B-Berry and I Look Back (7 page)

“You and I are so familiar with the procedure, that such a question wouldn’t worry us: but the average man knows nothing of courts of law: everything’s strange to him, and, if he is on trial for his life, formidable. In this case, he’d just been sworn – sworn on the Word of God to speak nothing but the truth. And then came this awful question…

“I remember that a member of the Bar who was in court said to me afterwards, ‘Did you see him hesitate? He didn’t know whether he ought to say yes or no.’”

Jonah began to shake with laughter.

“Yes, he was being funny. All the same, it was a very dangerous question. In this case it came right off. But Marshall Hall was lucky to get away with it.

“I’m well aware that I’m criticizing a man whose little finger was thicker than my loins, who was very kind to me. He was a splendid and famous advocate; and, as such, deserves to be remembered. But he was impetuous: and now and again, as I have said before, he would do a foolish thing. Still, he was in the front rank of his contemporaries, and not one of his successors has come anywhere near him.”

“What of Patrick Hastings?”

“He was not in the same street. Such was his reputation between the wars that I made a point of going to hear him in a
cause célèbre
… I believe he was very successful; but, quite honestly, he simply didn’t compare with Marshall Hall. With all his faults, Marshall Hall had a great and compelling personality, and I’m very proud to have known him.”

“Did the prisoner in a murder case always go into the box?”

“As a rule, he did. I mean, it looked damned bad if he didn’t. Even Crippen went into the box.”

“When you say it looked bad,” said Daphne…

“Well, it suggested very strongly that he wished to avoid being questioned by Counsel for the Crown. If you were accused of something you hadn’t done, would you be afraid of cross-examination? Of course, you wouldn’t. Your one idea would be to get into the witness-box. But if in fact you were guilty, the prospect of being cross-examined by a trained lawyer in open court would be, er, less attractive.”

My sister covered her eyes.

“I should be frightened to death,” she said.

“Exactly. So you would have to decide whether to face that ordeal or to leave upon the jury’s minds the dangerous impression that you were afraid to face it. Your counsel would probably decide for you. Or, at least, advise you which to do, for the choice is really yours.

“Counsel for the Crown is not allowed to comment, in his final speech, on the fact that a prisoner has not gone into the box. But the Judge may – and in my time almost invariably did. After all, the Judge’s function is to direct the jury and unless the prisoner is, for instance, labouring under great emotion or a singularly stupid man, it is his duty to remind the jury that he has not seen fit to enter the box and deny the charge upon oath. But times have changed. I remember a case of murder which was tried long after I had left the Bar. Counsel for the defence must have passed sleepless nights, trying to make up his mind whether to call the prisoner or no. If ever there was a case in which the accused should have been called, it was this one. I mean, that stood out. Yet the material for cross-examination was – well, deadly. In the end his counsel decided not to call him – and if I may humbly say so, I think he was right. To be perfectly honest, I think he put his money on the Judge. And did he romp home? For the Judge actually directed the jury to
pay no attention to the fact
that the prisoner had not gone into the box.”

“Why on earth?” said Berry.

“You can search me,” I said. “For the prisoner was very much all there. But, as I say, times have changed.”

“What happens,” said Jill, “what happens if the jury can’t agree?”

“Well, in the old days they used to keep them shut up on a diet of bread and water till they did agree. But now the Judge has them in and asks if he can help them and then sends them back to have another shot. But if it’s no good, then the jury is discharged and the prisoner is tried again at the next Assizes or the next session at the Old Bailey.”

“The unsolved murder,” said Berry, “seems not so uncommon today. Were there many in your time?”

“I don’t think so. To be perfectly honest, I only remember two: but I expect there were more than that. The word ‘unsolved’, of course…”

“Let me confess,” said Berry, “that the phrase ‘the unsolved murder’ is an unpardonable piece of jargon. What I should have said was, ‘the capital crime, whose author was never discovered’.”

“That’s very much better,” I said. “You see, if no one is convicted of or possibly even arrested for the crime, the public naturally assumes that the murderer is unknown. But that isn’t always so.

“Now, before I go any further, please bear this in mind – that in all I am going to say I am referring to capital crimes which attracted attention, that is to say were accorded the dignity of headlines in the daily Press. I have little doubt that there were others; but to those I cannot speak.”

“That,” said Berry, “is understood.”

“Well, in the years immediately preceding the outbreak of the first Great War I can only remember two murders, the authors of which were never found. Only two. One was the case I referred to in
As Berry and I Were Saying
, which attracted little attention because of the Crippen Case. Only the lady in the case knew who the murderer was: and she wouldn’t talk. The other was the case of Kensit. Kensit was a very Low Churchman. As such he deeply resented the High Church practices of the Incumbent of St Cuthbert’s, Earl’s Court. His resentment blossomed into fanaticism and again and again he led a number of supporters, whom he had inflamed, to the precincts of St Cuthbert’s – and sometimes into the church itself – where he and they protested violently against the ceremonial observed. As a natural result, supporters of the Incumbent of St Cuthbert’s were mobilized, to deal with this unwarrantable behaviour, and since religious feelings can run very high, serious clashes took place. On the last occasion, although the police did their best, there was a battle royal and Kensit was killed. A file, driven into his eye, entered his brain. Such was the
mêlée
that the police never saw the blow struck. Possibly no one did. The fact remains that no one was ever arrested for that great wickedness. Still, the murder sobered both factions, as well it might: and that was the last of the clashes with which, in the name of Religion, the Sabbath Day was profaned.

“Well, there are my two. Some of my contemporaries would probably suggest that there were more but, unless my memory is letting me down, I am inclined to think that my figure is correct. You see, they would include some cases which I do not. Regarding some of those cases, I shall say nothing, and I must beg you to let me leave it at that. But in the period which I have mentioned there were, to my knowledge, two cases in which the murderer was known, but
in the public interest
was never brought to trial.

“And now just let me say this. First I am telling you something which I did
not
, repeat
not
, learn in the course of my duty – that is to say, while I was with the Solicitors to the Commissioner of Police or with Treasury Counsel. I was told it years afterwards by a man who is now dead, whom I came to know very well. And I have the best of reasons for believing that his report was true. Secondly, in neither of these cases was there any question of shielding anyone, or of sparing the feelings of the well-to-do. The persons involved were not rich and their names were virtually unknown. But the circumstances of both crimes were so demoralizing that no one who knew the truth could condemn the decisions taken by the authorities.

“Now of the first case I am only going to say that it was a most painful affair and that no injustice was done by not making an arrest. Of the second, I shall say more, but not very much. This appeared to be an ordinary, straightforward case: the victim was dead: his assailant had made himself scarce. With little enough to go on, the CID got down to it, and after some excellent work by Detective-Inspector — the man was found. But before he was so much as arrested – let alone charged – the man made so startling a statement that Detective-Inspector — decided to hold his hand. Arranging for the man to be watched, he hastened back to the Yard and made his report. The man’s statement was investigated and found to be, if anything, less than the truth. These facts were immediately communicated to the Authorities and it was decided that, in the public interest, the case must be dropped.”

There was a little silence.

Then –

“When you say ‘dropped’,” said Berry…

“Well, so great was the man’s provocation that, had the case come to be tried, there can be no doubt that the charge of murder would have been reduced to one of manslaughter. All the same, he stood in jeopardy, and I assume that he was told that, provided he left the country, the warrant for his arrest would stay on the file. Any way, I have reason to believe that he emigrated within the month.

“Now please don’t think that I don’t realize that I have in no way substantiated my statement that it was in the public interest that this case should be suppressed. For that, I can only ask you to take my word: for it would be most improper for me to defeat the object of the Authorities, to achieve which they went such lengths. I can only say that, in my humble opinion, they were more than justified. The victim did not deserve to be avenged and the consequent revelation of a very great and far-reaching scandal would have done irreparable harm.”

There was another silence.

Then –

“Most interesting,” said Jonah. “Detective-Inspector — was clearly an exceptional man.”

“For that, I can vouch,” I said.

“And what a relief,” said Berry, “to know that, where the public interest was at stake, the Authorities were prepared to take the responsibility of driving a coach and six through the Criminal Law.”

“I entirely agree.”

I looked at my brother-in-law.

“What about a few words about Cheiro?”

“Ah,” said Berry. “Cheiro. A very likable man. And very talented. I knew him fairly well. He wrote me a very nice letter shortly before he died.” He stopped there and looked at Daphne. “Another small wet of port would spare the vocal cords.”

“It’s just as likely to give you gout,” said his wife.

“I’ll take the risk,” said Berry. “Er, would you mind, er, passing the decanter?”

“If,” said my sister, “I could reach it without rising, I shouldn’t mind at all. As it is…”

Berry looked round.

“Will nobody succour the head of their house?” he said.

Jill, beside me, began to shake with laughter.

“That’s right,” said Berry. “Derision. When Boy wants another snort, you get it quick enough.”

“He’s got a game leg,” said my wife. “With you, it’s laziness.”

“No port, no Cheiro,” said Berry.

Jonah got to his feet.

“It happens,” he said, “that I want some more port myself.”

“You shall have my blessing,” said Berry. “I’ll make a note of your smell. That’s what Isaac went by. He was stung, I know. But then he went by the clothes. Esau probably kept his in naphthaline. As they all had BO, the flesh itself was no help.”

“That’s right,” said Daphne. “Be bestial. And now that you’ve got your port, what’s Cheiro done?”

Her husband sat back in his chair.

“It is not my practice,” he said, “to patronize soothsayers – much less to pay two guineas to have my fortune told. For that was Cheiro’s fee. But more than once Cheiro told my fortune – and never would let me pay him a penny piece.

“In his day, of course, he was a very big man. He was consulted by many most eminent people – that I know. His Majesty King Edward the Seventh was one of these. And the King commanded Cheiro to tell him the date of his death.”

“Never,” said Daphne.

“He did, indeed, and Cheiro begged to be excused. But the King was insistent. In the end Cheiro begged him to be very careful indeed when he was sixty-eight. Now on the sixth of March, 1910, the King left London for Biarritz. It was a Sunday evening. Whether His Majesty travelled by special train or the Royal coach was attached to the ordinary boat-train, I do not know: but, as he was crossing the platform, his quick eye caught sight of Cheiro, who had come to the station, I think to see somebody off. So Cheiro was summoned. ‘Well, Cheiro,’ said the King, ‘here I am, in spite of my sixty-eight years.’ Cheiro smiled. ‘I’m only too thankful, sir, to see your Majesty looking so very well.’ ‘I may prove you right yet,’ said the King. ‘That, sir, I decline to believe’. The King chatted with him for a minute of other things… Two months later, to the day, His Majesty died, aged sixty-eight years and six months.

“I don’t think that sad story has ever been told before.”

“It was so terrible,” said Daphne. “We were at White Ladies at the time. We heard he was ill on the Thursday and left for Cholmondeley Street on the following day. You went straight to the Club, to get the latest news. After a while you rang up, to say you were dining there. And you came back soon after midnight, to say he was dead.”

Berry nodded.

“It was a bad day for England. So long as he lived, Germany dared not make war. The Kaiser feared his great personality. If he’d lived six years longer, the Kaiser would have been out. His own people were sick of the tiresome mountebank. He had erected a lot of statues of his ancestors, real and imaginary, in the Tiergarten of Berlin. Three months before war broke out, every one was defaced. I saw the King’s funeral
cortège
pass up St James’s Street. It was a flawless, summer’s day. Eight Kings rode behind the gun-carriage – it may have been nine. Not in ranks – they all went by in a bevy, a truly historical sight. And Caesar, his wire-haired terrier, was led by a Highlander directly in front of them. The
cortège
was headed, of course, by the Earl Marshal, the father of the present Duke. He had a truly mediaeval beard and he looked like something out of the picture-books. And now we must get back to Cheiro.”

“One minute,” said Jill. “You saw Queen Victoria’s funeral?”

“Yes,” said Berry, “I did. That was in January – a cold, grey, very gloomy day, with a promise of snow. I remember King Edward riding behind the gun-carriage, with the Kaiser on his right and the Prince of Wales on his left. It was not a brilliant sight, for all the troops were cloaked or were wearing their great coats; but it was most impressive.”

“Was the King wearing his cloak?”

“I think so. I can’t be sure. But, if he was, it was open. I remember his scarlet tunic very well – and how he diminished the Kaiser, riding beside. For all his airs, the latter looked as if he was playing a part, as, of course, he was. But the King was the real thing. It’s the only time I ever saw him on horseback: but he looked magnificent.”

“Wasn’t there some trouble with the horses drawing the gun-carriage?”

“Yes. But that was at Windsor. The second gun-carriage had been waiting for the train to arrive, and the horses were cold. When all was ready the signal was given for the
cortège
to start. At once all sorts of orders rang out. Now the leaders of the gun-carriage waited for their particular order, ‘Walk march’: but the wheelers heard the other orders and, impatient because they were cold, acted on them. And the weight was too great for two horses, and so the traces snapped. There were no spare traces, and a very steep hill to come. Prince Louis of Battenburg at once suggested that the naval guard of honour should take the horses’ place. But there were no ropes. However, they managed with what was left of the traces. But they had three sailors on each wheel, in case the traces snapped.”

“What a most unfortunate show,” said Jonah.

“Yes, it was. For the troops ahead went on, not knowing that anything was wrong. They were very soon stopped, of course. There was a delay of about ten minutes. Everyone was very sorry for the Gunners, who were mortified to death. And now we simply must get back to Cheiro.

“It was Madame de — who introduced me to Cheiro. She dabbled in palmistry and expressed some interest in my hand. So she wrote to Cheiro and asked him to see me when I was next in Town. She had known Cheiro for years, and he certainly had a great regard for her. I rather imagine she had helped him, when he was still unknown. And this was what she told me of how he came to start. I’ve only her word for it, but I believe it to be true.

“As a young Irishman, Cheiro had just enough to live on, but nothing to spare. Then he was left a respectable legacy. This he decided to blow on seeing the world. So he wandered across the Continent, where he met Madame de — , and presently fetched up at Cairo, to stay at Shepheards Hotel. One night he was invited to dine at the Mohammed Ali Club… After dinner he was so indiscreet as to play. Now the members of the Mohammed Ali Club were immensely rich and the play was immensely high. It follows that at two in the morning Cheiro returned to Shepheards, broke to the world. He hadn’t even the money to pay the hotel what he owed.

“Later that morning he saw the Manager. As may be believed, the latter took his news very ill. After all, the young man had been living extremely well. But Cheiro asked him politely to hear him out. ‘I’ve got an idea,’ he said. ‘Ideas,’ said the Manager, bluntly, ‘won’t pay your bill.’ ‘I think this one will,’ said Cheiro.

“Well, he’d always had a flair for palmistry: so he suggested to the Manager that he should be furnished with a table and a chair and a screen, that these should stand in the lounge and that he should practise his art for the patrons of the hotel – at, let us say, one hundred piastres a time.

“After a little persuasion, the Manager agreed to let him try…

“He had to have a name, so he called himself Cheiro. And very soon he was doing extremely well. And there he stayed until he’d paid what he owed and amassed enough money to get him to England and keep him for two or three months. And then, despite the Manager’s entreaties, he took his leave. And on his return, he set up as a soothsayer in London.

“Before very long he had a big clientèle, and I don’t have to tell you that he published several books.

“I found him very modest about his undoubted gift. He always insisted that he was no more than a student. ‘I’m only groping,’ he’d say. ‘One day, more capable men than I will open astrology up. And then – well, the impression of every child’s hand will be registered at his birth.’ He laughed. ‘For once, I’m playing the prophet – and that’s all wrong. Never forget that I am not a prophet: I’m an interpreter. Your destiny is written in your horoscope and the palm of your hand: and I try to read what is written. Sometimes the writing is very sharp and clear: at other times it’s blurred, and then I can only tell you what I believe it says.’

“That was fair enough,” said Jonah.

“I think so,” said Berry. “Cheiro was very honest. His gift was, of course, amazing. He told me about my past and he never put a foot wrong. And what he said of my future has always come to pass. I’ll only mention two things. He told me that seven was my good number, and eight my bad. When he’d said that, he smiled at the look on my face. ‘You can’t swallow that,’ he said. ‘But you will in a little while. Your good days are the seventh, sixteenth and twenty-fifth of each month: your bad days are the eighth, the seventeenth and the twenty-sixth. Bear that strictly in mind, and you’ll find I’m right.’”

“When you came back,” said Daphne, “and told me that, I begged you to forget it, for I said such a thing was absurd.” She sighed. “In less than six months, I’d come to dread those bad days, for if anything ever goes wrong, it’s always on one of those dates.”

“It’s painfully true,” said Berry. “And so I always take what petty precautions I can. I don’t let these rule my life, but on those days, for instance, I’m more than usually careful, if I’m to cross a street. I won’t write an important letter on one of those days. But I can’t help receiving one. And, as sure as Fate, if bad news is on the wing, it fetches up on the eighth or on one of the other two.

“Well, that’s the first of the things I was going to mention. This is the second…

“I think it was on the last occasion on which we met that, under pressure, Cheiro admitted that something which was anything but pleasant was going to happen to me when I was fifty-five. (I was then, I think, forty-six.) ‘I’m bound to tell you,’ he said, ‘that I don’t like it at all.’ ‘My death?’ I said. ‘It might be. I can’t be sure. It’s a very unfortunate conjunction’ – I think that’s the word he used. He wouldn’t have told me, of course, if he hadn’t known me well. But he knew that I wasn’t the sort who’d brood on a matter like that. I never told Daphne, of course, or anyone else. But I was perfectly sure that some time during that year my life would come to an end.

“Well, we all know it wasn’t my death that Cheiro saw. But when I was fifty-five, we had to leave Gracedieu, our justly beloved home… I may be forgiven for adding that the fall of France occurred on the seventeenth day of the month.”

There was a little silence.

Then Jonah lifted his voice.

“Wasn’t he known as Count Hamon in private life?”

“Yes. Of the Holy Roman Empire. But he was most unassuming. The last time I saw him was not long before he left for California. Before we parted, he wrote down his future address and gave it to me. ‘You might feel you wanted to write.’”

“How very nice of him,” said Jill.

“Yes, it was very nice. When we shook hands, he held my hand very tight. ‘I think you know,’ I said, ‘that we shan’t meet again.’ ‘I don’t think we shall,’ he said. ‘But you will go over seas.’ ‘Ah, but you’re going for good.’ ‘So will you,’ said Cheiro, ‘one of these days.’”

“Amazing,” said Daphne.

“Yes, he had the gift. And it wasn’t second sight – like that of Deborah Crane. He could read the report of the stars which control our destiny.”

“What secrets he must have learned.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Berry. “When he was in his prime, before the first war, half Society must have repaired to his house. They talk about old Sir George Lewis, and all the secrets he knew. But Cheiro’s knowledge was of another sort. Of those who consulted him, when he knew the date of their birth and had studied the palm of their hand, he knew their very nature and much of what they had done and of what they were going to do. He knew that this wife was unfaithful and that man a murderer born. He saw that X would succeed and that Y would fall by the way: that this lady of high degree would suffer a violent death: that this highly respectable peer would be sent to jail. I don’t suggest that he was infallible; sometimes, as in my case, the writing he was reading was blurred and he could not be sure of its burden: and then he said as much. What do you say of him, Boy?”

“I agree with all you’ve said. To my mind, Cheiro was unique.”

“Darling,” said Jill, “you know what he said to you.”

“He said a lot, my sweet, and it all came true.”

Jill looked round.

“Boy only went to him once. It was when he was at the Bar. He’d written a short story or two in his spare time: but the Bar was his profession and all that he cared about. And Cheiro told him his name would be known all over the world.”

“Astounding,” said Daphne.

“It’s a fact,” said I. “When I protested, Cheiro only smiled. ‘There’s no doubt about it,’ he said. ‘I know I’m right.’”

“Did he know that you wrote?”

“No. I never told him. It never occurred to me to tell him. He knew I was at the Bar. I couldn’t understand it at all, for I couldn’t believe I should enter politics. That I should ever write for my living never even entered my head.”

“And no one has taken Cheiro’s place?”

“No one,” said Berry. “But Cheiro was a product of the golden age. So were Winston Churchill and Frederic Henry Royce. And Forbes Robertson and Kipling and Cromer and Cecil Rhodes.” He sighed. “I’m glad to have seen it, you know. Mark you, I’m not comparing Cheiro with giants like those. He didn’t approach them. But, in his way, he was a distinguished man; and I’m not in the least surprised that neither the chromium-plated age nor the plastic age has produced his like.”