We were all sure there must have been some mistake, and were waiting for Uncle Peter to come in and hear what his reactions were. When he arrived we all clustered round him.
He looked shaken. He reiterated what we had all said. It must be a mistake. It could not be true.
“How could they have got hold of his name?” asked Peterkin.
“The only thing I can think of is that the real culprit gave a false name. The first one he thought of was Joseph Cresswell. After all his name is well known to the public.”
Aunt Amaryllis breathed a sigh of relief. “Of course that’s the answer. Trust you to put your finger right on it, Peter.”
“I hope that’s the case,” said Uncle Peter. “But it has already done him a lot of harm.”
“But if it is proved that his name has been falsely given people will regard him more highly because he has been wronged,” I suggested.
“My dear,” said Uncle Peter, “it is only conjecture on my part.”
But it did not turn out like that. The man who had taken part in what the papers called “The Brothel Brawl” was indeed Joseph Cresswell. His story was that his carriage had knocked down a young woman in Panton Street. He had alighted to make sure she was all right and as she had appeared to be shaken he had taken her to her home. It was true that he went into her room but was not there for more than a few minutes when a man burst in and accused them of immoral conduct.
I believed the story. It seemed perfectly plausible to me. If the vehicle in which he was riding had knocked her down he would consider it only courteous to take her home. I could well imagine how it happened. Of course he took her in to make sure she was suffering from no ill effects.
What a terrible situation for him!
Chloe Kitt was the young woman; she was known to be a prostitute; she had an apartment next door to a men’s club of a not very savoury reputation; and the rooms were let out by the club usually to women of easy virtue.
The man who had burst in on them was not Chloe’s husband, only, as she said, an intimate friend.
It seemed likely that blackmail might have been the original object. It was not, after all, such an extraordinary situation. What made it so unusual, of such immense interest, was the fact that a well-known politician was involved.
The charge was breaking the peace and was to come before the magistrate’s court.
“He was a fool,” said Uncle Peter, “to go home with a girl like that.”
“He wouldn’t have seen any harm in it,” replied Aunt Amaryllis. “He was concerned because it was the carriage he was riding in which knocked her down. That was obviously why he went home with her.”
“It’s unfortunate. No matter what the outcome of all this there are going to be many who think the worst and it is worse because Joseph Cresswell has set himself up as a defender of virtue. The chairmanship of this committee … well, it is about the abolition of vice.”
“It certainly won’t go to him now,” said Peterkin.
“Hardly likely to, I should think,” agreed Uncle Peter.
“Then you …” began Aunt Amaryllis.
“Oh, my dear, don’t let’s talk about that now. This is a tragedy for Cresswell. I’d have given a lot for it not to have happened. I wouldn’t want to walk over him in such circumstances.”
“Of course you wouldn’t,” said Aunt Amaryllis. “I’m sorry I mentioned it. But the thought came to me. I do understand. It is just how you would feel.”
He took her hand and patted it. “I know, my dear. But this is just not the time.”
“It’ll make all the difference to Joe, I expect,” said Peterkin. “I doubt whether he’ll be selected as a candidate for that by-election which is coming up. It’ll be a tragedy for the whole family unless it can be proved to be a fabrication by this Chloe. Why should she …?”
“Probably meant blackmail,” said Uncle Peter. “And they played it wrongly. They didn’t think the police would come.”
“Oh dear!” sighed Aunt Amaryllis. “How wicked some people can be! I am so sad for that nice Mrs. Cresswell … and all the family.”
I kept thinking of them as I had seen them during that happy week-end, and I too felt very sad. I wondered what effect it would have on Joe.
Peterkin said to me: “Let’s go and see Joe. I want them to know that I, for one, believe Mr. Cresswell is telling the truth.”
I was glad, for I wanted to do just that.
We walked to the house in St. James’s Street and on the way we passed several newsvendors.
“All about it,” shouted one. “Read about Chloe’s lovers,” called another.
I said: “They go on and on about it.”
“That’s how they are. If it had not been a well-known person we should have heard nothing about it.”
The blinds were drawn at the windows of the house. We went through the gate and mounted the steps past the two stone lions who stood like sentinels on either side of the door.
Several people stopped to look at us, wondering, I supposed, who we were to call at this house of shame.
The door was eventually opened by a maid who first of all peered at us through the door’s glass panel.
Peterkin said: “Good morning. Is Mr. Joe Cresswell at home?”
“No sir. None of the family’s here.”
“We want to get in touch. Is Mr. Joe in Surrey?”
“I ain’t to say, sir,” said the maid. “They’ve all gone away and that’s all I can tell you.”
While we were talking I heard a crack and the sound of breaking glass.
“That’s the third stone we’ve had at the windows. I think it would be better if you was to go. They might think you family.”
She shut the door.
Peterkin and I looked at each other in dismay. He was very angry.
We walked away from the house while several people who were passing watched us with curiosity.
“I wish,” I said, “that we could see Joe. I’d like him to know we don’t believe all this.”
“Perhaps we could write to Surrey. I think he must be there.”
“Yes, just to let him know that we are thinking of him.”
I wrote to him that day telling him how sorry I was and how we all believed in his father. “This will all blow over,” I wrote. “Everyone who knows your family realizes it can’t be true.”
I received a short note from Joe thanking me for my sympathy. He told me nothing of his plans and did not suggest a meeting.
In due course the case came before the magistrates. They were all fined for breaking the peace—including Mr. Cresswell, which was an intimation that the story he had told was untrue.
It was a trivial case—there were hundreds like it every day; but it was the end of Joseph Cresswell’s career.
I wondered what was going on in his family. I was sure kind, motherly Mrs. Cresswell would believe her husband; and so would every member of the family. But would there be a niggling doubt?
Who would have believed that so much happiness and contentment could be destroyed by such an event?
If only the papers would allow the matter to rest it would have been easier; but they went on. “Our reporter talks to Chloe”; “Chloe’s lovers”; “Chloe Kitt’s early life, telling us all how she had been left an orphan and had had to fend for herself and had been helped along the road to perdition by men like Joseph Cresswell.”
Peterkin and I went down to Frances’s Mission.
It was a big house situated on a main road from which narrow streets branched off. As we passed I caught a glimpse of the traders in those streets. Stalls had been set up and various goods were displayed—old clothes, fruit, vegetables, hot pies, lemonade and ballads. There was a great babble as the salesmen shouted the qualities of their wares.