“Tell me, Lady Corven, why did you defend this action?”
“Because I knew that, however appearances were against us, we had done nothing.”
Dinny saw the Judge look towards Clare, take down her answer, hold up his pen, and speak.
“On that night in the car you were on a main road. What was to prevent your stopping another car and asking them to give you a lead into Henley?”
“I don’t think we thought of it, my Lord; I did ask Mr. Croom to try and follow one, but they went by too quickly.”
“In any case, what was there to prevent your walking into Henley and leaving the car in the wood?”
“I suppose nothing really, only it would have been midnight before we got to Henley; and I thought it would be more awkward than just staying in the car; and I always had wanted to try sleeping in a car.”
“And do you still want to?”
“No, my Lord, it’s overrated.”
“Mr. Brough, I’ll break for luncheon.”
CHAPTER 32
Dinny refused all solicitations to lunch, and, taking her sister’s arm, walked her out into Carey Street. They circled Lincoln’s Inn Fields in silence.
“Nearly over, darling,” she said at last. “You’ve done wonderfully. He hasn’t really shaken you at all, and I believe the Judge feels that. I like the Judge much better than the jury.”
“Oh! Dinny, I’m so tired. That perpetual suggestion that one’s lying screws me up till I could scream.”
“That’s what he does it for. Don’t gratify him!”
“And poor Tony. I do feel a beast.”
“What about a ‘nice hot’ cup of tea? We’ve just time.”
They walked down Chancery Lane into the Strand.
“Nothing with it, dearest. I couldn’t eat.”
Neither of them could eat. They stirred the pot, drank their tea as strong as they could get it, and made their way silently back to the Court. Clare, not acknowledging even her father’s anxious glance, resumed her old position on the front bench, her hands in her lap and her eyes cast down.
Dinny was conscious of Jerry Corven sitting deep in confabulation with his solicitor and counsel. ‘Very young’ Roger, passing to his seat, said:
“They’re going to recall Corven.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
As if walking in his sleep, the Judge came in, bowed slightly to the Court’s presence, and sat down. ‘Lower than ever,’ thought Dinny.
“My Lord, before resuming my cross-examination of the respondent, I should be glad, with your permission, to recall the petitioner in connection with the point of which my friend made so much. Your Lordship will recollect that in his cross-examination of the petitioner he imputed to him the intention of securing a divorce from the moment of his wife’s departure. The petitioner has some additional evidence to give in regard to that point, and it will be more convenient for me to recall him now. I shall be very short, my Lord.”
Dinny saw Clare’s face raised suddenly to the Judge, and the expression on it made her heart beat furiously.
“Very well, Mr. Brough.”
“Sir Gerald Corven.”
Watching that contained figure step again into the box, Dinny saw that Clare too was watching, almost as if she wished to catch his eye.
“You have told us, Sir Gerald, that on the last occasion but one on which you saw your wife before you returned to Ceylon—the first of November, that is—you saw her at her rooms in Melton Mews?”
“Yes.”
Dinny gasped. It had come!
“Now on that occasion, besides any conversation that took place between you, what else occurred?”
“We were husband and wife.”
“You mean that the marital relationship between you was re-established?”
“Yes, my Lord.”
“Thank you, Sir Gerald; I think that disposes finally of my friend’s point; and it is all I wanted to ask.”
Instone was speaking.
“Why did you not say that when you were first examined?”
“I did not see its relevance until after your cross-examination.”
“Do you swear that you have not invented it?”
“Most certainly I do.”
And still Dinny sat braced against the woodwork with her eyes shut, thinking of the young man three rows behind her. Atrocious! But who would see it, here? People’s innermost nerves were torn out of them, examined coldly, almost with enjoyment, and put back lacerated.
“Now, Lady Corven, will you go back to the box?”
When Dinny opened her eyes Clare was standing close up to the rail with her head held high and her gaze fixed on her questioner.
“Now, Lady Corven,” said the slow rich voice, “you heard that piece of evidence.”
“Yes.”
“Is it true?”
“I do not wish to answer.”
“Why?”
Dinny saw that she had turned to the Judge.
“My Lord, when my counsel asked me about my married life, I refused to go into it, and I do not wish to go into it now.”
For a moment the Judge’s eyes were turned towards the box; then strayed from it to stare at the unseen.
“This question arises out of evidence given in rebuttal of a suggestion made by your own counsel. You must answer it.”
No answer came.
“Ask the question again, Mr. Brough.”
“Is it true that on the occasion of which your husband spoke the marital relationship was re-established between you?”
“No. It is not true.”
Dinny, who knew that it was, looked up. The Judge’s eyes were still fixed above her head, but she saw the slight pouting of his lips. He did not believe the answer.
The slow rich voice was speaking, and she caught in it a peculiar veiled triumph.
“You swear that?”
“Yes.”
“So your husband has gone out of his way to commit perjury in making that statement?”
“It is his word against mine.”
“And I think I know which will be taken. Is it not true that you have made the answer you have in order to save the feelings of the co-respondent?”
“It is not.”
“From first to last, can we attach any more importance to the truth in any of your answers than to the truth in that last?”
“I don’t think that is a fair question, Mr. Brough. The witness does not know what importance we attach.”
“Very good, my Lord. I’ll put it another way. THROUGHOUT have you told the truth, Lady Corven, and nothing but the truth?”
“I have.”
“VERY well. I have no more to ask you.”
During the few questions put to her sister, in a re-examination which carefully avoided the last point, Dinny could think only of young Croom. At heart she felt the case was lost, and longed to take Clare and creep away. If only that man behind with the hooked nose had not tried to blacken Corven and prove too much, this last mine would not have been sprung! And yet—to blacken the other side—what was it but the essence of procedure!
When Clare was back in her seat, white and exhausted, she whispered:
“Would you like to come away, darling?”
Clare shook her head.
“James Bernard Croom.”
For the first time since the case began Dinny had a full view, and hardly knew him. His tanned face was parched and drawn; he looked excessively thin. His grey eyes seemed hiding under their brows, and his lips were bitter and compressed. He looked at least five years older, and she knew at once that Clare’s denial had not deceived him.
“Your name is James Bernard Croom, you live at Bablock Hythe, and are in charge of a horse-breeding establishment there? Have you any private means?”
“None whatever.”
It was not Instone who was examining, but a younger man with a sharper nose, seated just behind him.
“Up to September last year you were superintending a tea plantation in Ceylon? Did you ever meet the respondent in Ceylon?”
“Never.”
“You were never at her house?’
“No.”
“You have heard of a certain polo match in which you played, and after which she entertained the players?”
“Yes, but I didn’t go. I had to get back.”
“Was it on the boat, then, that you first met her?”
“Yes.”
“You make no secret of the fact that you fell in love with her?”
“None.”
“In spite of that, is there any truth in these allegations of misconduct between you?”
“None whatever.”