Chapter 3: One for the Pot

With a final snip, Judge Embert Wimple removed the last of his protruding nasal hair – he had already dealt with the ears. This monthly grooming ritual represented the judge’s only use of a mirror. Having been converted to electric shaving twenty years earlier, he saw no reason to observe himself during that operation. This time, he lingered for a moment over his inspection. The years had undoubtedly taken their toll, but for a man of his age he was in good condition. True, greyness and baldness had been battling for decades in the upper reaches, the contest being still undecided. There was a shaggy near-white tuft above each ear, bracketing a ruddy scalp – two tenacious shrubs clinging to a hillside – plus a crescent of similarly snowy hue at the back. In court, the bewigged majesty of the law concealed such things. The slim, five foot seven form was still supple, thanks to early morning bending and stretching exercises, a vigorous daily walk and a good, varied diet. The judge had recently fenced with a vegetarian regime, but that had brought him into such conflict with the distaff side that he had, with concealed relief, abandoned the project. Thus, the ample Mrs Esmeralda Wimple had triumphed as she so often did, quietly but firmly.

The victory had given little satisfaction to Mrs Wimple, who did not pay much heed to domestic matters nowadays, being deeply immersed in oil painting. Even now, she was away for three days, having travelled southwest to Bath to attend a course on perspective. She had been told by her mentor that once one had that element right, one could get away with murder in other aspects of the art. Mrs Wimple had no intention of such impropriety, for she had genuine talent and had several times pocketed respectable sums for her efforts.

So, Embert Wimple was confined to the ministrations of the part-time housekeeper, a lady only marginally younger than her employers and with firm views on domestic affairs. It was, Judge Wimple sometimes thought, ironic that he, so awesome in his official duties, was subjected to what he considered petticoat government on the home front. Still, the forthright Mrs Bristow had been somewhat quelled by her recent head-to-head encounter with the judge.

This being early May, the cricket season was lumbering into action. England’s players had returned from their exhausting overseas tour and were facing a summer of what promised to be equally hard labour. Gardening at the Wimple establishment had finally been handed over to a professional. This arrangement suited his honour perfectly, as it gave him time to concentrate on the intellectual pursuits so dear to him.

The judge had only one small matter before him today, as so often a contest of which he knew nothing in advance and which he was, happily, to try in his new position, without a jury. The case was Winterton versus Boland, the prosecution and defence being represented by, respectively, Roderick Prendergast and Douglas Latimer, two gentlemen well known – albeit with their names not entirely clear – to the judge. Having appeared and satisfied himself that he had grasped the preliminary details, Embert Wimple addressed prosecuting counsel. “You may proceed, Mr Fothergill.”

Aware of the judge’s proclivities, Prendergast nodded. “Thank you, Your Honour. The position here is that my client, Mr Winterton, claims damages against the defendant, in that he – my client – suffered financial losses amounting to nine hundred pounds, as a result of the activities of Mr Boland. There is also an element of emotional distress, though no claim is made in that respect.”

“I see,” said the judge. “Perhaps you would favour us with the details.”

“Certainly. The event occurred on the eleventh of December last year. The defendant had bought for his son a model aeroplane, operated by remote control. Father and son had adopted the practice of flying the object in a field adjacent to the properties of both parties. The high-pitched whining of the miniature aircraft caused much annoyance to the Winterton family and to others in the neighbourhood, though Mr Winterton was the only one prepared to take a stand. On the day of the incident, he went out to remonstrate with Mr Boland and the boy, and was greeted with derisory laughter and advice as to what he might care to do with his complaint, the recommendations including a certain anatomical operation on which I will not dwell. Suffice it to say that the defendant’s language was intemperate. The upshot was that there was a scuffle, during which Mr Winterton admits that he pushed Mr Boland in the chest. Mr Boland lost control of the model, with the unfortunate result that it burst through the dining room window of the Winterton house, causing considerable damage.”

The judge interrupted. “One moment, Mr Penworthy,” he said. “Can you enlighten me as to the dimensions of the window and whether or not it was double-glazed?”

“Yes, Your Honour. The window was six feet wide, four feet six inches deep and was single-glazed.”

“Thank you,” said the judge. “I ask only because I had occasion to replace a window recently, following the impact of a golf ball. The pane was somewhat larger than the one you mention and double-glazed, and the cost of replacement was far below what is claimed here. Was there something special about this window?”

“No, Your Honour, but there was er ... as the military people put it, collateral damage.”

“I see. In what form?”

“Mrs Winterton’s dress was ruined and there was defacement of decorations.”

“Dear me,” said the judge. “The details, please.”

Prosecuting counsel drew a deep breath. “It so happened that Mrs Winterton was just passing the window as the aircraft crashed through. Unable to react in any other way, the lady flung herself to the floor and in doing so, tore a very expensive dress, which proved to be beyond repair.”

The judge interrupted. “For the record, could you tell us something about the size and type of aircraft involved?”

“Yes, Your Honour. It was about two feet in wingspan. I cannot state the exact length, but believe it was not much different from the width. The item was one of a series of scale models of World War Two combat aircraft. It was a Stuka.”

“Ah,” said the judge. “The old Sturzkampfbomber. I remember it well.” His mind scrolled backwards through the years. As a young man, Embert Wimple had been an enthusiastic amateur aviator. Indeed, in the dark days of 1940, he might well have been one of the immortal ‘few’ – but for the fact that all his identifying papers were accidentally incinerated in a barrack-room stove. That incident caused him to languish in a Worcestershire transit camp for several weeks, until the authorities rediscovered him. By then, the Luftwaffe menace was receding and it was felt that his administrative expertise would be even more valuable than his flying experience. So he became an organiser, rising to the rank of squadron leader without so much as handling a joystick. He had had what some people used to call ‘a good war’. Hauling himself back to the present, he continued: “I see. Now, you say Mrs Winterton lost an expensive item of clothing.”

Prendergast nodded. “Yes, Your Honour. It is the custom of the Wintertons to dress for dinner –”