We had already decided to object to an all-male jury and to go on objecting until some women were called. We believed—and, I think, rightly—that women jurors were likely to be more fair-minded and sympathetic in a case like this. On the lengthy list of people called for jury-duty that day there was not one woman.
The twelve men who made up our jury did not look remarkable in any way. They might have been anybody, and it was strange to think that the rest of my life depended on their decision. Most of them were middle-aged, and looked like shopkeepers or farmers. There were two young men, one of whom wore a bow-tie on the first day of the trial, but afterwards exchanged it for something more severe. And there was a small, elderly person who spent most of the time curled up asleep, like the Dormouse at the Mad Hatter’s tea-party.
When the nineteen charges on the indictment had been read out by the Clerk of the Court, and the three accused had pleaded Not Guilty to each one, Mr. Roberts—still accompanied by his bottle of cough-mixture—launched into his opening speech. By now, I almost knew it by heart. ‘Reynolds and McNally are put forward as perverts,’ he thundered, ‘men of the lowest possible moral character; men who were corrupted, who apparently cheerfully accepted corruption, long before they met the three defendants. It is not to be laid at the door of the defendants that they were a party to the corruption at all.
‘These are witnesses whom we, in law, know as accomplices. They were willing parties to these unnatural offences, although, of course, they were committed under the seductive influence of lavish hospitality from these men, who were so infinitely their social superiors....’
And then he began to read the letters which, nearly two years before, had passed between McNally and me. It seemed incredible that I could have written such words to such a man; and yet, even when I heard them ringing round the court room in the voice of Mr. Roberts, I recognised them as my own. I remembered the loneliness and misery of the nights when I had written them, and my desperate hope that I could find, even in McNally, someone with whom to share my life.
It was cruel enough to have to listen to them. What made it even worse was the knowledge that these letters were not only being used as evidence against myself, but against Edward and Michael, who had not even known of their existence.
McNally came into the witness-box to say his piece. Whereas, at Lymington, he had hesitated and contradicted himself on several occasions, this time he was almost word-perfect. The high, flat voice with its Scottish accent whined on, reducing everything that there had ever been between us to the textbook phrases of the police. Laughter and misery, loneliness and comradeship and love and hate, had come to this: a mean little parrot-voice that went on and on—‘Mr. Wildeblood did this. Mr. Wildeblood said that.’
Peter Rawlinson rose, clasped his hands behind his back, and looked at McNally as though he were something sticking to a spade. ‘Would you turn your head and look at the men in the dock?’ he asked. ‘Is the man on the right Peter Wildeblood?’
McNally glanced at me, briefly. It was the first time he had done so. I searched his eyes with mine, looking desperately for some flicker of shame or sorrow, but there was none. His eyes were dead, like a doll’s eyes.
‘Yes, sir,’ he said.
‘During 1952 and 1953 were you what you would describe as “in love” with Peter Wildeblood?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And when you wrote him those letters of which we have heard, did you mean the expressions of sentiment which you expressed?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Let us just remind ourselves of them. In December, 1953 you said: “As for me, well, I never change.” Did you mean that?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘When you wrote “I’m still very much in love,” did you mean that?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And the letters you wrote were quite sincere letters?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘To the person whom you thought you were in love with?’
‘Yes, sir.’
It was horrible. I looked round the court. The jury and the people on the public benches sat with pinched mouths and clasped hands, looking at their shoes. The judge looked as though he had bitten a lemon. The Sheriff’s eyes were closed; the Chaplain’s, popping. I wanted to get up and shout: ‘It was not I who made “love” into a dirty word—it is you!’
Rawlinson probed and gouged McNally like a dentist drilling a rotten tooth. Out it all came: the truculence, the shamming, the squalid little affairs with half a dozen men, some of whose names he did not even know; and the more Rawlinson forced him to expose himself, the more firmly he stuck to the story which he had learned. When questioned about details he became vague and evasive, twisting, turning, contradicting his previous evidence and saying that he didn’t remember; but on the main points he stood firm, repeating over and over again in the same incongruous words: ‘Mr. Wildeblood committed an offence against me.’
One of the facts elicited by Mr. Rawlinson was that McNally, during the period when he said he was in love with me, was corresponding on even more affectionate terms with a man named Gerry. I do not know Gerry and I wish him no ill, but the fact remains that there was ten times more evidence of a sexual relationship between McNally and Gerry than there was between McNally and myself. This man’s name was one of those which McNally had given to the police. We produced in court a letter in which McNally had described Gerry as ‘my husband’, and a receipt from the Regent Palace Hotel, where they had shared a room together. The fact that neither of them was charged with an offence proves, I think conclusively, that the Crown in this case was not even concerned with the administration of the law as it stood. It was simply out to put Lord Montagu behind bars.
It is difficult, if not impossible, to trace the origins of a witch-hunt. It may be true that the case began as a political manoeuvre, designed to allay American fears that people susceptible to blackmail were occupying high positions in Britain. The police may be criticised for their methods, but it must be remembered that the police are not all-powerful. However anxious the police chiefs in Hampshire may have been to secure a conviction against Montagu after they had lost the first case, it would have been impossible for them to proceed without encouragement from someone in a higher position.
Who was this person? The Home Secretary at this time was Sir David Maxwell Fyfe, a Scottish lawyer whose tenure of office had already been marked by the hanging of Derek Bentley, the disquiet over the Christie-Evans case, and the refusal of political asylum to Dr Cort when he was being persecuted by the American authorities. Sir David had persistently refused the requests of Sir Robert Boothby in Parliament that a Royal Commission should be set up to inquire into the nature and treatment of homosexuality. After our case ended his deputy, Sir Hugh Lucas Tooth, gave evasive and in some instances untrue replies to questions about police procedure. Later, Sir David was forced to agree to the setting-up of an official inquiry into homosexuality. A few months later, he left the Home Office, became Lord Chancellor and, by accepting a peerage, renounced the possibility of higher political office.
The Police Commissioner was Sir John Nott-Bower. It was around the time of his promotion to this post at Scotland Yard that the series of prosecutions of well-known people began. The previous policy of not interfering with people’s private lives unless they were harming others was apparently reversed.
The Director of Public Prosecutions was Sir Theobald Mathew. It was on his instructions that Edward Montagu was charged with the offences (said to have happened two years before) against Reynolds, at a time when Edward was already on bail, waiting for a re-trial of the Boy Scout case. It was Sir Theobald, too, who gave the assurance that Reynolds and McNally—however many offences they might admit—would never in any circumstances be prosecuted. He took the liveliest personal interest in the case, and was present when we were sentenced.
Reynolds was, if anything, an even less impressive witness than McNally. He had already said at
the magistrates’ court that he had been ‘terrified’ by the police inquiries, and had almost wept. His evidence was so confused and contradictory that the four main charges against Montagu had to be dropped; they were simply not borne out by anything that Reynolds said in court. In cross-examination he denied that he had ever told the police that Montagu had committed these offences.
On the third day of the trial, the police gave their evidence.
First, Detective Sergeant Anderson, who had searched Michael Pitt-Rivers’ London flat at the time when he was being arrested in Dorset. Mr. Hylton-Foster, in cross-examination, asked him: ‘I appreciate, Sergeant, that you are not at the top of the Hampshire Constabulary hierarchy, and you were apparently acting on instructions; but it is a fact, is it not, that you went to this man’s flat without his permission, without any sort of kind of warrant, and proceeded to search it?’
‘That is so, sir,’ said the Sergeant.
‘I do not ask you what the law is, but are you of the opinion that the law entitled you to do that?’
Mr. Roberts jumped up. ‘My Lord, I object to that question. I submit that this witness’ opinion of the law is entirely irrelevant. I am perfectly prepared to argue the point, and I have the authorities here.’
The judge leaned forward. ‘Well, I agree,’ he said, ‘if it is necessary to argue it. The fact is—and it has been elicited —that he entered the premises without a warrant. We will leave it at that.’
Sergeant Toms, also of the Hampshire Police, then described how he had searched Lord Montagu’s London flat, also in his absence. He, likewise, admitted in cross-examination that he had no search warrant.
Detective Inspector Stuchfield told how he had arrested Lord Montagu. He was cross-examined by Mr. Fearnley-Whittingstall.
‘Why was he not allowed to telephone to his solicitor?’
‘In view of the magnitude of the police activities that day, and the fact that a delay of an hour would not prejudice him, I decided not to for those reasons.’
‘Do you know that throughout the day he was not allowed to communicate with his solicitor?’
Mr. Roberts again objected.
Later, Mr. Fearnley-Whittingstall asked: ‘Did his (Lord Montagu’s) solicitor speak to you on the telephone?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he ask you whether you had a warrant to search the house?’
‘Yes.’
‘Had you?’
‘No.’
‘You had been instructed to search, had you?’
‘Yes.’
‘By whom.’
‘By Detective Superintendent Jones.’
Detective Inspector Stuchfield was then cross-examined about the alteration in Edward’s passport.
‘You will agree, will you not, that that passport had been altered in a way which, if it had not been detected as an alteration, would have conflicted with evidence that he had given on another occasion?’
‘Yes.’
‘And it was detected by the defence, was it not?’
‘Yes.’
‘As having been altered?’
‘Yes.’
‘Altered in a way prejudicial to his evidence?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who had that passport? The police?’
‘It was in my possession from the 7th November, when Lord Montagu gave it to me.’
Detective Superintendent Smith, who had arrested me, began his evidence. Peter Rawlinson stopped him, and asked if the jury could be sent out, as he proposed to lodge an objection. When the jury had gone, he asked the judge to rule inadmissible the statement which I had written at Scotland Yard, on the ground that it had been obtained ‘on the promise of a favour given to him by Superintendent Jones, who suggested to him that it would be better for him to do this; that he could not make any promise but that he would probably only be bound over.’
‘Your Lordship will have already heard,’ said Rawlinson, ‘that at 8 a.m. he had asked to see a solicitor. I intend to call the solicitor, who attempted to get in touch with his client and who was, in fact, told that he could not at a certain time because his client was being charged, when the evidence will show that, in fact, that man was not charged until very much later that evening.
‘In those circumstances, my Lord, in my submission that certainly is not a voluntary confession. I can say here and now that that statement is a statement on which a misinterpretation may well be put, as to certain of the phrases used therein.’
Superintendent Smith continued his evidence. He said that he had not heard Superintendent Jones make any promises or suggest that I should make a statement. He denied that he had told Mr. Myers, my solicitor, that he could not come and see me immediately because I was being charged at that moment. He said it had not been ‘convenient’ for Mr. Myers to come because he, Superintendent Smith of the Special Branch, had had ‘a number of officers doing searches at different places.’
This was the first and only admission that the Special Branch was involved. On various other occasions Superintendent Smith was at great pains to explain that it was by pure chance that he had accompanied Jones to my house.
Smith agreed that, during the questioning, I had been in a very shocked and distraught condition. He had read my statement. ‘It is the best statement I have ever seen written,’ he said.
Superintendent Jones was a good deal tougher. He agreed that he had spent about three-and-a-half hours with me in the house, but vehemently denied having questioned me. It was not true, he said, that he had encouraged me to make a statement. If I said that, I was lying. He had read the statement.
‘Were you moved by it, Mr. Jones?’
‘I wasn’t moved; I thought it was a good statement.’
Mr. Myers was then called. He said that he could have come to see me immediately, but that from his conversation with Superintendent Smith he formed the impression that I was being charged at that moment, or was about to be charged. Mr. Roberts, in cross-examination, asked: ‘It may be that your recollection of the use of the word ‘charge’ is imperfect?’
‘I doubt it,’ said Mr. Myers.
I went into the witness box. It was painted pale grey, with a handrail to hold on to. Opposite me were the empty jury benches. I gave the judge the facts of my arrest, as I have given them here. Then Mr. Roberts looked up at me and asked: ‘You are, Mr. Wildeblood, as your counsel has quite properly described you, an intelligent man?’
‘I hope so.’
‘And you knew perfectly well, when the police officers came that morning, that they were coming over on a very serious matter?’
‘I did not appreciate the seriousness of it.’
‘I suggest to you—you see, it has been described how very much upset you were; was not that because you realised the gravity of the situation?’
‘I do not think so, sir.’
‘Why were you upset, then?’
‘If three police officers arrive at 8 o’clock on a very cold morning and start showing you letters you know you have written yourself, that you know would be extremely damaging if they were published, I think that is enough to upset anybody.’
‘I quite agree with you; but would you now reconsider your answer to my question? My question was: you knew that they were coming over a serious matter?’
‘I knew it was a matter which would have a serious effect on my life, but I did not appreciate that in law it was so serious.’
‘Did Superintendent Jones say “There is a warrant in existence for your arrest?”’
‘No; if he had mentioned a warrant I should have asked to see it.’
When I had finished giving my evidence, the judge ruled that my statement was inadmissible, on the ground that it was not a voluntary statement.
By this time I had returned to the dock. A woman sitting on the benches beside me leaned over the dock rail and grasped my arm.
‘You’ll be all right now,’ she said, ‘thank God.’
During the trial Arthur
Prothero and I were staying at a small hotel just outside Winchester. It was strange, at breakfast time, to see the other residents reading newspapers with my own photograph on the front page. Wherever I went, there were Press cameramen. I knew most of them from my Fleet Street days. They would bob out of cars or doorways with their cameras held up, flattening the brims of their hats, and plead: ‘Just a minute, please, Pete, do you mind?’ But however many pictures they took, their Art Editors in London always seemed to print the old ones taken at Lymington during the preliminary hearing. It had been extremely cold at Lymington and my face, half-frozen, had acquired a tragic, hunted look which I suppose they thought appropriate.
Arthur Prothero realised that I did not look my best when I was suffering from the cold. He said to me: ‘If you go into the witness box shivering like that you’ll look as guilty as hell. Haven’t you got any long pants?’ I told him that I had not, so he lent me a pair of his own. There is some truth in the saying that a man’s best friend is his solicitor.
The Court hearings lasted all day, and during the luncheon adjournment, Edward, Michael and I went down to the cells below and unpacked a picnic lunch. This was sent over each day from Palace House, and invariably included half a bottle of wine. The cells were extremely small, and it was impossible to turn around without becoming covered with whitewash. They had barred windows and an atmosphere of antiquity and despair which reminded us strongly of the last act of Tosca. The warders were surprised and faintly scandalised when Michael began singing ‘E lucevan le stelle’ in a ringing baritone. We explored the other cells and found that in one of them the wall bore the text: ‘Mister Justice So-and-so is a bottlenosed Old bastard who can’t count, all he can say is Five, Seven, Nine years.’ We discovered that the lavatory had no lock on the door and that the flush-plug was on the outside, presumably so that one could not hang oneself from the chain.
Against the Law Page 9
