The Barrister and the Letter of Marque

by Todd M Johnson

  Mandy smiled. “Yes. In fact, I arranged that.”

  “Arranged that? How? Why?”

  “When I learned that Sir Barnabas had released the Padget crew, I knew that Snopes couldn’t resist going to see for himself. I reached out to our man in the ranks to assist on this. If Snopes tries to use what he learned on board at trial, he’ll be in for a grave surprise.”

  “You really should have checked with me first,” Lord Brummell said.

  “I believed that you’d approve.”

  “You think you’re one step ahead of him, don’t you?”

  “My lord, the man has a reputation for clever advocacy, I’ll grant you. But Sir Barnabas firmly bested him at the hearing.”

  “Mr. Snopes was surprised at the hearing,” the princess replied. “And he still avoided a contempt order and a disbarment investigation. In fact, he still nearly achieved a continuance.”

  “Mr. Bristol,” Lord Brummell added, “too much has already gone wrong with the whole Padget scheme. We mustn’t underestimate Snopes any longer.”

  More argument would do him no good. That much was clear.

  “Of course,” Mandy answered.

  “And now,” the princess said, “I want you to listen to me very carefully. Steps must be taken. We want you to immediately end and eliminate any trace of the ventures that could come back upon us.”

  “Any trace?”

  “Yes. Beginning with placing all your employees out of reach of these court proceedings. I want them relocated now. I don’t care if you have to ship them to Jamaica.”

  “So soon? But we were preparing for another—”

  “No, Mr. Bristol. You’re not listening. We want everyone far beyond the reach of any court order to testify, and far beyond William Snopes’s ability to find them. And we want their exile to be permanent.”

  Mandy heard the firmness of the order. “If you insist on curtailing everything at this juncture, and with such certainty, it could prove quite expensive.”

  “We don’t care. Pay what you must. And as to this trial, we must take the fight to Snopes and his group on all fronts—personal and professional. If we lose the case, matters won’t end there. A loss would certainly lead to more investigations about Captain Tuttle’s Letter of Marque.”

  Lord Brummell bumped his walking stick against the roof of the carriage.

  The driver called “Whoa!” and the carriage slowed.

  “Now,” Brummell said, “we believe that your time would be better spent complying with our request than attending this evening’s dinner. Don’t plan on the ball at the Rutledge home later this week either, I’m afraid.”

  “I . . . I already informed the Rutledges I would be there.”

  “I’m co-hosting the ball and will pass on your regrets. Assuming your success at trial, Mr. Bristol, you can be assured of many more social opportunities in the future.”

  Mandy looked down at his suit. Sculpted to mimic the latest fashion trends Lord Brummell was always modeling, it had cost him nearly ninety pounds. His invitation to this particular dinner had been a coup. To think that, for a moment, he’d even thought he’d be arriving with the princess. Now he was, quite literally, being tossed to the curb.

  Bile coated his tongue.

  “Of course, Lord Brummell,” he answered—the only reply he could make. He glanced at the princess, but she was looking out the window once again.

  With a tip of his hat to the turned cheek of the princess, Mandy climbed to the street.

  The carriage rolled on as Mandy watched bitterly, his unopened briefcase with details of the court hearing in hand.

  The princess is Lord Brummell’s partner? Why? How?

  The emphatic orders of the lord and the princess echoed in his head. He’d always known the lord was an inch of skin hiding a foot of cruelty. But the princess? Mandy wouldn’t have thought such malicious resolve possible in someone so young and fair.

  Mandy stomped angrily up the street in search of a cab home. They were cruel perhaps. But it was a cruel world, and not of his making, so he’d always strived to suffer less than the next man. With so much at stake—with all the progress he’d made in his own stature these past few years—he would carry out his patrons’ wishes to the absolute letter.

  With no lost sleep over the price.

  27

  NEWGATE PRISON

  “They executed five today.” The captain was speaking lifelessly. “Marched them up the stairs and away, I’m told, to a courtyard where the deed is done. A jailor told me yesterday that it’s precisely six hundred twenty-seven steps from that staircase to the executioner’s shed. Men can count the vanishing thread of their lives with that much certainty.”

  There was hissing from coal on the small brazier behind the captain, the only source of heat in his cell. The man looked pale today, more so than three days before when William last visited. Weary, lacking hope, rambling.

  Seated just beyond the bars, William stiffened at the cruelty of a jailor who would torture a prisoner with stories of executions.

  “I intend to spare you that walk, Captain,” he said, nodding to emphasize confidence.

  “Really?” the captain replied. “With only six days to trial? From everything Madeleine has told me, and all that your solicitor would not, I gather you’ll have difficulty keeping that promise.”

  “The loss of Solicitor Mortimer’s testimony was a blow, I grant you,” William rejoined. “But we have more evidence to present—including the testimony of your First Mate Ivars.”

  “If you can find him.” The captain looked away. “You’d think that my naval service would count for something in all this. The granting of your continuance at least, though I scarcely even know if I want that. I’m not certain I can last another day in this place, let alone six. I’m used to open skies and fresh air.” He paused, then added, “I met Lord Nelson once, you know.”

  “Truly?” William said, pleased that the captain was enlivened at the memory of the naval hero.

  “Oh, yes. Not in the service, of course. I was much too young for that. It was, I believe, 1800. I was thirteen and already certain I wanted a life at sea. Lord Nelson had accepted an invitation to a party at the Jamesons’ winter town home here in London. I was staying over since my parents were also attending, and I’d heard the servants talking excitedly about the lord admiral’s visit. After dinner I snuck downstairs to hide behind curtains in the music room next to the piano as the ball guests arrived. I hadn’t had a chance to creep nearer to the main gathering before Lord Nelson came into the very room where I hid, accompanied by his wife, Fanny.”

  “That’s extraordinary. Did you get any hint of the man?”

  “To my eyes, he had the bearing of a god. Straight-backed. Resolute. Just as I’d imagined him to be. In my heart, I swore he could have sunk Napoleon’s frigates with lightning bolts from his eyes. Until they began to argue, that is.”

  “Argue?”

  “Yes. Lord Nelson and his wife. In a heated whisper, but near enough that I could make it out. It was . . . deflating, really. How could Lord Nelson have a dispute with his wife? Wouldn’t he be beyond such pettiness?”

  “What was the argument about?”

  “That also was dispiriting. Even to a young boy’s ears I made out that Lord Nelson had a mistress. His wife was imploring him to leave the woman behind. He was refusing.”

  The captain’s shoulders had dropped, but William was too far in to abandon the story. “How did it end?”

  “Lord Nelson’s wife left the room in anger while the admiral remained a bit longer. Then the strangest thing of all occurred. Though he’d given no hint of seeing me, the admiral turned and looked directly at me where I stood peering through a crack in the curtains. A stare that pierced me.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “No. But he winked. He’d lost an eye in the service, you know, but he winked the good one. And this is the wonder of it: it wasn’t playful. It was, if anything,
a sad gesture. I thought, How could one such as he be subject to such low emotions as I’d just witnessed? Yet there it was. If Lord Nelson could be haunted so, shadowed by sin and cruel melancholy, what hope was there for the rest of us? I tell you that my belief in any certitude of happiness, or even justice, faded some that day.”

  The cells grew quiet as William contemplated how to turn away from the story he now regretted encouraging.

  “Has your young lady visited you, Captain Tuttle?” he asked.

  “Hmm?”

  “I asked, has your young lady visited?”

  The captain shook his head. “Rebekah? No. Madeleine tells me her family forbids it.”

  “Captain, you really mustn’t despair,” William said, frustrated that every word he uttered only lowered the captain’s spirit more. “We’ll find justice for you in all of this, I promise. And to that end, I must ask your help. Have you any more thoughts about where your first mate may have gone after being released from detention?”

  The captain shrugged. “Not really. As I’ve told you, I knew Mr. Ivars from my early days in the service, though I hadn’t seen him for many years. When he appeared dockside in the last few days before the Padget sailed, he touted a wealth of experience I couldn’t ignore, especially as a physician’s mate. I took a chance and appointed him first mate. He never let me down throughout the voyage, though he was a closed man. Did I tell you that he’s originally from Bath or that region? I know little more about his background than that. If he stayed in London looking for more work, you might check the Sailor’s Home on Dorsett Street.”

  Of course, they’d already checked there—plus a dozen other lodging places in the east end catering to sailors.

  “Thank you,” William said. “Please take heart, Captain. You’re not alone in this.”

  The captain returned a wan smile. “Cousin Madeleine has said nearly the same, and she’s the only living person in the world I completely trust. She’s also told me she firmly believes in you, your integrity, and your counsel. With such an endorsement, I’ll try to do as you ask.”

  HYDE PARK

  “Must we meet like this?” Obadiah asked, his teeth chattering as they stood beside a frozen pond. “This is such an unseasonable cold.”

  Edmund stomped his feet for warmth at the solicitor’s side. “If we must meet outdoors, Mr. Snopes, couldn’t it be closer to the Inn?”

  Yes, it was cold. Before leaving for the prison, he’d seen the frost decorating the windows at his flat and a thin layer of snow blanketing the street below and the temperature must have fallen another ten degrees since then. Late winter was the worst, laying on punishment for the season’s early mildness.

  But William was in no mood for grumbling after visiting the captain at Newgate only an hour before.

  “You’ll have to put up with the cold,” he said. “I want a clear field of vision to see if that strange man is following us any longer. I don’t trust walls or fences, even of our office. We’ve been overmatched by our opponents’ spies thus far, and that must end. Tell us what you’ve discovered, Obadiah, so we can move on.”

  The solicitor leaned stiffly down and pulled a fistful of papers from the briefcase set on the snow at his feet. “As you asked, Mr. Snopes, I canvassed every shipper I could. You were right about the Padget’s crew looking for work. I’ve already located fourteen—well over half of them. Edmund’s been helping me interview them. They’ve not too much to tell on the topic of the Letter of Marque, sir.”

  “I see. And you’ve reviewed their names with Captain Tuttle?”

  “Yes. The captain eliminated seven as beyond the type of mischief we’re investigating, mostly men he’d long known in the service. As to the remainder, he’s skeptical about their being thieves as well—though I think our captain is the trusting sort. Still, all the crew members we’ve found so far left addresses with the companies they’re shipping out with, and I’ve been planning on running them all down.”

  “Remember,” William emphasized, “to focus particularly on finding this Quint Ivars fellow, the first mate. What of criminal records among the crew members?”

  “Making slow progress there as well, sir,” Obadiah said, his breath producing clouds between them. “Two of those I found were convicted of crimes. One for public drunkenness and property damage. The other for breach of promise.”

  “Neither sounds like who we’re seeking.” William sighed, disappointed.

  “Have you gone yet to Whitechapel to search for the boy’s father?” Edmund asked.

  “Not yet. But I still plan to.”

  “Do you really think there’s a chance the judge will allow evidence of the boy’s shooting to be admitted?” Obadiah asked.

  “I don’t know. But among the other papers you’re preparing for trial, please add a brief supporting the admissibility of the boy’s shooting. Argue that it’s relevant to proving felonious intent by the arresting party.”

  “Felonious intent, sir?” Obadiah asked. “Intent to do what?”

  “Intent to steal the Letter of Marque.”

  “Are you really going to accuse the arresting party of that?” Edmund asked. “We’ve no evidence to support it.”

  “I’d accuse them of intent to steal the Crown Jewels if it would move the judge to allow the boy’s shooting into evidence,” William snapped.

  Obadiah and Edmund went silent.

  Regretting his outburst, William took a slow breath. “Edmund, what have you learned at the Lord Privy Seal’s office?”

  His junior shook his head. “Not much, sir. The document records are kept in a fairly public place. The entry of a Letter of Marque issued to Captain Tuttle could have been assigned to any number of clerks.”

  Another disappointment.

  “Have either of you heard any word from Lady Jameson on her efforts to ferret out people showing interest in the Padget?”

  “Only that she left soon after our meeting yesterday, telling Suzie she’d be gone all day,” Obadiah replied. “She disappeared early again this morning, before I even saw her.”

  “Did she tell you what she was trying to accomplish?”

  “No, sir.”

  William felt a cold rush of anxiety at the image of the lady traveling about London for long hours alone. At least it was likely she was visiting the more affluent corners of the city. He only wished she’d informed him of the details of her plan in advance.

  He shrugged to hide his worry. “Well, then. I’ll continue my preparation of examination questions at Gray’s Inn. Let’s meet at the office in the morning—say at eight—to compare notes once more.”

  HOME OF DAME BALTIMORE

  CHELSEA

  Perched at the edge of a cushioned settee, teacup in hand, Madeleine distracted herself by imagining the quantity of information that must have come into the parlor where she now sat. Only a coffee table away was Dame Baltimore, seated on a gilded, cushioned, wood wheeled chair, made in the French design the dame clearly favored. Surrounded by a cloud of vanilla and gardenia fragrance, the dowager held her own teacup in one hand, a Chinese fan in the other. The host’s eyes were blank above a distant smile, as though she expected nothing of interest to come from this conversation. It seemed a practiced appearance, well played.

  Except for her forehead and chin, Madeleine thought. Her forehead was knitted as tightly as a firmly tied shoe, her chin raised with expectation.

  Madeleine had been right about gaining entrance to this parlor. She might be persona non grata with the highest of society, but to those like the dame, who counted their wealth in their knowledge of others’ affairs, Madeleine was a prize who couldn’t be turned away.

  “And your father? How is his health?” the dowager asked as she raised her cup with measured care.

  “He’s well, thank you.”

  Dame Baltimore sniffed, a sign of displeasure at the short response. “Is that so? I haven’t heard of him attending any events the past many months. It might even be years sin
ce I recall him at a party or dinner.”

  “Oh, Father has been very busy with the estate. We’ve added more livestock, and he is meticulous as to their care and marketing.”

  Dame Baltimore sniffed twice this time. She set the fan on her lap and rested a hand on one of the wheels of her invalid chair.

  “You know,” Madeleine began, fearing she was being dismissed, “there’s an old acquaintance of my father’s whom we were discussing just the other day. A solicitor here in London who seems to have disappeared. I was wondering if you might have seen him about, given the breadth of your friendships in London. A Mr. Mandy Bristol?”

  A sip of her tea, taken at a languid pace, signaled the dowager’s unwillingness to engage. “I really couldn’t say, Lady Jameson.”

  “That’s too bad. We had a bit of business we wished to bring him.”

  “Is that so? Well, you’d be better off seeking such information at the Inns of Court,” the dowager replied.

  Madeleine was swept with sudden dismay. She’d thought a reference to needing legal assistance would coax the lady into helping. Even in her own parlor, with a guest before her, she showed no inclination to do so.

  Except, Madeleine realized, recalling Davidson’s advice, that was her mistake. She was in no parlor at all. She occupied a market, where bargaining was as expected as in the West Smithfield meat emporium. Where currency was necessary to acquire the goods she sought.

  Fortunately, she had a bucketful of such coin just now.

  Madeleine swallowed to overcome her reluctance. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, Dame Baltimore,” she began, “but my family has engaged in some litigation in The Old Bailey.”

  A fire stoked in the old woman’s eyes. “I do believe I’ve heard something of this.”

  “Yes. We’ve retained an attorney. A Mr. William Snopes. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”

  The fires banked higher.

  “So you’re truly proceeding with the matter? I admit to seeing something of this in the newspapers, though I didn’t know whether to give the stories full credence. Mr. Snopes, you say? Why, I believe I’ve heard of him. Son of Lord Kyle Snopes.”