The Barrister and the Letter of Marque Read online

  “I heard that part, sir. It’s impossible. Surely you’ll need my help now.”

  William nodded reluctantly. “Yes, Edmund. I want us all to meet here in the morning. I plan to send you both out to search for the crew, and especially this First Mate Ivars that Barnabas has sprung with the rest of them. He’s the best one to support Solicitor Mortimer’s testimony about the Letter of Marque. For tonight, though, go home and rest. Over the next fortnight I’ll be needing your services twenty-four and seven.”

  An hour after Obadiah’s and Edmund’s departure, William left the office as well. Clutching his briefcase, his steps took him out of Gray’s Inn to the corner of Gray’s Inn Road and High Holburn in an evening mist. A cab approached. William waved his umbrella, gratified as it slowed and halted. He shouted his address to the driver as he stepped aboard, and the carriage lurched forward.

  William wiped rain from his face and let out a deep sigh. He’d made up his mind to do just as he’d instructed Edmund and Obadiah. He’d get a final good night’s rest before that luxury ended.

  Two blocks rolled by. Barnabas’s face filled the wet alleyways and silent shop windows they passed. Mandy Bristol’s face followed. Where are your grimy fingers in all this, Mandy? William asked himself. What’s your role here?

  Ten days until trial. William’s heart burned at the unfairness of it all.

  He rapped the roof and leaned out the window.

  “The Thames shipyards instead!” he shouted. “Get me to the Municipal docks.”

  The driver shrugged at his improved fare and whipped the horse to turn about.

  When they arrived stevedores and sailors mixed in a swirling crowd at the port along the river. Though the driver dropped William only a short distance away from his destination, it took nearly half an hour to reach the ship, bumping and jostling in the light of torches rimming the riverbank.

  In a corner of the London shipyard, William stared at the docked ship. Rocking low at anchor, the Padget seemed smaller than he remembered only days before. The constables in the warehouse shadows were gone—secrecy no longer necessary, he guessed. A man was seated at the top of the gangplank on her deck, a lantern glowing at his feet. With such valuable cargo in its hold, a single guard seemed an oddity.

  William had given himself no time to plan, reacting to the urgency of the impossible schedule and Barnabas’s statement that the Padget crew was gone. “‘Boldness be my friend,’” he recited in a whisper, then gathered himself and walked up the plank.

  The man on deck was a uniformed soldier. He stood as William reached the top of the gangplank. A thick mustache and muttonchops rounded a sun-seasoned face over broad shoulders. He wore the double-breasted coat of a sergeant. William saw a brace of pistols in his belt.

  “You’re on guard duty, Sergeant?” William asked.

  “Aye,” the soldier declared. “And the ship’s off-grounds.”

  “Not to me. I’m the barrister representing the captain of this vessel. I’m here to tour the ship in preparation for the upcoming trial.”

  The soldier regarded him a long moment. When he spoke again, a cockney accent surfaced. “Well, that’s as may be, but none’s allowed aboard, sir. Doesn’t matter what you do for a livin’.”

  William reached into the cloth briefcase at his side. “What’s your name?”

  “Nathaniel Rhodes.”

  “Well, Sergeant Rhodes, I’ve a court order allowing me access.” He thrust papers into the soldier’s hands.

  The soldier stared at the writ of trespass that William had produced randomly from his case. From experience, William knew it was a fifty-fifty proposition whether a sergeant in the ranks could read. William prayed no superior officer was about for the sergeant to consult with.

  “I don’ rightly care what it says,” the soldier said, pushing the papers back toward William, his other hand straying to the handle of his pistol. “You can’t come aboard.”

  “Judge Raleigh will be very disappointed. You’re stationed in London, Sergeant? What regiment and billet?”

  “Portman Street Barracks, Marylebone. The Twenty-ninth Regiment of Foot.”

  “The Twenty-ninth. You boys fought in the Peninsular campaign.”

  The soldier’s hand slipped from his pistol. “That was before my time.”

  “Perhaps. But I happen to know that Judge Raleigh served in Spain with your regiment early in the war. He’ll be very disappointed to hear one of his own unit refused his subpoena. I’m sure it will pain him to imprison a man from his old regiment for disobeying a court order.”

  The shouts of men struggling to haul cargo aboard a nearby ship filled the silence that followed. Waves lapped against the Padget’s hull as the sergeant fidgeted at William’s lies.

  “I don’t see why you need to walk the ship anyway,” he muttered at last. “The crew’s all been let go.”

  “Is that so? Then it’s so much easier! I just need to view the captain’s cabin and the cargo hold and then I can be on my way.”

  This door’s about to open, William thought. In silent confirmation, the sergeant gave a sullen shrug, lifted the lantern, and led William slowly toward the stairs heading belowdeck.

  Moments later, William paced the interior of the captain’s cabin under the sergeant’s watchful eye. By the glare of the lantern light, William saw that the room, clean and orderly, was lined with rich wood paneling. It was smaller than William had imagined. But then this was a brig, not a galley, he reminded himself. Nearly all the ship’s tight space beyond the twenty guns must have been intended for cargo.

  It was simple to pick out the locked cabinet and drawer where Captain Tuttle said he’d kept the Letter. William fidgeted with the handle in a futile effort to open it. He leaned close. There was no sign of tampering around the keyhole. Nor was there any damage to the cabinet itself. If the Letter was inside the drawer when the captain left the room before the boarding, then someone used a key to withdraw it—or did a masterful job of picking the lock.

  “Let’s see the hold,” he told the soldier.

  The cargo hold below the crew’s quarters was low-ceilinged, damp, and musty, its interior packed closely with wooden chests stretching the length of the ship. From where William stood, he’d have to crawl over them to count them all. All appeared tightly shut, though their contents were no secret: the heady smell of dried tea filled the cargo space, competing only with the odor of flotsam from the Thames outside.

  At the last, William walked the main deck. Stopping beside the gangplank, he imagined Captain Tuttle’s description of the constable and soldiers approaching—the captain hearing the unexpected gunshot, dropping his own pistol with surprise, then learning that the boy had been struck at his side.

  The distance from where William stood to the shadows was less than two hundred feet. Could one of the approaching soldiers have seen the captain’s pistol at his side in the full moonlight that night, as the sheriff told the captain? Could he really have mistakenly believed the captain was raising it in defense?

  It seemed unlikely from this distance and in the dark.

  “Sergeant,” William called, “what are your orders here?”

  “Guard and protect the ship and her cargo.”

  “Until?”

  “Until relieved.”

  “Only you tonight on duty?”

  “No. Three constables as well. It’s quiet now, so I sent them to get some supper.”

  William hesitated before his next question, expecting a protest. “Were you here the night of the boarding?”

  The soldier had grown accustomed to speaking, but the pointed question stiffened him again. “I don’ know if I should be answering that.”

  “Come now. It’s a simple question. The order requires you to answer my questions, whether in court or not.”

  “Yes,” he said reluctantly. “A squad of my regiment was ordered to help the local constables take a prisoner from aboard this ship to Newgate.”

  “By wh
om?”

  “No one said. I just did as I was told.”

  “Who was in charge of the detail?”

  “A sheriff. I was the ranking soldier in charge of the troops.”

  “It’s my understanding someone from the detail fired a shot. Was it a musket round or pistol shot?”

  The soldier grew quiet.

  “Sergeant, I can take this up with Judge Raleigh if you’d prefer.”

  “I believe it was a pistol, sir.”

  “And who fired?”

  “Don’t know. No one talked about it after, and I didn’t investigate.”

  “And a boy was harmed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you investigate then?”

  A long pause. “The captain appeared to have a weapon, sir. It seemed to me . . . it seemed to be self-defense, so I chose not to single the soldier out.”

  If only he could present this event to the jury, William mourned once more. It would gut their opponents’ appeal to passion about the claims of Captain Tuttle’s piracy.

  “Thank you, Sergeant Rhodes. I’ll be sure to tell Judge Raleigh how cooperative you were.”

  The barrister left the gangplank and disappeared up the quay and onto a street headed west toward central London, humming a low tune. The soldier watched from the Padget’s deck until the last hint of his figure was gone. Then, with a grunt, he went to a sack at the base of the mast and pulled out a book, seating himself on the gunwale to read by the lantern light.

  An hour and more passed before three men appeared at the end of the quay, all with constable duty bands on their forearms. One was swinging a cloth bag over his shoulder. They ambled to the Padget and climbed the gangplank.

  “Thankee for the break, Sergeant,” the lead constable called. He dropped the cloth bag to the deck at the soldier’s feet. “Brought back some dinner for you.”

  “Thanks,” the soldier muttered. “But I’ve got to get back to barracks. I’ll have it there.”

  “Anyone come by?”

  “No,” the sergeant answered.

  “Get your inspection o’ the cargo done?” another of the men asked.

  “I did. It didn’t take long.”

  “What’s that yer readin’?” the third constable asked, pointing to the book.

  “Byron.”

  “Never ’eard o’ him.”

  “I hear the trial about this ship is starting soon,” the first constable said to the sergeant. “You be testifying?”

  The soldier stooped to pick up the bag with his supper. “I believe I will,” he said as he began his descent of the plank. “Yes, I do believe I will.”

  22

  HOME OF DOROTHY EMMERSON MARKS

  MAYFAIR DISTRICT

  LONDON

  Madeleine stood on the top step of the town home in the deep dark of late evening, her travel chest resting on the landing beside her. Davidson was a step down, waiting to bring it inside.

  Leaning forward, Madeleine knocked hard on the front door again.

  The interior through the windows was as dark and silent as the street. Why was Dorothy or her staff not answering?

  “What could it be, Davidson? I sent word I’d be coming and might be late.”

  “My lady?” Davidson said. “Perhaps we need to find you a hotel room.”

  “No,” Madeleine answered firmly. “I know your meaning. But Dorothy’s a good friend. Someone will be to the door shortly.”

  The door suddenly opened into darkness. A manservant stood in the shadowed entryway with tousled hair.

  “Philip!” Madeleine called out. “I’m so sorry we arrived this late.”

  The servant’s eyes were a cold barrier. “I’ve been directed to tell you that regretfully, my lady, it will not be possible for you to stay at the residence this evening.”

  Her chest hollowed. “I don’t understand.”

  “Those are my orders, my lady. Now if you will excuse me . . .”

  The door closed.

  Madeleine stood motionless. “The newspapers,” she muttered to no one.

  She heard Davidson lift the chest and walk it back to the carriage on the street, then return to gently take her elbow. “It’s chilly, my lady. Let’s get you back into the carriage.”

  He guided her to the street and up the step into the carriage, nestling a blanket across her knees. “I’ll drive you to a hotel, miss,” he said through the carriage window.

  “No. No. I won’t be in public.”

  “Then where? Back to the estate?”

  Where? Dorothy had been her only remaining friend in London. Her world felt as empty as her heart. Other than her lawyers, there was no one in London who would take her side.

  “The solicitor,” she recalled reluctantly. “Mr. Obadiah Cummings. The one whose home we visited when we were here last. Do you remember it?”

  “Of course, my lady.”

  Shame swept her, no matter how hard she hated herself for feeling it.

  “Drive me there now. And please stay with me in London a day or two longer after all.”

  William awoke to bleak morning light through the window. He arose with a suddenness that took his breath away.

  He’d been so terribly tired the evening before, so relieved at avoiding the judge’s contempt charge, that he’d overlooked the obvious: Sir Barnabas’s supreme confidence. It was much more than professional self-assurance. It was a heady certainty of triumph. Telling William about the release of the Padget’s crew had been a gift from a man convinced it would make no difference as to the outcome.

  In fact, it was nearly a bold invitation to William to go see for himself.

  How could Barnabas be so completely convinced that William would fail to prove the Letter of Marque’s existence? As though he was aware of the source of William’s confidence in the case, and already knew how to counter it.

  William put his feet on the floor, straining to think clearly. When Sir Barnabas confronted him in the courtroom, for an instant he’d been tempted to blurt out Solicitor Mortimer’s anticipated testimony. Anything to wipe the smugness from the man’s face.

  He’d assumed it would be a total surprise to Sir Barnabas. It would have, wouldn’t it? Captain Tuttle had said he visited Solicitor Mortimer alone, and that even Mandy Bristol had no knowledge of the man and his authentication of the Letter. If that were true, then how could Sir Barnabas possibly know of Solicitor Mortimer and his anticipated testimony? How could he possibly overcome it?

  His chest felt as if an anvil had been surgically planted there. There had to be a reason for Sir Barnabas’s grand confidence. William couldn’t wait another day, even another hour, to confirm Solicitor Mortimer’s testimony.

  His head pounded from the rush of blood as he pulled on his boots and raced to the door.

  The cab trip to Chelsea took over an hour through crowded streets. William nearly threw the coins at the driver before sprinting up the steps to Solicitor Mortimer’s door.

  The maid appeared on his third set of frantic knocks.

  “Please, I must see Solicitor Mortimer,” he begged breathlessly.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the maid said. “Mr. Mortimer is away.”

  “When will he be back? It’s terribly important that I see him.”

  “I’m afraid Mr. Mortimer won’t be able to see you for some time.”

  William’s heart began to gallop. “Please, miss. I need to know where Mr. Mortimer has gone and for how long. You see, the solicitor and I represent the same client, and he was going to consult with me about that client—today I’d believed. If you could just see your way to telling me when he’ll be back.”

  The maid sighed. “Well, seein’ as how it’s business, I suppose I can tell you. A gentleman hired Mr. Mortimer yesterday to prepare a will and other papers for a family estate in Edinburgh.”

  Edinburgh? “How long will he be away?”

  “Two to three weeks, what with the travel time. It was all done in such a rush, you
see. The gentleman bringing the business arrived carryin’ a ticket on a steam packet to the coast, and they had to get there right away.”

  William nearly crumpled. “A gentleman hired him?”

  “Aye. A well-dressed gentleman. Said he was an agent for a client in Scotland. Come to London to hire the best solicitor he could find to do the estate work. Price was no object. Odd look about him, though, for an agent of finer folks.”

  “What do you mean, odd?”

  “Well, he had an eye, you see, that hung down a bit on his cheek. Hard not to look on it, if you take my meaning.”

  It took a moment to recall the image: William’s brief encounter with the man he’d passed on the street near the docks only days before.

  “Was there a scar above that eye? His left eye?”

  “Garn! You know him, do you? I know it’s a sin to speak ill of folks, but the whole of it gave me a real shudder when I opened the door.”

  She continued speaking, but William had already turned away.

  Their best witness had been lost to them.

  What would he tell the captain?

  What would he tell Lady Jameson?

  23

  OFFICE OF BARRISTER WILLIAM SNOPES

  GRAY’S INN

  Leaving behind the midday traffic, ascending the steps at Gray’s Inn, William strode slowly to his office, head down.

  Lady Jameson was seated there, along with Obadiah and Edmund.

  “We were wondering why you were late today, sir,” Obadiah said.

  Just seeing Lady Jameson, whom he’d disappoint momentarily, William felt the monumental weight on his back grow.

  Still ignorant of his news, she seemed to brighten at his entrance, though he thought her tired.

  “I’m very glad you made it safely,” he said with a nod.

  “Thank you.”

  Ever vigilant Obadiah squinted at William. “Something wrong, Mr. Snopes?”

  “An understatement.” William dropped his hat on a hook. “I feel as though I’ve been around the world twice since we parted last night, dragged every inch of it.” He paused for a long breath. “This morning I drove to Solicitor Mortimer’s office to confirm his authentication of the Letter of Marque. I’m sorry, Lady Jameson, but the man is gone. Left for Edinburgh. Not likely to return until long after the trial.”