The Barrister and the Letter of Marque Page 4

  William smiled, taking another sip. “Fair enough. I suppose your lecture came with some Scripture for me to contemplate as usual? Come on now. Out with it. Then we both can enjoy our beers in relative peace.”

  Edmund left the pub, walking for over an hour through a chill mist; ambling beyond the shops and dwellings that welcomed the barristers of Middlesex Court until he reached the darker corners of London. Seeing Patrin’s trial, where his client had so little chance of true justice, Edmund wanted to take satisfaction from Mr. Snope’s explanations. Instead, his mentor’s words flowed over him tonight like polluted water.

  Snopes was a good man. A very good man. But he hadn’t spent two years in a debtors’ prison, languishing there as his parents passed away; hadn’t spent six years in a boys’ home, working alongside street gangs like an indentured slave, as he and Obadiah had. If he’d had a lick of that kind of life, he’d be just as impatient as he and Obadiah were with the idea of half justice.

  Edmund spat on the ground.

  No conscious decision guided him after leaving the Red Hound Pub. Awash in disappointment at the day’s verdict, his feet chose the familiar direction he traveled. Going to the place of sweet release of mind and spirit.

  An alley opened before him. He muttered a vague and ineffectual protest to himself, then continued.

  At the end of the alley was a door pitted and thick as a castle wall. He raised a fist and knocked.

  A hole opened, and two eyes appeared. “Mr. Shaw?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re outta credit, Mr. Shaw.”

  “I’ve money.”

  “Let’s see it.”

  Hating himself, Edmund dug into his pocket, raising a fist of coins.

  Metal latches slammed back and the door groaned inward.

  Past the stubble-faced doorman, Edmund saw pipe smoke smothering the candlelight on chandeliers over men at tables or along a bar in the far corner.

  Edmund looked about. “Tables for brag tonight?” he asked.

  “Aye,” the door steward answered. “Those two card tables on your left. If you like, four to penny’s over there. Good games of dice in the corner.”

  A ripple of anticipation smothered his last hesitation. Edmund took a step into the room.

  Thick fingers curled about his wrist. “You’ll be needin’ to bring yourself flush in the back first, Mr. Shaw,” the steward said.

  Edmund shook off the grip. “All right,” he muttered.

  The door slammed tight behind him. Edmund weaved through the crowded room to the back, expectancy and the heat of the fireplace already raising perspiration on his forehead.

  4

  BROOKING STREET

  LONDON

  Trudging home from the Red Hound Pub, Obadiah Cummings tugged up his coat collar. The freezing drizzle transformed cobblestones into quivering reflections of the gaslights overhead. Puffs of wind shook tree branches, setting loose more frigid showers.

  Cold and hungry as he was, it seemed to the solicitor a perfect and typical winter evening for London.

  But then, he cheered himself, it had been a good day at court, showing the best and worst of English justice. How fortunate he was to serve as a solicitor in such an age of broadening minds and stunning change. A period of revolution in thinking and practice. Twenty years ago, a victim of a crime would have no representation at all, nor likely the assistance of the courts—unless he or she could afford to pay a constable to arrest the suspect and try them. It was the same with defendants charged with a crime, who were unlikely to enjoy any representation at all. Now a barrister of William Snopes’s skill could protect a young man from the horror of transportation. And, Obadiah reminded himself, another young boy, an orphan destined for a life on the streets, could instead rise to the rank of solicitor and win the hand of a fine woman like Suzie.

  Buoyed, Obadiah’s thoughts returned to Suzie’s promised meal. With lengthened strides, he crossed an empty road. On the far side, the walk was blocked for street work so he retreated into the street.

  His foot dropped into a puddle, rising above his ankle.

  “For the love of . . . !” he exclaimed.

  In that instant, a carriage passed, pulled by a single horse, the wheels whipping a cold, filthy spray across Obadiah’s back and neck.

  Another curse crossed his lips.

  “Whoa!” came a high voice ahead. Obadiah froze.

  To his surprise, the coach had slowed to halt only a few yards farther along. A gloved hand waved from the carriage window.

  “Mr. Cummings?” It was a woman’s voice, calling again. “Mr. Cummings? May I speak with you?”

  The voice was unfamiliar. Obadiah approached carefully, stopping before the window.

  It was a four-seat family coach, old and in desperate need of paint. Its family crest was worn nearly invisible with age. Its driver, as ancient as the coach, gave Obadiah only the briefest glance from his perch.

  “Please get in, Mr. Cummings,” the woman said through the window.

  “Begging your pardon, ma’am? You say you want me to get into your carriage?”

  “Yes. We’ll drive you home. It’s a miserable evening, and the driver knows the way. In fact, we were given directions by the clerk of court and were en route there just now. Please get in. I need to discuss some urgent business with you.”

  Such a long day it had been. A long week, helping Mr. Snopes prepare for trial. A small hearth fire and Suzie’s fine cooking awaited him. A quicker journey was welcome. It was a bold and odd gesture, but Obadiah nodded his head and grabbed the pull to go aboard.

  The carriage lurched off. The lady watched Obadiah as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat, producing a squelch from his waterlogged boot.

  He looked up and made an effort to smile at her.

  The lady wore a clean but outdated hat and scarf, hiding all but her eyes, which were sharp and clear and hinting of youth, concealed by her cloth-muffled voice. She sat straight-backed yet relaxed—in Obadiah’s experience, a trick mastered only by the upper classes. Otherwise, he could glean nothing of her. Except that she also looked strangely familiar.

  Then the covering of her face reminded him.

  “I saw you in the gallery at the trial today,” Obadiah said.

  “Yes. I’ve been attending the Middlesex trials the past week, looking for a barrister. Someone in the gallery told me that you’re the solicitor who refers work to barristers William Snopes and Edmund Shaw.”

  Obadiah nodded. “I make such referrals, yes. But Messrs. Snopes and Shaw are not tied only to work I send them. Perhaps you aren’t familiar with the legal professions, miss. Solicitors such as myself prepare contracts, form corporations, draft wills and trusts—all manner of work requiring legal drafting skills. The sole work we do not perform is in the courtroom. Trying cases and appearing before judges and magistrates is the exclusive realm of barristers. Solicitors refer such work to the barristers of our choice, but for their part, Messrs. Snopes and Shaw are free to accept case referrals from any solicitor who sends it to them.”

  “I’m fully aware of the English legal system,” the young lady answered curtly—just as the carriage rocked hard on the cobblestones, displaying the full extent of its failing shocks. “But tell me: does Mr. Snopes tend to socialize in the upper circles?”

  It was an odd question. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, my research indicates that Mr. Snopes’s father is Lord Kyle Snopes. Does that mean Mr. Snopes mixes in upper society?”

  Obadiah fidgeted in his seat. “Mr. Snopes is not . . . closely associated with his father.”

  The lady nodded. “I see. But these are, as you know, hard times. Jobs are scarce, taxes and tariffs high. Surely it would be much easier for Mr. Snopes to prosper as a barrister if he were ingratiated to those in upper society.”

  Where was she going with this?

  “What I might know of Mr. Snopes’s personal life is not for public consumption.”


  She nodded again. “Commendable. But answer this: Messrs. Snopes and Shaw may be permitted to accept cases from other solicitors, but a man in the gallery told me that you’re the source of most of their cases. Is that true?”

  “I wouldn’t know about that, ma’am. I’m not privy to every source of the gentlemen’s business.”

  “Well, I believe the speaker was implying that Mr. Snopes isn’t terribly popular in the bar and has a limited number of referring solicitors.”

  Obadiah bristled. “He’s a fine barrister. I’d say one of the very best in London.”

  “He may be the best barrister in all of England, but is he well-liked? You’ve already implied that his father is not a patron of his practice, and you’ve also implied he does not get significant work from the higher levels of society. There must be a reason for that. Is it true that some criticize his methods?”

  “My lady, I can’t speak to Mr. Snopes’s popularity. So far as I know, he has no interest in running for Parliament. But I’ve never seen his better in trial. And I’ve known his junior, Mr. Shaw, most of my life. In fact, I am pleased to call him my dearest friend. He’s nearly as young as myself but quick as a whip, with great prospects. Now, if your purpose is to malign these good gentlemen or have me betray their confidence, I’ll make the rest of my way home on my own.” Obadiah rapped a fist on the ceiling of the carriage.

  The carriage didn’t slow. “Davidson, my driver, is inexperienced at his present task, Mr. Cummings,” the lady said. “Forced into this service by me. He’s more at home with cutlery and linens, I’m afraid. But you mistake my point. The fact is, I don’t like attorneys, whatever their specialization or background. I’ve seen them cheat and grasp and it’s been my conclusion that, beneath a very thin veneer, they’re in the business of serving themselves more than their clients. So I’m not looking for a barrister I could hope to like, nor one good at ingratiating himself to colleagues or magistrates or those of privilege and power. In fact, I’m looking for the rare one who’s unconcerned with such things.”

  Obadiah stiffened. “I don’t understand,” he muttered.

  The shawl slipped a little, revealing fresh skin about a mouth youthful yet mature. Perhaps thirty, he estimated, though her eyes seemed older and now deeply serious.

  “Let me be perfectly clear then, Mr. Cummings. I’m Lady Madeleine Jameson of Heathcote Estate in Essex. My cousin has been imprisoned for deeds he did not commit, and I stand in danger of losing my estate as a consequence. I’m in need of an excellent barrister. One willing to fight men of great resources, not answer to them. A barrister unafraid of using any tools he must and not hobbled by concern for status. Is that your Mr. Snopes?”

  5

  GRAY’S INN

  THE INNS OF COURT

  LONDON

  Edmund took the interior steps of Gray’s Inn, bleary and awash in self-recrimination. A stone of the pyramids was strapped to his back; he could swear it. His pockets were empty. He hadn’t changed from his court clothes—hadn’t even been home to do so—and they still carried the food stains on his coat. At least this day following Patrin’s trial should be quiet, he told himself. It should be so if Mr. Snopes followed his usual practice of taking a day off following a trial.

  The door into the foyer to the offices creaked far too loudly. Voices carried from Barrister Snopes’s chamber. The barrister himself. Then Obadiah. Then a female voice.

  “Come along, Edmund!” shouted Snopes, calling out to him, his voice booming like the salute of a cannon. It was his senior’s new-case voice, Edmund recognized with dismay.

  “Hurry now,” he heard Mr. Snopes call again. “You’re late!”

  Standing, William watched Edmund come reluctantly into his office, stooped with fatigue. He stifled his embarrassment at Edmund’s clothes, still stained from the day before and even more wrinkled. Edmund’s eyes, red and lined, signaled worse yet. Obadiah had related that this potential new client, Miss Madeleine Jameson, was already a skeptic about barristers and solicitors. Edmund’s appearance couldn’t be improving her impressions.

  “Edmund Shaw,” William said with a nod, “meet Lady Madeleine Jameson of Heathcote Estate. That’s in Essex. Mr. Shaw is my junior at the bar.”

  As Edmund greeted her and they all took their seats, William caught the disquiet in Lady Jameson’s eyes, surveying Edmund’s disheveled clothes and weary face. “Lady Jameson has come to us through Mr. Cummings,” William went swiftly on. “Please, my lady, continue with your story.”

  “Of course,” she said. “A little over a year ago my father invested a large sum of money in a merchant ship. It was a brig called the Padget. We agreed to finance the acquisition and outfit the ship, to be captained by Harold Tuttle, a cousin just a few years older than myself and a former officer in the Royal Navy. There were two other investors as well. The ship sailed for the Indian Sea and was gone for fifteen months until its return last week.”

  “A successful voyage, yes?” Obadiah prodded.

  “Yes. The Padget returned with a hold full of tea from China. ”

  “That should be worth a princely sum,” William said. “Captain Tuttle was trading under contract with the East India Company, then?”

  Miss Jameson shook her head.

  William thought for a moment. “The East India Company holds a monopoly on British trade in that region, under supervision of the Crown. That includes the tea trade with China.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  William began to protest when Obadiah stepped in.

  “Describe your legal matter, Lady,” he said. “Mr. Snopes, allow her to explain what’s happened and these points will become clearer.”

  Lady Jameson nodded. “The Padget, with its cargo, was seized in London Harbor, nearly the minute of its arrival eight nights ago.”

  “Seized?” William asked. “By whom?”

  “By London constables, supported by Crown soldiers.”

  “On what charge?”

  “I was informed confidentially by one of the arresting constables, after Harold was taken away, that the charge is piracy.”

  William leaned closer with interest. “If the Padget wasn’t trading through the East India Company, how did it acquire tea in that part of the world—and why return it here? The company’s monopoly on trade east of the Cape of Good Hope is governed by Royal Charter, which, I understand, accounts for over twenty percent of England’s taxes and the Crown’s support. Your captain surely didn’t violate that charter or attack a company ship, then boldly sail his prize into London Harbor.”

  “The Padget did no such things,” the lady said.

  “Then what, and from whom, did the Padget pirate its cargo?”

  “The Padget pirated no one. Captain Tuttle and his crew took the cargo from a French vessel.”

  “A private vessel?”

  “Yes.”

  “A private vessel?” Edmund muttered, antipathy and impatience rising in his raspy voice. “Seizing any other vessel in a time of peace would be piracy. That would be true whether the victim was operated by the East India Company or not.”

  “This was not an act of piracy,” Lady Jameson stated, matching Edmund’s vehemence. “The French vessel taken by my cousin was itself a smuggler, violating the East India Company’s contracts with its tea suppliers.”

  “My lady,” William rejoined, flashing Edmund a stern glance at his tone, “what gave the Padget the right, as a private vessel, to make that judgment and take the French ship’s cargo?”

  “The Padget and my cousin Harold and his crew were operating in the Indian Sea under the authority of the sovereign to take French smugglers.”

  “What sovereign?” Edmund said overly loud.

  “Surely ours, Edmund,” William answered instantly at the rude outburst, sending his junior another hard look. “I presume, Lady Jameson, you mean that the Prince Regent George, as caretaker of his ill father the king, granted your cousin authority to take French smugglers on behalf of
the British Crown?”

  “That’s precisely right,” Lady Jameson said. “Captain Tuttle was operating under a Letter of Marque from the Crown granting just such authority. It was signed by the prince regent and approved by the High Court of Admiralty.”

  The room grew silent. Like the quiet after a bursting rocket, William thought. Or the hush after a lunatic’s outburst.

  “With all due respect, Lady Jameson,” he said patiently, “do you understand what a Letter of Marque is?”

  “Yes. It’s a letter originating with the Crown granting authority to a private vessel to take other nations’ ships, by force if necessary, as if the holder of the Letter were operating as part of the Royal Navy.”

  The lady had done her research. It was a definition right out of a legal treatise.

  “Yes,” Edmund erupted again. “But such letters are nearly always issued in time of war to privateers to engage them as adjuncts to the Crown’s Navy. You’re now expecting us to believe that the regent issued a Letter of Marque for your privateer to take French vessels, even though we’re no longer at war with France?”

  “Yes. To capture French smugglers.”

  “Impossible!” Edmund nearly shouted. “I’ve never heard of such a thing! Letters of Marque are a tool of war.”

  “Are you calling me a liar?” the lady shot back.

  “Enough!”

  William rose to his feet. “Edmund, I’ll complete this inquiry. You will go to your office. Now.”

  Edmund straightened, looking shocked at William’s scolding, staring at him as if through a fog. He blinked several times. Then he stood and quietly left the room.

  When the door had shut, William turned to the lady as he sat once more.

  “My apologies, Lady Jameson. Edmund seems to be . . . tired from the labors in a trial just ended.”

  The lady’s youthful face was red, her lips tight. “Too tired to change his clothes?”

  Snopes looked to the floor, momentarily embarrassed. “Did your father know the details of the Padget’s mission when he invested?”