Copyright & Information
Unlawful Occasions
First published in 1962
© Estate Henry Cecil; House of Stratus 1962-2011
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.
www.houseofstratus.com
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
Prologue
‘Prisoner at the bar,’ said the clerk, ‘you have been convicted of felony. Have you anything to say why sentence should not be passed upon you according to law?’
The prisoner cleared his throat, but need not have bothered. He was not meant to answer the question, though it was not unreasonable for him to think that he was. Surely, he might well have thought, the question was intended, if not to give him the chance of repeating that he was not guilty, at least of delivering an impassioned plea for mercy? But the fact that he may have had no real chance in life since his birth, that his father may have been hanged and his mother may have been a drug addict, that he may have served with distinction in the war (except during a short period of desertion) and that he was severely tempted to commit the crime of which he has been convicted, is totally irrelevant. It would even be irrelevant for him to claim that it was Brown who committed the crime and that he himself was a hundred miles away at the time, and that would be just as irrelevant even if it were true and the conviction amounted to a miscarriage of justice. There are, in fact, other ways of dealing with a miscarriage of justice but the sole object of the question is to give the prisoner the opportunity of what is called ‘moving in arrest of judgment,’ a technical procedure which is only justified in a tiny minority of cases – not one in ten thousand.
In practice, however, prisoners are allowed to make pleas for mercy or even to reiterate their protestations of innocence. The alternative would be to try to explain to a prisoner what is meant by moving in arrest of judgment, and this might be difficult and would take time. For example, the prisoner, having been asked the question whether he has anything to say etc., would be interrupted by the clerk or the judge as soon as he began his answer, with something like: ‘You can’t say that.’
‘Why not? You asked me, and I’m telling you.’
It is normally quicker to let the prisoner have his say and to ignore what he says.
So the prisoner who had cleared his throat was allowed to speak. But he did not make the usual kind of plea.
‘My Lord,’ he said, ‘I cannot give any reason why sentence should not be passed, but I should like to mention several reasons why it should. Blackmail is, as you, my Lord, so rightly mentioned to the jury – more than once, if I may say so – in your summing up, blackmail is moral murder. I showed no mercy to my victims, so I need expect none from you. I have been practising my iniquitous trade for a number of years and have managed to salt away a tidy sum, none of which has been discovered or will be returned. I propose to live on it after I come out. Whether I then return to my previous calling or not will depend upon several factors – how much I like it in prison, what else I can find to do when I come out, and so forth. But I’m afraid it is early days to consider that matter. Am I sorry for what I have done? Not in the least. I have done very well out of it and the people I robbed were all criminals. Otherwise I should not have been able to rob them. I am, of course, sorry that I have been caught, but at least I have learned one or two lessons in the process, which I shall bear in mind if I decide to continue along the same lines when I come out. I can find no redeeming feature in my case, except perhaps this. That I have said everything your Lordship was going to say, and so saved you the trouble. Perhaps I should add – again to save your Lordship trouble – that you can’t give me more than the maximum which was no doubt provided for people like me.’
Mr Justice Denby was not a brilliant judge, but he could take a hint.
‘You will go to prison for fourteen years,’ he said.
‘As I thought,’ said the prisoner before they led him away. ‘My guess was as good as yours.’
Later that evening Brian Culsworth QC, who had led the prosecution against the man, discussed the case with the judge over the port.
‘I’ve never taken a liking to a blackmailer before,’ said Culsworth, ‘but I must say my heart warmed to this one when he made that little speech.’
‘It was quite as good as I could have done,’ said the judge. ‘He didn’t leave a thing out. But what a scoundrel. Clever, though.’
‘I’m surprised,’ said Culsworth, ‘that a man as able as that should take to blackmail. If he has to indulge in crime, I should have thought that fraud or something of the kind would have been preferable from his point of view. In the first place he’d have more chance of getting off and secondly, if he is caught, the sentence wouldn’t be anything like as great.’
‘But he took it all very calmly,’ said the judge. ‘I confess that, if I knew I was about to get fourteen years, I shouldn’t be so perky about it. He might have been seeing someone off on a train for all the anxiety he displayed. At the best he won’t be out for over nine years. It’s a long time, even if you have a nest-egg waiting for you when you come out.’
‘It’s the easy money, I suppose, which tempted him,’ said Culsworth. ‘D’you remember that burglar who was tried years ago with a lot of others for blackmail? He said in mitigation that he was a burglar by trade, that it was a difficult and not very remunerative job and full of danger, and that when he saw these others making so much more so easily he fell for it.’
‘Yes, I remember the case. The ringleader got imprisonment for life. He was an able chap too. Spoke several languages and could easily have earned an honest living. It’s not exciting enough for some people, I imagine, while others can’t stand regular hours of work.’
‘Well, if I went in for crime I’d certainly never try blackmail,’ said Culsworth. ‘Every man against you, including the judge when it comes to passing sentence.’
‘Come to think of it,’ said the judge, ‘I might have given him fourteen years on each count and made them run consecutively – forty-two years in all. Why didn’t I think of that?’
Brian Culsworth was one of the leading silks who practised to a large extent in crime. The danger of having a criminal practice is not that association with criminals tends to lead barristers into crime themselves, but that so much licence is allowed to those who represent people accused of crime that it is sometimes abused. And, indeed, there has possibly been a tendency for some barristers at the criminal Bar to think that in defending a prisoner no holds are barred. Culsworth himself had the highest reputation and his integrity had never been even remotely questioned. He had developed a large practice and at the time of the prosecution of the blackmailer he was probably at the happiest stage of his career. Except for the amount of work which he had to do, and which necessarily deprived him of seeing as much of his family as he would have liked, everything was well. And even this one disadvantage would probably not last very much longer. There was every chance of his being appointed a High Court judge. He had, of course, had periods of disappointment and unhappiness in his life, but now everything seemed set fair.
No one would have thought at that moment that a dispute between a man called Leslie Baker and a workmate, over a football pool win, was soon to cause Culsworth the greatest concern and to make him believe that his whole career was ruined.
CHAPTER TWO
Mr Baker
Leslie Baker looked moodily into the fire and remained silent for about ten minutes. As he was normally a cheerful and talkative person at home, his wife had spoken to him several times during the silence but without result.
‘What is the matter, Les?’ she said again, ‘You’re giving me the creeps.’
‘Creeps,’ repeated Mr Baker, ‘that’s about the word – creep. Creep, creep, creep,’ he almost shouted.
His wife became anxious, almost frightened.
‘D’you think you ought to see the doctor, dear?’ she said tentatively.
She had never been frightened of her husband before. He was the best of husbands, and his only idiosyncrasy was a curious and obstinate resentment of authority. But he was consistent and did not abuse his own authority at home. Could he have gone out of his mind?
‘Creep,’ repeated her husband. ‘Creep, creep, creep. Where’s Andy?’ he said suddenly.
‘In his bedroom doing his homework, dear.’
‘Andy,’ shouted Mr Baker, but before Mrs Baker could make up her mind whether her husband’s mind had really turned and he was going to slit their throats, Andy came in.
‘Hullo, pa,’ he said. ‘What’s up?’
He, like the rest of the family, had never had reason to be frightened of his father, but although loud angry words were unheard of in the Baker family, shouting was the normal method of communication from room to room. Some children are brought up to talk, others to shout. The Bakers shouted. It was the friendliest possible shouting and, as nearly all their neighbours did the same, the noise was no cause of discord. The few who did not shout accepted the inevitable, like Londoners on an air route, and quickly got used to it. Or went away.
‘Well, pa?’ said Andy encouragingly, while Mrs Baker rather anxiously looked around the room for a weapon of defence in case the worst happened.
‘When you swear at school,’ said Mr Baker, ‘what do they let you say?’
‘Come again, pa,’ said Andy.
‘It’s a good school we’ve sent you to,’ said Mr Baker, ‘and I’m sure they wouldn’t let you say anything that wasn’t fit for your ma to hear. What do they teach you now?’
‘Teach us, pa?’ said Andy a little puzzled, ‘teach us? Oh – lots of things. Physics, chemistry, history …’
‘No, no,’ interrupted Mr Baker, ‘swear words, I mean. What do they teach you?’
‘Teach us swear words!’ said Andy. ‘Come off it, pa.’
It was Mr Baker’s turn to appear surprised.
‘Well, don’t they, son?’ he asked.
‘Course not.’
‘Well, I’ll be …’ but Mr Baker just managed to stop himself. His lips had formed themselves into the necessary position for a ‘b,’ but he was able to control his breath. But even Mrs Baker, who had never in her life heard her husband swear, could not fail to see what had nearly happened. Well, it was better than slitting their throats, but something serious must be the matter.
‘Look, son,’ said Mr Baker, ‘don’t they teach you nothing but learning? Don’t they teach you how to speak and how to behave?’
‘They think you and mum do that, pa.’
‘How can we do it? We ain’t never been educated. If a man wants to swear in front of his wife, what can he say now? Surely they teach you that? We all know what not to say, but there must be something that people like you’re going to be when you grow up can say? What do the masters say when they get wild?’
‘Well, I did once hear one of them say “Take that bloody grin off your face.”’
‘Now look here, Andy,’ said Mr Baker sternly, ‘I’m not having that language in this house.’
‘Sorry, pa, but you asked me.’
‘I didn’t expect you to say that, not in front of your ma. Say you’re sorry now.’
‘Sorry, ma. He left the next term, though.’
‘I should think so,’ said Mr Baker.
‘But what d’you want to know all about it for, pa?’ asked Andy.
‘Don’t worry your pa,’ said Mrs Baker, ‘he’s upset about something.’
‘Upset!’ said Mr Baker. ‘I’m upset all right. The – the – now what can I say? There are times when a man wouldn’t be human if he didn’t want to swear.’
‘Go on, pa, have a go,’ encouraged Andy.
‘Andy, behave yourself,’ said Mrs Baker. ‘You’d better go back to your room.’
‘No, don’t go, Andy. You’ve got to hear it too. The creep. Creep, creep, creep.’
Mrs Baker was now regaining confidence. That something was seriously wrong she realised, but her husband had exhibited no signs of violence.
‘What is it, dear?’ she asked.
‘Chelsea drew away,’ said Mr Baker. ‘Doncaster drew at home.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Mrs Baker, who now thought she realised what the trouble was. Every week her husband went in for the pools. Not to any great extent, but regularly. Every week he lost. Not to any great extent, but regularly. Every now and then he would behave as almost every gambler does – if only I’d put Doncaster to win away, or Chelsea at home – whatever made me do the opposite of what I knew was going to happen, and so on and so forth. If only – if only. Well probably this was the closest he’d ever had to a win – if only he’d done something which he hadn’t done, or not done something he had done. Mrs Baker stopped her thoughts. Her husband, though not a very religious man, would not have any of his family make fun of the Church or its services – which they attended more than most people – and she was sure he wouldn’t approve of thinking of football pools and the General Confession at the same time.
‘How many points did you get?’ she asked sympathetically.
‘I got the lot,’ said Mr Baker without enthusiasm. And then, with sudden fury: ‘I got the blinking lot. Twenty-four points. Twenty-four perishing points.’
Horror, thought Mrs Baker, he forgot to post it. Or did I? If she was the guilty party, she deserved to have her throat slit. Twenty-four points. First prize. It could never happen again.
‘What’s the divi going to be?’ asked Andy. ‘I suppose too many other blokes have got it too.’
‘Well, they won’t have,’ said Mr Baker. ‘Didn’t I tell you Chelsea and Doncaster both drew? That was against the form. It’ll be sixty thousand I shouldn’t wonder. Big money, anyway. The creep. I’d like to …’
‘Then you did post it?’ said Mrs Baker.
‘I did not,’ said Mr Baker, ‘but he did – the perishing oh, for pity’s sake, give me some of those words they don’t teach you at school.’
‘Who posted it, dear, and why won’t you get the money?’
‘Look,’ said Mr Baker, ‘I’ll tell you. There’s a chap at the works called Potter. We used to have one at the boozer on the way home sometimes. And last week we got talking about the pools. He showed me his coupon. And I suddenly had an idea. “Look, Potty,” I said, “what’s the good of following the papers? Lots of people follow them. So, if they’re right, the divi’s nothing.”
‘I looked at his coupon.
‘“Tell you what I mean,” I said, and then I stopped. “Look, old son,” I said, “let’s share this one together. I’ve sent mine in.”
‘“OK” he says. “Now, what’s your plan?”
‘“Well, look,” I say. “All these ’ere papers put Chelsea as a dead cert to lose away and Doncaster as a dead cert to win at home. Put ’em both as draws.”
‘Well, he does that and we fill in the rest of the six much as everyone else. And blow me down, it turns up. The whole blooming lot, twenty-four points. There are only nine draws anyway. So we’re in the money. As soon as I heard, I went straight from work to his home. “Hullo,” he says, not too affable. “Haven’t you seen?” I says. “Seen what?” he says. “The results.” “Results of what?” he says, all cool like. My tummy feels like when they declared war last time, or was it the war before? Anyway, I could feel what was coming, but of course I didn’t let on. “The pools, Potty,” I says, “the pools.” “Now it’s odd you should mention the pools,” he says, “because I’ve just had a bit of luck.” “You’ve just had a bit of luck. We’ve just had a bit of luck you mean.” “Why, have you won too?” he says. “What a coincidence. Congratulations. Sure you posted the letter? I once knew a chap who didn’t. It was dreadful.” “See here, Potty,” I says, “it’s you who posted the letter.” “If it’s me you’re worrying about,” he says, “you needn’t. I posted it all right.” “Well then,” I says, “we’ve won.” “How come?” he says, all cool still. I could ’ave smashed his perishing face. “You win on your coupon, I win on mine. But I didn’t post yours, old cock. You did that yourself, – or didn’t.” Well, you can see what’s happened. The … the … perisher says we didn’t agree to go in together and is going to stick to the lot.’
‘The –,’ and Andy nearly said a word which was definitely not allowed at his school.
‘But surely,’ said Mrs Baker, ‘you can make him share?’
‘How?’ asked Mr Baker. ‘That’s what I’d like to know. How? You wouldn’t have me bash it out of him, would you? I’d end up in jail, or hospital, or both.’
‘But it’s criminal.’
‘You’re telling me.’
‘Well, you can have the law on him, can’t you?’
‘That’s just what I can’t do, see. There’s only his word against mine and anyway the law don’t have nothing to do with betting and such like. It’s what they call a matter of honour. Honour, I ask you. I’d like to push his honour down his throat, with his false teeth.’
‘Well, it’s a bleeding shame,’ said Andy, ‘and I don’t see why you should stand for it.’
For once his father’s reproof only took the form of a slight amendment.
‘It is a perishing shame,’ he corrected.
Ten minutes later Andy made an excuse for going out and went to the police station. Half an hour later he arrived back home in a state of great excitement.
‘It’s all right,’ he said, as soon as his parents asked him what he’d been doing. ‘You can make him pay. I went down and saw the sergeant, and he telephoned a solicitor. This chap had had just the same type of case and won it. He says it’s quite definite. If two blokes go into a pool together and one of them pockets the money the other one can definitely go to Court about it.’
‘Well, there you are,’ said Mrs Baker happily. ‘Didn’t I say something could be done?’
‘I don’t much like the law,’ said Mr Baker, ‘and anyway it’s still only my word against his.’
‘But they must believe you, Les,’ said Mrs Baker. ‘You never tell a lie.’
‘I don’t like judges and suchlike,’ said Mr Baker.
‘You like Mr Potter less,’ said Andy.
‘All right, I’ll go and see this solicitor chap anyway. What’s his name?’
‘I didn’t catch. But the sergeant’ll tell you.’
‘Well, good for you, Andy,’ said Mr Baker. ‘I can’t say I’m all that hopeful but it’s nice to think there may be something we can do. They may not teach you proper swearing at school, but they keep your head on straight all right. Good boy.’
In consequence of Mr Baker’s visit to the police station, Potter soon received a letter from a firm of solicitors acting for Mr Baker. Potter accordingly went to another firm of solicitors, the usual battle of letters took place and a writ was issued. The dividend which the winning coupon had won was £30,000 and Mr Baker accordingly claimed that he was entitled to £15,000. As Potter was in any event entitled to £15,000, it would have been very sensible of him to offer to split the other £15,000 with Mr Baker. This would have given Mr Baker £7,500, which is quite a tidy sum, and left Potter with £22,500, which is even tidier. The worry and expense of litigation would have been altogether avoided and, as far as Mr Baker was concerned, he would have been very well advised to have accepted such an offer for, while it was £15,000 or £30,000 to Potter, it was £15,000 or nothing for Mr Baker. However, Potter had at least one of the seven deadly sins and the fact that he had £15,000 in any event only strengthened his resolve to resist Mr Baker’s claim. Mr Baker, on the other hand, was pretty well fighting for his life as he was as likely or unlikely to win the treble chance pool again as he was of being murdered.
CHAPTER THREE
Consultation
About three months after the dispute arose, Mr Baker’s solicitors instructed Culsworth to lead for the Plaintiff, and Mr Baker accordingly had his first consultation with a QC. It was indeed his first visit to the Temple, and he was not particularly impressed with Culsworth’s chambers. The main sources of his knowledge of legal procedure were American films and he had expected the luxurious offices which fashionable lawyers usually have, decorated with secretaries and pictures and other expensive furniture. But chambers in the Temple are even today seldom like that. It is true that, when first occupied, Culsworth’s chambers had broken with tradition. They had been clean. Moreover they lacked places where dirt could most easily collect. However, after ten years of occupation by Culsworth and the barristers who had gathered round him, and the clerk who had suckled him from the date of his birth into the law, a good deal had been done, if not to put matters right, at any rate to show that the new generation did not wholly despise the habits of its predecessors. By the time Mr Baker called, a good deal of dirt had managed to find a home and the rooms in their untidiness looked more like the chambers of barristers in busy practice than the cold-looking, clean, business-like offices they had resembled when first built. Hitler could break the stones of the Temple but not its spirit.
The two most important people in the chambers were Culsworth and Mr Digby, the clerk. In the pleasantest possible manner they laid down how the chambers should be run, and anyone who disagreed with the rules they prescribed was free to leave on giving three months’ notice. This freedom was more theoretical than practical as it was obvious to anyone that the prosperity available with Messrs Culsworth and Digby compared very favourably with that offered by most other sets of chambers. It is difficult to get on at the Bar but, once a person who has the ability to succeed is established in prosperous chambers, he has only minor matters to worry about; such as seeing his wife and children, getting enough sleep and indulging in any of those hobbies in which men in almost every walk of life (except that of the successful barrister) are able to indulge. There was no doubt about it, No. 3 Coleridge Court, oozed prosperity.
Culsworth himself had the usual farm and small house in the country and a flat in London, two cars, two daughters and a wife. Since taking silk he had had more time to spend with his wife and was delighted to find that she was still the kind, attractive woman whom he had married years before and almost forgotten. It presumably shows what outstanding people most successful barristers must be that they do not lose their wives to rich, handsome and idle strangers. But perhaps there are not enough of these to go round, or they get caught hovering round the film studios.
Mr Baker was not interested in Culsworth’s private life, only in his professional skill, and he was pleased to find, as soon as the consultation began, that he seemed to know all about his case. He had been told that some lawyers were so busy that, when you called to discuss with them the case of a burst boiler, they treated you for the first half hour as though you were co-respondent in a divorce case, with a very ropy defence indeed.
‘So you were in your pyjamas, were you?’ they ask you in a hostile manner. ‘How are you going to explain that to the judge?’
And it is only after you have explained that you were aroused from sleep by the sound of water pouring through the ceiling that they change their tone and apologise for confusing your case with that of Mr Anstruther. Up till then they have treated you rather like a criminal and refused to let you say a word.
I
But the consultation with Culsworth was not on these lines at all. He had read the papers, he did not confuse them with any others and he only asked Mr Baker questions directly concerning the matter. Before he left, Mr Baker asked Culsworth what were his chances of winning.
‘Well, as you realise, it’s word against word, so that pretty well everything will depend upon how each of you gives his evidence. It’s a pity you didn’t go to see him with a friend before you went to a solicitor. He might have said something which helped, even though he denied his liability. However, we must do the best we can with what we’ve got. You’ve at least a fifty-fifty chance. To some extent it depends upon the judge. There are some judges who think a man wouldn’t bring a case unless he knew he was in the right. There are others who think a man wouldn’t defend a case unless he knew he was in the right.’
‘Well, choose the right one,’ said Mr Baker.
‘I’m afraid we can’t choose our judges,’ said Culsworth. ‘If we could,’ he added later on to his junior after Mr Baker had left, ‘there are one or two who wouldn’t have any cases to try at all.’
