“It is sometimes alleged,” the Doctor said, “that the law and medical science don’t always see eye to eye. And it may be true in regard to one big problem – that of what constitutes an understanding of the wrongfulness of a course of action.”
The Vicar nodded. “Pleas of insanity, and that sort of thing?”
“Precisely. But in the main, the law has been very quick to accept and profit by scientific progress in medicine. The light that blood-grouping can sometimes throw on matters of disputed paternity is a good instance.”
“And what a lot of them there are!” Appleby had glanced up from the newspaper he was reading. “But I suppose the Pelter case was unique – an upside-down business.”
“The Pelter case?” The Doctor shook his head. “I don’t remember it. And what do you mean by calling it upside-down?”
Appleby let his paper drop to the floor. “In most of these affairs some unfortunate woman is trying to establish that a particular man – also sometimes unfortunate – is the father of her child. In the Pelter case the claimant was a man attempting to establish legal paternity. He came forward to declare that Peter Pelter, then a five-year old boy, was his legitimate child. I’m surprised you don’t recall the affair.”
“We neither of us do.” The Vicar produced his pipe. “Which gives you a chance of telling us about it.”
“Very well – I’ll try. And although it may sound a bit complicated at first, it was in its essence a tolerably simple affair.
“Some time in the nineteen-thirties an English girl called Sylvia Vizard, coming of a wealthy family in good society, kicked over the traces in a mild way, and went off in defiance of her parents to become an art-student in Paris. She was dead serious about it, apparently; got herself into a suitable atelier; and for the rest lived a lonely sort of existence, working like mad. Then she met a young American, Terry Pelter, who was also an art-student, and who had a similar somewhat unsociable slant on life. And this was important, as you will presently see.
“These two got married – in an unquestionably valid but, again, thoroughly unobtrusive way. Then they departed back into a sort of shifting and impermanent studio life that leaves very little trace of itself behind. Later, it was going to prove extraordinarily difficult to find anybody with precise memories of them. Vague impressions abounded – but, so to speak, the crucial eye witness was missing every time. Nor did the marriage last long. In fact, it broke up within eighteen months.”
The Vicar looked distressed. “Montmartre, I am afraid, would not be the best place in which to build a stable union.”
“It was certainly far from being that. Mrs Pelter turned up on her parents. She brought an infant son, Peter Pelter, and the news that her husband had cleared out. She rather thought that he had gone off to fight in the Spanish civil war.
“So the Vizards cared for the mother and child, and refrained from asking too many questions. About a year later there was a letter with a foreign stamp waiting for Mrs Pelter at the breakfast-table. She read it; said in a steady voice ‘Terry’s dead’; and then walked across the room and threw both letter and envelope in the fire. She remained calm and dry-eyed all day. The next morning she was found drowned in a small pond where she had sailed boats as a child.
“Nothing could be discovered about the fate of Terry Pelter. I think the grandparents may have made no more effort than was legally discreet, for they were devoted to the child and anxious to enjoy its custody. Nothing happened for some years – nor ever might have, but for an odd circumstance. An eccentric and extremely wealthy sister of Lady Vizard’s died. She believed that more vigorous inquiries should have been made, and she bequeathed a large sum of money to Peter Pelter and his father equally.”
“Well I’m blessed!” The Doctor sat forward attentively. “I call that an uncommonly interfering thing to do. And it produced a claimant?”
“It did indeed.”
Appleby had nodded grimly. “It produced as Terry Pelter a young American who seemed at first to be not at all a bad fellow. He had a very colourable story – the Spanish civil war came into it – and for a time it looked like being accepted without question. But Sir Charles and Lady Vizard – no doubt because they wanted to keep the child themselves – decided first to dislike him and then to question his identity. They had investigations opened up all over the place – in America, Paris, Spain – and eventually they turned up a fact of prime significance. Terry Pelter had been one of identical twins. And his brother, a dental surgeon somewhere in the Middle East, had disappeared not very long before the man claiming to be Terry turned up in England. Once more there was an explanation, involving, this time, a revolution in some South American republic. The claimant, in fact, had something like proof that his brother the dentist was dead. And he had enough evidence about his own supposed identity to promise a rather ticklish case.”
The Vicar looked up. “What about blood-groups?”
“As between identical twins, they couldn’t possibly help. What did help was the swift intelligence of Geoffrey Bellyse.”
“The QC?”
“Yes. He led for the Vizards, and looked like having a rough time. Young Capcroft was for the claimant – and he was just beginning to build up the big reputation he has today. It was, of course, a jury matter; and Capcroft knew from the start where his strength lay. It was in the apparent personality of the claimant – and still more, perhaps, in his mere physical appearance.
“Pelter – there was no disagreement about his surname – was tall and athletic, with regular features, fine brown eyes, a serious expression occasionally lit by a frank and friendly smile, and the best of American good manners. In fact, he was an examining counsel’s dream – and correspondingly as hard a nut for cross-examination as Bellyse had ever had to tackle.”
Appleby paused. “Bellyse would ask himself, you know, ‘What is this man’s weak point?’ And he would answer, ‘The obverse of his strength. His strength is his good looks. His weakness will be personal vanity. I must try to get him on that.’
“So towards the close of a very unspectacular cross-examination Bellyse shifted his ground. The material question was whether the claimant was Peter Pelter’s father. What Bellyse worked round to asking was this: How can you be confident that Peter Pelter is your son? The judge didn’t like it, but he held his peace for a vital couple of minutes. It went rather like this:
“ ‘I believe, Mr Pelter, that you have been allowed to see the boy you claim as your son?’
“ ‘Yes, sir – two or three weeks ago.’
“ ‘When had you last seen him before that?’
“ ‘Just before I felt compelled to leave my late wife in order to fight in Spain.’
“ ‘The child being then only a few weeks old?’
“ ‘That is correct, Mr Bellyse.’
“ ‘When you saw Peter as a five-year-old boy recently, you could yourself have no possible means of identifying him as your son?’
“ ‘No very certain means, I suppose. But the child at least has my eyes.’
“ ‘You mean that you have brown eyes and that the child has brown eyes?’
“ ‘Well, yes – and perhaps a little more. They are my sort of brown eyes, I figure.’
“ ‘Ah, yes – splendid brown eyes, I suppose you mean. Would it be correct to say, Mr Pelter, that you spend a good deal of time before your mirror?’
“ ‘I have to shave.’
“ ‘To be sure. The world would not like to lose a chin such as yours behind a beard. Would you go so far as to say that when you saw Peter a few weeks ago you remembered his eyes?’
“ ‘Certainly I did.’
“ ‘They had struck you from the first – perhaps as a comforting assurance of paternity?’
“ ‘I never doubted my wife’s honour, if that’s what you mean. But it was kind of good to see my own brown eyes smiling up at me from the bassinet, all the same.’
“ ‘I fear I don’t quite follow you, Mr Pelter. You found something appealing in the baby’s blue eyes?’
“ ‘Blue eyes?’
“ ‘Yes, Mr Pelter. Blue eyes.’ ”
Appleby paused. “It was a wonderful moment. Pelter was still speaking confidently, but he looked scared. And I shall never forget the softly final way in which Bellyse pounced.
“ ‘Would it surprise you, Mr Pelter, to learn that no baby ever has brown eyes?’”
“Clever!” The Doctor gave a delighted chuckle. “Little Peter’s eyes could certainly not have gained their pigment at the time this fellow claimed to be admiring their beautiful brown. They could only have been blue.”
And Appleby nodded. “It was a small lie, but it fatally destroyed the impostor’s credit. He’s in jail now. And Peter Pelter lives with his adoring grandparents still.”