by Henry Cecil
‘How do you know,’ asked counsel, ‘that you wouldn’t have had to lock up the spoons if he hadn’t gone to this school?’
‘Well, I’ve never had to lock them up before.’
‘Did you count them all?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Then how do you know you didn’t lose any?’
‘Well, I know, that’s all. You can tell when things start to become missing. I saw the cup wasn’t there on the day when he took it.’
‘Well, of course you noticed that,’ said counsel, ‘as you enjoyed looking at it. Every morning you probably revived old memories.’
‘That’s perfectly true. Anything wrong in that?’ asked the Major-General.
‘Of course not,’ said counsel, ‘but that’s why you’d noticed its absence. But the spoons–’
The Major-General interrupted: ‘I won some spoons too,’ he said.
‘Well, you didn’t win any forks, did you?’ said counsel.
‘I can’t say that I did.’
‘Then,’ said counsel, ‘unless you counted the forks each day, you couldn’t tell if any were missing.’
‘My wife would have known,’ said the Major-General.
‘Well,’ said counsel, ‘let’s assume that he never stole anything from you until he’d been at the plaintiff’s school for the six terms you allowed him to be there. When did he first start to steal anything?’
‘As far as I know, only during last holidays.’
‘So apparently,’ I said, ‘it took him two years to learn to steal.’
‘I suppose so,’ said the Major-General.
‘Are you complaining that he didn’t learn any quicker?’ asked counsel.
‘I’m complaining that he learned at all.’
‘But you can’t say that he wasn’t a thief by nature ever since he became of an age to think for himself?’ asked counsel.
‘I can only say,’ said the Major-General, ‘that until these last holidays, we always found him a decent boy. Of course he wasn’t perfect, nobody wanted him to be. But he wasn’t a boy any father need be ashamed of.’
‘If what Mr Chilton says is right,’ I said, ‘it won’t be necessary for you to be ashamed of him now.’
‘If what Mr Chilton said is right, your honour,’ said the Major-General, ‘we should all be put in lunatic asylums and the inmates should be let out to play about with Mr Chilton and his boys. And run the country too, I suppose,’ he added.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘some people think that they are doing that already.’
By that time it was 4.15 and I said that I would adjourn the case until the following morning for the speeches of counsel, and for my judgment.
‘But perhaps it may help you,’ I added, ‘if I tell you what I am thinking provisionally at the moment. The General let his son go to this pretty odd school willingly enough in the first instance, and allowed him to stay there six whole terms. He now says that he doesn’t like the results. It’s true that the way in which this school is carried on is, to say the least, unusual. But, as far as I can see, the General took a risk of that. Whether or not the method is a good one, whether or not Mr Chilton is right in the views which he has expressed, I think it may be very difficult for a man in the position of the defendant, Major-General Brooke, two years after he sent his son to the school, to say that he’s not satisfied with the result, and to refuse to give the proper notice. However, as I said, I will hear the argument in full in the morning.’
In those words I gave a pretty clear indication to counsel that I was in all probability going to decide in favour of Mr Chilton. And it therefore came as a very considerable surprise to me when the next morning arrived, the case was called on and counsel for Mr Chilton got up and said: ‘I’m happy to tell your honour that you will no longer be troubled with this case. The parties have come to terms.’
Those terms were that the action was withdrawn and Mr Chilton agreed to pay the whole of the Major-General’s costs. I was very much surprised. Both counsel were experienced and able men, and they must have told their clients that the strong probability was that Mr Chilton was going to win. Why then did he completely throw in his hand? Why did he start the action if he was going to do that in the end? I simply did not understand it. But what I did not know then and only learned afterwards was what happened after the court had adjourned.
David Brooke, who had taken no part in the proceedings, had nevertheless been in court the whole time. And, as Mr Chilton was walking home, he came up to him.
‘Hello, you scallywag,’ said Mr Chilton.
‘Hello, sir,’ said David. ‘Nice to see you.’
‘Nice to see you, David,’ said Mr Chilton.
‘I’m afraid,’ said David, ‘you may not feel so friendlily disposed towards me in a few minutes.’
‘Well, if you want the truth,’ said Mr Chilton, ‘I’ve never felt friendlily disposed towards you. I took you on for money, and had to make the best of it. I’ve done my duty, and now your father’s got to do his and pay me.’
‘I think not, Mr Chilton,’ said David.
‘Were you in court, David?’
‘The whole time.’
‘Well, I don’t suppose you’re used to courts, or understand what judges say,’ said Mr Chilton, ‘but I can assure you that the judge indicated in what he said before he left the court that he was going to come down fairly and squarely on my side and make your father pay.’
‘I understood that perfectly, Mr Chilton,’ said David. ‘That’s why I’m here. Because my father isn’t going to pay.’
‘Well, that’s a matter for your father,’ said Mr Chilton. ‘If he’s stupid about it, of course the bailiffs will be put in, and I don’t know what else. But that’s entirely a matter for him. Once I’ve got a judgment against him, I wash my hands of the affair, the law will take its course.’
‘But you aren’t going to get a judgment against him, Mr Chilton,’ said David.
‘You don’t even know what a judgment is, David,’ said Mr Chilton.
‘Oh yes, indeed I do, and you aren’t going to ask for a judgment against my father.’
‘Well, my counsel will.’
‘No, your counsel won’t, Mr Chilton.’
‘Well, you come there in the morning and see.’
‘I shall come there in the morning, Mr Chilton, but I shan’t see. At least I shan’t see what you said I shall see.’
‘Well,’ said Mr Chilton, ‘there’s no point in arguing with you.’
‘I quite agree,’ said David, ‘no point at all. But I just want to tell you something. As you rightly said in court, I learned a good number of things at your school, breaking and entering as well as blackmail.’
‘Which did you prefer?’ asked Mr Chilton.
‘On the whole,’ said David, ‘blackmail. Though breaking and entering can help. For example, Mr Chilton,’ went on David, ‘I broke into your study, and bearing in mind that, if a thing is worth doing, it’s worth doing well, I broke open your safe.’
‘I didn’t find anything missing,’ said Mr Chilton.
‘I didn’t take anything,’ said David.
‘Good.’
‘Except–’ said David.
‘Except what?’ asked Mr Chilton.
‘Except information,’ said David.
‘I hope you profit by it, David,’ said Mr Chilton.
‘That is what I’m about to do,’ said David. ‘Mr Chilton, you mentioned during your evidence that you didn’t like the Inland Revenue. Well, that’s no crime. Lots of people don’t like the Inland Revenue. But to keep two different sets of books, one for the Inland Revenue, and one to enable you to count your gains when the shop is closed, I believe is not only contrary to moral principles, but also to the law of the land. And unless, Mr Chilton, you can persuade me not to do so, I’m going to convey to the Inspector of Inland Revenue the information I obtained in the way that I’ve just told you.’
‘Blackmail, David,’ said
Mr Chilton.
‘Well, you shouldn’t be surprised,’ said David. ‘You seem to be rather proud of me.’
‘Now, David,’ said Mr Chilton, ‘that’s all very well. Blackmail is one of the most serious crimes known to the law.’
‘I’ve been looking it up,’ said David, ‘I agree.’
‘Well,’ said Mr Chilton, ‘if I go to a policeman and tell him what you’ve been doing, not only will you be charged with blackmail, but they won’t give me away because otherwise no one would ever go to the police when they are being blackmailed. Really, David, I’m rather grateful to you. I have sometimes rather worried about my double set of books. What I said in the witness box about fear of prison in some ways being worse than prison itself was quite true, but you’ve given me the answer, David. We shall now go to the police station where I shall confess my own fault, and accuse you of yours. Mine will be forgiven me, and you will go to prison or a detention centre or some place of safe custody for many, many years. I’m sorry that it should have to be through me, David, but perhaps after all there is some poetic justice in that. You can think of that when you are pacing up and down your cell.’
‘If either of us is going to be pacing up and down his cell,’ said David, ‘it won’t be me, Mr Chilton, but you. Let us go to a police station by all means, and let me tell you what will happen. You will confess that you’ve been keeping a double set of books and accuse me of blackmail. The sergeant will look up the law. He will then ask you what actually is the offence with which you charge Mr David Brooke. And you will say, “threatening to accuse me of a crime if I don’t withdraw the proceedings against his father,” and the sergeant will say: “What crime is that, Mr Chilton?” And you will put your hand through what hair you have left and probably say: “Well, it must be blackmail.” Well, don’t take it from me, Mr Chilton, but I can assure you it isn’t. You go to your solicitors, or you go to the police and they will tell you. I’m asking for nothing for myself. My father hasn’t the faintest idea that I’m doing this. He’d be horrified if he knew. Now, Mr Chilton, would you like to go to that police station and confess that you keep two sets of books? Or will you instruct your counsel in the morning to give up your claim?’
Mr Chilton did not say anything for a moment, and then: ‘When I said that you were the nastiest little boy I’d ever seen,’ he said, ‘it was an understatement. Now go to hell. You know the way, I see.’
I was told that later that evening David approached his father.
‘I’m sorry the case is going against you, father,’ he said, ‘what’ll it cost?’
‘I don’t so much mind the money, David,’ said his father, ‘but it’s losing to that self-satisfied, mealy-mouthed scoundrel of a schoolmaster that troubles me. I hate the thought of it.’
‘Would you like to win the case, father?’ asked David.
‘Of course I would. I’d give a good deal to win it.’
‘How much? £50?’
‘More.’
‘I’ll settle for £50,’ said David.
‘What d’you mean?’ said his father.
‘If you win the case,’ said David, ‘will you give me £50.’
‘All right,’ said his father, ‘I will. I’d much rather give you £50 for nothing than pay a penny to that so-and-so.’
‘Done, father,’ said David, ‘Can I have it in fivers?’
‘I only hope you get it.’
‘I’ll get it all right, father. You have it ready to give me as soon as the judge gives judgment for you.’
And, when next day came round, to the Major-General’s surprise, as well as to mine, Mr Chilton withdrew the case and agreed to pay the defendant’s costs.
‘I’ve never been so pleased to pay out on a wager, my boy,’ said his father as he gave the £50 to David. ‘And you got it by fair means this time, no false pretences, no blackmail, nothing. All fair and above board, you’ve earned it.’
‘Yes, I think I’ve earned it, father,’ said David.
‘And now, my boy,’ said his father, ‘have you had any more thought about what you’re going to do?’
‘I think,’ said David, ‘I’d like to follow in grandfather’s footsteps.’
‘But he was a bishop,’ said his father.
‘That’s right,’ said David.
I remembered then that Mr Chilton had said that some of his worst boys had become pillars of the Church.
CHAPTER THREE
Perjury
The offence of perjury strikes at the root of justice. But, in my opinion, many lawyers and laymen do not treat it seriously enough. A man charged with a crime is pretty well given a free licence to commit as much perjury as he likes in his attempts to be acquitted of the crime with which he’s charged. The amount of perjury committed in criminal trials is tremendous. Every day men and women are swearing what they know to be false. But prosecutions after a conviction or an acquittal of a man who has committed perjury in the witness box are extremely rare. I do not pretend that the problem in the case of criminal trials is an easy one. Up to seventy years ago an accused person was not allowed to give evidence at all. That is obviously highly unsatisfactory. But now we seem to have gone to the other extreme. The reason why prisoners were not allowed to give evidence before 1898 was ecclesiastical in origin. It was feared that they might perjure their immortal souls in their efforts to escape conviction. It is not easy to find the solution which will at the same time give prisoners the right to give evidence on oath, and nevertheless make them less inclined to break that oath.
But, while the solution in criminal trials is admittedly very difficult to find, that is no reason at all why in civil cases, where no man’s liberty is involved, the danger of a man being charged with perjury should not be much greater. I have had a number of cases where one side or the other was committing plain and provable perjury, but no proceedings for perjury were taken.
The present story is a good example of a case where one side swore black, and the other side swore white, and the answer was not grey. In other words, deliberate perjury was being committed, but by whom? That was the question.
The story started with a dispute between two motorists. I will call them Morris and Riley. They nearly had a collision and this was entirely due to the fault of Morris. Mr Riley was very angry and ran up to Morris’ car, and, in spite of the apologies which Morris tendered profusely, proceeded to assault him. In consequence, Mr Morris sued Mr Riley for assault. And in those proceedings he not only claimed damages for the injuries to himself, but for breaking a gold watch. He said that when he put up his hands to prevent Mr Riley’s blows landing on his face, they struck the watch and broke it.
After the case had been opened by counsel, Mr Morris gave his evidence and told me what had happened. Apart from one matter, his story was not seriously disputed by the defendant. But it was that one matter which made the case of more than usual interest.
After Mr Morris had been cross-examined for a few minutes by Mr Faulkner, counsel for Mr Riley, he was asked this question: ‘Now, Mr Morris, you’re claiming the cost of a new watch from my client, aren’t you?’
‘Not the cost of a new one,’ said Mr Morris, ‘the value of the old.’
‘If you please,’ said Mr Faulkner, ‘the value of the old. And you say that the watch which you produced ten minutes ago is the watch which my client damaged?’
‘Certainly.’
‘Will you look at it, please,’ said Mr Faulkner. ‘Hand it to him please, usher.’
The usher duly took it to the witness, who looked at it.
‘Yes,’ said Mr Morris, ‘I have it in front of me.’
‘Look at it, please,’ said Mr Faulkner.
‘I am looking at it.’
‘Do you say on oath,’ said Mr Faulkner, ‘that that is your watch?’
‘I’ve already said it on oath.’
‘I want to be sure,’ said Mr Faulkner, ‘that there’s no mistake. Is that the watch which Mr Riley damaged when he
struck you?’
At that stage I intervened to ask: ‘Mr Faulkner, your client then admits the assault?’
‘Certainly, your honour,’ said Mr Faulkner, ‘but not the damage.’
‘You mean,’ I asked, ‘that you say that this is not the watch which was damaged?’
‘Precisely,’ said Mr Faulkner.
‘It is his face, I suppose?’ I asked.
‘Oh yes,’ said Mr Faulkner, ‘I admit the face, and that my client struck it. I also admit that my client would have struck it a second time, but Mr Morris’ hand got in the way.’
‘Was there a watch on it?’ I asked.
‘My client has no idea,’ said Mr Faulkner. ‘All we say is that, whether or not the plaintiff had a watch, it is not this one.’
‘Very strange,’ I said, ‘if it isn’t.’
‘Stranger things have happened in this court,’ said Mr Faulkner, who, it will be gathered, was not an advocate who was frightened to express himself.
‘Give me an example,’ I suggested.
‘Oh, your honour,’ said Mr Faulkner, ‘I hadn’t any particular event in mind. But very strange things do happen in the courts from time to time. Let me think. Yes, your honour. I once cross-examined a witness who turned out to have exactly the same name and address as I had.’
‘As you had?’ I asked.
‘Yes, your honour. As I had. He was Jeremy Faulkner, and he lived at eighteen Greenfield Gardens, and so do I.’
‘It wasn’t you, I suppose?’ I asked.
‘The towns were different, your honour, but it was a very odd coincidence.’
‘And what precisely has this got to do with the case?’ I asked.
‘Your honour, you asked for an example of something strange. It was the first I could think of.’
‘Quite right, Mr Faulkner,’ I said. ‘I apologise. Now let’s get on. Mr Morris, d’you say you had a wristwatch on when you were assaulted?’
‘I do, your honour.’