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Copyright & Information

The Wanted Man

 

First published in 1972

© Estate Henry Cecil; House of Stratus 1972-2011

 

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
1842320688   9781842320686   Print
075512927X   9780755129270   Kindle
0755129520   9780755129522   Epub
0755150694   9780755150694   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.

 

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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.   The Newcomer

2.   Beginning of a Sentence

3.   Dinner Party

4.   The Views of Mary Buckland

5.   Cornered?

6.   Mr Partridge on Crime

7.   Suspicion

8.   A Visit to Court

9.   A Chat in the Shop

10. The Informer

11. Mrs Partridge

12. Fingerprints?

13. The Sticky Mallet

14. The Deputation

Author’s Note

This novel is based upon a short story and a radio play of the same name which I wrote a few years ago.

CHAPTER ONE

The Newcomer

‘Your wife is a mocker,’ said the vicar, the Reverend Harvey Bagshot, to the commander, ‘and whosoever is deceived thereby is not wise.’

‘I thought that was wine,’ said the judge.

‘Wives too, sometimes,’ said the vicar.

‘Well, it was a jolly good game anyway,’ said the judge. ‘I had all the luck.’

Commander George Blinkhorn RN, Retd, and His Honour Judge Herbert Ward were good friends. They were also the best of opponents and the worst of partners. At croquet, that is. What they would have been like together in real war will never be known. The judge had been in the Army and they had never taken part in the same combined operation. But if their behaviour at croquet is any guide, the proverbial order, counterorder and disorder might well have prevailed. As opponents each of them always played hard to win, regularly gibed at the other between the turns, cheered his good shots and commiserated with his mistakes. The judge did not mind whether the ten bob (you couldn’t bet someone fifty new pence) which they wagered on every game was won or lost. The commander did mind but it was pride, not meanness. The honesty of their play would have been a lesson to politicians and a few lawyers.

But when they partnered one another it was a very different story. Before the game began this sort of dialogue would take place.

‘Look, George,’ the judge would say, ‘let’s make a pact. I’ll take your advice the first time if you’ll take my advice the next.’ This was always agreed, but who was to decide which was the ‘next’ time? Under the rules of croquet after the first four turns each side may play whichever of its balls it chooses. Naturally the ball in the better position is chosen. But which is in the better position? And who is to decide that matter? Theoretically one partner could play the ball a dozen or more times in succession. Very hard on the other if he didn’t agree with the strategy.

‘Give me patience,’ the commander would begin.

‘You’re not on your beastly quarterdeck now,’ the judge would say.

‘You’re not in your beastly police court.’

‘Trouble between friends?’ the vicar would enquire.

‘You’ve never partnered Bertie,’ the commander would say.

‘I’m never allowed to. I’m too good,’ the vicar would reply with unchristian immodesty.

On this occasion until shortly before the arrival of the vicar the commander’s wife, Elizabeth, had been happily engaged in her favourite corner of the garden where there were always weeds to be dug up and rearrangements to be made. But she listened for the croquet balls to stop clicking, which would be the sign for her to go and make the tea. The clicking stopped just before the vicar arrived and so Elizabeth left her weeds and rearrangements, went to the kitchen, made the tea and came out with it.

The commander and the judge had returned from the croquet lawn just as the vicar came in. After they had greeted one another Elizabeth asked who’d won. She always asked this even if she could see by his face that her husband had lost. It was a choice of evils. If she didn’t ask, she might be accused of lack of interest and that would be worse.

‘Bertie won,’ said the commander.

‘I expect it was very close,’ said his wife.

‘By twenty points.’

‘I don’t suppose it reflected the run of the play,’ said Elizabeth. ‘It must have been pretty close really.’

It was then that the vicar made his adaptation from the Book of Proverbs.

‘By the way,’ said the commander, ‘did you know that they’ve sold next door at last?’

‘I bet they had to come down in price,’ said the judge. ‘What was it they were asking for it? Twenty thousand, wasn’t it? And with only one bathroom.’

‘D’you know who’s bought it?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘As a matter of fact,’ said a strange voice, ‘I have.’

They all looked at the stranger who had come into the garden unnoticed.

‘Do forgive me barging in like this. My name is Partridge, Donald Partridge. And I’d be terribly grateful if you’d tell me where the nearest police station is. The telephone isn’t on yet in my house.’

‘You haven’t had a burglary already, have you?’

‘Rather worse,’ said Mr Partridge. ‘Somebody has just shot at me.’

‘No! D’you know who?’

‘No. That’s what’s so odd. I was in the orchard when suddenly there was a shot. I looked round but couldn’t see anyone. Five minutes later there was another. It must have been very close because I could smell it.’

The judge laughed. ‘I think we can save you a visit to the local police. It was me.’

‘What are you talking about, Bertie?’ said Elizabeth. ‘You’ve been here all the time.’

Qui facit per aliud facit per se,’ said the judge.

‘He means,’ said the vicar, ‘that someone else did it on his behalf.’

‘I said aliud, Harvey. Not alium,’ said the judge. Something else did it for me. I saw that the birds were playing merry hell with the trees. The last owner used to give us some of his fruit, so just in case the new owner was likely to be as generous I put up a few bird scarers. Sorry they’ve given you a fright. I didn’t know you’d come in yet.’

‘Well, I’m not quite in yet. It’ll be another few days. But thank you very much for looking after the orchard. Please help yourself to the fruit whenever you like. There’s far more than we shall be able to eat.’

‘The last people used to market it.’

‘Oh, I couldn’t be bothered,’ said Mr Partridge. ‘But I mustn’t interrupt you. I shouldn’t have come in if I hadn’t thought someone was trying to kill me.’

‘Do stay and have some tea,’ said Elizabeth.

‘I’d be imposing.’

‘Certainly not. I insist. Don’t we, George?’

‘It’s very, very kind,’ said Mr Partridge. ‘I’ll accept gladly. I suppose this is or was on the Winchcombe estate.’

‘Yes,’ said the commander, ‘the whole of Little Bacon at one time belonged to it.’

Little Bacon, the village near which the commander and the judge and now Mr Partridge lived was an ideal retreat. Mrs Winchcombe, who still owned much of the land in the neighbourhood, which she had inherited from her first husband, kept a pedigree dairy herd, several horses and dogs and a husband. Henry Winchcombe, like the horses and dogs had been well trained. His wife never actually said to him, as she said to the dogs, ‘Sit’, but a look in her eyes or a motion of her head usually indicated to him what he was to do next. And he did it. Nobody could have called him henpecked because the pecks left no wounds. He enjoyed being kept by his wife, body and soul. He was a retired schoolmaster with a very small pension but he was not a schoolmaster who wanted to teach anybody except the boys and girls in his school. He was forty when he married for the first time. Mrs Winchcombe, on the other hand, had been married twice before. She had been fond of each of her husbands but her fondness in no way prevented her from acquiring another.

Her cousin by marriage, Henry Winchcombe, was the obvious choice for the third occasion. He had invited her to marry him twice before, but each time she had preferred someone else. The third time, she decided to give Henry a chance and he took it gratefully.

Husbands were as necessary to Mrs Winchcombe as dogs and horses. She was kind to them all but they had to do what they were told and on the whole the husbands were only supposed to speak when they were spoken to. Mrs Winchcombe hated desultory conversation. Conversely, she always encouraged people to talk on subjects in which they were really well versed. The one subject upon which Henry Winchcombe was allowed to speak was wine. The fact that his knowledge of burgundies and clarets was unrivalled in the neighbourhood of Little Bacon did not mean very much because there were no real connoisseurs in that area. But Henry could have held his own on those two particular subjects with most of the journalists who write about wine. Fortunately for him his wife’s means enabled him to keep an exceptionally good cellar and even those who knew very little about the subject very much enjoyed the dinners at Broadway House where the Winchcombes lived.

Mrs Winchcombe was in command of these dinners as she was in command of her whole household. She liked the talk of experts and for the most part would not allow any other conversation at the table. The commander was therefore only allowed to talk about the navy, the judge about the law and the vicar about the church and so on. Every now and then, however, Mrs Winchcombe discovered that one of her neighbours was an expert on something else. For example, the judge knew a good deal about monumental brasses, while the vicar had a profound knowledge of music. It was in this way that Mrs Winchcombe added to her store of knowledge which otherwise would have been limited to that of husbandry in all senses of the word.

The nearest town to Little Bacon was Brinton, ten miles away. Few motorists invaded Little Bacon or the neighbourhood, as there was no public house and not even a church. The church was two miles away at Mildon. In consequence anyone whose pleasures were listening to music, reading, seeing his friends or looking at the countryside could live in Little Bacon very happily for the rest of his life. It was an ideal place for such a person to retire to, as it was for anyone tired of too much noise, too many people and too much happening.

Almost all the houses near Little Bacon had at one time or another been bought from the Winchcombe Estate. Mrs Winchcombe’s estate manager was very popular in the neighbourhood, mainly because he was so helpful to everyone. With Mrs Winchcombe’s full consent he was somewhat prodigal with her assets. Mrs Winchcombe was tidy minded and she liked the country around her to be tidy. Accordingly when a new gate or a new fence or even a new wall would make the place look better, if the Winchcombe Estate did not actually provide it, it went a long way towards doing so. In consequence there was no better kept part of the country in England.

The last occupier of the house which Mr Partridge had bought had been a solicitor whose wife could never settle, and after ten years of changing the drawing room into a studio and the studio back again into a drawing room, of laying down a tennis court and a croquet lawn and then changing them into a large swimming pool – and back, the Chessingtons left to do the same again in some other part of the country. Fortunately for Mr Partridge he arrived just after they had done away with the swimming pool and reinstated the tennis and croquet lawns. Mr Partridge hated water and couldn’t swim. On the other hand he enjoyed playing tennis badly and he was prepared to do the same at croquet.

CHAPTER TWO

Beginning of a Sentence

Just about six months before Mr Partridge joined the community at Little Bacon, Mr Justice Boynes was considering what sentences to pass on men who had been guilty of a huge conspiracy to rob a bank. Possibly the word ‘huge’ is inappropriate because the amounts now stolen from railway trains and banks and others are so astronomic (in a recent bank raid it was suggested that about five million pounds in money or goods were stolen) that anything under a million pounds might be considered as comparatively trivial. In estimating the net gain to the robbers it must also be remembered that the expense of these operations is considerable. Experts of different kinds have to be employed and a large number of people usually take part in the operation. They must, of course, be suitably rewarded. In most cases the object of those taking part is to gain sufficient from the one enterprise to enable themselves to live happily ever after without recourse to crime or, worse still, work.

Criminals for the most part do not expect to be caught. They are incurable optimists. Even men with eight previous convictions, when they start on their evening’s work, do not expect that there will be a ninth. On the other hand, most of those engaged on really big robberies calculate that, even if they are caught, the operation will be worthwhile. At the moment criminals seldom stay in prison for more than ten or twelve years at the most, and a man of thirty who has been in prison before will reconcile himself to, say, twelve years’ imprisonment if he knows that when he comes out he will only have to go to a certain safe deposit to find a hundred thousand used pound notes waiting for him. An Act has been passed by Parliament providing that these men shall be made bankrupt and liable to hand over their ill-gotten gains. They are liable to hand over their ill-gotten gains, whether they are made bankrupt or not. But the trouble is that gains, though ill gotten, can be well hid and the probability is that in most cases where the robbery is a large one the effect of bankruptcy on the offender will merely be to add a slight stigma to a reputation which a sentence of twelve years’ imprisonment will have somewhat tarnished.

If there are twenty people involved in the criminal enterprise and the amount expected to be obtained is about a million pounds, this will mean only fifty thousand pounds each or rather less after the expenses of the enterprise have been deducted. Such a sum may be sufficient to support a man whose life is not centred on a variety of women, cars and horses. But probably many of them consider that years of imprisonment must be compensated for by a continuous round of wild gaiety. It is easy enough to dispose of the bulk of fifty thousand pounds in this way. Accordingly, one can conceive a man, when offered a part in such an enterprise, turning it down on the ground that fifty thousand pounds is not enough. Many criminals today are probably highly sophisticated. And one could imagine Mr X working it out thoughtfully and logically. £20,000, say, to be used for riotous living to make up for the years of imprisonment and the balance to be used for a comfortable work free life thereafter. £30,000 would not be enough for this purpose. So the minimum is a hundred thousand pounds.

There is one way to give real discouragement to such people, namely the imposition of sentences of imprisonment for the rest of their lives, unless and until it is certified by some suitable body that it is safe to release them. Although many of these men do not want to use unnecessary violence the amount at stake is so large and the idea of being caught with the booty on him is so intolerable that it is difficult to think that the average robber would not use violence to evade arrest. If it became known that violent robbers would never be released except when certified safe it might do a little to discourage such enterprises. But, of course, the best discouragement is to have a police force of double the size of the present force.

In the case before Mr Justice Boynes twelve men were involved and the amount stolen was two and a half million pounds. None of it had been recovered, not even the ten per cent which the Great Train robbers left behind. This was a matter which naturally troubled the judge a good deal. He had considered the various matters just referred to and he tried to work out the best course for him to take in the interests of the public. He felt that it was his duty to do what he could to assist in the recovery of the money but he had little confidence that he would be successful. It was fairly well established that the ringleader was a man called John Gladstone. According to the police Gladstone was a man with no previous convictions, though Chief Superintendent Beales, the officer in charge of the case, gently suggested that he was suspected of being the brain behind several previous crimes.

‘He is an educated man,’ said the superintendent, ‘and he tells me that he was originally intended to go in for the law, but I have been unable to confirm this. He is aged 48, he says that he is married but that his wife left him some years ago and he does not know her whereabouts. He lives in a comfortably furnished flat for which he pays a rent of £1,250 per annum. I have been quite unable to discover any honest way in which he has been able to pay his rent. He has not given me particulars of any employment or work which he has undertaken in the past years. The rent is not in arrear. He, like all the others, refused to give me any particulars which will enable me to trace the money stolen or any part of it.’

‘Do you wish to cross-examine, Mr Jenkins?’ asked the judge of defending counsel.

‘If your lordship pleases. Superintendent, you are suggesting that my client has been living on the proceeds of crime?’

‘I am.’

‘Have you any evidence of this?’

‘Only that he lives in a comparatively, expensive way, as far as I can see he has no debts and –’

‘Except to the bank,’ interrupted the judge.

‘Quite so, my lord,’ said the superintendent. ‘I should have said that he has no other debts, my lord, but, as he is not prepared to tell me how he is able to pay his way –’

‘You assume the worst,’ put in Mr Jenkins.

‘If you like to put it that way,’ said the superintendent.

‘Has it occurred to you,’ asked Mr Jenkins, ‘that he might be kept by a woman and doesn’t like to say so?’

‘Are those your instructions, Mr Jenkins?’ asked the judge.

‘No, my lord, I was merely suggesting to the superintendent an alternative way in which the accused might have been living.’

‘Why not suggest the way in which he is in fact living, Mr Jenkins?’ said the judge. ‘Your client knows and is quite capable of instructing you in the matter.’

‘If your lordship pleases,’ said Mr Jenkins.

‘If it’s any help to you,’ said the judge, ‘I am going to treat your client as a man who has not previously broken the criminal law. He has no previous convictions against him and he is therefore entitled to be so treated.’

‘Then,’ said counsel. ‘I won’t ask the superintendent any further questions.’

‘Well, Mr Jenkins,’ asked the judge. ‘What do you want me to say on behalf of Mr Gladstone in mitigation? He has pleaded guilty to a very grave theft and there appears to be little doubt that he is the ringleader.’

‘In spite of that, my lord,’ said counsel, ‘I have a great deal to say on his behalf. I hope your lordship will hear me with patience.’

‘I hope I always listen to counsel with patience.’

‘I know your lordship does.’

‘Then I can’t quite see why you mentioned the subject.’

‘I apologise, my lord,’ said counsel. ‘It was foolish of me. Now, my lord, the first thing I want to say on behalf of my client is this. I can’t dispute that he has pleaded guilty to a very serious crime, but I do ask your lordship to bear in mind that instead of putting the prosecution to the vast expense of proving his guilt in this court and instead of going into the witness box and committing perjury and instead of conspiring with the other men in the dock to try to bamboozle the jury and to mislead my solicitors and me, all the accused, including my client, have pleaded guilty to all the charges.’

‘That is certainly in their favour,’ said the judge, ‘but what has happened to the money?’

‘I’ll come to that in a moment, my lord.’

‘I wish you’d come to it now.’

‘I’d prefer,’ said counsel, ‘to present my case in my own way, my lord.’

‘Well, of course I shall let you,’ said the judge. ‘But two and a half million pounds has been stolen. You ask me to give credit to this defendant for pleading guilty and I shall, but there isn’t very much in that point, is there, if in fact the evidence of the prosecution was so overwhelming that the chances of their being acquitted were negligible. There is even less in it if, although they admit having had the money, they refuse to hand back what is left of it. I don’t believe they have disposed of all that money in three weeks.’

‘May I come to that in a moment, my lord?’

‘Of course. But the longer you postpone your submission on this vital matter the more you will confirm my suspicion that none of the money will be forthcoming. Now let me make this plain. You cannot buy your way out of crime. Nevertheless, if a man who has stolen a very large sum of money hands back a substantial portion of it voluntarily, it is obviously a matter to be taken very seriously in his favour when it comes to sentence. No doubt you’ve all told this to your clients.’

‘We have, my lord.’

‘Of course,’ went on the judge, ‘if their idea is that it’s worth while receiving a very long sentence if a very large sum of money will be awaiting them on their release, I can only warn them now while there is still time that the sentence is likely to be of such duration that certainly the older members of the gang may not be in a condition to enjoy the sort of life which the possession of a very large sum of money would enable them to enjoy today.’

‘I quite see that, my lord,’ said counsel.

‘But do your clients?’ asked the judge.

‘My lord,’ said counsel, ‘I am fully instructed on that matter. Now if I may be allowed to return to my speech in mitigation. The second matter to which I wish to call your lordship’s attention is that in this case there was no violence of any sort or kind.’

‘There was no need for violence,’ put in the judge. ‘But do you say that if your client and his colleagues had been interrupted there would have been no violence?’

‘They were not armed, my lord.’

‘Only with spanners and similar instruments,’ said the judge. ‘Are you suggesting that such instruments would not have been used if they’d been interrupted? There was a vast sum of money at stake and your clients had spent a large sum of money in making preparations for their operation. It is difficult to believe that they would not have resisted if they’d been found out.’

‘There is no evidence whatever that they would have done,’ said counsel, ‘and I hope your lordship is not going to sentence my client on the basis that this was robbery with violence. My client and his confederates went out of their way to ensure that, as far as possible, they were not disturbed during the robbery.’