by Henry Cecil
‘Judgement for the Plaintiff for £34 18s. 9d. with costs payable in one month. Call the next case,’ said the Judge.
‘Can I give you the £10 now?’ asked Basil.
‘You will pay that in the office.’
‘Very good, your Honour.’ Basil left the Court, ignoring the eyes that followed him as he went.
The next day the case was reported in the local newspaper, with the result that several tradesmen in Poppleton, to whom Basil also owed money, rushed round to Mr Buckram and instructed him to issue summonses. In view of the reply to his letter on behalf of Mrs Thwaites, Mr Buckram was prepared to issue the summonses without sending a preliminary demand. In consequence, within ten days of the trial Basil received a number of summonses for amounts which totalled altogether some £80 to £90. The news soon spread round the neighbourhood that Basil was up to his eyes in debt and nearly everyone was delighted. Even the Vicar, who realized that Mrs Thwaites might never obtain her money and might therefore be unable to repay his loan, was in no way disquieted. After his interview with Basil, he contemplated his bankruptcy with some satisfaction. Mrs Stroud alone was on Basil’s side. She went over to see him one day. ‘People don’t like you,’ she said, ‘and so I expect what I’ve heard is gross exaggeration, but, if I can be of any help, do please let me. I know it’s impertinent of me to suggest it, but I could easily lend you some money if you’d like. I do hope you don’t mind my mentioning it.’
‘How very sweet of you,’ he said. ‘But I shouldn’t dream of borrowing anything from you or anyone else. I shall stand on my own feet. Don’t you worry. But it is kind of you.’
‘Well, if you ever change your mind, the offer will still be open.’
‘I’m very touched,’ said Basil, ‘and I won’t forget, but it won’t be necessary.’
About a month later, Basil again appeared in Court before Judge Strachan. He had paid nothing to Mrs Thwaites and he applied for a further month in which to pay her.
‘Your Honour,’ he said, ‘when I said I could pay in a month I had not had all these summonses. Altogether I’ve got to find about £150, including the costs. In addition, I’ve just had to pay some insurance premiums. May I have one more month to pay? I really will square everything up by then.’
‘What do you say, Mr Buckram?’ asked the Judge.
Mr Buckram was now representing all the creditors, but only Mrs Thwaites so far had obtained a judgement. Acting for her only, he would have refused to consent, but it was to his other clients’ interest that he should consent.
‘Will your Honour forgive me a moment?’ he said, and turned to consult Colonel Murphy, who was the only representative of Mrs Thwaites’s supporters present.
‘Would you mind if I agreed? It’s only one month.’
Colonel Murphy consented and Basil obtained a further month’s respite.
‘I shall not grant any further time, Mr Merridew,’ warned the Judge.
‘It will not be necessary, your Honour,’ said Basil.
However, the month went on and nothing was paid. The other summonses were due to be heard at the next Court, which was to be held on the last day given to him for payment of Mrs Thwaites’s claim. The day in question arrived. Basil had still paid nothing. Colonel Murphy stepped across from the Police Station to see what happened in the other cases. Each one was duly called, but there was no answer to Basil’s name.
‘Your Honour,’ said Mr Buckram, ‘I am not altogether surprised at the Defendant’s absence. He has not even paid the sum for which your Honour gave judgement two months ago in favour of a client of mine.’
‘I remember the case,’ said the Judge. ‘If my recollection is right, he promised faithfully to pay by today and said that no further time would be necessary.’
‘That is so, your Honour.’
‘Humph,’ said the Judge. ‘Well, he still has until half past three.’
‘I am not very hopeful, your Honour.’
‘Nor am I, Mr Buckram, but stranger things have happened. You’d better prove each of your cases.’
Mr Buckram managed to do so, and the Judge ordered the amounts to be paid forthwith. This meant that theoretically execution could be levied on Basil’s goods immediately by the bailiff of the Court. In practice it may take anything up to a week before the bailiff is able to attend to any particular case. Half past three arrived, the Court office closed, and there was still no payment by Basil.
‘I wonder if he’s run away,’ said Colonel Murphy to the General as he reported the news on the telephone.
‘I doubt if he could have moved all his things without our hearing of it. Anyway, we shall soon see. The bailiff will be there next week.’
But Basil did not run away, and about six o’clock on the day when all the judgements were given against him he telephoned Mrs Stroud.
‘I wonder if I could come and see you at once,’ he said.
‘Of course.’ Mrs Stroud was in fact going to a cocktail party at the Gaspards. Everyone would be there, but she was quite prepared to be late, or even not to go at all, to see Basil.
‘I’ve something rather particular to ask you,’ he went on. ‘Come right away. I’m glad you haven’t forgotten.’ Mrs Stroud had heard the news and assumed that he was about to ask for a loan.
‘Oh, I’m not coming to borrow anything,’ he said.
‘Whatever it is, come along at once,’ she said, and her heart leaped. Now it is quite true that Basil was very unpopular in the neighbourhood and his behaviour there generally was not that of a man whom many women would even consider as a husband. On the other hand, he was always nice to Mrs Stroud, and little did he know what she had in store for him if and when he had taken her for better and worse. She had been trying to find a new husband for years, ever since the death of her first husband, who had left her some years before he died. She had nearly succeeded several times, but the engagement had been just too long and the suitor had seen a glimpse of what his fate was likely to be. It was a perfectly simple fate — to do, and always to do, what he was told — any revolt being crushed at its inception by Mrs Stroud’s own particular methods. Why did she want a husband? She felt incomplete without one and she badly needed a man about the place. When Basil told her that he wanted to speak to her about something particular and that it wasn’t a loan, her hopes rose high. She at once sent for the sherry and salted almonds and got out some pistachio nuts — a favourite with Basil. She was already dressed and made-up for the party, but she had another go at her face. She rearranged the cushions on the sofa and then paced up and down the drawing-room, rather like a lioness waiting to be fed.
At last he came. ‘I hope it isn’t inconvenient,’ he began.
‘It’s never inconvenient,’ she said in her softest tones and with her sweetest smile. ‘Where will you sit?’
He chose the sofa and she sat next to him. ‘It’s rather difficult to say,’ he said.
This really is it, she said to herself, and conjured up visions of the future.
‘I’ve been wanting to say it for some little time, but I haven’t been able to,’ he went on.
‘I shall love to hear it, whatever it is,’ she said, and squeezed his hand.
‘Well — it’s this —’ He paused for a moment. A delicious moment — there are not so many in one’s life. She was glad he paused so that she could enjoy it to the full.
‘It’s just this,’ he repeated. ‘I wish you wouldn’t always follow me about.’
Mrs Stroud said nothing at first. She thought she must have misheard. Eventually she said: ‘What did you say?’
‘I’d rather you didn’t follow me about.’
Mrs Stroud got up. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’ she said, her face reddening.
‘You must know, my dear,’ Basil said quietly, ‘you’ve been following me about ever since I came here. Look at these pistachio nuts. You know how I love them,’ and he helped himself to a handful.
‘D’you know what you
are saying?’ she asked. She was not giving up without being absolutely certain.
‘Yes, of course, my dear,’ he answered. ‘I say, these are jolly good.’
Get right out of my house.’
‘I’ve got to go, as a matter of fact. I must go to the police. But can’t I have a glass of sherry first?’
Mention of the police prevented her from simply repeating her order.
‘Police? Why?’
‘Oh — I’ve just had a very nasty burglary. I’m on my way to report it.’
‘Burglary? Oh — I see — how very convenient, Mr Merridew.’
‘Convenient? Damned inconvenient.’
‘For the insurance company, perhaps.’
‘I say, what an offensive remark. That’s really too bad. I certainly shall go. I never expected you to speak like that.’
Basil got up and walked out of the room. As he left, she said: ‘And don’t ever come back.’
As soon as he had left, her anger, which was still rising, had to find some outlet. ‘That bloody man,’ she said. ‘That bloody, bloody, bloody man.’ She repeated the refrain for several seconds. Then she remembered about the burglary. For the moment her mind had been on the phrase, ‘I wish you wouldn’t follow me about.’ The burglary was a tonic. She went to the glass, powdered her face, which badly needed it, and rushed out to get the car. Then she drove it at the most furious speed to the Gaspards. She almost ran into the room where the party was taking place.
‘What’s the matter, my dear?’ inquired Mrs Gaspard. ‘That bloody, bloody man,’ was all she could say. ‘That bloody, bloody man.’
‘What man, and what’s happened?’
‘A drink, please, first. Something strong.’ Henry Gaspard came to her aid and she swallowed the first.
‘Again, please, Henry. That bloody, bloody man.’
By this time everyone in the room was aware that something had happened and Mrs Stroud became the centre of a most interested circle. It did not take them long to guess that Basil was behind it. After her third drink, she calmed down a bit. Then she prepared them for the news.
‘D’you know the latest?’
‘No—are the bailiffs in?’
‘I don’t know — but someone else has been in — or I should say is said to have been in — he’s had a burglary.’
‘What!’
‘He’s gone off to report it to the police. What d’you think I said to him? How unfortunate for the insurance company, how convenient for you.’
‘How did he like that?’
‘He didn’t. He went off in a huff.’
‘So that’s what the trouble’s about.’
‘Not exactly.’ Mention of the cause of the trouble revived memories of ‘I wish you wouldn’t follow me about’.
‘That bloody, bloody man.’
‘Tell us some more. What did the burglars take?’
‘He didn’t say.’
‘I bet they’ve taken his stamp collection,’ put in Nicholas. ‘He’s always boasted how much it’s worth, but between you and me it’s a lot of rubbish.’
‘He’ll never get away with it,’ put in the doctor. ‘It’s just too good to be true. When the insurance company gets to know what the position is, they won’t stand for it. Just about to have the bailiffs in — and the kindly burglar arrives. How very thoughtful. As you said, Isabel, how very convenient.’
‘We must see that he doesn’t get away with it,’ said the General.
‘I think you’re right, General,’ said the Vicar. He had memories which still rankled. ‘How many years can you get for fraud?’
Everyone turned to the Judge.
‘I don’t think I ought to join this discussion, you know. He may come up before me again.’
So the talk went on, everyone, except the Judge, putting in his or her contribution. Eventually it was just dying down when Colonel Murphy arrived. ‘I’ve got some news,’ he almost shouted.
Everyone crowded round while Colonel Murphy told them that Basil had just reported to the police that his house had been broken into and that valuables to the extent of about £3,000 had been stolen.
‘Including a stamp collection?’ asked Nicholas.
‘Including a stamp collection,’ said the Colonel, ‘value £1,000.’
Talk on the one subject flared up again and the Judge decided he must go.
‘Don’t be so prim and proper, George,’ said the General. ‘You’re not on the Bench now. How much can you get for fraud?’
‘It depends on the kind of fraud. No, I won’t be drawn into it. I must leave you to gloat among yourselves, I’m afraid. Anyway,’ he could not resist adding, in the tones of Robin Oakapple, ‘if a man can’t steal his own goods, whose goods can he steal?’
‘But a man can’t steal his own goods,’ came in Dr Sainsbury in the voice of Sir Roderick Murgatroyd.
‘A man might try,’ said the Judge in the manner of Pooh Bah, and, with that parting shot, he left.
After the Judge had gone, the party grew more hilarious and the fate of Basil was seldom absent from the conversation in at least one part of the room. Meanwhile, Nicholas was drinking rather more than was apparently good for him. Eventually people started to go. Nicholas was one of the last, and he left with Dr Sainsbury, who was also a little the worse for wear.
‘I say, Doctor,’ he said a little uncertainly, ‘don’t you think it would be fun to go and commiserate with that jolly old uncle of mine?’
The idea appealed to the doctor, and the two of them went off to find him. The door was open when they arrived, so they walked straight in and found Basil in the sitting-room.
‘My poor, poor Uncle,’ began Nicholas, ‘we have come to weep with you.’
‘Nicholas, you’re drunk. Get out. Doctor, take him away.’
‘My poor Uncle. What does it feel like to be burgled inside out?’
‘Are you going, or shall I ring for the police?’
‘Police, dear old Uncle? Police? I shouldn’t send for them. They might take you away with them. How much did the Judge say he could get?’
‘He didn’t.’
‘Oh — no, I remember — he just said — most reasonably — what was it? — oh, yes, I remember — Gilbert and Sullivan,’ and he repeated the dialogue between the Judge and Doctor.
‘What else has anybody been saying?’
‘Oh, terrible things, my poor, burgled, and over-insured Uncle. The General said —‘ and he repeated some of the General’s choicer remarks.
‘I’m afraid I wasn’t too kind myself, dear old Uncle. I spoke about your stamp collection. That was naughty of me, and the old doctor here — well, he did say in the end that you couldn’t steal your own goods — which was rather decent of him. Good for you, Doctor.’
For about a quarter of an hour Basil encouraged Nicholas and the doctor to describe in detail the delights of the cocktail party. When he had heard all he wanted, he said: ‘Now, my two young friends, get out and stay out. But you’ll hear more of this. There’s such a thing as the law of slander in this country.’
‘But not if it’s true, venerable Uncle, though now I come to think of it there is something about the greater the truth the greater the libel.’
‘Must I throw you out?’ asked Basil.
‘Come along, Doctor. We’re not wanted. We’re not burglars.’
So the doctor and Nicholas left in not much better condition than when they arrived. Eventually they parted company and Nicholas went to the Vicarage. The Vicar was in the hall. He looked at Nicholas as he stood there swaying, and said: ‘I think I should go to bed if I were you.’
Nicholas turned to the Vicar.
‘Vicar,’ he said, ‘dear Vicar. I am very much ashamed — of my uncle,’ and collapsed on the floor. The Vicar turned away in disgust, but, finding him still there half an hour later, felt he had no alternative but to put him to bed.
Next morning the atmosphere in the Vicarage was distinctly chilly. Nicholas apologi
zed profusely.
‘I’m extremely sorry about last night. It was disgraceful. I’ll leave at once and go and stay at the Bear until I can make other plans.’
‘I can’t pretend I’m pleased,’ said the Vicar. ‘Your uncle will go to prison and you come home dead drunk. We aren’t used to that sort of thing here. But by all means stay a little longer if it will help. I don’t want to make too heavy weather of your performance.’
‘You have been much too good to me, anyway,’ said Nicholas, ‘and I can’t tell you how sorry I am.’
He left the next day and took a room at the Bear. A few days afterwards a bailiff arrived at Basil’s house.
‘I’m an officer from the Poppleton County Court,’ he said.
‘Come in,’ said Basil. ‘I’ve been expecting you.’
‘I have seven warrants of execution for a total sum of £152 6s. 7d. Can you pay it?’
‘I cannot,’ said Basil, ‘at the moment, but my affairs will all straighten themselves out shortly.’
‘I can give you seven days if you’ll sign this paper.’
‘I’m not sure that seven days will be enough, but let me see the paper.’
He looked at it for a short time and said: ‘If I sign this, will you go away?’
‘Yes.’
‘What will you do if I don’t sign it?’ The bailiff hesitated.
‘Well?’ said Basil. ‘If I don’t sign it?’
It was an awkward question. In these days County Courts seldom have men to leave in possession of the premises. Legally, the bailiff could have removed the furniture in half an hour, but physically, of course, he could not. If Basil did not sign the paper, he still would have to go away and make arrangements for a van to carry out the removal later.
‘Well?’ said Basil again. ‘You’re not very informative.’
‘If you don’t sign it,’ said the bailiff, ‘I’m entitled to remove all your goods with certain small exceptions.’
‘I see you have an Austin 7 outside. A bit small for the job, isn’t it?’
Now, bailiffs are normally resourceful men. They have to be, as they come into contact with a varied assortment of characters. This bailiff was no exception.