‘I need some advice,’ James said, backing away as Creswell left his office. ‘If you have a moment.’
‘I do not. Walk with me.’
The moment Creswell set off, James remembered how fast he moved. His leather shoes clicked a regular rhythm on the stone floor, the sound bouncing from one stone arch to the next as his silks flapped behind like the wings of a great crow. James had to trot to keep up.
‘What advice?’ Creswell asked.
‘Mr Hawkins has been arrested…’
‘Ha! Again.’ The barrister laughed. ‘He does make a habit of it, doesn’t he?’
‘And so has His Lordship’s butler.’
‘What tantalising news. I assume you are tasked with assisting. Right turn.’
Creswell switched directions nearly crashing into James, and backed through a pair of swing doors.
‘Arrested for what?’
‘Trespass.’
‘How dull. Where?’
‘Chatham,’ James panted.
‘It becomes duller with each revelation,’ the barrister moaned. ‘But I assume you are acting for Clearwater, and simply because you have always impressed me, I shall take the case.’
‘Oh, my God! Really?’ James was overjoyed. He’d not expected to find the man, let alone find him so readily willing to help.
‘For the next five minutes, yes,’ Creswell said. ‘Details, Wright.’
Seeing another pair of doors ahead, James ran to them and held one open. All the same, Creswell turned his back and spun through as if that was a ritual when passing through any doorway.
‘They are before the magistrate in the morning,’ James gushed. ‘His Lordship is away, and I have to go and see what I can do.’
‘Of course you do, Wright. Trespass to person, goods or land? What’s the tort?’
‘Er, to land, I suppose,’ James replied, and sighed with relief when the barrister came to a halt, his hand on a door marked, “Civil and Criminal Library.”
‘You suppose?’
‘It was a navy yard at Chatham docks, Sir.’
‘Navy yard? Who arrested them?’
‘The local police, I believe. A beat bobby.’
‘Right! About turn.’
Quick as a flash, Creswell marched back the way they had come, forcing James to spin on his heels before falling into step.
‘What were they doing there?’
Remembering how unflappable and detached the man was, James told him what Thomas and Silas would have been doing, but not why. Creswell didn’t question the statement, but took it on board with a grunt before ordering James to make another left, where they clattered their way to a stop at a dead-end, their way blocked by a door with a brass plate that read, “Military Jurisdictions and Exceptions.”
‘In!’ the barrister barked.
James found himself in a large hall with a vaulted ceiling, and if he thought the Clearwater archives below Marks’ office were impressive, this was way beyond anything he could have imagined. Red and gold books lined every shelf for as far as he could see, and the space between the walls housed several large reading tables, none of them in use.
Creswell took two paces into the room, spied some paper on one of the tables, said, ‘Ah-ha!’ and then, without looking, pointed to the wall on his left, nearly taking off James’ head with the swing of his arm.
‘Third shelf up, five volumes in, should be marked “IV to VI”. Go.’
James hurried to locate the book, not daring to ask any more questions and still unsure that what was taking place was actually happening. By the time he had found the volume, Creswell was at the writing-table, scratching a note on the paper.
‘Silence,’ the man ordered, not that James was going to say anything, and when he had written on both sides of the sheet, folded it and took the book.
‘Where are you going now?’ he asked. ‘Chatham?’
‘Yes, from Blackfriars.’
‘Excellent. You have bought another fifteen minutes of my time. You can drop me on the way. I have a tedious talk on ethics to deliver at the Worshipful Society of Apothecaries… No, don’t snigger, Mr Wright, I really do, and it’s just before the railway station. Agreed?’
‘Of course. And I will pay you for your advice.’
‘I haven’t given it yet, but I will in your carriage.’
‘It’s a trap,’ James said, worried that it might not be grand enough for the man.
‘The arrest of your friends, or the vehicle?’
‘The vehicle.’
Creswell had found the page he was looking for, marked a paragraph and inserted the paper before slamming the book shut and thrusting at James.
‘All you will need, dear boy,’ he said, already halfway to the door. ‘The rest shall be explained as we drive.’
‘I’m very grateful, Sir,’ James gasped as they took off along the corridor. ‘And His Lordship will be too.’
‘I don’t doubt it. How is Clearwater? No, don’t tell me. You have much to understand and learn before we part, no time for small talk. First though, Wright…’
James turned right and would have marched into someone’s chambers had Creswell not yanked him back by his collar.
‘Not that right, Wright. Left!’
After another passage, more echoing footsteps pounding like rain accompanied by more clipped directions from the barrister, they arrived at the entrance hall.
‘First. Mr Wright,’ Creswell said as they sailed from the building. ‘There will be a local solicitor appointed for your friends if they haven’t procured one themselves. This man will be an idiot, in the magistrate’s pocket and only interested in shifting his brief from his desk to another’s. He is not your friend. Is that your trap?’
‘Yes.’ James was out of breath, and his feet were aching, but the end of the race was in sight.
Fecker jumped from his bench to open the door.
‘What a handsome driver Clearwater has. Most impressive.’
What was more impressive was that Creswell instantly recognised Fecker as of Cossack descent and greeted him in Russian as he threw himself into the trap.
‘Secondly, Wright,’ he continued as he removed his wig and ran his hand through his raven hair. ‘You will need to pretend to be working for me. We have five minutes to work out the details, and for me to outline the Military Yards and Jurisdiction Act of 1572 as it impacts on the Dockyard Ports Regulation Act of 1865. I have written a full script, and you will need that book as I doubt they have one even in Chatham. So…’
Creswell tapped Fecker on the back with his cane, but instead of driving off, Fecker turned to see what he wanted.
‘Da?’
‘Otvali, bozhe moy,’ Creswell said, beaming.
Fecker glared at the barrister for a moment before slowly turning his head to James.
‘Jimmy? Why he tell me to fuck off?’
‘Did I?’ Creswell spluttered. ‘Terribly sorry, old chap.’
‘Mistake, Fecks. Let’s go,’ James said, and the trap pulled into traffic.
Maybe it was the relief of finding the barrister amenable, or perhaps it was Creswell’s blunder, but James couldn’t help but laugh.
He sobered quickly when Creswell reminded him of what lay ahead and made it clear that if James didn’t behave correctly, Tom and Silas would be sent down.
Twenty
During the short journey to the station, Creswell took James through what he had written, and James reread it several times on the train to Chatham. Although the last lines were cramped, he was impressed at the amount of detail the man had written in such a short period of time. The barrister had also managed to instil into the valet the confidence he needed to deal with the local solicitor and th
e magistrate who, Creswell had explained, would be a Justice of the Peace, appointed by the Admiralty because the misdemeanour had taken place on Admiralty land. The process was confusing, but all James needed to do was keep his cool, maintain his composure and read from the notes should the need arise.
With all that swirling in his head, and his stomach churning for fear of what he might see, he arrived at Chatham police station and asked to interview Thomas and Silas.
He fell at the first hurdle and was denied access until the following morning when a man called Scott would be present. Having dropped the names of Inspector Adelaide and Inspector Turner into his conversation with the desk sergeant, James was able to discover his friends were being well treated and fed because of who they worked for, and, he assumed, because Silas had bribed someone.
There was nothing else he could do until the following morning when the local solicitor, Scott, was due to arrive for the hearing, and James found a garret room in a local inn and spent the rest of the evening rereading Creswell’s notes and the borrowed law book.
Sleep was hard to come by, and he had managed little when the following morning dawned like many others that month, warm and calm. Unlike London where the mornings smelt of coal dust and horse manure, the scent of sea air wafted into James’ open window along with the sound of hammering and the splitting of wood. Dressed, he looked down on the nearby dockyard and watched the masts of tall ships being sawn from decks and dragged by horses to a furnace. Nowhere in the yard could he see the rusting hulk of an ironclad, and assumed The Invisible was somewhere else among the bankside wharves and warehouses stretching to the distant bend in the river. No matter where it was, Quill would no longer be there.
Archer was always talking about the act he and his men had to play. Themselves at home behind closed doors. Master and servants in public. James had adapted well to the duality, but today was to be his most challenging act to date. Not only did he have to look and sound like he knew what he was doing, he also had to do it alone with only Creswell’s brief talk and page of details for support. There was no space in his mind for anxiety, but when it did creep in, he thought of Thomas shackled and helpless, and remembered Silas in Newgate, beaten to an empty shell.
Needing a shave, he found a barber and arrived at the magistrate’s court at nine-fifty having resolved that no matter what, his friends would be free from their cell by lunchtime.
‘I am looking for a Mr Scott,’ he told a disinterested clerk as he entered the courthouse. ‘It’s for the trespass case. He is the solicitor.’
It took some doing, but he managed to persuade the clerk that he was also acting for the accused. When he showed Creswell’s card and a letter of introduction, he was directed along a dull corridor of panelled walls and green floor tiles to a door marked ‘Briefs.’ There, he stopped to draw a deep breath and steady his mind.
‘You are a gentleman,’ he whispered. ‘You know your business, and you are not leaving here without Tom and Silas.’
Remembering Creswell’s words of wisdom, which had more to do with how to successfully bluff, than how to win a legal argument, he turned the brass handle and walked into the room.
It was empty save for one man hunched over a table spread with papers and folders tied with red ribbons. The man looked up and stared at James through bottle-glass spectacles, which magnified his eyes to comic proportions, his thin, white eyebrows raised in expectation.
‘Yes?’ he said. ‘Can I help you?’
‘James Wright, here to assist with the Payne and Hawkins matter.’
‘Nonsense.’
‘I’m sorry?’
Closing the door, James took one last pause to collect himself and muster his acting ability before putting his knapsack on a chair and taking one opposite the solicitor.
‘Mr Scott, I assume?’
‘I am. And I represent at bail hearings here. I’ve never heard of you.’
‘You won’t have, Sir,’ James said, taking out the law book under the suspicious gaze of the old gentleman. ‘I have been sent by Sir Easterby Creswell, barrister to Lord Clearwater. My card.’
Scott glanced at Creswell’s card dubiously before grunting and turning his attention to a brief.
‘Happy to let you lead,’ he said, which surprised James and worried him at the same time.
‘To lead?’
‘You are qualified, aren’t you?’
‘Well…’
‘You understand the tort of trespass and the regulation pertaining to the issuance of the warrant, arrests made on Admiralty property, the Admiralty Powers and Act of sixty-five and the role of the Admiral-Superintendent in such cases. If you are not, Sir, then I fear Edward Lawson JP will tear you apart. He is particular about the Metropolitan Police Act of 1860 and its jurisdictional implications over dockyards and the QRM.’
Scott blinked his over-exaggerated eyes before sliding a brief across the table and returning to his other cases.
James swore silently, aware that he was more than likely about to make a fool of himself, and worse, stood no chance of having his friends freed. If that worst-case scenario happened, he would have no choice but to leave them and head to Derbyshire alone. The railway timetables had told him that to arrive at Crosstown Mine by sunset, the latest train he could take from London left at four thirty, giving him only six and a half hours to reach St Pancras station.
‘Are they first on the list?’ he asked.
‘No. Tenth.’
‘Tenth?’
Scott passed him the list, and James read it with dismay. It must have shown on his face, because Scott said, ‘Don’t worry. Lawson likes to get through by lunchtime the same as the rest of us. These are only bail and suitability hearings. He usually allows no more than five minutes per case.’
Before James could ask anything else or prepare himself further, the door swung open and the clerk appeared to announce that the JP was robed and ready.
‘And here we go again,’ Scott sighed as he stood. ‘You don’t want to take a couple of public orders, do you? I have a hell of a headache this morning.’
So did James, and he declined.
Following the solicitor with his legs quivering and his heart pounding, the sight of the magistrates’ court did nothing to quell the anxiety he failed to keep at bay. Dark wood panels sported a large royal crest above the dais which was faced by the stark benches of the clerks and the public. The sight of the dock assaulted his reasoning as he entered, and the smell of stale sweat and bad breath told him this was not the Central Criminal Court of the Old Bailey. It was a local, small and dark chamber where, by the looks of it, any members of the local community were allowed access to spectate. Some were asleep, others inebriated, and at first, James thought they might be those accused of the public order offences Scott didn’t want to deal with. It was only after he had sat beside the solicitor that he realised they were members of the press with nothing better to do on a July morning.
Laying his notes and the law book before him, he looked for Thomas, but didn’t see them, and was about to ask Scott when they would appear when the solicitor shot to his feet, and the spectators fell silent.
The clerk announced the arrival of, ‘Mr Edward Lawson JP,’ along with other formal words, and a narrow stick of a man climbed onto the bench as if scaling a mountain, pulling himself up by the brass rail and the arm of his high-backed chair. The JP looked wearily around the court as if sad to see the same old faces, nodded to Scott, glared at James in confusion, and fell into his seat.
Everyone sat, papers were shuffled, and the JP waved a silent hand at a man in robes who, in turn, nodded to a police officer by the dock.
The first case was brought before the magistrate, and Scott’s comment about the JP’s expediency was proved correct. The man’s name was read out along with the charge,
he was asked how he was to plead, and asked if he understood the charges. That done, the JP addressed Scott.
‘I assume you are going to bother me with a bail application?’ he said, regarding his pocket watch.
‘As I must, Your Worship.’
‘Pointless. Bail refused. Next.’
Lawson continued in this manner for the next six defendants, and although it meant the cases were heard quickly, it also meant James stood little chance of being allowed to speak, let alone fight the case. The JP granted no bail, nor even any defence from the accused, and seemed more interested in charging through his list than overseeing fair play. All James could do was swallow bile and think how Creswell might approach the proceedings.
‘Payne and Hawkins to be heard together, Your Worship,’ the clerk finally announced, snapping James’ mind back into focus.
‘Very well.’
James turned to the dock in time to see Thomas’ head appear, his face drawn and pale, but somehow defiant. He was not in shackles, for which James was grateful, but he was shamefaced and clearly mortified, keeping his eyes down as if not wanting to look on the crowd of strangers judging him from their benches.
Silas took the dock with something approaching boredom, as if this was an everyday occurrence, either that or he knew the procedure and was resigned to his fate. He stared back insolently at the gawping public, but when his eyes fell on James, they opened wide, and his mouth twitched into a smile. Nudging Thomas, he dipped his head to James and clutched Thomas’ arm as if to warn him away from any reaction. Thomas looked straight through James at first, but when their eyes met, an expression of relief washed over his face and some colour returned.
James nodded to him with no expression and turned to face the JP. The weight of his responsibility pressed so heavily it restricted his breathing, and he wondered if he would be able to speak at all.
The charge was read, and stifling a yawn, the JP waved his hand disinterestedly towards Scott.
Artful Deception (The Clearwater Mysteries Book 6) Page 23
