A Prisoner of Birth

by Jeffrey Archer

‘Yes, I can, Mr Pearson. The letters patent were sent to me some weeks ago.’

  ‘Can you also confirm that the estate in Scotland, along with the house in London and the bank accounts in London and Switzerland are once again in the custody of the family?’

  ‘I’m afraid I cannot, Mr Pearson.’

  ‘And why is that?’ asked Mr Justice Hackett.

  Sir Hugo appeared a little flustered as he turned towards the judge. ‘It’s the policy of both banks concerned not to confirm ownership while a court case is still in progress, m’lord. They have assured me that legal transfer will take place to the rightful party as soon as this case is concluded, and the jury have delivered their verdict.’

  ‘Fear not,’ said the judge, giving him a warm smile. ‘Your long ordeal is coming to an end.’

  Sir Matthew was on his feet instantly. ‘I apologize for interrupting your lordship, but does your response to this witness imply that you have already come to a decision in this case?’ he asked with a warm smile.

  It was the judge’s turn to look flustered. ‘No, of course not, Sir Matthew,’ he replied. ‘I was merely stating that whatever the outcome of this trial, Sir Hugo’s long wait is finally coming to an end.’

  ‘I am obliged, my lord. It comes as a great relief to discover that you have not made up your mind before the defence has been given a chance to present its case.’ He settled back in his place.

  Pearson glowered at Sir Matthew, but the old man’s eyes were already closed. Turning back to the witness, he said, ‘I am sorry, Sir Hugo, that you have had to be put through such an unpleasant ordeal, which is not of your own making. But it has been important for the jury to see what havoc and distress the defendant Daniel Cartwright has brought down on your family. As his lordship has made clear, that ordeal is finally coming to an end.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure of that,’ said Sir Matthew.

  Pearson once again ignored the interruption. ‘No more questions, my lord,’ he said, before resuming his place.

  ‘Every word of that was rehearsed,’ whispered Sir Matthew, his eyes still closed. ‘Lead the damn man down a long, dark path and when he least expects it, plunge a knife into his heart. I can promise you, Alex, no blood will flow, blue or red.’

  ‘Mr Redmayne, I apologize for interrupting you,’ said the judge, ‘but is it your intention to cross-examine this witness?’

  ‘Yes, m’lord.’

  ‘Pace yourself, my boy. Don’t forget that he’s the one who wants to get it over with,’ whispered Sir Matthew as he slumped back into his place.

  ‘Sir Hugo,’ Alex began, ‘you told the court that your relationship with your nephew, Nicholas Moncrieff, was a close one – cordial was the word I think you used to describe it – and that you would have spoken to him at his father’s funeral had the prison officers not prevented it.’

  ‘Yes, that is correct,’ said Hugo.

  ‘Let me ask you, when was it that you first discovered that your nephew was in fact dead, and not living, as you had believed, in his home in The Boltons?’

  ‘A few days before Cartwright was arrested,’ said Hugo.

  ‘That would have been about a year and a half after the funeral at which you were not allowed any contact with your nephew?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘In that case, I am bound to ask, Sir Hugo, how many times during that eighteen-month period did you and your nephew, whom you were so close to, meet up or speak on the phone?’

  ‘But that’s the point, it wasn’t Nick,’ said Hugo, looking pleased with himself.

  ‘No, it wasn’t,’ agreed Alex. ‘But you have just told the court that you didn’t become aware of that fact until three days before my client was arrested.’

  Hugo looked up to the gallery, hoping for inspiration. This wasn’t one of the questions Margaret had anticipated and told him how to answer. ‘Well, we both lead busy lives,’ he said, trying to think on his feet. ‘He was living in London, while I spend most of my time in Scotland.’

  ‘I understand that they now have telephones in Scotland,’ said Alex. A ripple of laughter went around the court.

  ‘It was a Scot who invented the telephone, sir,’ said Hugo sarcastically.

  ‘All the more reason to pick one up,’ suggested Alex.

  ‘What are you implying?’ asked Hugo.

  ‘I’m not implying anything,’ replied Alex. ‘But can you deny that when you both attended a stamp auction at Sotheby’s in London in September 2002 and spent the next few days in Geneva at the same hotel as the man you believed to be your nephew, you made no attempt to speak to him?’

  ‘He could have spoken to me,’ said Hugo, his voice rising. ‘It’s a two-way street, you know.’

  ‘Perhaps my client didn’t want to speak to you, as he knew only too well what sort of relationship you had with your nephew. Perhaps he knew that you had not written or spoken to him once during the past ten years. Perhaps he knew that your nephew loathed you, and that your own father – his grandfather – had cut you out of his will?’

  ‘I see that you are determined to take the word of a criminal before that of a member of the family.’

  ‘No, Sir Hugo. I learned all of this from a member of the family.’

  ‘Who?’ demanded Hugo defiantly.

  ‘Your nephew, Sir Nicholas Moncrieff,’ replied Alex.

  ‘But you didn’t even know him.’

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ admitted Alex. ‘But while he was in prison, where you never once in four years visited or wrote to him, he kept a daily diary, which has proved most revealing.’

  Pearson leapt up. ‘M’lord, I must protest. These diaries to which my learned friend refers were only placed in the jury bundle a week ago, and although my junior has struggled manfully to go through them line by line, they consist of over a thousand pages.’

  ‘My lord,’ said Alex, ‘my junior has read every word of those diaries, and for the convenience of the court he has highlighted any passages we might later wish to bring to the attention of the jury. There can be no doubt that they are admissible.’

  ‘They may well be admissible,’ said Mr Justice Hackett, ‘but I do not consider them to be at all relevant. It is not Sir Hugo who is on trial, and his relationship with his nephew is not at the heart of this case, so I suggest you move on, Mr Redmayne.’

  Sir Matthew tugged his son’s gown. ‘May I have a word with my junior?’ Alex asked the judge.

  ‘If you must,’ replied Mr Justice Hackett, still smarting from his last encounter with Sir Matthew. ‘But make it quick.’

  Alex sat down. ‘You’ve made your point, my boy,’ whispered Sir Matthew, ‘and in any case, the most significant line in the diaries ought to be saved for the next witness. Added to that, old man Hackett is wondering if he’s gone too far and given us enough ammunition to apply for a retrial. He’ll want to avoid allowing us that opportunity at all costs. This will be his last appearance in the High Court before he retires, and he wouldn’t want a retrial to be the one thing he’s remembered for. So when you resume, say that you accept his lordship’s judgement without question, but that as you may need to refer to certain passages in the diary on some later occasion, you hope that your learned friend will find time to consider the few entries that your junior has marked for his convenience.’

  Alex rose from his place and said, ‘I accept your lordship’s judgement without question, but as I may need to refer to certain passages in the diary at a later date, I can only hope that my learned friend will find enough time to read the few lines that have been marked up for his consideration.’ Sir Matthew smiled. The judge frowned, and Sir Hugo looked mystified.

  Alex turned his attention back to the witness, who was now mopping his brow every few moments.

  ‘Sir Hugo, can I confirm that it was your father’s wish, as clearly stated in his will, that the estate in Dunbroath should be handed over to the National Trust for Scotland, with a sufficient sum of money to be put aside for
its upkeep.’

  ‘That was my understanding,’ admitted Hugo.

  ‘Then can you also confirm that Daniel Cartwright abided by those wishes, and that the estate is now in the hands of the National Trust for Scotland?’

  ‘Yes, I am able to confirm that,’ replied Hugo, somewhat reluctantly.

  ‘Have you recently found time to visit number twelve The Boltons and see what condition the property is in?’

  ‘Yes I have. I couldn’t see a great deal of difference from how it was before.’

  ‘Sir Hugo, would you like me to call Mr Cartwright’s housekeeper in order that she can tell the court in graphic detail what state she found the house in when she was first employed?’

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ said Hugo. ‘It may well have been somewhat neglected, but as I have already made clear, I spend most of my time in Scotland, and rarely visit London.’

  ‘That being the case, Sir Hugo, let us move on to your nephew’s account at Coutts bank in the Strand. Are you able to tell the court how much money was in that account at the time of his tragic death?’

  ‘How could I possibly know that?’ Hugo replied sharply.

  ‘Then allow me to enlighten you, Sir Hugo,’ said Alex, extracting a bank statement from a folder. ‘Just over seven thousand pounds.’

  ‘But surely what matters is how much there is in that account at the present time?’ retorted Sir Hugo triumphantly.

  ‘I couldn’t agree with you more,’ said Alex, taking out a second bank statement. ‘At close of business yesterday, the account stood at a little over forty-two thousand pounds.’ Hugo kept glancing up at the public gallery as he mopped his brow. ‘Next, we should consider the stamp collection that your father, Sir Alexander, left to his grandson, Nicholas.’

  ‘Cartwright sold it behind my back.’

  ‘I would suggest, Sir Hugo, that he sold it right in front of your nose.’

  ‘I would never have agreed to part with something that the family has always regarded as a priceless heirloom.’

  ‘I wonder if you would like a little time to reconsider that statement,’ said Alex. ‘I am in possession of a legal document drawn up by your solicitor, Mr Desmond Galbraith, agreeing to sell your father’s stamp collection for fifty million dollars to a Mr Gene Hunsacker of Austin, Texas.’

  ‘Even if that were true,’ said Hugo, ‘I never saw a penny of it, because it was Cartwright who ended up selling the collection to Hunsacker.’

  ‘He did indeed,’ said Alex, ‘for a sum of fifty-seven and a half million dollars – seven and a half million more than you managed to negotiate.’

  ‘Where is all this leading, Mr Redmayne?’ asked the judge. ‘However well your client has husbanded the Moncrieff legacy, it was still he who stole everything in the first place. Are you trying to suggest that it was always his intention to return the estate to its rightful owners?’

  ‘No, my lord. However, I am attempting to demonstrate that perhaps Danny Cartwright is not quite the evil villain that the prosecution would have us believe. Indeed, thanks to his stewardship, Sir Hugo will be far better off than he could have expected to be.’

  Sir Matthew offered up a silent prayer.

  ‘That’s not true!’ said Sir Hugo. ‘I’ll be worse off.’

  Sir Matthew’s eyes opened and he sat bolt upright. ‘There is a God in Heaven after all,’ he whispered. ‘Well done, my boy.’

  ‘I am now completely at a loss,’ said Mr Justice Hackett. ‘If there is over seven and a half million dollars more in the bank account than you had anticipated, Sir Hugo, how can you possibly be worse off ?’

  ‘Because I recently signed a legal contract with a third party who was unwilling to reveal the details of what had happened to my nephew unless I agreed to part with twenty-five per cent of my inheritance.’

  ‘Sit back, say nothing,’ murmured Sir Matthew.

  The judge called loudly for order, and Alex didn’t ask his next question until silence had been restored.

  ‘When did you sign this agreement, Sir Hugo?’

  Hugo removed a small diary from an inside pocket, and flicked over the pages until he came to the entry he was looking for. ‘October twenty-second last year,’ he said.

  Alex checked his notes. ‘The day before a certain professional gentleman contacted Chief Inspector Fuller to arrange a meeting at an unknown location.’

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ said Hugo.

  ‘Of course you don’t,’ said Alex. ‘You had no way of knowing what was going on behind your back. But I am bound to ask, Sir Hugo, once you had signed the legal contract agreeing to part with millions of pounds should your family fortune be restored, what this professional gentleman could possibly be offering you in exchange for your signature.’

  ‘He told me that my nephew had been dead for over a year, and that his place had been usurped by that man sitting in the dock.’

  ‘And what was your reaction to this incredible piece of news?’

  ‘I didn’t believe it to begin with,’ said Hugo, ‘but then he showed me several photographs of Cartwright and Nick, and I had to admit they did look alike.’

  ‘I find it hard to believe, Sir Hugo, that that was enough proof for a shrewd man like yourself to agree to part with twenty-five per cent of his family fortune.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t enough. He also supplied me with several other photographs to back up his claim.’

  ‘Several other photographs?’ prompted Alex hopefully.

  ‘Yes. One of them was of the defendant’s left leg, showing a scar above his knee that proved he was Cartwright, and not my nephew.’

  ‘Change the subject,’ whispered Sir Matthew.

  ‘You have told the court, Sir Hugo, that the person who demanded twenty-five per cent of what was rightfully yours in exchange for this piece of information was a professional gentleman.’

  ‘Yes, he most certainly was,’ said Hugo.

  ‘Perhaps the time has come, Sir Hugo, for you to name this professional gentleman.’

  ‘I can’t do that,’ said Hugo.

  Once again, Alex had to wait for the judge to bring the court to order before he was able to ask his next question. ‘Why not?’ demanded the judge.

  ‘Let Hackett run with it,’ whispered Sir Matthew. ‘Just pray he doesn’t work out for himself who the professional gentleman is.’

  ‘Because one of the clauses in the agreement,’ said Hugo, mopping his brow, ‘was that under no circumstances would I reveal his name.’

  Mr Justice Hackett placed his pen down on the desk. ‘Now listen to me, Sir Hugo, and listen carefully. If you don’t want a contempt-of-court order brought against you, and a night in a cell to help jog your memory, I suggest that you answer Mr Redmayne’s question, and tell the court the name of this professional gentleman who demanded twenty-five per cent of your estate before he was willing to expose the defendant as a fraud. Do I make myself clear?’

  Hugo began to shake uncontrollably. He peered up into the gallery, to see Margaret nodding. He turned back to the judge and said, ‘Mr Spencer Craig QC.’

  Everyone in the courtroom began speaking at once.

  ‘You can sit down, my boy,’ said Sir Matthew, ‘because I think that’s what they call in Danny’s neck of the woods, a double whammy. Now our esteemed judge has no choice but to allow you to subpoena Spencer Craig, unless of course he wants a retrial.’

  Sir Matthew glanced across to see Arnold Pearson looking up at his son. He was doffing an imaginary hat.

  ‘Chapeau, Alex,’ he said.

  76

  ‘HOW DO YOU IMAGINE Munro will cope when he comes up against Pearson?’ asked Alex.

  ‘An ageing bull against an ageing matador,’ Sir Matthew replied. ‘Experience and sheer cunning will prove more important than the charge, so I’d have to bet on Munro.’

  ‘So when do I show the red rag to this bull?’

  ‘You don’t,’ said Sir Matthew. ‘You leave
that pleasure to the matador. Pearson won’t be able to resist the challenge, and it will make far more of an impact coming from the prosecution.’

  ‘All rise,’ announced the court usher.

  Once they had all settled back in their places, the judge addressed the jury. ‘Good morning, members of the jury. Yesterday you heard Mr Pearson complete the case for the prosecution, and now the defence will be given the opportunity to put its side of the argument. After a consultation with both sides, I shall be inviting you to dismiss one of the charges, namely that the defendant attempted to steal the Moncrieff family estate in Scotland. Sir Hugo Moncrieff confirmed that this was not the case, and that in accordance with his father Sir Alexander’s wishes, the estate has been taken over by the National Trust for Scotland. However, the defendant still faces four other serious charges, on which you and you alone have been given the responsibility of making a judgement.’

  He smiled benignly at the jury before turning his attention to Alex. ‘Mr Redmayne, please call your first witness,’ he said in a far more respectful tone than he had adopted the previous day.

  ‘Thank you, m’lord,’ said Alex, rising from his place. ‘I call Mr Fraser Munro.’

  The first thing Munro did when he entered the courtroom was to smile at Danny in the dock. He had visited him at Belmarsh on five occasions during the past six months, and Danny knew that he had also attended several consultations with Alex and Sir Matthew.

  Once again no bills for services rendered had been presented. All Danny’s bank accounts had been frozen, so all he had was the twelve pounds a week he was paid as the prison librarian, which wouldn’t have covered Munro’s taxi fare from the Caledonian Club to the Old Bailey.

  Fraser Munro stepped into the witness box. He was dressed in a black tailcoat and pinstripe trousers, a white shirt with a wing collar and a black silk tie. He looked more like one of the court officials than a witness, lending him an authority that had influenced many a Scottish jury. He gave the judge a slight bow before delivering the oath.

  ‘Would you please state your name and address for the record,’ said Alex.

  ‘My name is Fraser Munro and I live at number 49 Argyll Street, Dunbroath in Scotland.’