Sir Stephen Tumim

Stephen Tumim had other virtues, writes Nicolas Barker [further to the obituary by General Sir David Ramsbotham, Maggi Hambling and Nicholas Faith, 12 December].

He had a large and irresistible sense of humour, easily provoked and not so easily repressed. Even as a judge at Willesden County Court, not the most obvious source, laughter would keep breaking in, if not in court, at least shared with his much-loved clerk afterwards. It may have been his success in dealing fairly in a polyethnic community that led to his appointment to carry out an inquiry into the judicial system of the Cayman Islands. He leapt at the chance to go out to this small but exotic colony, and was delighted to find all the appurtenances of colonial government preserved, from Government House (and the Governor's Rolls-Royce, in excellent condition, since there was only a mile or two of road for it to cover) to the prison.

It was the prison that fascinated Tumim. There was, if I remember, only one prisoner in it, since crime was as rare as the inhabitants. Always practical, Tumim concentrated his inquiry, not on the theoretical possibilities of justice in a tax haven, but on this example. He was much more interested in the solitude of one criminal, and its effect on him.

No doubt this showed in the long report that he wrote, in his always readable style, and it must have been this that caught the eye of those who chose him in 1987 to be Chief Inspector of Prisons. Whether they expected the genie that they uncorked from this bottle is another matter.

He also had a fine and individual taste in pictures, especially for those of artists of the first half of the 20th century, and Robert Bevan in particular. His own pictures had decorated the walls of the beautiful house in Hammersmith that he was forced to leave when an ironic public statement failed to catch a similar sense of humour in the IRA, and were rehung, not without some anxiety as to whether they would all fit, in the smaller house to which he and Winifred then moved. This then became the centre of their always generous hospitality.

But a central part of both houses was Tumim's library. It was very definitely a library, not a heterogeneous collection of books. He read deliberately, and preferred to buy rather than borrow books, although he was a loyal member of the London Library. He was very widely read in English literature of all periods, and old as well as contemporary history. He had a special feeling for out-of-the-way books. If he knew Tristram Shandy practically by heart (and generously supported the Laurence Sterne Trust), he also read Mackenzie's The Man of Feeling and Amory's The Life of John Buncle, Esq.

He was particularly fond of that classic of country life, Cecil Torr's Small Talk at Wrey; he owned the original three volumes, and regularly pressed the modern paperback on willing friends.

I remember one Easter long ago, when Sir Anthony Lousada, Stephen Tumim, Michael Seifert and I were in our kitchen, all helping to get lunch ready, writes Paul Levy - and Anthony said, "What a picture, four middle-aged Jews standing around a table at Easter, opening oysters." We all laughed so much. And as they left, Anthony and Stephen asked if I'd agree for them to put me up for their beloved Garrick.

Years later, Stephen was in hospital with his first heart attack, and Winifred rang to say that all Stephen could think of was that my name had come up before the membership committee, and he was determined to get the letter of support written. When there was a letter of objection, Stephen nearly died all over again.

I of course insisted on withdrawing my name. But it worried Stephen and Anthony, I think, precisely because it looked to them like a gesture against Our Crowd.