Alone in the room, his hand pressed against his side, Castles leaned for a moment against the doorway, as though gasping for breath, his mouth contorted, his cheeks strangely hollow. Then, with fingers that trembled slightly, he rolled and lit a cigarette, looked at his watch. A train for the North left in ten minutes. It was not wise to delay. He pulled on his overcoat, then stood hurriedly extracting the most he could from the cigarette. His thoughts, known only to himself, caused his lips to draw back from his pale gums. With a violent gesture he crushed the cigarette beneath his heel, swung round, and went out.
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CHAPTER XXVII
THAT same evening, when Sir Matthew Sprott left the robing-room of the Courts, he stood on the portico, debating how best to employ the two clear hours of leisure before his seven o'clock dinner. A snooker match was being played at Burrough's Hall, Smith against Davies. But although he liked the game and, as a skilful amateur, had his own full-sized table at home, he decided that the session must, by now, be nearly over. He resolved to go down to his club in Leonard Square, the Sherwood.
There was still a gleam of sunset in the west as he strolled along, a reddish afterglow which made the sky quite lurid, and in particular lit up one small purple cloud, low on the horizon, no larger than a man's hand. The prosecutor's eyes were caught and held, strangely, by this cloud, which lay, dark and brooding, like an omen of calamity, in the sky. Abruptly Sir Matthew shook himself. During these past weeks he had not been quite himself. Perhaps he had been overworking, planning ahead too arduously for the coming election. Although he often boasted that "he had not a nerve in his body," lately he had been inclined to worry, absurdly, over trifles. Why, for instance, should he take so much to heart these trivial dreams which had recently plagued his wife?
Sprott winced visibly as his thoughts reverted to this vexatious matter. These fantastic scraps of nonsense, apparently so meaningless — what was one to make of them? They had, however, a single point in common. All of them concerned him, and in every one he met with some preposterous misfortune. He was in court and had forgotten his brief; he rose to address the jury and broke down in his speech; he was rebuked in scathing terms by the presiding judge; then, as he left the court — and this image came most frequently of all — everyone rose to mock and disparage him. It was, indeed, this ending to the sequence which gave his dear wife the greatest pain, which had caused her to confide in him.
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The heavy colour of the sky was in Sprott's face as he turned, solitary and morose, into the Square. However he might pretend to despise the new psychology, he was forced to acknowledge that this subconscious mischief now affecting his beloved Catharine came as an echo of that long-past Mathry case. And a flame of anger leaped in his breast as he realized how disproportionate a havoc had been wrought by this little stinging gnat, arising, so outrageously, from the swamps of the past.
He had lied when he told the Chief Constable he had gone through the papers of the case. That had been quite unnecessary, his memory was faultless, and he remembered it in every detail. How indeed could he forget, even after fifteen years, that which had given him the first great impetus towards his present eminence?
Even now he could see Mathry's face, as the prisoner stood before him in the dock, a handsome "dago" face, the type of face that women always liked, to their sorrow and undoing. Yes, he had played upon this point, he freely admitted it . . . and upon other points, weaknesses if you like, evident in the prisoner's character, reducing him, when he entered the witness box, to utter and complete confusion. Well, why not? Was it not his duty to make his presentation as strong as possible, to gloss over its deficiencies, accentuate its strength ... in short to win his case?
Sir Matthew had by this time reached Leonard Square, its gracious central green bedecked with pigeon-haunted statues of past civic dignitaries, and, with an effort, he tried to shake off his annoyance. Entering the dignified portals of the club he gave up his hat and coat, found a corner in the lower lounge and ordered tea. While this was being brought, he looked about him.
The Royal Sherwood was an exclusive institution which drew its members from the old county families and the Midland aristocracy. Sprott was not a favourite here; indeed, before he had at last forced his way into membership he had been blackballed three times — an achievement that had singularly gratified his vanity. Since he felt that people envied him his success, for this reason he was inclined to glory in his unpopularity, in his power to break down all opposition. Often, as he stood before the pier-
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glass in his robes while Burr, his middle-aged, snuff-coloured clerk, obsequiously handed him his wig, he would smile complacently at his own reflection, and remark: "Burr! I'm the most hated man in the city of Wortley."
This evening, however, his attitude was strangely chastened, and as he viewed the sprinkling of members in the lounge, he wished that one of them might come and speak to him. Beyond a few distant nods he had received no acknowledgement of his entry. In the opposite corner four men were playing bridge, amongst them a member of his own profession whom he knew slightly, Nigel Grahame, a King's Counsel. Once or twice they glanced in his direction and, instinctively, he had a strange suspicion that they might be speaking of the Mathry case. No, no, that was impossible — he must really take a grip of himself. Yet why didn't Grahame recognize him? As he slowly drank his tea, he bent his gaze upon the other man.
' Grahame, in his opinion, was a queer individual, an exponent of odd and unaccountable beliefs. Son of a country rector, he had, as a boy, achieved the distinction of winning an exhibition to Winchester College. From this famous school, which had stamped him with its own particular mark of scholarship and manners, he had proceeded to Oxford University. A year after he had been called to the bar, his father died, leaving him a small income of two hundred pounds a year. After the funeral he had immediately gone abroad and for the next five years had lived an unsettled existence. Part of the time he spent as tutor to an Austrian boy suffering from tuberculosis and compelled to spend his days in the high altitudes of the Tyrol. For the rest, Grahame wandered about Europe, mainly on foot, with a knapsack on his back, wintering in the Juras, spending his summers on the Dolomites. He loved to walk among the mountains — in one day he had tramped from Oberwald to Innsbruck, a distance of fifty-two miles.
Naturally this apparently aimless life had caused his friends anxiety, but in the following year Grahame returned to Wortley, apparently sound in mind and body, and with complete unconcern, as though he had left only yesterday, addressed himself to his own profession. Gradually, he acquired a practice which,
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while not extensive, was in the highest sense distinguished. It was said that he owed much to his manner and appearance — tall and spare, with pale, regular features and dark, ascetic eyes, he was always immaculate, courteous, and reserved. Yet behind these superficial attributes there lay a particular integrity of purpose which formed the unseen structure, the very keystone of his reputation. He was fanatically honest. It was even whispered of him, often with a sidelong smile, that he would not accept a brief unless he knew it to be just.
This, in itself, was enough to cause Sprott to sneer. What rot indeed! How could the world go round if everyone behaved like a saint upon a gridiron. Yet, despite that disparagement, there was about Grahame, something untouchable and unfathomable, which had always baffled and disturbed Sir Matthew.
He recollected well, for instance, that occasion when, at one of his larger dinner parties at Grove Quadrant, knowing Grahame to be interested in art and wishing also to display his own possessions, he had taken him away from the other guests to show him his Constables. Grahame had behaved with perfect courtesy, yet all the time Sprott had sensed this strange fellow's indifference to his treasures — as though, almost, they were counterfeit. And, at last, provoked by this feeling, he had exclaimed:
"Well, my boy ...
as a connoisseur, don't you envy me?"
Grahame had smiled pleasantly.
"Why should I . . . when I can see pictures, at least equally good, just across the park in the Municipal Gallery?"
"But damn it all, man . . ." Sprott had burst out, "in the Gallery they're not your pictures."
"Aren't they?" Grahame's smile had deepened, causing the prosecutor a strange disquiet. "Don't the greatest masterpieces belong to us all?"
A recurrence of this aggravation suffused Sprott now, and as, at this moment, the group of card players broke up, a perverse impulse made him signal to Grahame.
Almost imperceptibly Grahame hesitated, then he crossed the lounge.
"Join me," Sprott threw out the invitation with spurious heartiness. "I'm alone."
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"I've already had tea." Grahame smiled politely.
"Then sit down a minute. You and I don't see enough of one another."
Maintaining his polite, rather deprecating smile, Grahame seated himself on the arm of an adjoining chair.
"That's right," said the Prosecutor, helping himself, with a show of appetite, to a fresh muffin. "I don't bite, you know. In spite of all the tattle in this club."
"I assure you," said Grahame, in slight embarrassment, but with perfect good manners, "so far as I am aware . . ."
Sprout laughed, easily, but somewhat louder than he had intended.
"Weren't you discussing me a minute ago, over there, with those others? You can't deceive an old hand like me." Sprott knew he was going over the score, but something within him drove him to continue. "I haven't exercised my powers of deduction all these years for nothing."
There was a pause while the prosecutor raised his cup and drank some tea.
"You see, Grahame, a man doesn't reach my position without a multitude of back-biters collecting on his doorstep, waiting their chance to cry, 'Wolf!' It only takes an irresponsible half-wit like George Birley to start them off. Don't you agree?"
"I saw merely the briefest account of the matter in the Courier," Grahame spoke slowly. "I have given it no consideration whatsoever."
"There never was a more bare-faced snatch for publicity. They never knew what was coming till Birley stood up in the House. The Secretary for State was furious. That same night one of the Ancasters was giving a reception. Birley's wife was there and she said publicly, 'I always knew George was an idiot. But I thought he had enough wits not to shoot his own side!' Did you ever know such imbecility? I'm told they won't let him stand at the election."
There was a short silence. Grahame kept his eyes lowered. At last he said:
"Perhaps his motives were sincere. In any case, don't you think it's better to be a tool than a knave?" He glanced at his watch.
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"Now if you'll excuse me. I must be off." He got up and civilly took his leave.
With darkened face Sprott poured himself another cup of tea, but it tasted bitter in his mouth. The interview had afforded him no satisfaction, and in Grahame's abrupt departure he created for himself an added slight. At this, his expression hardened, and there swept over him a wave of resentful anger. Had he not, in the past, overcome far greater difficulties, survived much deeper malice?
Instinctively, he thought of his triumphs, his shoulders straightened, his lower lip protruded, and something of his "jury" manner descended upon him. He regretted the momentary phase of weakness through which he had passed. Was he losing his fire? Would he give up now, on the threshold of Parliament, when greatness lay within his grasp? No ... a thousand times, no.
In a hard mood he rose and left the club. The porter who showed him out made a pleasant remark about the weather. Sprott, with studied incivility, made no answer. He stepped into a taxi, and curtly ordered the man to drive to Grove Quadrant.
At his home, he let himself in, and to his surprise, found his wife coming towards him in the hall. She kissed him, helped him out of his coat.
"Matthew, dear, there's a young man waiting for you in the library. He's been so patient . . . won't you see him before dinner?"
He raised his eyebrows. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her that for anyone to be allowed to trespass upon his privacy was quite contrary to his orders. But, because he adored her, he said nothing. He inclined his head and walked towards the library.
CHAPTER XXVIII
IT was a handsome room, this library, with a thick cream carpet, many books, and some fine etchings on the walls. Motionless as
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a statue, Paul had been waiting there for about ten minutes. The prosecutor's wife had herself shown him in, a pretty woman of about forty, rather pale and delicate, wearing a soft grey dress. He could see that she thought he was from her husband's office.
"I hope you have no more work for Sir Matthew," she had remarked with her quiet smile.
Then she had asked him if he would take a glass of sherry and a biscuit. When he refused she smiled again, and went out.
It was very quiet in the room. Then, upstairs, somebody began to practice the piano. One of Chopin's preludes, number 7, played slowly and with some mistakes. It was a child playing and he could hear talking and laughing. The sound of that piano jarred cruelly upon him. He thought of this man with his beautiful home and his attractive wife and laughing daughters. He thought of the other man in his damp stone cell. He couldn't bear it any longer. And then he heard the sound of a car. He knew it was Sprott. He sat up straighter than ever. He felt ready for him. The front door opened and shut. There were voices in the hall. A minute later the library door opened.
Paul sat perfectly still as Sir Matthew came in. He looked at him, but didn't speak. For a moment there was absolute silence. Then Sprott drew himself up.
"What is the reason for this intrusion?" He was very angry. At the same time there was something else in his eyes. Paul could tell immediately that he knew him. "You've no right to come here. This is my private residence."
That remark revealed everything to Paul — the crack hidden away behind the grand facade. He thought: this man has no right to condemn. His brain suddenly became crystal clear. He said slowly:
"When a matter has been waiting for a long time it becomes urgent."
The veins thickened on the other's forehead. He did not attempt to approach Paul, but still stood near the door. He summoned all his dignity, was again the actor, delivering appropriate lines.
"I won't disguise the fact that for some months now I have been notified of your presence, your movements, in this city. You are
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the son of a life-term convict trying to stir up trouble over a case that was judged fifteen years ago."
"There are doubts about that case," Paul said. "There is fresh evidence which should be heard."
For a moment Sir Matthew's anger got the better of him, even overlaying that secret shadow of mistrust.
"Don't be a fool," he said. "After fifteen years it's a legal impossibility. Because of your infernal meddling a petition to reopen was placed before the Secretary of State, and he refused categorically."
"But you need not refuse," Paul said. "You were the prosecutor. Your main duty is to see that justice is administered. And you would feel yourself compelled to take some step, if you were convinced that my father was innocent."
"But I am not convinced," Sprott almost shouted the words.
"If you would listen you would be convinced. The least you can do is to hear the fresh evidence in your official capacity."
Sprott was so enraged he could scarcely speak. His face seemed full of blood. But with an effort he took hold of himself. At least, his anger chilled. He spoke in an icy tone.
"I really must ask you to go. You simply do not know what you are asking . . . the technical difficulties, the legal machinery, the repercussions involved. You are like a stupid child who wants to pull down a great building because he thinks that one brick, in the foundations, has been badly laid
."
"If the foundations are rotten the building will come down."
Sir Matthew did not condescend to answer this. His features were now fixed in a heavy sneer. But as he looked sideways at the young man, head thrust forward, small eyes slanting across his face, Paul could see again that vague misgiving, that secret fissure in the facade, and he knew, finally, that if only because the prosecutor must at all costs hide that crack, he would never, under any conditions, move to reopen the case. Still ... he must give him one last chance.
"When a prisoner has served fifteen years of a life sentence . . . isn't it the humane practice . . . for him to be pardoned?"
Sir Matthew, with those protruding, slightly bloodshot eyes, was still looking sideways at Paul. He said cuttingly:
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"The Secretary of State has already pronounced upon that point."
"But you haven't," Paul persisted in a suffocating voice. "A word from you in the proper quarters would carry great influence. One word ... a hint of this new doubt which has arisen . . ."
The prosecutor shook his head, irrevocably, even savagely, disowning all responsibility. With a movement of his arm, behind him, he opened the door.
"Will you go now?" He spoke with that same fixed sneer. "Or must I have you shown out?"
Paul saw then, once and for all, that it was useless. This man would never do anything, would not even stir to utter a plea for pardon. Encased in his official pride, nothing mattered to him but his own dignity, his own position, his own future. Whatever the cost, this must be preserved.
' At that thought an uncontrollable rage came over Paul, rage and desperation, it flowed all through him like a drug. Castles was right! His father, Swann, he himself, every human obstacle or obstruction — all had gone down before this man's insatiable pride. Only one thing remained to be done. He stood up. His joints felt stiff, his limbs didn't belong to him. He started to walk towards the burly figure at the door.