always priding himself on his shrewdness and losing money in unlikely ventures: and as one who had never managed to finish his accountant’s examinations.

  At lunch on that first day, Jack and Olive were more composed than before the trial. Even George, sunk in a despondency which surprised those who remembered his optimism but did not know him well, referred to Getliffe’s handling of Attock.

  It was, however, a false start. First thing in the afternoon, Porson produced the quiet kindly witness of the police court, who told the same story without a deviation. Then two more followed him, with the same account of the acquaintanceship with Jack, the meetings with George, the statement of the circulation of the Arrow. They testified to a statement written by George, which now, for the first time, Porson produced in court. It read:

  ‘We are not in a position to give full figures of the Agency’s business. So far as we have examined the position they do not seem to exist. One important indication, however, we can state exactly. The advertising paper run by the Ag
ency – The Advertisers’ Arrow – has had an average circulation of five thousand per issue. This figure is given on the authority of Mr Martineau, now retiring from the firm.’

  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.”’

  Her voice was quiet, clear and monotonous. Everyone was believing her story. It sounded nothing like an invention: s
he seemed to draw on one of those minutely accurate memories, common among many people with an outwardly drab and uneventful life.

  ‘What did Mr Passant say?’

  ‘He argued for a while – he talked about the difficulties of raising the money. He said he didn’t propose to find himself the wrong side of the law.’

  Getliffe made a note. She continued: ‘Mr Cotery said how easy it would be to raise the money. “You see,” he said, “as soon as we own the place we can kill two birds with one stone. We can make a good deal of money out of it ourselves. It would be a good investment for the people we borrow from. And it’s child’s play persuading them. We’ve got all the cards in our hands. We’ve been here more often than everyone else put together. No one else knows how many people might use a hostel like this. We can tell people what its possibilities are.”’

  ‘From that remark,’ Porson said, ‘you gathered Mr Cotery was suggesting they should give false information?’

  ‘I can’t say.’

  ‘That’s what you understood at the time, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’d rather not say. I may have got a wrong impression. I’m certain of what was said, though.’

  ‘Very well. What happened afterwards?’

  ‘Mr Cotery went on at Mr Passant. No one else said much. At last Mr Passant said: “It would be magnificent! It will have to be done! I’ve respected my obligations long enough and they go on ignoring me. Besides, the suspense is wearing us down.”’

  ‘We are hearing about this suspense again. What suspense did they both mean?’

  Getliffe objected. He was getting on better with the judge than Porson was, and had begun to play on Porson’s truculence. He also knew that the case was important in Porson’s career, which hadn’t been a lucky one.

  Porson turned to the judge. ‘I have just supplied what the jury will consider a discussion of a future conspiracy. I wish to carry this line further.’

  The judge smiled perfunctorily. ‘You may ask the question.’