Trial and Error

by Anthony Berkeley

Mr Todhunter was annoyed with himself. He was still more annoyed with Miss Jean Norwood. But of course he was going to do nothing about that.

  It is probable that Mr Todhunter never would have done anything had it not been for a telephone call he received shortly after his lunch with Miss Norwood. It was from Farroway’s younger daughter, Felicity.

  “Mr Todhunter,” she began at once in tones of obvious agitation, “can you come up to my flat this evening? Mother’s come up to London, and . . . oh, I can’t explain on the telephone, but I’m really terribly worried. I’ve no possible excuse for bothering you with our troubles, except that I’ve simply no one else to consult. Could you possibly come?”

  “My dear girl, of course I’ll come,” responded Mr Todhunter stoutly.

  At a quarter past eight he summoned a taxi and caused himself to be driven, reckless of expense, to Maida Vale.

  Felicity Farroway was not alone. With her was a tall, dignified lady with iron-grey hair and calm eyes. Mr Todhunter recognised her type of face at once. It was of the kind which had often sat with him upon the committees to examine infant welfare, provide milk for indigent school children and organise crèches, to which Mr Todhunter’s sense of public duty reluctantly drove him.

  Felicity introduced the lady as her mother. Mrs Farroway briefly apologised for bothering him and in a few quiet words thanked him for his cheque, out of the proceeds of which she had bought her ticket for London. Much embarrassed, Mr Todhunter obeyed an invitation to sit down and massaged his sharp knees. He felt that he was present on false pretences, and his conscience was again worried.

  “Mother’s come up to see to things for herself,” Felicity Farroway explained somewhat crudely.

  The elder woman nodded. “Yes. So long as it was a question of myself only I did not care to interfere. I believe in the right of every individual to choose his own course of action, provided only that he does no actual harm to others; and so I was ready to let Nicholas go his own way. But Felicity has passed on to me the information you gave her about Vincent, Mr Todhunter, having first, I may say, had it fully confirmed by Viola, and I felt that I could stand by no longer. This Miss Norwood must not be allowed to wreck Viola’s life.”

  Felicity nodded vigorously. “It’s damnable. She ought to be shot. Viola’s a pet.”

  Mrs Farroway smiled faintly at her daughter’s violence.

  “Felicity is full of wild schemes for having the woman arrested on some trumped-up charge, and—”

  “Framed, Mother. It’d be quite easy. I bet she sails pretty near the wind as it is. Father may not have sold all your jewelry. We could easily find out if he gave anything to her, and then you could take out a summons against her for theft. Or we could plant (that’s what they call it) a ring or something among her things and then swear she’d stolen it. . . . We could!” added the girl passionately.

  Mrs Farroway smiled again, at Mr Todhunter. “I think we’d better stick to less melodramatic methods. Now, Mr Todhunter, you’re a friend of Nicholas’s, but you can take a more or less detached view of this regrettable business. I wonder if you can suggest anything.”

  Mother and daughter looked hopefully at their guest.

  Mr Todhunter wriggled. He could suggest nothing; his mind was completely empty.

  “I don’t know,” he began feebly. “Your husband seems to be quite obsessed, Mrs Farroway, if I am to speak frankly. I—I must say that I can’t see anything short of—um!—rather drastic measures proving effective.”

  “I said so,” Felicity cried.

  “I’m afraid that is so,” agreed Mrs Farroway calmly, “though I think we must stop short of ‘framing’. But what measures? Measures on what lines? I’m afraid I know so little about this kind of situation or how to deal with it. Our life has been very quiet, in spite of Nicholas’s reputation. It’s a shame to drag you in like this, Mr Todhunter, but there literally is no one else. And you have probably heard,” added Mrs Farroway with a rueful smile, “that a mother will sacrifice anyone to protect her children. I’m afraid it seems to be true, so far as you’re concerned.”

  Mr Todhunter protested that he was only too anxious and eager to be sacrificed and did his utmost to produce a suggestion of some value. But in a matter of this kind Mr Todhunter was even more helpless than Mrs Farroway; and though a great deal of talk ensued during the next two hours, the only concrete conclusion was that Mrs Farroway had better not have a talk with her husband herself in case the interview only made him still more obstinate, or appeal to him personally in any way. And the corollary to that appeared to be that Mr Todhunter had better do so instead; for it was obvious to all three, including Felicity herself, that for Felicity to do so in her present mood would be as near disaster as made no matter.

  Mr Todhunter therefore promised to do his best to probe in order to find out whether there was any weak spot in Farroway’s feelings or any circumstances upon which an attack might be directed, and took his leave, feeling that he had been rather worse than useless.

  This night he did not sleep so well. An exceedingly disturbing thought had occurred to him during his drive home. Mrs Farroway had said that a mother would stick at nothing in defence of her children. Mr Todhunter could not fail to remember the last occasion on which somebody had stuck at nothing. Was it possible that, just as young Bennett might have been already meditating murder during Mr Todhunter’s last interview with him, the same intention had been forming behind Mrs Farroway’s placid brow? Mr Todhunter could not rid his mind of the possibility, and it perturbed him exceedingly. For what, this time, was he going to do about it?

  2

  Mr Todhunter, having considered the matter with some care, decided that it would be useful to keep up his pose with Farroway of a wealthy dilettante; and if that was to be done, Farroway could not be asked to the modest home in Richmond. Nor did Mr Todhunter wish to conduct his promised interview again in a restaurant, where the clatter and bustle made it difficult for him to keep his thoughts fixed. Having therefore deliberated a little further, he rang up Farroway at the number which had been given him and, rather to his surprise finding Farroway at home, asked if he might call round in the morning on a matter of business. Farroway with undisguised eagerness pressed him to do so.

  Somewhat shaken, for duplicity was new to him and therefore a strain, Mr Todhunter hung up the receiver, wiped his clammy brow and turned away to think up a tolerably convincing excuse for the call.

  The address which Farroway had given him on the telephone proved the next morning to be that of a modest, very modest pair of rooms on a landing in a big gloomy house off the Bayswater Road; not even a flatlet, for it had no front door of its own. Marveling slightly, Mr Todhunter followed his host into a sitting room quite obviously furnished by the house owner and not by its present occupant.

  Indeed Farroway seemed impelled to apologise for these dingy surroundings, for with an apologetic smile he remarked as he closed the door:

  “Not much of a place, I’m afraid, but I find it convenient, you know.”

  “Oh yes. You’re collecting the atmosphere for a novel, no doubt,” replied Mr Todhunter politely.

  “Well, in a way perhaps . . . I don’t know. Yes. Er—sit down, Todhunter. Well now, what’s the business?”

  Mr Todhunter did not answer this question. Instead he decided to be tactless and said:

  “I quite thought, you know, that the other flat Miss Norwood’s—was really yours.”

  Farroway blushed. “Well, it is really. That is, I’ve lent it to Jean. It’s useful for her to have a pied-à-terre in the West End where she can rest after matinees and so on. But yes, you’re quite right; it is actually my flat. I—er—reserve a room there for myself, you know, but of course I don’t occupy it much. Jean has a reputation to keep up, and it’s astonishing how soon scandal gets round about an actress, even when there’s nothing in it. . . . Nothing,” added Farroway a little defiantly, “at all.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” soothe
d Mr Todhunter. The other’s somewhat redundant, not to say feverish, explanations interested him. He wondered whether Miss Norwood really had kept her word, so lightly given, and denied to the unfortunate Farroway the use of his reserved room. “Have you seen Miss Norwood lately?” he asked blandly.

  “Jean?” Farroway looked a little discomposed and glanced in a helpless kind of way round the room. “Oh yes. At least, not for a day or two. I’ve been rather busy, you know. Er—you lunched, there the other day, didn’t you? How was she? Quite fit and all that? She’s terribly delicate, you know. Her work is a great strain to her. I wonder sometimes that she’s able to keep it up.”

  Mr Todhunter, repressing a wish to beat his host over the head with some blunt instrument, replied that when he saw her last Miss Norwood appeared perfectly fit and bearing up remarkably under the strain. He then prepared to burst his little bombshell; for, having spent a couple of hours in steady deliberation on the point, Mr Todhunter had at last made up his mind that a bombshell was after all the most effective weapon with which to open his attack.

  “I saw your wife yesterday too,” he said as casually as possible. “She seemed to be bearing up equally well, if I may say so.”

  There was no doubt of the bombshell’s effect. Farroway went quite white.

  “My w-wife?” he stammered.

  Mr Todhunter suddenly felt that he had complete command of the situation. Farroway’s nervousness had given him confidence. He marched straight forward without disguise or subterfuge.

  “Yes. And that’s the business I’ve come to see you about, Farroway. I am the bearer of an olive branch from your wife. She wants you to go back home with her and finish this wretched business once and for all; and I think you can rely on her to make no trouble if you do. She seems to me a very fine woman, and you’ve treated her abominably.”

  There was a long silence after Mr Todhunter had spoken. Farroway, who had looked for a moment almost dazed, slowly pulled out his case and lit a cigarette. Then he leaned back in his chair and seemed to brood. Mr Todhunter discreetly examined an engraving of a stag with a little girl caressing one of its horns which hung on the wall opposite him, and distracted himself by trying to guess what its title could be.

  At last Farroway said in a dreary voice:

  “You probably think I’m a cad, Todhunter?”

  “I do,” agreed Mr Todhunter, who had an unfortunate passion for the truth and could rarely refrain from speaking it.

  Farroway nodded. “Yes. Almost everyone would. And yet . . . oh, I don’t know, and I’m not excusing myself, but to judge an action one must know it inside out—know its volume, so to speak. You can only see the surface of this case. You ought not to draw conclusions until you can see it in the round.”

  Mr Todhunter, a little surprised, took refuge in a platitude. “There are always two sides to a question, if that’s what you mean.”

  “It is, in a way. Look here, I’m going to tell you all about it. It’ll be a relief for one thing. Self-analysis is dull work unless you can discuss your conclusions with another person. And secondly, if you’re really the bearer of an official olive branch, I think you ought to know.”

  He reached mechanically for a box of matches and then, noticing that his cigarette was still burning, put it down again.

  “First, let me say that Grace (my wife) has been splendid. Really magnificent. I don’t think she actually understood the business from my point of view, but she’s acted as if she had. Grace,” added Farroway wistfully, “always has been an exceptionally fine woman.” He paused. “Jean, on the other hand, is a common little bitch, as no doubt you’ve realised for yourself.”

  Mr Todhunter was startled. Farroway had spoken without emotion, in a dull, flat tone, and his words had been the last that Mr Todhunter had expected to hear.

  Farroway smiled. “I see you have. You needn’t mind agreeing with me. I’ve known exactly what Jean is for a long time now. Infatuation doesn’t make you blind, as the popular novelists of my type pretend. The extraordinary thing is that it persists after one’s eyes are wide open.

  “Well, this is how the whole damned thing began.

  “I was in London on business, about a year ago, and I called, quite casually, at the Princess to pick up Felicity one evening after the show. I thought I’d give her supper. Well, Jean happened to come into the dressing room just by chance, and Felicity introduced us. Rather pleasantly ironical, wasn’t it? Daughter introduces father to his future mistress. That sort of thing doesn’t tickle you? Oh, I always had an eye for irony. The trouble was, I could use it so seldom. The popular public doesn’t care for irony, you know.

  “Well, we chatted a little, and then I left with Felicity. Jean, I must honestly say, had made no impression on me. I realised that she was a striking woman, but I had seen other women of her type before and on the whole it didn’t appeal to me. So I forgot all about her.

  “Then, a fortnight later, I called at the Princess again, this time in the afternoon, after a rehearsal. Felicity, however, had left already, and instead I saw Jean. She was very amiable. Talked about my books and all that kind of thing. And not vaguely. She really had read ’em. I was flattered naturally. So when she asked if I wouldn’t go round to her flat in Brunton Street (yes, she had a flat in Brunton Street then) and have a cocktail, of course I said I’d be delighted. I was delighted too. I stayed an hour or so, and we made friends. She—”

  “Did she ask you to be friends with her?” Mr Todhunter interrupted.

  “Yes, I believe she did. Why?”

  “Did she ask you to be just simple ordinary friends, without any boring complications?” pursued Mr Todhunter with interest. “Did she say she believed you were the person she’d been looking for all her life and thought she’d never find?”

  “As a matter of fact she did. Why?”

  Mr Todhunter cackled suddenly. Then, remembering the solemnity of the occasion, cut off the cackle in mid-note and apologised instead.

  “Nothing, nothing. I beg your pardon. Go on, please.”

  Farroway, looking for the moment a little uncertain, continued his saga.

  “Well, that’s how it began. When I say ‘it’ I mean a kind of visual obsession. After that, whatever I was doing, I saw her all the time. It was extraordinary. I just saw her. There was no longing nor passion nor anything like that. Certainly no desire.’ Farroway paused and slowly stubbed out his cigarette. “But I couldn’t shake off my visual memory of Jean. It held on day after day, till I became quite alarmed and began worrying. After a week of worrying I rang her up and called on her. Then I called again and again. Jean didn’t seem to mind. I was terrified of boring her, but she always seemed really pleased to see me. After the third call I knew what the matter was: I wanted that woman more than I had wanted anything else in my life. The visual obsession had become a definitely physical one—ordinary, if you like.

  “At the risk,” said Farroway slowly, “of appearing a still worse cad, I have to tell you that Jean raised no particular objections. At the positive certainty of seeming to you a cad quite unspeakable, I have to add that she questioned me minutely first about my financial position; and my financial position, at that time, was thoroughly satisfactory. I can’t help it. I know what Jean is, and it won’t make her any different if I smooth over certain bumps in her spiritual make-up. It amuses me, too, if you like, to voice the precise truth about her just for once.”

  “Of course,” said Mr Todhunter uncomfortably. Mr Todhunter, helpless devotee of truth as he was, yet found himself sufficiently human to be discomposed by it on the lips of others.

  “And that’s how our liaison began,” Farroway continued, taking not the least notice of Mr Todhunter’s acquiescence or his discomposure. “ ‘Liaison.’ A good, important word, that. It gives me pleasure to apply it to myself. But there’s no other. An affaire with Jean Norwood deserves the term, or at any rate some Gallic euphemism. ‘Affair’ is too banal altogether.

  “W
ell, I had no scruples. I said to myself, it was the best way of ending the matter. It was the only way, I pretended, to end the matter. At the same time I knew I was lying to myself. For if I had been, before, the accolyte of desire, I was now utterly the slave of my own mastership. Yes, it was the possession of her that really enslaved me to her; completely, irrevocably. You find that a psychological contradiction? Believe me, my dear fellow, that is the basis of all genuine feeling of a man for a woman. The pre-possession instinct; that’s just animal. But the post-possession . . . love, infatuation, call it what you will, it’s what differentiates us from the animals. And I envy the animals. Because it isn’t amusing. Not at all.

  “Almost before I knew what had happened Jean had become the centre of my existence. That’s a cant phrase, but I mean it. She was. Other human beings—my family, everyone—had shifted to the periphery. She wanted money to keep her play on a week or two longer, to break a record. (It was The Amulet, if you remember.) I gave it to her. She merely admired a car in a shop window. I bought it for her. Then she found that flat. I took it, in my own name, for her. I knew I was ruining myself. I knew I was despoiling my family. I didn’t care. I couldn’t work to replace the money I was spending on her. Still I didn’t care.”

  Farroway lit another cigarette, slowly, as if collecting his thoughts.

  “You know the hackneyed dramatic situation. A girl wants to marry a young man. Her mother, with the best intentions, says she’ll die rather than allow the girl to marry that particular young man. But she does marry him and everybody sympathises with her, even if the old lady actually dies of a broken heart. And why? Because love—sexual love—is above all other affections. That is an accepted axiom. But for some reason people don’t apply it to love that arises after one’s married. In that case the reasoning is different. People say then, ‘Ah no, he should have stifled it.’ They say that because they haven’t gone through it themselves. What if he can’t stifle it? They don’t take that into account. Whereas if they’d gone through it themselves, they’d know that love—or lust or passion or obsession or infatuation or any damned unimportant name you like—simply can’t be stifled when it’s strong enough. There is such a thing as the fatal type. If you’re lucky enough not to meet that type, your life goes on quietly, respectably, peacefully. If you do, it goes to pieces. You’re done for.”