Читать книгу Tragedy at Law - Alfred Alexander Gordon Clark - Страница 3

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“No trumpeters!” said his Lordship in a tone of melancholy and slightly peevish disapproval.

His words, addressed to nobody in particular, produced no reply, possibly for the reason that no reply to a statement of fact so obvious was possible. Everything else that man could devise or tradition dictate for the comfort or glorification of His Majesty’s Judge of Assize was there. A Rolls Royce of cavernous size purred at the door of the Lodgings. The High Sheriff, faintly redolent of moth balls but none the less a shining figure in the full-dress uniform of a Volunteer Regiment long since disbanded, strove to bow respectfully and to avoid tripping over his sword at the same time. His chaplain billowed in unaccustomed black silk. The Under Sheriff gripped his top hat in one hand and in the other the seven foot ebony wand, surmounted by a carved death’s head, with which the county of Markshire inexplicably chooses to burden its Under Sheriffs on such occasions. Behind, the Judge’s Clerk, the Judge’s Marshal, the Judge’s Butler and the Marshal’s Man formed a sombre but not less satisfying group of acolytes. Before, a detachment of police, their buttons and badges gleaming in the pale sunshine of October, stood ready to ensure safe conduct through the streets of Markhampton. It was an impressive spectacle, and the lean stooping man in the scarlet robe and full-bottomed wig who was its centre was well aware that he was not the least impressive part of it.

But the fact remained, odious and inescapable. There were no trumpeters. War with all its horrors was let loose upon the earth and His Majesty’s Judge must in consequence creep into his car with no more ceremony than an ambassador or an archbishop. Chamberlain had flown to Godesberg and Munich and pleaded for them, but in vain. Hitler would have none of them. The trumpeters must go. It was a distressing thought, and the look on the High Sheriff’s face might be interpreted as meaning that it was a trifle tactless of the Judge to mention such a painful subject at such a moment.

“No trumpeters!” repeated his Lordship wistfully, and climbed stiffly into the car.

The Honourable Sir William Hereward Barber, Knight, one of the Justices of the King’s Bench Division of the High Court of Justice, as he was described on the cover of the calendar of the Markshire assizes, had been known for obvious reasons, in his early days at the Bar, as the Young Shaver. As the years passed, the title was generally abbreviated to “the Shaver”. More recently a small but growing circle had taken to calling him among themselves “Father William”, for reasons with which his age had nothing to do. He was, in fact, a man still under sixty. In civil dress he was, it must be admitted, nothing very much to look at. His clothes always hung badly from his lanky frame. His manner was jerky and abrupt, his voice harsh and somewhat high-pitched. There is, however, something about judicial garments that gives consequence to any but the most undignified figure. The ample robes concealed his gawkiness and the full-bottomed wig that framed his face enhanced the austere effect of his rather prominent, aquiline nose and disguised the weakness of his mouth and chin. As he settled back upon the cushions of the Rolls, Barber looked every inch a Judge. The little crowd that had gathered round the door of the lodgings to see his departure went home feeling that, trumpeters or no trumpeters, they had seen a great man. And in that, perhaps, lay the justification of the whole ceremony.

Colonel Habberton, the High Sheriff, was less fortunate in his costume. The Markshire Volunteers had never been a particularly distinguished or warlike body, and it was difficult to believe that the designer of their uniform had taken his work seriously. He had been altogether too generous with his gold braid, too fanciful with his treatment of the shoulder straps and had given fatally free rein to his imagination when it came to the helmet which was perched uncomfortably upon its owner’s knee. In its best days the uniform had been a gaudy mistake. In the age of the battledress it was a ludicrous anachronism—besides being damnably uncomfortable. Habberton, his chin smarting from contact with its high, stiff collar, was uneasily aware that the titters which he had heard coming from the crowd had been directed at him.

Judge and Sheriff eyed each other with the mutual distrust of men compelled to associate on official business who are well aware that they have nothing in common. In a normal working year Barber encountered anything up to twenty sheriffs and he had found that by the time he had discovered anything of interest about any of them the moment had always arrived to move on to another town on the circuit. He had, therefore, long since given up the attempt of trying to make conversation with them. Habberton, on the other hand, had never met a judge in his life before his appointment and did not care if he never met another when his year of office was over. He scarcely ever left his own estate, which he farmed seriously and efficiently, and held the firm opinion that all lawyers were crooks. At the same time he could not help being impressed by the fact that the man before him represented Majesty itself and the recognition of this feeling caused him no small annoyance.

In fact, the only occupant of the car who was entirely at his ease was the chaplain. The assize sermon having, like the trumpeters, been sacrificed to the stern necessities of war, nobody expected him to say or do anything. He could, therefore, afford to sit back and regard the proceedings with an amused and tolerant smile. This he accordingly did.

“I am sorry about the trumpeters, my lord,” Colonel Habberton observed at last. “I’m afraid it’s because of the war. We were instructed. . . .”

“I know, I know,” said his lordship forgivingly. “The trumpeters have other duties just now, no doubt. I hope I may hear them again the next time I am on the circuit. Personally,” he hastened to add, “I don’t care anything for all this paraphernalia.” The wave of his hand seemed to include the car, the footman on the box, the escorting policemen and even the Sheriff himself. “But some of my colleagues take a different view. I can’t think what any of my predecessors would have thought of an assize without trumpets!”

Those who knew Barber best used to say that whenever he was particularly faddy or exacting he invariably excused himself by referring to the high standards set by his colleagues or, in their default, his predecessors. One had a vision of a great company of masterful beings, in scarlet and white, urging on the modest Barber to abate no jot of his just dues in the interests of the whole judiciary of England, past and present. Certainly Barber usually showed no reluctance in obeying their summons.

“The trumpets are there all right,” said Habberton. “And I had the tabards made with my own arms on them. It seems rather a waste.”

“You can always have the tabards made into fire-screens,” suggested the Judge kindly.

“I have three sets of those fire-screens at home already—my father’s, my grandfather’s and my great uncle’s. I don’t know what I should do with another pair.”

His lordship pursed his mouth and looked discontented. His father had been a solicitor’s clerk and his grandfather a barman in Fleet Street. At the back of his mind lurked a secret fear that strangers would find this out and despise him for it.

The Rolls Royce crawled on, keeping pace with the bodyguard of police.

“Damn this stick!” said the Under Sheriff genially, as he wedged his wand of office with difficulty between himself and the door of the car which he shared with the Marshal. “I’ve done this job for ten years now, and how I haven’t smashed it every time, I can’t imagine. It ought to have been put into cold storage for the duration along with the trumpeters.”

The Marshal, an ingenuous-looking, fair-haired young man, looked at it with interest.

“Do Under Sheriffs always have that sort of thing?” he asked.

“Good Lord, no! It’s peculiar to this loyal and stick-in-the-mud city. Is this your first assize?”

“Yes, I’ve never seen one before.”

“Well, I expect you’ll have seen quite enough by the time you’ve finished the circuit. Though it’s not a bad job for you—two guineas a day and all found, isn’t it? I’ve got to keep an office going with both my partners and half my staff called up and this Punch and Judy show to attend to as well. I suppose you know the Judge well, don’t you?”

The Marshal shook his head.

“No. I’d only met him once before. He happened to be a friend of a friend of mine and offered me the job. Marshals are hard to come by just now, I suppose.” He blushed slightly and explained. “I was turned down for the Army, you see. Heart.”

“Bad luck.”

“And as I was keen on the law, I thought it was rather a chance. I suppose the Judge is a very great lawyer, isn’t he?”

“M’m. I’ll leave you to answer that one when you’ve seen a bit more of him. You ought to get some useful experience anyhow. My name’s Carter, by the way. I don’t think I caught yours?”

The young man blushed again.

“Marshall,” he said. “Derek Marshall.”

“Of course, I remember now. The Judge mentioned it—‘Marshall by name and Marshal by occupation!’ Ha, ha!”

Derek Marshall laughed rather feebly in agreement. He was beginning to realize that he was going to hear quite a lot of this jibe before the circuit was over.

Not every car can move so smoothly as a Rolls when constrained to keep pace with policemen marching at regulation pace. (In point of fact, as Barber was at that moment pointing out, his predecessors in office would have scorned anything less than mounted men. Habberton turned the knife in the wound by recollecting that his grandfather had provided twenty-five javelin men in livery.) The hired vehicle in which Marshall and Carter were riding ground and jerked forward uneasily in its noisy bottom gear.

“It will be all right when we are through the Market Place,” observed Carter. “We catch them up there, so as to get to the Cathedral before them. . . . Here we are! Get ahead, man, get ahead!”

The car shot forward, scattering the loiterers who had gathered in the narrow square to watch embodied Law pass by.

Beamish, the Judge’s clerk, was feeling thoroughly pleased with the world. To begin with, he was on the Southern Circuit, which for many reasons he preferred to any other. Secondly, he had succeeded in recruiting a staff—butler, marshal’s man and cook—who seemed thoroughly amenable and would not be likely to question either his authority or any little pickings which might come his way while they were associated. Lastly and immediately most important, it was evident that the Under Sheriff of Markshire was a Real Good Sort.

Under Sheriffs, in the eyes of Beamish, were either Mean Bastards, Decent Gentlemen, or Real Good Sorts. They declared their quality at the very first moment of the first day of an assize. When the cars drew up at the doors of the lodgings to drive to church and thence to open the assize, it would be found that a Mean Bastard had provided no conveyance for the Judge’s clerk. He was left to scuttle through the streets on his flat feet—and Beamish’s feet were very flat—or to hire a taxi for himself, and the Lord knew that it was hard enough to square the circuit accounts without such extraneous expenses. A Decent Gentleman, on the other hand, offered Beamish a seat in his car, beside the chauffeur, so that he arrived at his destination in comfort, if not in dignity. But a Real Good Sort, who understood something of the importance of a judge’s clerk in the scheme of things, provided him at the expense of the county with a car of his own. Such was Beamish’s happy position at this moment, and his fat little body quivered with pleasure as he followed at the tail of the procession through the streets of Markhampton.

Beside him sat Savage, the butler, a depressed, elderly man, with a permanent stoop as though his back had become bent through years of deferential attendance on generations of judges. He was reputed to know every circuit town in England and he had never been heard to say a good word of one of them. On the floor, between the two men, lay an odd variety of objects—a pouch containing his Lordship’s notebooks, a tin box which held his short wig, a rug for his Lordship’s knees and an attaché case from which Beamish could produce, when called upon, sharpened pencils, a spare pair of spectacles, a box of throat lozenges or any other of a dozen necessities without which justice could not be properly administered.

Beamish was giving his last instructions to Savage. They were quite unnecessary, but he enjoyed giving instructions and Savage did not appear to mind receiving them, so that no harm was done.

“As soon as they’ve put me down at the Cathedral I want you to take this lot up to the Court.”

“I only hope they’ve done something about the draught on the bench,” interjected Savage mournfully. “It was something cruel last spring assizes. Mr. Justice Bannister complained about it something dreadful.”

“If his Lordship finds himself in a draught there’ll be trouble all round,” said Beamish, almost gloating at the prospect, “Big trouble. Did you hear what he did on the Northern last year?”

Savage merely sniffed. His manner suggested that nothing that judges did would ever cause him any surprise and that in any case it never made any difference whatever they did.

Beamish began to fuss round the car as they neared the Cathedral.

“Now, have we got everything?” he said. “Black cap, smelling salts, Archbold—where’s the Archbold, Savage?”

“Under your foot,” said the butler, and produced that indispensable compendium of the criminal law.

“That’s all right, then. Now about his Lordship’s tea and biscuits this afternoon——”

“I’ve told Greene to see to that. It’s his place.”

Greene was the Marshal’s man. Why it should have been the place of such a functionary, and no one else, to attend to the Judge’s tea did not appear, but Savage’s gloomy tones left no room for dispute in the matter. Beamish decided to defer to his greater experience. So long as he did not have to demean himself by getting the tea, it did not signify who did.

“Very well, so long as you’ve arranged it between you. Begin as you mean to go on is my motto. Here we are! Send the car back for me. Sharp, now!”

The Mayor and Aldermen of the City were awaiting the Judge at the great west door of the cathedral. So were several press photographers. The Corporation bowed respectfully. The Judge bowed back. After some preliminary hesitations, which gave the photographers a good opportunity of shooting the Judge from various angles, and Beamish of making sure that he was well in the picture, the procession finally sorted itself out and moved up the nave to the strains of the national anthem.

Outside, the police stood at ease, standing in line from the cathedral entrance, facing northwards. Opposite them, facing southwards, was another line of police, ready to take on the duties of escort from the service to the court. The Judge’s lodgings being in the City of Markhampton, it was the duty of the city police to protect its august visitor. The assizes being uniquely the affair of the County of Markshire, it was equally the duty of the county police to keep watch and ward over them. Rivalry between the two forces had been acute and even at times violent, until a solemn conference between the county authorities and the city fathers—under the presidency of no less a being than the Lord Lieutenant—had produced an acceptable compromise: from the lodgings to the cathedral the Judge belonged to the city; from the cathedral to the courts to the county. On the second and subsequent days of the assize, the county relieved the city at a place approximately midway between the lodgings and the courts. Such are the complexities of local government in Markshire.

The Chief Constable of Markhampton stood at the head of his men and being gifted with a sense of humour, winked solemnly at his opposite number, the county superintendent. The superintendent winked back, not that he saw anything amusing in the situation, but because it was evidently the proper thing to do. Presently a small, dark man in a shabby blue serge suit made his way out of the crowd and approached the Chief Constable. He muttered a few words in the other’s ear, and then turned away. The Chief Constable appeared to take no notice, but as soon as he had gone, beckoned to the superintendent, who came forward to join him.

“That fellow Heppenstall,” he said quietly. “He’s about again. My fellows lost trace of him last night, but he’s in the town somewhere. Just mention it to your Chief, will you?”

“Heppenstall?” echoed the superintendent. “I don’t think I know—what’s he wanted for?”

“Wanted for nothing. We’ve got to keep an eye on him, that’s all. Special Branch tipped us off about him. Tell your Chief, he’ll know all about it. And if the Judge——Here they come! Party, ’Shun!”

The procession emerged into the sunlight once more.

The Shire Hall at Markhampton, where the assizes were to be held, was an eighteenth century building, the architecture of which Baedeker would undoubtedly have classified as “well-intentioned”. Both within and without it was in the uncared for condition into which the best-intentioned of buildings are liable to relapse if they are only occasionally used. If the authorities had dealt with the draught on the bench which had so disturbed Mr. Justice Bannister, that was all that they had done by way of improvements for a long time past. At all events, Francis Pettigrew, leaning back in counsel’s seats and studying the ceiling, found his eye caught by the patch above the cornice where plaster had peeled off, and recognized it for an old acquaintance. He fell to wondering rather drearily how many years it was since, holding his first brief on circuit, he had first observed it. The thought depressed him. He had reached an age, and a stage in his profession, where he did not much care to be reminded of the passage of time.

On the desk in front of him lay two briefs, no more interesting and little more remunerative than the one which had given him so much pleasure as a youngster all those years ago. They would just about pay his expenses for coming down to Markhampton. Beside them was a packet of papers—printers’ proofs at which he had been working overnight. He glanced at the title page, which was uppermost. “Travers on Ejectment. Sixth Edition. Edited by Francis Pettigrew, M.A., LL.B., sometime Scholar of St. Mark’s College, Oxford, sometime Fellow of All Souls, sometime Blackstone Scholar in Common Law, of the Outer Temple, Barrister-at-Law.” The reiterated “sometime” irritated him. It seemed to have been the keynote of his whole life. Some time he was going to be successful and make money. Some time he would take silk, become a Bencher of his Inn. Some time he would marry and have a family. And now in a sudden rush of disillusionment, from which he strove to exclude self-pity, he saw quite clearly that “some time” had become “never”. “There was a cherry-stone too many on the plate, after all!” he thought grimly.

Looking back at the confident, and—he could fairly say it now—brilliant young man who had opened his career at the Bar beneath that self-same flaking plaster ceiling, he fell to wondering what had gone wrong with him. Everything had promised well at first, and everything had turned out ill. There were plenty of excuses, of course—there always were. The war, for one thing—that other war, already being shouldered into oblivion by its successor—which had interrupted his practice just as he was showing signs of “getting going”. A bad choice of chambers, burdened by an idle and incompetent clerk, for another. Private difficulties which had kept his mind off his work at critical moments—the long drawn out agony of his pursuit of Hilda, for example. God! What a dance she had led him! And, looking at it dispassionately, how extremely sensible she had been to take the decision she did! All these and other things he remembered, the friends who had let him down, the promises of support unfulfilled, the shining performances unrecognized. But to be honest, and for once he felt like being honest with himself, was not the over-riding cause of Francis Pettigrew’s lack of success—no, if he was to be honest why not call things by their proper names?—of his failure, then, simply something lacking in Francis Pettigrew himself? Something that he lacked and others, whom he knew to be his inferiors in so many ways, possessed in full measure? Some quality that was neither character nor intellect nor luck, but without which none of these gifts would avail to carry their possessor to the front? And if so, how much did he, Francis Pettigrew, care?

He let his mind go back to the past, indifferent to the growing clamour and bustle in the Court around him. Well it hadn’t been a bad life, taking it all round. If anybody had told him, twenty-five years ago, that middle age would find him eking out a precarious practice by the drudgery of legal authorship, he would have felt utterly humiliated at the prospect. But looking back on the road he had travelled, though it had had some uncomfortable passages, he found little to regret. He had had some good times, made some good jokes—just how much his incurable levity of speech had told against him in his profession was luckily hidden from him—made and kept some good friends. Above all, the Circuit had been good to him. Circuit life was the breath of his nostrils. Year by year he had travelled it from Markhampton right round to Eastbury, less and less hopeful of any substantial earnings, but certain always of the rewards that good fellowship brings. Of course, the old Southern was not what it was. The Mess was a dull place now in comparison with the old days. When he had first joined it, there had been some real characters in its ranks—men of a type one didn’t see nowadays, men who bred legends which he, Pettigrew, and a few old stagers like him, could alone remember. That race was long since extinct. Those strange, lovable, ferocious oddities belonged to a bygone era, and his successors would have nobody to remember who was worthy even to father a good story on.

So mused Pettigrew, all unconscious of the fact that in the eyes of every member of the mess under forty he was already a full-blown “character” himself.

There was a stir in court. Outside, where in the days of peace should have sounded a cheerful fanfare, were heard the shouted commands of the superintendent of police. A moment later Pettigrew, in common with everyone else in court, was on his feet and bowing low. If anybody had happened to look at him at that moment, he would have surprised on that lined but genial face an unusual expression of antagonism, not unmixed with contempt. There were few people alive who could bring that expression on to Pettigrew’s normally kindly features, and unhappily Barber was one of them.

“Silence!” roared an usher to an assembly that was already as mute as mice.

Beamish, standing at the Judge’s side, then proceeded to declaim in a peculiar warbling baritone of which he was inordinately proud, “All manner of persons having anything to do before My Lords the King’s Justices of Oyer and Terminer and general Gaol Delivery in and for the County of Markshire draw near and give your attendance.” Nobody moved. They were all in attendance already and a posse of ushers made sure that they should draw no nearer to the fount of justice. “My Lords the King’s Justices do straightly command All Persons to keep Silence while the Commission of the Peace is read.”

All Persons continued to keep silence. The Clerk of Assize then took up the tale in a thin treble, “George the Sixth, by the Grace of God. . . .” After Beamish’s elocution his performance was somewhat of an anti-climax, but the formalities were got through without disaster. The Clerk bowed to the Judge, the Judge to the Clerk. At the right moments His Lordship perched upon his wig a small three-cornered hat, and for a few delirious instants looked like a judicial version of MacHeath. The vision passed all too quickly and the hat was laid aside, to be seen no more until the next circuit town.

Beamish boomed once more. This time his target was the High Sheriff, whom he commanded to be pleased to deliver the Several Writs and Precepts to him directed that My Lords the King’s Justices might Proceed Thereon. With the air of a conjuror, Carter produced a roll of papers, tightly bound in pale yellow ribbon. This he handed with a bow to Habberton. Habberton handed it with a deeper bow to Barber. Barber, with a bare nod passed it down to the Clerk of Assize. The Clerk put it on his desk and what became thereafter of the Several Writs and Precepts nobody ever knew. Those all important instruments were certainly never heard of again.

The little procession filed out once more, and reappeared a few minutes later. This time His Lordship was seen to be wearing his bob wig and had abandoned his white-trimmed scarlet hood. It was a sign that the time for mere ceremony was over and that the grim business of criminal justice was about to begin. To Derek Marshall, experiencing his first contact with the criminal law, it was an august, a thrilling moment.

There was a brief, whispered colloquy between Judge and Clerk, and then:

“Let Horace Sidney Atkins surrender!” piped the Clerk.

A meek, middle-aged man in a grey flannel suit climbed into the dock, blinked nervously at the magnificence that his wrong-doing had somehow collected together, and pleaded guilty to the crime of bigamy.

Markhampton Assizes were under way at last.