‘What’s the matter, my dear?’ inquired Mrs Gaspard. ‘That bloody, bloody man,’ was all she could say. ‘That bloody, bloody man.’
‘What man, and what’s happened?’
‘A drink, please, first. Something strong.’ Henry Gaspard came to her aid and she swallowed the first.
‘Again, please, Henry. That bloody, bloody man.’
By this time everyone in the room was aware that something had happened and Mrs Stroud became the centre of a most interested circle. It did not take them long to guess that Basil was behind it. After her third drink, she calmed down a bit. Then she prepared them for the news.
‘D’you know the latest?’
‘No—are the bailiffs in?’
‘I don’t know — but someone else has been in — or I should say is said to have been in — he’s had a burglary.’
‘What!’
‘He’s gone off to report it to the police. What d’you think I said to him? How unfortunate for the insurance company, how convenient for you.’
‘How did he like that?’
‘He didn’t. He went off in a huff.’
‘So that’s what the trouble’s about.’
‘Not exactly.’ Mention of the cause of the trouble revived memories of ‘I wish you wouldn’t follow me about’.
‘That bloody, bloody man.’
‘Tell us some more. What did the burglars take?’
‘He didn’t say.’
‘I bet they’ve taken his stamp collection,’ put in Nicholas. ‘He’s always boasted how much it’s worth, but between you and me it’s a lot of rubbish.’
‘He’ll never get away with it,’ put in the doctor. ‘It’s just too good to be true. When the insurance company gets to know what the position is, they won’t stand for it. Just about to have the bailiffs in — and the kindly burglar arrives. How very thoughtful. As you said, Isabel, how very convenient.’
‘We must see that he doesn’t get away with it,’ said the General.
‘I think you’re right, General,’ said the Vicar. He had memories which still rankled. ‘How many years can you get for fraud?’
Everyone turned to the Judge.
‘I don’t think I ought to join this discussion, you know. He may come up before me again.’
So the talk went on, everyone, except the Judge, putting in his or her contribution. Eventually it was just dying down when Colonel Murphy arrived. ‘I’ve got some news,’ he almost shouted.
Everyone crowded round while Colonel Murphy told them that Basil had just reported to the police that his house had been broken into and that valuables to the extent of about £3,000 had been stolen.
‘Including a stamp collection?’ asked Nicholas.
‘Including a stamp collection,’ said the Colonel, ‘value £1,000.’
Talk on the one subject flared up again and the Judge decided he must go.
‘Don’t be so prim and proper, George,’ said the General. ‘You’re not on the Bench now. How much can you get for fraud?’
‘It depends on the kind of fraud. No, I won’t be drawn into it. I must leave you to gloat among yourselves, I’m afraid. Anyway,’ he could not resist adding, in the tones of Robin Oakapple, ‘if a man can’t steal his own goods, whose goods can he steal?’
‘But a man can’t steal his own goods,’ came in Dr Sainsbury in the voice of Sir Roderick Murgatroyd.
‘A man might try,’ said the Judge in the manner of Pooh Bah, and, with that parting shot, he left.
After the Judge had gone, the party grew more hilarious and the fate of Basil was seldom absent from the conversation in at least one part of the room. Meanwhile, Nicholas was drinking rather more than was apparently good for him. Eventually people started to go. Nicholas was one of the last, and he left with Dr Sainsbury, who was also a little the worse for wear.
‘I say, Doctor,’ he said a little uncertainly, ‘don’t you think it would be fun to go and commiserate with that jolly old uncle of mine?’
The idea appealed to the doctor, and the two of them went off to find him. The door was open when they arrived, so they walked straight in and found Basil in the sitting-room.
‘My poor, poor Uncle,’ began Nicholas, ‘we have come to weep with you.’
‘Nicholas, you’re drunk. Get out. Doctor, take him away.’
‘My poor Uncle. What does it feel like to be burgled inside out?’
‘Are you going, or shall I ring for the police?’
‘Police, dear old Uncle? Police? I shouldn’t send for them. They might take you away with them. How much did the Judge say he could get?’
‘He didn’t.’
‘Oh — no, I remember — he just said — most reasonably — what was it? — oh, yes, I remember — Gilbert and Sullivan,’ and he repeated the dialogue between the Judge and Doctor.
‘What else has anybody been saying?’
‘Oh, terrible things, my poor, burgled, and over-insured Uncle. The General said —‘ and he repeated some of the General’s choicer remarks.
‘I’m afraid I wasn’t too kind myself, dear old Uncle. I spoke about your stamp collection. That was naughty of me, and the old doctor here — well, he did say in the end that you couldn’t steal your own goods — which was rather decent of him. Good for you, Doctor.’
For about a quarter of an hour Basil encouraged Nicholas and the doctor to describe in detail the delights of the cocktail party. When he had heard all he wanted, he said: ‘Now, my two young friends, get out and stay out. But you’ll hear more of this. There’s such a thing as the law of slander in this country.’
‘But not if it’s true, venerable Uncle, though now I come to think of it there is something about the greater the truth the greater the libel.’
‘Must I throw you out?’ asked Basil.
‘Come along, Doctor. We’re not wanted. We’re not burglars.’
So the doctor and Nicholas left in not much better condition than when they arrived. Eventually they parted company and Nicholas went to the Vicarage. The Vicar was in the hall. He looked at Nicholas as he stood there swaying, and said: ‘I think I should go to bed if I were you.’
Nicholas turned to the Vicar.
‘Vicar,’ he said, ‘dear Vicar. I am very much ashamed — of my uncle,’ and collapsed on the floor. The Vicar turned away in disgust, but, finding him still there half an hour later, felt he had no alternative but to put him to bed.
Next morning the atmosphere in the Vicarage was distinctly chilly. Nicholas apologized profusely.
‘I’m extremely sorry about last night. It was disgraceful. I’ll leave at once and go and stay at the Bear until I can make other plans.’
‘I can’t pretend I’m pleased,’ said the Vicar. ‘Your uncle will go to prison and you come home dead drunk. We aren’t used to that sort of thing here. But by all means stay a little longer if it will help. I don’t want to make too heavy weather of your performance.’
‘You have been much too good to me, anyway,’ said Nicholas, ‘and I can’t tell you how sorry I am.’
He left the next day and took a room at the Bear. A few days afterwards a bailiff arrived at Basil’s house.
‘I’m an officer from the Poppleton County Court,’ he said.
‘Come in,’ said Basil. ‘I’ve been expecting you.’
‘I have seven warrants of execution for a total sum of £152 6s. 7d. Can you pay it?’
‘I cannot,’ said Basil, ‘at the moment, but my affairs will all straighten themselves out shortly.’
‘I can give you seven days if you’ll sign this paper.’
‘I’m not sure that seven days will be enough, but let me see the paper.’
He looked at it for a short time and said: ‘If I sign this, will you go away?’
‘Yes.’
‘What will you do if I don’t sign it?’ The bailiff hesitated.
‘Well?’ said Basil. ‘If I don’t sign it?’
It was an awkward question. In these days County Courts seldom have men to leave in possession of the premises. Legally, the bailiff could have removed the furniture in half an hour, but physically, of course, he could not. If Basil did not sign the paper, he still would have to go away and make arrangements for a van to carry out the removal later.
‘Well?’ said Basil again. ‘You’re not very informative.’
‘If you don’t sign it,’ said the bailiff, ‘I’m entitled to remove all your goods with certain small exceptions.’
‘I see you have an Austin 7 outside. A bit small for the job, isn’t it?’
Now, bailiffs are normally resourceful men. They have to be, as they come into contact with a varied assortment of characters. This bailiff was no exception.
‘To be quite frank with you, sir,’ he said, ‘whether you sign the form or not won’t make the slightest difference for the moment. I shall have to go away in any event.’
‘I see,’ said Basil. ‘That isn’t a great inducement to sign a document by which I see I have to make all sorts of promises.’
‘You’re perfectly right, sir, and between you and me, if you can find the money within two or three days, you might just as well not sign it. On the other hand, if you can’t find the money as quickly, you may find it better to keep me in a good temper. Now, I’m a very normal man and if people make things easy for me, I do what I can for them. Suppose you can’t find the money in seven days, then, if you don’t sign this form, I shall definitely come along with a van and take your things away to be sold by auction. I shall have to take the risk that you’ve removed them first. On the other hand, if you sign this form, it’s possible — mind you, I’m making no promises — it’s possible that I might get you a little longer. Of course, I should have to ask the Plaintiffs’ consent to that, but they usually do what I advise. Now, what would you like me to advise them, sir? That you’re a reasonable man who, given a little more time, is likely to pay or that you shouldn’t be given a minute more than the law allows?’
‘Bailiff,’ said Basil, ‘you ought to have been a barrister. Where do I sign? Oh — I see,’ and a moment later he handed the form, duly signed, to the bailiff.
‘Thank you very much, sir,’ said the bailiff. ‘It’s an unpleasant job we have to do and it makes it much easier if people see our point of view and are reasonable like you. The law’s the law and we have to carry it out — but it’s flexible in places.’
‘Is it flexible enough,’ said Basil, ‘to let you join me in a drink?’
Now, whether its flexibility permits such intimacy between bailiff and judgement debtor is uncertain and, therefore, it must remain equally uncertain whether Basil’s invitation was accepted. It would be a pity to cast the slightest reflection on an admirable body of men who do their difficult work with great tact, kindness, and good humour.
Shortly afterwards the bailiff left and next day Basil went to London.
Three days later nearly everybody who had attended the cocktail party received a letter from a firm of London solicitors instructed by Basil. The letters varied in their terms, but their effect was that Basil was going to issue a writ for slander against each of the men and women who had suggested that he had been guilty of fraud. Here is the letter which was written to the judge:
His Honour Judge Strachan,
Red Lodge,
Tapworth Magna,
Nr Poppleton, Herts.
Dear Sir, We have been consulted by our client, Mr Basil Merridew. Our client claims that you and a large number of your friends and acquaintances have grossly slandered him by alleging that he staged a false burglary with the intention of defrauding insurance companies. There is no doubt whatever but that there has been a campaign of vituperation directed against our client, culminating in the grave allegations which were made at a party given by Mr and Mrs Gaspard at their house near Tapworth Magna last Thursday. The nature of the slander is so serious and the influence of the persons uttering them so great that it is necessary for our client to take immediate proceedings to clear his name. We wish, however, to give you an opportunity of unreservedly withdrawing and apologizing for the slanders uttered by you. Our client informs us that you yourself did not at first join in slandering him, but that just before you left you made two jests the only innuendo from which was that our client had been guilty of the conduct referred to. The exact words used by you will appear in the Statement of Claim.
We need only add that it is with great personal reluctance that we have to address a letter of this kind to a member of the judiciary, but we hope you will appreciate that the fact that you are such a member makes the damage to our client all the greater.
Within twenty-four hours of the receipt of the letters, a consultation took place at the General’s house. It was decided to call in Mr Buckram and an appointment was made with him for the same day. A deputation of the proposed defendants, led by the General, waited on the solicitor. ‘Why on earth should we apologize?’ said the General. ‘It’s obvious he’s done it. Coincidences like that just don’t happen.’
‘Undoubtedly,’ said Mr Buckram, ‘the insurance company will be very suspicious and it will go into the matter very carefully, but it will all take some time.’
‘But if we apologize now, we can’t say it’s true later on,’ put in the doctor.
‘There is something in that,’ said Mr Buckram, ‘but equally if you refuse to apologize now the damages — if you lose — will be much heavier.’
‘How can we lose if he goes to prison?’
‘Oh — you can’t lose then.’
‘What does the greater the truth the greater the libel mean, then?’ put in the doctor.
‘Oh, it doesn’t refer to slander or civil libel — only criminal libel — which is quite a different matter. You needn’t bother about that at all. It’s just a question of whether you’ll take the risk.’
‘What risk?’
‘Of not being able to prove that it is a put-up job.’
‘The insurance company will prove that.’
‘He is insured, I suppose?’
‘That’s another thing in our favour. He said in Court that he’d just had to pay the premiums. Another unfortunate coincidence.’
‘Yes — that is certainly a point in your favour. On the other hand, he says he’s definitely issuing writs.’
‘He said he was definitely going to pay Mrs Thwaites. He said it twice. He hasn’t paid her yet.’
‘If you ask me, it’s all bluff.’
‘Well — there it is, gentlemen, what do you wish me to do — apologize or not?’
‘Never,’ said the General. ‘Do you agree, Doctor? It was all your fault that we’re here, anyway.’