Brief Tales From The Bench (4 page)

‘And,’ I put in, ‘feel for yourself too, I gather.’

‘Oh, certainly,’ said Mr Chilton, ‘that can happen.’

‘Was Major-General Brooke particularly unlucky?’ asked counsel.

‘Not at all, your honour,’ said Mr Chilton. ‘On the contrary, I’d say he was one of the lucky ones. He left under his own steam.’

‘Have you never been sued for assault or something of that kind?’ I asked.

‘Certainly not, your honour. All our prospective parents sign a form of indemnity before they come on the premises.’

‘Have you any records of the subsequent careers of many of your boys?’ asked counsel.

‘Yes, sir, we have.’

‘And generally speaking, what is their record?’

‘Much the same as that for any other good school, with one exception.’

‘And what might that be?’ asked counsel.

‘The crime rate is much lower.’

Eventually Mr Chilton completed his evidence, and the Major-General went into the witness box. In one of counsel’s early questions, he was asked whether he was warned what might happen to him when he went down to inspect the school.’

‘Well,’ said the Major-General, ‘Mr Chilton did say that the boys were very boisterous, and that I might be ragged a bit. Well, your honour, I like high spirits and I think I can say I can hold my own in most company. As a matter of fact in my younger days I boxed for the Army, and I thought it would be an interesting experience.’

‘Were you hit on the head by a snowball?’ asked counsel.

‘I was hit on the head by a stone in the guise of a snowball’, was the reply.

‘Did you complain?’ I asked.

‘No, your honour. I didn’t like the boys to think that I minded, so l treated it as a good joke. I had to put up with a good deal more in the war.’

‘But then,’ I said, ‘you were fighting the Germans.’

‘It didn’t seem all that different, your honour,’ replied the Major-General.

‘Why have you refused to pay Mr Chilton’s bill, and withdrawn your boy from the school without notice?’ he was asked by counsel.

‘Because of the way they sent him home. He was physically, morally and mentally degenerate.’

The Major-General was then cross-examined.

‘What exactly do you say was wrong with your son when he came home to you?’

‘His hair was over his shoulders,’ said the Major-General, ‘he didn’t wash, and he couldn’t speak a civil word to us, he stole some of my money and he pawned a silver cup.’

‘Which, no doubt,’ said counsel, ‘you won for boxing?’

‘Quite so,’ said the Major-General. ‘I minded that more than I did the money.’

‘Is that the sum total of your complaint?’

‘Certainly not. He threatened both his mother and me. He said that he’d leave home if we didn’t make him a bigger allowance.’

‘General,’ said counsel, ‘when you sent your boy to the school, you knew it was a pretty odd school?’

‘I knew it was different.’

‘If the boys were allowed with impunity to throw stones at the parents of prospective pupils, did it not occur to you that there might be other things that they would do which might be even worse?’

‘I admit I thought it was roughing it up a bit to put a stone in a snowball, and not altogether sporting. But there was nothing dishonest about it.’

‘Wasn’t there?’ I asked. ‘You said yourself that it was a stone in the guise of a snowball. You mightn’t particularly mind being hit by a snowball, but if you knew there was a stone in it, you would certainly duck.’

‘I did,’ said the Major-General.

‘But it hit you just the same?’

‘Yes.’

‘But wouldn’t you describe it as dirty play?’ asked counsel.

‘Yes,’ said the Major-General, ‘that’s exactly how I would describe it. Where games are played, there is always a certain amount of dirty play, and one’s got to accept it. But that’s very different from plain theft.’

‘General,’ went on counsel, ‘you’ve heard Mr Chilton say what the theory is behind his method of carrying on the school.’

‘Method of carrying on the school!’ repeated the Major-General, with scorn. ‘It’s all a lot of bunkum, sir. If you ask me, the whole thing’s a fraud. They get a lot of money from a lot of unsuspecting parents. They do no work at all, and allow the boys to become little hooligans and then that unctuous peacock goes into the witness box and lays down the law as though he were the second Messiah.’

‘But, Major-General,’ went on counsel, ‘you heard Mr Chilton explain that, if the parents of a boy know his criminal tendencies early enough, they may be able to set him on the right road. Whereas if they don’t know of them, he may become a criminal when it’s too late to do anything for him.’

‘I heard your client talk a lot of poppycock,’ said the Major-General. ‘I didn’t ask Mr Chilton to teach my boy Latin or Greek or nuclear physics or mathematics or any of the rest of them. I liked the idea of this lack of restraint. I thought it might be good for a boy in the first instance. I thought it might be character-building. But I expected the end product to be a decent boy who could live in a decent family where you didn’t have to lock up the spoons before going to bed.’

‘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?’