by Neal Roberts
“That still does not pardon your inappropriate outburst that the toy is a souvenir of Inner Temple, does it?”
Before Noah can reply, Coke speaks up. “M’lord, that was said in response to my regrettable attempt to poke fun at Master Ames’ use of a Gray’s Inn sheet in his demonstration. I sincerely apologize to the Court for that. To the extent that there is a friendly rivalry among the Inns of Court, we all know the truth of it.”
Noah jumps in before the judge can begin again. “And I sincerely apologize to the Court, as well. I was caught off guard by the toy’s humorous appearance, but my outburst was unnecessary and regrettable.”
The judge sits back and looks at Coke and Noah with evident disappointment. “The Inns of Court are not Eton and Harrow, gentlemen, nor are they Oxford and Cambridge. And a courtroom is no place to exhibit any such rivalry among members of the bench and bar. As for you, Master Coke, I take it that you have no other witness to offer who can place the prisoner at the crime scene — or you would not have produced this one. Am I correct?”
“Correct, m’lord,” Coke replies. “Without this witness, our evidence consists only of the proximity of Goodman Granger’s home to the crime scene.”
“Owning a home near a field that one day becomes a crime scene is not a crime, Master Coke. The Crown’s alternatives are limited. You can either withdraw the charge, or lose by acquittal.”
“But the jury might yet convict!” objects Coke in excited, but hushed, tones.
The judge shakes his head. “The jurors would have no basis to convict on this evidence. Your witness has not only been impeached beyond revival, which I acknowledge would still leave a jury issue, but he has completely recanted his testimony. There is now no evidence in the record placing the prisoner at the scene.” He shakes his head even more gravely. “Assuming Master Ames is about to move for a directed verdict,” Noah nods, “then even if the jury were to convict on the basis of this record, I would have no choice but to enter judgment non obstante veredicto.” A “judgment n.o.v.,” as it is sometimes called, means a judgment entered by the Court contrary to the jury’s verdict.
Coke nods, obviously dismayed. “The Crown will withdraw the charge, m’lord,” he says. He bows and turns, about to resume his place at Crown table.
The judge beckons with his hand. “Just a moment, Master Coke. I want you to hear this.” He looks at Jonathan, who has regained his composure. “You especially, Master Hawking, because you are the future.” He turns to Noah. “Master Ames, despite your sometimes unconventional courtroom conduct, I take no issue with your questioning or demonstrative technique. Your demeanor in dealing with witnesses is really quite clever. However, I do have a problem with your little quips and mumblings. At the Queen’s court, you might receive all sorts of praise and blandishments for your pithy sayings. I have nothing to say about that. But at the Queen’s Bench, I have a great deal to say about it. Now, you might persuade yourself that all your little off-the-cuff remarks are of a piece with your general courtroom manner, but they are not. It is my distinct impression that the single person you care to amuse is yourself, and, only secondarily, any others who might rise to your level of erudition. Your quips may get you into serious trouble yet, Master Ames. See to it.”
Having been dressed down so equably, Noah is humbled. “Yes, m’lord. I will think upon what you have said, and will bear it in mind in future. In the meantime, I apologize most heartily to the Court and Master Coke for my offenses.”
The judge rocks in his chair a few moments, sizing up Noah’s apology. He indicates Coke and Jonathan. “You two gentlemen may return to your respective tables. Master Ames, remain here a moment. Master Coke, I assume you have no objection? You have my word that we will not discuss this case.”
“None at all, m’lord.”
Coke and Jonathan bow, and withdraw to their places.
“What am I to do with you, Master Ames?” the judge muses quietly. “I’m going to say something, and I want you to frown when I say it. Now that you’ve put on your little show for your young barristers, I need to put one on, as well. Pretend I am dressing you down.”
Noah hangs his head and frowns.
The judge continues very quietly in the hushed courtroom. “Do you have plans for dinner today?”
Noah swings his head slowly from side to side. “No, m’lord. I do not.”
“Meet me at Serjeants’ Inn at noon.”
The Serjeants, an order comprised of the most renowned barristers in the land, whose cases are afforded precedence over those of all other barristers, was established in France well prior to the Norman Invasion of 1066. The judiciary of the most prestigious courts in the land is dominated by Serjeants. This is certainly not an invitation to be declined by someone in Noah’s position.
Noah’s brow furrows. “May I bring Master Hawking?”
“Perhaps next time. He is still a little young to hear how judges talk amongst themselves. Now, turn and slink back to defense table. You have been admonished.” Noah does as he’s been told, and glances toward Granger, who is understandably horrified by Noah’s moroseness, as he has no idea what this means for his own jeopardy.
“M’lord,” pronounces Coke in stentorian voice, “in light of new developments, the Crown hereby withdraws all charges against Goodman Granger.”
The judge leans forward. “Goodman Granger, you are free to go. The witness may step down. The Court thanks the gentlemen of the jury. You are dismissed.”
So relieved is Granger by the Court’s pronouncement that he stumbles, and must be steadied on his feet by the much smaller Jonathan. Regaining his balance, Granger gratefully seizes Jonathan’s hand.
“Thank you so much, sir. Thank you. Thank you.”
Jonathan’s hand is nearly lost in Granger’s outsize grip.
“There’s your man,” says Jonathan, pointing to Noah.
Noah is looking up at the gallery, from which the Secretary of State and his guard have quietly departed. Granger approaches him with awe.
“Sir, I don’t know how I can ever repay you. I doubt there’s another lawyer in all England who coulda done what you did.”
“Nonsense, Goodman Granger. There are many. But it has been my distinct privilege to assist you. I’ve no idea how anyone could take you for a killer.”
“I s’pose the Crown don’t like unsolved cases more than anyone else. And that’s what this is. An unsolved case.”
“That it is.”
“Sir, can I pay you for your services now?” asks Granger, reaching for his purse.
Noah pats Granger’s hand away from his purse. “No, no, no. Goodman Granger, barristers are not ‘in trade.’ Your arrangement is solely with Master Thistlethwaite. It is his job, not yours, to make sure that we are properly provided for.”
“Very well, sir.” Granger turns toward the heavy doors at the back of the courtroom, and tears well up. “Here’s something I never expected to be doin’. Walkin’ out of this courtroom a free man.” He turns back to Noah. “God bless you, sir. God bless you both!”
“And you, Goodman Granger. Best to your goodwife!”
As Jonathan collects their things, Noah watches proudly as Granger walks to freedom through the rear doors. At the same time, in the corner of his eye, he spies the approach of a small, veiled figure. It’s the widow from the spectators’ gallery, who has evidently descended to speak with him.
“Well done, Master Ames,” she says, as she pins back her veil.
It’s Marie.
Chapter 7
“GOODWIFE RODRIGUEZ!” SAYS Noah, gently cupping her hands in his own. Although she is obviously still recovering from profound grief at the death of her husband, the puffiness about her large chestnut eyes has disappeared, and her face is now taut and firm, sharpening her well-defined jawline. She also seems to have lost weight, which enhances her striking figure.
“Don’t worry, Master Ames. I have not come to haunt you about my case. I merely thought I’
d like to see you at work. And I see I am not alone.” She points an elegantly gloved finger toward the young barristers remaining in the gallery, chatting amiably as though they just attended one of Shakespeare’s better plays. “You have quite the entourage. And, it appears, one that includes a very important young gentleman.”
Instinctively, Noah turns to look at the bench. It’s vacant. Although the bailiff customarily shouts “all rise” as the judge departs the courtroom, Lord Bleffingham seems to have departed without ceremony. He wonders whether the judge has not rushed off to speak with Sir Robert Cecil.
“Oh, I doubt he came to observe me. Come,” says Noah, smiling at his good fortune in seeing Marie so unexpectedly, “let us walk together in the fresh air.” He offers his arm.
Before taking it, she says: “Aren’t you supposed to appear downcast before your young friends there? You know … to set a good example, as someone who’s been taken to the woodshed?”
He regards her with surprise once more.
“Well,” she continues. “Those were the judge’s instructions, were they not?”
He is, for once, speechless.
“Oh, come now,” she says. “You didn’t think your little charade could fool an old negotiator like me, did you?”
“I shall be certain to improve my acting skills before trying to put one past you in future.”
They begin walking toward the exit. At first he smiles, but then he adopts a suitably grave demeanor as they pass the gallery, which has only partly emptied. They draw numerous inquisitive stares as they pass.
“Well done, Master Ames!” says one familiar young barrister of Gray’s Inn, slapping him on the shoulder.
“Thank you,” Noah soberly replies.
From behind them comes a young man’s voice imitating a young woman: “Yes, Master Ames. Very well done, indeed!” Noah and Marie pick up the pace, trying to conceal their own laughter while escaping the general mirth behind them. They step through the doors, and down the staircase into great Westminster Hall.
“How have you been faring these past few weeks?” he asks.
She sighs. “Well, I won’t say it’s been pleasant. It hasn’t. But I’ve been managing to get our affairs in order.”
“Our affairs?”
“Yes, this is a family enterprise, Master … Noah,” she says, suddenly remembering his preferred form of address.
He smiles at the cause of her hesitation. “You know, I’m thinking of changing my name to ‘Master Noah,’ as that’s what everyone seems to call me.”
She smiles again. What is he seeing there? More than mere response to a pleasantry. He feels her studying his face in a way that seems vaguely familiar, then is embarrassed to recall that this is how Marlowe looked at him. He blushes.
“Ha’penny for your thoughts,” she says impishly.
“These thoughts would cost you far more than a ha’penny. Tuppence, at least! Sorry. You caught me woolgathering.”
She nods indulgently. “I’ve sent my children away until Sunday. They’re in Surrey visiting their uncle … for whom I’ve finally found some earthly use. I need to attend to a few matters here in London, before attending to more overseas.”
As they walk arm in arm out into the open air of New Palace Yard, sunshine greets them. The air smells surprisingly fresh and clean for Westminster. It’s one of those unusually warm early spring days when the season seems to run ahead of itself, surprising every living thing. The birds have not yet realized it’s time to come out and sing, and only the tiniest green buds tentatively peek out onto the branches.
“Well,” says Noah. “If I can be of any use to you — ”
“Now that you mention it … Noah, there are a few matters I’d care to discuss with you. Have you plans for dinner today?”
He isn’t sure if it’s appropriate to tell her he’s been invited to dine at Serjeants’ Inn, by the very judge who’s just dressed him down.
She reads his eyes, or thinks she does, and appears crestfallen. “I see. Well, whoever she is, I hope she’s very lovely.”
“Oh, no,” he scowls. “Nothing of the sort. It’s just that I’m not sure I should — ”
”Oh?” she perks up. “Matters of law and the state?”
“I don’t seem to be very good at withholding information from you. Can you keep a secret?”
She looks around mock-furtively and winks knowingly at him, which he finds especially adorable for some reason. He wonders whether it is proper for a recent widow dressed in mourning to look quite this beautiful.
“Cheeky,” he mutters. “You know that judge who just admonished me?”
“You mean the one who just pretended to admonish you?”
He nods. “He invited me to dine with him at Serjeants’ Inn at noon.”
She seems surprised. “When did he do that?” Her eyes grow wide, and her mouth falls open. “Why, when he was dressing you down privately, of course! Oh, and you, with that hangdog expression!” She laughs. “You men are all alike. Actors all!”
“Might you and I have supper tonight, perhaps?”
She grows thoughtful and studies his face skeptically. For a moment, she says nothing, evidently mulling over some very important question.
“Oh, very well,” she concedes.
“Shall I call for you around eight?”
“That would be fine.”
“Where shall we sup?”
“I’ll have the servants throw something together.”
“Oh, no, please,” he protests. “I couldn’t impose.”
“Nonsense,” she says. “Eight it is, then.” She curtsies deeply and turns toward the intersection of King Street and Thieving Lane, where Noah spies several suspicious-looking paupers only a few feet from her path.
“Oh, no, no, no. None of that! I won’t have you going on foot near that wretched lane. You’ll be molested by beggars and thieves! Didn’t Master Hawking advise you to avoid traveling about London without male escort?”
She seems to regard his protectiveness as presumptuous. “I’m going up King Street to the Strand. Besides, how do you think I got here?”
“You were not in my care when you came here.”
“I can take care of myself,” she says, and marches off in a huff. After a moment’s hesitation, he runs after her.
A few steps away on Thieving Lane, a stooped woman in shabby clothing draws a kerchief about her smudged face, races toward Marie, and snatches her purse away. As the thief tries to escape, Noah, who is already moving at a jog, tackles her with full force. He feels a sharp pain in his left hand as they strike the pavement together. Splayed out in a tangle on the ground, the thief’s estimable height becomes discernible, having been concealed until then by poor posture.
Still on the ground, Noah grabs the purse. Although the thief’s initial resistance is formidable, as Noah moves to rip off her kerchief, her grip on the purse relents, and she releases it. She grimaces angrily and knees him hard in the chest. As he struggles for breath, she bolts upright, spits, and quickly disappears from view down Thieving Lane.
Marie runs to kneel beside him. “Noah! Oh, why did you do that?” she splutters. “Are you hurt?”
The look in her eyes seems downright desperate. The altercation must have jolted back to mind the barely repressed memories of her husband’s murder. Noah sits up before he can fully catch his breath, to assure her that he’s uninjured. “I’ll be fine,” he grunts hoarsely.
“Where were you struck?” she implores, eying his full length.
“I am unhurt, I assure you. Merely winded.”
“No, your hand is becoming bruised. Look!”
Although the back of his left hand is turning gray, in truth it hurts very little. He rises without assistance, and gazes down Thieving Lane. “Barely hurt at all,” he muses, and turns to her. “I am amazed by the ease with which your purse was recovered.” Realizing that he’s still holding it, he tenders it back to her.
She accepts it more
with irritation than gratitude. “Ease? You call that easy?” She shakes the purse at him, tears in her eyes. “Oh, this is a trifle, Noah! You mustn’t be drawn into fisticuffs on account of such things. You might have been badly hurt. There is nothing of value in it. A few pence, perhaps a shilling.”
He turns to her. “No personal items? Nothing of your late husband’s?”
“No!”
“Well, I guess that scoundrel thought there might be.”
“What do you mean?”
“I do not believe that was a woman. In fact, it was not a beggar. Perhaps not even a professional thief.”
She appears perplexed. “What ever do you mean?”
“He was tall and strong, and could have put up much more of a fight than he did. He probably would have got away with the purse, too.”
“Why didn’t she … he?”
“Because concealment of his identity was of utmost importance.”
Marie seems to consider his point, and then dismisses it. “Oh, rubbish! How could anyone know the thief was not a beggar?”
He taps the side of his nose with his finger. “Have you ever caught a whiff of a beggar? A real one, I mean?”
“Of course. They smell as though they’ve never bathed.”
He smiles. “What did this one smell like?”
“Like … nothing.”
He arches an eyebrow. “Precisely!”
He hails a carriage coming toward them down King Street, and pays the driver. Marie steps into it, pouting, and sits down. Noah smiles as cheerily as he can manage. “Eight o’ clock, then?” She nods contemplatively, and the carriage clops away.
He expects she will no longer be so quick to move about the city without a manservant, which is all to the good. His hand begins to throb, and he rubs it absentmindedly as he turns toward Serjeants’ Inn on Fleet Street.
In a private room at Westminster, Southampton listens patiently to Essex’s complaints about the insolent barrister, Noah Ames.
