“I shall contribute something,” said I.
“As you will,” said Sir John, “but if there is a need, by custom it would fall to me to supply the deficiency.”
“How so?”
“My annual stipend.”
“Ah yes, of course-noblesse oblige.”
He grinned in amusement. “Something of the sort. But Jeremy?”
“Yes sir?”
“It will fall to you today-and until I can find a permanent replacement-to work as Mr. Marsden’s replacement. I fear we’ve used up a good bit of the morning in this painful business. You must get on with the interviews of the prisoners and the disputants. I know not how many there are, but. .”
“Of course, Sir John.” I rose and started to the door.
“Just one more thing, lad. What was it like, Mr. Marsden’s living quarters, I mean. Had he a good life, do you suppose?”
What an odd question, I thought, and what a difficult one to answer. “Why, I know not quite what to say, Sir John. Though it was but a single room, it was a large one-not lavishly furnished but comfortable. There was wood for a good fire. What more does one need?”
“Well, yes, I suppose, but. . did he have many books about?”
“Two or three law books, as I recall-all of them rather old.”
“When he first came to me,” said Sir John, “he wanted to be a lawyer.”
“The rest were all penny-dreadfuls-a great stack of them.”
“Oh dear,” said he with a sigh.
“And oh yes, there were a great many pipes about. He had quite a collection, so he did.”
“He was a great one for his pipes, was he not? I daresay that they were well kept, too.”
“Oh very. And another odd thing: When you entered the room, the first thing you noted was the smell of tobacco smoke. It seemed quite pervasive.”
That seemed to satisfy Sir John. “Then perhaps ’twas not such a bad life, after all-a bit of dinner, a bottle of ale, and a pipe or two afterward. Ah, but he was alone. I could never live so.”
As a consequence of Mr. Marsden’s death, I missed most of the trial of Mother Jeffers. We buried him upon the Monday the trial commenced. It continued through Tuesday and Wednesday, which made it quite a long session in court for those days. The length of the trial came as a result of Jeffers’s choice of counsel. She was wise enough (and wealthy enough) to have her solicitor engage William Ogden, to my mind the finest barrister in London, to plead her case. He was young, he was energetic, and his method was to throw out a net and bring in as many witnesses as possible. Then, having attacked the character-and therefore the testimony of Elizabeth Hooker-he launched a final assault in his summing-up before the jury.
Louis Edgington, for the prosecution, had little more to work with than Elizabeth’s story of her abduction and imprisonment. She told it at great length, having embroidered it considerably since last I had heard it told. A couple of character witnesses were called, including her employer, Mr. Turbott, the silversmith. Perhaps Mr. Edgington thought this to be sufficient, what with mass meetings and torchlight parades in her behalf. Or perhaps he, a veteran of the courts, had simply grown lazy.
In any case, Mr. Ogden assailed the testimony of each of them in cross-examination and spent most of the time quite rightly jabbing and cutting away at the story of Elizabeth Hooker. Though she was less believable by the time he had done with her, it could not be said that he had destroyed her testimony. The most deeply wounding shot of all was the last. William Ogden had turned his back upon her and walked away, as if to his seat. But, of a sudden, he turned and confronted her.
“Mistress Hooker,” said he, “I have one last question for you, and it is this: Are you pregnant?”
She was quite taken aback, unable for a while even to speak. Since this question was asked at the end of the first day of the trial, I was able to be present and can attest to her confusion.
After sputtering and stuttering for some moments, she managed at last to declare her denial: “Why. . why, no. I mean, I certainly. . NO!”
Mr. Edgington jumped to his feet, obviously intending to object. But, thinking better of it, he looked around him and sheepishly resumed his seat. His difficulty was that if he were to object to the question and get it stricken from the record, he would also lose her response, which, no matter how faltering, was certainly categorical. Nevertheless, Mr. Ogden had scored a point with the jury.
As it happened, it was but the first of many points, for, once on the offense, he was virtually unstoppable. First, he brought Kathleen Quigley to the witness box, and he took her at length through the tale of the Easter dinner, the late departure of the two girls, and their separation in Covent Garden. Yet he went deeper with her than I had done, and got from her that though the two shared a bed in a small room down in the servants’ quarters of the Turbott residence and shop, there were often difficulties.
“Was Elizabeth a good bed partner?” Mr. Ogden put it to her.
“No sir, she weren’t,” said Kathleen. “She would oft sneak out the bed, dress herself, and let herself out with a duplicate key she’d got hold of.”
“Did she offer you any account of her whereabouts during these secret expeditions of hers?”
“No, not at first, but though she could go on less sleep than I ever could, eventually her hours began to take a toll in her work. She’d be dozing at her washing up and all. And so one day I just up and asked her where she went. ‘Oh, Kathleen,’ she says to me, ‘there’s a whole other world out there at night. It’s ever so much more fun than this one. Mostly, I go with my guide, my own special friend. He shows me round, wherever. And sometimes, I admit, we make mischief together.’”
“And that was all she said?”
“All that I can remember about that.”
“Your witness, Mr. Edgington.”
Truth be told, Mr. Edgington knew not quite what to do with her in cross-examination. So overwhelmed was he by what he had just heard from her that all he could manage were one or two perfunctory questions. The first, as I recall, was whether or not anyone else had noted Elizabeth’s nocturnal ramblings. Kathleen Quigley said that perhaps they had, but ’twas only to the cook she had ever mentioned it.
“And what was her response?” asked Mr. Edgington.
“She said to me, ‘That’s as may be, but what you say will get no farther than me.’ ‘Why not?’ says I. ‘Because,’ said she. “’Twould do no good, and would only get you and me both into trouble.’”
Was there another question? I believe there was not, for I have a strong impression that he refused to pursue this further for fear of where it might lead.
Next did Mr. Ogden call one Sally Ward, who referred to herself as a “hostess” at the Rose Tavern. She, it seemed, had seen Elizabeth Hooker at the Rose and in the company of two young men. “They were having a grand time,” said she. “Stayed to all hours, they did.” Mr. Edgington’s questions seemed intended only to get the “hostess” to admit that she was a prostitute. Her responses were such as to make it clear that she was not.
A short parade of witnesses for the defense followed. Virginia Jeffers, the daughter, told of the inspection of her room, the taking of her frock, et cetera. The room was much different when it was viewed by Elizabeth. “But,” said she, “months back it had looked a bit more in that way Elizabeth had described.”
That, of course, was interesting, yet Edgington had no questions to put to her in cross-examination; nor had he questions for Joan Simonson, a “resident” of the house, absent at the time of the search. She attested, in response to Mr. Ogden, that she had never seen the girl known as Elizabeth Hooker until she had given her testimony the day before in court.
And on, at last, to Mother Jeffers. Hers was perhaps the shortest time spent in the witness box of all those called to testify. Mr. Ogden had but two questions he wished answered. The first was to give an account of her business.
“Would you describe the house that you
own and operate as a brothel?”
“No, I would not,” said she.
“How then would you describe it?”
“As a lodging house, an inn. I rent out rooms to travelers.”
“To travelers only?”
“Well, I cannot be certain, but that is indeed how they strike me.”
That brought a rumble of deep laughter from those in the courtroom. Had it continued, the judge, a Sir Hubert Timmons, would likely have cleared the courtroom. The second question to be settled was Mother Jeffers’s relation to Elizabeth Hooker. How did she answer that?
“I had never seen that girl until she was brought to me in the company of Sir John Fielding and the Mr. Turbott who testified here yesterday.”
“Never seen her?” Mr. Ogden pretended great shock at her response.
“Absolutely not.”
“Your witness, Mr. Edgington.”
The prosecution had at least thought out his questions in advance, but Mr. Ogden had thought them out, too. And, having done so, he had prepared her well when they came.
“This house of yours,” said Mr. Edgington, “how was it you described it?”
“As a lodging house, an inn for travelers.”
“An inn, you say? Do you serve meals?”
“We do. I do most of the cooking myself.”
“How nice,” said Mr. Edgington. “But tell me more of those who stay at your inn. For instance, how do you know that they are travelers?”
“Well, they seldom stay more than a single night.”
There was a sudden explosion of laughter. Even Mr. Edgington unbent sufficiently to smile at that.
“But occasionally they do stay longer,” added Mother Jeffers, apparently embarrassed by all the commotion and wishing to put an end to it.
“Are these travelers mostly men and women?”
She looked at him oddly. “Well, what else could they be?” More laughter.
“Oh, what I meant to say was, do they appear in couples? A man and a woman, that sort of thing.”
“Ah, well, that’s the usual, I suppose, but there are others, you know-men and men, and even women and women, occasionally.”
And then, with great dramatic emphasis, Mr. Edgington demanded to know: “Just what do you believe they do in those rooms of yours, Mrs. Jeffers?”
She drew herself erect and said to him quite indignantly, “Why, sir, I would not presume to guess. Would you have me spy upon my guests? That would be sinfully improper.”
Again-and actually for the last time during the trial-there was sudden merriment at her response. “Sinfully improper” was the phrase that seemed to amuse most. Even Sir Hubert Timmons, the judge, joined in, and so it was quite some time before proceedings might continue. And when they did, it was evident that Mr. Edgington had been bested by the woman in the witness box. He briefly attempted to bring her to account for her refusal to identify Elizabeth Hooker and to describe their relations.
“You say,” said he, “that you had never seen Mistress Hooker until her appearance with Sir John Fielding and her employer, Mr. Turbott, on the nineteenth day of this month. Is that correct?”
“That is correct, yes.”
“Then how do you account for the fact that Elizabeth Hooker found in your daughter’s closet the very frock that you took from her upon her arrival at your. . your. . house?”
“I know of no such frock,” declared Mother Jeffers. “I know only of one taken unlawfully from my daughter by that girl. Mistress Hooker claimed it as her own. It fitted my daughter, and here is the dressmaker’s bill to prove it is hers. You have seen her and you have seen Mistress Hooker, and thus you know that the same dress could not have fitted both. I challenge them to show it to us now.”
“Bring forth the frock that we may see it now,” cried Mr. Edgington.
There was an awkward pause. And then a small voice was heard from behind the attorney for the prosecution. “It is. . unavailable.”
Mr. Edgington whirled about angrily. “Unavailable? What does that mean?”
“It has disappeared, sir,” came the voice again. “Probably stolen.”
Mother Jeffers said naught, yet the look of withering contempt that she showed her interrogator was far more eloquent. It was, in any case, far too much for Mr. Edgington. He turned away in disgust.
“I have done with her,” said he as he strode back to his seat.
Thus did the prosecution of Mrs. Jeffers come crashing down. I mean no disrespect to Mr. Edgington, for he was in his prime as good as any barrister at the bar, but his failure in this instance proved once again the importance of proper preparation. There was but one more chance for him to win back the jury, and that would come on the morrow with his final speech in summary of the case for the prosecution.
In just such a way did the support of public opinion begin to ebb from Elizabeth Hooker. It was physically perceptible how the talk upon the street in front of Old Bailey quietened down as word came out to them of developments inside the vast court building. The crowd began to shrink. By the morning of the third day of the trial, there were few there before the great doors. Where over a hundred had gathered on the first day, there were now less than ten.
Inside, Mr. Edgington attempted to do with oratory what he had failed to do during the previous two days of questioning. In truth, all that he managed to accomplish was to retell the pitiful tale of abduction and incarceration which Elizabeth had recounted a couple of days before. He left nothing out; in fact, he added a few flourishes of his own, all intended to wring sympathy from the twelve stolid faces in the jury box. His performance was indeed impressive, yet it was, in spite of all, a performance. When he raised a hand to brush away the tears, his fingers remained dry. Yet had he told the same tale to them at the beginning and then polled the members of the jury, he would have had an immediate conviction.
Mr. William Ogden, on the other hand, said little in defense of his client. Rather, his device was to attack her accuser-and attack and attack yet again.
“Gentlemen, behold a liar,” said he to the jurymen, waving his hand in the direction of Elizabeth Hooker, who sat in the front row. “I do not believe that I have encountered such a complete liar in all my years at the bar.” (Which, indeed, at the time were not so many.) He went on to cite the many statements made by Elizabeth and the ways that they had been contradicted by others who had appeared as witnesses-Kathleen Quigley, Virginia Jeffers, Sally Ward, Joan Simonson, and, of course, the most forceful contradiction of all, from Mother Jeffers. Nor did Mr. Ogden hesitate to remind them of what was the most embarrassing moment of all for Louis Edgington: the discovery that the frock in Virginia Jeffers’s wardrobe claimed by Elizabeth as her own had vanished.
All in all, it was a most instructive trial for one such as myself who hoped to make a career in the law. So far as I could see, William Ogden had not made a single mistake, whereas Louis Edgington had made many; and, as Sir John had put it to me, one can learn as much from another’s mistakes as from his greatest triumphs. Sir Hubert Timmons must have thought as highly as I did regarding Mr. Ogden’s ability to pull a case together in a short time, for he commented upon it and praised him for it in his summing-up to the jury. He stopped short of directing a verdict, yet it was clear that he felt that Mr. Ogden had made the case for acquittal. And it was acquittal voted by the jury. The only surprise was that their verdict was returned in less than fifteen minutes’ time.
My account of the trial here, while no doubt accurate enough, was pieced together from the memories of William Ogden (whom I came to know quite well in later life), my own sketchy recollections, and other, incidental research. As I mentioned earlier, ’twas the death of Mr. Marsden that prevented me from spending more time at the Old Bailey during the trial. It meant that I would serve as Sir John’s court clerk for an indeterminate length of time (which, in the event, proved a very long time indeed). It also meant that I, along with all the rest at Bow Street, would attend Mr. Marsden’s funera
l at nearby St. Paul’s, Covent Garden. Following the graveside service, as the Runners hurried off along their separate ways, Sir John took me aside and asked if I might return with him to Bow Street.
“Certainly,” said I. “Was there something special. .?”
“As it happens, there is,” said he. “I know you wish to get on to the Old Bailey-but this shouldn’t take long.” Saying no more about it, he started off at a brisk pace through the field of gravestones, swinging his walking stick in wide arcs before him. ’Twas all I could do to keep up.
There was a single letter upon Sir John’s desk. For whom it was intended I could only guess, for it was placed so that the address and addressee were invisible to me. Nevertheless, I could plainly see that the seal that it bore was that of Sir John’s himself. Perhaps, I thought, it is a letter he wishes me to deliver. However, I soon found out that in this case Sir John was the deliverer.
“This is the usual time for attending to such matters,” said he.
“If you will pardon me, sir,” said I, “what sort of matters do you mean?”
“Oh, the reading of wills, that sort of thing.” He felt around the top of the desk until his fingers touched the letter. When they did, he pushed it across the desk toward me. “Open it,” said he. “I know the contents. I am in fact witness to them. That scrawl below Mr. Marsden’s signature is mine, as you, I’m sure, will recognize.”
And, below that familiar scrawl, was this note: “Witnessed and signed to on this date, the 25th day of April, 1774.”
“Less than a week ago,” said I.
“Yes, Mr. Marsden knew that he had not long to live, and he came to me and asked if I might help him a bit in the wording of the will and then witness his signature. I agreed, of course, and what you have before you is the result of that unequal collaboration. ‘Unequal,’ I say, because all the thoughts and intentions expressed here are his own. Read it, if you will, Jeremy, and read it aloud.”
“All right, sir,” said I. After clearing my throat, I began: “I, Jonathan Partridge Marsden, being of sound mind, et cetera-”
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