Copyright & Information
Truth With Her Boots On
First published in 1974
© Estate Henry Cecil; House of Stratus 1974-2011
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.
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.
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About the Author
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.
CHAPTER ONE
To Help a Friend
Counsel for the accused was addressing the judge, his Honour Judge Whitehill, in mitigation of the offence of which his client had been found guilty.
‘Your Honour,’ he said, ‘can any of us put our hands on our hearts and say that we would not have done what the accused did?’
This was not quite a rhetorical question, for counsel looked round the court at members of the Bar and solicitors, and eventually his eyes came to rest on those of the judge. He did not say, ‘And that includes you, your Honour’, but he meant it, and it was plain to the judge that he meant it too. Counsel’s client had been found guilty of the offence of ‘without reasonable excuse’ assisting his wife to evade arrest in respect of an offence of which he knew or believed her to have been guilty. Counsel had endeavoured to persuade the jury that it was a reasonable excuse for a husband to help his wife in these circumstances simply because he was her husband, but the judge had flatly told the jury that, if they so decided, it would be a mistake in law.
‘If I am wrong about that,’ the judge had said, ‘the Court of Appeal can put me right. What no doubt Parliament had in mind when it referred to “reasonable excuse” is, for example, a case where the person who helped the criminal to evade arrest was under some form of duress or was deceived into giving assistance. It is, of course, quite natural for a husband to wish to protect his wife or a parent his child, but I do not believe that Parliament intended to license the members of a family to help one of them to evade arrest when they knew he or she had committed a crime.’
‘Your Honour would not accept my submission,’ went on counsel, ‘on the issue of guilt, that ties of blood and affection are sufficient to give a person a reasonable excuse for helping the object of his affections. Naturally in this court I accept your Honour’s ruling on that matter and quite frankly I think your Honour is probably right.’
‘A comforting thought,’ said the judge. ‘Thank you.’
‘But when it comes to a matter of sentence I feel on much firmer ground. Your Honour yourself said that it was natural for a husband to want to help his wife. But I venture to put it even higher than that. I would respectfully submit that a husband has a moral duty to assist his wife. Of course that cannot wipe out his legal duty, but in my respectful submission it should make a great difference when it comes to passing sentence.’
‘I’ve got that point,’ said the judge. ‘Have you got any other?’
‘I’m sure your Honour will take fully into consideration the fact that this is a first offence on the part of my client.’
‘But not unfortunately,’ said the judge, ‘on the part of his wife.’
‘That is perfectly true,’ said counsel, ‘but I hope your Honour will accept that my client has never sought to profit from his wife’s misdemeanours. Your Honour will remember that the chief-inspector was very fair on that matter and said that he was quite satisfied that my client had tried to persuade his wife to give up shoplifting, that he had more than once returned anonymously goods which she had taken and that the only reason why he helped her to evade arrest was because of his affection for her and not because he wanted to share in the loot.’
‘I accept all that,’ said the judge.
‘Then, in those circumstances,’ said counsel, ‘I hope your Honour will feel able to take a lenient course in the matter,’ and he sat down.
‘Leonard Newton,’ said the judge, ‘your learned counsel has asked me to take a lenient course with you. I should like to be able to do this, but I’m afraid I cannot. Nevertheless I agree with much of what your learned counsel has said. I personally would not think less of anyone who risked his liberty in defence of his wife or child. Indeed, such conduct is often to be admired. But the State cannot sanction it. It cannot give the green light to people who help criminals to avoid the consequences of their criminal acts. Nor, unfortunately, can I. I would not dissent from the proposition that a man may have a greater duty towards his wife or child than he has to the State. Certainly in cases other than treason and the like. But the duty to the State is a legal duty which its judges must enforce. The duty to wife or child is only a moral duty. A loving husband may well say to himself, “I will do anything for my wife and I will risk going to prison for her.” But it must be made clear to husbands and parents and, I may add, very close friends that that is exactly what he will risk. If I were to pass a nominal sentence in this case I should in effect be licensing the concealment of crime by the close relatives of the criminal. We live in an age when there is too much lawlessness anyway and in my opinion it would be very wrong of me, however much I may sympathise with and even admire the conduct of the accused, to do anything to encourage such behaviour. It must be made known that, if a man does anything to assist his wife to avoid the consequences of her criminal acts, he will in all probability be sent to prison if found out. And I should make it plain too that in my view the same consequences should often apply to a woman who assists her husband. Of course different considerations will arise in cases where the wife is under the domination of her husband. Similarly, if a husband were under the domination of his wife, that circumstance might justify a more lenient sentence. But that is not the case here. The accused is a decent man with a profound affection for his wife and he has had a great deal to put up with in the past. She is becoming a confirmed shoplifter. I accept unreservedly that her husband has endeavoured to stop her and that he has never knowingly benefited from her crimes. It is an odd thing to say to a man who is going to be sent to prison what I am about to say to him. But I do say with a full appreciation of the words which I am using that the accused will leave the court without a stain on his moral character. I very much hope that, when he comes out of prison, no friend of his and no prospective employer will look upon him as a criminal or will think any the less of him for what he has done. And I hope that any employer to whom he may offer his services, if he has the necessary qualifications for the job, will consider him favourably for it, unless, somewhat inadvisedly, he should apply for a position in one of the multiple stores where his wife does her shopping. The sentence of the court is that you go to prison for twelve months.’
Judge Julian Whitehill lived alone with his wife Margaret in a comfortable house on the outskirts of London. He was very happily married and devoted to his wife, and he certainly had it in mind when he sentenced Leonard Newton that he would have done the same for his wife as Leonard Newton had done for his, although the chance of Margaret committing a serious crime was not one which was in the realms of possibility. He did realise that it is easy to say what you would do in given circumstances if you know perfectly well that those circumstances will never arise.
He had been a judge for fourteen years and would become entitled to retire on full pension in a year’s time. But he had no intention of doing so. From a very early age he had been passionately interested in the truth. He was ten when he was told of the story of Cassandra, the Trojan prophetess who was cursed with what he thought was one of the most terrible curses which could be imposed on anyone, that she should always prophesy the truth and never be believed. The frustration engendered by this thought kept him awake for much of the night after he had been told the story.
The obvious profession for him was the Bar, where his ability to spot the weaknesses in his own clients’ case and often to save them tremendous sums in costs by showing that they were in the wrong, rightly earned him a very large practice within a comparatively short time of his being called. He cross-examined his clients politely but very thoroughly in his own chambers at a very early stage in the proceedings or proposed proceedings. Sometimes his cross-examination was so thorough that clients were prompted to ask him on which side he was appearing. His solicitor would then point out that it was very much better for the proposed plaintiff to be cross-examined in a friendly way by his own counsel than to be shown to be a liar in court by a hostile cross-examining counsel. Able solicitors soon realised the value of employing Whitehill and learned to bring their problems to him at a very early stage. Often before proceedings were started at all. He was very rarely wrong in his assessment of a case. And the amount of money which he must have saved his clients in costs over the years was very considerable indeed. Although this often meant that lawyers made little out of a case, when, if it had been fought, they would have made hundreds or even thousands, curiously enough, contrary to what many members of the public think, a normal lawyer, whether counsel or solicitor, always prefers to advise settlement of a difficult case than to let his client take the risk of an expensive defeat. Fortunately for lawyers there are people who say and mean – at any rate at the time of saying it – that they don’t care what a case costs them and are determined to bring it to court. Actually the expression they usually use is that they are determined to get justice. And when they are told – somewhat to their surprise – that bringing a case to court does not necessarily mean that they will get justice, they are in the first instance horrified. Many people think that, if you are in the right, you are bound to win. But this is not so. Judges are only human and they make mistakes. Witnesses who are most convincing in the witness box and who appear to be telling the truth may in fact be arrant liars and the judge may not see through them. Of course, if there were perfect justice, the man who was in the right would always win. But in such a state of affairs there would be no need for any law courts. Everyone would behave perfectly.
Judge Whitehill had another quality which made him a good judge. He did not worry over his cases after they were over. He took great trouble to try to get the answer right but, having given it, he turned his mind to other matters and, unless the case had some unusual quality, as often as not he forgot all about it. On the way home from sentencing Leonard Newton he did indeed let his mind dwell for a short time on the oddity of sending a man to prison with no stain on his character. But he did not wonder how Leonard Newton would get on in prison, how his wife would manage without him while he was there, whether she would get into trouble during that period, and how they would manage when he came out of prison. Certainly he hoped that things would go as well as possible for them, but he did not in the least brood upon their misfortunes.
However, when he got home he thought that the apparent anomaly of what he had said in sentencing the man would be of sufficient interest to tell his wife, but before he could do so, she said, ‘Dick telephoned. He wants to see you rather urgently. I told him to come for coffee. Is that all right?’
‘Why not dinner?’
‘Hadn’t enough and I simply hadn’t time to go out and get another steak. Anyway it seems that he wanted to see you and not me. He sounded rather anxious as a matter of fact.’
‘Daphne’s not ill or anything like that?’
‘Oh no. They’re perfectly well. It’s simply something he wants to see you about. It seems to be preying on his mind rather.’
‘It will be nice to have a chat anyway.’
Richard Wetherall was the judge’s oldest friend. They had been at school and Cambridge together and they knew as much about each other as two human beings, other than husband and wife, can know. Their trust in each other was absolute. It was pretty well impossible to think of either of them committing a serious crime, but had the impossible happened, the one could have confessed it to the other with confidence that the burden of knowing about it would be cheerfully accepted and that there would be no possible risk of disclosure. It is perhaps not uninteresting for the average person to consider how many of his friends fall into that class. There are plenty of peccadilloes which otherwise respectable people commit and sometimes they are inclined to boast about them to their friends and even to their acquaintances. Cheating the Customs and the Revenue is looked upon by many people as no worse than a motoring offence. Not so shoplifting or murder. But there is a considerable difference between these last two. How many friends has the average person to whom he could safely confess to murder? Few friends, if any, would consider it their duty to inform the police that a person had admitted to shoplifting, but quite a number would feel that murder was a different matter and had to be disclosed. But apart from the fear of disclosure, which would limit the number to whom you could safely confess, there would also be reluctance, in the case of an old and valued friend, to impose the burden on him of knowing of the crime without feeling able to notify the authorities about it. You may trust your friend not to give you away, but you may feel that it is not fair to embarrass him by your confession. If a really reliable opinion poll were taken on the subject it would be interesting to know how many friends of this calibre the average person has.
Richard Wetherall had become an accountant when his friend Julian Whitehill went to the Bar. Richard had done extremely well, was happily married, with three children, and could certainly be described as one of the lucky people in the world. As far as one could tell, he had no serious financial, business or domestic worries. To a large extent good luck of this kind comes from within. There are plenty of apparently happy and successful people with no grave problems to worry about, who worry the whole time. And there are plenty of people who are nothing like so lucky in their financial, business and domestic affairs who are usually happy in spite of the problems with which they have to deal. This is not in the least to say they are happy-go-lucky or pretend not to see the difficulties around them. They see them clearly enough and they deal with them to the best of their ability. But their nature is such that they are cheerful and happy most of the time, whatever problems they have to face. Both the judge and his friend were very similar in this respect. In consequence they both led happy lives.
But that evening Dick disclosed to the judge that he had a problem which he was hoping to solve in a way which, he did not realise, would create a very much greater problem for the judge. Dick, though happily married, had on one occasion some ten years before his visit to the judge gone to bed with another woman. His wife was unaware of this, but must have had some instinctive feeling about it. As a consequence her jealousy, which had always been rather above average, became rather too much for Dick’s comfort. In spite of this, some time later, during his wife’s absence for a few days, he had taken a young woman acquaintance out to lunch. That was all there was to it. On her return he told his wife. Whether or not it was due to her intuition about the episode ten years previously, his wife was extremely unpleasant about the innocent luncheon date. She cross-examined him about it and threatened to leave him if he did it again. She quite frightened Dick, who was horrified at the idea of his home being broken up. But his consciousness of guilt in respect of the ten-year-old episode did a great deal to counteract his feelings of innocence about the innocuous lunch. So he made up his mind there and then, not that he would never take another woman out to lunch in his wife’s absence, but that he would make certain that his wife never learned about it.
Shortly before Dick’s visit to the judge Daphne Wetherall had gone away for a day or two, and once again Dick had consoled himself for her absence by taking an attractive woman friend out to dinner. There was nothing more to it than that and he had been careful to go to a restaurant where they were not likely to meet anybody who knew them. Nevertheless when his wife returned she started to cross-examine him.
‘Where did you dine on Friday?’ she asked. For a moment he considered telling the truth, but then, fearing for the consequences of doing this, he decided to lie and lie quickly. The split second which he had wasted in considering whether to tell the truth was such a long one that his wife had time to say, ‘Well?’ before he could answer. He realised then that the lie would have to be a good one.
‘I was with Julian at the club.’
‘Sure?’ asked his wife.
‘Of course I’m sure. Why are you so suspicious?’
‘I just like to know,’ said Daphne. She paused and then added, ‘The truth is, of course, that I’m as jealous as a cat where you’re concerned. And, apart from that, it doesn’t do a wife any good for other people to see her husband lunching or dining with attractive women. It makes a fool of her.’
‘I take it,’ said Dick, ‘that my dining with Julian doesn’t make a fool of you.’
‘Don’t be silly. If you did.’
‘Ask him,’ said Dick. ‘If I were you I shouldn’t appear to be too curious or that would make a fool of you too.’
‘I’m not going to ring him up straight away, if that’s what you mean,’ said Daphne. ‘But I’ll bring up the subject somehow when we next meet.’
‘You really are extraordinary,’ said Dick. ‘Why don’t you believe me?’
‘I do, as a matter of fact,’ said Daphne. ‘If you’d said you’d dined with anybody else I might still have been suspicious. But there’s one person in the world who wouldn’t lie to me. That’s Julian. He wouldn’t lie to anyone. Truth is pretty well his God. Unfortunately for some people who appear in front of him.’
After this conversation Dick lost little time in going to see the judge. Margaret brought them coffee in the judge’s study and left them alone. They talked about other matters for a short time and then Dick raised the subject.
‘I’m sorry to have to worry you with this,’ he said, ‘but it’s rather awkward. I’ve made an ass of myself and brought you into it. I’m terribly sorry.’
He then explained what had happened. The judge listened without comment until he’d finished. Then: ‘Why on earth did you have to do it?’ he asked.
‘You mean take the girl out to dinner?’
‘No, of course not. Lie about it.’
Dick explained what had happened the time before.
‘Daphne’s grossly unreasonable,’ said the judge.
‘She is and she isn’t,’ said Dick. ‘On the face of it she is, but the truth is that ten years ago I did have a one-night affair, although she knew and knows absolutely nothing about it. I suppose a woman’s instincts are a form of extra-sensory perception.’
‘It doesn’t only happen with women,’ said the judge. ‘A man may have got away with several thefts and then be run in for one which he didn’t do. The police have a feeling that he did the others but they can’t prove it. Very occasionally indeed they frame him and on other occasions, if there is some evidence against him, they improve it a bit. It’s extraordinary how indignant a man becomes if he’s unjustly convicted of a crime when he’s committed plenty of others for which he has not even been prosecuted. Well, what d’you want me to do?’
‘Nothing, if Daphne never asks you.’
‘But if she does, you want me to corroborate you.’
‘I know it’s a dreadful thing to ask, but I can’t see what else I can do. If Daphne found out I was telling lies she’d fear the worst – and, although there’d be no justification whatever for her suspicions, I really believe she’d leave me.’
‘You mean,’ said the judge, ‘that she’d ask herself why you should have lied unless there was something more to it.’
‘Exactly. And the trouble is that there is something more to it, although it happened ten years ago.’
‘The same woman?’
‘Oh no.’
‘That’s something,’ said the judge, ‘but it still leaves me with my problem.’
Daphne was quite right in thinking that the judge was a truthful person. There was nothing particularly odd in that. All Her Majesty’s judges invariably tell the truth in public and almost invariably in private. That is not to say that some of them don’t tell lies for other people’s benefit. Ordinary social lies are told by almost everyone. One cannot even imagine an Archbishop, on being asked if he liked the soup, saying that it was undrinkable (as indeed it was). How many people of integrity who have seen a play by an author who is a friend of theirs and have been asked by him how they liked it have not, when necessary, lied? Some people pretend that such statements are not lies. They call them white lies or social lies or something of that kind. But they are in fact lies, that is deliberate misstatements of fact or opinion which are intended to deceive. Sometimes it would be unkind, sometimes rude and sometimes absolutely wrong not to tell them.
Unfortunately for the judge, however, the lie which he was being asked to tell did not come into this category at all. One of the reasons for the high reputation which English judges have is the complete trust which most people put in their integrity. One cannot imagine for a moment a judge evading the truth in order to get out of the consequences of a motoring offence. Many judges (perhaps not quite all) observe the speed limit, considering that it would not look well for a judge to be convicted even of that comparatively venial offence. And they realise that there is only one way to ensure that they are never convicted and that is by not breaking the law. The only way to get a reputation for telling the truth is always to tell it. If you lie to only one person that person may eventually learn that you have done so.
‘I wouldn’t have asked you if I could possibly have avoided it, but, having committed myself, I couldn’t see what else I could do. I’m terribly sorry.’
‘Perhaps,’ said the judge, not very hopefully, ‘the occasion won’t arise.’
‘I’m afraid it will,’ said Dick.
‘Well, you can count on me,’ said the judge, ‘but I must admit that I wish you’d come to borrow ten thousand pounds, which I may add I would have had great difficulty in lending to you.’
