January 10, 2024 - 7:00am

The Post Office scandal, involving postmasters and postmistresses wrongfully convicted of stealing money despite known flaws in the Horizon computer system, has been rumbling away in the background of British public life for a long time. Private Eye, to its credit, has been plugging away for well over a decade. But the issue is finally at the heart of political debate, thanks to the successful ITV drama Mr Bates vs. The Post Office. Paula Vennells, who was CEO of the Post Office from 2012 to 2019 when the organisation was still persecuting employees and obstructing attempts to uncover the truth, has agreed to surrender her CBE.   

Some convictions have already been quashed, and some compensation has been paid. Yet hundreds of victims and their families — many of whom had their lives ruined — are still awaiting genuine recognition and financial restitution for years of misery and hardship. One solution that has been floated is that all those prosecuted should receive the royal prerogative of mercy, or pardon. This was the mechanism used in the case of Alan Turing and many other men convicted of gross indecency before the liberal reforms of the 1960s.  

One drawback to this approach is that, in law, royal pardons do not overturn convictions, as a successful appeal does. All the same, there would be formidable symbolism in the King formally recognising the terrible wrong that has been done. In Britain the Crown is the fount and guarantor of justice. Not for nothing do judges sit underneath the royal coat of arms. I sat on a jury last summer and, although the courtroom lacked a certain grandeur, the lion and the unicorn on the wall above the Bench reinforced very strongly the seriousness and significance of our task.  

The system is imperfect, but the whole point of prosecutions being carried out in the name of Rex is that the monarch in some sense represents the whole community, and our desire and need to maintain law and social cohesion. Police officers swear to “serve the King in the office of constable”, and there is a crown on their warrant cards. We have His Majesty’s Courts and Tribunals Service.

It would be easy to scorn all this as mere archaic frippery, the detritus of an undemocratic age. Much better, says the progressive mind, to cut through the fusty mysticism. The problem is that human beings relish ritual and tradition. 

Rationalists and tidy-minded reformers may grumble, but long-established ceremonial tradition has its own kind of authority, as we saw with the Coronation. Whatever you think of monarchy in general, or the person of Charles III, it seems that for many people the “awesome majesty of the law” is somehow inseparable from the long continuity of the nation and its system of government. 

This may be strange or irrational, but countries where prosecutions are carried out in the name of other legal fictions, such as The People or The State, do not have noticeably better justice systems than our own. The Crown may be an abstraction of sorts, but it is a powerful one.


Niall Gooch is a public sector worker and occasional writer who lives in Kent.

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