cover

Copyright & Information

No Bail for the Judge

 

First published in 1952

© Estate Henry Cecil; House of Stratus 1952-2011

 

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

 

The right of Henry Cecil to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

 

This edition published in 2011 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,

Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.

 

Typeset by House of Stratus.

 

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

 

EAN   ISBN   Edition
1842320599  9781842320594  Print
0755129180  9780755129188  Kindle
0755129431  9780755129430  Epub
0755150600  9780755150601  Epdf

 

This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.

Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

 

House of Stratus Logo

www.houseofstratus.com

 

 

About the Author

Henry Cecil

 

Judge Henry Cecil Leon was born in Norwood Green Rectory near London in 1902. In 1923 he was called to the Bar and from 1949 to 1967 he served as a County Court judge. He developed his writing skills whilst serving with the British Army during the Second World War, reputedly telling stories to officers at the behest of his colonel, so as to keep their minds off alcohol whilst sailing on ‘dry’ ships. These stories formed the basis of his first collection, Full Circle, published in 1948. Thereafter, the legal year, his impressions at court, or at other official functions, as well as dinners at the Savoy Grill or at his club, the Garrick, all provided material for his considerable brain power.

He wrote during the three-week-long family holidays which were usually spent in comfortable hotels in Britain. He would sit in a deck chair in a sunny garden, exercise book on lap and pen in hand, writing from 10 am to 1pm, then again from 2.30 to 4 pm each day.

Cecil had an extraordinary ability to examine the law in both a humorous and a more serious, analytical way, providing a series of thought provoking works.

Many of his stories have been made into films or plays – notably ‘Brothers-in-Law’ and ‘Alibi for a Judge’. These and other books have also provided a stimulus for those wishing to take up law as a career, although whilst dealing with the legal system they also have more than an element of the mystery/thriller genre about them. They are a delight for those who look for authenticity in the most aptly described British characters.

Cecil died in May 1976, still at the height of his mental powers.

 

 

Contents

1.A Lady Not His Wife

2.The Stamp Collector

3.Gentlemen

4.Ladies

5.No Gentlemen

6.Charge Number Six

7.House Full

8.Judge in the Box

9.Why?

10.Plan A (Part 2)

11.Mr Trumper in Difficulties

12.The Collection

CHAPTER ONE

A Lady Not His Wife

Mr Justice Prout was sitting in the High Court trying a claim for damages for breach of contract. He had been on the Bench some fifteen years since his appointment at the age of fifty-five. He was looked upon by the Bar and his fellow judges as a good lawyer but as being rather Victorian in his views and a little inclined to be prudish. The evidence in the case before him was finished and counsel for the plaintiff was making his final address.

“I ask you to believe my client, my Lord,” he was saying, when the judge interrupted.

“Mr Croft,” he said, “when you say that, I hope you remember the admission which your client made in cross-examination.”

“The admission, my Lord?”

“Yes, Mr Croft, the admission. Your client agreed that he had spent the night in a hotel with a lady not his wife.”

Mr Croft, who was a somewhat gay bachelor, just managed to prevent himself from saying: “Oh, that.” Instead, he looked patiently at the judge for a second or two and then said: “But surely, my Lord, that doesn’t mean he is a liar. He could, for example, have denied that he spent the night with the lady or said that her sister was there as well or that he was taken ill and she was a nurse or that–”

“Mr Croft,” interrupted the judge, “it does not assist me very much to hear excuses which, if I may say so, seem to come very readily from your lips and which were not in fact made by the plaintiff. No, of course, your client’s standard of morality in one respect does not necessarily mean that he is incapable of telling the truth but it does suggest that he is perhaps–” and here the judge paused and tapped his desk gently with a pencil, “he is perhaps not quite as reliable as other people of stronger moral fibre.”

“I can only respectfully submit,” replied Mr Croft, who was a little nettled by this time, “that my client’s behaviour with a lady on one occasion has nothing whatever to do with a claim for damages which arises out of a contract to repair a motor car. If my client had spent the night with fifty different ladies on fifty-five different occasions–”

“Mr Croft,” said the judge, “pray control yourself. I am in possession of your point without the necessity for any extravagant and somewhat indecorous illustrations. Please do not imagine that I attach too much importance to the matter. It is simply one of the many factors which I have to consider in making up my mind as to whether I believe the plaintiff or the defendant.”

“If your Lordship pleases.”

And so the case proceeded until it was eventually adjourned, still unfinished, when the judge rose at 14.15p.m.

“Well, Arthur,” he said to his clerk, as he disrobed, “I thought we’d finish that today. But nothing seems to stop young Croft.”

“He’s no worse than you were, sir,” replied his clerk. “Many’s the time you used to say to me, ‘I’m not going to stop just because the old fool wants his tea.’”

“I suppose you’re right, Arthur. One forgets. At any rate, I don’t talk as much now.”

“Not as much as you did when you first went to the Bench, sir.”

“I thought I was very quiet these days.”

“Oh, much better, sir,” said the clerk graciously. “I don’t get many complaints now.”

“Thank you, Arthur. That’s very gratifying.”

Shortly afterward the judge left the Law Courts and went to his club. He was a widower and lived with his only daughter, but she was going out that night. At the club he occupied himself for some time with the newspapers until he was greeted by an old friend of his, who was a well-known KC, George Carruthers.

“Dining here?”

“Yes. Elizabeth’s going to the theatre.”

“She is an attractive girl, you know. Can’t think why she’s still on your hands.”

“George,” said the judge firmly, “you are quite wrong. I am not a selfish old gentleman spoiling the best years of her life and stopping her from getting married. Oh, no – I know you didn’t say that – but that’s what you meant. Elizabeth will go when she wants and not before.” They continued talking on various subjects for some time and eventually Carruthers referred to a recent appointment to the Court of Appeal. Mr Justice Painswick had just become Lord Justice Painswick.

“I must say I was a little surprised,” said the judge.

“Why on earth? He’s a good enough lawyer.”

“No doubt about that, I agree.”

“What then? He can’t help his son being a bad lot.”

“Of course not. No – I dare say I’m a bit old-fashioned but when you’re a judge you can’t do some of the things other people – you, for instance – can do with impunity. No doubt that’s one of the reasons you won’t go to the Bench.”

“What has Painswick done?”

“Surely you remember. His son married the parson’s daughter. You know the horse-racing case, the parson who spotted all the winners and never backed them.”

“Yes – but what’s that got to do with it?”

“Well, Painswick tried the case, you know. And after it was over and the whole world was besieging the parson to try to get racing tips out of him, there was a picture of Painswick at the old boy’s church. Well, he couldn’t have tried the case if he’d known the parson or his daughter before. So he must have got to know them afterward. Why? Rumours went round that he started to use the parson’s tips pretty heavily. He certainly heard a summons on the racecourse. You can’t have judges doing that sort of thing. At least, that’s my view. When I took on the job I gave up several innocent pleasures because I felt I had to.”

“Such as?”

“Well, for instance, Dorothy and I used to go to a little pub for supper sometimes. It was near our house and it had a good snack bar. Plate of cold meat and a pint of bitter. Very nice. But I never used it after I went to the Bench. Couldn’t, you see. It was quite respectable as pubs go. But think of the other people in there – criminals, prostitutes and I don’t know who. No doubt, I’ve sat next to them there. Then, suppose there were a fight and I had to give evidence. Everyone would say I was a pub-crawler. I can’t have a notice pinned on my back: ‘I only come here for supper and a glass of beer.’ If a judge is seen coming out of a London public house – wiping his lips or not – anyone seeing him will imagine – and will certainly say – that he likes his little drop. The only way to be sure that sort of thing doesn’t happen is never to go in.”

A few hours later the judge started to make his way home. He walked, and had reached Curzon Street when something happened which had the gravest effect on his subsequent life. The street appeared deserted and then a car, driven at quite a moderate pace, came into view. The driver was one of those who ought never to be permitted to hold a licence. This was not because he drove at too fast a speed or because he was inexpert in the management of a car or because he was inconsiderate to other users of the road. On the contrary, subject to the qualification which follows, he drove well and with proper regard for pedestrians, motorists, cyclists and animals – when he saw them. Usually he did see them, but, when talking to his passenger in the back of the car or next to him, he almost invariably turned his head in the direction of the person to whom he was speaking, inevitably taking his eyes off the road when doing so. Like many other drivers who indulge in this form of madness, he was quite unrepentant about it and would say that he only did it when it was safe to do so. He was almost incapable of talking to people without looking at them. So, on this occasion, he was chatting to his wife in the back of the car when a small child appeared from nowhere and ran in front of him. The accident would have taken place almost opposite the judge but for the fact that he hurled himself in front of the car, picked up the child and, by a fraction of an inch, saved himself and the child. He had been a rugby player in his youth but it was an exceptionally fine pickup for a man of seventy who had not played the game for over forty years. The motorist stopped, a little shaken but wondering how it could have happened and in no way determined to give up the murderous and suicidal habit which had nearly killed two people. As soon as the judge put the child down, it ran away as fast as it had appeared and the judge was alone when the driver reached him.

“All right, old, chap?” he asked. The judge was leaning against some railings and did not at first reply.

“All right, old chap?” repeated the driver.

“All right,” said the judge, but was quite unaware that he had said it.

“Might have been a nasty accident,” said the driver. “These children are the devil. Good night, old boy. Nice bit of work.”

The judge remained leaning against the railings for quite a minute after the motorist had driven away.

“A very nasty shock,” he said out loud. “A very nasty shock indeed.”

He felt as though he were outside himself and could see his body leaning against the railings and hear his voice talking to himself. When his body started to move, he found that it had difficulty in keeping upright without the assistance of a hand on the railings. He had started to progress very slowly in this way when Flossie appeared. She was a most respectable-looking person and in former days would have passed for a lady’s maid. In fact she was nothing of the kind. Psychologists would have called her a psychopathic personality. Ordinary intelligent people would have said more simply that she was very bad indeed. She was. She was not immoral. She had no morals at all. She was light-fingered and light-hearted. At one time she had had quite a good job in the black market, but, though her appearance was a great asset to her in this work, she was ingenuous to a degree and this proved a grave disadvantage. For instance, once during a discussion in a public house about the disposal of a large quantity of “surplus” sugar she had said quite loudly: “Where is the stuff?” “Sh –,” said her companion. “What’s the matter?” Flossie had said. “It’s a free country, isn’t it?” As a result she had eventually been forced to accept the protection of a gentleman for whom she had previously worked and who promised to keep her in reasonable comfort provided she handed over her takings with sufficient regularity.

Flossie at once assumed that the judge had been drinking.

“Hello, ducks,” she said, “Feeling tired?”

“A very nasty shock,” said the judge.

“Come on, you take my arm,” said Flossie. The judge did as he was told and, ten minutes later, was sitting on Flossie’s bed.

“What about a nice drop of port, dear?” she asked him.

“A very nasty shock,” said the judge, and collapsed on the bed, asleep or unconscious or a mixture of the two.

“Oh, my Gawd,” said Flossie. She did nothing for a minute or two but then, finding he was still breathing fairly normally, she adopted her usual routine with drunken customers and dealt with his pocketbook, with the result that in the end she left him with one pound. Then, after looking at the judge snoring on the bed, she curled up on a sofa and went to sleep.

Next morning the judge awoke feeling dazed and ill. At first he had no idea where he was and, when Flossie said: “Have a nice cup of char, ducks,” he thought he must be dreaming. Then the events of the night before gradually started to come back to him, though there were blank patches and there was a sense of unreality about it all. He had never been seriously ill before and, what was more important from his point of view, he had never yet, while at the Bar or on the Bench, missed a case. He had invariably brushed aside minor ailments and, quite regardless of the influenza and other germs he might spread around him, he had always been at his post. He was absurdly proud of it and determined that, until retirement, he would never miss a day. It was a silly habit. The feverish doctor who insists on going his rounds poisoning more patients than he cures, the managing director who is at his office no matter what it costs his health (or his wife in worry), the judge who insists on trying cases even if, due to temporary illness, his mind is not as acute as litigants are entitled to expect – all these good people are only satisfying their own pride and, if honest with themselves, would have to agree that they had never considered whether it would not really be much more satisfactory for everyone if they stayed in bed. When the chairman presents a cheque and testimonial to Mr Albert Brown, who in fifty-five years of faithful service has never been late or missed a day, the ghosts of those who were killed by the germs from Albert Brown may be hovering round the ceremony but, unfortunately, he cannot see them, and his chest swells with pride and there are tears in his eyes as he recounts to his wife the kindly words of the chairman. She had been unable to attend the ceremony. He had kept her in bed owing to a slight temperature.

So the one thought in Mr Justice Prout’s mind, as he lay fully dressed on Flossie’s bed, was how he was going to be able to get through the next few days. It was going to be very difficult. Elizabeth was very strong-minded, she was devoted to her father and would unquestionably make him stay at home until the doctor had seen him. He felt sure that he would soon be himself again after a few days, but he felt ill at the moment and realized that he might have physical symptoms which could be observed by a doctor. If he went to stay with any of his friends, the same thing would happen. They would send for a doctor, whatever he said, and he would be ordered to bed.

“How you feeling, ducks?”

“Not very well, thank you. I wonder if you’d do something for me?”

“Depends what it is, dear.”

He did not continue the conversation at once. A thought had occurred to him and he looked round the room and at Flossie. If he had been normal, he would never even have considered the suggestion he was about to make. He was, however, suffering from a stroke of the kind which changes a man’s personality without much interfering with him physically, and he was very far from normal. The one thought which dominated his mind was his intense desire to get through the next few days without missing a day at the Courts. He was determined to do this. He glanced at Flossie again. He saw a respectable looking girl, not at all flashy, not even pretty, ordinarily dressed. He had been called “ducks” and “dear” by many bus conductresses.

“Look here,” he said slowly, “I’m a judge. I sit in the High Court, in the Law Courts, you know, in the Strand. I must be there by twenty past ten. Can you get me a taxi?”

“Is that all, dear?”

“No, it isn’t. If I don’t feel better after Court is over, I want to come back for the night.”

In his abnormal state of mind he did not realize that a judge should not stay the night in the flat of a strange woman, even if she looks respectable, is not even pretty and is ordinarily dressed.

“Why don’t you go to a hotel, dear?”

He had thought of that but he knew that he would need more looking after than he could ask for at a hotel without a doctor being sent for.

“I want you to take care of me for a few days, possibly less. I’ll pay you well.”

“How much, dear?”

“Whatever you ask in reason.”

“What d’you want me to do?”

“I’ll tell you. I want you to put me in a taxi each morning and to be sure to be at home when I come back in a taxi at about 4.45. I want you to get me some food and generally to look after me until I’m better.”

“Why don’t you go home, ducks?”

“There are, reasons. Never mind them. Will you do it?”

The very small brain of Flossie started to work. There were few things it could comprehend and they all had to be related to men, money, policemen, food and drink. The judge’s suggestion was soon understood by her in terms of money.

“How much’ll you give me, dear?”

“Would five pounds a day be enough?”

“Make it ten, ducks, and it’s a deal.”

“Very well, then. Please make sure of being in when I come back from the Courts. To be on the safe side, you’d better be in between four and five in case I’m back a bit early. Can you manage that?”

“OK. D’you want any breakfast?”

“Just a glass of milk, I think, thank you. Then I must find a telephone.”

“There’s one round the corner.”

“Help me there, please.”

Half an hour later Elizabeth Prout was surprised to hear her father speaking to her on the telephone. She had come back late the night before and had imagined that he was in bed as usual.

“Where on earth are you, father?”

She knew that men of seventy sometimes went off the rails, but she could not believe that this had happened to her father. He was so absolutely normal and so certain to do nothing which a High Court judge should not do. “Where are you speaking from?” she asked. The question was a shock to the judge. Not just because he couldn’t at first think of an answer but because he could not understand how he had failed to realize that she was bound to ask this question. He was highly intelligent, with the logical mind which one would expect of a good lawyer. Why on earth hadn’t he been ready with an answer? Then, suddenly, he was struck by the fact that he was complaining to himself at not having been ready to deceive his daughter. He never lied to anyone except for the conventional lies which everyone tells to avoid hurting people’s feelings. What on earth was the matter with him? It was ridiculous. Just a nasty shock, that was all and he was behaving as if he were half out of his mind. However, he had to do something.

“I’m staying with Claude,” he said. “I went back with him from the club and it was so late when we looked at the clock that he offered me a bed.”

“It sounded as though you were speaking from a call box.”

“Call box? Oh, no.”

Trust Elizabeth to notice the difference.

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Yes – quite, thanks. I may stay with Claude for a night or two.”

“Oh?”

“Yes – he’s a bit lonely at the moment.”

His voice sounded strange to Elizabeth and he had spoken with a curious slowness. She felt sure, too, that he was lying, though she could not think why. She decided to go to the Courts and see him. She did not say so for fear he would find some means of avoiding her. Many women have quite sufficient natural intuition to sense when they are being deceived but Elizabeth had, in addition, a very high degree of intelligence. She would have made as good a lawyer as her father. Many people were afraid of her. She had so many qualities. It is not often that a girl of the highest intelligence is equally attractive and gay. She had an unfair share of good things. The Creator had apparently not been in a socialistic mood when He made her. If He had been, Miss A would have had some of her brains and Miss B some of her looks. Although it is pleasant to gaze at Miss A, she only understands half of what you say, while, although Miss B understands you perfectly, you prefer to look over her shoulder or at the lady next door when you talk to her. Elizabeth had everything – except a husband. Perhaps, after all, the Creator knew what He was doing. Miss A will marry the nice boy at “The Laurels” and Miss B will meet someone on a boat – where the choice is limited. But though men crowded round Elizabeth like waiters around a really wealthy bankrupt, only a small percentage went as far as suggesting marriage to her. Her father was quite right in thinking that she did not turn them down because of him. She did not know exactly whom she wanted but she knew it was none of those who had asked.

“I’ve thought of nothing else but you since the first time I met you. I can’t get you out of my mind,” one young man had said.

“Have you been trying?”

“Yes, I have. You’re a confounded nuisance but I love you.”

“I really do wish I could say the same. I like frankness and you’ve a nice face. You’re kind and generous and–”

“Look here, I haven’t come to have my character analysed. I want my fortune told.”

“Then I’m afraid you’re going on a journey.”

“I asked for that. Sorry.”

“Dear George. You’ll soon get over it. You don’t love me, you know.”

“Aren’t I the best judge of that?”

“Apparently not. It takes two to make love. What you mean is that you would like to love me. Unless I love you, you can’t love me. Other less polite words, yes, but love, no.”

A formidable opponent Elizabeth – and a formidable companion.

Mr Justice Prout knew his daughter well, just about as well as she knew him. As soon as they had rung off, each of them immediately tried to telephone Claude. The judge was lucky and, in spite of the delay involved in finding the money, he got through first.

“Look here, Claude,” he said, “you’ll think I’m mad, but I’m not. I’ll explain it all to you later.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’ve told Elizabeth I’m staying a few nights with you. Will you confirm it if she rings?”

“Yes, of course, but it’s fifty years since I was asked to do anything of that sort. Then it was parents and not daughters.”

“There’s nothing to it. I’ll tell you later. Must go now. Thanks so much.”

Claude Meadowes heard the telephone click and replaced his receiver.

“What on earth?” he said out loud. The next moment the telephone rang again. It was Elizabeth.

“Can I speak to father, please?”

He only hesitated the fraction of a second before saying: “He’s just gone,” but it was enough for Elizabeth.

“Did he stay the night with you?”

“I’ve told you, he’s just left.”

Elizabeth had often been to the Courts, civil and criminal, and she knew the way that people of all kinds instinctively avoid the lie direct as long as they can.

(“Did you steal the bicycle?” asks counsel of his client, who has been charged for the twelfth time with stealing bicycles.

“I had a bicycle. What should I want to steal another for?”)

“You haven’t told me,” persisted Elizabeth. “Did he stay the night with you? I’m worried.”

Again Claude hesitated. Like the judge, he was unused to telling lies, and, even if this hadn’t been the case, he wanted to do the best for his friend and did not honestly know whether a lie really would serve him best. This further hesitation was proof for Elizabeth.

“Hadn’t I better come to see you?” she said. “Something’s the matter.”

Claude had to make a decision. Presumably it was affected by his dislike of being called a liar by a young woman.

“There’s nothing at all the matter,” he said, with sudden firmness. “Your father has been staying the night with me; and kindly remember you’re his daughter, not his mother, and that his old friends don’t like being cross-examined like pickpockets by his daughter.”

“Then his old friends shouldn’t pick pockets,” said Elizabeth, and hung up the receiver. She quickly dressed and took a taxi to the Law Courts.

The judge was there before her. He had already told his cleric that he wanted to look at some papers before he went into Court and that he did not want to be disturbed by anyone, even his daughter.

“Are you feeling quite all right, sir?” the clerk had asked.

“A little bit under the weather, thank you, Arthur. I shall be quite all right in a day or two. I don’t want any fuss. So don’t let Lizzie in if you can avoid it.” Arthur, who had known Elizabeth all her life, knew that it would be difficult to carry out these instructions. He also felt disinclined to carry them out. The judge looked ill. He knew that, if he tried to persuade him to go home, he would be shouted down. So he did not try. Elizabeth, however, might be more successful.

“He told me not to let you in,” he whispered to her just before he showed her into his room. As she came in, the judge affected to be engrossed in a law report.

“What is all this?” said Elizabeth. He had to look up then. She saw that he was ill.

“What is it, Lizzie?” he asked, with a little show of irritation.

“What’s happened?”

“Nothing has happened. I wish you’d leave me alone.”

“You don’t look well.”

“I’m perfectly well, thank you. A slight headache, that’s all. Now, run along. Go and buy a new hat.”

During the conversation the judge was making a determined effort to appear as normal as possible. His strength of mind helped him.

“I’m going to take you home,” said Elizabeth.

“You’re not going to do anything of the sort. Arthur, show the lady out.”

Arthur, who had been listening intently in the background, threw his lot in with Elizabeth’s.

“I really do think, sir,” he began.