‘Bail?’ he said as if he couldn’t be bothered.
‘Not my case, Your Worship,’ Scott replied, and sat.
‘Oh?’ Lawson’s saggy eyes dragged themselves to bear down on James. ‘You?’
‘Yes, Your Worship.’
The words were amplified in his head as if someone else was speaking, and he didn’t recognise the voice. Painfully aware that all eyes were on him, he cleared his throat, swallowed, and told himself he had nothing to lose.
Nothing apart from Tom and Silas’ freedom, and possibly his own.
‘James Wright,’ he said. ‘Here to represent Mr Payne and Mr Hawkins in the matter of…’
‘Yes, yes,’ Lawson tutted, interrupting the pre-planned speech. ‘We know all that. What do you want?’
‘Bail, Sir,’ James said, trying to focus on the next paragraph of the barrister’s handwriting.
‘Well, that’s easy. Bail denied. Next!’
Creswell had prepared him for the reaction, and James was undeterred.
‘Begging Your Worship’s pardon,’ he said, remembering the barrister had told him that magistrates liked to be begged. ‘But before you knock off on that, I need to point out a matter of law.’
‘Knock off?’ Lawson roared unexpectedly from his chair. ‘Knock off?’
‘Hammer down? Hit the gavel…’ Unable to remember precisely what Creswell had called the action which would mean the end of the debate, but aware that the magistrate had not yet performed it, James mimed the banging of a gavel.
‘What matter of law?’ Lawson asked, the hammer raised as he glanced at his brief. ‘Two men caught exiting a naval dockyard after being seen acting suspiciously on Admiralty land. What is there to debate?’
The hammer moved, and James shouted, ‘No!’
The public gasped, Scott shifted uncomfortably in his chair, and James withered under the magistrate’s glare.
‘Begging you pardon, Your Worship. But you are at risk of… of…’ Searching the notes frantically, he found what he was looking for. ‘At risk of embarrassing yourself before the Admiralty.’
Lawson was stunned, not to say outraged, but before his bluster reduced to meaningful words, James leapt back in.
‘As you will know, Sir, being a naval man, the law pertaining to this case is distinct from others.’ Another quick scan of the brief and he spoke before the magistrate could react. ‘Messer Payne and Hawkins were detained by PC McLoughlin of the Chatham Division of the Metropolitan Police. PC McLoughlin is in court.’
The man had been called to one of the earlier cases, and although James didn’t know why it was important to single him out, he followed Creswell’s instructions.
‘And your point is?’ Lawson droned. He had lowered his gavel silently, but his fingers danced impatiently over the handle.
James read unashamedly from his notes. There was no way he could get this wrong.
‘If I may, and I mean no disrespect to your learned self, but I refer to the Dockyard Ports Regulation Act of 1865.’
‘I know it well, young man. It states that the Admiralty appointed Queen’s Harbour Master has control over her Majesty’s dockyards, such as dock seven where the accused were arrested.’
‘Quite, Sir. I also refer you to the Metropolitan Police Act of 1860, in particular the section concerning arresting officers where legal jurisdiction may become over-crossed in matters of trespass to body, goods or land.’
Aware that Scott had gasped and was staring at him, James kept his attention firmly between the magistrate and Creswell’s handwriting.
‘Another act of which I am more than aware, Sir,’ Lawson barked. ‘And I am still waiting for your point? In particular, how I may be in danger of embarrassment.’
‘I only seek to save your blushes, Your Worship, and my intention is not to tell you your job…’
‘I should hope not!’
‘But, in this case, there is a clear crossing of jurisdictional boundaries, meaning, should you commit this case to the Admiral-Superintendent, it would return to you as inappropriately referred.’
‘Oh, really,’ Lawson said flatly, clearly unimpressed by the young upstart. ‘Why?’
‘Because, Sir, the arresting officer was acting beyond his reach, and for such a mistake to be brought to today’s public attention, would reflect badly not only on the police, but on this court, and in particular, yourself for allowing it to be heard.’
Lightheaded, James took a deep breath through his nose, while a gasp ran in a wave around the benches, ending at Scott. The magistrate, however, was unaffected and continued to glare. His fingers, though, had stopped drumming and his eyes had narrowed with interest.
‘Go on,’ he drawled, and for a moment, James thought he had caught the man’s attention if not his admiration.
‘To put it simply for the old…’ James covered a near mistake with a cough. The barrister’s notes took on the appearances of a script as if Creswell knew exactly how the scene would play out, and he had written, “Put it simply for the old duffer…” when referring to how James should answer. ‘To put it simply for the members of the public,’ James corrected, his face glowing. ‘The accused were arrested by PC McLoughlin of the Chatham police division.’
‘This we know.’
‘Obliged, Sir. PC McLoughlin is a hard-working and conscientious member of the local constabulary…’ James had no idea if that was true, but apparently, it did no harm to flatter the arresting officer. ‘But I fear that in this case, he may have been overzealous in his passion for his duty.’
It was easy to sound like Creswell when reading his lines verbatim, and strangely, he didn’t feel awkward in affecting the tone.
‘How?’
‘Well, Sir. The aforementioned acts do not specifically instruct on arrests within Her Majesty’s dockyards, although they do give the procedure for trespass and related matters. They may not, however, be brought to bear on an arrest that was inappropriately made.’
Another surge of whispers invaded the chamber, causing the magistrate to call for silence.
‘Inappropriate?’ he asked, leaning forward like a vulture searching for a carcass. ‘I am more than interested to learn how you may justify your accusation against one of Her Majesty’s constables. I am sure PC McLoughlin is also rattling at the bars to learn of his error.’
‘Indeed, Sir, I am obliged.’
James didn’t know what he was obliged for, but it was written in the margin. Lawson made no objection to what could have been taken as sarcasm, and James continued.
‘With the intent of both acts being, even to ourselves, as murky as pea soup, it is hardly surprising that the good constable was unaware of the overriding— nay, over-reaching influence of an earlier act, namely the Naval Yards and Jurisdiction Act of 1572.’
James could only hope Creswell knew what he was doing.
‘Fifteen…?’ Lawson threw a mystified look at Scott and shrugged before allowing his face to break into a smile. ‘Go on.’
‘Thank you, Sir,’ James continued. ‘That act has never been repealed… Oh, it’s there on page two-fifteen, Mr Scott, if you would like to look it up. Section thirty, paragraph six, is pertinent. Perhaps Your Worship would like to see it?’
‘I certainly would, Mr Wright,’ Lawson said, and it was hard to tell if he was intimidated, fascinated or winding himself up to have James arrested for contempt.
A clerk collected the law book from Scott, who was reading it eagerly and passed it to the magistrate.
‘Paragraph…?’
‘Six.’ James turned his page of notes and prepared for the second act of Creswell’s play.
Lawson read in silence, the police officer watched James as if contemplating murder, and behind him, Thomas coughed nervously.
/> James remained stalwart on his feet, his back straight his head down over the page, and waited.
‘How very interesting,’ Lawson murmured at last. ‘It appears, Mr Scott, that your assistant knows his archaic law. Indeed, Mr Wright, I see your point of law, and you are correct. The arrest should have been made by one appointed under Admiralty law, not criminal.’ Turning to the arresting officer, his suspicion was evident. ‘One can, therefore, only wonder what you were doing inside the dockyard, Constable.’
‘His duty, Sir,’ James interrupted, saving the police officer humiliation. ‘Perhaps he was ordered there by a commanding officer himself unaware of the act of 1572. An act which undoubtedly also slipped your mind among the drunk and disorderly of the day. As you see from the text before you, to decline bail is as inappropriate as to ask for it because there is no arrest. My clients were inappropriately detained, or to use less inflammatory terms, arrested by the incorrect officer. Either way, the genuine mistake renders the matter null and void.’ He took a breath. ‘Thus, to refer the matter higher would only lead to it being returned, and all I seek to do is save you from that embarrassment while seeing fair play is given to those men so zealously, but inappropriately leapt upon by a member of the Metropolitan police acting on anonymous hearsay rather than fact. The arresting officer in such a case must represent the QHM who, incidentally, should have been at his post. In fact…’ As James was running out of breath, so had Creswell been running out of space. The writing became smaller and harder to read. ‘In fact, it might well have caused… awakedness… Apologies, awkwardness for the Admiralty itself to discover the Queen’s Harbour Master was unaware that; one, his officers were not at their posts; and two, the policing and arresting within the dockyard should have, at least, been carried out by a member of the dockyard division of the Metropolitan police, and not what we call a beat bobby.’
‘Bloody hell,’ hissed through the silent chamber, carrying Silas’ Irish accent to the bench.
According to Creswell, that should have been the end of the matter. The magistrate, unfortunately, had other ideas.
‘And how exactly does an act of three hundred years ago impact on my ability to dismiss this as false arrest?’ Lawson asked with a crooked grin.
James’ heart came to a standstill, and he stared at his notes, hoping something would leap from the cramped lines and long words.
‘Er… How does it… What?’
The magistrate repeated the question, this time with a little more relish as if he enjoyed seeing the young upstart flounder.
‘Paragraph seven, Your Worship.’ Scott was on his feet, and when James looked, had his finger pointing to a line in Creswell’s text. ‘As my colleague rightly points out, an arrest has not been made if carried out by any officer other than, and I quote: “He as who has been thus appointed by her Gracious Sovereign, Elizabeth Regina in matters of Her Great Majesty’s seafaring vessels, lands and attributions, may only, on the discovery of such trespassing of Her…”’
‘Yes, yes, Scott,’ Lawson tutted. ‘I can read.’ Admitting defeat, he closed the law book with a thud and handed it to the clerk to pass back. He closed the brief before addressing the accused. ‘Gentleman,’ he said, and James heard his friends behind him shuffle their feet, presumably standing to attention. ‘You have been spared by history. This conflict in law is not your problem, but it is your saviour, as it is mine, it seems. The arresting constable was acting in good faith, I have no doubt, but there is nothing more I can do except dismiss all charges and have them wiped from the records. I trust you will be grateful to your man for bringing this to my attention, as am I, Mr Wright. A fascinating impasse, Sir, but one for those of a higher station than us to ponder and correct on the statute rolls. For now…’ The JP straightened his posture, and after shaking his head in disbelief, raised the gavel. ‘There is no bail to request because there is no legitimate arrest to answer,’ he said, explaining it to himself as much as to the defendants. ‘The arrest was not made by a man appointed by Queen Elizabeth the First, God help us, and thus cannot be considered. It seems I have no choice but to dismiss this matter and offer apologies to the accused on behalf of the police and Good Queen Bess.’ His eyes fell on James, and the crooked grin morphed into a smile of admiration. ‘I shall, therefore, knock off on it.’
The moment the gavel hit the woodblock like a gunshot, tension melted from James’ body, and he thought he might burst into tears.
The magistrate quietened the spectators before having his final say.
‘You are free men, Mr Payne, Mr Hawkins, but I strongly suggest no more late-night excursions within the walls of Her Majesty’s dockyards. No matter which Her Majesty might rule over them.’
‘We are obliged, Sir,’ Scott said, nudging James.
‘Yes. Very obliged, Your Worship.’
‘As I should be to you, Wright. Oh, one last thing…’
James halted in the collecting of his papers, keen to leave the court before the magistrate had second thoughts.
‘Sir?’
‘Tell me, if you would, where did you learn such impeccable law?’
James said the first thing that came to mind. ‘In the back of a carriage, Sir.’
He left the court with Tom and Silas amid roars of laughter from the public, receiving a slap on the back from Scott, and a bemused stare of esteem from the magistrate.
Twenty-One
At the time James was leaving the courtroom deep in conversation with Thomas and Silas, Dorjan was watching passengers joining and alighting the London-bound train from his customary place in the last second-class carriage.
Exhausted, he had spent an uncomfortable night in a stable, rising now and then to watch the Dover hotel, where, early that morning, the brothers had appeared and been driven to the station. They took the train to Charing Cross, and it wasn’t until Dorjan was aboard that he noticed it was a slow service and not the steamer express.
He admired Clearwater’s composure. To an outside observer, he showed no signs of the pressure he must have been suffering. Perhaps that was because he didn’t yet know what Quill had in store, nor what he had done to two of his catamites who, unable to sit back and let their master face his fate alone, had tried to outwit Quill in Chatham. Clearwater might have learned the location of the imminent rendezvous, but Quill had evened the playing field.
Despite the diversion at Chatham, everything was falling into place as planned, and Dorjan did his best to enjoy the Kent countryside as the locomotive puffed its way through unfamiliar places. Pluckly, Staplehurst, Marden, the names meant nothing to him, but the scenery was enjoyable, and every thrust of the pistons and every jerk of the seat as the train left another station brought him closer to his goal and the imposter’s final, bloody downfall.
Gathering his concentration when the train puffed into Charing Cross at eleven thirty, he focused his mind on his invisibility and attached himself to the back of a school party from third class. His head stood marginally above those of the students, but his worn clothing gave him the appearance of a poorly paid schoolteacher.
Unnoticed, he trailed Clearwater, still assisting his brother as though he were an invalid, from the station and onto the sunlit forecourt.
There, Dorjan received his first surprise of the day. Expecting Clearwater to hail a cab, he engaged one of his own, instructing the man to wait until ordered to set off, and from behind the half-closed blind, watched with interest as the brothers were met by a liveried coachman. It might have been touching that the imposter had Crispin’s staff welcome him home, but Dorjan had encountered the tall, long-haired foreigner before, in Cornwall where his abduction of Stoker’s son had been thwarted by the monster.
He was instantly suspicious when another young man, smaller and thin, scampered up to the coach and handed the driver a suitcase. This, the blon
d coachman strapped to the back of the carriage before retaking his seat, by which time, the skinny lad had vanished.
Dorjan’s unrest was compounded when the coach pulled away, and, having followed it past the National Gallery heading north, it didn’t turn west as he expected, but continued in the same direction, finally joining the Marylebone Road and heading east. Arriving at St Pancras Station, the coach drew to a stop alongside many others, and having paid his man and slunk to the cover of an arch, Dorjan observed from behind a column.
Clearwater failed to appear. Instead, his coachman jumped from his seat, scaring pigeons and ladies alike, and let himself into the back, the coach rocking beneath his weight. A few minutes later, the man reappeared, and the reason for his presence soon became apparent. The foreigner held the door as Crispin appeared, and when he had helped him out, lifted the hood to cover the mask. Now they were in the open, away from the confines offered by hotels and steamer cabins, Clearwater obviously considered Crispin too dangerous to be left unattended, and needed the services of his most powerful man in case his brother broke free. That was understandable, but Dorjan resolved to watch this man closely. The blond was skilled with a horse, and he had seen his strength in action. If Clearwater had him by his side, he would need to be taken out early in the game, and as soon as their destination became clear, the coachman would be the first to suffer.
Clearwater alighted from the carriage with minimal luggage, and Dorjan imagined he was not travelling far. However, his view changed when the coachman unbuckled the suitcase and spoke quietly with his master. As they debated, Dorjan prepared himself for another train journey, but not, as had been planned, to Chatham, but to a destination unknown.
Unfazed by the unforeseen circumstance, he was prepared to follow Quill’s instructions to the letter and was ready for anything.
Artful Deception (The Clearwater Mysteries Book 6) Page 24