Berry And Co. (16 page)

“I did hear something. You don’t mean to say…”

I paid the driver and hurried her into the hall.

“If you want to be there,” I said, “to see us go down, you’ll have to have a pretty quick lunch.”

We joined the others to find them in a state of profound despondency. My companion was immediately recognized by my sister and Jill, but, to my relief, Berry and Jonah were not quite so quick in the uptake.

“Came to hear our case,” I explained, “and got swep’ into the Court of Criminal Appeal.”

“Talk as you eat,” said Berry. “Converse and masticate simultaneously. You know. Like you used to do before you knew me. What’s Tristram got to say?”

I swallowed a piece of salmon before replying.

“Frankly pessimistic,” I said.

Berry raised his eyes to heaven and ground his teeth. A hard look came upon Jonah’s face.

“And we’ve got to sit there and watch that liar laugh in his sleeve,” he said bitterly.

“And pay his costs as well as our own,” said I. “Jolly, isn’t it?”

Daphne touched me upon the arm, and I looked up. She was very pale.

“D’you think it’s hopeless?”

“I think, darling, we’re up against it. And – and I’m terribly afraid.”

“I see,” she whispered. “Need Jill and I go back?”

“Jill needn’t, but you must, dear. You’re a witness.”

As I spoke, I shot a glance at my cousin. The latter was unburdening her soul to Madge Lacey, the quondam bridesmaid, and, to judge from such fragments of the load as reached my ears, uttering sufficient slander regarding Mr Douglas Bladder to maintain another dozen actions at law.

As some cold tongue was set before me—

“Everything was going so well,” said Daphne miserably. “I thought Berry was splendid.”

“He was,” said I, sousing my brandy with soda. “So were you, sweetheart. Nobody could have done more. And they don’t disbelieve you and Jonah. They just think you’ve made a mistake.”

She nodded dully.

“I don’t blame them,” she said slowly. “That man is so terribly clever. His whole attitude—”

A cry from Jill interrupted her.

“Daphne! Boy! She saw the car! On the way to the wedding. It nearly ran into her too. And Nobby running after it.”

“What?”

Four mouths – three empty and one full of tongue – framed the interrogative simultaneously.

“Mother and Dad and I,” announced Miss Lacey, bubbling, “were driving to the wedding. As we turned out of Long Lane into the Buckler Road, a great green car went by like a flash of lightning. Fortunately we were on the other side, or we’d have been smashed up. And, miles behind, there was a little white dog running the same way. I saw him, because I was back to the engine. Of course we were going much faster than him, and I soon lost sight of him.”

Nobby!

Berry was the first to recover.

“Thank Heaven I dragged him in.” He glanced at his watch. “Counsel must know this at once. Come on. Never mind the bill: we can settle later.”

No one who was that afternoon lunching at the
Savoy
will ever forget our eruption from the restaurant. The girls actually ran. Berry, Jonah and I, pursued by frantic waiters, thrust in their wake, taking the carpeted steps three at a time, and generally evincing such symptoms of nervous excitement as are seldom seen save upon the screen of a cinematograph. Indeed, our departure would have done credit to any stage manager, and I firmly believe that the majority of the guests attributed our behaviour to the ingenious brain of a manufacturer of films.

Five minutes later we panted up the steep steps into the corridor which led to our Court. As luck would have it, our solicitor was in the act of pushing open the swing-doors.

I caught him by the arm and breathed into his ear.

“Important new evidence. Vital. We’ve got the witness here.”

He was a man of few words.

“In there,” he said shortly, pointing to a consulting room. “I’ll get counsel.”

We trooped into the apartment and shut the door.

In silence we waited for what seemed a century. Then there were hasty steps, the door opened, and the KC, followed by his junior and the attorney, entered the room.

Briefly Berry related the story which Miss Lacey could tell.

“This is the lady,” he concluded. “I know our case is closed, but surely she can be called?”

We hung upon the reply.

“Can she speak to the number?”

“No. But in corroboration—”

“My dear Major Pleydell,” said Tristram, “you need no corroboration. The jury believe you. They believe you were smashed up. They believe it was done by a green touring car. The devil of it is, they believe the defendant too. And so they come to the very natural conclusion that, between the excitement of the moment and the pace at which the car was travelling, Mrs Pleydell and Captain Mansel have made a mistake – perhaps only of one figure – in the number they saw. And, unless we can discredit that fellow’s story, call evidence to show he
was
out on that day, or something, I’m very much afraid we shall go down. His counsel is certain to ask for the benefit of the doubt, and they’ll give it him.”

I never remember feeling so disappointed.

I think we all felt the weight of his words, but our collapse was pitiful. Lured by a treacherous hope into the belief that we were saved, we were fallen into a deeper Slough of Despond than before. Jill was hard put to it to restrain her tears…

Listlessly we followed our advisers into Court, and a moment later the Judge took his seat.

One or two applications, which did not concern our case, were made. Then leading counsel for the defence rose to his feet and called his next witness—

“Walter Dale.”

At the sound of the name I started violently. Then, open-mouthed and trembling with excitement, I twisted myself round to get a glimpse of the witness as he approached the box. Could it be possible that Fate with fiendish irony had selected the ex-trooper whom we had befriended to administer to our case the
coup de grâce
? It must be a man of another name. But Dale
was
a chauffeur…

There was a stir at the back of the crowded Court. Somebody was pushing his way forward. Somebody…

It
was
Dale.

The short, stockily-built figure, that I had not seen for more than three years, stepped out of the ruck of onlookers and took its place in the witness-box.

“Take the Book in your right hand…”

It was the Associate’s voice. As in a dream I heard the oath administered.

“The truth… The whole truth… And nothing but the truth.”

Dale’s lips moved and he kissed the Testament.

He was very pale. As he laid the Book down, our eyes met, and he looked me full in the face. My heart began to thump violently.

“Your name is Walter Dale?” said counsel.

“Yes” – in a low voice.

“Speak up, please, so that his lordship and the jury may hear. You are a chauffeur in the employ of the defendant?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember the twenty-second of May?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, I want you to tell the Court in your own words exactly what you did that day. First of all, on that day did your master’s car leave the garage?”

“Yes, it did.”

The Court gasped. Jurymen, counsel, officials, reporters – every one sat up as if they had been shot. Even the Judge started, and the defendant half rose from his seat and, when his solicitor laid a hand on his arm, sank back with bayed ferocity in his eyes and a face the colour of cigar-ash.

“I don’t think you quite understood my question,” purred counsel. “On the twenty-second of May, the day of the accident to the plaintiff’s car, did Mr Bladder’s car, of which you were in charge, leave the garage?”

“Yes,” said Dale sturdily, “it did.”

“You understand what you’re saying?” said the Judge.

“Yes, sir. An’ if I was to say anythin’ else, I’d not only be tellin’ a lie, but I’d be doin’ in the bes’ friend as ever I ’ad.” He pointed to me. “The Captain there. Little I knowed, when I took ’is money” – scornfully he nodded at the defendant – “’oo it was we run into that day. Twenty-five pound it was, an’ another twenty-five if we won the case.”

“My lord,” said counsel, protesting, “I—”

The Judge held up his hand and turned to the witness.

“Remember you are on your oath.”

“I do that, sir. It’s gospel truth what I’m sayin’. The accident ’appened exactly as you’ve ’eard them tell. ’E was drivin’, an’ me by ’is side. Tore by ’em, we did, an’ ’it ’em an’ left ’em. Sends me up to Town for a new ’ub-cap the nex’ day. Lettin’ ’er out, ’e was, to see ’ow she’d run after the over’aul. That was the day before.”

He paused for lack of breath, and the Judge turned his head slowly and peered at counsel over the rim of his glasses.

I was looking at the defendant.

If any corroboration of Dale’s story were needed, it was written upon his master’s face for all to see. Guilt, fear, and beastly rage were horribly depicted. The close-set eyes shifted frantically from side to side. The mouth worked uncontrollably…

As I looked, the fellow rose to his feet, swayed, put a hand to his throat, and stepped uncertainly towards the doors. The crowd parted, and he passed through…

A thick voice shattered the silence.

“In the circumstances your lordship will appreciate that I can carry my case no further.”

With a swish of silk, counsel resumed his seat.

As was to be expected, the jury delivered its verdict without leaving the box. As the applause subsided—

“I ask for judgment with costs,” said Tristram.

The Judge nodded.

“And I direct,” he said, “that the documents of the case be impounded and be sent to the Director of Public Prosecutions.”

Amid the buzz of excitement which succeeded his words, I felt a touch on my shoulder. Our leader was smiling.

“Cast your bread upon the waters,” he said. “For you shall find it after many days.”

How Jonah Obeyed His Orders, and Daphne

and Katharine Festival Backed the Same Horse

Berry laid down his knife and fork and raised his eyes to heaven.

“This,” he said, “is the frozen edge. I’m getting used to the distemper which is brought me in lieu of soup, and, although I prefer salmon cooked to raw, you may have noticed that I consumed my portion without a word. But this…” Contemptuously he indicated the severed
tournedos
upon his plate. “You know, they must have been using the lime-kiln. Nobody could get such a withered effect with an electric cooker. Oh, and look at our olive. Quick, before it shuts up.”

Jill began to shake with laughter.

“I can’t help it,” said Daphne desperately. “I know it’s awful, but what can we do?”

“There must be some cooks somewhere,” said I. “The breed isn’t extinct. And they can’t all be irrevocably suited. I always thought the Cooks’ Brigade was one of the most mobile arms of domestic service.”

“I’ve done everything,” said my sister, “except advertise. Katharine Festival put me off that. She says she spent seven pounds on advertisements and never got a single answer. But I’ve done everything else. I’ve asked everybody I know, my name’s on the books of every registry office I’ve ever heard of, and I’ve written and sent stamped addressed envelopes to every cook whose name I’ve been given. Three out of about sixty have replied, saying they were already suited. One came here, practically said she’d come, and then wrote to say she was frightened of the electric cooker. And another wanted a hundred a year and a private bathroom. It’s simply hopeless.”

“If,” said Berry, “we survive this meal, I’ll write to Jonah and tell him to bring one back with him. If he can’t raise one in Paris, he ought to be shot. And now let’s have a sweep on the savoury. I’ll bet it tastes of paraffin and looks like a pre-War divvot.”

“Let’s try advertising,” said Jill. “Katharine mayn’t have had a good one.”

“I agree,” said I. “I’ll get one out tonight. A real snorter.”

In silence the traces of the course which had provoked the outburst were removed, clean plates were set before us, and the footman advanced with a dish of nauseous-looking fritters.

Daphne instinctively recoiled.

“Hullo,” said Berry. “Another gas attack?”

With an effort my sister recovered herself and took one with a shaking hand. Loyally Jill followed her example, and, with tears running down her cheeks, induced a glutinous slab to quit the silver, to which it clung desperately.

I declined the delicacy.

With compressed lips the servant offered it to my brother-in-law.

Berry shook his head.

“Mother wouldn’t like me to,” he said. “But I can see it’s very tasty.” He turned to his wife. “What a wonderful thing perfume is! You know, the smell of burnt fat always makes me think of the Edgware Road at dusk.”

“Hush,” said I, consulting the
menu
. “
De mortuis
. Those were banana fritters. That slimy crust enshrined the remains of a once succulent fruit.”

“What?” said Berry. “Like beans in amber? How very touching! I suppose undertakers are easier than cooks. Never mind. It’s much cheaper. I shan’t want to be reminded of food for several days now.” He looked across the table to Daphne. “After what I’ve just seen, I feel I can give the savoury a miss. Do you agree, darling? Or has the fritter acted as an
apéritif
?”

My sister addressed herself to Jill.

“Don’t eat it, dear. It’s – it’s not very nice.” She rose. “Shall we go?”

Gloomily we followed her into the library, where I opened all the windows and Berry lighted a huge cigar, in the hope of effacing the still pungent memory of the unsavoury sweet. Gradually it faded away…

Three weeks had passed since the mistress of our kitchen, who had reigned uninterruptedly for seven years, had been knocked down by a taxi and sustained a broken leg. Simple though the fracture fortunately was, at least another nine weeks must elapse before she could attempt to resume her duties, and we were in evil case. Every day we became more painfully aware of the store which we had unconsciously set by decently-cooked food. As time went on, the physical and mental disorder, consequent upon Mrs Mason’s accident, became more and more pronounced. All topics of conversation became subservient to the burning question of filling the void occasioned by her absence. Worst of all, dissatisfaction was rampant in the servants’ hall, and Daphne’s maid had hinted broadly that, if a cook was not shortly forthcoming, resignations would be – an intimation which made us desperate. Moreover, in another month we were due to leave Town and repair to White Ladies. There, deep in the country, with no restaurants or clubs to fall back upon, we should be wholly at the mercy of whoever controlled the preparation of our food, and, unless the situation improved considerably, the prospect was far from palatable.

Moodily I extinguished my cigarette and filled and lighted a pipe in its stead. Then I remembered my threat.

Berry was writing a letter, so I extracted a sheet of notepaper from the left-hand drawer and, taking a pencil from my pocket, sat down on the sofa and set to work to compose an advertisement calculated to allure the most suspicious and
blasée
cook that ever was foaled.

Jill sat labouring with her needle upon a dainty teacloth, pausing now and again to hold a whispered and one-sided conversation with Nobby, who lay at inelegant ease supine between us. Perched upon the arm of a deep armchair, my sister was subjecting the space devoted by five daily papers to the announcement of “Situations Required” to a second and more leisurely examination.

Presently she rose with a sigh and crossed to the telephone.

We knew what was coming.

Every night she and Katharine Festival communicated to one another their respective failures of the day. More often than not, these took the simple form of “negative information.”

She was connected immediately.

“Hullo, that you, Katharine?… Yes, Daphne. Any luck?… Not much. You know, it’s simply hopeless. What?… ‘Widow with two boys of seven and nine’? Thank you. I’d rather… Exactly… Well, I don’t know. I’d give it up, only it’s so awful… Awful.”

“If she doesn’t believe it, ask her to dinner,” said Berry.

“Shut up,” said Daphne. “It’s all right, Katharine. I was speaking to Berry… Oh, he’s fed to the teeth.”

“I cannot congratulate you,” said her husband, “upon your choice of metaphor.”

My sister ignored the interruption.

“Oh, rather… His food means a lot to him, you know.”

“This,” said her husband, “is approaching the obscene. I dine off tepid wash and raw fish, I am tormented by the production of a once luscious fillet deliberately rendered unfit for human consumption, and I am deprived of my now ravening appetite by the nauseating reek from the shock of whose assault I am still trying to rally my olfactory nerves. All this I endure with that unfailing good—”

“Will you be quiet?” said his wife. “ How can I—”

“No, I won’t,” said Berry. “My finer feelings are outraged. And that upon an empty stomach. I shall write home and ask to be taken away. I shall—”

“Katharine,” said Daphne, “I can’t hear you because that fool Berry is talking, but Boy’s getting out an advertisement, and we’re going to… Oh, are you? I thought you said you’d given it up… Another nineteen shillings’ worth? Well, here’s luck, anyway… Yes, of course. But I daren’t hope… Goodbye.” She replaced the receiver and turned to me. “Katharine’s going to start advertising again.”

“Is she?” I grunted. “Well, I’ll bet she doesn’t beat this. Listen.

COOK, capable, experienced, is offered for three months abnormal wages, every luxury and a leisurely existence: electric cooker: constant hot water: kitchen-maid: separate bedroom: servants’ hall: late breakfast: town and country: followers welcomed. – Mrs Pleydell, 7, Cholmondeley Street, Mayfair: ’Phone, Mayfair 9999.”

“That’s the style,” said Berry. “Let me know when it’s going to appear, and I’ll get a bedroom at the Club. When you’ve weeded the best out of the first hundred thousand, I’ll come back and give the casting vote.”

From behind, my sister put her arms about my neck and laid her soft cheek against mine.

“My dear,” she murmured, “I daren’t. Half the cooks in England would leave their situations.”

“So much the better,” said I. “All’s fair in love and war. I don’t know which this is, but we’ll call it ‘love’ and chance it. Besides,” I added cunningly, “we must knock out Katharine.”

The light of battle leapt into my sister’s eyes. Looking at it from her point of view, I realized that my judgment had been ill-considered. Plainly it was not a question of love, but of war – “and that most deadly.” She drew her arms from my neck and stood upright.

“Couldn’t you leave out my name and just put ‘Box So-and-so’?”

I shook my head.

“That’s so intangible. Besides, I think the telephone number’s a great wheeze.” Thoughtfully she crossed to the fireplace and lighted a cigarette. “I’ll send it tomorrow,” I said.

Suddenly the room was full of silvery laughter.

From Berry’s side at the writing-table Jill looked up sparkling.

“Listen to this,” she said, holding up the letter which my brother-in-law had just completed.

DEAR BROTHER,

Incompetent bungler though you are, and bitter as has been my experience of your gaucherie in the past, I am once again about to prove whether out of the dunghill of inefficiency which, with unconscious humour, you style your ‘mind’ there can be coaxed a shred of reliability and understanding.

It is within your knowledge that some three weeks ago this household was suddenly deprived of the services of its cook. This out of a clear sky and, if we may believe the police, in one of those uncharted purlieus which shroud in mystery the source of the Cromwell Road. After four lean days your gluttonous instincts led you precipitately to withdraw to Paris, from whence, knowing your unshakable belief in the vilest forms of profligacy, I appreciate that lack of means must ere long enforce your return.

Therefore I write.

For twenty-two unforgettable sultry days we have endured the ghastly pleasantries of charwomen, better qualified to victual the lower animals than mankind. To call the first meal “breakfast” is sheer blasphemy: lunch is a hollow mockery: dinner, the abomination of desolation. I do what I can with grape-nuts and the gas-stove in the bathroom, but the result is unhappy, and last night the milk was too quick for me.

I therefore implore you to collect a cook in Paris without delay. Bring it with you when you come, or, better still, send it in advance, carriage paid. Luxury shall be heaped upon it. Its slightest whim shall be gratified, and it shall go to “the movies” at my expense, whenever I am sent tickets. Can generosity go further? Wages no object: fare paid back to Paris as soon as Mrs Mason’s leg can carry her.

Brother, I beseech you, take immediate action. The horror of our plight cannot be exaggerated. Do something – anything. Misrepresent facts, corrupt honesty, suborn the faithful, but – procure a cook.

My maw reminds me that it is the hour of grape-nuts, so I must go.

BERRY.

P.S. – If you can’t raise one, I shouldn’t come back. Just go to some high place and quietly push yourself off. It will be simpler and avoid a scene which would be painful to us both.

“That’s rather worse than the advertisement,” said Daphne. “But, as Jonah is accustomed to your interpretation of the art of letter-writing, I suppose it doesn’t much matter.”

“When,” said Berry, “you are making yourself sick upon
tête de veau en tortue
and
crêpes Suzette
, I shall remind you of those idle words.”

The advertisement appeared for the first time on Thursday morning.

As I entered the dining-room at half-past nine—

“ It’s in,” said Jill. “On the front page.”

“Yes,” said Berry, “it’s most arresting. Applicants will arrive from all over the kingdom. It’s inevitable. Nothing can stop them. Old and trusted retainers will become unsettled. The domestic upheaval will be unparalleled.”

I read the advertisement through. In cold print my handiwork certainly looked terribly alluring. Then I laid down the paper and strolled to the window. It had been raining, but now the sun was out, and the cool fresh air of the June morning was sweet and winsome. As I looked into the glistening street—

“It’s a bit early yet,” continued Berry. “Give ’em a chance. I should think they’ll start about ten. I wonder how far the queue will reach,” he added reflectively. “I hope the police take it past The Albert Memorial. Then they can sit on the steps.”

“Nonsense,” said I a little uneasily. “We may get an answer or two tomorrow. I think we shall. But cooks are few and far between.”

“They won’t be few and they’ll be anything but far between by twelve o’clock.” He tapped the provocative paragraph with an accusing finger. “This is a direct incitement to repair to 7, Cholmondeley Street, or as near thereto as possible—”

“I wish to goodness we hadn’t put it in,” said Daphne.

“It’s done now,” said her husband, “and we’d better get ready. I’ll turn them down in the library, you can stand behind the what-not in the drawing-room and fire them from there, and Boy’d better go down the queue with some oranges and a megaphone, and keep on saying we’re suited right up to the last.”

In silence I turned to the sideboard. It was with something of an effort that I helped myself to a thick slab of bacon which was obviously but half-cooked. From the bottom of a second dish a black and white egg, with a pale green yoke, eyed me with a cold stare. With a shudder I covered it up again… After all, we did want a cook, and if we were bombarded with applications for the post, the probability of getting a good one was the more certain.

As I took my seat—