Flashpoint (21 page)

The article started by summarizing the case of the police against Mauger. It did not disguise the fact that the
Watchman
had a personal interest in the matter, Mauger being one of their own men. “Knowing Mauger as we do, enables us to judge more justly than an outsider of the extreme unlikeliness of the prosecution case. When the verdict of a magistrate is greeted with open dissent from the public in the body of the Court, it is not always the public who are wrong. Surely we are entitled to ask” –
here the flutes sounded a new motif
–
“what made Mr Gazelee change his mind? For change it he certainly did. A week ago he decided that the evidence against Mauger was not conclusive. The evidence of the police was contradicted by the accused. And so, very reasonably, Mr Gazelee asked for outside evidence to support one or other of the versions he had heard. He wanted the girl in the case to come forward. If she supported the police, that was an end of the matter. What happened?” –
Pause, for a rumbling of drums
–
“A witness appeared. But he did
not
support the police. He entirely corroborated the version of the accused. Yet, curiously enough, Mr Gazelee now found the charge proved. What made him change his mind? What influence had brought him to so radical a change in his views?” –
A menacing whisper from the strings on the word ‘influence’
–
“Is it too far-fetched to suggest that Mr Gazelee’s attention may have been drawn to a recent article written in this paper by the accused? An article in which the accused had the temerity to criticize, by implication, a decision of Mr Gazelee’s brother magistrate in the West London Court. Are our magistrates so resentful of criticism that an arrow aimed at one of them will wound one of his fellows by proxy? We cannot, of course, know what curious considerations influenced Mr Gazelee. The devil himself, said an eminent lawyer, knoweth not the mind of man. But this much is clear” –
Full orchestra
–
“An injustice has been done. It must be put right. We call upon the Home Secretary to institute an independent enquiry into the matter. Justice must not only be done, it must be seen to be done” –
Bang. Bang.

The editors of rival journals in and around Fleet Street read this remarkable effusion with attention. “So that’s what the old devil’s up to,” they said. “Some link between the Dylan case and this one? Police being used as Government pawns? Not very probable. But suppose it were true? Political dynamite. Particularly with an election in the offing. But dynamite, mishandled, as we all know, can blow up in the face of its user.”

The national press decided to follow the hunt, but to follow it, for the moment, at a safe distance.

The papers which supported the Government deplored another attempt to blacken the reputation of the finest police force in the world, and deplored even more a personal attack on a magistrate who, being a public official, could not defend himself.

The Opposition papers were not so sure. They had studied once again the reports on the original hearing. They reminded themselves, at some length, that they were debarred from comment on the case, since it was under appeal and therefore
sub judice
(thus, in fact, commenting on it both fully and safely). But as a general principle, they said, and quite apart from specific instances,
was
it right, in the case of a man seeking a remedy against a member of the Government, that the availability of that remedy should depend upon a magistrate? After all, a magistrate had not got the same absolute safety from removal as a High Court Judge. It was, of course, true that a magistrate’s decision could be tested by the process of mandamus in the High Court, but this was a complicated and expensive procedure. Surely it would be better,
if any doubt at all existed,
for the summons to be granted, so that the matter could be tried by due process of law.

The Times
refrained from comment.

At eleven o’clock that morning the Director of Public Prosecutions left his office in Buckingham Gate. The sun was already very hot. He had both windows of his official car wound down, and told the chauffeur to drive slowly. He wanted time to think. The car proceeded, at a sedate pace, down Birdcage Walk, round Parliament Square and past the façade of both Houses before it turned in at the Lord Chancellor’s gate. The policeman on duty, who was expecting him, pressed the button which raised the automatic barrier. The big car slid through the archway with not more than a foot to spare on either side, crossed the small courtyard, and came to rest in the larger courtyard beyond.

As the Director got out, the young barrister who was the Lord Chancellor’s private secretary hurried out to meet him. Together they entered the lift. (It had been installed by the last Chancellor but four, a man of more weight in his body than his judgements.) Alighting at the first floor they walked along a passageway from both walls of which previous Chancellors looked down their noses at them, and came finally to the large light room overlooking the Thames on one side and Black Rod’s garden on the other, which is the inmost sanctum of the British legal system.

The Lord Chancellor who got up to greet the Director was a short man with a face like a prizefighter.

He said, “You know why I’ve sent for you?”

“Not difficult to guess.”

“Have you read the article?”

“Certainly. It was also sent to me separately, by three Members of Parliament, one High Court Judge and the Chairman of the Metropolitan Magistrates Association.”

“Do you think it’s actionable?”

“Defamatory, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“No, I don’t. I think a jury would almost certainly hold it to be fair comment on a matter of public interest.”

“Do you think it’s contempt of court?”

“That’s much more difficult to answer. If the hearing had been committal proceedings, to be followed by a jury trial, one would assume that the jury would read the article and could be influenced by it. In which case, in my view, it would constitute contempt.”

“So–?”

“But this is rather different, isn’t it?”

“Why?”

“The next step in this case is a hearing before a Divisional Court. Can one suppose that three experienced judges are going to be influenced in their decision by a newspaper article?”

“Surely the test is objective, not subjective. It doesn’t matter who is going to read the article. If it comments on a case while it’s proceeding, in a way which could affect the mind of a reader, that is contempt of court.”

“That may have been so once. I’m afraid it’s not the way the courts apply it now. In recent cases–”

“You’re thinking of the Distillers.”

“Among others.”

“And you’re advising me that a charge of contempt would not stand up.”

The Director considered his answer very carefully. He tried not to let the fact that he disliked the Chancellor influence him. He said, “I think it’s a borderline case. You might secure a verdict at the end of the day. Part of the article is a serious and personal attack on the magistrate who heard the application. And he is the magistrate to whom the application will have to be referred back if the action in the High Court succeeds. That must be objectionable.”

When the Director paused, the Chancellor said, “I was sure that sentence was going to end with the word ‘but’. You think a charge would lie, but–”

“You want my personal opinion?”

“That is why I interrupted your busy morning, Director.”

“I think it would be inadvisable.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because it would appear to the public that the Judiciary were lending themselves to a cover-up operation by the Executive.”

That produced a very long silence indeed. Then the Chancellor said, in a voice which tinkled with ice, “Well, I asked for your personal opinion, and you’ve certainly given it to me. You say, ‘people might think’. You wouldn’t, I take it, subscribe to the view yourself.”

“If you mean,” said the Director, “do I think that those two policemen were deliberately set on to Mauger to discredit him, the answer is no. I’ve studied their records. There are a number of instances in the past when that same pair have picked up men, late at night, on a drunk and disorderly charge. On more than one occasion the man is said to have assaulted them. In this case they were particularly anxious to round off their patrol with a charge and a conviction.”

“Why?”

“Because they’d missed out on an office-breaking job earlier in the evening, and had found a reprimand waiting for them when they reported back to the Station at midnight.”

“I see,” said the Chancellor with distaste. He knew, as well as anyone, that the best police forces have a sprinkling of unreliable characters. It pained him only to have his attention drawn to it.

“On the other hand,” said the Director, “if you’re suggesting that the Government was embarrassed by Mauger’s article, and the attention it drew to the Killey-Dylan case, I should advise the Government – if they asked me, and if they ever listened to my advice – to steer as clear as they possibly can of the whole business.”

“It’s a counsel of perfection,” said the Chancellor coldly. “But I’ll see that it’s passed on. I shall be personally involved, in any event.”

“Oh?”

“I am attending the hearing as
amicus curiae.”

“I see,” said the Director. He was aware that the Chancellor, by virtue of his office, had to be both politician and lawyer. It had always seemed to him to be an unhappy arrangement.

Lambard was going out to lunch with his son Jonathan. Jonathan had suggested the date. His father had suggested the venue. He trusted the food and the wine list at his own club more than of any restaurant that his son was likely to be able to afford.

As Lambard sat in his office he wondered, rather sadly, what Jonathan wanted. Usually it was money. His taxi was at the door and he was on his way out when the telephone rang. He hesitated, realized that his secretary would not have put the call through if it had not been important, and went back.

When five minutes later he walked out to the taxi and the driver said, “Where to, sir?” he stared at him, his thoughts obviously far away. Recalling himself with an effort he gave the name of his club, and climbed in. The taxi driver thought he looked like a man who had either heard bad news which he didn’t want to believe, or news so good that he hardly dared to believe it.

Over lunch Jonathan kept the conversation so firmly on polo and regimental shop that his father concluded that he must be angling for a very large loan indeed. They were tucked away in the furthest corner of the guest room and the table next to them was empty. When the coffee had been poured out Jonathan cleared his throat and said, “There was one thing I wanted to talk about, Dad.”

Lambard reached mentally for his chequebook.

“I was talking to Bill Sexton on Wednesday. He came to one of our guest nights.”

Lambard nodded. He knew that his young partner had a number of army friends and was himself a territorial soldier.

“He was rather worried.”

“Really?” said Lambard. “He had no cause to be. We’re doing rather well this year.”

“Not about the firm. About you.”

“Oh?”

Jonathan looked embarrassed, but determined, like a young man about to propose marriage for the first time. He said, “You mustn’t be annoyed with him. He told me because he thought I ought to know.”

“About what?”

“About you being offered a knighthood.”

“Oh, that. It’s not certain yet. Though they don’t usually say anything about it unless it’s pretty definite.”

“That’s just what I mean. They could change their minds, couldn’t they?”

His father looked at him curiously. A faint suspicion of what was coming crossed his mind. He said, “Certainly. Until the thing’s in the
Gazette
it’s just pie in the sky. I believe that, in theory, the Queen can change her mind even after that.”

“Mummy would be terribly disappointed if you don’t get it now.”

“She might be if she knew anything about it.”

“She does. I thought I ought to tell her.”

“In that case, you did something extremely stupid.”

“I realize that now,” said Jonathan, with unexpected humility. “Only when Bill told me, I assumed it was a snip. It wasn’t until he rang me up last night that I realized that you might – that it might not come off.”

“I see,” said his father. He waved to the waiter who came across with boxes of cigars on a tray. Lambard offered them to his son, who shook his head impatiently. He selected one himself, cut the end, and lit it. Then he said, “I suppose Bill told you that I was taking on the Killey case.”

“Yes. He explained it all to me. That you thought Killey was being framed by the Government. It was because people at the Law Society had unearthed some other cases like it. Years and years ago. The whole thing sounded pretty thin to me, actually.”

“Did it?”

“Suppose you’re wrong about it. Suppose it was a coincidence. Coincidences do happen. I remember one of the masters at school told me that three different chaps invented logarithms, in three different countries, at the same moment.”

His father looked at his son through a haze of cigar smoke. He saw the handsome, self-assured petulant face and tried to build it back into the little boy that he had known only a dozen years before. But the child had gone; gone for ever.

He said, as gently as he could. “This isn’t a mistake, Johnnie. The earlier case was brought by a man called Herman. This one was a man called Stukely. They’re the same man. Herman changed his name by deed poll to Stukely some years ago. I heard just before I came out. The Law Society have found the record.”

When Mrs Warburton got to the office, as she was the first to do every morning, she was unable to open the door. Her key went into the lock and turned for a certain distance, then it stuck, and no effort of hers would rotate it far enough to free the catch. Young Willoughby, who arrived shortly afterwards, was unable to do much better.