by Peter Murphy
‘It will be something staring you in the face,’ she remarked. ‘You can’t see it now, but you will, and as soon as you do, you will wonder how you could have missed it.’
Well, I’ve been thinking about it for quite some time now, and it has certainly not stared me in the face, or anywhere else, yet. But before giving up and going home, I look down at tomorrow’s list, just to see what’s going on in the other courts. As usual, we have four courts sitting, each with its own court staff and each with its own judge. And in a flash, there it is. I see it. The Reverend Mrs Walden is right, as ever. Excitedly, I pick up the phone to see whether Bob is in the office. He is.
‘Meet me in chambers,’ I say.
He does. And fifteen minutes later, the mystery is solved.
* * *
Thursday morning
I send the jury back out to resume their deliberations at ten o’clock. To while away the time, I sentence a prolific burglar to the minimum three-year sentence he richly deserves for a long list of domestics. At eleven-thirty, the jury send a note. They are ready to return a verdict. Court is assembled. Elmer G Pratfall has once again appeared in the public gallery, which he has haunted ever since leaving the witness box. Carol asks the defendant and the foreman of the jury to stand. The foreman is a woman in her forties, smartly dressed in a dark business suit.
‘Madam foreman, please answer my first question either yes or no. Has the jury reached a verdict on which they are all agreed?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you find the defendant, Jan van Planck, guilty or not guilty of fraud?’
‘Not guilty.’
‘You find the defendant not guilty, and is that the verdict of you all?’
‘It is.’
I see Julian Blanquette and Jan van Planck exchange smiles as I order Jan to be discharged from the dock, and begin to thank the jury for their service. Elmer G Pratfall appears to be muttering to himself, no doubt about how much better things have been done in California since the Gold Rush than they are here. He will be free to take Exhibit one with him, if he wishes. It will be interesting to see whether or not he does.
Now comes the tricky part of the morning. I have asked Stella to loiter at the back of the courtroom and in the event of a not guilty verdict, to stop Jan van Planck leaving court until I have had the chance to talk to him. If possible, I would like her to do this without Julian Blanquette knowing about it, because although it has nothing to do with the case, it does look a bit odd, and he would have every justification for asking what is going on, which I would prefer not to tell him. Mercifully, Julian makes his way to the robing room after congratulating Jan on his acquittal and receiving his thanks, and Stella pounces. She is under instructions to wait with Jan in the courtroom until I am ready to see him. There is something else I have to do first. And I’m not looking forward to it.
There is a knock on the door of my chambers.
‘Come in,’ I say, quite loudly, hoping to sound authoritative.
Hubert opens the door and gingerly puts his head round it to peer in.
‘Ah, Hubert,’ I say, ‘thank you for coming. I am sorry to have to ask you to rise. I hope it wasn’t at a bad moment.’
He hesitates, looking a bit unsure of himself.
‘It is a bit awkward, Charlie,’ he replies. ‘I’m in the middle of hearing a defence witness being cross-examined. Pack of lies, of course, as usual, but I wanted to finish it before lunch.’
‘Yes, of course. As I say, I’m sorry it is necessary. I hope it won’t take too long.’
I am waiting for him to notice the item I have placed, fairly conspicuously, on my side table, leaning up against the wall. At length, in the silence I have allowed to descend upon us, he does. He walks over to examine it.
‘Oh my goodness,’ he says. ‘So this is the dirty deed, is it?’ He appears to inspect it closely. ‘My word, someone has made a mess of it, haven’t they? Any closer to finding out who?’
He turns to me, almost appealingly.
‘Yes, Hubert,’ I reply. ‘As a matter of fact, I know exactly who did it.’
‘Really? What a surprise. That’s splendid…’
‘Stop it, Hubert, please,’ I say. ‘I have the evidence.’
I reach down and lift up the incriminating evidence in question, one small tin of black paint. Hubert looks down and says not a word.
‘I found this in your chambers yesterday evening, Hubert, and I am sure you are not in the least surprised to hear it. We have both been doing this job long enough to know that there is only one conclusion any jury could reach from evidence that this was found in your possession.’
‘That doesn’t prove anything,’ he blusters. ‘Someone could easily have planted it in my chambers to incriminate me.’
I ignore this suggestion.
‘Obviously, I don’t have an expert comparison, but I think you will agree that the colour of the paint in this tin looks exactly the same as the paint of the moustache on the canvas. In addition, I can’t immediately think of any good reason for a judge to have a tin of black paint in his chambers.’
Hubert tries to bluster again.
‘You searched my chambers without my being there, without even telling me? That’s outrageous, Charlie. I won’t stand for it…’
I wait for him to run out of steam.
‘I made the search with Bob, who was in charge of the investigation,’ I reply. ‘It was either that, or leave Bob to make the search with a security officer. He was already scheduled to conduct a thorough search of the whole building. I thought, on the whole, it would be better for me to do it with him.’
There is a really long silence.
‘What do you want from me?’ he asks quietly.
‘What would you do with someone on a plea of guilty to this?’ I ask. ‘Previous good character?’
He purports to consider the question.
‘Conditional discharge for twelve months, I should think,’ he replies, ‘provided he agrees to make good the damage.’
‘Exactly what I was thinking,’ I agree.
‘I sincerely hope you were not thinking of going to the police about this, Charlie,’ he protests. ‘All this talk of a plea of guilty. Surely, that’s not necessary.’
‘No. I have no intention of going to the police.’
For a moment, when he hears this, a note of defiance rises again.
‘So, what would you do if I refused to make good the damage?’
I smile.
‘Something far worse than going to the police, Hubert. I would report the matter to the Secretary of the Garrick Club.’
He appears horrified.
‘The Garrick?’ he protests. ‘You wouldn’t dare!’
I look him straight in the eye.
‘Wouldn’t I?’
We stare at each other, and to my enormous relief – because I honestly don’t know what I would have done if he had called my bluff – Hubert blinks first. He takes a deep breath before raising his hands in surrender.
‘How much will it cost?’
‘I don’t know yet,’ I reply. ‘But this might be a good moment to find out.’
I pick up the phone and ask Bob to collect Stella and Jan van Planck from the courtroom and bring them to chambers.
‘There’s no need for any of this to leak out, is there, Charlie? I mean…’
‘No,’ I reply. ‘The only people who know, apart from me, are Bob and Stella, and they are both the soul of discretion, as you well know. I’m certainly not going to say anything. But I must have your word that there will be no more antics like this.’
‘You have my word,’ he replies. He looks at me curiously. ‘How did you know it was me?’
‘I didn’t until yesterday evening,’ I confess. ‘We had drawn a complete blank with the staff, and it
was only then that I made myself imagine the unimaginable. It had to be one of the four of us. Once I realised that, it was staring me in the face. I knew it wasn’t me. Besides, thanks to the cleaner, we knew when the deed was done, and I had a water-tight alibi. So did Marjorie and Legless. We were all in court. You had already risen for the day. Besides, you are the only one of us who dislikes Jan van Planck and Terry McVeigh in equal measure.’
Stella and Bob usher Jan van Planck into chambers, and leave the three of us alone. Jan notices the portrait at once, of course, rushes over to it, and stands with his hands up to his face like a stricken man. He touches it gently, and we see disbelief turn into grief and then into anger. For some time, he stands in silence, breathing heavily. He turns to face us.
‘Who has done this thing?’ he demands. ‘Who has defaced my work in this way?’
I take his arm and lead him away from the portrait.
‘I am most terribly sorry,’ I say. ‘It is an inexcusable crime, quite horrible. We have mounted an investigation, of course, and we have put arrangements in place to make sure that nothing like this happens again.’
‘But…’
He is about to say something about the police, I know, but given his recent experience, he is slightly reluctant to bring the subject up. I take advantage of this fortunate circumstance quite shamelessly.
‘And, of course, we value your work greatly and we are anxious to have it restored as soon as possible. I know this is scant compensation for the terrible thing done to one of your pieces, but we will pay your fee for the work of restoration, of course. You know Judge Drake, don’t you? I have asked him to take charge of raising the funds for the project. He is quite confident that we will be able to raise the money, isn’t that right, Judge Drake?’
‘What?’ Hubert replies. ‘Oh, yes. Yes. Quite.’
‘And we would like you to start work as soon as possible.’
Jan looks suspiciously at Hubert, then at me. Eventually he walks slowly back to his ravaged work, and begins to examine it in minute detail. Finally, after some minutes, he turns back to us once more.
‘Impossible,’ he says.
‘What?’ I ask.
‘Impossible. The damage is too great. In trying to restore this portrait I would only damage it further. Look.’ He points to the canvas. ‘See the length of this black line. Look at the thickness of the paint, and see here, where the vandal has pressed the brush into the canvas so hard that he has caused some indentations.’ He pauses. ‘This was a very angry man who did this, Judge Walden. I would like to get my hands on him, believe me.’
I am aware of Hubert cringing and taking a step backwards.
‘There is nothing you can do?’ I ask. I must admit that I am somewhat taken aback. It has never occurred to me that we would be writing Terry McVeigh off like this.
‘No, I am sorry. I cannot restore this piece. It is beyond my help. It is beyond anybody’s help.’
Again, we are silent for some time.
‘The only thing I can do,’ Jan says, ‘is to start again. I have my drawings, of course. There would be no need for Judge McVeigh to sit for me again. It will take a month, perhaps six weeks. If I can take this canvas with me, this would help also.’
‘By all means,’ I reply.
But Hubert seems rather anxious about the suggestion of starting again from scratch.
‘Mr van Planck,’ he says, ‘as the fund-raiser for the project, I would need to know how much it would cost to produce another portrait as opposed to restoring this one. It might make a difference to our fund-raising plans.’
‘I don’t think it will make any difference at all,’ I counter.
Jan looks at me, and I see the faintest suggestion of a smile cross his face. He turns to Hubert.
‘Yes, of course, Judge Drake,’ he replies. ‘I understand. I tell you what. I will make you a special deal. Because this is Bermondsey Crown Court, and you have been good to me, I will make you a special deal, a one-time offer. I will make a new portrait for the same price I would have charged if I could have restored the one that has been destroyed.’
‘That’s very generous of you,’ I reply. I smile. ‘But will it count as an original portrait?’
‘But of course,’ Jan replies. He returns the smile. ‘Let us say that it will be an original work of the school of Jan van Planck.’
‘Excellent,’ I say. ‘Let me call security and alert them. We don’t want them to stop you on the way out, thinking you are nicking the canvas, do we?’
‘No, indeed, Judge. I have had quite enough of being suspected of wrongdoing for one lifetime,’ Jan replies.
When all the fuss has died down, I sit at my desk and ponder what, with the connivance of Bob and Stella, I am going to tell Marjorie and Legless, and the court staff. Eventually I settle on what seems a plausible enough account, and one which has the additional merit of being partly true. The culprit has approached me voluntarily to offer a full confession and the cost of replacing the portrait of Terry McVeigh, but only on condition that his or her identity is kept absolutely confidential. Naturally, I have only agreed to such a condition with great reluctance, and because there is no other way of ensuring that we have our full complement of RJ portraits. It will cause a storm of gossip in the short run, and I will have Marjorie and Legless all over me for weeks, begging me to make an exception in their case, in total confidence, of course. But in the fullness of time, the gossip will turn to other matters, and the question of our artistic differences will be forgotten.
What I will not tell anyone – except Hubert – is the one circumstance in which the condition of confidentiality will cease to apply. If anything happens to my portrait after I’m gone, I’m spilling the beans.
UNEASY LIES THE HEAD
Lunchtime last Friday
‘It’s like the Feast of Pentecost, the baptism of the Holy Spirit, you see,’ Legless explains, ‘the transmission of spiritual gifts by the laying on of hands. Once a chap gets decked out in the red robes and the Lord Chancellor anoints him a High Court judge, the Spirit of the Common Law descends from Heaven, alights on him, and imbues him with the spiritual gift of conducting criminal trials.’
The lunchtime conversation in the judicial mess has turned to one of the most hallowed traditions of English law, namely: that the most serious criminal cases, such as murder, are tried by those judges least qualified to try them. I refer, of course, to their Lordships of the High Court. In any rational world, such trials would be conducted by those of us who had some experience of them while in practice. In the real world, the opposite is true. The type of barrister who becomes a High Court judge wouldn’t be seen dead in a criminal court. Not much money in it, for one thing. And crime has always been a bit infra dig, actually, old boy, not the kind of thing one wants to be seen doing. No, those destined for the highest preferment learn their advocacy in a more agreeable setting, such as arguing the finer points of a charter party in the Commercial Court, or carving up a fat, juicy estate in the Chancery Division. Yet, as if by magic, once elevated to the dizzying heights of the High Court bench, they acquire the ability to preside effortlessly over the criminal jury trial – an unruly beast whose potential for sudden, total catastrophe occasionally makes fools of the best of us.
How this apparently magical process occurs has never been satisfactorily explained. Personally, I attribute it to the principle that the gods love a true amateur and will always look after him, especially when he is entrusted with some vital task completely beyond his experience. England has always depended on this kind of divine intervention – on the battlefield, on the sports field, and, it seems, in the courtroom.
‘Does he assume the form of a dove?’ Hubert asks.
‘Who, the Lord Chancellor?’
Hubert looks confused.
‘No, not the Lord Chancellor; the whatsit, the Spirit of the
Common Law.’
‘I’m not sure the dove is quite the right image,’ I comment.
‘An eagle, I would have thought,’ Marjorie suggests. ‘Clear sight and sharp talons.’
‘Bloody vulture, more like,’ Legless rejoins. He sounds depressed, as if his theory of the laying on of hands brings him little consolation.
To add insult to injury, High Court judges don’t confine themselves to presiding over trials. They also hunt in packs in the Criminal Division of the Court of Appeal, where they can do a lot more damage. In the Court of Appeal they can bugger up not only the case in front of them, but also all future cases of a similar nature unless and until Parliament intervenes to restore order. Arrayed en banc, they smugly tell circuit judges like myself off for the errors into which we fall when conducting trials. When they speak of a circuit judge committing error, they usually mean that, lacking a crystal ball, he failed to predict that their Lordships were about to change the law. It’s no bloody wonder the criminal law is in such a mess. But you can’t tell anyone. If you complain to the Grey Smoothies, they give you the party line about the intellectual superiority of those appointed to the High Court bench, and how they can cope with anything, especially something as simple as crime, given a little time and cooperation from the Bar, blah, blah, blah. Waste of time even raising the issue. They should ask around a bit more. They should ask Legless.
If they asked Legless, he would tell them about the case of the Honourable Mr Justice Gulivant. Now there’s a case in point, if ever there was one. Before receiving the Spirit of the Common Law, Stephen Gulivant had spent twenty-five glorious years in the world of urban planning inquiries, helping his corporate clients to demolish listed buildings to provide a grateful nation with another supermarket or underground car park. Just the sort of chap for the High Court bench. He wouldn’t have recognised a criminal case if it jumped up and bit him in the arse. It was apparently intended that Gulivant should spend most of his time doing civil cases in the Commercial Court.But the judge he was due to replace hadn’t quite retired when he was appointed, so they had to find him something to do for a couple of months, didn’t they? Can’t waste the taxpayer’s money by letting him just sit there with nothing to do. So why not send him to the Old Bailey, let him try his hand at some crime? How can that do any harm? That’s the way the Grey Smoothies think, you see. Legless was still at the Bar then. He was prosecuting in Gulivant’s first case, he tells us.
