Джеймс Хилтон - Time And Time Again

Blainey shook his head when Havelock passed the decanter of brandy.

‘It’s good stuff, Blainey—very gentle… I wish you’d try it.’

‘Oh, all right.’ Havelock filled liqueur glasses and had Cobb take them round.

‘As I was saying,’ Havelock went on, ‘the medical aspects of poisoning cases are so technical that the accused is often in danger of being tried by expert witnesses rather than by the court. Take the Marsh test for arsenic, for instance. How can a juryman possibly give the benefit of a doubt when a fellow like Spilsbury comes along and says there isn’t any doubt? And yet, as every toxicologist knows, there ARE doubts—small ones, maybe, but doubts all the same—margins for error and admitted incalculables in every chemical test known to science.’

‘That’s true, but on the other hand what would happen if Spilsbury were to give these doubts the place they would certainly have if he were lecturing to scientists instead of offering an opinion to a group of laymen? You’d simply never get a conviction—the jury, unused to the philosophic assessment of probabilities, would just acquit one poisoner after another.’

‘They might acquit a few more of the innocent.’

‘Oh, come now, I can’t believe that many innocent victims go to the gallows.’

‘Can’t you? Let me tell you of a case I had once—before your time —an insurance agent in Manchester…’

Five more minutes of that. Charles did not want to seem either fidgety or ungracious, but he could not help saying, when a suitable pause occurred: ‘I expect Mr. Blainey would like to get to bed…’

Havelock nodded. ‘Of course, of course. Any time he likes… But what about a nightcap, then we’ll all turn in?… Busy day tomorrow… Cobb, we won’t adjourn anywhere tonight—just leave the decanters on the table.’

Charles hoped the surgeon would refuse any more drinks, but he did not do so, and his signal, though prompt, was not in time to stay Havelock’s generous hand. ‘I must lend you a book, Blainey—take it up with you when you go… case histories somewhat on the lines of the one we were talking about… Charles, fetch Winfield’s Problems of Medico-Legal Practice —it’s on the top shelf in the window alcove in the library.’

Charles did not move, but forced a smile. ‘I really don’t think Mr. Blainey will want to read much tonight.’

Blainey smiled also. ‘And I know the book quite well, so don’t bother.’

‘Then you’ll remember,’ Havelock continued, ‘how Winfield attacks the medical evidence in the Seddon trial. There’s no doubt that if Seddon hadn’t given such a callous impression in court he’d have had a good chance of acquittal.’

‘What you mean, then,’ answered Blainey, ‘is that his counsel should have given him better advice as to how to behave. Blame the lawyers too.’

‘Oh, certainly. But I’ve cross-examined too many doctors not to know that a skilled opposing counsel can usually twist them any way he wants. Why not, after all? It isn’t a doctor’s job to learn the art of being cross-examined —which in my opinion is a much rarer art than that of cross-examining. That, of course, is where Spilsbury excels—and where he’s most dangerous. He’s the cleverest cross-examinee in the business.’

‘I’m afraid we’re arguing in circles. First you say a doctor can be twisted any way a counsel wants—then you attack Spilsbury because he can’t be—’

‘I said an AVERAGE doctor—’

‘But surely the fault lies again with the lawyers. If their aim is to establish truth and not merely to win a case, why do they try to twist a doctor at all—he’s generally an honest man who has no axe to grind —’

‘—or, in the case of a surgeon, no knife to sharpen, eh?’ Havelock’s eyes lit with a vivid excitement. ‘I suppose the professional difference is even more jealously regarded than that between barrister and solicitor?… Try that whisky—it’s practically a liqueur—if you’re a connoisseur I think you’ll like it… But to come back to this question of cross-examining the expert witness…’

Charles leaned forward across the table. He did not know whether he was pale or flushed, but he knew that something had happened to his face— it was moving in a way he could not control, like a small tic. ‘Look,’ he muttered, and found his voice so weak that he had to project it as before an audience: ‘Look, Mr. Blainey ought to sleep. Let me take him upstairs.’

Blainey made a slightly staying gesture with his hand. ‘It’s all right —I’m in no great hurry. I had a nap on the train… What were you saying, Sir Havelock?’ He sipped the Scotch and soda.

Havelock’s face was wholly animated. ‘You must forgive my concern with the subject—perhaps it stems from an experience I once had in Wales. In those days the circuit judges…’

Another ten minutes. The story ended and before Blainey could comment Havelock began another. Charles could endure it no longer. Stumbling to his feet he made his way round the table and stood above his father. His hands shook, he swayed, he had to press his words through an impairment of breath and lip-movement that made him hardly coherent. ‘For God’s sake, CAN’T YOU SHUT UP? Let the man go to bed. Don’t you know what he’s got to do tomorrow morning?’ Then he broke off to lean against the table, straining for control and mumbling ‘I beg your pardon, I beg your pardon’ to nobody in particular.

‘My son is distraught,’ said Havelock urbanely. ‘I’m sure you’ll excuse him. But it IS perhaps time to retire… I’ll show you up to your room, Blainey—take your drink with you… Goodnight, Charles. Perfectly understandable. Get a good night’s sleep yourself.’

Blainey also said ‘Goodnight’ as he left with Havelock. Charles heard them climbing the stairs, still arguing. He did not want to see his father again if he should come down later, so he crossed the hall to the garden door and went outside. The open air seemed to calm him. He walked to a place where he could watch the windows of Blainey’s room. They remained lighted for nearly an hour. Charles waited all this time, patiently, but with determination; then he re-entered the house and went to his own room. He knew he had made a considerable fool of himself, but that was a small worry compared with the other one. He did not think he could sleep, but in case he did he set the alarm for five. He intended then to get up and see that Blainey had coffee and that Farrow was ready with the car. But none of this happened. He lay sleepless till nearly dawn, then slept so heavily that he failed to hear the alarm, and when he woke it was nine o’clock. Dressing hurriedly he drove to the hospital, but the operation was over by then.

Charles insisted on driving Blainey back to the station at Stow Magna. When they had left the hospital grounds the surgeon said: ‘You really shouldn’t be doing this—you look very tired. Somerville gave you the news, I daresay. The operation was quite successful and there’s no reason why either your wife or child should be any the worse for it… Now take it easy —I’m nervous of other people’s driving.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Charles said, out of a deep dream of happiness. ‘And I must also apologize for last night.’

‘Last night? What do you mean?’

‘Losing my head—or my temper—or something… What a way for a diplomat to behave—God, how Jane would laugh! I don’t think I’ll ever tell her what happened.’

‘Are you sure you REMEMBER what happened?’

‘I know, I must have been distraught, as my father said. All those stories of his—they lasted so long… He talks very well and I suppose he enjoys himself so much that even at a time like that he could forget— or seem to forget—more easily than I could.’