by Henry Cecil
‘What’s it about?’ I asked.
‘A suit,’ said the registrar. ‘He says it doesn’t fit.’
‘And won’t pay?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you had the tailor before you in other cases?’
‘Yes. He’s quite a decent chap too. I think you’ll like them both.’
‘How long will it take?’
‘Well, it really depends on how you get on with Mr Kiddington.’
‘Well, if it only takes half an hour,’ I said, ‘I ought to be able to get away in time to meet my wife.’
‘Quite,’ said the registrar. But he said it so doubtfully that I realised he hadn’t told me all.
‘You’re keeping something back from me,’ I said.
‘I’d never do a thing like that,’ he answered, ‘would I?’
‘I’ll ring up my wife and tell her I’m not coming. Of course,’ I added a little more hopefully, ‘they might settle the case.’
‘That,’ said the registrar very definitely, ‘they most certainly will not do. Mr Kiddington does not settle his cases. He comes to the court to get justice. Three times I’ve sent him away empty-handed.’
‘Now, Charles,’ I said, ‘I’m not going to decide in his favour just to please you.’
‘I really am most grateful,’ he said, and left me.
So rather reluctantly I put on my robes again and eventually went into court and the case was called on. The plaintiff was a Mr William Jones and he was represented by Mr Benton, whom you will have met in previous stories. The defendant conducted his own case.
After the case had been called on, Mr Benton got up and opened the facts to me.
‘May it please your honour,’ he said, ‘this is a simple little case of a claim for twenty-five guineas by my client, who is a tailor, against the defendant. The only defence is that the suit didn’t fit.’
‘Was it made to measure?’ I asked.
‘Yes, your honour,’ said Mr Benton. And then he added: ‘Your honour, I think Mr Kiddington, the defendant, wants to say something to you.’
‘How d’you know?’ I asked.
‘Well,’ said Mr Benton, ‘he’s moving his hands along the front of the witness box, and that’s always a sign that he wants to say something.’
‘I see,’ I said. ‘Are there any other codes going to be used in this case, Mr Benton?’
‘I suggest, your honour,’ said Mr Benton, ‘that you wait and see.’
‘Very well,’ I said. ‘Is it right, Mr Kiddington, that you want to say something?’
‘Yes,’ said Mr Kiddington, ‘very much. I do want to say something. Yes, your honour, please. Counsel is right, I want to say something. I want to say it now. Are you receiving me loud and clear?’
I now realised why the registrar had wanted me to try the case. My view is that, when you get litigants who are perhaps a little bit unusual, you should not call them to order, but as far as possible you should run with them, and help them to explain their side of the case.
‘What is it you want to say, Mr Kiddington?’
‘Shall I say it from here?’ said Mr Kiddington. ‘Or may I go into counsel’s row?’
‘You may speak from where you wish, Mr Kiddington,’ I said.
‘Your honour is extremely kind.’
‘Now,’ I said, ‘what is it you want to say?’
‘No,’ said Mr Kiddington.
‘No what?’ I asked.
‘Just no,’ said Mr Kiddington.
‘But what does it mean?’
‘It’s the direct negative, your honour. No, not, never.’
‘Can you help me, Mr Benton?’ I said.
‘I suggest,’ said Mr Benton, ‘that your honour asks him “what is not?”’
‘What is not?’ I repeated.
‘What is not,’ said Mr Benton quite firmly.
‘Very well then,’ I said. ‘Mr Kiddington, what is not?’
‘Made to measure,’ said Mr Kiddington.
‘You mean,’ I said, ‘that the suit was not made to measure?’
‘No, not, never,’ said Mr Kiddington.
‘So that’s the dispute, Mr Benton, is it?’ I said. ‘Was the suit ready-made or made to measure?’
‘Not exactly, your honour,’ said Mr Benton. ‘I think that both sides will agree that my client contracted to make a suit to measure. But Mr Kiddington says that because it didn’t fit, it was not made to measure.’
‘Is that right, Mr Kiddington?’ I asked.
‘No, not, never.’
‘That means it’s right, I take it, Mr Benton?’
‘Yes, your honour,’ said Mr Benton.
‘I think I’m getting the hang of it,’ I said. ‘So the only question which I have to decide is, did the suit fit? I rather gather Mr Kiddington would like to say something more. He’s wiping the desk in front of him.’
‘No, your honour,’ said Mr Benton, ‘when he’s standing there, that only means he would like to sit down.’
‘Pray sit down, Mr Kiddington,’ I said.
‘Thank you, your honour,’ said Mr Kiddington. ‘I’m now sitting where perhaps your honour once sat himself. Or should I say, where your honour once sat yourself? They’re rather difficult these phrases. At least I find them so.’
‘Shall we get on with the case, Mr Kiddington?’ I said.
‘That’s what I’m here for, your honour. All I want is justice.’
‘You won’t necessarily get it here, Mr Kiddington,’ I said.
‘But I thought–’ said Mr Kiddington, and paused.
‘You thought you’d come to a court of justice, Mr Kiddington?’
‘Precisely.’
‘So you have,’ I said. ‘But it’s only a court of human justice, not of absolute justice. We do our best, but we are bound to make mistakes from time to time.’
‘Well, your honour,’ asked Mr Kiddington, ‘are you going to make a mistake this time? It would save us all a lot of trouble if you could tell us in advance and then we could go home.’
As I seemed a little uncertain what to do about Mr Kiddington’s last remark, Mr Benton intervened.
‘If I might intervene, your honour,’ he said. ‘I’ve had considerable experience of being against Mr Kiddington, and I think I can assure your honour that he has no intention of being contemptuous of the court or of your honour, or of anybody else.’
‘No, not, never,’ corroborated Mr Kiddington.
‘Very well then,’ I said, ‘shall we get on with the case? Mr Benton, perhaps you would like to call Mr Jones.’
So Mr Jones, the plaintiff, duly came into the witness box and took the oath. And then he was asked by Mr Benton about the order for the suit.
‘Did the suit fit him when it was finished, Mr Jones?’
‘If I do not live to say another word,’ said Mr Jones, ‘it fitted him better than any other suit that I have made.’
‘Thank you, Mr Jones,’ said Mr Benton.
I then invited Mr Kiddington to cross-examine. His first question was: ‘Mr Jones, have you made many suits in your lifetime?’
‘Many thousands.’
‘I take it they didn’t fit?’
‘What are you saying? Of course they fitted.’
‘But you’ve just sworn they didn’t.’
‘I swore no such thing.’
‘D’you say that the suit you made for me was a perfect fit?’
‘I do.’
‘D’you say that the suits you made for other people were perfect fits?’
‘I do.’
‘Then how can mine have been a better fit than any suit you’d made before?’
‘I do not understand,’ said Mr Jones.
‘Mr Jones,’ I said, ‘it’s quite true that you did say that if you never said another word, the suit you made for Mr Kiddington was a better fit than any other suit you’d made. And Mr Kiddington now says that if it was a better fit, the other suits were not as good fits, and therefore t
hey didn’t fit properly.’
‘All the suits I make to order fit properly,’ said Mr Jones.
‘When I came into your shop,’ asked Mr Kiddington, ‘did I not ask you if you could guarantee to make a suit exactly as I wanted, and didn’t you say that you would?’
‘That is quite correct.’
‘And when I brought the suit back to you, didn’t I say that it was not exactly as I wanted it?’
‘You said a lot of things,’ said Mr Jones. ‘Half of them I couldn’t understand. All I did know was that the suit fitted you to perfection. If you try it on now, his honour can see for himself.’
‘But what is perfection, Mr Jones?’ asked Mr Kiddington.
‘Perfection is perfection.’
‘But,’ said Mr Kiddington, ‘what is perfect to one person is not perfect to another. What is perfect to his honour may not be perfect to me. What is perfect to me may not be perfect to his honour. What is perfect to Mr Benton may not be perfect to you. What is perfect to you may not be perfect to Mr Benton. What is perfect to the usher may not be perfect to the clerk. What is perfect to the clerk may not be perfect to the usher. What is perfect to the–’
I then intervened.
‘Mr Benton,’ I asked, ‘what is the code for “this must stop”, please?’
‘If your honour just leaves it for a moment or two,’ said Mr Benton, ‘I think it will stop of its own accord.’
‘What is perfect for the dancer,’ went on Mr Kiddington, ‘is not perfect for the typist. What is perfect for the actor is not perfect for the soldier. That’s about all, I think, your honour.’
‘But is it agreed between you,’ I asked, ‘that the suit was to be a perfect fit, whatever that may mean?’
‘No, not, never,’ said Mr Kiddington.
‘Then what was it to be, Mr Kiddington?’
‘It was to be exactly as I wanted it,’ he said.
‘D’you agree with that, Mr Jones? Was the suit to be made exactly as Mr Kiddington wanted it?’ I asked.
‘He said so much,’ said Mr Jones, ‘I really couldn’t say what he did want. But I measured him for the suit, and I made it to his requirements. What more can a man do?’
‘You didn’t have to take the business, Mr Jones,’ said Mr Kiddington.
‘If I’d known what it involved, I certainly wouldn’t have,’ was the reply.
‘So far as you could tell, Mr Jones,’ asked Mr Benton, ‘did you make the suit exactly as Mr Kiddington ordered?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did I ask you to make one leg rather longer than the other?’ asked Mr Kiddington.
‘Yes.’
‘Did you do so?’
‘I did.’
‘Then it can’t have been a perfect fit, can it?’
‘It was what you wanted.’
‘But you’ve sworn it was a perfect fit.’
‘It was a perfect fit,’ said Mr Jones, ‘in accordance with your requirements.’
‘Did you put three buttons on one sleeve, and two on the other?’
‘I did.’
‘Had you any idea why I wanted that?’
‘Not the faintest.’
‘Well, try and think now.’
‘I still haven’t the faintest idea.’
‘Perhaps your honour will explain,’ said Mr Kiddington, ‘why I wanted three buttons on one sleeve, and two on the other.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t,’ I said.
‘Not even you, your honour? Mr Benton, then.’
‘No, Mr Kiddington,’ said Mr Benton, ‘I’m afraid you have me there too.’
‘Well, isn’t it obvious, your honour?’ said Mr Kiddington. ‘I wanted to be reminded of something. If you’ve got three buttons on each sleeve, it can’t remind you of anything except that you have three buttons on each sleeve. But if you’ve got three buttons on one sleeve, and two buttons on the other, then it can remind you of a great many things.’
‘I suppose, Mr Kiddington,’ I said, ‘that if you have no buttons on your trousers, it will remind you that they may fall down.’
‘It wouldn’t remind me, your honour,’ said Mr Kiddington. ‘I don’t wear braces, you see, never have, they’re bad for the shoulders. Anyone can see that Mr Benton does wear braces. It doesn’t so much matter now, but in ten or fifteen years’ time, he’ll be a bent old man like your honour.’
‘Mr Kiddington,’ I said, ‘you really shouldn’t talk like that.’
‘No, your honour,’ said Mr Kiddington, ‘I shouldn’t talk like that. I really shouldn’t. Would your honour be kind enough to tell me if I do it again? It comes of not having two buttons on one sleeve and three on the other. That would have reminded me.’
‘Mr Benton,’ I said, ‘I really would like to know whether you agree that your client had to make a suit exactly in accordance with Mr Kiddington’s requirements. And by requirements I don’t mean his requirements after the suit was made, but the requirements he stated before the suit was made.’
‘Yes,’ said Mr Benton, ‘I do agree.’
‘Then, Mr Jones,’ I asked, ‘are Mr Kiddington’s legs of different size?’
‘Everyone’s legs are different in size,’ said Mr Jones.
‘You mean,’ I asked, ‘that one leg is longer or shorter than the other?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Then are all the trouser legs that you make for all your customers different in size from each other?’
‘No.’
‘Why not, if the legs are different in size?’
‘Because the difference is so small,’ said Mr Jones, ‘that we don’t take any notice of it in most cases. But the defendant said that in his case there was half an inch in it.’
‘Was there?’ I asked.
‘No,’ said Mr Jones.
‘But you made the trouser legs in his case half an inch different?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘Then they didn’t fit properly?’
‘No, they didn’t.’
‘But I thought you said it was a perfect fit,’ I said.
‘A perfect fit in accordance with his requirements,’ said Mr Jones. ‘If he asks for two legs with different sizes, well then, I give him two legs with different sizes. He can have what he likes as far as I’m concerned.’
‘Did you undertake to make a suit to satisfy me?’ said Mr Kiddington.
‘I may have done,’ said Mr Jones.
‘Well, didn’t you know at the time,’ said Mr Kiddington, ‘that I was, what you might call, an awkward customer?’
‘No, I certainly didn’t.’
‘But that’s how you would describe me now?’
‘I certainly would.’
‘And d’you agree, Mr Jones, an awkward customer may require awkward things?’
‘Yes,’ said Mr Jones, ‘I certainly agree to that.’
‘Have you ever had any customers as awkward as me before?’ asked Mr Kiddington.
‘I certainly haven’t, and I don’t want any in the future either.’
‘That wasn’t a very kind thing to say, was it?’ said Mr Kiddington.
‘I haven’t come here to be kind,’ said Mr Jones, ‘I’ve come here for my money.’
‘What other special requirements, if any, did Mr Kiddington make, Mr Jones?’ I asked.
‘I must look in my book,’ said Mr Jones.
He looked in his book and then said: ‘He wanted one trouser leg with a turn-up, and one without. He wanted lining on one side of the coat only. The right. No, I mean the left.’
‘Well,’ said Mr Kiddington, ‘which is it?’
‘The left.’
‘Are you sure it isn’t the right?’
‘Mr Jones,’ I asked, ‘when you heard these rather unusual requirements of Mr Kiddington, didn’t you think you were dealing with a rather unusual customer?’
‘Yes, I suppose I did.’
‘Didn’t you think it a little dangerous to accept an order from such an unusual customer?
After all, if he’d made these very strange requirements, was it not at least possible that when you’d made the suit he would refuse to accept it on some unusual ground?’
‘I never thought about it, your honour,’ said Mr Jones. ‘I make suits to please my customers. If you want one leg ten inches shorter than the other, you can have it as far as I’m concerned.’
‘It might remind you not to walk in a puddle,’ said Mr Kiddington.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘there’s not much point in my seeing the suit on Mr Kiddington until I know exactly what requirements were made by him when he gave the order for the suit.’
‘Perhaps Mr Jones would read them out, your honour,’ put in Mr Benton.
‘Apart from the things I’ve mentioned, your honour,’ said Mr Jones, ‘he wanted a circular hole in the back of the waistcoat.’
‘That,’ said Mr Kiddington, ‘was to remind me to sit down, your honour.’
‘To sit down.’ I asked. ‘To sit down when?’
‘When I was tired, your honour.’
‘And there were to be two pockets in the waistcoat,’ went on Mr Jones, ‘but they were to be sewn up.’
‘Sewn up?’ I queried.
‘Yes, your honour.’
‘You mean,’ I said, ‘that you actually made the pockets and then sewed them up so that they could be of no use?’
‘Exactly, your honour.’
‘Mr Kiddington,’ I said, ‘I suppose that was to remind you not to put your hands in your pockets?’
‘My parents advised it, your honour,’ said Mr Kiddington, ‘or one of them. My father or my mother. At this distance of time it’s a little difficult for me to remember. That’s one of my complaints against Mr Jones, your honour. If he’d put the button hole in the right place, I should have remembered.’
‘But you’re not wearing the suit he made for you.’
‘Exactly, your honour. If he’d made it properly, I shouldn’t have been here.’
‘Then,’ I said, ‘the question of remembering whether it was your father or your mother wouldn’t have arisen.’
‘Exactly, your honour,’ said Mr Kiddington. ‘Now you can see why I’m so upset about it all.’
‘What is your next question?’ I asked.
‘Next question to you, your honour, or to the witness?’ said Mr Kiddington.
‘You’re not entitled to ask me questions,’ I said.
‘No one told me that before I came,’ said Mr Kiddington.
