“Our case was first in the list on that sunshiny afternoon, and I took good care to be there in plenty of time. I was given a nice front seat by my counsel’s side. I didn’t see the cook, but he said that she was there. When the three Judges, robed, came in, I naturally rose and bowed. I fear such reverence was not usually accorded, for all three returned my bow with their eyes on my face.
“‘Admirable’, whispered my counsel, as we resumed our seats. ‘Monsieur has nothing to learn.’
“I don’t suppose the cook thought of bowing, and I am inclined to think that her case was dead as mutton from that time on. However, pro forma it was heard.
“Her solicitor said a few words and then put her into the box.
“When she said that she claimed a year’s wages, the Judges stared upon her as though she were out of her mind. And then they fell upon her – all three, and all at once. They cross-examined her, they cautioned her, they rebuked her, they contradicted her, they interrupted her, they looked at one another and laughed very nasty laughs: and then they returned to the worry and tore and ate her again. But one thing they didn’t do. They didn’t daunt her. And I must confess to admiration for the way in which she rode out the storm, like a well-found ship at sea. After a quarter of an hour she was ordered to stand down, and the Judges sat back in their seats.
“My counsel rose to his feet, but the senior Judge waved him away. ‘You’ve no case to answer,’ he said. ‘Judgment for Monsieur with costs.’
“‘I shall appeal,’ cried the cook, from the back of the court.
“The three Judges laughed like hell. Then, ‘All right,’ said the senior Judge. ‘You lodge your appeal.’
“Then the three of them rose, and everyone else got up. They all bowed directly to me, and of course I bowed back. And then they left the Bench and we left the court.
“I’d berthed the car under some limes, and as we were walking towards her, I turned to my counsel and spoke.
“‘Will she really appeal?’ I said.
“‘I hardly think so, Monsieur. She may of course.’
“‘Where would her appeal be heard?’
“‘But here, Monsieur. Here, in this court.’
“‘And who will hear it?’ I said.
“My question seemed to surprise him.
“‘But the same three Judges, Monsieur. They are, as you have seen, very able men.’
“I felt rather dazed.
“‘But not the same three?’ I said. ‘I mean, she’s appealing from them.’
“‘The same three, Monsieur.’ I put a hand to my head. ‘Monsieur need have no fear. Their judgment will be the same.’
“I didn’t pursue the matter. And while we were driving back I spoke of other things. But my brain was unruly. For some reason I kept on wondering what, if she did appeal, would be the cook’s emotions when she first perceived the composition of the court.
“Now that is the plain truth. And Daphne will bear me out.”
“It’s perfectly true,” said Daphne. “When he came back he was like a man in a dream.”
“I believe you,” said Jonah. “But I don’t think everyone will.”
“I’m afraid they won’t,” said Berry. “I should add that she didn’t appeal. Possibly she inquired, as I did, by whom the appeal would be heard – and on being informed, as I was, decided that her chance of success was rather too thin.” He looked at me. “Such procedure belongs to the Magistrate’s Court at Fiddle in The Stolen March.”
“That,” said I, “is undeniable. In fact, if I’d known it in time, I’d have put it into the book.”
“Well, that was France – some time in the nineteen-twenties. We can all remember many maddening examples of their unbelievable inefficiency: but until that afternoon it had never entered my head that their judicial system was distinguished by an absurdity so grotesque that even Gilbert would have hesitated to introduce it into one of his incomparable extravaganzas.
“And now it’s Boy’s turn.”
“I can’t approach that,” I said.
“Something intimate,” said Jonah, “that you won’t get anywhere else. For instance, can you remember your first appearance in Court? As counsel, I mean.”
I nodded.
“With considerable shame. I assume that you mean the first time I rose to my feet and lifted my voice.”
“I do.”
“It was at the Sessions at Maidstone. I appeared for the Crown in a very simple case. More. It was a plea of guilty, so I simply couldn’t go wrong. More. The presiding Justice or Chairman was Coles Child, a member of my own Club. For all that and wide as my experience already was, I was quite painfully nervous. I didn’t stammer, but I did everything else. I was quite unable to remember the conventional phrases and words – and Coles Child smiled very gently and put them into my mouth. I never felt so grateful – and so much ashamed.”
“Darling,” said Jill, “it was understandable.”
“It wasn’t, my sweet, for I’d seen so much of the Courts. For a year I’d been in one or the other every day – High Court, Police Court, Old Bailey. I knew the procedure backwards, as few young counsel did. And then, when my turn came, I went to bits.”
“Did it happen again?” said Jonah.
“Never, thank God. That dreadful occasion cured me for good and all. I bearded Eve J once, when not even the head of my chambers would touch the brief. I was, of course, terribly lucky to be before Coles Child in the second Court. For he was a most charming man. Cranbrook, presiding in the first, would have been less tolerant. He got very cross with me when I was conducting the first real case I had. To be honest, I don’t know that I blame him.”
“Why d’you say that?”
“It was a miscarriage of justice. I was for the defence and I got my man off.”
Jill put in her oar.
“Was he really guilty, Boy?”
“I’m afraid he was.”
“And you sit there,” said Berry, “you have the effrontery to—”
“Let’s have it,” said Jonah. “Boy’s doing as I desired. Heaps of big shots at the Bar have written memoirs: but they never report the painful figure they cut when first they rose to their feet or how they fooled a jury into setting a felon free.”
“Possibly,” said Berry, “they had a sense of decency.”
“Rubbish,” said Daphne. “They didn’t want people to know. Boy mayn’t have been a big shot, but at least he’s honest about it.”
I began to laugh.
“There you are,” said Berry. “He finds this outrageous memory matter for mirth. Never mind. Don’t keep us waiting.”
“As a matter of fact,” said I, “I was thinking of something else. Jonah’s words remembered the incident. I was present when a very famous big shot made his first appearance in court. I knew him quite well. He was called to the Bar before me – I was still a solicitor’s pupil which was how I came to be at Bow Street when first he got to his feet. You see, I was with Muskett, who was appearing, as usual, for the prosecution; and Wilson, as I will call him, had been briefed for the defence. Quite frankly, he shouldn’t have been briefed, for he was right out of his depth. But he’d been chucked into the water and told to swim. I think Sir Albert de Rutzen was on the Bench. He was, of course, lucky there. But I really believe he cut as bad a figure as I did – if that is possible. I was terribly sorry for him, but, of course, I couldn’t help. And Muskett was so gentle – so very sympathetic. He never showed him up, as some would have done. As best he could, he covered him. But his flounderings made me writhe. I really never was so sorry for anyone. Happily the case was soon over. How the client felt about it, I have no idea. But it was terribly good for Wilson, for that is the way to get on – to be just chucked into the water and told to swim. And his rise was very rapid. He went to the war all right and put up a first rate show, and then he came back to the Bar and became a famous man, as he richly deserved.”
“And you actually witnessed the very
first struggles he made?”
I nodded.
“I did, indeed.”
“Did they all begin like that? I mean, is that your belief?”
“I’ve no idea. I imagine some of them did. But I can’t see the late Lord Birkenhead getting stage fright.”
“And now let’s have your confession.”
“I’m not at all proud of it,” I said, “and I think I’d better have some more port.”
“Jumping powder,” said Berry, filling my glass.
“Darling,” said Daphne, “no end of people have done it.”
“I know,” said I. “But they have the sense to keep it under their hats. Never mind. Here we go.”
“There was some sort of Show or Exhibition somewhere in Kent. It went on for a fortnight, I think, and a lot of tradesmen had stalls. The Show was closed every evening, as a matter of course: but the tradesmen could hardly be expected to remove their wares every evening and bring them all back the next day. Yet, their stalls couldn’t be locked. And so they engaged a night-watchman, to discourage thieves. For all that, night after night, goods disappeared.
“No one could understand this – the night-watchman least of all. The latter inclined to the view that the thief attended the show and then remained behind when the public left. ‘An’ then he can watch me, you see, and seize his chance.’
“One stall-holder felt very sore, for his stall had been visited twice by the thief or thieves. And he said, ‘I’ll catch the —. I’ll lie in wait myself.’ And so he did. Two nights running the night-watchman let him in about half past nine, and he watched right through the night. But the thief never came. ‘Oh, I give up,’ he said. ‘If you ask me,’ said the night-watchman, ‘you’ve frightened the — off.’ ‘Let’s hope so,’ said the tradesman. ‘I can’t go on like this.’ But he could and did. On the third night he never came in, because he had never gone out. The night-watchman didn’t know this…
“And so it came to pass that he caught the night-watchman red-handed with three of his precious exhibits under his arm.
“When he seized his man, the latter begged for mercy and put the goods back on the shelf. ‘Let me go,’ he begged, ‘for the sake of my wife and children.’ ‘You dirty dog,’ said the other, ‘you’re coming straight to the station here and now.’
“The night-watchman was accordingly charged and cast into jail. At the police-court he pleaded not guilty and reserved his defence: and so he was committed for trial, and I was presently briefed on his behalf.
“As you will have gathered, I hadn’t a rag of a case. The stall-holder’s evidence apart, once the fellow was out of the way no more thefts occurred. And he was most unattractive: he had a most shocking squint, his proportions suggested that he did himself very well, and he had an oily demeanour that made you feel slightly sick. He looked the rogue he was. He had no defence at all, except that the charge made against him was quite untrue. I dared not put him in the box.
“Well, counsel for the Crown did his stuff. He opened the case very shortly – and duly pointed out that, since the prisoner was paid to guard the stalls, it ill became him to play the thief himself. Then he called the stallholder…
“When the latter entered the box, I saw at once that he was a hot-tempered man, and so when my turn came, I decided to pull his leg.
“Well, he told his tale just as I’ve told it to you – how he’d waited two nights in vain and how on the third he’d caught the night-watchman out. Then I rose to cross-examine…
“‘Are you sure you didn’t dream this?’ I said. ‘You were very short of sleep.’
“His reply was so violent that the jury began to laugh…
“All’s fair in love and war, so I led him on – asking him questions designed to provoke his wrath. He rose to every fly, and the jury laughed like hell. But Cranbrook saw my game and began to get cross.
“‘What’s the point of these questions?’ he said.
“Well, I couldn’t very well tell him. Besides, he knew. So I bowed and sat down at once – much to the jury’s annoyance, for they were enjoying themselves. From their point of view, Cranbrook had spoiled sport.
“The stall-holder left the box, and counsel for the Crown summed up. Then I rose to address the Court.
“I can’t remember most of what I said, but I do remember suggesting that, after the sleepless and fruitless nights, each followed by a tiring day, the stall-holder was ready to see anything and seize anyone who so much as approached his stall. I think I put it better than that, for the jury laughed quite a lot. Then I sat down, feeling quite hopeful; and when Cranbrook, who was fuming, summed up dead against me, I felt that the jury might take the bit in their teeth.
“And so they did. To Cranbrook’s justified fury, they found the night-watchman not guilty – and that was that.
“Of course it was an outrage: but it wasn’t a major crime, and I had only done what I was engaged to do.”
“I can only hope,” said Berry, “that you are ashamed of yourself.”
“When I think of the stall-holder, I am. It was most unfair. But Cranbrook did his bit. I should never have got away with it before Coles Child.”
“Why?” said Daphne.
“Well, he would have smiled with the jury and left me alone. And then, in his summing up, he’d have said, ‘Well, we’ve all had a good laugh, gentlemen, but now I’m afraid we’ve got to get back to the facts.’ Or something like that. And the jury would have done as he said.”
“Nor,” said Jonah, “would you have got away with it at the Old Bailey.”
“Not on your life,” said I. “A City of London jury would have put me where I belonged.”
“Well, I’m glad he got off,” said Jill.
“I don’t expect,” said I, “he was free very long.”
Berry cleared his throat.
“After this shocking revelation—”
“Rubbish,” said Daphne. “You know it’s done all the time. Boy’s job was to get the man off, and I consider he did it extremely well.”
“He knew he was guilty,” said Berry.
“I had no doubt,” I said. “But he didn’t admit it to me. If he had, I should have made him plead guilty, or else have returned the brief.”
“Is that the law?” said Jill.
“The unwritten law, my sweet. A barrister’s first duty is to the Court.”
“Duty?” cried Berry. “You don’t know the meaning of the word. You twisted an honest man’s tail and then befooled twelve others. I don’t wonder Cranbrook was cross. I wish you’d been before me. I’d have made you think. And now go back for a minute. Just now you mentioned Eve, the Chancery Judge. And you said you’d bearded him when no one else in your chambers would touch the case. May we have that reminiscence? Or is it as obscene as it sounds?”
I began to laugh.
“There’s nothing obscene about it. It’s really more of a side-light on the spirit and manners of the Bar – in 1913, any way.”
“Proceed,” said Berry.
“Well, a brief came into Chambers one Wednesday afternoon – pretty late, it was, I think, about five o’clock. The senior clerk was out, but the junior took it in. When the senior clerk returned, he saw at once that it was a Chancery brief.
“Now as, no doubt, you know, the procedure in the Chancery Courts is entirely different to that in the Common Law Courts and Chancery matters are handled by Chancery men. And Chancery’s a very close borough – at least, it used to be. But we were Common Lawyers in Number One, Brick Court.
“The name of the head of my Chambers was on the brief, but he was down in the country doing some motoring case; so the senior clerk rang up the firm of solicitors who’d sent the brief, thanked them politely and said there was some mistake.
“‘No, there isn’t,’ said the managing clerk. ‘We’d like Mr Harker to do it, although he’s not a Chancery man.’
“‘Well, I don’t think he will,’ said our clerk. ‘It’s not his line. A
ny way, he’s down in the country and won’t be back till late. And I see it’s fixed for tomorrow afternoon.’
“‘Well, try him,’ said the other. ‘It’s only an application – won’t take him a quarter of an hour.’
“‘What if he won’t?’ said our clerk.
“‘You’ve other gentlemen in Chambers. Give it to one of them. It’s a loser, any way. Eve will never grant it. But it’s got to be made.’
“So our clerk said, ‘All right’ and put it on Harker’s table against his return.”
“Nice sort of solicitors,” said Berry.
“They were only acting as agents for a North Country firm. As like as not, they didn’t do Chancery work. But they knew and liked Harker and thought it best to go to someone they knew. Besides, they were up against time.
“Well, Harker never got back till seven o’clock – to London, I mean. So he never came to Chambers, but went straight home. When he arrived the next morning, there was the brief on the table, waiting for him. He took it up and looked at the back-sheet.
“‘What’s this?’ he said. ‘This ought to have gone to the other side of the road.’
“I’d better explain that saying. The Inner and Middle Temple are Common Law Inns of Court: and The Temple lies south of Fleet Street. Lincoln’s Inn is the home of the Chancery Bar: and that lies north of Fleet Street and so, as we always said, ‘on the other side of the road.’”
“What about Gray’s Inn?” said Jonah.
“I can’t be sure,” I said, “but I think some Chancery men were members of that. Common Lawyers certainly were. Birkenhead’s Inn was Gray’s Inn.
“And now to go back.
“The clerk explained the position and Harker heard him out.
“Then –
“‘I’m not going to do it,’ he said. ‘I’d like to oblige them, but I’ve been at the Bar too long to go out of my ground and make a fool of myself in a Chancery Court. Before Eve, too. No thank you.’
“When the clerk brought it to me, I had a look at the back-sheet and shook my head. ‘Nothing doing,’ I said. ‘Try somebody else.’
B-Berry and I Look Back Page 3
