The Barrister and the Letter of Marque Page 8

  William stepped closer to the inner office door until he could see the man who’d called.

  The stout solicitor was dressed as stylishly as his office. Beneath a bald pate that rose above his ears like the Matterhorn, a mutton beard overhung a coat with long tails at the back, set higher in front, a square-cut waistcoat showing beneath it. The lining of the shoulders and chest of the coat was quilted to fit, and William detected a boned corset rendering a smaller waist on the man. It was a feat accomplished with an effort.

  “Don’t you remember me, Mandy?” William asked coolly.

  “William?” The man’s eyes surveyed him, taking in William’s older trousers and simple jacket as he stepped into the foyer. “Is it my Mr. Snopes?”

  “Yes, Mandy.”

  “My, my, my,” he exclaimed, approaching. “How long has it been since we spoke last?”

  “Nearly twenty years.” A vein in William’s temple began to throb. “So long I’d almost begun to think you’d caught a ship for Australia.”

  Mandy’s eyes narrowed, measuring the penal colony reference for a jest or an insult.

  “In fact,” William went on, taking one of the cushioned chairs without invitation, “I don’t believe we’ve spoken since I tried that case you referred. Back when I was in my twenties and we were all still answering to our third King George.”

  Mandy took his own seat behind the desk, growing uncomfortable. “I recall the matter,” he said curtly.

  William nodded. “Good. Do you ever cross paths with Mr. . . . what was our client’s name? Hawk? Pigeon?”

  “Lord Finch.”

  “That’s it. Do you ever see Mr. Finch these days?”

  The solicitor squirmed, reaching an unconscious hand to adjust his corset and taking a deep breath.

  “Lord Finch. No, not since you achieved his acquittal. I understand he moved to Greece.”

  “That was my first major acquittal, Mandy. And so unexpected! A red-letter day for a young barrister.”

  Mandy pinched his lips. “What precisely can I do for you, William?”

  “I’ve often wondered about your career, Mandy.” William’s blood now stirring, he would not be hurried. “You’ve clearly enjoyed a successful one. Yet, since that day we marched triumphantly out of The Old Bailey, I’ve seldom seen you at the Inns of Court. And in all candor, it isn’t often that I hear your name bandied about by others of the legal profession either.”

  “Yet I hear about you often,” Mandy said, his voice rising. “Still handling street cases and shopkeepers’ affairs. Dressing more like your clients than your colleagues, I see. Still running the race in your own fashion. As for me, I’ve chosen to focus on a select clientele.”

  “Like your Finch, I imagine,” William replied flatly. “I suppose I should take offense that you’ve never referred another matter to me.”

  “I believe you made your view perfectly clear about accepting future cases from me, William, as we were exiting the courthouse the day Finch was acquitted.”

  William snapped his fingers. “Now that you mention it, I recall that I did.”

  “Are you planning on telling me why you’re here, William?”

  “Of course. I have prospective clients who entered into an investment with one or more of your clients. A Lord and Lady Jameson. Father and daughter.”

  Mandy’s eyes grew opaque. “I’m not sure I recall that surname.”

  “Oh, you must. They partnered with a corporation owned by two of your clients for the voyage of a ship called the Padget. You were the solicitor and agent for your clients in the matter.”

  “It doesn’t sound a bit familiar.” The answer was unwavering, but a faint flush came into Mandy’s cheeks. “You said ‘prospective clients’ previously. Now you say clients. Do you represent these Jamesons or not?”

  “We’re working out the details.”

  Mandy ran the back of his hand along a whiskered cheek. “Well, I’d be happy to look through my records to see if I have any notes on the matter.”

  “That would be appreciated. The ship has been seized by the authorities, you see, and accused of piracy.”

  “Piracy? Now that’s unusual these days. What kind of piracy?”

  “Taking a French ship in the Indian Sea. But the captain, a Harold Tuttle, claims to have the protection of a Letter of Marque from the Crown, with instructions to take French smugglers. A letter your clients had arranged for him.”

  “Does he really claim that? And the Crown disagrees, I take it?”

  “They must. We assume from the captain’s arrest that they’re the ones pursuing a prosecution. Would you know anything of the matter?”

  The solicitor shook his head. “A Letter of Marque? I know nothing of that. And I’m sure I’d recall a vessel acquired for the purpose of merchant shipping in the Far East.”

  “Yes. Please do review your records, though. Your clients would certainly wish to know of these developments.”

  “Of course.”

  William rose, placing a calling card on the desk. “I’ll let myself out. Please give my regards to Finch.” He paused at the door, unable to restrain himself a final time. “Just out of curiosity, Mandy, have you had occasion over the years to see Colonel Slatterly as well?”

  Mandy rose. His face and his hairless white head were turning pink. His chest puffed with rising anger, rendering an appearance that he might burst from his corset entirely.

  “No. Why would you ask that?”

  “Hmm. I just thought that a man of such talent—such uncompromising sincerity as a witness—would be an asset in other legal proceedings than just Finch’s. False testimony, delivered with eloquence, can be hard to come by.”

  It took a moment for Mandy to get out his reply.

  “What . . . are you . . . insinuating?”

  “You give me too much credit, Mandy. Insinuating requires creativity and deflection. I prefer to speak right to the heart of the matter.”

  “William?”

  “Yes?”

  His face grown nearly purple, Mandy’s eyes had lost the last pretense of courtesy or restraint. “Sly, clever William Snopes, son of a lord, and yet he defies family and station to pick up strays off the street. Flea-infested dogs who’ve lost their masters and their way. With such instincts, it’s a wonder you’ve survived so long in your profession without being badly bitten. You may wish to show more discernment in choosing clients in the future.”

  “Never been bitten?” William returned a glacial smile. “You clearly haven’t stayed abreast of my career. But experience has taught me that masters with their leashes are far more dangerous than the few poor hounds who manage to slip away. In any event, I’ll make my own decisions about whom I’ll represent. Good day.”

  10

  SOMERS TOWN

  LONDON

  William looked out the window of his second floor flat onto a street surprised by morning sunshine. Roads were dry, jacket collars turned down. A hackney cab rolled past, the horse’s head lifted. Even though a cold snap was settling in, everything and everyone below seemed unburdened by the rain’s lifting and the freshened air.

  He reached for a cup of tea, cool from the night before. The milk had settled. He sipped, choosing not to mind rather than troubling to get fresh tea, marveling at his own laziness. He wished he felt the same refreshment as the people in the street apparently did. Maybe then he’d bother with preparing a new kettle of hot tea. After a night of little sleep, he felt like Edmund had looked the day before: as though a knife had been slipped between his ears and a fist of gravel deposited in his stomach.

  It was Mandy Bristol. Mandy . . . Bristol. The man didn’t even have the character to lie well. All the trappings of success that money could buy. Bright, clever, and deeply corrupt. His benefactors must be many or very well-heeled—or perhaps both. Since the solicitor lacked social station by birth, he’d always envied the status and probably earned those benefactors through abject willingness to cut legal c
orners. Obliterate them, more likely. Just as he’d done in the Finch case so long ago.

  “How could I have been so stupid as to let that man use me back in the day?” William fumed aloud. To blazes with Bristol and his paid witness Colonel Slattery. Let them all rot.

  Nearly twenty years gone by and it still festered like an open wound. He’d seen enough wealthy men of his father’s cut—entitled, grasping—to hold them all in high suspicion. But it was Mandy Bristol’s case, rife with corruption and special status on both sides of counsel table, that first drove away any wish to represent the wealthy of London.

  William physically shook himself to shed the feeling, knowing that the act must make him appear like an old dog. He wished he could let it go so easily as that. Besides, he’d accomplished his purpose with Bristol yesterday. He’d sought him out to learn about the lady’s new case, and while Bristol believed he’d told him nothing, by his poor lies he’d told William all he needed to know. He’d communicated that nearly every word the lady had told them was true. There was a ship. There were investors. There had been a taking of that ship in harbor, and almost certainly a pending charge of piracy. There was a missing captain. There was a controversy surrounding a Letter of Marque.

  Which meant the lady’s case was very real. And with Mandy Bristol involved—at whatever level—likely one with the political grist and backstabbing that fed William’s legal nightmares. The kind William had told himself he’d never undertake again, not after his last encounter with Solicitor Mandy Bristol, Lord Finch, and their hired witness Colonel Slattery.

  Yet here he was, considering representing one of that class again. An upper-class family against the Crown. Why? True, if Lady Jameson spoke accurately, a man’s life was at stake. And there was the strange issue of piracy.

  What of the young woman herself? Such an odd mix of grand pride and commonness. Humility even. Why did she stick with him? Was it the way she’d stood up to Edmund? The strength of her resolve?

  “Sir?” A voice interrupted his thoughts.

  In his hat and coat, Obadiah stood in the open doorway to the stairwell.

  “Don’t you knock before you throw open doors?” William replied testily, embarrassed at his appearance and surprise.

  “I did, sir. A dozen times, sir. We’re going to be late to the Union Club. I’ve a cab waiting downstairs.”

  William set down the cold tea. “I’ll only be a moment.”

  Retreating into his bedroom, he dressed quickly in a simple black suit—fine enough to satisfy Obadiah’s club members. He was about to return to the solicitor when he saw, resting on the dresser, the papers Father Thomas had given him when they’d parted at the pub after the trial.

  He picked them up and glanced at them again as he walked back into the living room.

  “What are those, sir?” Obadiah asked.

  William looked up. “These are from Father Thomas. Whenever he has the ambition to teach me a lesson, he leaves papers with biblical arguments supporting his propositions. These are a renewed condemnation of my career and craft, and its impact on young Edmund.”

  “You’re bringing them with you?”

  “No. I’ve already reviewed them. Don’t tell Father Thomas. He’s certain I ignore whatever he gives me. I wouldn’t want to overly encourage him.”

  William dropped the Father’s papers onto the couch, then grabbed his coat and umbrella and joined Obadiah at the door, setting the matter aside as he took the stairs down to the street and walked out into bright sunshine. It was too fine a morning. He would enjoy the carriage ride with Obadiah in peace.

  Except peace eluded him. For the length of the ride he was hounded, as he had been all night, by a bitter memory of the fatherly face of Colonel Slattery—testifying before Mandy Bristol that day, seated in The Old Bailey’s gallery, knowing that William Snopes was winning the day on the back of lies the young barrister only learned as he waded through the colonel’s testimony on the stand. And when, late in the day, William had realized it, he hadn’t mustered the courage to acknowledge them to the court or jury.

  All of that whirled in his head against a backdrop of an orchestral theme. One which, astonishingly, given the usual habit of his gift, he couldn’t quite make out.

  Plaguing him far more than the morning’s sunshine could dispel.

  THE UNION CLUB

  CENTRAL LONDON

  “Two shillings, gents!” a young boy with a cloth cap called out as William and Obadiah exited the cab. In his hand was a thin paper-covered book. A bag over his shoulder was filled with more.

  William contemplated the boy for a moment, then reached into his pocket and paid the price.

  Obadiah looked shocked. “You read penny dreadfuls, Mr. Snopes?”

  “Of course I do. Half of London reads them. We’ve twenty newspapers in London, and I’ll wager these volumes sell better than most of them on a given day.”

  “Maybe. But they’ve barely any truth to them at all.”

  “That’s what makes them so stirring. Tell me, Obadiah: do you think it’s a good idea to look down your nose at books that set life’s expectations for half the potential jurors in town?” He held the book up. “The Thames Mystery. A timely title given Lady Jameson’s matter, I think. My favorite was The Life and Times of the Highwayman Jack Thackery. Are you really telling me you don’t read them?”

  Obadiah’s eyes grew guarded. “Well, maybe now and again.”

  They found Edmund seated at a table Obadiah had reserved. Though his face was still lined with fatigue, he was better dressed this morning. William’s apprehension for his junior lowered a bit.

  The Union Club was poorly attended, the white-coated servants moving slowly amid only a few members present. Another sign of the times, William thought. The two-story home on Bleeker Street was very modern. This included, in the evenings, the novelty of bright light from interior gas fittings unknown in most London homes. William admired the modernity of the feature, though he still preferred the softer light and intimacy of a hundred candles spread about walls and tables. How did Obadiah keep up appearances at the place, meeting the dues on the scarcity of cases he’d referred to them of late? Was he referring cases to other barristers as well?

  It seemed very unlikely. Young Obadiah had weaknesses like any man: despite how hard William knew he’d worked in his solicitor’s apprenticeship for that slave driver Foster, he still struggled to draft a commendable brief, for example. But along with a bulldog’s tenacity, he’d never swerved from a stubborn strain of loyalty—toward William, but particularly toward Edmund.

  Through a light meal, Edmund told his story about his visit to the prisons and garrisons and, at the last, to Newgate.

  “You sound as though you believe the clerk was lying about our Captain Tuttle’s presence at Newgate Prison,” William said as Edmund finished.

  “The way he insisted on knowing my name made me believe that the mention of Captain Tuttle’s disturbed him. I admit, that implies to me he had something to hide.”

  “Anything else to share about your visit?”

  Edmund shook his head no.

  “What did you find at the docks, Obadiah?”

  The solicitor described his night, which ended with his long, serpentine race home from the docks to avoid being followed.

  “The crew must be gaoled below the Padget’s decks. It’s locked up very tight.”

  “Which certainly confirms the lady’s story,” William said.

  “What did you learn from the solicitor?” Edmund asked William.

  “Bristol? The man still struggles with the truth. He said he knows nothing of the Padget or the Letter of Marque or the captain for that matter. Yet when I goaded him at the end, he implied a threat if we took the case. No, I’m fairly confident that every word the lady shared with us was confirmed by Solicitor Bristol yesterday.”

  “Why would the solicitor, if he does represent the investors, remain silent about Captain Tuttle and seizure of the ship
?” Obadiah asked. “Don’t his clients also lose from the impoundment of the Padget and its cargo?”

  William shrugged. “I’ve wondered the same. Still, any matter which engages Mandy Bristol is likely stained with corruption. Perhaps he’s trying to avoid getting his clients drawn into an investigation.”

  “Fine. But why would the Crown be keeping this all a secret?”

  “You have me there, Obadiah.”

  “This business of arresting and hiding the captain without an indictment is serious, sir,” Obadiah went on. “There’s no legal exemption permitting the Crown to jail a man for so long without a public charging.”

  “Yes, we’re past that legal nicety, all right,” William answered. He glanced at his junior. “Edmund, you still appear skeptical.”

  The young barrister toyed with stirring his tea. “Shouldn’t we consider the possibility that Lady Jameson also struggles with the truth, sir? I’ll admit to the clerk’s evasion at Newgate and that you heard threats from Bristol, but what proof do we have about any of this—other than a ship at dock that appears to be under guard?”

  “How about the retainer Lady Jameson offered?” Obadiah demanded. “Why would anyone offer a hundred pounds to a barrister for a case that doesn’t exist?”

  “I don’t know,” Edmund replied. “But I’m certain there are people willing to part with money to pursue a claim that’s only vapor. She may have other motives for hiring us.”

  “Perhaps,” William acknowledged. “Even so, remember the other oddity here: the silence of the newspapers. As I said before, if the lady’s story is correct, we can assume the perpetrators have either been successful in preventing the newspapers from hearing of it or they have sufficient clout to silence the editors. Either possibility implies great resources, social station, or both. Gentlemen, we can chase our tails in this conversation for hours, but to determine whether there’s a true and defensible case, we have to first find Captain Tuttle and interview him.”

  “How?” Obadiah asked. “Assuming he’s being hidden, what means do we have to flush him out?”