Look at the poor man. Perhaps he should strike now with his ideas. Don’t be foolish. A premature attack could wound rather than kill. A glancing blow could anger the judge further and alert Sir Barnabas without convincing the jury of anything but that they were grasping at straws. He’d been right to not even share his thoughts with Captain Tuttle yet for fear of raising his hopes too soon.
No, he must hope that the Bow Street Runners will come through and find Lonny McPherson, or Madeleine return with whatever she was digging for. And, of course, he still had Sergeant Rhodes to surprise Sir Barnabas with, if the judge relented and permitted him to take the stand.
William took in the glower of Magistrate Raleigh. Glanced at Obadiah’s wife, Suzanne, sitting in the gallery, who returned a kind smile. Saw Beau Brummell occupying his special box. Looked once more in vain for Madeleine.
Clear your mind, he admonished himself. Pay attention.
“Captain Tuttle . . .” Sir Barnabas began his examination.
“I wish to go back again, Captain, to your description of the hour of your capture in the upper pond of the Thames.”
Remarkable, William thought. Sir Barnabas didn’t look the least fatigued after being on his feet for hours, with only a few breaks in all that time. Still pounding on Captain Tuttle’s weary frame like a butcher tenderizing a cut of meat.
“You say that moments before your arrest, you’d looked at this Letter of Marque in your cabin?”
“That’s correct.”
“What purpose could that serve, sir? In the hour that you were docking in London?”
“No particular purpose. It’s just that we were finishing a long and difficult voyage and I wanted to see it once more before we docked.”
“I see. So you opened the drawer of your desk where you kept the Letter and took it out?”
“Yes.”
“Read it again?”
“Yes.”
“Then put it back and locked the drawer?”
“That’s right.”
“And no one other than yourself had a key to the drawer?”
“Correct.”
“And later, with the constables present, you returned to the desk drawer and unlocked it?”
“Yes.”
“And when you arrived in your cabin to do so, the drawer was still locked and showed no signs of having been forced open?”
“Right.”
“Yet the Letter was now gone?”
“That’s correct.”
“Never to reappear, to this day.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Would you agree with me, Captain Tuttle, that you’ve described an impossibility?”
“I don’t understand.”
“If no one had a key to your desk drawer other than yourself, and the drawer wasn’t forced open, then the Letter occupying the drawer should still have been there when you took the constables to show them the Letter.”
“That’s right.”
“Its absence was therefore an impossibility, sir, wouldn’t you agree?”
“No, sir. It can’t have been impossible. It happened.”
“But you have no explanation.”
Captain Tuttle grew quiet.
“You claim that your first mate had previously seen the Letter?”
“Yes.”
“As well as, you say, a London solicitor of your choosing.”
“Yes.”
“Yet you also claim that both First Mate Ivars and the solicitor have disappeared.”
“Not disappeared precisely. We just aren’t able to bring them to testify at trial.”
“Convenient, wouldn’t you say?”
“Quite the opposite.”
“Doesn’t it seem more likely that these witnesses would not support your story about the existence of a Letter of Marque, Captain Tuttle, and that is the reason your counsel will not be bringing them to testify before this jury?”
“That’s not true.”
“You’ve also told this jury that mysterious investors provided you the Letter.”
“Through their solicitor, correct. And they’re not mysterious.”
“Well, you’ve never seen them, have you, Captain?”
“No.”
“Can’t name them for us?”
“No.”
“They too will not be testifying before this jury?”
“So far as I know.”
“A missing letter. Mysterious investors. Are you given to hallucinations, Captain? A frequent user of opium, perhaps?”
“Objection!” William called, standing.
“Sustained,” the judge grudgingly agreed. “Counsel will confine himself to traditional proof and not mere speculation.”
“Of course, my lord. I have no further questions.”
William stood instantly. “Captain Tuttle, did you serve in the king’s Royal Navy before becoming a merchantman?”
“I did.”
“For how many years?”
“Five. Under Admiral Cockburn.”
“Did you see any action?”
“I did. At Martinique and in the Mediterranean.”
“Is it true that you were mentioned in dispatches for bravery in action?”
“Yes, sir.”
William paused to allow that much to sink in. “When you became captain of a merchant ship, why did you decide to join in the tea trade in China?”
“It was far more lucrative than our original plan for the Padget. We’d planned on trade in America.”
“You’ve already described how you obtained a Letter of Marque to support your trade. From whom did you receive that?”
“As I said, from investors, through their solicitor.”
“Did you accept the solicitor’s word that the Letter was genuine?”
“No, sir. As I stated, I had my own solicitor review it first.”
“And did your solicitor assure you that the Letter was genuine?”
“Objection!” Sir Barnabas called. “Hearsay!”
“My lord,” William rejoined, “Sir Barnabas raised this topic in his own examination.”
“But I didn’t ask if anything was said by this imaginary solicitor to Captain Tuttle. Only that he’d examined the Letter!”
“Sustained,” the judge intoned. “I’ll have no such hearsay in my courtroom. Move on.”
“Well,” William said, then turned back to the captain, “after speaking with your solicitor regarding the genuineness of the Letter, did you sail for the Indian Sea with the belief you could take French cargo legally?”
“Your Honor!” Sir Barnabas shouted. “This is the same inquiry stated a different way.”
“Agreed. Mr. Snopes, move on.”
“Of course, my lord,” he answered, glancing at the jury that had to now know—from his questions and Sir Barnabas’s objections—that the captain was saying he got a positive opinion about the Letter’s veracity. Hearsay still, but it would have to do. “Would you agree, Captain Tuttle, that if you had obtained your cargo of tea as a pirate, without the benefit of a Letter of Marque, it would have been foolish to return with the cargo to London?”
“Absolutely, sir.”
“Why is that?”
“All cargo is subject to possible inspection at London Harbor.”
“Given the East India Company’s monopoly on the China tea trade, your cargo might have been subject to seizure then, correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
While this point was important, it was also obvious and pedestrian. William glanced at the jury. They looked unmoved.
After two days of Sir Barnabas holding center stage, William was losing them. The KC was simply too good. As much as he might wish to hold back on his unprovable notions, either he showed something to the jurors to open their lidded eyes or even Sergeant Rhodes’s testimony wouldn’t shake them enough to consider Captain Tuttle’s innocence.
William glanced to Father Thomas. He sat, eyes closed, apparently in prayer. It was a furth
er sign, William thought, of his case’s failing fortunes.
More caution would hang Captain Tuttle. Conjecture it must be.
William drew a deep breath. “Captain, who was the last person to whom you spoke on the deck of the Padget—before the arrival of the constables the evening you were arrested?”
“My First Mate Quint Ivars.”
“I said the last person you spoke with.”
The captain looked puzzled. “As I said, my first mate.”
“Isn’t it true, Captain, that the last person you spoke with was actually your cabin boy, Simon Ladner?”
Captain Tuttle stared for a moment. “Well, I guess that’s true.”
“How old was Simon Ladner?”
“Thirteen or fourteen, I believe.”
“Describe the circumstances under which the boy was brought to serve on the Padget.”
The captain explained.
“You didn’t confirm your first mate’s story about Simon Ladner’s past, including his father’s permission for the boy to sail, did you?”
“No.”
“The Ladner boy was at your side shortly before the constables arrived, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Which side?”
The captain looked puzzled once more. “My left. No, my right side.”
“And you sent him to your cabin to retrieve your pistol before the authorities arrived to arrest you, correct?”
“Yes. While the ship was still docking. For my trip into town.”
“And he returned with that pistol fully loaded?”
“Yes, sir, he did.”
“Returned to your right side?”
“I suppose he did.”
“Tell me, Captain Tuttle, into which pocket did you place the key to your desk—after you locked away the Letter of Marque for the final time?”
He thought a moment. “It would have been my right pocket, as I used the key with my right hand.”
“The same side where the boy approached?”
“Yes.”
“And you later confirmed that it was still in your right pocket after the constables boarded the vessel?”
“That’s right. When I went to my cabin with them.”
“Sir, do you know whether young Simon Ladner was, in fact, a practiced and expert pickpocket?”
“Objection!” Sir Barnabas roared, leaping to his feet.
The judge took him into his gaze. “And what is your objection, Counsel?”
“Mr. Snopes is introducing the purest speculation to confuse this jury, and in the process he’s maligning a deceased child unable to defend himself.”
“Am I to take from my learned colleague’s comments,” William replied calmly, “that the circumstances of young Simon Ladner’s death are now on the table?”
Sir Barnabas’s eyes widened. “Of course not! This is trickery of the lowest order. Just what I was led to expect from this barrister!”
Now they’re awake, William thought, looking to the faces in the jury box.
“Gentlemen!” the judge called. “Into my chambers. Now!”
Behind closed doors, the judge turned on counsel—and particularly William—his face hot. “What is the meaning of this, Mr. Snopes?”
“My lord, I’m entitled to suggest alternatives to the jury other than Sir Barnabas’s allegations for our inability to locate the Letter of Marque.”
“Yes, but do you have any proof whatsoever to support this theory?”
“In fact, I do. But, my lord, I must have some opportunity to touch upon the Ladner boy’s death to pursue it.”
The magistrate shook his head. “You’re tenacious, Mr. Snopes. I’ll grant you that.” He looked to Sir Barnabas. “What do you say to this?”
“My lord, the courtroom isn’t a hall of mirrors for Mr. Snopes’s amusement to confuse the jury. I’d like to know precisely what proof Mr. Snopes has that the key to Captain Tuttle’s cabin drawer was pickpocketed and this fictitious letter stolen.”
Of course you would. “And I’d prefer not to outline my case for my opponent,” William responded.
The judge looked at William skeptically. “Your leash just got even tighter, Mr. Snopes. I will allow limited inquiry as to the circumstances of the boy’s death to make your point during your case in chief, and on your present cross-examination of your client. But limited inquiry only. And, Mr. Snopes,” he said with a glare, “you’d better have the evidence you claim.”
They returned to the courtroom, William feeling half pleased and half as though the judge’s leash had changed to a noose about his own neck.
Nevertheless, William renewed his attack. “Captain Tuttle, I ask again. Do you know whether young Simon Ladner was, in fact, a practiced and expert pickpocket?”
“I did not know that, no.”
“Were you aware that he was the protégé of the master of a canon named Lonny McPherson?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you know how or why this Lonny McPherson would have placed Simon Ladner on the Padget for her voyage to the Indian Sea?”
“No, I do not.”
William’s mind was moving only a bit faster than his lips. “Is it true, Captain, that the Ladner boy was shot and killed on the night the constables and soldiers seized your vessel?”
“Yes, it is. Right beside me. Almost immediately after Simon returned with the gun from my cabin.”
“Who fired the fatal shot?”
“I don’t know. I believe it came from a constable or soldier onshore.”
“And afterwards, with this poor boy dead, who removed his body from the ship?”
“One of the soldiers or constables did, I suppose, as my crew wasn’t permitted to leave.”
“If the Letter of Marque was secreted on the boy’s person, it would have been removed from the Padget along with his body.”
“Yes.”
“And presumably fallen into the hands of the soldier or constable who removed his body, yes?”
“Yes, sir.”
William could see Sir Barnabas from the corner of his eye. He looked flushed but not yet panicked. “And the Letter has not been produced to this day?”
“That’s correct.”
“No further questions.”
William took his seat, his shirt wet with perspiration. Now he’d done it. He’d taken a line he had no evidence to support. No Lonny. No bloodstained letter. He was improvising now, developing his theory in open court from the bits and pieces of things he knew.
Calming himself as Sir Barnabas finished with a few more questions, William realized that he cared little about what happened to himself now. If things went poorly, his fate, at the worst, paled next to that of Captain Tuttle’s. But it was still a fact as clear as the glower on Judge Raleigh’s face that if he failed to find the evidence he’d promised, his career as a barrister would end with this trial.
40
KELTIN FARM
ESSEX
A whipping wind raised moonlit snow devils on fields surrounding the road. Madeleine sat next to Roisin, who drove their wagon between low hedgerows, the women’s scarves pulled up, the heads of their shaggy draft horses down. “We’re to meet at the barn,” Roisin muttered through the woolen cloth.
Shivering, Madeleine nodded back.
The farmhouse appeared after a long curve in the road. No candles shone through the windows. Roisin flipped the reins, and the horses picked up their pace as they neared the shelter of the darkened barn just beyond, its doors already flung open. She drove the horses inside and called “Whoa!” just as Madeleine heard footfalls crossing the hay-strewn floor, followed by the sound of the barn door shutting behind them.
A lantern lit. The American emerged from the darkness, holding the lantern high. Madeleine could make out others in the shadows and the shape of another wagon against a wall, filled deep with chests and boxes.
“Roisin, my darling,” the American said, “this wasn’t the party we arranged.”
&
nbsp; “Now, don’t be gettin’ flippant with me, Mr. Turner,” Roisin said, tying off the reins and stepping down. “Hear the girl out. It’s in your interest as much as hers.”
Madeleine climbed down to face the man. She’d prepared herself for hours but still had to fight the tremor in her voice as she began to speak.
“The trial about my ship, the Padget. It started yesterday.”
“I know,” the American replied. “Everyone in London knows.”
“There’s a man we’ve been trying to find. He’s important to our winning the trial.”
“The very best of luck with that.”
“I need your help in finding him.”
“My help?”
“Yes. It’s the first mate from the Padget, a man named Quint Ivars. He’s disappeared. He has important testimony to offer.”
“What have I got to do with it?”
“We’ve searched every merchant ship and company in London, and he’s not signed on to any of them. I think he may have joined a smuggler’s crew. It would have been in the last few weeks.”
“Maybe he signed on with no crew at all.”
“Maybe. But the Padget crew wasn’t paid. He’d be needing work.”
The American lowered the lantern, driving shadows across his face like a torn mask. “You’ll understand that we don’t get involved in legal affairs, Miss Jameson.”
“If we don’t find this man, we’ll lose the case.”
“Which will be a pity.”
“More than a pity, Mr. Turner. There’s not enough furniture or china or anything else left at Heathcote Estate to pay half of what you’re owed. And that’s if you beat my solicitor to it for the money we borrowed from him. If we don’t win this case, you’ll come away with nothing.”
“Then, as I’ve already told you, there’ll be a special kind of hell to pay.”
She had no need to feign the anger and frustration rising in her. “Are you a businessman or a thug? If you want to be a highwayman, then sell your ship. If you want to be a trader, then help me. If we bring back this Quint Ivars, you’ll get paid. If we don’t, you won’t. It’s a simple proposition, even for an American.”
Turner stood quiet, staring at Madeleine as though reevaluating her. He walked across the barn floor to one of the other men. Roisin drew close and put an arm around Madeleine.
When the American returned, he shook his head. “Given the time frame, there are only two possibilities I’d know anything about. Two of my competitors ply the waters of the eastern counties this time of year—though neither is bold enough to tangle with us here in Essex. If they’re in those waters, one is likely north, the other south. Even if your first mate is aboard one of them and we can convince his ship’s captain to give him up, it would be nigh impossible to locate both in time to get your man to London. Your luck’s not been terribly good of late, has it, my lady? Nonetheless, north or south, you’ll have to take your pick.”
The Barrister and the Letter of Marque Page 27
