law is slow to accept such evidence, even when it has stood the test of cross-examination—”
And so, at three o’clock on that hot afternoon in August, Arthur Lamson descended the stairs which lead down from the dock in the Court of Criminal Appeal and emerged, a free man.
A considerable reception awaited him. The committee of welcome consisted of a number of reporters, mainly from the sporting papers, but a scattering from the national Press as well; one or two very minor celebrities, who didn’t care where they went as long as they got into the photograph; members of the Grendel Street Sporting Club, friends and hangers-on of both sexes.
The party started immediately in the bar of the Law Courts, but this was too small to contain everyone who wanted to get in on the act. A move was made to a small club behind Fleet Street which was broad-minded about membership and seemed to observe its own licensing hours.
By six o’clock the party was larger than when it had started, and much louder. Lamson had a six-month thirst to quench, and he stood, at the centre of the noisiest group, a schooner of whisky in his large right hand, the sweat running in rivulets down his red face, a monarch unjustly deposed, returning in triumph to his kingdom.
“I got a great respect for the laws of England,” he announced. “They don’t put an innocent man in prison. Not like some countries I could name.”
“That’s right, Art,” said the chorus.
“I’m not saying anything against the police. They’ve got their job to do, like I’ve got mine. If they’re prepared to let bygones be bygones, I’m prepared to do the same.”
This treaty of friendship with the police force was felt to be in the best of taste, and a fresh round of drinks was ordered.
Back in Grendel Street extensive preparations had been made for the return of the hero. Streamers had been placed in position, from top-storey windows, spanning the street, and banners had been hung out with, “Welcome Home Art” embroidered on them in letters of red cotton-wool. The two public houses, the Wheelwrights Arms at one end of the street and the Duke of Albany at the other end, were both doing a roaring trade, and the band of the Railway Recreational Club was starting on its favourite piece which was the William Tell Overture.
The organiser of these festivities was seated at her bedroom window, in a chair, looking down on the street. This was old Mrs. Lamson, Art’s mother, the matriarch of Grendel Street. Ma Lamson was a character in her own right. She had married, out-drunk, out-talked and out-lived three husbands, the third of whom was Art’s father. A stroke had paralysed her legs, but not her tongue. Confined to a wheelchair, and rendered even more impatient by her confinement, her shrill voice still dominated the street.
“Fix the end of that streamer, you big git,” she screeched. “It’s flapping like a lot of bloody washing on a line. That’s better. My God, if I wasn’t here to keep an eye on things, you’d have the whole bloody lot down in the bloody street. And Albert”— this was to a middle-aged man, one of her sons by her first marriage, himself a grandfather—”clear those buggers back onto the pavement.” She indicated the drinkers outside the Wheelwrights Arms who were sketching an informal eightsome reel to the strains of William Tell. “We want Art to drive straight down the street when he comes home, don’t we? He can’t do it if they’ve toned it into a pally-de-dance, can he?”
By eight o’clock the original party had moved from the Fleet Street club, and re-established itself in the back room of a public house near Blackfriars Station. Its constituents had gradually changed. The journalists had slid away, to write up their impressions of the event for next morning’s papers. The very minor celebrities had gone in search of the next happening to which they could attach themselves. What remained was a hard core of serious
And so, at three o’clock on that hot afternoon in August, Arthur Lamson descended the stairs which lead down from the dock in the Court of Criminal Appeal and emerged, a free man.
A considerable reception awaited him. The committee of welcome consisted of a number of reporters, mainly from the sporting papers, but a scattering from the national Press as well; one or two very minor celebrities, who didn’t care where they went as long as they got into the photograph; members of the Grendel Street Sporting Club, friends and hangers-on of both sexes.
The party started immediately in the bar of the Law Courts, but this was too small to contain everyone who wanted to get in on the act. A move was made to a small club behind Fleet Street which was broad-minded about membership and seemed to observe its own licensing hours.
By six o’clock the party was larger than when it had started, and much louder. Lamson had a six-month thirst to quench, and he stood, at the centre of the noisiest group, a schooner of whisky in his large right hand, the sweat running in rivulets down his red face, a monarch unjustly deposed, returning in triumph to his kingdom.
“I got a great respect for the laws of England,” he announced. “They don’t put an innocent man in prison. Not like some countries I could name.”
“That’s right, Art,” said the chorus.
“I’m not saying anything against the police. They’ve got their job to do, like I’ve got mine. If they’re prepared to let bygones be bygones, I’m prepared to do the same.”
This treaty of friendship with the police force was felt to be in the best of taste, and a fresh round of drinks was ordered.
Back in Grendel Street extensive preparations had been made for the return of the hero. Streamers had been placed in position, from top-storey windows, spanning the street, and banners had been hung out with, “Welcome Home Art” embroidered on them in letters of red cotton-wool. The two public houses, the Wheelwrights Arms at one end of the street and the Duke of Albany at the other end, were both doing a roaring trade, and the band of the Railway Recreational Club was starting on its favourite piece which was the William Tell Overture.
The organiser of these festivities was seated at her bedroom window, in a chair, looking down on the street. This was old Mrs. Lamson, Art’s mother, the matriarch of Grendel Street. Ma Lamson was a character in her own right. She had married, out-drunk, out-talked and out-lived three husbands, the third of whom was Art’s father. A stroke had paralysed her legs, but not her tongue. Confined to a wheelchair, and rendered even more impatient by her confinement, her shrill voice still dominated the street.
“Fix the end of that streamer, you big git,” she screeched. “It’s flapping like a lot of bloody washing on a line. That’s better. My God, if I wasn’t here to keep an eye on things, you’d have the whole bloody lot down in the bloody street. And Albert”— this was to a middle-aged man, one of her sons by her first marriage, himself a grandfather—”clear those buggers back onto the pavement.” She indicated the drinkers outside the Wheelwrights Arms who were sketching an informal eightsome reel to the strains of William Tell. “We want Art to drive straight down the street when he comes home, don’t we? He can’t do it if they’ve toned it into a pally-de-dance, can he?”
By eight o’clock the original party had moved from the Fleet Street club, and re-established itself in the back room of a public house near Blackfriars Station. Its constituents had gradually changed. The journalists had slid away, to write up their impressions of the event for next morning’s papers. The very minor celebrities had gone in search of the next happening to which they could attach themselves. What remained was a hard core of serious
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