“Fine,” William said.
Edmund’s eye opened a slit. “I see no evidence of that on Obadiah’s face.”
What point was there in further lies? “We’ve had some serious setbacks, Edmund,” William acknowledged. “And now old Raleigh has said we must rest our case in the morning.” He explained the state of the evidence, his recent conjectures, and the witness he’d hoped in vain might arrive.
A dour white-capped nurse arrived, a cloth in one hand and a tray in the other. William saw that the latter was filled with leeches.
“I must ask you fine gentlemen to leave the lad to rest,” she said curtly. “At least for an hour or two.”
William and Father Thomas rose. “Don’t trouble yourself, Edmund. You focus on getting well.”
“Is there nothing you can do to delay, sir?” Edmund squeezed out between swollen lips. “Any excuse?”
William smiled to hide his despondency. “Perhaps if I were to die in my sleep,” he replied. “Though even then, it’s likely Judge Raleigh would order me to make my closing statement before my own judgment was rendered.”
46
ROAD TO LONDON
SUSSEX COUNTY
In the fading light of the winter afternoon, the horse in front of Madeleine swayed rhythmically. The patchwork of white on the roadsides melded into a dull blur of gray, then disappeared altogether. She began rolling forward, her reins slackening.
She barely registered as her hand, resting on the pistol the American had sent with her, slid gently away to her side.
Her horse stopped, causing a jolt. Madeleine stirred and caught herself. She squeezed her eyes to bring moisture and sat up straight.
Quint Ivars, her prisoner, stopped as well, pivoting in his saddle just ahead to survey her.
Madeleine grasped the pistol again.
Ivars kicked his horse, moving on.
Captain Turner had ridden on ahead many hours before, leaving them to crawl toward London at a snail’s pace. It would be far into evening, or even into the next day, before they reached the city. She doubted she could stay awake to make it. It wasn’t just fatigue, but the numbing chill that the steaming horse beneath her couldn’t dispel. Even at this pace, she feared the horses would soon give out. Meanwhile, her prisoner would keep looking for an opportunity to escape.
She thought on it for a moment. Then, settling deeper into her saddle again, she allowed her eyes to flutter shut. Drifted forward.
Through the slit in her eyes, Ivars looked about again. Seeing her wavering, he kicked his horse gently, urging it toward the side of the road to let her pass.
She opened her eyes and raised the pistol, pointing it at the first mate. “My father taught me to hunt rabbits when I was six,” Madeleine called out. “My proficiency pleased him very much. Do you think I’d miss a rabbit of your size from this distance?”
The first mate reined his horse back onto the road in front of her.
That might hold him a bit. But for how long?
The weary horses notwithstanding, she must risk speeding the pace.
“Faster,” she ordered the first mate, then gave her own mare a kick.
47
FLAT OF WILLIAM SNOPES
SOMERS TOWN
LONDON
The cab rounded the corner, the driver drawing in the reins to halt the horses in front of the tobacconist’s shop and William’s flat. Burdened nearly to collapse with fatigue, William stepped from the cab into darkness, reaching up to pay the driver.
As the cab pulled away, William’s hands began to shake. He took several long breaths and grasped them together to steady them. He’d chosen to return to his flat out of a desire for one comfortable night’s sleep. At least the mob was finally gone, as Thomas had said. But now that he faced the flat, he was almost too weary to tackle the stairs to his rooms.
Standing a moment in the quiet, frosty street, William whispered a heartfelt prayer for a better tomorrow. He was just finishing when he heard a scuff of shoes on pavement.
William listened a moment, then looked about. “Is that you, Lonny?” he called. “You and your ape who did in Edmund so cowardly? Have you come for me now? Come into the open; I won’t run away. Show your face. See what it’s like to fight someone who’s facing you.”
Nothing stirred. It must have been an echo of his lacerated conscience for his taking this case. Shaking his head, William moved to the door, taking the steps to his flat like he was hiking up a mountain trail.
More thoughts crowded each step. He’d avoided political cases since Bristol’s case in his youth. He should have stuck with that sentiment and never accepted the Padget affair. Then Madeleine and the captain could have hired a lawyer with the wisdom to convince them to accept Barnabas’s offered arrangement. Madeleine would have lost her estate—but she was about to anyway. At least the captain would have had a chance, if he could survive transportation. What madness had led him to believe he could overcome Sir Barnabas, the Crown, and the investors—and whoever else might be behind this scheme? By taking the case and losing it in such grand style, all he’d achieved was the death of an innocent man.
Just beyond the last bend in the staircase ahead, he heard breathing.
Were they going to take him from both sides? He listened for the door to the street below to open.
“Snopes?” a voice called above him.
William didn’t recognize it. He stepped tentatively up to the last landing.
On the floor atop the stairs sat a tall man, his thick shoulders slumped wearily.
“Who are you?” William commanded.
The man’s voice was exhausted. “Can we talk inside?”
Too tired to protest, William edged past to open the door to his flat.
Inside, William lit a candle before turning his attention to the man, who had now dropped onto the sofa. In the dim light, he saw that he had long tangled hair falling nearly to his shoulders. His coat was stained, as were his tall boots. His eyes were bloodshot, his lips chapped from the cold.
“Who are you?” William insisted again.
“It wasn’t easy finding you, Snopes. I arrived too late to catch you at the courthouse. It took some asking around to find your home. Sorry for my appearance. My horse gave out ten miles outside of London.”
“I’ve let you into my flat,” William said, his voice hardening. “Now I insist you tell me who you are or else be on your way.”
The man coughed. “I’m an American,” he said hoarsely. “Sent here with an urgent message.”
“A message? From whom?”
“From Lady Jameson. She asked me to convey to you that she’s captured the first mate of the Padget, Quint Ivars, and is on the road to London bringing him now.”
A rush of blood returned life to William’s aching limbs. “Is Madeleine all right?”
The American’s eyebrows rose. “Madeleine? Yes. She should be. If Ivars hasn’t overpowered her on the road.”
His relief was overwhelming. Then he thought of the man’s words. “Why were you with her?” he asked. “How do you know her?”
“We have a business arrangement.”
“What kind of arrangement?”
“That’s not your concern. But it means I’ve got an interest in the Padget and your case.”
William thought a moment. His thoughts coalesced on the most likely explanation, one which brought a flare of anger. “You lent her money to acquire the ship, didn’t you?”
The American stared back, clearly reading his reaction. “Do you want to know what Ivars has to say or don’t you?”
“Yes, tell me.”
“I only had time to hear part of the story, but the first mate was hired by a soldier to join the Padget crew and bring along a boy to steal a paper from the captain’s desk when the ship returned to London. Ivars was supposed to help get the paper off the ship. They were paid a pretty big sum for the work.”
“The paper was a Letter of Marque?”
“Yes.”
Ivars’s assistance was news indeed, the rest of it a confirmation of his conjecture. “The boy pickpocketed the captain’s key as they landed, didn’t he?” William asked. “And returned it after he stole the paper from the desk?”
“That’s what Ivars claims, yes. But there’s more. They’d done the same with another ship, the Helen, a few years before.” The American went on to explain the seaman’s story.
Both exuberance and devastating disappointment warred within William.
“It’s almost worse to learn of this now,” he said to the American, “because it’s too late. The judge has told us that our case is closed. Even if Ivars arrives in time, the jury will deliberate tomorrow without hearing the first mate’s testimony.”
“That can’t be. That’s not justice. Your jury needs to hear this evidence.”
“I agree. But I’ve exhausted every arrow in my quiver and more the past three days, trying to delay. The judge despises me.”
“Come, you’re a barrister. In fact, Lady Jameson insists you’re one of the best.”
Had she really said that? “Truly?” William responded.
“Yes. Don’t tell me you’re giving up so easily. There must be a way.”
“Not unless I die in my sleep.” He repeated the fatalistic statement he’d made to Edmund earlier.
As he finished those words, a vision came to him of Edmund in the infirmary.
The American stiffened, seeing the sudden change in William’s face. “What is it? What are you thinking?”
William hesitated, silently staring at the floor, trying to decide if he was willing to do this. He’d need Father Thomas to make it work. But would the Father help him?
He at least had to try.
“I’m thinking, sir,” he answered the American at last, “that a dear injured colleague of mine has taken a turn for the worse.”
48
THE OLD BAILEY
“Why are you telling me this? Do you expect me to sanction a lie?” the Father protested at a vehement whisper. “You really expect me to join you in saying that Edmund is near death, when that doesn’t appear to be true?”
Standing at the bar, William nodded. “Yes. That is why I’m telling you this. Either the judge or Sir Barnabas or both will certainly ask you to confirm my attestation to that fact. If you care whether Captain Tuttle lives or dies, you must answer them ‘yes’.”
“You’re asking me to lie, William Snopes. Lie to a judge in a court of law, no less.”
“Not really. How many times have you told me that ‘in your sinful nature, you are daily partaking of death’? You’ve insisted so to me for as long as I can remember. Doesn’t that apply equally to Edmund?”
“You’re twisting things again. Monstrously so.”
“Thomas . . .” William paused, took a deep breath. “I can think of no other means to obtain a continuance than what I’ve proposed. Without a continuance, Captain Tuttle will surely be convicted and likely hanged. Don’t tell me your scruples prevent you from a small deception that could save the life of an innocent man. Surely there’s provision for that somewhere in the Bible.”
“If you were half the barrister you believe yourself to be, you’d find a way to get the continuance without asking a priest to lie to a judge. This is no small matter to me, William, and no jest.”
“Tell that to him.” William pointed to Captain Tuttle, who was being escorted to the dock. Rings surrounded his hollowed eyes. His proud head looked near to teetering on his neck with weariness and despair.
“All rise!” the bailiff called.
The judge looked sprightly as he entered the courtroom. Pleased to have the trial nearly over, William guessed. Sir Barnabas appeared equally as energized at counsel table, a stack of notes before him belying the notion of a succinct closing statement. The jury seemed eager to be done as well. No one was slouching this morning, their collective attention seeming refreshed.
“Very well,” the judge began as he sat. “We will now—”
“My lord,” William called, rushing to stand at counsel table. “I’m very sorry, but I must beg the court’s indulgence for a brief meeting in chambers.”
Judge Raleigh looked as if he wanted to skin William alive. For a moment, William thought he would refuse. Then, with tight lips, he nodded.
On his way out of the courtroom, William looked over at Father Thompson. The priest’s head was lowered, his eyes downcast.
“Now what do you want, Mr. Snopes?” the judge barked as soon as the chamber door was closed and himself seated, with Sir Barnabas standing stiffly near the door with arms crossed. “I expect you to keep this very brief.”
“My lord,” William said, “a tragic circumstance has arisen that forces me to ask for a short continuance of the trial.”
The judge’s head was already shaking. “What possible circumstance would lead you to believe I’d grant a continuance after our discussion yesterday?”
“It’s my junior, Edmund Shaw, my lord. He was severely beaten by thugs two days past. I learned that he was in hospital only yesterday afternoon.”
The judge leaned back in his chair. “Really? How severe is it?”
“Quite severe.”
“Is he dying, Mr. Snopes?”
Instantly, Father Thomas’s face came to mind. All the lectures, all the preaching. “You’ll go too far someday, William.” The Father’s admonition. “You’ll stain both yourself and others in your zeal to win at any cost.”
William took a breath. “No, my lord. But I would like to be at his side as he recovers. The boy was an orphan. I’m like a father to him. He has no one else. I ask for a continuance to assist with his care.”
The judge looked stunned. Sir Barnabas’s posture conveyed absolute disbelief.
“This is a pack of lies, my lord,” Barnabas snorted. “Mr. Snopes has manipulated this court for three days and is attempting to do so again. What proof does he have? For all we know, he’s sent his junior on a holiday to support this absurd request.”
“What proof do you have?” the judge asked William.
“Other than my word? I have the word of an Anglican priest, my lord. Father Thomas Neal.”
“Where is this priest?”
“He’s here at the trial. I can bring him back to chambers if your lordship requires it.”
“I do.”
William returned to the courtroom. Father Thomas sat in the gallery, lips tight together. William went to his side.
“The judge has asked you to come,” he told the priest.
“And tell him what?”
“The truth.”
Looking suspicious, the priest nodded. Somber, gripping a Bible in his hand, he followed William into chambers.
After William introduced Father Thomas to the magistrate, he said, “Father, please tell Judge Raleigh of Mr. Shaw’s condition.”
“Mr. Shaw was severely beaten the day before yesterday and rendered unconscious,” Father Thomas replied. “At Mr. Snopes’s request, I’d been searching for the boy, who is also one of my parishioners. I located him at the Westminster Infirmary.”
“And Mr. Shaw’s condition?”
“I’m not a physician, but his injuries appear to be quite serious.”
“Would you say he’s near to death?”
The Father closed his eyes, hesitating, as William held his breath. “No, your lordship. He will recover.”
The judge nodded, then turned to William. “I can scarcely see how you can expect a continuance when your junior is expected to recover.”
“But, my lord,” Father Thomas spoke up, “there is a further consideration.”
William’s attention snapped back to the priest.
“And just what is that?” the judge asked.
“I happen to know—by Edmund Shaw’s own confession to me—that Mr. Snopes’s junior has an abominable gambling habit. In fact, he admitted to me privately last evening that one of the men who beat him was a fellow gambler. I believe
there is a reasonable likelihood that, if not properly protected, if left alone, Mr. Shaw will be subject to attack again—perhaps even in the hospital as he lies unguarded.”
Astonishing. William felt the judge’s eyes turn to him.
“Is this true?” the judge asked, staring at William.
“I . . . I have suspected that my junior struggled with . . . some vices, my lord,” he replied. “But I’ve not been previously informed of Mr. Shaw’s weakness for gambling.”
“Has he any family who can arrange for his protection?”
“No, my lord. As I said, he’s an orphan, apprenticed under my watch.”
Beyond belief, the judge had paused and was considering the request.
Sensing the turn, Sir Barnabas grew apoplectic. “My lord, if you’re seriously considering this . . . this preposterous excuse for proceeding, I demand to see this Mr. Shaw for myself!”
It was a wonderful mistake. Immediately William nodded his assent. “I’ve no objection, your lordship,” he said, knowing that the round trip would take too long to avoid dismissing the jury for much or all of the day, particularly in morning traffic.
“Very well,” the judge grumbled. “We’ll adjourn to permit Mr. Snopes to be at his junior’s side to see to his protection. You may observe the young man as well if you wish to, Sir Barnabas. But I will allow twenty-four hours only. In that time, Mr. Snopes, you must make whatever arrangements are necessary for his care. Tomorrow you will be back here prepared to make your closing statement.”
“Of course, my lord.”
William accompanied Father Thomas from the chambers. As they stepped into the courtroom, his hand brushed the Father’s. For an instant, he took it and gripped it hard.
“All rise!” the bailiff called once more.
William thought of the American, who’d left before dawn on William’s horse to find Madeleine on the road and speed her arrival to London. This continuance had bought him a single day. Even if Madeleine and Quint Ivars arrived in that time, there still was no assurance the first mate would be allowed on the stand. In fact, the odds weighed heavily against it.
Yet, William reminded himself, less than half a day ago they were as good as through.
The Barrister and the Letter of Marque Page 30
