Copyright & Information
Stay Of Execution
First published in 1971
© Estate of Michael Gilbert; House of Stratus 1971-2012
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 Michael Gilbert to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.
This edition published in 2012 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
0755105338 9780755105335 Print
0755132076 9780755132072 Kindle
0755132440 9780755132447 Epub
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
Born in Lincolnshire, England, Michael Francis Gilbert graduated in law from the University of London in 1937, shortly after which he first spent some time teaching at a prep-school which was followed by six years serving with the Royal Horse Artillery. During World War II he was captured following service in North Africa and Italy, and his prisoner-of-war experiences later leading to the writing of the acclaimed novel ‘Death in Captivity’ in 1952.
After the war, Gilbert worked as a solicitor in London, but his writing continued throughout his legal career and in addition to novels he wrote stage plays and scripts for radio and television. He is, however, best remembered for his novels, which have been described as witty and meticulously-plotted espionage and police procedural thrillers, but which exemplify realism.
HRF Keating stated that ‘Smallbone Deceased’ was amongst the 100 best crime and mystery books ever published. "The plot," wrote Keating, "is in every way as good as those of Agatha Christie at her best: as neatly dovetailed, as inherently complex yet retaining a decent credibility, and as full of cunningly-suggested red herrings." It featured Chief Inspector Hazlerigg, who went on to appear in later novels and short stories, and another series was built around Patrick Petrella, a London based police constable (later promoted) who was fluent in four languages and had a love for both poetry and fine wine. Other memorable characters around which Gilbert built stories included Calder and Behrens. They are elderly but quite amiable agents, who are nonetheless ruthless and prepared to take on tasks too much at the dirty end of the business for their younger colleagues. They are brought out of retirement periodically upon receiving a bank statement containing a code.
Much of Michael Gilbert’s writing was done on the train as he travelled from home to his office in London: "I always take a latish train to work," he explained in 1980, "and, of course, I go first class. I have no trouble in writing because I prepare a thorough synopsis beforehand.". After retirement from the law, however, he nevertheless continued and also reviewed for ‘The Daily Telegraph’, as well as editing ‘The Oxford Book of Legal Anecdotes’.
Gilbert was appointed CBE in 1980. Generally regarded as ‘one of the elder statesmen of the British crime writing fraternity, he was a founder-member of the British Crime Writers’ Association and in 1988 he was named a Grand Master by the Mystery Writers of America, before receiving the Lifetime ‘Anthony’ Achievement award at the 1990 Boucheron in London.
Michael Gilbert died in 2006, aged ninety three, and was survived by his wife and their two sons and five daughters.
Preface
The stories in this book cover a period of twenty-one years, which is almost exactly the span of my own legal practice. In re-reading them, and, in a few cases, making the emendations suggested by the passage of time, I have been struck by two things.
The first was a sad reflection that nearly half of the periodicals and newspapers in which these stories originally appeared have now disappeared from the scene. I could not believe that their demise was solely attributable to my contributions, and I was puzzled to account, as many people must have been, for the practical disappearance from the bookstalls of that old favourite, the short story magazine. Where are the Strand and the Grand and the Windsor of yesteryear?
One theory is that people nowadays have got so mentally conditioned that they prefer their entertainment to be entirely predigested. Before they will accept a story, someone has to turn it into a sequence of scenes, have the scenes enacted, and photographed, and then transmitted on to a screen. Instant entertainment, to be absorbed with your instant coffee. I think this is over-facile. I fear that the explanation is not that people read less. In fact, they read more, but they read different things. It is the enormous growth of the paperback which has wiped out the short story magazine. The long-distance train traveller, who used to be the staple purchaser of magazines, can now buy, for much the same price, a complete book by his favourite author. And he buys it.
This development may have been inevitable, but it is particularly sad in the field of the detective or crime short story. As writers have shown, from Conan Doyle and G. K. Chesterton to Raymond Chandler and Roy Vickers, a short story of anything from five to fifteen thousand words is the ideal vehicle for a work of this genre. The best detective stories are built round a single idea: a novel method of murder, a subtle motive, an ingenious alibi. They are essentially artificial constructions (but so were the ballade and the sonnet). What ruins them most surely is when they are dragged out, artificially extended to eighty thousand words, with plans of the scene of the crime and lists of who did what, where. An example of this was H. C. Bailey, whose short ‘Mr. Fortune’ stories are small masterpieces, but whose full-length novels, about the same character, are sadly hard to read.
The second thought which occurred to me was how little, in essentials, the law had changed in this period of time. ‘Black market offences’ has an old-fashioned ring nowadays, and when Stay of Execution was written, it was still possible, though uncommon, to be hanged for murder. But the essentials of legal theory and practice are curiously stable in an unstable society; the law of contract, which governs the agreements we make and forces everyone (except trade unions) to honour them; the law of tort, which prevents us being an intolerable nuisance to our neighbours; the rules of procedure and evidence, which continue to make a trial in an English court the fairest which any accused can hope to get, and which are only sniped at by people who have not witnessed or experienced the proceedings of foreign tribunals. I am glad that it should be so. The Englishman’s respect for the law (not, I hasten to add, for lawyers, who are regarded with feelings which range from dislike to tolerant amusement) is a life-line in the very stormy seas which are breaking over the seventies. I hope it will never snap.
Having said which, I have only to add, as I hope will be apparent, that none of the lawyers in this collection is real, and that none of them is me.
MICHAEL GILBERT
Back on the Shelf
During the war a lot of matters had to be put on one side. I should explain, perhaps, that I mean legal matters. I am the senior partner in – well, no. On second thoughts I’d better not mention names.
I’d better say that I’m senior partner in a very old and very well-known firm of City solicitors: have been ever since Herbert died, and that was twelve years
ago.
During the war, as I said, things had to take their turn. Like everyone else we were understaffed and overworked and what with the disorganisation to start with and the buzz bombs towards the end, it was a standing miracle, to my mind, that anything got done at all.
When our young men came back from the war it took them some time to pick up the threads. You don’t make – or remake – a practising solicitor in a couple of months, nor even in a couple of years.
But lately, gradually, the arrears have been getting worked off and one or two files have been brought into the light that I for one never expected to see again this side of doomsday.
I must confess to a certain sinking of the heart when young Bob, who is the most confoundedly energetic of the lot, came into my room one morning with a dog-eared folder, pale from the sunless depths of the second basement, and said, “I’ve been looking at Mrs. Oliphant deceased.”
“If you’ve time to do that,” I said, “I shall have to look you out some more work. Why, she’s been dead for thirteen years.”
“It wasn’t her, exactly, sir. I was tidying up Charlie Fanshawe’s reversionary interests – you remember, he was killed in North Africa, but some of his mother’s estate only fell in last year – and I thought I’d have a look at that money he got from his uncle—”
“Great-uncle,” I said automatically.
“Yes, sir. Old Robert Fanshawe. I took a copy of his will home last night with me. Really, sir – I don’t know if you remember it – it practically seemed to me to add up to nothing more nor less than an open invitation to murder.”
“Good heavens,” I said, considerably startled. “Look here. I can see you’re bursting to explain all this. Jump into my taxi with me and come round to the club, and you shall talk about it over lunch.”
“Robert Fanshawe,” I said, when we had settled what we were going to eat – a most important thing to a man of my age. “Let me see, yes – rather an odd character. But his wife, if I remember, was odd as well. A pioneer of the cold water and raw carrot school of health faddists.”
“Yes, sir, I gather her husband didn’t see eye to eye—”
“He twisted his wife’s tail about it, didn’t he, in his will?”
“A most extraordinary document, sir. Home-made, I’m sure. Here – I’ve written down the bit that matters. His trustees are to accumulate all income for twenty-one years. At the end of that time, but not before, the whole lot, capital and accumulated income, was to be paid to the United Chlorophyllists – that’s that health society his wife belonged to – provided that during those twenty-one years his wife had remained a member of the society, adhered strictly to its rules, and managed to stay alive.
“If either she, or the society, failed to survive the twenty-one-year period, then everything went to his nephew, Charlie Fanshawe.”
“Yes,” I said, “I remember him explaining that clause to me. You wouldn’t appreciate it without understanding Robert Fanshawe. He was a late Victorian survival. ‘Let her earn the money for her demmed society,’ he said to me. ‘If she can survive twenty-one years of their nonsense, I’m willing to believe there may be something in it. Otherwise the money’s to go to young Charlie. He’s only two now, but I can see he’s going to enjoy a beef steak and a pint of beer when he grows up.’”
“No doubt, sir,” said Bob. “It would have been quite all right if the trustees had accumulated the income.
“But so far as I can see they seem to have assumed that Mrs. Fanshawe was going to die before the twenty-one years were out – she was already sixty-five when her husband died – and they treated Charles as a sort of heir presumptive.
“Most of the income was spent on his upbringing, and they even advanced him lump sums from time to time—”
“He was an infernally fetching young man,” I said. “His great-uncle was quite right about him. Let me see now – the trustees were my late partner, Herbert Overstrand, and the boy’s mother.”
“It’s the trustees I was thinking about,” said Robert ominously. “Charles’s mother died in 1933 and for two years your late partner seems to have acted alone.
“By 1935 he must have realised his position. Why, old Mrs. Fanshawe had only to live for a further two years and the United Chlorophyllists – or their solicitors – would have been clamouring for their money.
“Not only the capital wrongly advanced to young Charles, but all the income ever spent on him. I’ve made a rough computation – at compound interest it came to nearly ten thousand pounds.”
“As much as that?” I said. “That wouldn’t have been a laughing matter for Herbert, would it? I seem to remember that he appointed another trustee about then to act with him.”
“Yes, sir. And here I suggest is where we meet the villain of the piece. Mr. A. B. Smith.”
“Villain!” I said. “Good heavens, do you think—? Here, have a little more of this smoked salmon. Don’t forget to squeeze plenty of lemon over it; it brings out the flavour.”
“Perhaps villain is a strong word, sir. But I do feel that his influence over your partner – however, let me go on.
“This Mr. Smith seems to have been rather an elusive person. I cannot find that anyone ever actually met him. Documents were sent to him at a poste restante address, and came back in due course, duly signed.”
“As long as he sent ‘em back promptly,” I said. “Most trustees who live in the country are so infernally slow.”
“Yes, sir. He seems to have been quite businesslike. It was at that time that they started having a quarterly doctor’s report on old Mrs. Fanshawe. I’m afraid they weren’t very encouraging reports – from the trustees’ point of view, I mean. Apart from an occasional head cold, she seems to have been in robust health.”
“Fresh water and carrots,” I suggested. “There might be something in it after all. As a matter of fact, however, I seem to remember that it came out all right in the end. She passed away a week or two short of the end of the twenty-one-year period. So the money went to Charlie—”
“Yes, sir.”
“I don’t suppose he complained about having had some of it before he was strictly entitled to it. Anyway, he’s dead himself now – he did very well in the war, you know. Stopped a shell splinter the day before Tobruk was relieved—”
I saw that Robert was looking embarrassed.
“It wasn’t Charlie I was thinking about exactly, sir,” he said. “After all, he hardly stood to lose. It was the trustees.”
“The trustees?”
“Did you know that they visited old Mrs. Fanshawe on the afternoon of the day she died? They were with her for about half an hour. Her maid found her that evening.”
“Heart failure,” I said.
“Yes,” said Robert. “At eighty-six I don’t suppose there’s much difference between heart failure and a bolster over the face – particularly if nobody is looking for it.”
“You’ll have to be careful, you know,” I said, “saying things like that. People might take you seriously. Anyway, how do you know they were down there that afternoon. I don’t remember anything being mentioned—”
“I found it in your partner’s expense book for that day,” said Robert. “‘Fares to Dorking and return: self and co-trustee.’”
“Good heavens,” I said. “How – how methodical. Do try some of this Stilton. Is there anything else in support of your theory? Anything—er—concrete?”
“I don’t know, sir.” Robert looked distinctly unhappy. “I was going through some of Mr. Overstrand’s own papers and I found this. It was with his other private papers.” He produced a white envelope. Typed on the outside were the words: “To be opened only on the death of the last to die of myself and A. B. Smith.”
“It looked, sir—I thought—do you think it might be something in the nature of a confession? He might have wanted to get the thing off his chest, and yet not to hurt anyone by doing so.”
“You won’t mind my saying,” I said,
“that it all seems a little far-fetched. You’ve been reading too many detective stories.
“Anyway, we can’t open this until we have proof of Smith’s death – and as you say, he seems to be rather an elusive person. In all my years at the office I honestly can’t remember meeting him. Good heavens. Look at the time. We must be getting back.”
In the cab I said, “It wasn’t only to talk about the Fanshawes that I asked you out to lunch, Bob. You almost put it out of my head. Old Horniman wrote to me last week that he’s looking for a junior partner and he was kind enough to offer me first nomination from my firm. I must say, I had no hesitation in putting forward your name, and I heard this morning—”
The remainder of the drive back to the office was occupied with Robert’s thanks and my disclaimers of them.
“It’s a good opportunity,” I said, “but I think you’re the man for it. You’ve shown that you possess an enquiring mind and plenty of persistence, and that’s what a solicitor needs.”
Back at the office I said, “By the way. I don’t think we ought to leave that file lying about. Put it back where it came from. I’ll get your successor busy on it some time. And you might put that envelope safely back in the Overstrand box.”
I didn’t tell him, of course, that it was empty or that I had long ago destroyed Herbert’s maudlin ‘confession’.
Ha! I didn’t tell him who A. B. Smith was, either.
The Blackmailing of Mr. Justice Ball
“So Popsy is dead at last,” said Mr. Rumbold. “Extreme senility, coupled with fits. Excellent!”
It was the habit of the senior partner in the firm of Wragg and Rumbold (Solicitors of Coleman Street), to open his post every morning with the assistance of his senior managing clerk, Mr. Silverlight. The two old gentlemen had joined the firm on the same day in the early Thirties, Mr. Rumbold as an articled clerk, Mr. Silverlight as a post room boy.
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