Brief Tales From The Bench

Brief Tales from the Bench

First published in 1968

© Estate Henry Cecil; House of Stratus 1968-2011

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

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.

As a County Court judge for eighteen years I tried many thousands of cases. Half of the cases in this book are based, or partly based, on actual experience, while half are pure fiction. I have stated in an appendix at the end of the book which is which. In the cases which have a factual basis I have not disclosed the true identity of the parties concerned.

The stories were originally broadcast by the BBC on radio in the form of half-hour plays, and Mr Andrew Cruickshank played the leading part. None of them has been published previously except ‘Chef’s Special’, which appeared in
Argosy
.

Most people in every walk of life have power and sometimes abuse it. Judges in their own courts have very considerable power. A judge may fine or send to prison anyone who improperly interrupts the proceedings. Only Parliament has a similar power. In order that the business of a court may be properly carried on, it is necessary for a judge to have this power. But it is just as important that he should not abuse it. It is very doubtful if today any judges abuse their power to fine or imprison for contempt of court. But undoubtedly from time to time judges do abuse their power by saying things which are hurtful to somebody and unnecessary for the purposes of the case. Judges are after all only human beings and must from time to time fail in the proper discharge of their duties. But a judge should at all times be on his guard against making this type of error.

People are so very polite, not to say obsequious, to judges that there is a danger that a judge may think that he is just as important out of court as he is in court, when in fact he is not. It is the office which is important, not the man. This is easy to state, but not always so easy, for an average person like myself, to remember.

One day I was driving towards my court and had reached one of the back streets three or four hundred yards away from the court building. A coalman was delivering coal, and, owing to an unattended parked car, there just wasn’t room enough for my car to get between that car and the coal lorry. So I stopped and got out and went up to the coalman.

‘Would you mind moving your lorry a foot or so, so that I can get through?’

‘I will when I’ve finished,’ said the coalman.

‘How long will that be?’ I asked.

‘You’ll see,’ he replied.

‘I’d be awfully grateful,’ I said, ‘if you could move it now.’

‘I told you I’d move it when I’d finished,’ said the man.

As it was close on time for the court to begin and I didn’t want to be late, I said: ‘As a matter of fact I happen to be the judge of the Willesden County Court which is just round the corner, and there are a lot of people waiting for me to try their cases. If I can’t go through now, I shall be late.’

‘You’ll be late then,’ said the coalman, and went on delivering his coal.

There was nothing left for me to do but to wait as patiently as possible in my car. After five or ten minutes the man finished his delivery and went to his cab and stood by it. Then very slowly he extracted a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. Very slowly he took a cigarette out of the packet, and then replaced it in his pocket. Then he searched for a match and, taking far more time than was necessary, lighted the cigarette. Still standing on the ground, he took several puffs, and then very slowly clambered into the lorry. He then arranged himself preparatory to driving, took a few more puffs at his cigarette, and then finally started the engine. He waited for about a quarter of a minute and finally drove towards me. As his cab drew level with me, he leaned out and said: ‘Are you in a hurry, mate?’

So far, this was a case of a coalman abusing his power, not a judge. As soon as I could, I drove to court and got on with my work. But during an adjournment I turned up the County Courts Act, and saw, as I had suspected was the case, that anyone who insulted the judge going to or coming from court, was liable to be imprisoned for one month, or to pay a fine of ten pounds.

Now, obviously, to be guilty of that contempt, you must know that the person whom you insult is a judge. But I had told the coalman that I was the judge, and there was no earthly reason why he should have disbelieved me. Indeed, had he been doubtful about my identification, he could have asked me for some proof of it, and I had documents on me which would have satisfied anybody. So I told the registrar to give notice to the coalman, whose employer’s name I had taken, to attend court on a particular day to show cause why he should not be dealt with for contempt of court.

When the bailiff of the court delivered this document to the coalman, whose name was Albert Smith, naturally the man was rather worried about it. The bailiff advised him to go and consult a solicitor. Mr Smith very wisely took the bailiff’s advice and consulted a Mr Tewkesbury.

Mr Tewkesbury, I’m glad to say, was by no means a typical solicitor. There are a few bad sheep in every fold, and I’m afraid that he was one of them.

Naturally I cannot vouch for what happened in Mr Tewkesbury’s office, but I don’t think that I should be far wrong if I described the scene as follows.

When Mr Smith arrived at his office, Mr Tewkesbury was sleeping off the effects of the last bottle of whisky which he’d had.

‘Mr Tewkesbury,’ said Bella, his typist, secretary and general maid-of-all-work, ‘Mr Tewkesbury, there’s a customer.’

Mr Tewkesbury woke up slowly.

‘Client, girl,’ he said.

‘What’s the difference, Mr Tewkesbury?’

‘Well,’ said Mr Tewkesbury, ‘greengrocers have customers, solicitors have clients.’

‘But why, Mr Tewkesbury?’

‘I’ll tell you another time. Now what did you want to wake me up for?’

‘There’s a client.’

‘Has he an appointment?’

‘No, Mr Tewkesbury.’

‘Then he can wait a bit. He mustn’t think I’ve nothing else to do. Where’s that bottle I told you to get?’

‘Oh, Mr Tewkesbury,’ said Bella, ‘I thought – I thought you’d be better without it.’

‘How old are you, girl?’ said Mr Tewkesbury.

‘I’m twenty-one.’ And then she added, defensively: ‘nearly twenty-two.’

‘Well,’ said Mr Tewkesbury, ‘you’re not old enough to be my father or my mother yet, are you?’

‘No, Mr Tewkesbury.’

‘Well,’ said Mr Tewkesbury, ‘no doubt you meant it for good. But let me tell you, girl, that my best work is done when pickled.’

‘You don’t say, Mr Tewkesbury,’ said Bella.

‘But I do say. Did you hear me in court in the Robinson case?’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘Well, I’m glad,’ said Mr Tewkesbury. ‘I was stone cold sober. Quite unfit to be in charge of any case. Now tell me, girl, how long have you been with me?’

‘Two weeks, Mr Tewkesbury.’

‘As long as that? Well done. What’s your real name, girl?’

‘Bella, Mr Tewkesbury.’

‘D’you mind me calling you “girl”?’

‘I don’t mind what you call me, Mr Tewkesbury, so long as you don’t call me late for dinner.’

‘Well, well, well,’ said Mr Tewkesbury. ‘Who taught you that?’

‘My auntie used to say that,’ said Bella.

‘Good gracious,’ said Mr Tewkesbury. ‘I first heard it from my grandmother. I didn’t know anybody knew it now. How would you like to have dinner with me, girl?’

‘Don’t you think you ought to see Mr Smith?’ said Bella.

‘And who might he be?’

‘The client, Mr Tewkesbury.’

‘Not much of a name, Smith,’ said Mr Tewkesbury ruminatively. ‘You may not believe it, girl, but I’ve had double-barrels coming to this office.’

‘I can quite believe it, Mr Tewkesbury,’ said Bella.

‘Dukes, captains of industry, no prime ministers yet, but several cabinet ministers.’

‘But what’s wrong with “Smith” Mr Tewkesbury? After all, Mr Brown’s name is only Mr Brown.’

‘That’s a profound thought, girl,’ said Mr Tewkesbury. ‘I must remember that. That should take the double-barrels down a bit. Mr Brown’s name, I shall say, is only Mr Brown. And what does Mr Smith do?’

‘He says he’s a coalman,’ said Bella.

‘Ah,’ said Mr Tewkesbury, ‘he’s come anonymously. It’s really Lord Robens. Show him in at once, girl. I never keep peers of the realm waiting.’

‘Very good, sir,’ said Bella.

Bella went out and brought Mr Smith in.

‘Pray sit down, my lord,’ said Mr Tewkesbury.

‘Fanks,’ said Mr Smith.

‘What did you say?’ asked Mr Tewkesbury.

‘I said “Fanks”,’ repeated Mr Smith.

‘Oh,’ said Mr Tewkesbury. ‘Then you’re not Lord Robens?’

‘Not wot?’

‘Never mind,’ said Mr Tewkesbury. ‘What can I do for you?’

So Mr Smith showed Mr Tewkesbury the notice which he had received from the court.

‘You’d like me to appear for you?’

‘Yes,’ said Mr Smith.

‘Give me the diary, Miss Bell, please,’ said Mr Tewkesbury. ‘Let me see. I have two cases in the High Court on that day, and a consultation with Sir Mark Burnham. A couple of little things in the Magistrates’ Court, and a few conferences. Yes, I think I shall be able to manage that all right, Mr Smith. The fee will be ten guineas.’

‘That’s coming it a bit,’ said Mr Smith.

‘The trouble is,’ said Mr Tewkesbury, ‘that the judge might come it a bit more. You’ve never been to prison before, I take it?’

‘Course not.’

‘Well, I should have thought it was worth ten guineas to stay out of it.’

Well, whether it happened like that or not, I don’t know. But I do know that, when the case was called on, Mr Tewkesbury was appearing for Mr Smith. He was not particularly sober, but he was able to enunciate clearly, perhaps even rather more clearly than when sober. The first thing he did when the case was called on was to get up and say: ‘I object, your honour.’

I asked him to what he objected.

‘Your honour,’ said Mr Tewkesbury, ‘may I say that I have always had the greatest respect, not to say affection, for your honour?’

‘No,’ I said, ‘Mr Tewkesbury, you may not. It has nothing to do with the case.’

‘I am loath to disagree with your honour,’ said Mr Tewkesbury. ‘And it ill becomes one in my lowly position to contradict your honour. Rome wasn’t built in a day, your honour.
Per ardua ad astra.
’

‘Mr Tewkesbury,’ I said, perhaps a little testily, ‘will you kindly come to the point.’

‘I was soaring to it, your honour,’ said Mr Tewkesbury. ‘I’d reached the point where I’d assured your honour that I held your honour in great respect, not to say affection.’

‘And I’ve reached the point,’ I said, ‘where I’m not going to stand any more of this. If you have an objection to make, kindly make it. What do you object to?’

‘I object,’ said Mr Tewkesbury, ‘with the greatest humility and the utmost respect – I object to your honour.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ I asked.

‘It is for me to beg yours, your honour,’ said Mr Tewkesbury.

‘You mean you object to me?’ I said. ‘You object to my trying the case?’

‘Your honour,’ said Mr Tewkesbury, ‘as usual you have my point almost before I’ve made it.’

‘What are the grounds for your objection?’ I asked.

‘There’s nothing personal in it, your honour,’ said Mr Tewkesbury.

‘I dare say not,’ I said, ‘but what are your grounds?’

‘Well,’ said Mr Tewkesbury, ‘your honour, to put it shortly, and again assuring your honour of the deep respect in which I hold your honour – indeed in which I hold all Her Majesty’s judges – and making it clear that in saying what I am, I have no intention whatever–’

‘Mr Tewkesbury,’ I interrupted, ‘you said you were going to put it shortly. Kindly do so.’

‘Well,’ said Mr Tewkesbury, ‘in a word, your honour, no, it can’t be done in one word. Does your honour wish to know the exact number of words?’

‘So long as there aren’t too many,’ I said, ‘I don’t mind how many there are.’

‘Your honour is very gracious,’ said Mr Tewkesbury.

‘Mr Tewkesbury,’ I said, ‘if you don’t tell me within the next half minute what your objection is, I shall be anything but gracious.’

‘Your honour,’ said Mr Tewkesbury, ‘is very kind. Well, your honour, my objection in a word, no, not in a word, but shall we say in a – in a nutshell is this. It’s ten words as a matter of fact. That’s not too many, I hope?’

‘Go on, please.’

‘With the ten words, your honour?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, your honour, the ten words. I think they’re ten, your honour, but I might have counted wrong. Your honour will forgive me if I have. The ten words are “no one should be a judge in his own cause”.’

I realised at once that, although Mr Tewkesbury’s method of putting it could hardly be described as highly satisfactory, there was a good deal to be said for his submission. If a man insults a judge in open court, everyone can see that justice is done if he’s punished for that offence. But when the offence, if any, is committed where the public cannot see it, it doesn’t seem right that the judge who complains about it, should try the case himself.

‘I think you’re right, Mr Tewkesbury,’ I said. ‘I’ll adjourn the case for another judge to deal with it. Will next Monday suit you and your client?’

It soon became very plain that neither next Monday nor any other day suited Mr Smith. He plainly wanted the case heard there and then. I could see his point of view. He didn’t want it hanging over his head. After a few minutes’ discussion with Mr Tewkesbury, he could not restrain himself any longer.

‘I want to know what’s going to happen,’ he said out loud. ‘My missus is all over the place about it. I’ve come here today to have it dealt with, and it’s not fair to make me come another day.’

Mr Tewkesbury then informed me that his client would be perfectly happy for me to deal with the matter. But I was not prepared to do so. I did not know what the man was going to say. For all I knew he would tell a completely different story from mine. I couldn’t say that I’d known myself from a very early age, and that I was prepared to accept everything that I said. It was my own cause. I could not be a judge in it myself. On the other hand, it would be very hard on Mr Smith to be kept in suspense. Then I had an idea. I accordingly suggested that the Lord Chancellor might be asked to appoint a deputy-judge from one of the barristers who were at the court at the moment. Mr Tewkesbury agreed, and in consequence, Mr Benton, a barrister of considerable experience, was appointed a deputy-judge for the express purpose of trying this matter of contempt of court.

The problem then arose as to how the case was to be tried. None of us could see any alternative to my going into the witness box as an ordinary witness. How else could justice be done and be seen to be done? I had never seen or heard of a contempt case being dealt with in that manner before, but I did not see how it could be properly dealt with otherwise. If Mr Smith’s evidence was to be heard on oath, why shouldn’t mine also? If he was to be cross-examined, why shouldn’t I be cross-examined?