by Peter Murphy
Nervous as she was as the organiser, Virginia began to relax after the first hour. It seemed to be a happy occasion after all. She had taken care to invite numerous barristers from other Chambers, which discouraged any back-biting or outbreak of Chambers politics. Everyone was honour-bound to be civil to each other, and almost all of them were doing so with a good grace. After tonight, any problems Martin had caused would melt away and, as he was leaving to take up judicial office rather than because of any overt scandal, his instructing solicitors would have no reason not to allow their work to filter down to others in Chambers. Moreover, the door would be open for at least one other member to consider applying for Silk. Most importantly, Martin himself seemed to be in the best of moods.
After he had left Jeremy Sawyer’s office in the House of Lords ten days earlier, he had wandered, feeling lost and helpless, around Westminster. He was feeling too angry to trust himself to go to Chambers, and cancelled his appointments for the day with a curt call to his clerk. Eventually, he found a pub opposite St James’s Park underground station and drank whisky until he felt on a sufficiently even keel to make his way home. At home he systematically threw half a dozen water glasses at the wall until they shattered, imagining Jeremy Sawyer’s supercilious face grinning at him from the cream paint as they collided with it, and felt somewhat better. But any serious thinking about his predicament had to wait until after a bout of drinking, which ended three days later when he remembered that he had a trial beginning at the Old Bailey at the start of the following week. The trial was likely to last for five or six weeks, and would be his last before he took up his appointment. It was also, by Martin’s standards, a leisurely affair. His client was the last of six on an indictment for fraud, and counsel ahead of him on the indictment would do most of the heavy work. He could lurk in obscurity and snipe at witnesses, or not, as he chose.
This gave him a chance to come to terms with his coerced future. In some ways, he reflected, it might be a godsend. On his worst day as a judge in the county court, the pressure would be far less than the unrelenting stress he endured on his best days as a Silk at the Assize or in the High Court. The legal issues would pose little challenge – especially with counsel or solicitors to assist him – and the facts would hardly tax his brain after the complex and tangled webs he dealt with every day now. Most importantly, he would no longer have to deal with clients. At 4 o’clock, or shortly after, he would wend his happy way home with no client to appease and reassure, with no solicitor to flatter – without a care in the world. His weekends would be his own, and he could not even remember when that had last happened.
Of course, he would have to be careful. They would be watching him. There could be no question of failing to show up for court any more. For one thing, there would be no judge to ask or apologise to; he would be the judge, and if he failed to attend, a whole court full of litigants and their legal advisers would want to know why. And that bastard Sawyer would be watching him like a hawk. If he gave him even half a chance Sawyer would not hesitate to talk to the Lord Chancellor about dismissal. Martin was sure it would not be a problem. He just needed to be careful. He would set up a new regime. Perhaps he would look up one or two of his old girlfriends; even seek out a new one. After all, he would have some free time now.
By the time of the reception Martin had, for the most part, convinced himself that his appointment was just what he wanted, just what he needed. There was still some anger, but it would fade with time. He enjoyed himself hugely, making the rounds and greeting every guest. As he left, he hugged Virginia and thanked her profusely.
* * *
It was 6.30 in the morning when the phone rang in Virginia’s flat. She was half awake, and trying to decide whether to try to get back to sleep for a while, or whether to surrender to the inevitable and make herself get up. It was a Saturday and the weekend lay ahead, though some papers in a civil case which needed an urgent opinion were competing for her time. Her lover, Michael Smart, had been up for some time, and was in the bathroom. They spent nights in each other’s homes regularly, but had not yet moved in together. The Bar Council took a dim view of barristers fraternising with solicitors, especially those who instructed the barrister in question, and any permanent liaison would require some political work. Miles Overton had offered to intercede, but it would take some time.
‘I am sorry to disturb you, Miss Castle,’ Vernon, her clerk, said. ‘I know it’s a Saturday morning, but I need you to go to Clerkenwell Magistrates’ Court for 10.30.’
Virginia began to protest, but Vernon cut her off, and spoke quietly but intensely to her for some two minutes.
Virginia hurriedly made two cups of instant coffee and rushed into the bathroom as soon as Michael emerged.
‘You look remarkably awake,’ he smiled, kissing her as they passed in the doorway.
‘I am either completely awake or I’m in a real nightmare,’ she replied, returning the kiss.
Michael laughed and settled down happily with his coffee and The Times until it was time to think about breakfast.
Virginia had no brief for her appearance at Clerkenwell Magistrates’ Court, but Edwin McCullough, a solicitor intensely loyal to Miles Overton, had agreed to be at court personally by 9 o’clock with a backsheet marked with a modest fee, which technically amounted to a brief, and was just about enough to ensure that she had the instructions without which no barrister could appear in court.
Virginia knew McCullough. He had begun to send her some work in the last year, and as soon as she found him in the lobby of the court, she took him discreetly aside.
‘How bad is it?’ she asked.
‘I’m not really sure, Miss Castle,’ the solicitor replied. ‘All the warrant officer knows is that he was arrested in the early hours for being drunk and disorderly and obstructing an officer in the execution of his duty. We won’t know any more until the arresting officer gets here.’ He paused. ‘Whatever it is, it can’t be good, can it?’
‘No,’ Virginia agreed quietly.
PC Nathan Smith was unshaven and looked tired and dishevelled. He had snatched no more than an hour or two of sleep at the police station before he made his way to court, fortified by some strong coffee, to complete his shift by dealing with the one miscreant he had had occasion to arrest while on duty the previous night. Smith was a brawny, muscular man who filled his uniform almost to bursting point. He had a shock of thick red hair. He seemed bemused to find both counsel and solicitor present and taking an interest in the most mundane of arrests.
‘What can I tell you?’ he replied, in answer to Virginia’s question. He produced a crumpled notebook from the breast pocket of his uniform and opened it, running his fingers along the lines of the paper as he narrated the events.
‘Let me see. This was at about 2.10 this morning. I was on duty in full uniform on foot patrol in Gray’s Inn Road, near the junction with Theobald’s Road, when I observed a white male who appeared to be urinating against the wall of a building. The man was about six feet in height, slightly built, wearing a smart, formal grey suit and a tie, hanging loose around his neck. I approached the male and asked him what he was doing. He replied: “What does it bloody look like? I’m taking a piss.” I noticed that his speech was slurred and, as I approached, I was able to smell alcohol on his breath. He stopped urinating and, with some difficulty, adjusted his trousers. He appeared to have poor coordination and was unsteady on his feet. He was very drunk. I asked the male to identify himself. He said: “Fuck off. Don’t you know who I am?” I said: “No, I don’t know who you are, that’s why I am asking you to identify yourself.” He then became violent and aggressive, and repeatedly tried to push me away. He continued to swear and be abusive, and continued to refuse to identify himself. I called for assistance. I then told the male he was under arrest for being drunk and disorderly and for obstructing me in the execution of my duty. I cautioned him, and he said: “I kn
ow all about that, you moron. I’m a bloody judge. You can’t do anything to me.” When my colleague PC James arrived with a car, he resisted our efforts to detain him, but we were eventually able to handcuff him and take him to the police station where he was detained overnight.’
PC Smith concluded his recitation and smiled. ‘That was a good one, Miss, about him being a judge. I haven’t come across that one before.’
‘No,’ Virginia replied. ‘I don’t imagine you have.’ She paused. ‘Look, would you be heartbroken if I talked the inspector into dropping the obstruction and proceeding on the drunk and disorderly?’
PC Smith smiled broadly.
‘Miss, if I can get home and take a nice bath, have a bite to eat, see the missus, and grab a bit of kip, my heart will not be troubled in any way.’
Virginia smiled.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
* * *
The duty sergeant showed no inclination to lock her in the cell.
‘Now that we know who he is, we are satisfied he’s not a flight risk,’ he grinned. ‘You can go inside or stay in the corridor, Miss, as you wish.’
The sergeant opened the door of the cell with a large key and disappeared along the corridor. Martin Hardcastle was sitting on the hard wooden bench, without his jacket, shoes and tie, looking very sick. On seeing Virginia he nodded.
‘Is McCullough here?’ he asked quietly.
‘Yes,’ Virginia replied. ‘I left him upstairs to check for any sign of the press taking an interest. We haven’t seen any indication yet. I’m going to pull some strings to get us on first, and with any luck we will be away before anyone knows.’
‘The police know,’ Martin said miserably. ‘After all the abuse I’ve heaped on police officers during my career, I’m sure they will be only too glad to spread the word. The press are bound to pick it up.’
‘We shall see,’ Virginia replied. ‘In any case, first things first. They have agreed to drop the obstruction charge if you plead to drunk and disorderly. I assume you have no problem with that?’
Martin shook his head.
‘In which case,’ she continued, ‘the magistrates will deal with it by way of a fine. I’ll ask for seven days to pay to clear a cheque.’
‘Thank you,’ he replied.
There was an awkward silence.
‘If I didn’t say so last night,’ he said, ‘it was a great party. Thank you.’
She nodded.
‘I’ll see you upstairs,’ she said.
She walked away, leaving the door of the cell open to the empty corridor.
58
3 August
‘You wanted to dictate a letter, Mr Sawyer?’ Annette asked brightly as she entered his office.
‘Yes, thank you,’ Jeremy Sawyer replied, waving her into her chair.
She took her seat, opened her notebook, crossed her right leg over the left, and was immediately poised for action, pen in hand.
As was his custom, Sawyer walked around his office while dictating, passing a small green rubber ball from hand to hand, and occasionally throwing it up into the air to catch it again.
‘It’s to Martin Hardcastle QC, at his Chambers,’ he said. ‘You will find the address in his file.’
He looked out over the river, playing with the ball.
Dear Martin,
The Lord Chancellor was saddened to hear of your plea of guilty, over the weekend, before the Clerkenwell Magistrates’ Court, to an offence of being drunk and disorderly. As you know, as Head of the Judiciary, it is the Lord Chancellor’s responsibility to uphold the standards of conduct which are expected of those who hold judicial office. I am directed by the Lord Chancellor to inform you that, as a result of your conviction of this offence, he is obliged to withdraw the offer previously made to you of an appointment to the county court bench. I am sure you will understand that, in the circumstances, he has no choice in the matter.
If you have any questions, please do not hesitate to let me know.
Yours ever,
Jeremy Sawyer
He stopped.
‘That’s it, Annette. Can it go out this afternoon?’
She smiled.
‘Yes, of course, Mr Sawyer.’
59
5 August
When his assistant approached him with quiet, respectful steps, Arthur Ludlow was observing Billy Cottage at exercise in the yard. A window was cut into the wall of the execution suite, adjacent to the small exercise yard reserved for condemned prisoners. Its purpose was to allow the executioner to see the prisoner and make an assessment of his physical condition for the purpose of calculating the drop. Arthur moved slightly to his left to allow the younger man to stand alongside and share the view. The number two was a reliable fellow named Ken Aitcheson who hailed from Southend-on-Sea. It was the day before Billy Cottage’s scheduled execution, and it was time to make their final preparations.
‘How does it look up there?’ Arthur asked.
‘It looks good, Arthur,’ Ken replied. ‘I’ve been up to the top and looked at all the tackle. It is in order. Everything is working. I’ve hung two ropes up with sandbags to stretch overnight, so you’ll have your choice of the two in the morning. I checked the lever and the trap doors on the drop and there’s no problem there. They are working.’
‘Good lad,’ Arthur replied approvingly. ‘Now, take a look at Billy, and tell me what you see.’
‘He’s well-built, isn’t he?’ Ken asked. ‘He looks strong. Good muscles.’
‘Aye,’ Arthur replied. ‘He looks right strong. He’s a lock keeper, apparently, lots of hard physical work. So you’d expect him to be in good shape. And his neck is right thick, an’ all.’
Ken nodded. ‘Yes, I see that.’
‘Good. So, what would you give him for the drop?’ Arthur asked.
Ken produced a small notebook from the breast pocket of his jacket.
‘Well, yesterday he weighed in at 180 pounds.’
‘Right,’ Arthur confirmed.
‘So according to the Home Office table, we would need a drop of 5 feet 7 inches.’
Arthur nodded. ‘But today…’
‘But today, we would add 9 inches to that so that gives us…’ He paused to check a calculation he had made in pencil. ‘If we add 9 inches, that gives us a drop of 6 feet 4 inches.’
Arthur nodded again.
‘That’s right enough, and I don’t think you would have any problem with it. But looking at his build, I think we would be safe with 6 feet 1 inch or thereabouts. Remember to always err on the side of shorter, as long as you don’t go too far. I’m going to say 6 feet 1½ inches. Any problem with that?’
‘No problem at all, Arthur,’ Ken replied.
‘Good,’ Arthur said. ‘That’s all till tomorrow morning, then. And now it’s tea time. Let’s go and see if they’ve got any of that fruit cake left.’
* * *
After his period of exercise, the prison officers took Billy Cottage back to the condemned cell. He was to have a visitor. Eve had made an appointment to see her brother for the last time. For one last time, she had made her way to Bedford Gaol by train and bus, and had patiently submitted to every security check at the prison, including a demeaning personal body search. At long last an officer admitted her to the condemned cell. She looked around sadly. The cell seemed drab, hopeless, and an officer was standing just a few feet away from where Billy sat at the small table. There was to be no privacy as they said their goodbyes.
She seated herself across from him at the table.
‘It doesn’t look very nice in here, Billy,’ she observed, without rancour. ‘How are they treating you?’
‘It’s not very nice,’ he replied. ‘The worst thing is, they leave the lights on all day and all night, so it’s not easy to get to sleep at night. I
get tired.’
‘Well, that’s not right,’ Eve said, eyeing the officer critically. ‘There’s no reason to leave the lights on all the time, is there? Quite apart from the money it must cost.’
He did not reply.
‘Are you eating properly?’ she asked.
‘Yes. The same as usual.’
A silence.
‘How about you? All right?’
She looked down at the table and held both hands in her lap.
‘Well, the money is still very short,’ she said. ‘It’s not the same as when you were working. I’m worried about the bills. I don’t know how long I can make ends meet. There are some things that need doing around the house, and I can’t afford anyone to do them. You know, the roof at the back needs some new slates. And there are some pipes that need lagging, and I don’t know what all.’
She looked up.
‘And they are still saying that I won’t be able to stay on in the house after… if you can’t come back to work. They will need it for a new lock keeper, you see.’
She suddenly put her hands on the table and became animated for the first time.
‘Have you spoken to Mr Davis, Billy? What did he say?’
