Dead Against the Lawyers

by Roderic Jeffries

  DEAD AGAINST THE LAWYERS

  Roderic Jeffries

  © Roderic Jeffries 1965

  Roderic Jeffries has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1965 by William Collins Sons & Co Ltd.

  This edition published in 2016 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter One

  THE PRIVATE room in The Three Bells was decorated in common English provincial style: the wall-paper tried to look like oak panelling, the electric lights were in the form of candles, the unlit electric fire had canvas coals and electric flame shadows, the Persian carpet had been made in lower Manchester, and the lace tablecloth was plastic.

  Mr Justice Thwaites stared at his glass of port as if that, too, was ersatz.

  ‘Judge,’ said Radwick Holter, ‘this is an honour we hope will soon be repeated.’

  The judge made no comment.

  ‘It’s far too long since the Hertonhurst Bar had the pleasure of dining the circuit judge.’

  ‘Eight years and three months.’

  ‘In this day and age of change, some of us are deeply concerned with the hard fight to preserve from the past all that’s good. Your visit here, Judge, helps us — the smallest Bar and bar mess in the country — to preserve our identity and wage successfully that fight.’

  Holter never knew when to stop talking, thought the judge. It was a trait that irritated the Bench but quite often seemed to impress both juries and clients. It was odd how the layman confused unnecessary rhetoric with telling advocacy and so preferred perorations to precision.

  As Holter signalled to the waiter to hand round the cigars, he thought how clearly it was time the judge retired. For more than twenty years, now, his thin, sarcastic face had, in court, peered out from beneath a slate coloured wig as he dispensed justice with little seeming regard to the finer points of either humanity or counsel.

  The lumbering waiter went round the table and, with a gesture of hostility, thrust the opened box of cigars before each person in turn. Resse hesitated, but fairly certain that Holter was paying for them, took one: Spender did not hesitate: Aiden helped himself to two and winked at the waiter: the judge picked one up, smelled it, and replaced it: Holter took one, stripped off the band, and pierced the end with a match.

  ‘What’s to do? Shove ‘em on the bill?’ asked the waiter.

  ‘Yes,’ answered Holter.

  ‘What name?’

  ‘Holter.’ Holter sounded rather astonished by the question. ‘That will be all, thank you, waiter.’

  The waiter lumbered out of the room. After shutting the door behind him, he helped himself to one cigar, hesitated, and then took another.

  Holter spoke to the judge. ‘I’m sorry you’re not smoking. I’ve always thought that a nice cigar really finishes a meal.’

  ‘I quite agree.’

  Holter smiled, showing even teeth. ‘We’re not all that far from London, Judge, but it seems to be far enough to dry out the cigars.’ He picked up the bottle of port, now half empty, and refilled his glass, then carefully sent it round the table in an anti-clockwise direction by passing it to the judge on his right. The Hertonhurst Bar honoured their customs with jealous devotion. Holter called for the loyal toast. ‘Mr Junior.’

  Aiden stood up and raised his glass. ‘Mr Senior, sir, I crave permission to propose the loyal and royal toast?’

  ‘Gere.’

  ‘Mr Senior, sir, I give you the loyal and royal toast. To the glorious, pious, and immortal memory of our right noble benefactor: Henry Secundus, rex magnus, dominus noster.’

  Everyone, but Aiden, remained seated as glasses were raised and the toast repeated. ‘Henry Secundus, rex magnus, dominus noster.’

  ‘Mr Senior, sir, may we have permission to smoke?’ asked Aiden.

  ‘Gere,’ replied Holter, as he lit his cigar.

  Aiden sat down and a few minutes later Holter stood up. ‘Mr Junior, it is now my pleasure and privilege to propose the toast, the Hertonhurst Bar. I give you that small but influential circle of individual liberty, that valuable repository of legal independence, that brotherhood without jealousies, the Hertonhurst Bar.’ He raised his glass and the others, sitting, did the same. They drank. Holter sat down. ‘Would you care to say something on behalf of the Bench, Judge?’ he asked.

  ‘I think not,’ replied the other.

  ‘It would be an honour. Halsey, just before he died, dined with us and addressed us.’

  ‘Are you asking me to confirm a legal precedent?’

  Holter laughed. ‘I’m sure, Judge, you’ll be on the Bench for quite a time yet.’

  ‘I trust so, even if such extension should be received without pleasure in a number of quarters.’

  ‘No one here, Judge, wishes you anything but a long judicial life.’

  ‘The loyalty of the Hertonhurst Bar is proverbial.’

  Holter puffed at his cigar. ‘Funny people, Americans,’ he said.

  ‘In what way?’ asked Spender.

  ‘I met a number of American lawyers the other day and was explaining to them the obvious advantages of an independent judiciary, totally free from any kind of damaging political interference such as they suffer in their country. They questioned this independence on the grounds that the Lord Chancellor is a Cabinet Minister yet appoints JPs, county court judges, and nominates judges of the high court. I tried to explain to them the division between politician and judician — to coin a useful phrase — but I’m certain they couldn’t appreciate the point. I feel that a deep sense of tradition is necessary in such matters.’

  ‘Or an even deeper sense of the illogical,’ said Resse.

  Holter drank some more port. ‘I have always maintained that our legal system is every bit as good as it needs to be. If it seems in places illogical, then such apparent illogicality leads to strength, not weakness. Perfection, my dear Oliver, is the last stage before disintegration.’

  ‘Possibly, but in this case you’ve disintegrated without achieving perfection. You’ll have to fine yourself a bottle of wine.’

  Holter, who had been about to speak at some length on the perfections of imperfection, checked himself. He looked as annoyed as he felt. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘You addressed me by my Christian name.’

  ‘I most certainly did nothing of the kind.’

  ‘On the contrary. And that ill-founded arguing will cost you another.’

  Angrily, Holter, who prided himself on knowing all the innumerable rules which governed a mess dinner and observing them, searched his mind for a valid excuse. He scraped the ash from his cigar into the saucer of his coffee cup. ‘Judge,’ he finally said, ‘may one petition you for a verdict?’

  ‘I wasn’t listening,’ replied the other, and underlined his reply with a long yawn.

  ‘I pray a tales,’ warned Resse.

  ‘Very well,’ snapped Holter, who was unable to forbid this.

  ‘Members of the mess,’ said Resse, ‘the general issue has been pleaded by the accused ore tenus by his verbal denial.
So how say you?’

  ‘Guilty,’ answered Aiden enthusiastically. ‘As guilty as hell.’

  ‘Guilty,’ agreed Spender.

  ‘The verdict is unanimous,’ said Resse.

  Holter’s manner changed as if, now that his case was beyond appeal, he wished to show complete magnanimity towards those who had persecuted him. ‘You’re a right load of bastards. Given half a chance, you’d steal the pennies from a blind man. Never mind, I’ll pay the fine which I assess at two bottles of wine. Aiden, go and get the waiter, will you, and ask him to bring them?’

  ‘I’m not so certain it shouldn’t be three bottles,’ said Resse.

  A little of Holter’s newly found amiability disappeared. ‘Now what’s the trouble?’

  ‘Baseless accusations of a vilifying nature. I can prove the legitimacy of my parentage and I feel certain my fellow members can do the same.’

  The judge looked at his glass, still three-quarters filled, and decided to enjoy the pleasure of forgoing the rest of the port. The evening, inevitably, had reached the point at which alcohol replaced logic. Twenty years ago, he might have stayed, but now the thought of his bed was far too attractive. ‘I must be going, Holter. There’s a very full day ahead of us.’

  There certainly is. Good-night, then, Judge. Mr Junior, escort our honoured guest to his car, please, and order the wine.’

  Aiden and the judge left the room. Much of Aiden’s youthful bounciness was temporarily gone because of the solemn responsibility of escorting one of Her Majesty’s high court judges to his official car.

  Holter refilled his glass and passed the bottle round the table.

  ‘Old Thwaites gets sourer every year,’ said Resse, as he accepted the bottle. The milk of human kindness in his breast has turned into vinegar.’

  ‘D’you know,’ said Spender, ‘he gave my chap seven years the day before yesterday and I’d promised the sentence couldn’t possibly be more than two. That kind of thing upsets the delicate counsel-client relationship.’

  Resse refilled his glass and passed the bottle on. ‘You’re all right. There’s no need to worry about any kind of relationship with that long a stretch. Who was your solicitor?’

  ‘Seabord. He’s a bit of a crook.’

  ‘One’s instructing solicitor is never a crook. The more briefs he sends, the more positively virtuous he becomes.’ There was a harsh note to Resse’s voice.

  Holter, never content to be silent for very long, turned round and looked at the closed door. ‘Where on earth has the waiter got to with that wine?’

  ‘Are you very eager to pay your fine and so expiate your guilt?’ asked Resse.

  Before Holter could answer, the waiter came into the room. ‘D’you want more drink?’ he asked, with typical British provincial surliness.

  ‘We want two bottles of port,’ said Holter.

  There ain’t any more.’

  Then we’ll have two more bottles of the Beaune. If there’s any of that remaining?’

  ‘I’ll ‘ave a look.’ The waiter left.

  ‘The service here is getting worse,’ said Holter. ‘We ought seriously to consider moving the mess to one of the other hotels.’

  ‘Which one?’ replied Resse. ‘The Chariot Wheel hasn’t any sort of a private room and The White Leopard’s food and service is worse than here, if you can conceive such a thing. Bad eating is one of the penalties of belonging to a provincial Bar.’

  ‘The benefits far, far outweigh the disadvantages. The metropolis may, if you’ll excuse a harmless jeu de mots, make provisions for the gourmet, but it also provides extreme competition: here, in Hertonhurst, we can be a small band of brothers, devoted to our chosen profession, freed from the vice of professional jealousies brought on by overcrowding.’

  ‘Metropolis or provinces, it pays to say the obvious.’

  Holter appeared not to have heard.

  *

  Holter lived in Treybrake Hall, a large house six miles from Hertonhurst. The main part had been built in 1709, but in 1827 the owner mistakenly thought it necessary to add an Ionic pillared porch of Homeric dimensions. This porch would have suited one of the ancestral seats in the Shires, but on Treybrake Hall it looked like a folly.

  He drove his silver grey Bentley round the left-hand side of the oval drive and across the yard into the garage, which was part of the converted stables. As he switched off the engines, he looked at the dashboard clock. Just after midnight. It had been an enjoyable mess dinner, even if he had slipped up to the extent of being fined a couple of bottles of wine. Still, that was a very small price to pay for tradition. He liked tradition because it anchored the best of the past to the present. The law was a living tradition, to the point of repeated anomalies to those who hadn’t the wit to understand, and it reassured him to know he was part of something that was perfect and unchanging.

  He climbed out of the Bentley and walked between it and his wife’s Mercedes 220 SE to the doors. As he closed and locked the garage, he thought about Resse to whom he had given a lift home: Resse had spent most of the five minutes’ drive pointing out what a waste of money it was to drive a luxury car like the Bentley and that no status symbol could be worth so high a price. Resse was a very bitter man.

  Holter walked from the garage to the drive and round to the front door. It would have been quicker to enter the house by one of the two back doors, but he preferred not to use them. He passed between two of the massive stone columns, unlocked the door, and went into the hall. He hung his hat in the small cloakroom and went up the broad staircase, past the mounted stags’ heads which some guests thought he had shot, to the bedroom.

  Charlotte was sitting up in bed, reading.

  ‘Hullo, darling,’ she said. ‘Did you have a nice evening?’

  ‘Quite pleasant, except that old Thwaites was as sour as ever. And, of course, Oliver was his usual sarcastic self.’

  ‘You must remember how jealous he is of my clever husband.’

  He sat down on her side of the bed and stared at her. She was thunderingly beautiful, he thought, his mind somewhat confused by all he had drunk. Her naturally blonde hair framed an oval face that would have inspired Titian: her deep blue eyes made a man feel ten feet tall: her delicately curved mouth was an open invitation. Whenever he looked at her he found it incredible, unbelievable, that he was more than twice her age: he felt only a few years more at the very most.

  He began to run the palm of his hand up and down her side and he could feel the warmth of her flesh through the sheer nylon nightdress.

  ‘Did you have a pleasant evening?’ he asked, his voice becoming thick.

  ‘Quiet, but interesting. The new dress is a lovely one, Radwick. I’m longing for you to see it.’

  ‘How’s Rachael?’

  ‘Quite well, but a little tired.’

  ‘She’s an odd woman.’ He rested his right hand on her breast.

  ‘You are silly about her.’

  ‘I’m sure she’s a Lesbian.’

  ‘That’s just ridiculous.’ She smiled. ‘Just because she dresses like she does and doesn’t worry about make-up, it doesn’t mean she’s queer. Anyway, if she were one, d’you think I’d go on seeing her?’

  ‘You always say she designs the most wonderful clothes, so you might.’

  ‘Darling, you are terrible! I can’t think what kind of mind you’ve got.’

  He raised his right hand and tried to slide it down the front of her nightdress. She took hold of it and drew it away from herself. ‘It’s awfully late, Radwick.’

  He tried to replace his hand and felt her strain to prevent him. He became embarrassed, a very different person from the boisterously confident one he had been earlier on. ‘What’s ... what’s the matter, Betty?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Radwick, but I’m rather tired and I’m sure you’re the same. Please don’t be annoyed, my darling.’

  Her nightdress was semi-transparent and the blurred sight of her flesh increased his desires. ‘But I’
m not too tired. Can’t we ... ‘

  ‘I’d so much rather not now. Don’t you think it would be better, anyway, to wait just a little?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We don’t want it to be like last time, do we?’

  He flushed heavily as he drew his hand away from hers. ‘All right.’

  ‘Please, please, Radwick, don’t get all angry. I hate it when you do that. I was only trying to help both of us. It was because you were so tired last time.’

  He stood up, feeling angry because she was so damned attractive and desirable that she made the blood run through his veins as if he were twenty-eight, not fifty-eight. He went into his dressing-room. When he returned to the bedroom, she had switched on his bedside light and switched off hers.

  ‘Good-night, Radwick,’ she said. ‘Come and kiss me goodnight and promise you understand.’

  He hesitated, but eventually bent over and kissed her and for several seconds she responded with sensual force. Then, she freed her mouth.

  ‘Good-night, my darling husband,’ she said.

  He went round the bed and climbed in. For a short while the fires of desire smouldered in his mind and body, but they soon disappeared as he thought about the next day’s work. The murder trial would almost certainly be over by the evening. If the judge had his way, there was no doubt what the verdict was going to be: Mr Justice Thwaites was openly very strong-minded, a fact which caused him frequently to be rebuked by the Court of Criminal Appeal ... Not that that ever in the slightest upset him.

  Chapter Two

  THE EXISTENCE of the Hertonhurst Bar was due to a historical error. Henry II found considerable difficulty in introducing law reforms to that part of Kent because of a small confederation of barons who had discovered that the exclusive right to administer justice could be made a highly profitable one. After four years, the barons were stripped of their lands and rank and one of them, according to the Hertonhurst Chronicles which were written about fifty years later, was murdered in Dover Castle by the base use of a red hot poker: a method of death the unfortunate Edward II was later to suffer. Henry II decreed that a special court was to be set up in Hertonhurst so that the inhabitants could once and for all time benefit from pure and unsullied justice. That remarkable king, however, for once made a serious mistake because he appointed a permanent judge who soon discovered that the exclusive right to administer justice could be made a highly profitable one. The court existed over the centuries, eventually becoming an anomaly hallowed by age into an institution. Lawyers became plentiful in Hertonhurst and a 17th century report speaks of a town packed with sewer rats mistakenly termed lawyers who feast on the bones and flesh of unfortunate men and women misguided enough to seek justice or unlucky enough to be dragged to the town to suffer it. Two of these ‘sewer rats’ were executed during the reign of James II and all the shops and stalls did not trade that day, obviously treating it as a public holiday.