The Forgotten Story (18 page)

He picked up the pasty and absently took a bite, his mind still busy. Instinctively he drew nearer to the fire, for his hands and feet were frozen.

‘Did they ask for me at supper?'

‘No, I didn't 'ear ' em.'

‘Where's Miss Patricia now?'

‘Gone out. Mr Pawlyn came round.'

The letter was burning a hole in his pocket. The brilliant idea came to him that instead of handing it direct to Pat he would slip it under her bedroom door. Then she might not even think of asking if it was he who had put it there. He couldn't quite understand what had driven him to promise Tom what he had done. Pat would look on it as plain treason. He was torn between two loyalties.

‘And Aunt Madge and Uncle Perry?'

‘In the parlour.'

‘I think I'll take this to bed,' he said. ‘I'm tired.'

‘Coo, it's early yet. Don't go readin' in bed and leaving your candle burning an' setting the 'ouse afire.'

‘Getting bossy, aren't you?'

She pulled a face. ‘ Well, that's what
she
always says to me.'

He went out into the hall, ducking instinctively to avoid the flypaper, and paused a moment to stare into the darkened shop. All the lower part of the house was unlighted: the shop and both restaurants and the various storerooms. A week or two ago the place had been thronging with people and Uncle Joe had been sharpening his knife behind the counter and bargaining with customers for the various cuts off the joints. Life and bustle. Darkness and decay. Better the light and the heat and the noise. Anything better than darkness. Anthony hated and dreaded it.

The memory of that dream crept into his mind like a thief, and he turned abruptly away from the shop and began to mount the stairs. So vivid had been the dream that even now he could almost hear that furtive rustling in one corner of the shop.

On the first landing a tiny oil lamp burned. A single pearl of light in all this darkness, no larger than a drop of water in a cavern. Beyond, round the corner, another flight of stairs, narrow and gaunt, led to his room.

But first the letter. He took it out and turned it over. There was no writing on it at all. Perhaps Tom had been afraid that if she saw his writing she would destroy it unopened. He crept past the door of the parlour, from under which emerged a thin bar of light, and came to Pat's room. The sound of murmuring voices had reached him for a moment like something warm and cosy as he passed the parlour. He wished so many of the floorboards did not creak; useless to be light-footed and stealthy when the whole house complained at every other step.

Greatly daring, he turned the handle of Pat's door and pushed it a few inches open. He had never been in here before. (Strange how many rooms in this house he had not yet been in.) A faint sweet smell of femininity came to his nostrils. It thrilled him; everything that was dainty and pure and untouchable went with that smell, the essence of womanhood and beauty and grace. Reverently he tiptoed to the dressing-table, put the letter upon it and, suddenly afraid of being surprised, turned and hurried out again.

The door made a noisy click as he closed it, and he stood in the darkness of the passage for some seconds listening to the beating of his own heart. But the two in the parlour had no reason to be suspicious of noise; faintly he heard their voices again. Uncle Perry seemed to be doing all the talking. But then Uncle Perry always did.

He reached the door of the parlour and paused, hesitating whether to go in. He would not really be welcome; he would be in the way; their talk would not interest him. He was about to move on when he heard Aunt Madge's voice raised.

‘No, Perry; I won't … definitely won't allow …'

He heard Perry's masterful buccaneering chuckle, then silence fell, to be followed by a little high-pitched laugh. The boy did not know where that laugh came from. It might have been uttered by Aunt Madge, though it didn't sound like any noise he had ever heard her make before. But then he had never heard her laugh. You wouldn't have thought it possible; you wouldn't know what to expect.

‘Too soon … not decent … How dare you? …'

Perry's laugh went slower and deeper and subsided to a little throaty chuckle. Then the other laugh broke out again, but short and breathy and sustained upon a giggle. It was as if delight and outraged dignity were fighting for supremacy in it, and dignity was losing ground.

Anthony turned and ran up the stairs to his room. He knew that if he had had the courage he might have opened the door of the sitting-room and walked in.

But he knew he would not have done that for all the jewels of Asia.

On a mellow day of late September proceedings were opened at Falmouth police court whereby one Thomas Wilberforce Harris, solicitor, of Mount House, Penryn, was charged with assault and battery upon the persons of Edward Pawlyn, of Mevagissey, and Franz Todt, of Hamburg. The case had been held up because the beer bottle which came into contact with Franz Todt's head had done more damage than was at first supposed. He was, however, now well enough to come into court with his head swathed in bandages and an expression of justifiable resentment on his milestone of a face.

Harris had elected to be dealt with summarily and was represented by one of his partners, a tall man with a deceptively gentle manner. The gravamen of the charge against Harris was that he had come down into the restaurant in a quarrelsome drunken mood, had gratuitously picked a quarrel with Pawlyn and, not content with taking on one good man, had also contrived to commit a battery upon Todt.

Harris pleaded guilty to having begun the quarrel with Pawlyn, but not guilty of having struck Todt. People in the court felt that history was repeating itself and wondered if Harris would get six months in the second division like Mr Fossett in the last case.

There were a large number of witnesses, and although they had all seen what had happened before someone turned the gas out, nobody had seen anything at all after. Very soon it became clear to anyone with a moderate knowledge of the law that the accused was in little danger of being found guilty on the second charge. However morally responsible he might be for making the opening move in the affray, there was no proof that he had assaulted Bosun Todt in any other way than by accidentally sitting on his knee. Indeed, the weight of evidence suggested that if any blow at all had been exchanged between the two men it had come from the German, who took exception to his supper being interrupted.

The quietus was given to this part of the case by the third mate of the windjammer, who had stayed behind to give evidence. Under cross-examination he admitted that there had been bad feeling during the long and very arduous voyage home, and also that when he arrived on the scene of the quarrel, just before the lights were put out, Bosun Todt was fighting with several of their own men. These men, it was ascertained, were no longer under the jurisdiction of the court, being with their ship, which was now in the Baltic.

At this stage Mr May, Harris's partner, submitted that there was no case to answer in law, and the Stipendiary Magistrate in charge of the court agreed with him and dismissed the charge.

There remained, however, the first charge, to which the accused pleaded guilty; and the magistrate gathered his papers together and prepared to deliver a weighty homily on the folly by which a young man of a highly respected local family, of good education and holding a responsible position in the affairs of a neighbouring town, should find himself in this deplorable position. But just as he was about to begin Mr May rose again and in a quiet voice said that he had one further witness to bring forward, one whom he produced with considerable reluctance, but who insisted upon entering the witness stand and giving testimony in this case. He called Mrs Tom Harris.

There was a stir in the well-filled court, and Patricia was to be seen making her way down the centre aisle. Tom half rose from his seat, then glanced at Mr May in annoyance.

Every person in the court, with the possible exception of the two foreign witnesses, knew something of the history of the whirlwind marriage and the equally sudden separation. There was a general peering and shifting and craning, and a rising murmur of voices was to be heard until the rap of the hammer checked it and brought a return of silence.

‘You are Mrs Patricia Harris, wife of the accused?' Mr May said, when the formalities had been gone through.

‘I am.' She spoke in a low voice. She was dressed all in black with a small black hat worn rather forward on her head and a veil hiding her expression. But in order to give her evidence she had lifted the veil. In these last few weeks since her father's death she had matured, grown suddenly and quietly adult. Her features had fined off, the chin had lost a little of its roundness. She had done her hair a different way, which emphasised the pale curve of chin and neck.

‘You were present in the restaurant on the night in question?'

‘I was.'

‘Will you tell the court, Mrs Harris, in your own words, what happened?'

Patricia put down her small black muff and looked at the magistrate.

‘Your worship, I must first explain that I am the daughter of the late Mr Joe Veal who owned the restaurant at the time. I had – left my husband some weeks before this happened, and he came to see me at the restaurant, where I was living. He was not drunk. I have never seen him in any way under the influence of drink. When he came –'

The magistrate looked over the top of his spectacles.

‘Why was this witness not produced before?'

‘Your worship,', said Patricia, ‘because everyone wished to spare me the pain of appearing in court. There has been that intention from the beginning – my husband, Mr Pawlyn, all of them wished to prevent it becoming known that the – the quarrel was – over me. But … I have insisted, because it – it is not fair that all the facts should not be known. Not from any – not from any …'

‘Take your time, Mrs Harris,' said Mr May gently.

Patricia put her gloved hands together in an effort to steady her nerves. That other time, when she had appeared in court and given testimony damaging her father, had been nothing to this. Then her personal, private life had been in no way involved. She had been in a spirited, reckless mood, not at all enjoying the experience but keyed up to do what she had suddenly, impulsively resolved. But now she hardly knew how to keep her hands or her lips steady.

With a great effort she went on:

‘A few months ago, I separated from my husband
permanently.
Once or twice he has visited me, asking me to return, and I have refused. Mr – Mr Pawlyn is an old friend whom I knew before I married and who always calls in when his ship is in port. My husband objected to my associating with him. I claim the right to associate with whom I choose. On the – that night I was having supper in the restaurant with Mr Pawlyn. Tom – my husband – came across and spoke to me. He was absolutely sober and I think had no idea of making trouble. But a few words were exchanged between them and then … then Mr Pawlyn called Tom an offensive name – and it was then that the – that my husband hit him.'

‘Your worship,' said the prosecuting solicitor, ‘I completely fail to see in what way this witness is going to affect the case. The accused has already pleaded guilty to assault and battery.'

‘Go on, Mrs Harris,' said the magistrate.

She hesitated. ‘ I – I think that is all.'

Mr May had no questions to ask, but the prosecutor at once came to his feet again.

‘How did you know that your husband was not drunk, Mrs Harris?' he asked.

‘… He wasn't. He was quite sober.'

‘You've just told us that you have never seen your husband drunk. How would you know, then, if you saw him?'

‘Well … he was not unsteady – or – or … I've seen too many drunken men not to be able to tell.'

‘Certainly he was not unsteady: look what happened to the restaurant. But a man needs just the right number of drinks to become quarrelsome – or to have been drinking steadily for some time. Since you had not been in his company, how could you tell?'

‘… I'm quite certain that –'

‘Mrs Harris, what was the offensive word Mr Pawlyn used to your husband?'

There was a titter at the back of the court.

Patricia fumbled with her muff. ‘I don't wish to repeat it …'

‘As bad as that? Or have you forgotten?'

‘No, I haven't. Your worship, I'll write it down if necessary.'

‘She'll write it down, if necessary, Mr Prior.'

Mr Prior did not pursue the subject.

‘Do you wish to return to your husband?'

‘No.'

The man looked at her with his head on one side.

‘Not?'

‘Certainly not.'

‘Are you sure that your testimony today is not given with a view to effecting a reconciliation?'

‘Certainly it is not.'

‘Are you still – friendly with Mr Pawlyn?'

‘Yes.'

‘A little damaging for him, isn't it, to come forward like this?'

‘I don't know what you mean.'

‘To say nothing of your own reputation?'

‘I can only tell you the truth. Your worship, I can only tell the truth. There was never anything at all between myself and Mr Pawlyn. I have no wish to return to my husband. I don't want to at all. But I don't want to see him go to prison for something that was only partly his fault.'

‘Quite so,' said the magistrate sympathetically. ‘ Have you any other questions, Mr Prior?'

‘No, your worship. But I submit that this young woman's testimony is entirely useless. She has proved nothing which was not already admitted and disproved nothing that the prosecution alleges. The case surely remains unaffected by it in any way.'

‘You may leave the stand now, Mrs Harris,' said the magistrate.