Over the River eotc-3 Read online

“What other should I have used?”

  “You are not standing there to ask me questions, madam. What did he say to that?”

  “That he would do anything I wished.”

  “Did he see your uncle?”

  “No.”

  “Was that the occasion on which your husband said he saw him leaving the house?”

  “I imagine so.”

  “Your husband came directly he had gone?”

  “Yes.”

  “He saw you, and asked who that young man was?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you tell him?”

  “Yes.”

  “I think you called the co-respondent Tony?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was that his name?”

  “No.”

  “It was your pet name for him?”

  “Not at all. Everybody calls him that.”

  “And he called you Clare, or darling, I suppose?”

  “One or the other.”

  Dinny saw the Judge’s eyes lifted to the unseen.

  “Young people nowadays call each other darling on very little provocation, Mr. Brough.”

  “I am aware of that, my Lord… Did you call HIM darling?”

  “I may have, but I don’t think so.”

  “You saw your husband alone on that occasion?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you receive him?”

  “Coldly.”

  “Having just parted from the co-respondent?”

  “That had nothing to do with it.”

  “Did your husband ask you to go back to him?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you refused?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that had nothing to do with the co-respondent?”

  “No.”

  “Do you seriously tell the jury, Lady Corven, that your relations with the co-respondent, or if you like it better, your feelings for the co-respondent, played no part in your refusal to go back to your husband?”

  “None.”

  “I’ll put it at your own valuation: You had spent three weeks in the close company of this young man. You had allowed him to kiss you, and felt better for it. You had just parted from him. You knew of his feelings for you. And you tell the jury that he counted for nothing in the equation?”

  Clare bowed her head.

  “Answer, please.”

  “I don’t think he did.”

  “Not very human, was it?”

  “I don’t know what you mean by that.”

  “I mean, Lady Corven, that it’s going to be a little difficult for the jury to believe you.”

  “I can’t help what they believe, I can only speak the truth.”

  “Very well! When did you next see the co-respondent?”

  “On the following evening, and the evening after that he came to the unfurnished rooms I was going into and helped me to distemper the walls.”

  “Oh! A little unusual, wasn’t it?”

  “Perhaps. I had no money to spare, and he had done his own bungalow in Ceylon.”

  “I see. Just a friendly office on his part. And during the hours he spent with you there no passages took place between you?”

  “No passages have ever taken place between us.”

  “At what time did he leave?”

  “We left together both evenings about nine o’clock and went and had some food.”

  “And after that?”

  “I went back to my aunt’s house.”

  “Nowhere in between?”

  “Nowhere.”

  “Very well! You saw your husband again before he was compelled to go back to Ceylon?”

  “Yes, twice.”

  “Where was the first time?”

  “At my rooms. I had got into them by then.”

  “Did you tell him that the co-respondent had helped you distemper the walls?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why should I? I told my husband nothing, except that I wasn’t going back to him. I regarded my life with him as finished.”

  “Did he on that occasion again ask you to go back to him?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you refused?”

  “Yes.”

  “With contumely?”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “Insultingly?”

  “No. Simply.”

  “Had your husband given you any reason to suppose that he wished to divorce you?”

  “No. But I don’t know what was in his mind.”

  “And, apparently, you gave him no chance to know what was in yours?”

  “As little as possible.”

  “A stormy meeting?”

  Dinny held her breath. The flush had died out of Clare’s cheeks; her face looked pale and peaked.

  “No; disturbed and unhappy. I did not want to see him.”

  “You heard your counsel say that from the time of your leaving him in Ceylon, your husband in his wounded pride had conceived the idea of divorcing you the moment he got the chance? Was that your impression?”

  “I had and have no impression. It is possible. I don’t pretend to know the workings of his mind.”

  “Though you lived with him for nearly eighteen months?”

  “Yes.”

  “But, anyway, you again refused definitely to go back to him?”

  “I have said so.”

  “Did you believe he meant it when he asked you to go back?”

  “At the moment, yes.”

  “Did you see him again before he went?”

  “Yes, for a minute or two, but not alone.”

  “Who was present?”

  “My father.”

  “Did he ask you again to go back to him on that occasion?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you refused?”

  “Yes.”

  “And after that you had a message from your husband before he left London, asking you once more to change your mind and accompany him?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you did not?”

  “No.”

  “Now let me take you to the date of January the—er—third”—Dinny breathed again—“that is the day which you spent, from five in the afternoon till nearly midnight, with the co-respondent. You admit doing that?”

  “Yes.”

  “No passages between you?”

  “Only one. He hadn’t seen me for nearly three weeks, and he kissed my cheek when he first came in to have tea.”

  “Oh! the cheek again? Only the cheek?”

  “Yes. I am sorry.”

  “So I am sure was he.”

  “Possibly.”

  “You first spent half an hour alone, after this separation, having—tea?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your rooms, I think, are in an old mews—a room below, a staircase, a room above—where you sleep?”

  “Yes.”

  “And a bathroom? Besides the tea I suppose you had a chat?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “In the ground-floor room.”

  “And then did you walk together, chatting, to the Temple, and afterwards to a film and to dinner at a restaurant, during which you chatted, I suppose, and then took a cab back to your rooms, chatting?”

  “Quite correct.”

  “And then you thought that having been with him nearly six hours, you had still a good deal to say and it was necessary that he should come in, and he came?”

  “Yes.”

  “That would be past eleven, wouldn’t it?”

  “Just past, I think.”

  “How long did he stay on that occasion?”

  “About half an hour.”

  “No passages?”

  “None.”

  “Just a drink and a cigarette or two, and a little more chat?”

  “Precisely.”

  “What had you to talk about for so many hours with this young man who was privileged to kiss your cheek?”


  “What has anyone to talk about at any time?”

  “I am asking you that question.”

  “We talked about everything and nothing.”

  “A little more explicit, please.”

  “Horses, films, my people, his people, theatres—I really don’t remember.”

  “Carefully barring the subject of love?”

  “Yes.”

  “Strictly platonic from beginning to end?”

  “I should say so.”

  “Come, Lady Corven, do you mean to tell us that this young man, who on your own admission was in love with you, and who hadn’t seen you for nearly three weeks, never once during all those hours yielded to his feelings?”

  “I think he told me he loved me once or twice; but he always stuck splendidly to his promise.”

  “What promise?”

  “Not to make love to me. To love a person is not a crime, it is only a misfortune.”

  “You speak feelingly—from your own experience?”

  Clare did not answer.

  “Do you seriously tell us that you have not been and are not in love with this young man?”

  “I am very fond of him, but not in your sense.”

  In Dinny flamed up compassion for young Croom listening to all this. Her cheeks went hot, and she fixed her blue eyes on the Judge. He had just finished taking down Clare’s answer; and suddenly she saw him yawn. It was an old man’s yawn, and lasted so long that it seemed never going to end. It changed her mood, and filled her with a sort of pity. He, too, had to listen day after day to long-drawn-out attempts to hurt people, and make them stultify themselves.

  “You have heard the enquiry agent’s evidence that there was a light in the upstairs room after you returned with the co-respondent from the restaurant. What do you say to that?”

  “There would be. We sat there.”

  “Why there, and not downstairs?”

  “Because it’s much warmer and more comfortable.”

  “That is your bedroom?”

  “No, it’s a sitting-room. I have no bedroom. I just sleep on the sofa.”

  “I see. And there you spent the time from soon after eleven to nearly midnight with the co-respondent?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you think there was no harm in that?”

  “No harm, but I think it was extremely foolish.”

  “You mean that you would not have done so if you had known you were being watched?”

  “We certainly shouldn’t.”

  “What made you take these particular rooms?”

  “Their cheapness.”

  “Very inconvenient, wasn’t it, having no bedroom, and nowhere for a servant, and no porter?”

  “Those are luxuries for which one has to pay.”

  “Do you say that you did not take these particular rooms because there was no one of any kind on the premises?”

  “I do. I have only just enough money to live on.”

  “No thought of the co-respondent, when you took them?”

  “None.”

  “Not even just a sidelong thought of him?”

  “My Lord, I have answered.”

  “I think she has, Mr. Brough.”

  “After this you saw the co-respondent constantly?”

  “No. Occasionally. He was living in the country.”

  “I see, and came up to see you?”

  “He always saw me when he did come up, perhaps twice a week.”

  “And when you saw him what did you do?”

  “Went to a picture gallery or a film; once to a theatre, I think. We used to dine together.”

  “Did you know you were being watched?”

  “No.”

  “Did he come to your rooms?”

  “Not again till February the third.”

  “Yes, that is the day I am coming to.”

  “I thought so.”

  “You thought so. It is a day and night indelibly fixed in your mind?”

  “I remember it very well.”

  “My friend has taken you at length through the events of that day, and except for the hours at Oxford, it seems to have been spent almost entirely in the car. Is that so?”

  “Yes.”

  “And this car was a two-seater, with what, my Lord, is called a ‘dicky.’”

  The Judge stirred.

  “I have never been in a ‘dicky,’ Mr. Brough, but I know what they are.”

  “Was it a roomy, comfortable little car?”

  “Quite.”

  “Closed, I think?”

  “Yes. It didn’t open.”

  “Mr. Croom drove and you were seated beside him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now when you were driving back from Oxford you have said that this car’s lights went out about half-past ten, four miles or so short of Henley, in a wood?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was that an accident?”

  “Of course.”

  “Did you examine the battery?”

  “No.”

  “Did you know when or how it was last charged?”

  “No.”

  “Did you see it when it was recharged?”

  “No.”

  “Then why—of course?”

  “If you are suggesting that Mr. Croom tampered with the battery—”

  “Just answer my question, please.”

  “I AM answering. Mr. Croom is incapable of any such dirty trick.”

  “It was a dark night?”

  “Very.”

  “And a large wood?”

  “Yes.”

  “Just the spot one would choose on the whole of that journey from Oxford to London?”

  “Choose?”

  “If one had designed to spend the night in the car.”

  “Yes, but the suggestion is monstrous.”

  “Never mind that, Lady Corven. You regarded it as a pure coincidence?”

  “Of course.”

  “Just tell us what Mr. Croom said when the lights went out.”

  “I think he said: ‘Hallo! My lights are gone!’ And he got out and examined the battery.”

  “Had he a torch?”

  “No.”

  “And it was pitch dark. I wonder how he did it. Didn’t you wonder too?”

  “No. He used a match.”

  “And what WAS wrong?”

  “I think he said a wire must have gone.”

  “Then—you have told us that he tried to drive on, and twice got off the road. It must have been VERY dark?”

  “It was, fearfully.”

  “I think you said it was YOUR suggestion that you should spend the night in the car?”

  “I did.”

  “After Mr. Croom had proposed one or two alternatives?”

  “Yes; he proposed that we should walk into Henley, and that he should come back to the car with a torch.”

  “Did he seem keen on that?”

  “Keen? Not particularly.”

  “Didn’t press it?”

  “N—no.”

  “Do you think he ever meant it?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “In fact, you have the utmost confidence in Mr. Croom?”

  “The utmost.”

  “Quite! You have heard of the expression ‘palming the cards’?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know what it means?”

  “It means forcing a person to take a card that you wish him to take.”

  “Precisely.”

  “If you are suggesting that Mr. Croom was trying to force me to propose that we should spend the night in the car, you are wholly wrong; and it’s a base suggestion.”

  “What made you think I was going to make that suggestion, Lady Corven? Had the idea been present to your mind?”

  “No. When I suggested that we should spend the night in the car, Mr. Croom was taken aback.”

  “Oh! How did he show that?”

  “He asked me if I could trust him. I had to tell him not to be ol
d-fashioned. Of course, I could trust him.”

  “Trust him to act exactly as you wished?”

  “Trust him not to make love to me. I was trusting him every time I saw him.”

  “You had not spent a night with him before?”

  “Of course I had not.”

  “You use the expression ‘of course’ rather freely, and it seems to me with very little reason. You had plenty of opportunities of passing a night with him, hadn’t you—on the ship, and in your rooms where there was nobody but yourself?”

  “Plenty, and I did not avail myself of them.”

  “So you say; and if you did not, doesn’t it seem to you rather singular that you suggested it on this occasion?”

  “No. I thought it would be rather fun.”

  “Rather fun? Yet you knew this young man was passionately in love with you?”

  “I regretted it afterwards. It wasn’t fair to him.”

  “Really, Lady Corven, do you ask us to believe that you, a married woman of experience, didn’t realise the ordeal by fire through which you were putting him?”

  “I did afterwards, and I was extremely sorry.”

  “Oh, afterwards! I am speaking of before.”

  “I’m afraid I didn’t before.”

  “You are on your oath. Do you persist in swearing that nothing took place between you in or out of the car on the night of February the third in that dark wood?”

  “I do.”

  “You heard the enquiry agent’s evidence that, when about two in the morning he stole up to the car and looked into it, he saw by the light of his torch that you were both asleep and that your head was on the co-respondent’s shoulder?”

  “Yes, I heard that.”

  “Is it true?”

  “If I was asleep how can I say, but I think it’s quite likely. I had put my head there early on.”

  “Oh! You admit that?”

  “Certainly. It was more comfortable. I had asked him if he minded.”

  “And, of course, he didn’t?”

  “I thought you didn’t like the expression ‘of course,’ but anyway he said he didn’t.”

  “He had marvellous control, hadn’t he, this young man, who was in love with you?”

  “Yes, I’ve thought since that he had.”

  “You knew then that he must have, if your story is true. But is it true, Lady Corven; isn’t it entirely fantastic?”

  Dinny saw her sister’s hands clenching on the rail, and a flood of crimson coming up into her cheeks and ebbing again before she answered:

  “It may be fantastic, but it’s entirely true. Everything I’ve said in this box is true.”

  “And then in the morning you woke up as if nothing had happened, and said: ‘Now we can go home and have breakfast!’ And you went? To your rooms?”