As Berry and I Were Saying (5 page)

That’s rare,” said Berry. “Who was it?”

“It involves a story,” said I.

Berry got to his feet and filled my glass.

As he replenished his own–

“Is that very touching gesture understood?”

“Yes,” said I, “and here’s your very good health.”

“Here’s yours,” said Berry. “And now we must have some more.”

“You’ll both have gout,” said Daphne.

“What the hell?” said her husband. “ Carry on.”

“I was staying with the —s, near Ipswich, when I was sixteen. I was one of four boys in the house, and the weather was simply vile. After three days, Lady — was beside herself and I fancy she told Sir George that if he didn’t get us out, she’d go herself. And then he had a brain-wave. The Assizes at Ipswich were on, and he drove us in and put us in the Magistrates’ box. I think we all enjoyed it – I know I did. For the case was the Peasenhall murder, a
cause célèbre
of its day. A village girl had been murdered – Rose Harsent, by name, and the village blacksmith stood accused of the crime. A young man, called Ernest Wild, was counsel for the defence. Child as I was, I could see how well he did it. Henry Fielding Dickens led for the Crown. And the Judge was old ‘Long Lawrance’, as he was always called. Wild made his name in that case, and he never looked back. Years after, I was his junior: and I told him that I had been there. ‘Rot,’ says he. ‘You weren’t born.’ ‘I was: I remember you well.’ ‘What was the blacksmith like?’ ‘He was a great, big fellow, with a clipped black beard. And he never stopped stroking his beard the whole day long.’ ‘Good enough,’ says Wild. ‘You were there. But you shouldn’t have been. D’you know that fellow always remembers my birthday?’ ‘So he damned well ought to,’ said I. Wild laughed. ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ he said. ‘But where are the nine?’ Not long after that, Wild became Recorder of London: and his old opponent, Henry Dickens, was made Common Serjeant. So the young took precedence of the old.”

“Was Wild a good Judge?”

“Not outstanding. He didn’t live very long.”

“And ‘Long Lawrance’?”

“He was very sound and very popular. Towards the end, he began to grow very deaf: but he learned the lip language and hardly missed a thing. He was a great character. Being deaf, he was unable to hear his own voice, and he used to say things which he meant for his Marshal’s ear, which were clearly heard by everyone else in court. He was not the best of lawyers, as he well knew. One day at Lewes, Marshall Hall was before him and was pressing a point of law. Now Marshall was a great advocate, but he was a worse lawyer than ‘Long Lawrance’ was: so we were all enjoying ourselves. Upon this particular point, the Judge was against Marshall Hall and told him so. But Marshall Hall persisted. At last ‘Long Lawrance’ got cross. ‘Mr Marshall Hall,’ he said, ‘don’t waste the time of the Court. I have told you that
I am against you
.’ And then he added in what, I suppose, he intended to be an undertone, ‘I may be a — fool, but I’m against you.’ There was, naturally, a roar of laughter, and Marshall Hall collapsed.”

“That’s of value,” said Berry. “A touch of nature, you know. Hadn’t Marshall Hall the unfortunate reputation of getting across the Judge?”

“Yes, he had. More than once I was his junior, and he was always very kind to me. But I’m sure he’ll forgive me for saying that that reputation was not altogether undeserved. But he was a very fine advocate and he had a big success. He was tall and broad and a very handsome man: and he had the most splendid presence of anyone at the Bar.”

“Who was the best of them all?”

“Rufus Isaacs. Danckwerts was the finest lawyer of Bench or Bar. But Rufus Isaacs was the most brilliant advocate. He towered above his fellows. He had a great charm of manner – an irresistible charm. Juries could not withstand it. Then, again, he had an incredible memory. I never remember his referring to a note.

“The first time I ever saw him, I was still at school. Coles Willing took me to see a Trial at Bar. That is a very rare thing. It is the hearing of a criminal case in the Royal Courts of Justice, which are of course Civil Courts.”

“Why and when?” said Berry.

“When there is reason to think that, by such a transfer, justice will be better served. In this particular case, The King against Whitaker Wright—”

“This
is
history,” said Berry. “Whitaker Wright.”

“Well, he was up for fraud. He’d been very active in the City, and his advisers felt that it would be impossible to empanel a jury at the Old Bailey which was not prejudiced. But in the Law Courts they could have ‘a special jury’ to try the case. And the Crown agreed.

“For more than one reason, it was, as you clearly remember, a memorable case. In the first place, Whitaker Wright was a very big noise and he lived for several years in a very big way and, when he fell, he fell with a very big crash. In the second place, throughout the case, the Judge displayed a very definite bias against the accused. 1 always found this strange, for Bigham was a very good Judge – he later became Lord Mersey and President of the Probate, Divorce and Admiralty Division. In the third place, Rufus Isaacs, as Attorney General, led for the Crown. Fourthly, within ten minutes of having been found guilty and sentenced to penal servitude, Whitaker Wright died by his own hand. Poison. Fifthly, after his death they found upon him a fully loaded revolver, with which he might very well have shot Bigham dead.

“I’ll deal with those points in a minute. And now let’s go back. Coles Willing took me into a court which was crammed. Isaacs was on his feet, summing up for the Crown. He impressed me immediately. He had a charming manner and a delightful voice. I could see him well and, though he was dealing with figures and date after date, he never once glanced at a note. (They used to say of him that, such was his power of concentration, he could ask a question in cross-examination with the answer he had in view six questions ahead. He was certainly very much feared, and many a case was settled, when the other side learned that Isaacs had been retained.) I don’t know how long we’d been there, when I saw the Judge raise his eyes to look at the clock. Isaacs saw him, too, and immediately stopped. ‘Your lordship is thinking of adjourning?’ ‘I think so, Mr Attorney. I think you’ll be some time yet.’ ‘I’m afraid I shall, my lord.’ ‘Very well. Until two o’clock.’ Then the Judge left the Bench, and Whitaker Wright stood up.

“I hadn’t seen him till then, for he was in the well of the court. And he turned to look at the clock, so I saw him well. His face was the colour of cigar-ash, and the sneer lines, as they are called, looked as if they had been drawn by a finger dipped in blue chalk. Any one must have been sorry for such a man. About twenty-four hours later, the jury found him guilty and the Judge sent him down.

“Now, had he been at the Old Bailey, he would have been in the charge of warders, and warders know their stuff. But they don’t have warders at the Law Courts: so the tipstaves looked after him, and looking after prisoners was not in their line. Consequently, each morning, when he surrendered to his bail, he was never searched. Warders might not have found the poison, but they would have found the revolver. Consequently, again, when, after his sentence, he desired to visit the lavatory, a tipstaff took him there –
and waited outside
. So Whitaker Wright took his poison without any fuss. Now the Judge may have been in no danger. Whitaker Wright may have thought of shooting himself. The fact remains that, because there was no dock, he sat where suitors sit – in the well of the court. There was no tipstaff with him, and the Judge was twelve feet away. And he must have deeply resented the bias which Bigham showed. However, he didn’t do it, though a good many people thought it was in his mind.”

“Otherwise, Bigham was a good Judge?”

“A first-rate Judge. Strangely enough, on one other famous occasion, he put a foot wrong. That was at the Old Bailey…

“A shocking case of child-cruelty came to be tried. What was more shocking still was that the woman indicted was gently born and bore an honourable name. The hearings in the police court had been very naturally splashed, and feeling all over England was running very high. I may be wrong, but I think the case was transferred to the Old Bailey, because it was felt that in her own County the prisoner could not have had a fair trial.

“Well, she went down: but, instead of sending her to jail, Bigham imposed a fine of fifty pounds. On the face of it, such a sentence was absurd, for it was a very bad case. What may have been in his mind was that the publicity the case had received had finished the accused, that her honourable name was now mud and that she could never again show her face in any company that knew who she was. Be that as it may, the indignation of the public knew no bounds, and the old
cliché
of there being one law for the rich and another for the poor was on every poor person’s lips. For that reason alone, such a sentence was mischievous. She was tried, I think, in December, and the Drury Lane Pantomime opened on Boxing Day. In this there was a good song which a clever girl sang very well. ‘I don’t want to be a lady.’ The last lines of every verse landed a different punch, and the last of all ran:

‘And if justice can be downed

‘At the price of fifty pound,

‘Well, I wouldn’t be that lady if I could.’”

“That was pretty hot,” said Berry.

“I heard it,” said I. “And the roars of applause with which it was received had to be heard to be believed. But, except for those two lapses, Bigham made an excellent Judge.”

“Did they often transfer cases?”

“No. I remember a case that was postponed – for a very unusual reason.”

“Proceed.”

“Well, I was in the case, so I know what I know. Even now I can’t say much, for it was one of those cases which are heard
in camera
. But I can tell you this – that it was the most astounding case that ever was heard. And that was Charles Gill’s opinion: and he was a pretty good judge. Tolstoy never conceived a drama so savage and so sensational. The accused was a millionaire – an American millionaire. He had a fine place in England – and was arrested at his own lodge-gates. Bodkin, a splendid lawyer, appeared for the Crown. Gill and Wild, both QCs, and the head of my chambers, as their junior, were instructed for the defence. The case entailed many hearings before the Justices; and, since the head of my chambers had a great deal of work, I used to take his place. Gill lived in St James’s Street, and every day he picked me up at the Club and took me down in his car. It was a long drive, and that was how I came to know him so well.

“It’s strange, looking back. Gill and Wild and I used always to lunch at
The Crown
, a fine old house, where we have all lunched together time and again.”

“
The Crown?
” said Jill.

“Don’t knit your brows, my sweet. I’ve changed its name. I must do that sometimes, if I am to tell these tales.

“After lunch, Gill and I used to walk up and down the sleepy old High Street, while Wild, I rather think, dozed. Gill wouldn’t let him touch the case – he did everything himself. Gill used to tell me the line which he was going to take that afternoon: and I used to make suggestions, which he heard with attention and invariably turned down. One day, during our walk, he asked a favour of me.

“‘You know,’ he said, ‘that they’re sitting again tomorrow?’

“‘Yes.’

“‘And that tomorrow will be a very critical day?’

“I nodded.

“So it would be. The defendant was going into the box.

“‘Well,’ said Gill. ‘I want you to do something for me – something to help. The man is in a highly excited state. He is violently resentful. Instead of coming back to London with me, I want you to travel with him and to calm him down.’

“I stood still and closed my eyes.

“‘Almost everything else,’ I said. ‘I’d do a great deal for you. But I do not want to sit by the side of that man.’

“‘I ask this of you,’ said Gill. ‘I want you to ride with him and to let him let go to you. If he lets go to you, he won’t let go in the box. For he is now in that state in which he must let off steam. Encourage him to do it – to you. If he goes it in court tomorrow – well, there’s an end of the case. He won’t do it to me or to Wild. But he will to you.’

“‘All right,’ I said. ‘For your sake. But I simply loathe the idea.’

“‘I know you do,’ said Gill. He put his arm through mine. ‘And I’m greatly obliged. But it’s really of great importance. Just let him talk. And – and – well, deal with him as you think fit. I’ll ask him to give you a lift. I’ll say you want to get back, but that I’m going to stop on the way.’

“I doubt if the defendant enjoyed the drive any more than I did. But I’ll say he let himself go… Gill was perfectly right. The man had to let off steam. Next day he did very well in the witness-box.

“At the end of each hearing, Bodkin and I used to stay to hear the depositions which had been taken that day read through to the respective witnesses. These, I used to check with my note, and Bodkin with his recollection. Sometimes there was a dispute about the actual words which the witness had used: but Bodkin was always very charming and, with the generosity of the Crown, nearly always gave way.

“Of his great experience, Gill had realized from the beginning that, once the case reached a jury, the defendant was doomed. That was vision. He saw, and his sight was good. Nine counsel out of ten would have decided that the accused was bound to be committed for trial and would have reserved their defence. But Gill was the tenth. So the battle royal was fought in the Petty Sessional Court. It was really fought between Gill and the Justices, for Bodkin never pressed his cases, and in this particular case the evidence spoke for itself.

“From first to last, Gill did the whole case magnificently. He was on his mettle, and, so far as I saw, he never put a foot wrong. He examined and cross-examined to perfection. I’ve told you already how he
made
the Bench grant bail. On the last day, he made a supreme effort to persuade them to dismiss the case. If ever I saw a case which should have gone for trial, it was this one. But Gill very nearly did it. After his truly brilliant performance, the Justices retired to consider what they should do. And then at last they came back and announced that they had come to the conclusion that it was a case for a jury to decide. I can’t say we were disappointed. You may cry for the moon, but you can’t be disappointed if you don’t get it. Gill had made an impossible demand. His triumph lay in the fact that his demand had been considered for very nearly an hour.