‘Yes — it was silly of me, I agree, but he’d have been bound to hear about it somehow. There were so many of us involved. It’ll be all round the county by now. Think of the telephone conversations.’
‘I fancy Mr Merridew may say something about that when he asks for damages.’
‘I tell you it’s simply bluff. The man’s a cad and a bounder. Look at the way he stood at the wicket until I went out to him.’
‘Very well, then, gentlemen. If you are all agreed, I propose to write the following letter. I’ll dictate it in your presence. Then, if you don’t like it, you can say so.’
He rang for his secretary.
‘Take a draft letter, please. To Messrs Groaner and Groaner, 18 Tetbury Street, Strand, wc.
Dear Sirs, I have been consulted by my client — leave the name blank — in regard to your letter of the 19th instant. My client makes no admission that he used the words complained of or that they meant what you allege and he has no apologies to offer. We will accept service of any proceedings you see fit to institute.
‘Wait a moment, please, Miss Taylor. How is that, gentlemen? You see, I can’t deny that you said the words, because you tell me you did say them, but I can refuse to admit them.’
‘Seems quite satisfactory to me,’ said the General. ‘ “He has no apologies to offer.” Just right. Dignified. Short. To the point. I say, yes. Anyone against?’
They all agreed and a few days afterwards Mr Buckram accepted service of twenty-two writs for slander.
Meantime, the police had not been altogether idle and, on the day after the writs were received, Detective-Inspector Larch and Detective-Sergeant Gage, at the request of the Chief Constable, called on Basil. They were in plain clothes. He opened the door himself.
‘More bailiffs?’ he asked politely. ‘Come in and have a drink.’
‘I am Detective-Inspector Larch and this is Detective-Sergeant Gage.’
‘Oh,’ said Basil. ‘You want some more particulars of the burglary. Please come in.’
He led them into the sitting-room and invited them to sit down.
‘Now what further information can I give you, gentlemen?’
‘A good deal, please, sir. At the moment all we know is that about 6.15 p.m. on the 13th of this month you reported to the Poppleton police station that £3,000 worth of valuables, including a stamp collection value £1,000, had been stolen. You stated that you had been away for the night of the 12th and, on returning on the 13th, had found the articles missing. You said that you may have forgotten to lock up the house — a very foolish thing to do, if I may say so, sir.’
‘You may not say so, Inspector,’ said Basil. ‘When I require instruction or correction I shall ask for it, and it will not be from you. Kindly reserve your criticisms for those under your immediate command. I am not one of them.’
The inspector flushed. One of these days, he said to himself, when we’ve got enough evidence to arrest you, I’ll make you sorry for that. To Basil he answered: ‘We have our duty to do, sir.’
‘I don’t doubt that,’ said Basil. ‘I wish you would do it.’
‘One of our duties is to advise householders how to behave.’
‘That may or may not be the case, but it is my pleasure (I don’t consider whether it is my duty) to advise you how to behave, and my advice to you, Inspector, is not to begin by making rude remarks to one of your employers.’
Now, if the object of the inspector’s visit had simply been for Basil’s benefit, to help him recover the property said to have been stolen, he would have left almost at once. But his object was a very different one. So he remained and controlled himself with some difficulty. There was silence for a moment or two. ‘You were in the middle of telling me what you knew already, Inspector,’ said Basil. ‘If you think there is any object to be gained by continuing to tell me what you know and I know and we each know that the other knows, pray Continue.’
‘You informed us that there were no marks on doors or windows or on the latch that you could see — that was why you thought you must have forgotten to lock up the house. You had left your stamp album lying about the house —’ He paused. He was about to say how foolish that was.
‘Yes. Leave out the comment, Inspector, please,’ said Basil. ‘I will listen to the narrative for what it is worth.’ The inspector did not grin, but he bore it. He had his orders.
‘You simply found your stamp album, silver, and other articles missing on your return. Detective-Constable Brown came out to your house the same day. He also could find no marks. He saw a number of fingerprints about the house, but they all appear to be your own.’
‘Now we are where we started,’ said Basil. ‘Where do we go from here?’
‘I shall be obliged if you will give me much more detail of the articles missing, what they were, where you got them, how much each is worth, how much they’re insured for, and so on.’ The sergeant got out his notebook.
‘Which information would you like first?’ said Basil.
‘As you please, sir.’
‘Very well, then, I’ll give you a list of the more valuable stamps. I shall have to lump the others together. It would take too long. Are you ready?’
‘Yes.’
‘Very well, the most valuable stamp of all is a 5-Cent black and white Baltimore 1846 issue which I bought before the war from a small dealer in the South of London who can’t have known much about his job. It is catalogued at £250 and worth to me, I suppose, about half as much.’
He then went on to give in detail the descriptions of twenty to thirty stamps of value. By this time the sergeant was getting a little tired of writing and the inspector of listening.
‘Are there many more?’ he asked.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Basil. ‘I’ve a very good memory for them, you know. Most collectors have.’
We shall be here all day at this rate, thought the inspector. ‘Haven’t you a duplicate of the claim you’ve submitted to the insurance company? That would save a lot of time.’
‘I dare say it would,’ said Basil, ‘but they’re not insured.’
‘Not insured?’ said the inspector incredulously.
‘No.’
‘I suppose the policy excluded stamps, then?’
‘I haven’t a policy. None of my things are insured. That’s why I’m so worried about the loss.’
The inspector and the sergeant looked at each other. If that was true, their errand was hopeless. ‘But I was told,’ said the inspector, ‘that you had recently mentioned the payment of insurance premiums. Perhaps you weren’t able to pay them and the policies lapsed?’
‘I don’t know who told you that or what business it is of yours or anyone else’s to pry into my affairs, but the only policies I have are life policies. It is quite true that I did refer at the County Court to the payment of premiums on these policies. I suppose the Chief Constable told you. I saw him sitting there lapping it all up. I hope he’ll be as pleased when he’s sitting in the High Court as a defendant himself. Now, what more can I do for you, gentlemen?’
It was quite plain to the inspector that there was nothing more to be done. It could be ascertained whether Basil was telling the truth and, if he was not in fact insured, any suggestion of a bogus burglary was ludicrous. As far as tracing the thief or thieves was concerned, he had all the information he needed. He had come for evidence to put Basil in the dock. He had only succeeded in obtaining evidence which, if true, would most certainly keep him out of it. Accordingly, he made a few more perfunctory inquiries and ended by asking if a list of the missing articles could be forwarded at Basil’s convenience.
‘It’s funny how you seem to have lost interest in the case since I told you I was uninsured,’ said Basil. ‘A more suspicious person than I might have thought that the object of your visit was not to help me get back my property, but to prove I hadn’t lost any. No doubt the Chief Constable would have preferred it that way, considering what he’s said about me. However, that’s not your concern, Inspector, is it? As far as I know, you haven’t said anything about me yourself yet, and, if I were you, I shouldn’t. It’s going to prove very expensive for those who have.’
‘It’s not part of my duty to listen to your offensive observations about my superiors,’ said the inspector, getting up to go.
‘No,’ said Basil; ‘though it apparently is your duty to try to obtain evidence for the benefit of your superiors’ private litigation. At any rate, you have spent part of this afternoon in doing so. Or should I say wasted?’
‘Good afternoon, sir,’ said the inspector.
‘You can find your way out, Inspector. Don’t leave any fingerprints on the door, please. It might be so confusing for the next police officer who arrives.’
It was not long before the dreadful news that Basil was not insured went all round Tapworth Magna. Mr Buckram, however, when consulted, said it would be best to make inquiries before taking any decisive step in the matter. Two or three weeks later at another meeting at his office he announced the doleful news to a deputation from the defendants that Basil had no policy on any of his belongings.
‘Well,’ said the General, ‘it’s no good sitting down and crying. What do we do now? We must make a plan.’
‘It is clearly a case where we must take counsel’s opinion,’ said Mr Buckram. ‘I will instruct my London agents to arrange a consultation with the two best-known authorities on libel and slander in the Temple.’
A week later Mr Buckram, the General, the doctor, Nicholas, and a representative of Mr Buckram’s London agents, Mr Pound, attended a Consultation with Mr Adam Twigg, qc., and Mr Rowland Stewart.
Mr Twigg was a man of few words — unlike some of his learned colleagues — and his opinions were, whenever possible, quite definite. He had the courage of his convictions. He never wrote, for instance: ‘While, of course, it is possible that the Court might take a different view and while much depends on the evidence of Mr Crookshank, I think on the whole that, etc., etc. I must, however, make one or two reservations, first, etc., etc.’ He informed his client what the law was, occasionally adding that there was a decision to the contrary, but that it was wrong. He had to be rather more guarded on questions of fact, but even there he had almost a woman’s intuition not necessarily for the truth, but for the probable result.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘this is a nice kettle of fish. There’s no defence to the actions. It’s only a question of damages. They’ll be heavy. A doctor, the local Vicar, the Chief Constable, a County Court Judge, a former High Sheriff of the county, the man’s own nephew — dear, dear, dear. You must apologize at the earliest possible moment and see how much he’ll take. If you can’t settle, we must make a payment into Court. We must get the actions consolidated if possible and then pay in an amount which will make him think before he refuses it.’
‘What sort of amount have you in mind?’ asked Mr Buckram.
‘Humph,’ said Mr Twigg. ‘It’s a very serious slander. The plaintiff may have to give up his house and leave the neighbourhood. It’s not like a few words of abuse from a fishwife, though, if I may say so, as little care seems to have been taken before the words were used. Let me see. Twenty-two defendants. A refusal to apologize in the first instance. The most he’s likely to get altogether is £20,000, the least £5,000. Juries vary. I can’t be more definite than that. I should pay in £7,500. A settlement at £10,000 would be reasonable, but I don’t think he’d risk going on with that amount in Court and the offer of a public apology. D’you agree, Stewart?’
‘Entirely.’
‘Anything you’d like to ask?’ said Mr Twigg.
‘It seems a great deal of money,’ said the General, when he had got his breath back.
‘It
is
a great deal of money,’ said Mr Twigg, ‘and it will be free of tax. If I may say so, however, you should have thought of that before you made wholesale allegations against the man, however much you dislike him. Burglars may arrive when a person is up to his eyes in debt. Coincidences do happen. I once heard a witness say: “May God strike me dead if I’m telling a lie.” The next moment he had collapsed. Every one was frozen for a few seconds. Then they went to his assistance. He wasn’t dead — just a faint, but he ought to have been: he’d been lying like a trooper.’
Mr Twigg was talking rather more than usual. This was because, in spite of his rather brusque manner, he was quite a kindly man and wanted to give the unfortunate defendants a little more of his time for their money.
‘How do you suggest we approach him?’ asked Mr Buckram.
‘In the usual way, I suppose. But no. I think you might ask his solicitors if he’d consent to receive a deputation from the defendants without prejudice. Send an open apology first, of course. But you never know with a chap like this. You may find that, if his solicitors will let you approach him personally, he’ll respond more readily. You can never tell. He might even take £500. But you must feel your way carefully. Try and get him to mention the sort of figure he has in mind first. If he’s thinking of £5,000 and you offer £500, it’ll only put his back up. You say he’s a difficult chap. He may, of course, refuse to see you. In that case, Mr Buckram or Mr Pound must do his best with the plaintiff’s solicitors. I’m sorry to be so pessimistic, gentlemen, but it’s better to know it now than when you hear the jury’s verdict.’
‘Mr Twigg,’ said the General, ‘I’m sure you’ll forgive me, but I’m a plain man and say what I think. Is there any possibility that your judgement is wrong? I have myself made mistakes on the field of battle.’
‘So has everyone,’ replied Mr Twigg, ‘including me, of course. But not in this case. It’s too plain. You want to know why? All right. First question: Did you speak the words complained of? Answer: Yes. Second question: Did the words impute a criminal offence to the plaintiff? Answer: Yes. Third question: Were they uttered on what we call a privileged occasion — that is to say, had you any duty or right to talk as you did? Answer: No. Fourth question: Can you prove the words to be true? Answer: No. Only remaining question: What are the damages? Well, there I’ve had to leave a wide margin, but I cannot see any jury giving less than £5,000 all told. People in your position cannot combine to take away a man’s character without paying heavily for it. No: it seems to me a clear case. Of course, if you query the answers to any of the questions I’ve posed, that would be different. But can you? Could you yourselves answer any of the five questions differently? I may add that I have discussed the matter with my junior, Mr Stewart, who has vast experience in these cases, and he is of exactly the same opinion.’
‘Exactly,’ said Mr Stewart.
Nicholas had so far said even less than Mr Stewart. ‘I think the idea of a deputation to my uncle is excellent,’ he put in, ‘though I’d better not form part of it myself. I was pretty offensive to him on the last occasion we met, as far as I remember. But he’s a man of very queer moods. Mr Twigg is quite right. Approached in the proper way, he might take £500 or even less. He’s a very difficult man to handle, but, if you get him in the right temper and make the right approach, you can do quite a lot with him.’
‘Well,’ said Mr Twigg, ‘that seems the best bet. Now, are there any more questions?’ There were not, and the unhappy little party returned to Tapworth Magna.
‘Chin up,’ said the General on the way home when the conversation flagged. ‘We must decide who’s to be in the deputation.’ They were wasting their time, however, in that respect, as Basil’s solicitors replied to the apology and the suggestion of a meeting between the parties without prejudice as follows: