SH02_Hugh Kenrick

by Edward Cline

  As the hackney drove them back to the Temple, the serjeant-at-law studied the worried, crestfallen face of the solicitor, who sat watching the Strand roll by. It had begun to rain, and they could hear the driver curse scurrying pedestrians who got in his way.

  “I would plead your case,” said the serjeant-at-law, “but, as you know, I practice in Common Pleas, and may not appear at King’s Bench.” He paused to take some snuff, and offered his box to the solicitor, who shook his head. “However, I know of a fellow at King’s Bench who is a firebrand on these kinds of cases. He has had dismissed or reversed a number of private and Crown suits against printers and publishers. His name is Dogmael Jones. He’s finally up for a knighthood, so I hear, though I don’t believe he could be bought off with one. I’ll gladly give you a letter of recommendation, if you wish, or even arrange a meeting between the two of you.”

  “What could he or anyone else possibly say in defense?” asked the solicitor. “The Crown’s got my clients bound up tighter than a tea chest!”

  The serjeant-at-law smiled, more to cheer up his companion than to be amusing. “Mr. Jones is Welsh, sir, and, as you know, Welshmen will not yield. He has made more than one King’s Counsel rue his robes. I hear he is the son of a coal miner, and that he digs deep.”

  * * *

  The solicitor was that evening permitted to see his clients in the King’s Bench Prison; the visitation ban had been lifted. The prison was arguably a worse place than the Fleet. Here the unsalaried jailer operated his own tavern, while his colleagues ran such services as lotteries, card games, and prostitution rings. Henchmen of criminals awaiting trial came and went with the freedom of the jailers, as did families and relatives of the inmates. Children were everywhere and underfoot, the smoke from pipes and cooking stones created an acrid, unmoving haze in the place, and the air reeked of gin, cheap wine, and other, worse smells.

  The solicitor reported his day’s work to the men through the bars of their cell. He held his valise and cane close to his chest, and wished he had emptied his coat pockets before coming in. A ragged, feral pack of children watched him from a distance like hungry rats, while some men lounged too casually against the walls near him. He was obliged to pay not only the jailer and his clerk for visiting privileges, but a gruff lout who had marked out that portion of the prison as his own “borough” and charged a “toll.”

  He ended his report with the news that he had agreed to meet Dogmael Jones, a serjeant-at-law at the King’s Bench, to discuss the case. Finally, he said, “I know who filed the informations against you, sirs. It was the Marquis of Bilbury. The son.”

  “Why?” asked Brashears. “And how did he obtain our minutes?”

  “We’ll never know,” said the solicitor. He glanced nervously around, and lowered his voice to a whisper. “He was murdered by footpads the very night of your arrest!”

  “Then, why prosecute us?” asked Sweeney angrily. “The interested party…is beyond interest, beyond care!”

  The solicitor could only shrug his shoulders. “The Crown, like the king, sirs, can do no wrong. The action was begun on you, and must be completed.”

  “Mathius,” said Mendoza. “It must have been Mathius.”

  “Yes,” acknowledged Meservy. “He broke with us over Miltiades.”

  “He cannot have been such a shallow man!” countered Brompton.

  “Well, perhaps he was.”

  “It must have been Mathius,” said Sweeney.

  “And very likely for thirty pieces of silver from the Marquis,” mused Meservy.

  * * *

  Even as the nervous solicitor was making his way to the prison, Sir Miles Goostrey and several deputized clerks from his office were conducting warrantless searches of the homes and establishments of the prisoners. Two wives and one mistress demanded to know the whereabouts of their men, and were cordially informed by Goostrey himself. Two of the women also demanded to know by what right their homes could be entered and searched, and themselves rudely questioned. They were informed that it was the King’s Right and a Crown matter.

  Little incriminating evidence was found in four of the prisoners’ places, except for some untaxed tea and spirits, and a few proscribed books, one of which was Hyperborea, copies found in three of the prisoners’ homes. Notwithstanding the dearth of direct evidence, the clerks removed armfuls of books, ledgers, correspondence, and personal papers for examination by the junior attorney-general and junior solicitor-general. No copies of the poster were found in any of the homes or businesses. In Beverly Brashears’ shop, which Goostrey himself had patronized many times, the secret shelf with the ten volumes of Society minutes was discovered, and the ledgers confiscated as evidence.

  Chapter 33: The Crown Side

  IT WAS A HUMID, LETHARGIC AUGUST. QUARTER SESSIONS HAD ENDED EARLY in July. The Chief Justice of the King’s Bench was indisposed with a “distemper of the stomach.” Most judges of the Bench were on holiday, or on the circuit of assizes in other towns. The Right Honorable Sir Bevill Grainger was accosted one morning at his home near the York Stairs and Water Tower, while he was puttering in his tiny garden, by two ardent and well-connected junior lawyers from the Attorney-General’s and Solicitor-General’s offices. In a most genteel but urgent manner, they requested that he sit at the arraignment and prosecution of some obscure freethinkers. Of the few justices remaining in London this month, they said, he was the Crown’s first choice to oversee the matter.

  Sir Bevill Grainger, aged sixty-six, and on the eve of his retirement, was Master of the Rolls for the King’s Bench, M.P. for Craddock in Hampshire, a founding member of the Silks Club of jurists, and on the board of governors of the new British Museum. Also, he was a member of the Privy Council. He could sit in a judicial capacity, at his own discretion, when the Chief Justice and Lord Chancellor were absent or otherwise indisposed. He was at first put out by the visit and request, and said so, but he removed his gardening apron and cap and invited his callers inside for tea.

  It was a highly irregular request, to convene a court out of sessions, but there were precedents for the action. And the circumstances were extraordinary. The offices of the Secretary of State, Northern Department, and of the Attorney-General, promised to underwrite all costs of the action, including Sir Bevill’s compensation and that of the bailiffs, clerks, and other necessary functionaries. The murdered son of an influential and respected peer had filed the suit, so it would seem obtuse to put the matter in the regular queue with lesser cases. The king and the church had been libeled. The Secretary of State had signed an order for the Attorney-General to prosecute the case forthwith.

  Sir Miles Goostrey, an under-secretary of state, addressed a very cogent letter, delivered by the junior attorney-general to Sir Bevill, that explained the many advantages of an out-of-sessions trial. Not the least of these was that a trial convened now could prevent the case from becoming a contentious subject on the floor of the Commons when that body reconvened in the fall during Michaelmas Term.

  “This would likely happen if Mr. Pitt and his party re-enter the ministry,” wrote Goostrey. “They are such tomtits on press liberty matters, and could make enough fuss that they might unduly alarm a populace already agitated.”

  There were other preponderant reasons for obliging the Crown.

  It was the practice to confer upon a retiring Master of the Rolls a peerage, which the king selected. The rank chosen would depend heavily on the outcome of such a trial. Sir Bevill was to retire in three months, just as the new session of Parliament began; it would take him that long to prepare for his seat in Lords. Goostrey, in his letter, together with the junior lawyers, had assured him that the Crown’s case was so secure that the session would last no more than three days. One of Sir Bevill’s favorite barristers, Sir James Parrot, a King’s Counsel, had accepted the brief for the Crown side, contingent on Sir Bevill’s willingness to commission a trial, and would oversee the sitting of a petit grand jury. Alderman Richard Shrubb was fre
e to form a quorum with Sir Bevill, before he left on business on the Continent, so that a trial could be properly commissioned, though he would take no active part in it. Magistrate Oswald Huggens of the Court of Common Pleas had rejected the accuseds’ application for a writ of habeas corpus, thus eliminating both the chance of legal interference from that quarter and the necessity of invading that court’s venue.

  Sir Bevill had made up his mind to commission a trial, but he teased his visitors with the pious sham of not having done so. He raised with them two minor problems: where to hold the trial, and Dogmael Jones, a bothersome fellow who had accepted the brief for the defense. The grand facilities of the King’s Bench at Westminster Hall were being repaired for the next term, while the trial stalls and rooms there were too busy with special Pleas business. Anyway, often he could not hear testimony or arguments being made by attorneys for all the noises and distractions emanating from the tradesmen’s counters and adjacent hearings and trials. The schedules for Jail Delivery trials at the Sessions House of Old Bailey were crammed beyond endurance, and it would be difficult to rearrange them.

  He hit upon the ingenious idea of holding the trial at the Middle Temple of the Inns of Court, in one of the reading rooms, where law students audited lectures and conducted moot trials. This was a feasible idea, he pointed out to his callers. The King’s Bench, which once traveled with the king, could sit anywhere. Furthermore, most of the readers and students were away, between terms, and one hall he had in mind was commodious enough to accommodate not only all required personnel, but even some spectators. The more he thought about it, the more he savored the idea. It would be a salutary gesture, to have his last trial in that room, where ages ago he had been a student himself and participated in countless moot and word jousts. He knew he could persuade the Master of the Temple to let the room to the Bench for that purpose.

  There was the matter of Serjeant-at-Law Dogmael Jones. Sir Bevill had never conducted a trial in which Jones was a plea counselor, but he knew the man’s reputation for leading justices around by their noses in argumentation. The Crown felt its case secure, yet he wondered if Jones could find a vulnerable point in it. He decided that the threat was minimal; after all, if and when the jury—and it would be a jury friendly to the Crown, Counsel Parrot would see to that—indicted the prisoners, it would be left to him, Sir Bevill, to decide on the degree of the prisoners’ guilt, and to prescribe the punishment. The trial would be over. The prisoners could appeal the decision, if they felt they could afford to, but their case would not be considered by a court of appeal for over a year. The junior attorney-general was adamant that no bail would ever be granted the prisoners; the junior solicitor-general confided that the prisoners were mere tradesmen, in no financial position to sustain a drawn-out legal battle with the Crown. In a year’s time, he said, they would either succumb to the certain rigors of their confinement, or go bankrupt.

  Sir Bevill thanked his visitors for their information, adding that it was time for his nap. He told them that he would send a messenger with his decision to the junior attorney-general’s office later in the afternoon. He would make these impertinent puppies wait. He did actually take a nap, which was made all the more pleasant by reveries of retiring on wings of justice and glory.

  * * *

  Benjamin Worley was leaving his house on Mincing Lane for Lion Key two mornings later when a deputy under-sheriff rode up, asked to know his name and occupation, and handed him a summons to appear the next morning at the Middle Temple, to be examined and possibly chosen by lot to sit on a petit grand jury. Worley had served on juries in the past; he met the juryman’s property qualification of £100 per annum. He also enjoyed the diversion. Like other merchants, he believed that merchants and tradesmen were the best protectors of property and commerce.

  Worley dutifully appeared the next morning, along with a dozen other gentlemen of similar means, and was examined by Sir James Parrot for his views on libel and blasphemy. Two men were disqualified, and the remaining ten drew straws from the hand of Parrot’s junior counsel. Worley and five others picked the shortest. They were told to report early next morning to be sworn in by the clerk of the court. “What is the charge we are to hear?” asked Worley of the junior counsel. “You will know that tomorrow, sir,” answered the man. When Worley returned home, he instructed the kitchen to pack him a basket of cold meats and give it to him when he left for court the next morning.

  * * *

  That next morning, the Pippins were obliged to walk from the King’s Bench Prison in Southwark, over London Bridge, to the Inns of Court, as no dray or lorry was available when they were summoned to answer the indictment. They walked this distance, under mounted escort, fetters on their legs, handcuffs on their wrists, and linked together by a chain. This wardrobe of iron ensured that no escape was possible.

  All five men looked haggard from their incarceration, even though visitors had been allowed to bring them food and drink. Meservy, Brashears, and Brompton were married; Sweeney lived with a mistress, and these women appeared to give their men succor. Mendoza was a bachelor. The Fleet Prison had a provision for straw bedding for prisoners; the King’s Bench did not, and so the men had slept on stone. The jailer told the men that morning that they must shave before appearing in court; as they were not allowed to shave themselves, a prison barber—a convicted grave robber serving a term—performed the task at a rate of six pence each. The wives and mistress had wanted to stay with their men until the day of their trial, but the men would not allow them to, for fear they would be assaulted by other prisoners. Mrs. Brashears, without the knowledge of her husband, was propositioned by the jailer himself, and allowed herself to be fondled by him in exchange for his promise to provide her husband with bedding and food. When she was gone, the jailer and his colleagues had a good laugh about it, and the promise was not kept.

  The men who hobbled over London Bridge and through the streets to the Middle Temple did not have enough money left between them to buy a round of cheap port at the Fruit Wench.

  They were visited two days earlier by Serjeant-at-Law Dogmael Jones, his clerk, and the solicitor in a dank private room in the prison to review the case against them. Jones asked them dozens of questions about the Society of the Pippin and its history, and so got a clearer idea of the matter. He expressed outrage at the Crown’s actions. He had seen one of the posters and the ledger of minutes which the Crown was claiming was the source of the offending statements. He stressed that he disagreed with many of those statements—vehemently, he added—but he believed that the poster was not of the Society’s making and propagation. The Society, he had become certain, was purely a private association dedicated to the exchange of ideas and beliefs and to the pursuit of knowledge, and not to the forcible abdication of the king or the dissolution of the present government.

  He cautioned: “I cannot deny in court, sirs, that the statements on the poster are based on specific statements found in your minutes. Clearly, they are. The Solicitor-General has taken pains to match all of them, except for the gratuitous aspersions on the characters of His Majesty and the Prince of Wales, which apparently are significantly absent from the ledger.” Jones paused to relight his pipe. “The point I shall argue before the jury is that it cannot be proven that your Society, or any member of it, had the poster printed, and that as the printer of it cannot be found who could confirm any communication between him and yourselves, the Crown cannot charge you with the printing and distribution of the poster.”

  Jones paused again, then added, “I shall argue, sirs, this: That while the Crown has ample evidence of libel and blasphemy between private parties, no effort was made by the Society or any member of it to propagate said libel and blasphemy or to perform any other kind of defamation in public.” He smiled and remarked, “One may as well charge a knifegrinder or fishwife with swearing on the porch of St. Paul’s.”

  The members nodded with satisfaction. “Thank you, sir,” said Meservy.

>   Jones collected his papers and put them in his valise. He studied his clients for a moment. “In the last issue of the Gazette,” he said, “there appeared an item announcing your trial—one of many such items—and your names were given, as well as mine and the King’s Counsel’s. Last evening a Negro fellow came to my quarters and handed me a purse of coin. In it were nineteen guineas and several crowns. He insisted that the money be used for my fee and other expenses. I have used some of it to pay your solicitor here, Mr. Bucks, and some for your prison charges. The amount remaining more than meets my own fees. This fellow was tall, with an extremely ebon complexion, very well dressed, and courtwise articulate. An admirably splendid fellow, all in all. He would not give his name, though he claimed to know mine through reputation. Are any of you acquainted with him?”

  The Pippins shook their heads. Sweeney remarked, “He must be a friend whom we have never met.”

  Counselor Jones hummed in doubt, but did not pursue the matter. “I mention the incident only to assure you that your debts have been paid, and can be paid once this nasty affair is concluded.”

  Brompton asked, “What kind of case are they constructing, Counselor? Have they witnesses against us? Have they bought anyone to say he saw one or all of us put up these posters? And, have you any witnesses of your own?”

  Jones shook his head. “I do not know what other stratagem Mr. Parrot has fabricated, other than the connection between the poster and your minutes. Of course, perjurers can be bought; I can do nothing about that. I have had my junior counsel here take depositions from your families, associates, and customers. Many of them have volunteered to testify in court on your behalf. I shall call them, if needed, and if permitted by the bench. But their word may not count for much. You are in the custody of the Secretary of State, and that office is establishing the rules. Witnesses for either side may not even be considered or allowed.” The serjeant-at-law smiled again, but it was not a happy smile. “The Crown wishes to dispose of this matter quickly, sirs. If the jury acquits you, then it is over, and you may commence a suit for damages, and I would happily represent you. But the jury impaneled by King’s Counsel is likely to be a stalwart one, composed of your peers, but not so, well, freethinking. Honest and upright, according to their lights. They will be swayed by arguments I engage with the bench, but not much by any arguments I put to them.”