B-Berry and I Look Back by Dornford Yates

Reports, it became very unwieldy: and so, for the sake of convenience, you used a small, leather kit-bag – at least, I did.”
    “What was it made of – the blue one?”
    “Well, it looked like damask,” I said. “I should say it was figured mohair – I may be wrong. But it was very strong. You closed the neck by drawing two cords together – two stout blue cords. When your progress at the Bar had attracted the attention of a ‘silk’, he would tell the robe-makers to deliver to you a red bag, with his compliments. I need hardly say I never received that attention.”
    “I wonder Charles Gill didn’t send you one. I mean, he did ask you to enter his Chambers.”
    “He probably didn’t think of it. And I’m much more proud of that than of any red bag.”
    “You ought to have had one,” said Jill.
    “Quite honestly, my darling, I don’t think that I deserved it.”
    Jill sighed.
    “You always say that,” she said, “about everything. What about—”
    “My sweet,” I said, “I beg that you’ll leave it there. And now let’s get back to Laidlow.
    “The solicitors received me very kindly. The brief was non-existent – they’d had no time. So they gave me a back-sheet, and, what was more to the point, the use of a very nice room. Would I like to see the chauffeur? ‘Not yet,’ I said. ‘Please tell me about the case.’
    “Well, we all know Laidlow – as it was, and the line of the London road… Out of the town and up a long, straight rise – with side-roads on the left, running very sharply up-hill.
    “Two days before, the chauffeur had driven to Folkestone and seen his master and mistress on board a Channel steamer, en route for the South of France. His orders were to drive the car back to London and then take a fortnight’s leave.
    “The car was a landaulette and a powerful car.
    “Once clear of the streets of Laidlow, the chauffeur is popping along, up the long, straight rise and well on his left-hand side. Then a cyclist, moving fast, swings suddenly out of a side-road, only a few feet ahead. The cyclist is bound for Laidlow and so he bears half-right. He has to do that, you see, to get to his proper side of the London road. In a frantic endeavour to avoid him, the chauffeur bears to his right… In fact he ends up on the pavement and knocks a lamp-post down. But he can’t quite clear the cyclist, who hits the near-side panel right at the end of the car. And the poor fellow breaks his neck.
    “There were one or two witnesses, but none were valuable. They swore, of course, that it was the chauffeur’s fault. Cars were unpopular then, and that particular stretch was inviting speed. Just clear of the town, you know, a good straight road ahead and a steady rise. Many a time I’ve put my foot down there.”
    “So’ve I,” said Jonah. “I’m afraid we were lucky – that’s all.”
    “Well, what did the police find? A cyclist dead in the road of a broken neck: and the car that did it not only upon its wrong side, but with one of its wheels on the pavement and half a lamp-post upon its canopy.
    “And now for the strong stuff.
    “The cyclist was a Laidlow man and immensely popular: a modest, hard-working joiner and everyone’s friend. He was very happily married – with seven children, the eldest of whom was fourteen. Side-road and main road – he knew them as the palm of his hand, for, while he worked in Laidlow, the side-road led to his home. In other words, for more than seven years he had rounded that fatal corner at least once every day.
    “‘I take it,’ I said, ‘that feeling is running high.’
    “The solicitor made a wry face.
    “‘I’m afraid it is, Mr Pleydell. Very high. And most of the Coroner’s Jury certainly knew the dead man.’
    “I nodded.
    “‘And the Coroner?’ I said.
    “‘We’re all right there. He’s very good at his job and he’s nobody’s fool.’ He hesitated. ‘I’m sorry to have to say that the chauffeur is badly