The Caverel Claim

by Peter Rawlinson

  * * *

  In the interview room Mr Rogers was drinking coffee, watched by Oliver’s junior clerk. ‘What’s the judge like?’ Mr Rogers enquired.

  ‘My senior, Mr Freeman, says he’s a bloody old tartar. Don’t stand no nonsense, Mr Freeman says.’

  Mr Rogers considered this gravely. ‘I suppose it depends on what he thinks is nonsense.’

  The young clerk sniggered. ‘Mr Freeman says this judge thinks anything out of the ordinary, nonsense.’

  ‘What is nonsense? What is ordinary?’ Mr Rogers mused, both hands around his cup. ‘Indeed what is truth, said Jesting Pilate, an observation, my young friend, made by another judge in another and more famous trial nearly two thousand years ago.’

  The young clerk smirked. ‘I’ll leave you now. I’ll be at the rear door in Carey Street.’

  He left Mr Rogers alone in the room, waiting.

  * * *

  Jeremiah Blaine, his agreeable southern American accent pronounced, gave his evidence in a deep, sonorous voice which carried easily around the whole court. After he’d taken the oath he had turned towards the spectators in the body of the court and winked at Judge Blaker who shook his head but smiled. Fortunately Murray had not noticed.

  Percy took Jeremiah Blaine through his evidence. Yes, he had with him and now produced from the registry at St John’s, Lakeside, certified copies of the certificate of marriage at the Chapel of the Coming Kingdom on 16th August 1971 of Mr Julian Caverel, of London, England, bachelor, to Miss Florence Wilson, spinster, of the parish of St John’s, Lakeside in the County of Radstock, South Carolina.

  ‘Was that a marriage recognised as lawful by the State of South Carolina?’

  ‘It sure was, sir.’

  ‘And do you also produce from the same registry a certified copy of the birth to Mrs Florence Caverel of a daughter, named Fleur Sarah, on 26th December 1971?’

  ‘I sure do, sir.’

  ‘I want to ask you now about the hurricane in 1989 when St John’s suffered such severe damage.’

  Mordecai tapped Oliver on the shoulder and whispered in his ear, ‘Have you anything for me about the certificates?’

  Oliver shook his head unhappily. ‘There is only the hurricane. You must do what you can with that.’

  ‘It was bad, sir,’ Jeremiah Blaine said from the witness box, ‘mighty bad. It was a regular tornado.’

  ‘When this tornado struck Southern Carolina so severely in 1989 and your town in particular,’ Percy asked, ‘did the registry at St John’s among many other buildings suffer considerable damage?’

  ‘It sure did, sir, severe damage, like as did the whole township. The registry is in the Town Hall, sir, and the roof was sliced off as neat as if it’d been done with a knife.’

  ‘Were any of the records in the registry lost or defaced as a result of the damage during the tornado?’

  ‘Some documents went, from wind and water as well as fire. Later when she’d blown herself out, we collected others from all over.’

  ‘With regard to the records, certified copies of which you are now producing, and which relate to Mr Julian Caverel and Miss Fleur Caverel, what happened to them?’

  ‘Them, sir? Oh, them were among those that were all right. They were fine. So we could take from them the certified copies which I have here.’

  ‘Is there any doubt as to the authenticity or accuracy of the certified copies you are producing to this court?’

  ‘None whatsoever, sir.’

  Percy sat.

  Mordecai lumbered to his feet. Oliver had always claimed that any evidence of the records at John’s would be fabricated, but he had produced nothing to support his allegation. Oliver might be right, but all Mordecai could do was probe. There was only what he might make of the hurricane and the damage to the records.

  ‘Where did you find the documents, or rather the originals of the documents, copies of which you produce to this court? You said you found some documents from the registry all over. Where did these come from?’

  ‘From the registry.’

  ‘You said the registry was destroyed.’

  ‘He said nothing of the kind,’ said Murray sharply. ‘He said the registry was damaged not destroyed.’

  Mordecai was glowering. ‘But many documents in and from the registry were destroyed. Is that not right?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘But not these?’

  ‘No, sir, not these.’

  ‘Where were they found?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I mean what I asked. Where were these documents found?’

  ‘You mean these –’

  ‘Of course I mean these! Where did you find these, or the originals from which you have taken these copies? You say you retrieved some from all over, whatever that means.’

  ‘Some of the documents, not these.’

  ‘Well, where did you find the documents that had been blown out of the registry?’ Mordecai looked about him theatrically. ‘Were they floating in the ditches or in the drains, or blown up on to the church steeple?’

  Mr Blaine laughed pleasantly. He was not put out by the sarcasm. ‘I guess I understand, sir, I get the drift. No, sir, there sure were some documents scattered around but not actually on the church steeple. Some were jest scattered when the roof went or in the flood which followed and were damaged by water or fire and defaced. Some were picked up, but some of the records were safe in the registry, like these here, the certified copies of which I have here.’

  ‘How many documents were lost?’ Mordecai persisted.

  ‘I can’t tell you that, sir.’

  ‘Try. Try and tell me how many were lost? Millions, thousands, hundreds?’

  ‘Scores, but that’s a shot, as good a shot as I can reckon.’

  ‘And, lo and behold, out of the scores destroyed, the originals of these two documents were miraculously saved?’

  ‘Correct, sir, correct. These records were intact. They were all right. But it weren’t no miracle. Would you like to know, sir, why these here records were intact?’

  ‘Of course I would.’

  ‘Well, you see, sir, it was because the originals of these here copies were on microfiche.’ Blaine paused and grinned. ‘That’s how we stored some.’ He grinned again at Mordecai before he went on. ‘The microfiche was in steel cabinets. They were OK and these entries were on microfiche. Do you wanna see the original microfiche, sir?’

  Mordecai paused. Oliver folded his hands on the table in front of him and gripped them tight. Blaine had deliberately held back that these copies were taken from microfiche. He had been playing with Mordecai. Game, set and match to Mr Blaine.

  Stevens held his breath. The witness had not only survived; he had triumphed.

  Murray did not disguise his satisfaction. He smiled one of his wintry smiles at Jeremiah Blaine. He turned to Mordecai. ‘Yes, Mr Ledbury, anything more to ask the witness?’

  Mordecai knew he’d been worsted and changed tack. ‘Who first asked you to locate these documents and produce certified copies?’ he growled.

  Mr Blaine scratched his head. ‘Let me see if I can recollect who it was. Why yes, I reckon it was old Isaac Walker, who first asked. He’s passed away now, poor old soul.’

  ‘Was he the lawyer on Station Street?’

  ‘He was, sir.’

  ‘And when did this lawyer ask you to locate the originals of these documents?’

  Jeremiah Blaine looked across the court towards ex-Judge Blaker.

  ‘Who are you looking at?’ Mordecai spat out.

  ‘I was looking at no one in particular, sir. I was jest looking and thinking.’

  ‘Who is that man?’ Mordecai pointed at Jed Blaker. ‘The man in the fourth row with whom you were sitting before you came into the witness box?’

  ‘Him?’ said Mr Blaine easily. ‘Why, that’s Jed Blaker, Judge Blaker as we still call him. He used to be our judge, sir. But he ain’t a judge now, he’s –’

/>   ‘What’s his business here?’

  ‘He brought us over, sir, he conducted us over here and –’

  ‘He came with you from Charleston? He’s with you?’

  ‘In a way. He’s –’

  Judge Blaker was on his feet. ‘I was associated with the late Mr Isaac Walter in some pieces of his law business, your honour,’ he called out. ‘I was instructed to try and locate the documents, and –’

  ‘Please sit down,’ said Murray, but he spoke pleasantly, not apparently as offended as might have been expected. ‘You must not interrupt the proceedings.’

  ‘I’m sorry, your honour, I was only trying to help.’

  ‘I understand, and if you’re called as a witness, you can of course explain.’

  ‘One judge bawling out another!’ Mordecai said to Oliver. Murray heard and turned on him. ‘Please do not interrupt, Mr Ledbury, but since you have, will you, please, explain to me the purpose of these questions. Are you challenging the validity of the documents this witness has produced or not?’

  ‘I am seeking to investigate how and why these documents were saved. I’m enquiring into the strange coincidence that out of the…’ Mordecai paused. It was using up time but it couldn’t go on much longer. The judge was by now thoroughly incensed. ‘The coincidence,’ Mordecai continued, ‘that out of the hundreds of documents destroyed or lost in 1989, these so conveniently survived.’

  ‘What do you mean by so conveniently? Convenient for whom?’

  ‘For the Claimant, obviously.’

  ‘It is not obvious to me. I ask you again, Mr Ledbury, are you challenging the documents as not true copies of the originals? Or are you saying that if they are true copies, the originals are false?’

  From the bench Mordecai picked up the bundle of pleadings bound together by small bows of green tape. ‘Has your lordship read the pleadings?’

  ‘Of course I have read the pleadings.’ Murray was even angrier now. Either Ledbury was being obtuse or he was deliberately wasting time. ‘It’s my invariable practice, as you ought to know, to read and study the pleadings in every case in my court before I try the case. If you are suggesting I haven’t read them in this case, that is impertinent.’

  ‘Then of course I apologise.’ Out of the corner of his eye Mordecai saw that a clerk had approached Oliver and was bent beside him, whispering in his ear. ‘I was led into the error by your lordship’s question about the purpose of my cross-examination. Your lordship will have seen from the pleadings that the defence to this claim on behalf of the infant Lord Caverel’ – here his voice became particularly slow and solemn – ‘denies the legitimacy of Julian Caverel; denies that he was ever married; denies that he was the father of a daughter; denies the legitimacy of any child said to be his. Indeed,’ he added more quietly, ‘the defence challenges everything about the claim – and everything about the Claimant.’

  He paused. Oliver turned and slipped a note on to the desk in front of him. Mordecai glanced down. ‘We are ready.’ He looked up at the judge. ‘But in view of your lordship’s pertinent comments and my misinterpretation of your lordship’s practice, I shall conclude my cross-examination of this witness and, if it’s any assistance to my learned friend, I shall not cross-examine any other witness that my friend might call upon this issue.’ He sat down, with the usual noisy clatter.

  Murray turned to Jeremiah Blaine. ‘Thank you,’ he said with another of what passed for him as a smile. ‘You have been very helpful and I am much obliged to you.’

  ‘Only too pleased to be able to oblige.’ Blaine picked up his papers, went down the steps from the witness box and made his way to his seat beside Jed Blaker, who clapped him happily on the back.

  ‘Well done, old cock,’ Willoughby whispered. ‘You did fine.’

  Percy rose. ‘In view of what my friend has just said, I understand that he accepts the authenticity of the documents.’ He paused and looked at Mordecai who ignored him. Percy went on, ‘As he does not dispute what I have just said, I have no reexamination of the witness and I shall call no further witness to confirm the authenticity of these certified copies.’

  Murray nodded. ‘Very well. Let us get on.’

  ‘My lord, this witness and the other gentlemen who have been brought here to prove these documents have come from the United States and are anxious to return to their official duties as soon as possible. As the challenge to their evidence has been withdrawn, I ask that they be released from further attendance.’

  Stevens had turned and was looking up at Percy expectantly.

  ‘Very well,’ Murray repeated. ‘These witnesses –’

  There came a rumble from Ledbury in his seat.

  ‘If you please.’ He hauled himself to his feet. ‘The evidence in the case has only just begun and I suggest as a point of principle that it is unwise to release witnesses at such an early stage in the trial. I submit you should not order their release.’

  Stevens had turned and, anxious again, was looking towards Mordecai.

  ‘Why?’ said Murray abruptly. ‘Why should you object? You have completed your cross-examination and you have said that you do not seek to cross-examine any other witness about these documents.’

  ‘That is so,’ Mordecai said, ‘but I submit it’s never wise to release any witness who has come from a distance and cannot be easily recalled until all the evidence has been completed.’

  ‘What evidence are you referring to?’

  Mordecai looked at him. Some seconds passed.

  ‘All the evidence,’ Mordecai replied. ‘There will be much evidence and many witnesses before this case is concluded. So until your lordship has heard all the evidence, I suggest that no witness should be released.’ There was another pause. ‘By evidence, I mean not only evidence for the Petitioner but also evidence for the Respondent.’ Again he paused.

  Stevens was looking down at his papers, biting his lip. ‘It could be disastrous, leading to costly adjournments, if, for any reason, either party or your lordship yourself required their presence and these witnesses had been released and were three thousand miles away and outside the jurisdiction of the court which would have no power to ensure their return.’

  For a time Murray said nothing. He knew that Ledbury was right in principle, but the man had succeeded in thoroughly exasperating him, not only by his attitude to the bench but also by his slowness and irrelevance. Moreover Ledbury had not really challenged the certificates, so how could there arise circumstances in which the American witnesses would be further required? It was a risk, but he’d take it.

  He looked down at his notebook. ‘The application’, he said at last, ‘is granted. The witnesses dealing with this part of the Claimant’s case are released.’ He looked up at the clock. ‘I shall adjourn now,’ he said. ‘Two o’clock,’ and he swept out of the court.

  Percy rested his hand for a moment on Stevens’ shoulder. The knuckles of Stevens’ fists on the table were showing white. Julian’s birth, Julian’s marriage and Fleur’s birth were now in evidence. The expense, and the trouble, had been worthwhile. ‘Thank you,’ he said to Percy.

  ‘Thank Ledbury. His cussedness did it for us. For all his reputation, he’s not a very skilful cross-examiner or today he’s not in very good form.’ Percy smiled at Fleur. ‘You’ve very little to worry about when you’re in the box this afternoon,’ he said.

  In his room Murray was having a twinge over how wise he’d been to release the Americans. He couldn’t conceal from himself that the reason he’d decided as he had was principally his antipathy to Ledbury. For a brief moment he pondered whether it might not be wiser to change his decision but it was now probably too late. The witnesses might have already left. And he’d be quite unable to tolerate the look of satisfaction it would bring to the face of Mordecai Ledbury.

  * * *

  When the judge had made his ruling about the witnesses, Willoughby had grasped Jameson’s hand under the bench and squeezed it.

  ‘We’ve
done it, old son,’ Willoughby whispered.

  In the corridor he caught up with Jed Blaker and put his arm round his shoulder. ‘Nice doing, old cock. Now you can be off.’

  ‘I expected we’d be here until the end of the week. We’re booked into Sunset Boulevard on Friday evening and we’re not on a flight to Paris until Saturday morning.’

  ‘Then stay around and be our guests. Let’s have a glass to celebrate. Jeremiah did very well, very well indeed. He made their lawyer look an ass. We’re nearly there, old cock. Now it all depends on Fleur.’

  30

  She did brilliantly, speaking in a low attractive voice which could be heard throughout the court-room, her eyes flickering from counsel to judge and up to the public gallery above her. She looked stunning in a smart black and white outfit, her raven dark hair glistening under the sunshine steaming in from the windows high above her.

  ‘Sit if you wish, Miss Caverel,’ the judge said when she entered the witness box. She replied she’d rather stand, so he ordered the usher to bring a chair and place it behind her so that if she grew tired she could sit. She was only a few feet from him to his right and he rarely took his eyes off her.

  As soon as she had climbed the steps into the witness box and taken the testament in her hand, she saw Greg. He was sitting in the last row at the back of the court, leaning forward, his elbow on the desk and smiling. So he had come. Now she knew she’d do well.

  At first she was solemn and serious but, as she grew in confidence, every now and then a smile lit her face, especially when she spoke of the elderly woman whom she believed to be her mother and who had raised her as Sarah Wilson; and of the gentle, white-haired man she called father, although somehow she never really believed he was. Years ago he had been a conductor on the ‘Orange Blossom’ Express, the famous winter train from New York Grand Central station to West Palm Beach, and when, after a lifetime with the railroad, he had retired, he and his wife lived comfortably enough some miles out of town. They kept very much to themselves. There were no other children, and Fleur rarely went to school. The old man taught her to read using his Bible, and did simple sums with her. She was very ignorant until she came to Europe and began to devour every book she could lay her hands on. ‘I’m self-educated,’ she said.