George Passant

by C. P. Snow

  ‘What suspense did they mean?’

  ‘He meant – they were afraid.’

  ‘What of?’

  ‘Some of their relations being discovered.’

  ‘You had no doubt of that at the time?’

  ‘None at all.’

  Porson’s tone was comradely and casual: ‘You mean some of them had immoral relations with each other?’

  ‘Is this necessary?’ put in the judge. ‘I take it you only want to demonstrate that they had a strong reason for attempting to get this farm to themselves? Surely you have asked enough to make the position clear.’

  ‘I consider it’s desirable to ask one or two more questions,’ Porson said.

  ‘I don’t think I can let you proceed any further along this line,’ the judge said.

  ‘I wish to make the jury aware of certain reasons.’

  ‘They will have gathered enough.’

  ‘Under protest, I should like to ask one or two relevant questions.’

  ‘Go on,’ said the judge.

  ‘Well, Mrs Ward. I shan’t keep you long in the circumstances. Can you just tell us whether there was any change in the attitude of Mr Passant and his friends – the attitude of these people whom we have learned to call the group – when strangers came to the farm?’

  The judge was frowning. Getliffe looked at him, half-rose, then did not object.

  ‘There was a great deal of talk about discretion after the scares began.’

  ‘What were these scares?’

  ‘You may not ask that,’ said the judge.

  ‘I should like–’

  ‘You may not ask that.’

  Porson turned round to the witness box.

  ‘I hope the jury will have understood how afraid these people were of any discovery of their activities. Although I haven’t been permitted to establish the point to my own satisfaction. However, perhaps I’m allowed to ask you whether you thought any of them, Mr Passant for example, were afraid of having their careers damaged if their activities came out?’

  ‘I thought so.’

  ‘Would you say any of them felt an even more compelling fear?’

  ‘I can’t answer that,’ she said.

  ‘Why can’t you?’

  ‘I’m not certain.’

  All of a sudden, Porson was back in his seat, leaning against the bench, his legs crossed and his lids half over his eyes.

  Getliffe cross-examined at length. She had left the School and George’s company months before the farm was bought. This conversation was long before they made any attempt to raise money? She had not been in their confidence at the critical time? The conversation might have been utterly at random? Obviously this danger which had been so much stressed could not have been urgent – as they went on for months without acting on it?

  She answered the questions as straightforwardly as Porson’s; she did not seem either malicious or burdened by her responsibility. I had learned only a few random facts about her; she had become a Catholic since she married, the marriage was apparently happy, she now lived in the school house of a country grammar school. She had always been intimate with her half-sister, Mona. None of us understood her part in the trial.

  Getliffe finished by a number of questions on the after-supper conversation. Had she never heard people making plans for the fun of it? Had she never made plans herself of how to get rich quick? Had she never even heard people speculating on how to commit the ideal murder? For a moment, her answers were less composed than at the direct and critical points. Then Getliffe asked her about George’s remark: ‘I don’t propose to find myself the wrong side of the law.’ ‘You are quite certain that was said?’ Getliffe said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You believed it at the time?’

  ‘It struck me as a curious remark to make.’

  She replied to Porson’s re-examination just as equably. Now, however, with people excited by the scandal, he raised several bursts of laughter: it was, for the first time, laughter wholly on Porson’s side. It was a sound which George could not escape. A wind had sprung up, the windows rattled, and at times the sun shone in beams across the room; in that rich, mellow, domestic light the court grew more hostile through the afternoon.

  34: Dinner Party After a Bad Day

  AS soon as the court adjourned, we heard a great deal of talk upon Iris Ward’s evidence. Everyone who spoke to us seemed to have believed her account; there was a continuous stir of gossip and curiosity about the lives of George and his friends. They were disapproved of with laughter and excitement: people thought that Porson had been right to force a scandal into notice. ‘He’s won the case and shown them up at the same time,’ someone said in my hearing.

  Getliffe himself was unusually grave. He kept talking of Iris’ evidence, and seemed both moved and despondent. He was anxious over the result, of course – but something else was taking hold of him.

  Though we were to meet at Eden’s house for dinner, he kept on talking in the robing-room long after the court had cleared. Then I went straight to George’s and stayed for a couple of hours. The three of them were there alone; they had eaten every meal together since the trial began; only my presence tonight prevented an outburst of reproaches – my presence, and the state into which George had fallen.

  He scarcely spoke or protested; yet, as his eyes saw nothing but his own thoughts, his face was torn with suffering – just as when he heard the call for Iris Ward.

  When Jack spoke now, he assumed that George would obey. Only once did George make an effort to show himself their leader still. He heard me say that Martineau, who had promised to be in the town by that afternoon, had still not arrived. George stirred himself: ‘I insist on your tracing him at once. I tried to make Getliffe realise that it was essential to keep in touch with Martineau – on the one occasion when Getliffe spared me a quarter of an hour. He didn’t trouble to recognise that my opinion was more valuable than theirs.’ He looked at the other two.

  When I returned to Eden’s house, I rang up Canon Martineau, to ask if he had any news of his brother: and also Martineau’s housekeeper in his old house in the New Walk. Neither had heard from him.

  As I hurried downstairs to Eden’s drawing-room, there came a jolly and wholehearted peal of laughter. Eden and Getliffe were waiting for me, glasses of sherry standing by their chairs on the broad rail by the fireside. I was five minutes late for dinner, and Eden was a little put out; though, when I said that I had been trying to find Martineau, he smiled at Getliffe’s jokes at my expense.

  Getliffe, so dejected at the end of the afternoon, was in high spirits now, and as we sat down to dinner Eden looked at him with a broad and happy smile. He enjoyed entertaining him. He liked the reflection of the busy and successful world, and also the glow that Getliffe brought to so many people. With an aftertaste of envy, not unpleasant or bitter, Eden at times insisted on his own travels and tastes.

  ‘I want you to try another wine,’ he said, ‘I brought it from a place just behind Dijon when I was there – why! it must be five or six years ago.’

  Getliffe said: ‘One doesn’t ask any better than this, you know.’ He took a gulp at his glass.

  ‘I don’t want you to miss the other,’ said Eden. ‘I can’t let you leave without having something a little unusual.’

  ‘Yours to command,’ Getliffe answered.

  Getliffe held his glass up to the light.

  ‘I could go on drinking that,’ he said. Then he chuckled. ‘When I think of all the wine in my ancient Inn I always think it’s a shame that there are chaps like me – who could drink any of it and not be much the wiser. But as for this you’ve given us – well, L S, you and I can tell our host that if he gives us nothing worse we don’t care who’s getting amongst the bottles at out respective ancient halls.’


  ‘I’ve got up another bottle,’ Eden said. ‘We must finish it before the night’s over.’ He talked contentedly on, though he looked at me once with kindly concern. ‘Those days’ came in often, he told stories of counsel he had met at the Assizes, men of the generation in front of Getliffe’s. They listened to each other with enjoyment; Getliffe began telling anecdotes about judges. ‘That reminds me,’ he said, in a few minutes. ‘It reminds me of the best remark ever made by a judicial authority within the Empire of His Britannic Majesty. It was actually made by the Chief Justice of a not unimportant Colony, you understand. He was delivering judgment. You must guess the sort of case for yourself when you’ve heard the remark. He said, “However inclement the weather, His Majesty’s police stations must in no circumstances be used for the purpose of fornication.”’

  Getliffe was still contented with the joke when we returned to the drawing-room. Then he and Eden found another pleasure in talking of London streets, dark during the war.

  ‘I remember going across to the Inn one night when I was home on leave,’ said Getliffe.

  ‘I had to go up to see one of your men in the Temple,’ Eden replied, ‘it must have been the same year.’

  ‘We might have run across each other,’ said Getliffe. ‘Perhaps we did for all you know.’

  At last I could not help coming back to the trial.

  On the instant Getliffe’s face was clouded.

  ‘I’m worried,’ he said. ‘I don’t mind saying I’m worried–’

  Eden broke in: ‘Of course we’ve noticed that it’s on Eliot’s mind. But I’m afraid I am going to forbid you to discuss it now. We are all exercised about it. I dare say it’s specially so with Eliot, because he’s been friendly with the three of them for a few years now–’

  ‘I’m worried on their account,’ said Getliffe. ‘Of course, one likes to win one’s cases – but they count more–’ He looked at me. ‘I’m asking you to believe that,’ he said.

  ‘You mustn’t begin discussing it,’ Eden continued. ‘You must keep your minds off it tonight. I can’t give either of you much advice, but I’m going to make sure that you follow this.’

  His mouth was curved in a firm, kindly, gratified smile. But circumstances were too strong for him. He was himself rung up twice within half an hour. The second call was from Martineau, saying that he had arrived and would come round to Eden’s house at ten o’clock. Seeing my relief, Eden said: ‘Well, I didn’t mean to let you worry tonight. I decided to guard you from some depressing news. But perhaps you’d better hear it now. That first conversation over the phone – it was with Cameron, the Principal at the School.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘He was just informing me, as a matter of courtesy, that if Passant couldn’t deny the immorality stories, they would be obliged to dismiss him from the School. That applies, of course, whatever the result of the case.’

  ‘I suppose you’d expect them to,’ said Getliffe.

  ‘You can’t blame them,’ said Eden. ‘After all they’re running an educational institution. They can’t be too careful. They’re entitled to say that Passant has abused a position of trust.’

  I remembered George using exactly those words before the committee years ago: I remembered how he repudiated a suggestion by Jack in Nottingham that same night.

  ‘Shall you get rid of him yourself?’ said Getliffe.

  Eden considered, and answered deliberately: ‘I don’t regard that as quite on the same footing. If he’s convicted, of course, the question doesn’t arise. But if you get them off, I don’t think I should feel entitled to dismiss someone who’s been found innocent in a court of law. It’s true that his private life will have damaged the firm; but I set off against that the good solid work he’s done for me in the past. I think, taking everything into account, I shall have to let him stay. Though naturally I shouldn’t be able to give him so much responsibility. It would mean harder work than I want until I retire.’

  ‘I must say, you’re more tolerant than most of us would be,’ said Getliffe. ‘I respect you for it.’ He broke off: ‘As for getting them off, I don’t know. We may as well try to find out what Martineau has to say.’

  ‘He’ll be here in half an hour,’ said Eden.

  ‘Can I get a word with him?’ said Getliffe.

  ‘It’s not exactly correct, is it?’ Eden was frowning.

  ‘But if you’re there? I’ve done it before, believe me.’

  ‘I’d rather Hotchkinson was here too. But maybe in the circumstances there’ll be no harm done.’

  ‘Not that I hope for much,’ Getliffe said.

  ‘I’m beginning to be sorry I inflicted it on you,’ said Eden.

  ‘Never mind that. One’s got to do one’s job,’ Getliffe said. Then he added: ‘I wish one of you would tell me what those three were trying to do. It’s getting me down.’

  ‘I’m afraid it isn’t very difficult. They wanted money to go the pace,’ said Eden. ‘They weren’t the sort to keep within their means. It’s a pity.’

  ‘I should have thought they could have made it like the rest of us. If they were as keen on it as all that. Or do you mean, they didn’t care a cherub’s apron for the way the money comes? With all due respect, I don’t see them quite that way. God knows, I don’t think much of them–’

  ‘I’ve sometimes thought,’ said Eden, ‘that the greatest single difference between our generation and theirs is the way we look at money. It doesn’t mean anything like the same as it did when we were starting. You can’t altogether blame them, when you look at the world that’s coming.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ I said, ‘of two of them at least. George Passant always had strict views about financial honesty, though he throws his own money about. And Olive – she would be perfectly sensible and orthodox about it.’

  ‘I’ve generally found that people who are loose morally – are loose the other way too,’ said Eden.

  ‘You’re meaning Cotery was the centre of the piece?’ Getliffe said to me.

  ‘I’ve always rather taken to him,’ Eden put in. ‘He’s a bit weak, that’s all. He’s the sort of man who’d have done well in different company. Somehow I can’t see him just sweeping the other two along.’

  ‘Can you, L S?’ Getliffe said.

  ‘As for Passant,’ Eden went on, ‘you’ve always had too high an opinion of him, you know. As you get older, you’ll lose your illusions about human nature. I dare say he did have strict views about financial honesty – when people he disliked were making the money.’

  ‘I believe,’ I said, ‘that he’s been as ashamed of the money part as you would have been yourself.’

  ‘I must say,’ said Getliffe, ‘that it makes more sense if you take our host’s line. It looks as though Passant went in up to the neck right at the beginning. He had no sooner talked to this man Martineau than he was ready to cook his figures. It doesn’t leave you much to stand on, L S.’

  I told him, as I had done before, that I believed George’s own account; somehow Martineau had let him take away the idea of a large circulation. We had already arranged for him to press this story of George’s when Martineau gave evidence. At first Getliffe had welcomed it as a glimmer of hope: tonight he did not pretend to accept it.

  ‘There’s only one chance of excusing them that I’ve been able to believe in,’ said Eden. ‘That is, Martineau may have been vague when Passant approached him. You must remember he was slightly eccentric at the time. You’ll see for yourself soon. You’ll find him a very likeable fellow, of course. But, you know, I’ve been trying to keep that doubt in their favour – and, between ourselves, I can’t credit it for a minute. Martineau was always a bit queer – but he was the sharpest man on money matters I ever knew. It’s very peculiar, but there – there’s nowt as odd as fowk. I don’t believe he had it
in him not to know exactly what the paper was doing – even if he was going to give it away.’

  ‘And if he was vague – you can’t really console yourself with that,’ said Getliffe. ‘There’s too much difference altogether. Passant would have to misunderstand on purpose.’

  For a time they talked about the farm. ‘If I’d been Porson, I should have given us more of that little business. Just our friends raising money, that’s all,’ said Getliffe.

  Just before ten, I went up to my room. I heard Martineau being received below a few minutes afterwards. Getliffe had told me to be ready to join the interview; nearly an hour passed, but they did not send for me. At last footsteps sounded on the stairs. I opened my door, and from below heard Eden saying: ‘Goodbye, Howard. We shall see you tomorrow, then.’

  I went back into my room, and walked up and down, unable to keep still. On his way to bed, Getliffe looked in.

  ‘It wasn’t worthwhile bringing you down. I didn’t get anywhere,’ he said. He looked jaded and downcast.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I couldn’t get anything out of him.’

  ‘Did you tell him Passant’s story? Did you let him see that some of us believe it?’

  ‘I went as far as anyone could,’ said Getliffe.

  ‘Shall I see him?’

  ‘I told him you’d satisfied yourself about Passant’s version. I tried to make him believe I had too. But’ – Getliffe’s voice was tired – ‘he simply didn’t seem interested. He didn’t remember it very well. It was all hazy. He couldn’t have told Passant anything but the real figures. Even though he didn’t have any recollection of it now.’

  ‘You mean, he’s going to deny Passant’s story?’

  ‘As near as makes no matter,’ said Getliffe. ‘All I can do is try to make him say that he’s forgotten.’ He added: ‘I never thought Passant’s side of it would hold water for a minute.’

  35: The Park Revisited

  AFTER Getliffe left me, I tried to read. Then I heard the front door bell ring below: it was just before midnight. There was a long delay: the bell rang again. A maid scampered down the stairs. In a moment a heavy tread ascended towards my door. George came in.