“Mr. Snopes, do you have family?”
“I’ve never married.”
“And your father. He’s in the House of Lords, I understand.”
“Yes.” He set down his spoon. “Some people seek me out assuming my father’s status will help their case. I work very hard to ensure that they realize the truth: that my father’s wealth and position will do nothing to advance their cases. In some instances, perhaps the opposite. I’ve been independent of the man since age eighteen.”
“Of course,” she answered immediately.
To his astonishment, she seemed completely at ease with his answer.
It dawned on William that he’d managed to prolong a brief visit, intended to confirm his sentiments and leave, into hours, with lengthy questions implying he might represent her after all.
Why didn’t he tell her his refusal of the case and be gone?
Still he sat, picking at his quail with a knife.
The question he’d previously asked: suddenly William realized he very much wanted an answer.
“My lady, I need an answer to the question I raised in the study. Is there anything in your business dealings with the Padget, your background, in the loan—anything which would compromise your cousin’s defense? Any illegality at all? Your answer is important to your own safety, as well as your cousin’s.”
Her voice grew resolute. “What does it matter? The landed patricians in neighboring estates—once our friends—already avoid us as though we were infected with the plague. Since even before my father’s physical decline, they have acted as though our misfortunes were deserved, from incompetence or worse, I believe it enables them to pretend that their estates and positions are gifted by a higher power, and they could never suffer as we have. News reports of misconduct will only confirm people’s disdain. My father is beyond caring, as am I, but I love this land and our tenants. I love the town and parish—as all of my family has. I am all that remains between our survival and bankruptcy, and its impact on the farmers and people of Staunton who depend on us. That’s why I made the investment in the vessel, even with borrowed funds. I’d do it again.”
Mr. Snopes nodded sympathetically. “A well-stated defense,” he pressed softly. “But not an answer to my question.”
She set down her cutlery. “I don’t see why your representation should subject me or my actions to your scrutiny or approval.”
“It must, because your defense may prove a very difficult affair. For myself and my staff as much as for you and your cousin.”
The lady’s face grew still.
“Yes,” she said quietly. “I suppose it will.” She paused, then added, “Very well. I’ll answer your question. I’ve done nothing illegal as regards the Padget.”
A tight fist of empathy occupied William’s chest. He still couldn’t seem to muster the resolve to decline her case. She seemed so deeply sincere. Sincerity—or the ability to feign it—was the most important quality of a good barrister. She would have made an excellent one.
William pushed back his chair and stood. “Thank you for dinner, Lady Jameson. I think I should retire now. I plan to get back to London tomorrow. I’ll give you my decision regarding representation in the morning.”
More disappointment filled her eyes.
“Of course” was her reply.
The servant appeared.
“Davidson will show you to your room.”
William nodded, then followed the servant up the staircase and into a room looking over a side lawn. His small case already rested on the bed. Twin candles created pools of light in the darkness. As Davidson withdrew, William walked to the window, opening it slightly.
The fist of empathy still gripped his chest. Anger joined it, passing through him as he considered the forces likely directed against this solitary woman and her cousin. Someone intended to crush them. Her hands were empty of any real weapons to fight back—even financial ones.
He’d come to observe her wealth and follow Edmund’s and Thomas’s lead by declining her. He hadn’t planned on seeing such a crumbling edifice of an estate. He hadn’t planned to be touched by the resolution of the lady herself.
The movement he’d traced on the piano returned. A little louder now. He almost had it. It would drive him insane if he didn’t recall it soon.
The movement stayed with him until he fell asleep.
Coarse smoke reached William through his dreams. It was wispy and vague at first, then strong enough to rouse him. He sat up in bed fully awake. Walked to the window he’d left ajar.
The sky was dark in the early hours of morning. Through the trees beyond the lawn, sparks flew high above the branches, like shooting stars retracing their paths home. Occasional surges of flame rose from the woods to the west, revealing smoke that billowed as a black scourge against the blue-black sky.
William quickly dressed and hurried downstairs, heading outside in the direction of the trees. A cold wind penetrated his jacket as he crossed the lawn in the dark, then a field where dead winter grasses brushed him as he walked. William felt the first drops of a winter rain on his forehead. Past the field, his steps took him into a wide break in the trees where the soil was broken. Footsteps traced a path across muddy ground. He followed them through the woods to a broad clearing.
A bonfire roared in the middle of the clearing. The smell of kerosene and burning flesh hung over a scene of dancing, towering flames. Heat pulsed against his face.
William stepped near enough to see that the heart of the fire was the outline of a horse, its flesh melting over crackling bones.
“What are you doing out here?”
William started.
On the far side of the fire, he made out Lady Jameson, robed and hooded.
He rounded the fire to her side. “The smoke woke me,” William said uncertainly. “What in heaven’s name is all this?”
“A few days ago, my horse died . . .” she began, trailing off momentarily. “One of only three that remained to us. Davidson used our other horses to drag it here yesterday, before you arrived.”
Rippling flashes of orange revealed tears on her cheeks.
“You’re crying.”
“It’s the smoke,” she said unconvincingly. She rubbed them away.
“Why burn the animal at night? Now? In the coming rain?”
“I couldn’t wait any longer. Gypsy—she was my favorite. I couldn’t leave her to be eaten as carrion. And we hadn’t enough help to bury her.”
“But now? At night?”
“I didn’t want to be seen.”
“Seen by whom?”
Pause. “By you.”
“Why?”
She hesitated again.
“A man killed my beloved horse at my feet, Mr. Snopes,” she said with sadness and anger. “A giant of a man. It was the evening I returned from meeting with you. I must have been followed from London. On the drive to the manor, he shot my mare and warned me not to pursue the case to protect Harold and the Padget.”
“Why didn’t you send word?”
“I was worried you’d refuse to represent us. I feared what you’d do if you knew we’d been threatened with harm.”
There was thunder from cracking wood or bone, followed by another black cloud taking to the sky.
William was stunned. Could the hidden investors have done this? Surely not agents of the Crown.
He thought again of Captain Tuttle. Despite what he’d learned from the Lord Privy Seal, he believed the man.
Recalled again his visit to Mandy Bristol.
Thought of Lady Jameson.
The orchestral arrangement finally burst through. The piece that had eluded him these past weeks came fully alive.
It was Haydn’s Symphony Number 100, with all the tumult of its final movement that he loved. He hadn’t heard the piece, in person or memory, since the night he’d fled his father. When he’d been so alone and uncertain. Defenseless. Defiant.
He looked again at the lady.
/> Those were precisely the sentiments he’d felt about Lady Jameson ever since she’d come to his office. Without allies, but determined. A child of the upper classes who no longer belonged there. All these days, from the hearing through his investigation, she’d floated in the backwaters of his mind on the ebb and flow of the Haydn piece he couldn’t identify.
William looked toward the house, invisible through the trees. A manor held in place by courage and will. Lady Jameson should have been well married years before. Seeing and hearing her passion to save that manor and her family’s estate, he didn’t need to ask why she wasn’t.
It felt suddenly foolish to be standing here in the rain, when the truth was that he’d made his decision the moment she answered the door wearing a servant’s clothes.
“Lady Jameson,” he said, “you’ve judged me wrongly. Return to the house and get some rest. I’ll watch the fire until it’s safely down. Tomorrow I’ll interview you at length, then ride back to London. We’ve a great deal of work ahead of us if we’re to win your case.”
19
OFFICE OF BARRISTER WILLIAM SNOPES
GRAY’S INN
LONDON
“So you’re actually taking the case?” Edmund said, seated before William’s desk.
William glanced from his junior to Obadiah and back again. He’d already reviewed what he learned the past several days, and the atmosphere in his office was as he’d expected. Obadiah, always game, the committed optimist once a decision had been made, was ready and eager. Obadiah’s friend, Edmund, creative to brilliance but too often brooding and suspicious of decisions which were not his own, certain of unseen predators waiting to pounce.
For the benefit of both, William would show no doubt.
“Yes, Edmund. There’s always contrary evidence; there are always wrinkles. With Solicitor Mortimer’s testimony certifying the Letter, I believe that either Captain Tuttle held a convincing forgery or a genuine Letter of Marque when he took the French ship. Either way, he doesn’t deserve transportation or execution. I’m troubled by the mysteries surrounding the matter. Still, I intend to proceed. That includes prosecuting the killer of the cabin boy.”
Edmund grew resigned. “Where will you have me start, then?”
“Actually, Edmund, I’ve decided not to have you involved in this one. I’ll need someone to manage other matters while I proceed with Lady Jameson’s and the captain’s case.”
A short pause, then, “But I’m your junior, sir.”
“And as my junior, it’s best that you keep my practice afloat while I handle the Jameson case.”
“Then Obadiah will still assist you?”
“Yes. I’ll need his help gathering evidence, briefing and such. The usual solicitor’s chores. Of course, I’ll miss your presence at counsel table.”
Edmund shifted in his seat. Obadiah looked back and forth between them. “Uh, sir,” the solicitor said, “do you believe the lady’s story about someone killing her horse and threatening her?”
Always the peacemaker, changing the subject, William thought. “I do. Or she went to impossible lengths to deceive me.”
“This is all new for me, sir, even in a capital case,” the solicitor admitted. “The newspaper articles. Shooting a horse. Destruction of evidence. I’ve never seen or heard of the fight spilling out of the courtroom quite like this before.”
“Nor I. But the case will still be won or lost in the courtroom.” William looked to his junior. “There’ll be other cases, Edmund.”
Caution ruled Edmund’s expression as he looked back at William. “Will there be, sir?” He rose and walked from the room.
When they were alone, Obadiah shook his head.
“What is it, Obadiah?”
“I just don’t understand why you won’t tell Edmund.”
“Tell him what?”
“Why, it’s obvious, isn’t it? To anyone but Edmund, that is. It’s clear you don’t want him involved to protect him from the attacks you’re experiencing. Bullheaded barrister that he is, Edmund assumes you lack confidence in him.”
The solicitor’s clarity of insight surprised William once again, especially regarding Edmund. It was little wonder, given what Edmund and Obadiah had been through together for years before William had found them. But with Obadiah’s small stature and usually expressionless face—William swore he’d seen him sit in the court gallery for hours without revealing an ounce of reaction—it was easy to forget the young man’s uncommon talent for reading people.
“Because, my dear Obadiah, that would only stiffen his determination to be involved.” He paused to let that sink in. “Besides, despite the personal attacks, with Solicitor Mortimer to confirm Captain Tuttle’s letter, and the hope of more helpful testimony from the first mate, from now on we’ll mostly be seeking witnesses from among the remaining crew members to corroborate what the captain told them of the Letter’s existence.”
A slight twist of the mouth signaled that Obadiah was unconvinced.
“As you say, sir,” he replied. “That reminds me, though. At Newgate, when I brought clothing and food to Captain Tuttle, he told me his Solicitor Mortimer had already been to see him. The captain granted him permission to speak freely to you.”
“Excellent. I should hear from him shortly, then.”
“Yes, sir. What are your intentions about pursuing the investors to prove a forgery?”
William shook his head. “Without the Letter itself, the investors can lie about its authenticity without fear of challenge—if they admit the Letter’s existence at all. We don’t dare risk what they’d say to a jury.”
“Very well. Where do I start?”
“By preparing a brief for a continuance. We haven’t gotten official word on a trial date, but given Sir Barnabas’s warning, we should anticipate little preparation time. Request at least two months from today’s date. Though the evidence is trending our way, until we interview the crew and first mate, I won’t feel comfortable.”
“Yes, sir.”
There was a knock on the office door. Obadiah rose to answer it.
To William’s surprise, the door opened to a young boy, perhaps ten or eleven. To his greater surprise, the boy looked familiar, though he couldn’t place him.
“I’ve papers for Barrister Snopes,” he squeaked nervously.
“You’ve found him.”
The boy dashed to the desk and put the papers in William’s hand.
Obadiah watched worriedly as the boy spun and rushed away. “What do they say?”
William scanned the pages in his hand. Then scanned them again.
“Sir?”
“Don’t bother with the continuance brief just yet, Obadiah,” William grunted.
“Why?”
William looked up, trying to hide the unease stabbing his chest. “Because these papers are from dear Judge Raleigh. Besides containing the formal indictment of Captain Tuttle, I’m ordered to meet with the judge and Sir Barnabas at The Old Bailey this very afternoon. The court is entertaining a petition from Sir Barnabas to hold me in contempt for publishing our penny dreadful. And to refer me for disbarment.”
20
LONDON CENTRAL COURTHOUSE
THE OLD BAILEY
So much for the fantasy that he was in control, William thought as he sat at counsel table. Clearly, Sir Barnabas was determined to prove otherwise.
William hated the harpsichord in all its forms. Particularly now, as the stubborn notes of a harpsichord piece by Babell played discordantly in his head. He looked up at Judge Raleigh, leaning over his desk on the raised dais, preparing for the hearing like a descending hawk. He remembered Raleigh as a grim, uncompromising barrister whose glare would curdle milk. As a judge, he was far worse. Humility was lost, restraint banished.
“You should take my offer.”
Sir Barnabas stood at William’s shoulder, staring down with the solicitude of a corpse. William searched his face for a hint of malice. He saw none. Amazing how thin
this gentleman’s veneer truly was. Today he’d brought a motion threatening William’s very right to practice law. His absence of emotion only made him seem a greater predator.
“It isn’t an offer,” William replied. “It’s a death penalty for an innocent man.”
“Hmm,” the barrister said. “Well, the offer stands until I leave the courtroom today.”
The judge cleared his throat, instantly quieting the room. “So, what do you have to say for yourself, Mr. Snopes?” he growled. “How do you answer Sir Barnabas’s charge? Publishing a treatise to influence future jurors in a criminal case? That’s a serious violation of your duties as an officer of this court. I plan to report the result of this contempt hearing to your Inn for discipline, including disbarment.”
William stood, determined not to allow his anger to show. “My lord, the publication Sir Barnabas claims to be contemptuous was published before I was even aware that formal charges had been made against Captain Tuttle. Not only that, but the good captain was, I strongly believe, being deliberately hidden from us to prevent our conferring with him.”
“Now you dare to impugn the reputation of a fellow barrister, Mr. Snopes? A KC no less? Are you also slandering the admitting clerks at Newgate?”
“Of course not, my lord,” William answered, wanting to thunder his fears and suspicions to the contrary. “We’ve no idea who was responsible for hiding Captain Tuttle at Newgate Prison—only that he was. We do believe, however, that Captain Tuttle’s presence at Newgate might still be secret but for the very publication Sir Barnabas claims was so defamatory.”
“My lord,” Sir Barnabas nearly shouted, standing, “this is preposterous! How can Mr. Snopes seriously make such a statement? I myself had no difficulty gaining access to Captain Tuttle on multiple occasions.”
“That’s true,” William followed, pleased at the expected response. “And deliberately meeting with another barrister’s client seems to me a much greater ethical lapse than the publication which troubles Sir Barnabas.”
“Except I had no knowledge of your representation of Captain Tuttle when I met with him.”
“Precisely. Just as I had no knowledge of any pending charges against my client when I prepared the publication. Only that he’d been detained—and apparently unlawfully so.”
The Barrister and the Letter of Marque Page 14
