Bennie glanced at Whitehouse and saw him pull his mouth down slightly. The court was very stuffy, and the crowd at one of the doors eddied suddenly as a woman felt faint and had to push her way out. Bennie realised that she had not rung Sister Frey today. She had been too occupied with thinking of Don.
“.… The act of writing defamatory articles about a man recently dead and unable to defend himself is one which is distasteful to our habit of thought. As a poet has said: ‘Vile is the vengeance on the ashes cold And envy base to bark at sleeping fame’. In all this journalist with his great power bears a heavy responsibility to society in maintaining a level of conduct which does not debase or dishonor the already suspect standards of our day. But such a responsibility may at times come into conflict with what he may consider his duty to his paper and his personal ambition to bring off a scoop. When such a conduct takes place, where does his ultimate obligation lie?
“You here come to the crux of the present case. The plaintiff, a journalist of some distinction, discovers what he considers to be facts of a highly defamatory nature about a man recently dead. Is he to conceal them because to publish them is something ‘ not usually done’ in our society? Is it not his duty, as he has stated, to unmask hypocrisy wherever found?”
Mr Justice Alston paused to look suspiciously round the court, to rub his fingers along his bottom lip. “But what are his other obligations? They do not end there. What would his attitude have been if the man he was writing about had been alive? Would it not have been to check and counter check his facts with scrupulous care? If he had not done so his paper would have done so, for the law of libel, as I have said, would have protected a living man against reckless and ill-founded charges. Not so with a dead man. Is the obligation therefore any less? Would you not say the facts should be checked with even greater care when the person attacked cannot hit back?
“In this event his son hit back, in the only way open to him. He branded the plaintiff as a liar, a coward, a jackal and a disgrace to his profession. It is for you, members of the jury, to say if you agree with him. I cannot direct you on that. I can only direct you on the issues involved.
“In his book, as you have heard, Sir John has some hard things to say about the Press. ‘Tomorrow’s Poison’ he calls it ‘An Oligarchy of third-rate brains’. You may wonder whether certain sections of the Press may have resented this.
“Consider now the phraseology of the articles in which this attack occurs. You may wonder if the style employed is not singularly unsuited to its subject. The plaintiff says that such is the manner expected of him in The Sunday Gazette. Yet even if everything he wrote had been proved up to the hilt, does not such a style, you may ask yourselves, seem a grossness, the invective of an anonymous pamphleteer rather than the reasoned statement of a responsible journalist? As for the plaintiff’s desire not to lose the friendship of John Marlowe’s son, you may ask yourselves what state of mind such an attitude indicates. Is this delicacy—a man fulfilling an unpleasant duty and seeking to limit its effects, or is it hypocrisy, as Mr Doutelle has urged?”
Don stared out through one of the high windows and saw that it was raining. The afternoon was already closing in. He saw one of the jurors trying to swallow a yawn. He didn’t wonder. He felt so sick; please let it be over and done. Now at the last the result seemed to mean nothing. He thought, it’s an interesting slant on life. Win or lose, I’ve lost.
“.… The defence has made a good deal of the manner in which Mr Shorn came by the two letters belonging to Sir John Marlowe. Here there is a conflict of evidence. Mr Shorn states positively that he received them from a colleague who received them in mistake from Sir John Marlowe himself. Mrs Delaney states just as positively that he could not have done so for she saw them in the cottage six weeks after Sir John Marlowe’s death. The plaintiff has not called this fellow journalist to corroborate his story; but neither has the defence called Mrs Marlowe, the wife of the defendant, who might have shed some light on an alleged visit with Mr Shorn to Sir John’s cottage some weeks after his death. In default of such corroboration you may think that there is little to choose between the two stories. Since the onus is upon the defendant to prove whatever he alleges to establish his defence, I would ask you to consider whether this allegation has been so proved. If not it should be set aside as an irrelevance.”
An irrelevance, Don thought. That’s it. Who else but a judge could find the exact term? “ I was on my way back from the Colcutts’,” she had said, “so I thought I’d call round and see if everything was all right. I didn’t intend staying long, but I began to dislike the thought of driving any further so I stayed until the morning.” The collar of the barrister’s gown in front of him was speckled with dandruff. “Don, don’t ever expect consistency,” she had said, “love’s a part of personality, it goes on, it’s organic; I’m different.” No wonder she was different; the bitch, the bitch; and this man at the end of the row, this man; all the time I was in Canada. “ Help yourself to the letters, darling, as you’ve helped yourself to me. You’ve left me rather dishevelled, but while I put my clothes on you can search the desk.” Why did this judge keep on talking? What did it amount to?—legal dust and ashes. Dust and ashes. Well, you’ve cleared your father’s name anyway, old boy, even if it turns out that your wife’s a common tart. You did one at the expense of the other. Another fruity paradox. Many people in this court would appreciate it. Many.…
“.… So, members of the jury, let me restate briefly what you have to decide. First, were the allegations made against John Marlowe true? If you consider they are true then you must of course find for Mr Shorn—for if a man tells the truth he cannot justly be called a liar. If you consider they were untrue then, second, did Mr Shorn act like a responsible journalist in making them? For again, if you are certain that he acted with absolute sincerity and good faith he can hardly be a disgrace to his profession. So … were his allegations unfounded? Were they unjustifiably unfounded? Were the checked with ample and sufficient care or were they made with rash irresponsibility? And does the manner of their expression show unjustifiable venom and spite?
“Thirdly, you have to consider the full effect of the language used by Mr Marlowe about the plaintiff. Read his words carefully too, members of the jury. On the one hand you may think that such is the sting of calling a man a liar and a disgrace to his profession that—if that accusation be true—the mere addition of other words such as ‘jackal’ and ‘wolf in sheep’s clothing’ adds little or nothing to the charge. On the other hand you may think that even though Mr Marlowe may have had very good grounds for complaint some of the words and imputations which he used went be yond a true expression of such a complaint.
“Well, there you are. It is for you alone to decide. I have reviewed the evidence solely to assist you, but if you disagree with anything I have said, your disagreement is paramount. Only in matters of law can I instruct you. If you are of the opinion that Mr Marlowe has fully made out his plea of justification, you will find for him. If, on the other hand you come to the conclusion that Mr Marlowe’s charges, or any of them, have not in effect been justified and that the plaintiff’s reputation had been materially injured, you must find for the plaintiff. And, if you find for the plaintiff, you must consider what damage his reputation has suffered, and assess that damage in monetary terms.
“That is all I have to say to you, members of the jury, but if you require any further information on matters of law, or any clarification of the evidence, I shall be available to give it you.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
“They’ll be a long time,” muttered Whitehouse. “ I could see that by their faces.”
“I’ll lay odds of five to two on a verdict in our favour,” said Henry de Courville.
“Let them hurry up,” Don said. “ This place is getting me down.”
Bennie had expected most people to leave the court when the jury retired, but it was not so. Doutelle went out and one or two of the othe
r barristers, but the general public stayed solidly where it was. The last act of the drama might be long in coming and take only five minutes when it came, but they were content to wait. The public were great waiters. They would wait hours for this as they would for a glimpse of royalty or for a test match.
Somebody switched on the lights in the four ugly chandeliers. Bennie glanced at Don who, for want of something better to do, had taken an orchestral programme out of his pocket and was thumbing through it. She did not know whether to speak to him or not. Henry, who was sitting on her other side, began to talk to her about his holiday in Ischia.
After half an hour a few people drifted away, and Bennie excused herself and went out into the corridor. She found that scarcely anyone had left, that the corridor was full of people who had come out here for air and to stretch their legs. She walked off quickly and made her way down to the great hall. She found a telephone and rang Sister Frey.
“Bennie? I thought it was you. Yes, we have some news for you—or news of a sort. Mrs Richter rang me about noon. She said she thinks she may have located your friend living in lodgings a few minutes’ walk from her shop.”
The receiver crackled and Bennie shook it violently. “Did she—give any details?”
“No, And I shouldn’t bank too much because she’s a Czech and can easily be mistaken. But she seemed quite excited. She said if you go round she’ll direct you there.”
“You mean round to the shop? What time does she leave?
“It must be six-thirty. She’s always back here about seven.”
“Are they on the phone at the shop?”
“I don’t think so. Anyway she left no number.”
Bennie took down the address. “ Thank you, Mary. If she rings again, tell her I’ll come.”
After leaving the box Bennie was in an agony of hesitation. She wanted to go at once, just to make sure if it was a mistake. But she could not leave Don as he was at present. It was only just 4 p.m. There would surely be time enough to get the verdict and then go.
As she was walking back she almost came into Roger pacing the corridor with Marion Laycock. Bennie turned away just in time behind three gowned men. She heard Marion say: “But it’s perfectly plain, dearest, what happened. You were covering up for her in some way. It was plain to everyone in the court.”
In the court nothing had changed. The judge’s clerk was talking quietly to an usher. Most of the barristers were out. It was like an empty stage-set over which a curtain should have come down. But the public sat there waiting. And Don sat there waiting. He turned when Bennie slid in beside him and smiled at her but did not speak.
“No sign of life yet,” said Henry.
At half past four de Courville slipped out, said he wanted a smoke and suggested Don should go with him. Don said no, he was all right here; he’d stick it out. Bennie said, would Joanna be free yet? Don frowned as if trying to remember an unfamiliar name, then said no, she wouldn’t be home till about eight or later. At five Henry came back. Bennie glanced a couple of times at her watch, comparing it with the clock in the court. It was the rush hour now, and it would take quite a time to get from the Strand to North Kensington. Best way would be a Circle Line from Temple to Paddington and then a taxi. Half an hour at a minimum.
The third time she looked at her watch Henry asked her if she was on a flight tonight. She said no, but had an appointment for six-fifteen which she was anxious not to break. Henry said, well, if she wanted to go he would stay with Don. She said no, she must stay.
At twenty-five to six the court associate was seen making his way to the door through which the jury had disappeared, and there was a flurry of interest in the court. Mr Lytton came back, blinking his eyes and nervously winding his piece of brief tape. The associate came out of the jury room and went towards the judge’s room.
“Probably just a routine inquiry,” said Whitehouse, who had also come back. “After a couple of hours the judge sometimes sends in to ask how they are going on and if he can help them.”
Silence fell again. Mr Doutelle came back and leaned across to Lytton telling him something. Whitehouse went out. A woman behind Bennie was saying: “ The moment they told him he had a coronary he crumpled up. You wouldn’t believe. I kept saying to him, I’ve heard of men who’ve lived for years.”
Whitehouse came back. “They’ve asked for a short time more. That means they’ve probably agreed on the essentials.”
“Calculating the damages,” said Don.
Henry said to Bennie: “Missed your appointment?”
“Not yet.”
“If you want to hurry off after the verdict, go right ahead. I shall go home with Don in any case.”
The clock moved on. At seven minutes to six there was a sudden stirring as if a wind had blown through the court. People pressed in, barristers hurried back, Roger and Marion returned. The jury filed back. Looking self-conscious they took their seats, and then almost immediately stood up again as the judge came in.
When they were all settled the judge said: “ You have arrived at a verdict?”
The foreman said: “Yes, my Lord. We find for the plaintiff, Mr Shorn.”
There was silence in the court for a moment; then someone in the public gallery made a loud comment of disapproval.
His Lordship said: “If there is any noise or demonstration I will commit the offenders for contempt of court.”
Silence felt again. “In that event,” said the judge to the foreman of the jury, “what damages do you find for the plaintiff?”
“Er—ten pounds, my Lord.”
The barristers looked quickly at each other.
“Against us, but it’s a victory really,” Whitehouse muttered in Don’s ear. “It’s a typical English jury verdict—balancing law and common sense on a tightrope. It’s a saving grace indeed that we took the precaution of——”
The foreman was still standing, one hand holding the side of the jury box. “Also, my Lord, we would like to add a rider.…”
“Yes?”
“In view of our verdict— in spite of our verdict—we would like to add that we are of the unanimous opinion that the evidence we have heard has completely cleared the late Sir John Marlowe of the accusations made against him.”
“Good,” said Mr Justice Alston.
Vincent Doutelle was on his feet. “My Lord, may I on behalf of my client express his gratitude to the jury—for that rider?”
“Yes,” said his Lordship, “you may certainly do that.”
“Before your Lordship enters judgement,” continued Doutelle quickly; “there has been a payment into court of twenty-five pounds.”
A legal argument bubbled up which Don made no effort to follow. Whitehouse in the meantime was continuing to mutter in his ear. Their payment into court of twenty-five pounds in July, which had been an offer of settlement, meant nothing if they lost the case and substantial damages were given against them. But since the damages awarded were less than this payment, the court regarded the costs incurred after the payment as being the responsibility of the plaintiff. This meant that Roger, in spite of his having technically won the action, would have to pay almost all the costs.
Don nodded at this and looked down at his shoes.
“One can only speculate on the way a jury will work things out,” Whitehouse went on. “How did they reason? Most of their sympathy clearly was for you—but they may have thought you went a little far in what you wrote … and maybe, who knows, it may have been their way of saying that while Shorn was mistaken, there was some doubt as to his ill-intentions and he must be given the benefit of it.…”
Whitehouse was suddenly sucked into the legal argument in front of him. Dora folded his orchestral programme but found it fell to pieces in his fingers.
“A thousand,” said Henry de Courville.
“What?”
“As a guess I’d say your costs won’t be more than a thousand pounds. I’d reckon that if I were you. And Shorn’s will be u
pwards of ten thousand. On the whole one can hardly quarrel with the outcome. You’ve achieved your object at a relatively small expense.…”
The legal bickering had suddenly ended. Don heard the judge saying: “… and finally, members of the jury, thank you for your patience and attention during the whole four days of this complicated case.” And at last he realised it was all over.
When the judge had gone people stood and stretched themselves. There was a feeling of anti-climax, perhaps for lack of the clear-cut decision. Friends began to gather round Don, half-congratulatory, half-sympathetic, not quite sure which way to take it. Roger went out of court with his solicitor, and after a moment Marion followed. Outside Warner Robinson caught up with them. His big face carried no special message.
“A Pyrrhic victory, Shorn.”
“With no encouragement to advance on Rome.”
“Oh, it’s done you no harm, no harm at all. People will be reading your column with all the more interest next week.”
“I haven’t a doubt of that.”
“Good. Ring me sometime.” Waving aside the reporters of two rival newspapers, Robinson passed on.
Roger turned again to his solicitor. As he spoke he saw that Marion was waiting for him. He wondered if the events of today, the ambiguities and the unsaid things just below the surface, and now this verdict without triumph, had disillusioned her as the earlier days had disillusioned her father. She did not look so. She looked perplexed and still a bit worried did but above all loyal. He realised with an extra feeling of malaise that she was a much stronger character than he had ever realised and that he had inspired in her a passionate devotion that he now had little use for but which it would be against his general disposition altogether to turn down.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Bennie got a taxi just as it discharged its fare outside the Law Courts. She asked the driver to hurry, and he nodded laconically and struck north up Kingsway. They reached Paddington by six twenty-five.