Читать книгу Tragedy at Law - Alfred Alexander Gordon Clark - Страница 5

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It was unusual for the Judge to be entertained by the Bar at the first town on the circuit, but this departure from custom was being made at his own request. Pettigrew, who was a stickler for tradition, strongly disapproved, but the rest of the mess saw no objection. One evening was as good as another for a mild jollification. Besides it was known that Lady Barber would be joining him for the rest of the circuit, and it seemed only fair to give the Shaver an evening out while he could have it. It was an excuse to finish the champagne which had been quite long enough in the cellars of the Red Lion, and they struggled into their stiff shirts with a good grace.

Barber had insisted that it should be an informal evening, and he marked the informality by driving Derek down to the hotel in his own car, waving aside the offer of the Sheriff’s Rolls Royce. He was still in the genial mood that had come over him immediately after lunch. The afternoon’s work had been unexpectedly light. The prisoner, midway through the case for the prosecution, had, upon a broad hint from the bench, offered a plea of guilty to manslaughter, which was promptly accepted. Derek, who had been looking forward to hearing his first death sentence in the sickly state of excitement of a tourist at his first bullfight, felt a mixture of disappointment and relief at the tame conclusion. The Judge, despite his bloodthirsty conversation at table, had shown every sign of satisfaction at the result and imposed a sentence which erred, if at all, on the side of lenience. Derek, who was not wholly devoid of brains, came to the conclusion that his outburst at lunch was no more than a mild attack of exhibitionism, and further that the presence of Pettigrew had something to do with it.

About a dozen men in all comfortably filled the small room allocated to the mess at the Red Lion. (It was rumoured that there were women members of the Southern Circuit, but apart from paying their entrance fees, they were not encouraged to take part in its activities. The local solicitors were conservative folk and saw to it that no hope of briefs should tempt them to disturb the ancient masculinity of the mess.) The chair was occupied by Frodsham, the only leader present, a plump, affable man of no great attainments, but gifted with an air of success and prosperity that was rapidly making him successful and prosperous. The Judge sat on his right and Derek opposite the Judge. On Derek’s left was the Clerk of Assize, a tremulous old gentleman with a weakness for taking snuff. Pettigrew, whether by accident or design, had placed himself as far as possible from Barber, on the left of the Junior, who as custom prescribed, sat at the foot of the table. Here the younger members present had naturally gravitated. Pettigrew enjoyed the society of the young, and he was aware that they enjoyed his, although he was beginning to suspect that they regarded him rather as a museum piece than as a human being like themselves.

The Judge’s good humour lasted through dinner, and, assisted by an adequate supply of champagne, communicated itself to the rest of the company. He gave his views upon the war, which were no better or worse than anybody else’s views in October 1939. He told, inevitably, a number of anecdotes of his early days at the Bar, and as the evening wore on, became mildly sentimental about old times on the circuit, which he hinted, was not what it had been. Pettigrew, who was in the habit of thinking exactly the same thing, listened to him with barely concealed scorn. One of his minor grievances against Barber was that he had never been a true circuiteer. As soon as he possibly could he had deserted the rough and tumble of the assize courts for the flesh-pots of London. For years before his appointment to the bench he had been a member of the Southern in name only, requiring exorbitant fees to tempt him into the country, away from his ever-growing practice in the Strand. No harm in that, Pettigrew conceded. He too had dreamed of a rich metropolitan practice in his time. But he loathed hypocrisy and he had his own reasons for loathing this particular hypocrite. It enraged him beyond measure to hear this impostor pretending to those who knew no better that he was a true heir to circuit traditions and a repository of circuit lore.

They had reached the stage of brandy and cigars, when the Judge rose to his feet.

“There are a lot of fine old circuit customs which are in danger of being forgotten,” he observed. “Here is one that may be new to many of the younger members present. Indeed I think that I am probably the only person here old enough to remember it, and I should like to revive it. It is the old toast which used always to be proposed by the senior member of the mess at the first Grand Night of the Michaelmas Term. I give it you now—Fiat Justitia!”

“Wonderful what a lot the Judge knows about these old customs,” his neighbour observed to Pettigrew, after the toast had been duly honoured.

“Wonderful,” said Pettigrew drily. The toast should have been “Ruat Coelum”, and it was drunk at the end of the Summer Term, and was proposed always by the Junior. These trifling exceptions apart, Father William had got it perfectly. But it didn’t matter. As the old fraud had truly said, circuit customs were in danger of being forgotten; and Pettigrew had by now drunk enough not to care greatly one way or the other.

“By the way, Marshal,” remarked his Lordship to Derek as he resumed his seat, “did you give that billet doux of mine to the Chief Constable?”

“Yes,” said Derek. “He seemed to take it—well, rather more seriously than you did.”

“It’s his business to take things seriously. Besides, he hasn’t seen so many of them as I have. It is extraordinary”, he went on, turning to Frodsham, “how many anonymous letters a Judge receives in the course of his career. One takes no notice of them, of course. You’ll need to cultivate a thick skin when you arrive on the bench, I assure you.”

“Oh come, Judge, my ambitions hardly go as far as that, you know,” said Frodsham in a tone which made it very clear that they did. “What was this particular letter about?”

“It was merely a threat of the usual vague kind. Rather more offensive than usual so far as I remember. What did the Chief Constable say about it, Marshal?”

“He didn’t say very much. He just looked rather glum and said, ‘That will be Heppenstall, I shouldn’t wonder.’”

“Heppenstall?” said Barber sharply.

“It was some name like that, I think. He seemed to know all about him.”

The Judge said nothing for some time after that, but he helped himself liberally to the brandy.

The cessation of the flow of reminiscence from the head of the table seemed to put a momentary damper on the high spirits of the evening, and Frodsham was quick to notice it.

“Mr. Junior,” he called down the table, “will you kindly designate some member to entertain us?”

This was a tradition of the mess that everybody knew. On being designated to entertain the company, the chosen member was bound forthwith to contribute a song, story or impersonation upon pain of a substantial fine. If his contribution failed to entertain, the penalty was equally substantial and decidedly undignified.

“I designate Pettigrew,” replied the Junior without hesitation.

Pettigrew stood up and stood silent for a moment, his nose contorted in wrinkles that lost themselves between his eyebrows. Then he said, in crisp professional tones,

“Mr. Junior, I beg to contribute the story of Mr. Justice Rackenbury and the case of indecent assault tried at these assizes in the Hilary Term of nineteen hundred and thirteen.”

There was an anticipatory burst of laughter. Everybody present had heard of the story, most were familiar with more or less garbled versions of it, and Pettigrew had told it at circuit dinners half a dozen times at least. That made no difference. This story was a legend, and legends do not lose their potency by repetition. Rather, in the hands of accomplished bards, they gather with the years fresh accretions which add to their value as part of the inherited lore of the tribe. The mess sat back in confidence that they would be well and truly entertained.

It was, in fact, for the time and place, a good story—mildly obscene, highly technical, and told at the expense of an amiable company lawyer whose incompetence as a criminal judge had long since passed into history. Pettigrew told it well, his expression never varying and his voice maintaining throughout the dry tones of an advocate discussing some unexciting point of procedure. He appeared to be unconscious of the gusts of merriment around him and when the tale reached its indecorous conclusion seemed quite surprised to find himself on his legs and the centre of hilarious applause.

In fact, so familiar was the story to him that he had for the most part recited it almost absentmindedly, while his thoughts were busy on another plane. Once launched on the well worn grooves of the famous dialogue between Rackenbury and the prisoner awaiting sentence, he could safely leave his tongue to take care of itself. His brain, meanwhile, was occupied with half a dozen different things, mostly trivial enough. Presently, however, one question came to occupy it to the exclusion of all others. This was, quite simply, “What on earth is the matter with the Shaver?”

For the Shaver was not laughing with the others. More, he was not listening. He was sitting glumly regarding the tablecloth and from time to time helping himself to another liqueur brandy from the bottle which had somehow become anchored at his elbow. Characteristically, Pettigrew’s first anxiety was for the brandy. “There’s not too much of that ’Seventy-Five left,” he reflected. “I must remember to tell the Wine Committee at the next meeting. Of course, we’ll never be able to get any more as good as that, but we must do the best we can. . . . Sickening to see the Shaver hogging that grand stuff. Not like him, either. He’ll be tight if he isn’t careful.” He found that he had finished the story and sat down abruptly.

Barber was not tight, but he had certainly had enough to drink, and if he went on at the rate he was going it would not be long before he would have had too much. Something of the kind seemed to have occurred to him, for the laughter that crowned Pettigrew’s efforts had hardly subsided before he suddenly pushed away his glass and said across the table, “Marshal! It’s time we were getting home.”

Derek was not a little disappointed. The night was still young and he was just beginning to enjoy himself. But obviously there was nothing to be done about it. The distinguished guest rose from table and the party automatically broke up. Derek retrieved their hats and coats and they went out into the hall. Frodsham and one or two others accompanied them out. Looking round to say “Good night” to these, Barber saw amongst them Pettigrew, also dressed for the street.

“What are you doing, Pettigrew?” he asked in surprise. “Aren’t you staying here?”

“No, Judge, I’m stopping at the County.”

Barber might not be a good circuiteer, but he knew enough to understand exactly what staying at the County implied. The Red Lion was not only the regular hotel for the mess, the place to which “letters and parcels for gentlemen of the Bar” were ordered to be directed by the circuit notices, it was the only first class establishment in Markhampton. Everybody stayed there as a matter of course. Everybody, that is who could afford to. To stay at the County, which in spite of its name was a miserable pothouse, was a confession of dire poverty. The Judge took a quick look at Pettigrew, at the shabby overcoat and the frayed trouser legs which showed beneath them.

“The County, eh?” he said after a pause. “How are you getting there?”

“I shall walk. I like a bit of fresh air after dinner.”

“Nonsense. I’ll give you a lift. It’s on my way.”

“No really, Judge. I’d much sooner walk.”

Outside it was pitch dark and a steady rain was falling.

“You can’t walk in this,” said the Judge testily, “get in!”

Pettigrew, without further words said, got in.

Now there are certain things which in a well-conducted world simply do not occur. In a well-conducted world His Majesty’s Judges of assize do not drive their own cars while on circuit. They employ the services of competent professionals supplied and paid by the county whose guests they happen to be. Further, if they do so far forget their dignity as to act as their own chauffeurs—for, after all, they are but human and may be permitted to enjoy driving as much as lesser mortals—they do not do so in the black-out, on a wet, moonless night, and after imbibing rather more than the customary allowance of old brandy. Finally, at all times and seasons, it may be taken for granted that they drive with the utmost care and circumspection. It has regretfully to be recorded that in this, as in so many other instances, the world proved to be somewhat worse conducted than it is popularly supposed to be.

The accident happened at the junction of High Street and Market Place, just after the car had taken the sharp right-hand turn necessary to bring it round the corner. Pettigrew, who was sitting alone in the back, was never able to say with precision exactly what occurred. He was first shaken out of a doze by being thrown sideways in his seat as the car swung round, then heard the squeal from the ball-bearings telling him that the corner had been taken too fast, and finally awoke to full consciousness with the realization that the back wheels were sliding over to the left in a violent skid. A moment later the car struck the nearside kerb with an impact that pitched him headlong into the back of the driver’s seat. And that, as he frequently had occasion to remind himself later on, was absolutely all that he knew about it. He would be wholly useless as a witness. That was some comfort.

It was a little time before Pettigrew pulled himself together sufficiently to get out of the car and inspect the damage. When he finally scrambled out on to the wet, slippery pavement he collided with two almost invisible objects which proved to be Barber and Marshall. They were standing very close together, as though for mutual support, and even in the darkness their attitude had an appearance of helplessness. The next thing he observed was a small spot of light in the road immediately behind the car. Shaken as he was, it was a little time before he realized that this light proceeded from a policeman’s lantern and that it was focused upon something—no, upon someone—lying in the middle of a pedestrian crossing close to the car’s tail lamp.

“Oh Lord,” Pettigrew groaned, rubbing his head. “This is a pretty kettle of fish.”

He pulled himself together, and walked out into the road.

“Yes,” said the constable shortly. “There’s no bones broken. We might move him.”

He bent down, grasped the unconscious man beneath the shoulders, Pettigrew took him by the legs, and together they carried him to the side of the road. There the constable arranged his cape to form a rough support for his head, while Marshall, who had now come forward, brought a rug from the car to put over him. There followed a pause of a few moments during which no one spoke. It suddenly occurred to Pettigrew that this was a very young officer and that he was probably racking his brains as to the next step in the road accident procedure. Obviously, the proper thing to do in normal circumstances would be for the Shaver to drive his victim to the nearest hospital, but he had not offered to do so, and Pettigrew could see several good reasons why he should not. The less publicity about this business, the better for all concerned, he reflected.

“Shall I see if I can get an ambulance?” he said aloud.

The young policeman came to life at once.

“You stay here—all of you,” he commanded.

He walked a few paces away, to where in the gloom Pettigrew could now just discern a telephone box. He was only away a few moments, but it seemed quite a long time to those who waited. The Judge was still standing quite still and silent, his slightly bent form a picture of dejection. Pettigrew did not feel equal to addressing him. To Marshall he said quietly:

“Lucky there’s nobody about, anyway.”

“There was someone just now,” Derek answered softly. “I saw him just as I got out of the car. He made off when the bobby came up, though.”

“Hell!” said Pettigrew.

“I say, sir, do you think he’s badly hurt?”

“M’m. ’Fraid so.”

The officer returned, his steps sounding now brisk and confident.

“The ambulance will be here in a moment,” he announced. His notebook came out with a flourish, and he turned to Barber. “You were the driver of this vehicle, I think, sir?” he said. “Your name and address, if you please?”

“Perhaps, officer, I can explain matters,” began Pettigrew smoothly.

“One at a time, if you please, sir,” interrupted the constable, now evidently completely the master of himself and the proceedings. He turned to Barber once more. “Your name and address, if you please?”

Barber gave it. It was the first time he had spoken since the accident had happened, and his voice sounded even harsher than usual. The young policeman, who had begun to write automatically in his book, stopped abruptly, and his lantern wavered perceptibly for an instant. Then discipline reasserted itself and he finished his writing, breathing heavily as he did so. It was an awkward moment, and one for which no instructions are laid down in the manuals issued for the guidance of recruits to the Markhampton Constabulary.

“Er—just so, my lord,” he said. “Just so. I——” he paused and gulped, but went on bravely—“I’m afraid I shall have to ask for your lordship’s driving licence and insurance certificate.”

“Just so,” said Barber, repeating his words with what sounded like almost ironic emphasis. Going to the car, he took from it a small folder, which he handed to the constable.

“You will find them both in there,” he grated.

At this point a diversion was effected by the arrival of the ambulance. In what seemed to Pettigrew an amazingly short space of time, the injured man was examined, bandaged, picked up and borne away, leaving nothing to mark his passing but the constable’s cape, lying neatly folded on the pavement. Its owner took it up, shook it, and, the rain having by now stopped, rolled it up and put it under his arm. Then he resumed his study of the documents handed to him by the Judge.

In a well-conducted world—let it be repeated—all motorists without exception, but particularly Judges of the High Court, renew their driving licences when they expire. Further, well before the due season, they take advantage of the reminders which their insurance companies are good enough to send them and provide themselves with the certificate required by the Road Traffic Acts, 1930 to 1936. The fact that from time to time they carelessly forget to do so, and thereby commit quite a number of distinct and separate offences, only goes to prove once more how far from perfectly conducted the actual world is. The fact that even Judges of the High Court are not immune from lapses of memory is perhaps an argument in favour of the proposition that in a well-conducted world they would not be allowed to drive motor-cars at all.

“I’m afraid, my lord,” said the officer, “there seems to be something wrong with these here.”

Barber looked at them under the lantern.

“They appear to be out of date,” he remarked sadly, almost humbly.

“In that case, my lord, I must ask you——”

But Derek at this point suddenly and unexpectedly asserted himself.

“Don’t you think, officer,” he said, “that the best thing would be for you to report the whole matter to your superior, and then perhaps the Chief Constable could come and discuss the matter quietly with his lordship at the Lodgings? All this is—well, a little unsuitable, perhaps.”

The constable, obviously relieved, jumped at the offer.

“Perhaps you’re right, sir,” he said. “If I can just have your name and the other gentleman’s.”

The notebook was flourished for the last time, and a moment or two later the incident was closed—for the time being, at least. Pettigrew, who found himself close to his hotel, walked away, while Derek, in his new-found position of authority, firmly announced that he would drive the Judge home, and got into the driver’s seat without waiting for permission.

“Damned old fool! Damned old fool!” Pettigrew found himself repeating again and again as he walked the short distance back to the County. His head was aching from the blow that it had received when the car hit the pavement, his thin soles let in the damp from the pavement, he was tired, bruised and angry. Particularly was he angry. From first to last the responsibility for his plight rested on the Shaver, but for whom he would at that moment have been snug in bed in London. In the reaction from the hilarity of the evening, he began to feel as if the mishap which had succeeded it had been deliberately planned by the Judge to cause him annoyance. The Shaver’s lapse in the little matter of the driving licence and insurance certificate only served to increase his wrath. In a way, it gave him a certain grim pleasure to find his enemy in this undignified predicament, but this was more than counterbalanced by disgust that one of His Majesty’s Judges should have disgraced himself in such a way. There was probably not a judge on the bench whom Pettigrew had not at one time or another criticized, lampooned or held up to ridicule in some post-prandial recitation for the benefit of the mess. As individuals, he liked not a few, admired many, but reverenced none. He knew them too well, had studied them too closely, to have any illusions about them. But for the Bench as a whole, he felt a deep unspoken respect which went to the very roots of his being. It was the symbol of what he lived by and for, and anything that would tarnish the good name of the order in the eyes of the outside world, as distinct from the little charmed circle of lawyers, affronted him deeply. As the sense of his own personal grievance wore off, the greater did the enormity of Barber’s conduct appear, and by the time that he had finished his short walk, he was possessed by one thought only—that at all costs this affair must if possible be kept out of the papers.

“The City Chief Constable’s a sensible man,” he mused. “There won’t be any criminal proceedings, anyhow. We can bank on that. Let’s hope he can put the fear of death into that young copper and see that he keeps his mouth shut. As for Marshall, obviously he’s got his head screwed on the right way. He ought to be safe. Better have a talk to him in the morning, all the same. Lucky there weren’t any outside witnesses, except one, and he wasn’t there when the old idiot gave his name. Odd thing, incidentally, the way he sheered off. . . . It’s always a job to stop people talking, but it might be managed. . . .”

Still pursuing his train of thought, he pushed open the swing door of his hotel and stepped into the momentarily dazzling light of the hall. His way through to the stairs led him past the inner entrance to the saloon bar, and as he passed he heard the cry of “Time, gentlemen, please!” He was astonished to find that it was no later. True, the mess had dined at its usual early hour, and, thanks to the Judge, the evening had not run its full course. But so much had happened since that he could hardly believe that the County was in fact keeping legitimate hours, and he peered in through the door to glance at the clock.

The bar was full and noisy with the mellow voices of patrons putting away their last drinks. The air was cloudy with tobacco smoke and rich with a warm, moist smell of beer and humanity. Pettigrew noted the time by the clock on the far wall and was about to withdraw when his eye was caught by an animated group beneath it. Three or four soldiers and one or two civilians were clustered round a darts board, at which a short, tubby middle-aged man in a dazzling check pullover was taking aim. Evidently the game was in its concluding stages, and excitement was running high. Evidently, also the thrower was a master of the craft. He threw, and a shout went up. “Thirty-four you want!” someone shouted. “Careful now, Corky. Go for——” But Corky evidently knew exactly what he wanted. With a look of perfect confidence he threw again. Another shout. “Double seven!” “Twenty now,” said the voice. Pettigrew, who knew nothing whatever of the game felt the rising tide of emotion grip him. He became desperately anxious for Corky to do whatever was necessary, and waited breathlessly for the last throw. He need not have worried. Amid a sudden breathless silence, Corky raised his fat form on his toes with the grace of a dancer, took careful aim and loosed his last shaft. “Double ten!” The noise seemed to make every glass in the bar ring again. Sweating, but otherwise perfectly calm, the triumphant Corky suffered his hand to be wrung, his back to be thumped again and again, and retired to finish his glass, while, the barman thundered, “Time, gentlemen, please!”

From the moment that he had set eyes on him, Pettigrew had felt positive that Corky was no stranger; but it was not until he saw the air of quiet dignity with which he submitted to the attentions of his admirers, that he recognized him. This was the more remarkable considering that he had seen him last only that same afternoon. In view of the difference of the surroundings, however, it was not altogether surprising. Pettigrew had attended the beginning of the murder trial less for the sake of hearing Frodsham’s opening address to the jury than for the sheer æsthetic amusement it gave him to listen to the modulations of Beamish. Beamish in Court, sombrely resplendent in tail-coat and striped trousers and Corky in the saloon bar, the champion of darts players, seemed about as far apart as two persons could possibly be, but that they were one and the same could not be doubted.

Pettigrew chuckled on his way up to bed. He had at least made an amusing discovery to end the evening with. “If anyone can inform my Lords the King’s Justices,” he said to himself, striving to recapture the opulent, over-refined tones of Beamish’s court voice, “of any treasons, murders, felonies or misdemeanours done or committed by the prisoner at the bar, let him come forth and declare it, for the prisoner now stands upon his deliverance.” He wondered whether any of Beamish’s saloon-bar friends attended the assizes to hear him do his stuff. Perhaps he kept that side of his life as secret from them as no doubt he did his trips to the County from his employer. “Does the Shaver know he’s called Corky?” Pettigrew mused.

For the moment his delight at Beamish’s metamorphosis had put Barber out of his mind. Now the problem that had been worrying him returned with double force. In his estimate of the possibilities of keeping this distressing business dark he had forgotten to reckon with Beamish. Clerks always knew everything. Was Beamish reliable? After what he had seen, he did not feel so sure. Unless Beamish was able to keep Corky entirely distinct from his professional life, it was difficult to imagine secrecy and discretion flourishing in the atmosphere of the County bar. Pettigrew got into bed with a furrowed brow and a very wrinkled nose.