Tragedy at Law

by Cyril Hare

  Meanwhile Barber continued to pontificate.

  “Undoubtedly the system is an improvement on the old days,” he pronounced. “But I’m sure I don’t know what some of my predecessors on the Bench would have thought of it. They would have seen something very illogical in an arrangement by which the State, having decided that a man should be charged with an offence, should go to the expense of paying somebody to endeavour to persuade a jury that he was innocent. I think they would have considered it part and parcel of that sentimentality which in many directions is becoming far too common nowadays.”

  Colonel Habberton murmured sympathetically. Like many another honest man, he lived by catchwords. “Sentimentality” was linked with “Bolshevism” in his mind as the root of all evil, and there were few reforms, social or political, that did not come under one heading or the other.

  “This outcry against capital punishment, for instance,” said the Judge, and the conversation which had been in danger of becoming a monologue instantly became general. Everybody had something to say about capital punishment. Everybody always has. Even the Marshal produced some ill-digested recollections of what he had once heard someone say in a college debating society upon the subject. Pettigrew alone remained silent, for very good reasons of his own. He knew quite well that his turn was coming, and he had not long to wait.

  “Sentimentality is a disease that particularly affects the young,” the Judge remarked. “Pettigrew, for instance, used to be a most violent opponent of hanging. Isn’t that so, Pettigrew?”

  “I still am, Judge.”

  “Dear, dear!” Barber clicked his tongue sympathetically. “The illusions of youth die hard with some of us. Personally, so far from abolishing the death penalty, I should be in favour of extending it.”

  “Stretching the stretching, in fact,” Pettigrew murmured to Derek, who sat next to him.

  “What did you say, Pettigrew?” said Barber, who was not nearly so deaf as all judges are popularly supposed to be. “Oh! Ah! yes! Well, you will have your joke, but some of us consider the subject a serious one. I should be strongly in favour of the execution of far more criminals to-day. The habitual thief, for example, or the reckless motorist. I should hang them all. They are better out of this world.”

  “And in the next,” said the Chaplain unexpectedly, “they may be sure to find Justice.”

  Of all the solecisms at this unhappy lunch party, this was undoubtedly the most devastating. A man of God had actually presumed to make a public profession of his beliefs—beliefs, moreover which hinted at the existence of a justice superior to that dispensed in the High Court! It put a summary end to a discussion which, if never very profound, had at least been lively, and cast a complete pall over the rest of the proceedings. Thereafter conversation languished and died in spite of intermittent efforts to revive it. Mrs. Habberton, in an attempt to make the party “go”, put her foot into it once more by asking the Judge whether he thought the prisoner in the case for trial that afternoon had really “done it”, but apart from this nothing was said worthy of record. Savage, reinforced for the occasion by Greene, bustled to and fro with the admirable dishes. Behind the door a mysterious individual known as the house-butler was occasionally to be seen handling bottles and plates. But the best of food, drink and service could not disguise the fact that the lunch, as an entertainment, was a failure. Everybody was relieved when Savage announced that the cars were at the door and Barber retired to assume his wig before returning to Court.

  His expression still sullen and morose, the Judge was walking through the hall of the lodgings on his way to the door when Beamish handed him a letter.

  “Excuse me, my Lord,” he murmured, “but I found this just now. It must have arrived while your Lordship was at luncheon.”

  Barber looked at the envelope, raised his eyebrows and opened it. The message inside was quite short, and he read it through in a moment. As he did so, his face cleared, and for the first time that afternoon he looked positively cheerful. Then he handed it to Derek.

  “This will amuse you, Marshal,” he said. “You’d better give it to the Chief Constable when you get to Court.”

  Derek took the flimsy, typewritten sheet, and Pettigrew, standing behind him, read it over his shoulder. It ran as follows:

  To Justice Barber, alias Shaver:

  Justice will be done, even to judges. Be sure your sins will find you out. You are warned.

  There was no signature.

  “Now that is the kind of thing that cheers up an assize,” said Barber genially. “Good-bye, Mrs. Habberton, it has been a great pleasure to meet you. So long, Pettigrew. I shall see you in mess this evening. Are you ready, Mr. Sheriff?” And he drove off in high good humour.

  Pettigrew, looking after him, had to admit to a certain feeling of admiration.

  “Damn it all, the old brute has guts!” he murmured.

  None the less, he did not greatly look forward to his dinner in mess that evening.

  Chapter 3

  A DINNER AND ITS SEQUEL

  It was unusual for the Judge to be entertained by the Bar at the first town on the circuit, but this departure from custom was being made at his own request. Pettigrew, who was a stickler for tradition, strongly disapproved, but the rest of the mess saw no objection. One evening was as good as another for a mild jollification. Besides it was known that Lady Barber would be joining him for the rest of the circuit, and it seemed only fair to give the Shaver an evening out while he could have it. It was an excuse to finish the champagne which had been quite long enough in the cellars of the Red Lion, and they struggled into their stiff shirts with a good grace.

  Barber had insisted that it should be an informal evening, and he marked the informality by driving Derek down to the hotel in his own car, waving aside the offer of the Sheriff’s Rolls Royce. He was still in the genial mood that had come over him immediately after lunch. The afternoon’s work had been unexpectedly light. The prisoner, midway through the case for the prosecution, had, upon a broad hint from the bench, offered a plea of guilty to manslaughter, which was promptly accepted. Derek, who had been looking forward to hearing his first death sentence in the sickly state of excitement of a tourist at his first bullfight, felt a mixture of disappointment and relief at the tame conclusion. The Judge, despite his bloodthirsty conversation at table, had shown every sign of satisfaction at the result and imposed a sentence which erred, if at all, on the side of lenience. Derek, who was not wholly devoid of brains, came to the conclusion that his outburst at lunch was no more than a mild attack of exhibitionism, and further that the presence of Pettigrew had something to do with it,

  About a dozen men in all comfortably filled the small room allocated to the mess at the Red Lion. (It was rumoured that there were women members of the Southern Circuit, but apart from paying their entrance fees, they were not encouraged to take part in its activities. The local solicitors were conservative folk and saw to it that no hope of briefs should tempt them to disturb the ancient masculinity of the mess.) The chair was occupied by Frodsham, the only leader present, a plump, affable man of no great attainments, but gifted with an air of success and prosperity that was rapidly making him successful and prosperous. The Judge sat on his right and Derek opposite the Judge. On Derek’s left was the Clerk of Assize, a tremulous old gentleman with a weakness for taking snuff. Pettigrew, whether by accident or design, had placed himself as far as possible from Barber, on the left of the Junior, who as custom prescribed, sat at the foot of the table. Here the younger members present had naturally gravitated. Pettigrew enjoyed the society of the young, and he was aware that they enjoyed his, although he was beginning to suspect that they regarded him rather as a museum piece than as a human being like themselves.

  The Judge’s good humour lasted through dinner, and, assisted by an adequate supply of champagne, communicated itself to the rest of the company. He gave his views upon the war, which were no better or worse than anybody else’s views in Octob
er 1939. He told, inevitably, a number of anecdotes of his early days at the Bar, and as the evening wore on, became mildly sentimental about old times on the circuit, which he hinted, was not what it had been. Pettigrew, who was in the habit of thinking exactly the same thing, listened to him with barely concealed scorn. One of his minor grievances against Barber was that he had never been a true circuiteer. As soon as he possibly could he had deserted the rough and tumble of the assize courts for the flesh-pots of London. For years before his appointment to the bench he had been a member of the Southern in name only, requiring exorbitant fees to tempt him into the country, away from his ever-growing practice in the Strand. No harm in that, Pettigrew conceded. He too had dreamed of a rich metropolitan practice in his time. But he loathed hypocrisy and he had his own reasons for loathing this particular hypocrite. It enraged him beyond measure to hear this impostor pretending to those who knew no better that he was a true heir to circuit traditions and a repository of circuit lore.

  They had reached the stage of brandy and cigars, when the Judge rose to his feet.

  “There are a lot of fine old circuit customs which are in danger of being forgotten,” he observed. “Here is one that may be new to many of the younger members present. Indeed I think that I am probably the only person here old enough to remember it, and I should like to revive it. It is the old toast which used always to be proposed by the senior member of the mess at the first Grand Night of the Michaelmas Term. I give it you now—Fiat Justitia!”

  “Wonderful what a lot the Judge knows about these old customs,” his neighbour observed to Pettigrew, after the toast had been duly honoured.

  “Wonderful,” said Pettigrew drily. The toast should have been “Ruat Coelum”, and it was drunk at the end of the Summer Term, and was proposed always by the Junior. These trifling exceptions apart, Father William had got it perfectly. But it didn’t matter. As the old fraud had truly said, circuit customs were in danger of being forgotten; and Pettigrew had by now drunk enough not to care greatly one way or the other.

  “By the way, Marshal,” remarked his Lordship to Derek as he resumed his seat, “did you give that billet doux of mine to the Chief Constable?”

  “Yes,” said Derek. “He seemed to take it—well, rather more seriously than you did.”

  “It’s his business to take things seriously. Besides, he hasn’t seen so many of them as I have. It is extraordinary”, he went on, turning to Frodsham, “how many anonymous letters a Judge receives in the course of his career. One takes no notice of them, of course. You’ll need to cultivate a thick skin when you arrive on the bench, I assure you.”

  “Oh come, Judge, my ambitions hardly go as far as that, you know,” said Frodsham in a tone which made it very clear that they did. “What was this particular letter about?”

  “It was merely a threat of the usual vague kind. Rather more offensive than usual so far as I remember. What did the Chief Constable say about it, Marshal?”

  “He didn’t say very much. He just looked rather glum and said, ‘That will be Heppenstall, I shouldn’t wonder.’”

  “Heppenstall?” said Barber sharply.

  “It was some name like that, I think. He seemed to know all about him.”

  The Judge said nothing for some time after that, but he helped himself liberally to the brandy.

  The cessation of the flow of reminiscence from the head of the table seemed to put a momentary damper on the high spirits of the evening, and Frodsham was quick to notice it.

  “Mr. Junior,” he called down the table, “will you kindly designate some member to entertain us?”

  This was a tradition of the mess that everybody knew. On being designated to entertain the company, the chosen member was bound forthwith to contribute a song, story or impersonation upon pain of a substantial fine. If his contribution failed to entertain, the penalty was equally substantial and decidedly undignified.

  “I designate Pettigrew,” replied the Junior without hesitation.

  Pettigrew stood up and stood silent for a moment, his nose contorted in wrinkles that lost themselves between his eyebrows. Then he said, in crisp professional tones,

  “Mr. Junior, I beg to contribute the story of Mr. Justice Rackenbury and the case of indecent assault tried at these assizes in the Hilary Term of nineteen hundred and thirteen.”

  There was an anticipatory burst of laughter. Everybody present had heard of the story, most were familiar with more or less garbled versions of it, and Pettigrew had told it at circuit dinners half a dozen times at least. That made no difference. This story was a legend, and legends do not lose their potency by repetition. Rather, in the hands of accomplished bards, they gather with the years fresh accretions which add to their value as part of the inherited lore of the tribe. The mess sat back in confidence that they would be well and truly entertained.

  It was, in fact, for the time and place, a good story—mildly obscene, highly technical, and told at the expense of an amiable company lawyer whose incompetence as a criminal judge had long since passed into history. Pettigrew told it well, his expression never varying and his voice maintaining throughout the dry tones of an advocate discussing some unexciting point of procedure. He appeared to be unconscious of the gusts of merriment around him and when the tale reached its indecorous conclusion seemed quite surprised to find himself on his legs and the centre of hilarious applause.

  In fact, so familiar was the story to him that he had for the most part recited it almost absentmindedly, while his thoughts were busy on another plane. Once launched on the well worn grooves of the famous dialogue between Rackenbury and the prisoner awaiting sentence, he could safely leave his tongue to take care of itself. His brain, meanwhile, was occupied with half a dozen different things, mostly trivial enough. Presently, however, one question came to occupy it to the exclusion of all others. This was, quite simply, “What on earth is the matter with the Shaver?”

  For the Shaver was not laughing with the others. More, he was not listening. He was sitting glumly regarding the tablecloth and from time to time helping himself to another liqueur brandy from the bottle which had somehow become anchored at his elbow. Characteristically, Pettigrew’s first anxiety was for the brandy. “There’s not too much of that ’Seventy-Five left,” he reflected. “I must remember to tell the Wine Committee at the next meeting. Of course, we’ll never be able to get any more as good as that, but we must do the best we can…. Sickening to see the Shaver hogging that grand stuff. Not like him, either. He’ll be tight if he isn’t careful.” He found that he had finished the story and sat down abruptly.

  Barber was not tight, but he had certainly had enough to drink, and if he went on at the rate he was going it would not be long before he would have had too much. Something of the kind seemed to have occurred to him, for the laughter that crowned Pettigrew’s efforts had hardly subsided before he suddenly pushed away his glass and said across the table, “Marshal! It’s time we were getting home.”

  Derek was not a little disappointed. The night was still young and he was just beginning to enjoy himself. But obviously there was nothing to be done about it. The distinguished guest rose from table and the party automatically broke up. Derek retrieved their hats and coats and they went out into the hall. Frodsham and one or two others accompanied them out. Looking round to say “Good night” to these, Barber saw amongst them Pettigrew, also dressed for the street.

  “What are you doing, Pettigrew?” he asked in surprise. “Aren’t you staying here?”

  “No, Judge, I’m stopping at the County.”

  Barber might not be a good circuiteer, but he knew enough to understand exactly what staying at the County implied. The Red Lion was not only the regular hotel for the mess, the place to which “letters and parcels for gentlemen of the Bar” were ordered to be directed by the circuit notices, it was the only first class establishment in Mark-hampton. Everybody stayed there as a matter of course. Everybody, that is who could afford to. To stay at the C
ounty, which in spite of its name was a miserable pot-house, was a confession of dire poverty. The Judge took a quick look at Pettigrew, at the shabby overcoat and the frayed trouser legs which showed beneath them.

  “The County, eh?” he said after a pause. “How are you getting there?”

  “I shall walk. I like a bit of fresh air after dinner.”

  “Nonsense. I’ll give you a lift. It’s on my way.”

  “No really, Judge. I’d much sooner walk.”

  Outside it was pitch dark and a steady rain was falling.

  “You can’t walk in this,” said the Judge testily, “get in!”

  Pettigrew, without further words said, got in.

  *

  Now there are certain things which in a well-conducted world simply do not occur. In a well-conducted world His Majesty’s Judges of assize do not drive their own cars while on circuit. They employ the services of competent professionals supplied and paid by the county whose guests they happen to be. Further, if they do so far forget their dignity as to act as their own chauffeurs—for, after all, they are but human and may be permitted to enjoy driving as much as lesser mortals—they do not do so in the black-out, on a wet, moonless night, and after imbibing rather more than the customary allowance of old brandy. Finally, at all times and seasons, it may be taken for granted that they drive with the utmost care and circumspection. It has regretfully to be recorded that in this, as in so many other instances, the world proved to be somewhat worse conducted than it is popularly supposed to be.

  The accident happened at the junction of High Street and Market Place, just after the car had taken the sharp right-hand turn necessary to bring it round the corner. Pettigrew, who was sitting alone in the back, was never able to say with precision exactly what occurred. He was first shaken out of a doze by being thrown sideways in his seat as the car swung round, then heard the squeal from the ball-bearings telling him that the corner had been taken too fast, and finally awoke to full consciousness with the realization that the back wheels were sliding over to the left in a violent skid. A moment later the car struck the nearside kerb with an impact that pitched him headlong into the back of the driver’s seat. And that, as he frequently had occasion to remind himself later on, was absolutely all that he knew about it. He would be wholly useless as a witness. That was some comfort.