“Yes,” Madeleine answered, her mind racing. “Mr. Snopes is an alchemist. I agree that both Quint Ivars and your Johnston could be a boon to our case. We’ve three horses. I’d like Seaman Johnston to come with me back to London, along with Mr. Ivars.”
Turner shook his head. “Johnston will never go to London to testify. You heard him say he’d risk prosecution if he spoke of his experience.”
“You could order him to go.”
“If I did, he’d simply abandon you somewhere on the road, or worse. And this Ivars, riding in chains? He’ll never keep up the rapid pace you need. Nor, I fear, will you, exhausted as you are.”
Madeleine wanted to shout her frustration at the resistance and continued delay. “What are you suggesting? That I give up?”
“No. I’m suggesting we first ensure that Ivars will give truthful testimony, and then I’ll ride ahead and tell your barrister we’re coming so he can prepare. These draft horses have seen better days. They’ll not ride fast and will need rest from time to time. And we traveled far south before finding Singleton and his Spirit. But I believe I can make it to London by tomorrow afternoon. You’ll follow with Ivars on the remaining two horses, hopefully only a few hours behind. Do you know how to use a pistol? If not, you’ll have to pretend you do.”
Madeleine’s arms and legs ached. It hadn’t fully dawned on her how hard it would be to complete the long tiring ride ahead through the relentless damp and chill.
“I know how to shoot,” she assured him. “Without your Seaman Johnston to tell his tale, though, we’ve only Mr. Ivars. How can we be sure that he tells the truth at trial? All of it? Including about the Helen?”
“I’ve got an idea on that score,” the American replied, smiling grimly as he led her back down the beach toward Ivars and Johnston.
44
THE OLD BAILEY
“Where is Edmund?” William whispered, standing next to his solicitor at the bar. The third day of trial and still no word from his junior. Or Madeleine, for that matter.
Obadiah’s eyes were clouded with his own worry. “I don’t know, sir. I don’t understand this.”
“He’s never liked this case. Could he have grown disgusted and left?”
“No, sir. You know that’s not Edmund. He wouldn’t do that in a thousand years.”
“And you checked again this morning with the Bow Street Runners?”
“Yes, sir. They’ve got four men searching for Lonny McPherson. But they’re saying it’s as though he’s left town or gone into hiding. Even the children in his canon seem to have disappeared from the streets.”
As though he knew they were searching for him. William wanted to spit his anger. This was no good at all.
And sweet Madeleine . . . could she have been abducted?
While he was anchored to this trial, what was happening to everyone around him?
“What about my inquiry about possible forgers?”
“Your friend from the Bow Street Runners, Joel, said to tell you there’s not a forger free in London who could pull off a document like a Letter of Marque well enough to fool an expert.”
Father Thomas came to the bar, as he did every morning and afternoon to show his support for the captain’s case.
“Thomas,” William said, “Edmund is still missing. Could you help? Could you check the jails and hospitals? If Edmund’s still in London, I’ve no other notion where to search.”
“Of course, William.”
In the back of the courtroom, a constable appeared. He looked in William’s direction and nodded.
“They’ve brought Sergeant Rhodes,” William explained to Obadiah.
“All Rise!”
William returned to his seat as the judge entered. He picked up his notes. Faced the jury box with anticipation. “The defense calls Sergeant Nathaniel Rhodes to testify,” he called boldly, while beneath the table his toe tapped out the racing piano notes of Bach’s Prelude and Fugue Number 1.
It was going to be just such a day.
Sergeant Rhodes, the soldier William recalled from their evening encounter on the Padget’s deck, was garbed in bright red, his tall gray cap resting on the bar that surrounded the witness stand. To strengthen the credibility of his testimony, William had spent longer than usual reviewing his credentials for the jury.
Now that had come to an end.
“All right, Sergeant Rhodes,” William began his new tack. “Thank you for explaining your military experience. Now to the present. You’re currently stationed at Portman Street Barracks, correct?”
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant answered.
“Were you and other soldiers from your barracks assigned the duty, in February of this year, to seize the Padget and her captain and crew?”
“Yes, sir. Assisting London constables.”
“Who was the head of that detail?”
“I was, sir.”
“Did you carry out your duties?”
“Yes, sir, we did.”
“Were you told why you were seizing the Padget and her crew?”
“Yes, sir. We were told that the Padget had committed piracy.”
“Who informed you that the Padget had committed piracy?”
“Colonel Tollefson of Portman Barracks, sir.”
“You carried out your instructions in the middle of the night, did you not?”
“We did, sir.”
“Why at such a late hour?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“And you awaited the arrival of the Padget at the Municipal docks on the Thames?”
“Yes, sir. For several nights.”
“How many were you, soldiers and constables together?”
“Ten. Four constables and six soldiers.”
The jury was leaning in. Maybe it was the uniform, or anticipation on the heels of the previous day’s skirmishes, but either way they were paying attention.
Sweet heaven, please let it go well.
“And just as soon as the gangplank of the Padget reached shore, your detail marched to board her, isn’t that true?”
“Yes.”
“Guns in your hands?”
“Yes.”
“Muskets and pistols?”
“Yes.”
“Were there any crewmen visible on deck of the Padget as you boarded?”
“Only a few, sir, that I could see—including their captain near the gangplank.”
“And as you were boarding the ship, gunfire broke out?”
“It did.”
“And a young boy aboard the Padget was struck by that gunfire, wasn’t he?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The boy’s name was Simon Ladner.”
“Yes, I heard the name Simon used when they were trying to care for him, sir.”
“Simon was killed, wasn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“And you chose not to investigate who among the soldiers had fired the shot, isn’t that true?”
The soldier straightened. “Why, no, sir. I didn’t investigate because I knew who fired the shot.”
William went rigid. “You knew?”
“Yes, sir. The captain of the Padget fired the shot, sir. Captain Tuttle.”
The room was swept with silence. William felt the walls collapsing upon him from all sides.
“Sergeant Rhodes, you are wrong,” William heard himself say.
“Objection!” Sir Barnabas roared. “Is Mr. Snopes now testifying for the witness?”
“Sustained. Confine yourself to questions, Mr. Snopes,” the judge called.
Through the pall of his thundering heart and suddenly cold limbs, William stared at the soldier. “Sergeant Rhodes, didn’t we speak only ten days ago, on the deck of the Padget?”
“Yes, sir, we did.”
“And didn’t you tell me on that occasion that the fatal shot that killed young Simon Ladner was fired by someone from your own detail—but you failed to investigate who it was?”
“No, sir. I told
you that it was Captain Tuttle.”
He was too far in to allow this to stand unexamined. “How in the world could the captain have fired the shot at his own cabin boy?”
“Oh, it didn’t appear intentional, sir. As we were approaching the gangplank, I saw that the captain held a pistol. I think our appearance startled him. I saw him drop the weapon, which fired when it hit the deck, striking the boy, sir. At least that’s how it looked to me.”
William glanced to Captain Tuttle in the dock. The captain had grown ashen and looked near to dropping.
Not this. A lava of rage began to flow. The shrill stirrings of a trumpet’s call signaled no piece he recalled ever hearing before.
William leaned toward the witness.
“Have you spoken with anyone else about your recollection of that night, other than myself?”
“Only my superiors, sir.”
“And what did you tell them?”
“Why, the same, sir.”
“That would be pleasant to believe.”
“OBJECTION!”
“Mr. Snopes!” the judge roared. “Another such comment and you will be cited for contempt.”
“As you say, my lord. Sergeant Rhodes, did Sir Barnabas subpoena you to testify?”
“No. Only you compelled my appearance, sir.”
“Do you know what a donkey looks like, Sergeant?”
“I don’t understand.”
“A donkey.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Do I appear to be such an animal to you?”
“OBJECTION!”
“Because”—William’s voice rose over the mounting din inside the courtroom—“who, other than a donkey, would call you to testify in Captain Tuttle’s defense, having been told that you would utter such a pack of lies to this jury?”
The gavel pounded again, again, again. The judge shouted for the courtroom to be cleared. Bailiffs descended on the gallery, the jury box, the floor.
William sat down in the midst of it, lost and oblivious to the chaos he’d birthed.
Minutes later, in the privacy of his chambers, Magistrate Raleigh pronounced, “Mr. Snopes, consider yourself in contempt of this court. If we weren’t nearly through this trial, I’d have you jailed this afternoon. What do you have to say for yourself?”
William felt wrung out and unmoored. “I believe perjury has been suborned here, my lord.”
“Are you accusing Sir Barnabas of such heinous misconduct?”
Perhaps. “No, my lord. But there are others with interests in the outcome of this proceeding.”
“Who?”
“I don’t fully know, sir.”
“Unless you have significant proof, you’ll keep your mouth shut on that topic in my courtroom. Wrap up your defense, Mr. Snopes, and let the jury rule. Then we’ll schedule the hearing to determine your fate.”
They returned to the courtroom. William looked to the grand clock high on the wall. Only eleven.
If he rested his case now, Captain Tuttle was doomed to the gallows. They had no hope except that Edmund would appear or Madeleine or the Bow Street Runners—someone with evidence that could rescue this sinking ship. And reaching that event required time, a substance rapidly running out for them.
He stepped over to the bar, motioning a pale-faced Obadiah to join him.
“I’ve been foolish to rely on this singular witness about the shooting,” he explained to the solicitor. “Without authority to prosecute, I cared only that the soldiers shot the boy, not which one. Now we’ll never find anyone else from the sheriff’s detail or amid the constables in time to contradict this witness, nor can we trust that they’d do so. To gain time, I need you to bring the Padget witnesses we spoke with, those who have neither testified nor are already scheduled to testify. I need them here to put up as witnesses.”
“But, sir, they hadn’t much to say.”
“I don’t care.”
“How many?”
“All.”
Returning to his place at counsel table, refusing to look in Sir Barnabas’s direction, William sifted through his papers as though preparing for a long day. Then he looked up at the despicable form of Sergeant Rhodes, once more in the witness box following their recess.
“Sergeant, I have a few more questions for you,” he said.
45
THE OLD BAILEY
“Yes, Mr. Lockman,” William intoned, “you completed your apprenticeship aboard the Hermes, but then served where?”
Sir Barnabas rose wearily to his feet and addressed the court. “My lord, since Sergeant Rhodes finished testifying, Mr. Snopes has called five witnesses in a row from the Padget, and not a soul among them had anything new for this jury’s consideration.”
“I quite agree,” Judge Raleigh said.
William glanced at the clock. Still over an hour till evening recess. Worse still, Obadiah had signaled that he’d located no more Padget crewmen to testify. It was a wonder he’d found as many as he did.
The jury seemed stultified; two were simply asleep.
“I’m going to insist that you close your case unless you have more relevant evidence to share with this jury,” the judge added.
“May we speak in chambers, your lordship?” William pleaded.
“We may,” the judge granted grudgingly.
“Mr. Snopes’s request is beyond preposterous,” Sir Barnabas proclaimed, standing in the judge’s chambers with his chin held high. “It is further contempt of your lordship and the jury.”
William wanted to run Sir Barnabas through with a rapier at these words, though he knew he’d be arguing the same if their roles were reversed. “Your lordship,” he began again, “it’s not preposterous. I do have a witness pending, potentially critical to Captain Tuttle’s defense.”
“As I suspected,” the judge said. “You have been wasting this court’s time while hoping for the arrival of this mystery witness. We’re concluding the third day of trial, Mr. Snopes. Why isn’t he here by now?”
How did he describe Lonny McPherson? Or young Tad? Whomever or whatever evidence Madeleine had gone to find?
He chose to focus on McPherson. “The witness is . . . a fugitive, wanted by authorities for criminal offenses. I’m hoping he will be brought here at any hour today. I implore you, my lord. This is a capital case.”
Judge Raleigh straightened his wig. “You are correct, Mr. Snopes. A capital case. And as the evidence stands, the jury would be derelict in its duty if it failed to render a guilty verdict against your client. I intend to tell them so in my final remarks.” The magistrate shook his head. “No, I simply won’t grant you more time. Your antics and delays have betrayed the shallowness of your defense. Now you ask me to push back these proceedings further on the promise of meaningful evidence from a criminal. Well, I won’t force this jury to wait another twenty-four hours on your word that such a witness will dissuade them from the obvious conclusions.”
The judge glanced at the pendulum clock that stood against a wall. “But it is half past four o’clock now. We’ll adjourn for the day. Gentlemen, I’ll allow you succinct closing remarks in the morning, after which time I will make my own. I’ll see you both at nine.”
Heart-stricken, William returned to the courtroom. The judge’s explanation and dismissal of the jury were barely audible to him. He watched, distantly, the visitors and jury filing out, along with Sir Barnabas and his herd of assistants. At the last, only Obadiah remained, seated in the empty lower gallery.
“Judge Raleigh won’t relent, will he, sir?” Obadiah said. “He won’t give you any more time.”
“No, he won’t,” William replied. “And this once I can hardly blame him. We’ve been taunting him with ghosts and false witnesses and promises we haven’t kept. The thin thread holding our case together is unraveling. Did you see the look on Captain Tuttle’s face when the judge announced closing statements tomorrow? Once this jury rules and Raleigh sentences the captain to the gallows, all we’ll have lef
t will be an appeal to the king’s pardon—unlikely after all of this.”
Obadiah shook his head. “I can’t believe it, sir. It shouldn’t have turned out this way.”
“Yet here we are.” William began gathering his papers.
The courtroom doors opened. William looked up.
It was Father Thomas, his face gray. “I’ve found Edmund,” he said. “Please. You must hurry.”
WESTMINSTER INFIRMARY
LONDON
Soft sunlight came through the high stained-glass windows of the hospital ward. Edmund lay prone in a bed along one wall, his head bandaged, his left arm in a sling. One eye was black and swollen shut. His voice barely carried over a whisper.
“I met someone I knew, a journalist,” Edmund was saying in barely a whisper. “He was supposed to be putting me in touch with another witness whom I thought showed promise. Instead, they attacked me. I would have gotten word to you sooner, sir, but just awoke this afternoon.”
His junior’s face filled William with worry. “Did you see them? Would you know if you saw them again?”
A spasm of pain crossed Edmund’s face. He exhaled. “Other than the man I already knew, no. I was attacked … from behind.”
William strained to master his resurging anger. “You should have spoken with me before you went off chasing evidence like that,” he said, not unkindly.
Though his face was already mottled purple, Edmund’s shading deepened. “I thought I could manage it. As I said, I went to see someone I knew. A journalist who wrote some of the nasty articles about you and the lady. I demanded he tell me who was behind them. I was sure it would be those behind the captain’s prosecution.” His open eye closed. “If I’d gotten in even a single swing, I’d feel better about it all.”
Obadiah shook his head. “Why attack Edmund for that inquiry? Why not me at the docks? Or you, Mr. Snopes, in Whitechapel?”
“Perhaps Edmund was closest to the truth,” William answered. “Or maybe they waited until trial to throw off our efforts in court.” Madeleine’s face sprang to William’s mind again, fueling fresh worry.
“How’s trial going?” Edmund asked weakly.
The Barrister and the Letter of Marque Page 29
