The Barrister and the Letter of Marque

by Todd M Johnson

  Once again, William marveled, unhappily, at how Father Thomas could strike at his own underlying concerns.

  “Nothing like this, Thomas. There’s a flavor to this I don’t like.”

  “Then you’ve decided to take the case?”

  “No, I have not. Now, thank you, Thomas. I’ll take your worry under advisement.”

  The Father made no motion to leave.

  “Another point, William, is that the case could represent a threat to Obadiah and Edmund as well.”

  “If Obadiah has such concerns, he should bring them to me directly. Same with Edmund. They’re both fully grown men and certified attorneys. They should speak for themselves.”

  “It would scarcely occur to Obadiah that you might make an error in judgment on such matters. He’d follow you into Hades, with Edmund only a few steps behind. They think that much of you.”

  “Praising with faint damnation, are you, Thomas?”

  “I’m quite serious.”

  “I know. I’ll take all you’ve said into account.”

  Father Thomas gave a familiar stare of dissatisfaction. “William, the day you graced my parish door in your flight from your father’s estate, I feared your experience would compel you to use your barrister’s position to seek revenge against others of your class. Then there was the disappointment that followed in your search for your half sibling that your father had banished—”

  “You promised to never speak of that.”

  “And I haven’t, up to this very moment. There’s been no need. Because, until now, you’ve shown no signs of a vengeful sentiment.”

  “And why do you think that might change now?”

  “I don’t know. A feeling. A stirring in my prayers. The fact that you’re still considering the case.”

  William hovered between affection and anger at the Father’s words.

  “You needn’t worry,” he finally answered. “My grudge, then and now, implicated one man, not his whole class. I won’t succumb to despising the wealthy in general or the Crown in particular. Unlike Edmund, I understand their place, so long as they act with propriety. I’ll take each case as it comes, on the merits and without emotion. Including weighing the dangers you speak of in the present one.”

  “So you say. But be careful. This piracy matter would be a dangerous case to take to satisfy rebellious sentiments.”

  “You needn’t concern yourself. I’m not inclined to martyrdom.”

  “I hope so,” Father Thomas said skeptically. “I’ll be taking to my knees for you and your companions about your decision.”

  “Most appreciated.”

  Father Thomas nodded, then turned to leave. Once at the door, he halted.

  William waited for another ax to fall. The Father looked over a shoulder at him.

  “Can’t you afford an occasional cleaning maid, William?”

  “Good day, Thomas.”

  Soon back out the door again, William’s walk to Chelsea was long. He preferred such treks on foot, especially when he had much to think about.

  On this occasion, William spent the distance silently railing against Father Thomas and his visit an hour before. The man was positively taking up residence in William’s brain. The priest needn’t keep descending like a harpy to remind him of his responsibilities, he thought. Leave my conscience. Let me get about my business my own way.

  By the time he’d reached the Chelsea address, the air was filled with a misting rain. Ryan Mortimer, Solicitor was on the door before him. Likely the man’s residence as well as his office, William thought, looking about the neighborhood.

  He knocked.

  The door was opened by a young maid.

  “I’m looking for Solicitor Mortimer,” William said. “Is he in?”

  “It’s very late, sir. After his business hours.”

  “Please. The matter is urgent.”

  “I can see if he’s available. Your name, sir?”

  William handed her a card. “Barrister William Snopes. Please inform Solicitor Mortimer that I’m here about a mutual client, Captain Harold Tuttle. I only require a few minutes of his time.”

  The maid curtsied and turned about, closing the door behind her.

  In a moment she returned. “Mr. Mortimer will see you in his office. Please follow me.”

  Solicitor Mortimer joined William in a small, neat office. Apologizing for arriving without an appointment, William explained the reason for his visit.

  “May I take it, Mr. Mortimer, from your willingness to meet with me, that when you met with Captain Tuttle before his voyage the year before last, you gave him positive news about his Letter of Marque?”

  The solicitor was middle-aged with black hair, long fingers he cupped on his lap, and a firmly professional demeanor.

  “Mr. Snopes,” he replied carefully, “you must appreciate that I can’t comment on attorney-client discussions.”

  “Of course. But Captain Tuttle has been detained, so he can’t give you permission to speak with me—unless you’re amenable to visiting him at Newgate Prison. Let me limit my question to this: is it true the captain asked you to examine a document in the nature of a Letter of Marque for its genuineness? I needn’t know, at this time, what your advice was on the matter. I’m sorry to press the point, but there is some urgency.”

  The solicitor’s gaze remained on William as he pondered. If eyes were any measure, he was a decent man. Cautious, as most solicitors were—more judicious and prudent like Obadiah, as against the passion of a risk taker like Edmund. Likely weighing what he’d stepped into and how far he was willing to go for a client he’d only represented briefly and once, over a year before. Especially if there was now controversy about the very opinion he’d rendered for that client.

  At last, the man slowly stood. “I will agree to this much, Mr. Snopes. I will, by the day after tomorrow, visit your office and inform you as to what I may or may not say in this matter.”

  William understood the gesture, and he rejoiced. The solicitor was signaling his intent to get permission to speak. That could only mean he planned a trip to Newgate, a trip only necessary if Captain Tuttle was in fact a client. And why would he trouble with such a trip if he hadn’t advised Captain Tuttle, before the voyage, that the Letter of Marque was genuine? If he had originally informed the captain that the Letter was not real, the solicitor wouldn’t now bother to gain permission to tell William such damaging information.

  The sum of it was as near to an acknowledgment of the truth of the captain’s story as William could have hoped for—and key evidence to win the captain and the lady’s case.

  “Thank you,” William said, buoyed. “I’ll look forward to hearing from you.”

  Lady Jameson would be pleased with this news, he thought as he left the office and looked up and down the street for a cab.

  Now, one more task to round out a full and successful day.

  It was nearing one o’clock in the morning when the carriage William caught in Chelsea brought him, after a long ride, within a few blocks of the Thames docks.

  “You’ll have to walk from ’ere,” his hunched driver said. “A big cargo or two must’ve come in. Streets are too busy tonight to get tangled in traffic closer to the river.”

  William paid the fare and exited.

  The driver was right. Despite the hour, stevedores and sailors mixed in a swirling crowd along the waterfront. From Obadiah’s description, William knew precisely where he needed to go. Even so, bumped and jostled in the light of torches lining the water, it took nearly half an hour to reach his destination.

  In a corner of the London shipyard, William finally stared at the docked ship, ghostly quiet in the night. Rocking low at anchor, the brig seemed smaller than he’d imagined.

  He walked onto the broad quay leading to the brig. Halfway there, a man stepped from a warehouse into his path. He had no weapon in his hands, but a constable’s band wrapped around his left arm. Several more men, dressed the same, were seated in
the shadows.

  “The rest’a the dock’s restricted,” the constable said. “You’ll turn about now.”

  “I’m a barrister,” William tried. “One of the men jailed on the Padget is a client of mine.”

  “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, mister. The dock is restricted,” he repeated.

  William thought for a moment. Who aboard was most important that he see? “Can you at least confirm that the Padget’s first mate, Mr. Quint Ivars, is aboard her?”

  The constable spat. “The whole swillin’ crew’s aboard her. Now be movin’ along or you’ll join ’em.”

  Arriving empty-handed, without the cover of an Order of Compulsion from the court, William had no tools to apply. He made his way back to the shore.

  At least he’d seen the ship with his own eyes. And if the constable spoke the truth—if no one had been released—then First Mate Ivars would still be there, available when the time was right to speak with him.

  Not as satisfying as his visit to Solicitor Mortimer, but good enough. With the first mate aboard the ship, they’d get to him eventually. And if he took the case, they’d compel the man’s appearance at trial. Assuming Ivars confirmed the Letter of Marque, that would make two witnesses to the Letter besides the captain.

  If that wasn’t enough to win the jury, he should find a new calling.

  William turned away and headed up the quay.

  The busy docks soon gave way to quieter streets. No gas lamps lit these thoroughfares, leaving the way home, under cloudy skies, as dark as the countryside.

  Maybe he should walk home to Somers Town. It was a tempting chance to clear his head. He glanced about. The dark covered the shabby homes and closed shops like a fist. A walk through this district would be a foolhardy decision if he valued his pocketbook and his life. Best that he find a busier road to catch a late night cab.

  William reversed direction and crossed over the road. The sodden street was empty of carriages and people going either way, except for a man on the far side, traveling the direction William had just abandoned. The man’s eyes were locked ahead as William passed him near enough, even in the dark, to see a battered flat cap pulled down on a sloping forehead and, on his left side, a low eye beneath the furrow of a white scar.

  William hurried his pace.

  Something about the man made him glad for his decision to find a cab.

  16

  OFFICE OF THE LORD PRIVY SEAL

  CARLTON HOUSE

  “Lord Hollins will see you now, Mr. Snopes.”

  William followed the fresh-faced, neat-as-a-pin bureaucrat down a wide portrait-adorned hallway. Since his visit to Solicitor Mortimer, it had taken two days to get this appointment, then today, nearly a two-hour wait. If not for his satisfaction with the meetings with the solicitor and the constable at the quay, William would have been livid. Yet things were going too well for him to be peevish. A bit more good fortune today and most of his fears about the case would be put to rest.

  William had observed in his practice that recently decorated British government offices tended toward the stern and practical, reflecting the lean times. Not so in the office he now entered. Lord Hollins’s room was dressed in the French décor popular before the recent wars with Napoleon. Sumptuous, artistically inclined paper on the walls, graceful wood furniture about the floor.

  And, William noted, looking up, they matched Lord Hollins’s dignified bearing, seated behind his desk.

  “I understand from my clerk,” the lord began, “that you’re inquiring about evidence of a Crown document supporting your client’s mercantile venture. I’m afraid the regent can’t grant you an audience on the matter, particularly given the pending prosecution.”

  “I understand,” William said. “I don’t need to speak with the regent. I only want to review your records regarding the document. I know that this office maintains a registry of all the Crown’s private correspondence, and that a Letter of Marque is considered a form of such correspondence. I merely want to see the registry.”

  “I’m afraid, Mr. Snopes, that it’s not the policy of the Crown to permit review of its private letters or the registry. Perhaps you could inquire at the Lord High Admiralty office. All Letters of Marque are affirmed there.”

  “I already went there. They told me that the records of affirmed Letters of Marque are only maintained in the registry here.”

  “I wasn’t aware. Well, I’m sorry but I can’t accommodate you.”

  “I can arrange an Order of Compulsion.”

  “Which we will refuse to honor. This is business of the Crown.”

  So much for smooth sailing and another good day.

  “Lord Hollins, my client is being prosecuted for acting illegally, when he states that he acted in reliance on a valid Letter of Marque issued by Prince Regent George on behalf of King George III.”

  “Then your client should simply produce the Letter in his defense.”

  “He no longer has it.”

  “I’m sorry. There’s nothing this office or the Royal authorities can do.”

  “And you’re saying that the regent won’t acknowledge his own signature on a document—either here or in court?”

  “I’m saying precisely that. If the Crown could be compelled to certify in court every document he signed, either our regent or myself would never leave the courthouse. That’s the primary reason for affixing the Royal Seal, held here at Carlton House. It is all the evidence necessary to affirm the Crown’s actions.”

  William nearly rose out of his chair. “You’re talking in circles, man. My client no longer has the Letter. How can he affirm its seal? All I ask is to see whether a Letter of Marque was registered as provided to my client.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Now he did rise. “My lord, a man’s life is at stake, and you’re arguing formalities!”

  Lord Hollins looked back with frosty indifference. Solid. Unmoving.

  “Very well, Mr. Snopes. This once, under the circumstances, I will make an exception.”

  Shocked at the turnabout, William was still replaying the words in his mind when the lord rang a bell.

  No one answered.

  He rang again.

  Just as his face was registering frustration, a young woman came into the office.

  “I’m sorry, my lord,” she said shyly, “but Jonathon has stepped away.”

  “Isabella, why aren’t you with the king?”

  “He’s asleep, my lord. I was passing in the hall when you rang. Is there something I might do for you?”

  “I doubt it.” The lord shrugged. “Ah, very well. Do you know where the document registers are kept, Isabella? For the king’s private seal?”

  “I do, my lord.”

  “All right. I want you to bring a volume recording an official document, a Letter of Marque, which was issued . . .” He turned to William. “When do you claim that the document was issued?”

  “November of 1816, my lord,” William answered.

  “November 1816. Bring me the volume for that month and year.”

  They waited in awkward silence, William staring off through the windows overlooking St. James’s Park, the lord growing impatient.

  At last the young woman came back into the room. She held a volume so large she had to grip it in both hands. Giving William a nervous glance, she handed the book to Lord Hollins.

  “Thank you, Isabella.” The lord laid the volume on his desktop and began to page through it. He reached a point where he turned back and forth several times, scanning several pages carefully in each direction. Then he rotated the volume on his desk for William’s review. “Here, Mr. Snopes.”

  William ran a finger up and down the page for each of the weeks of November 1816. Next he examined the spine of the book to see if any pages had been removed. “Thank you, my lord,” he said at last before rising and walking hazily from the building.

  He was halfway across St. James’s Park before he became conscious that
he was walking in the wrong direction and turned about.

  For all his belief in Captain Tuttle’s sincerity, there was no Letter of Marque recorded on any date in November of 1816.

  17

  THE PEACOCK

  ISLINGTON DISTRICT

  LONDON

  William had journeyed on foot to The Peacock. The restaurant and teahouse on High Islington Street was built of dark-green wood and yellow brick. The place served only passable fish and chicken. But William was having neither today. He was content with the restaurant’s excellent tea.

  He took a long, troubled sip. What had he expected with his visit to the Lord Privy Seal? Had he really thought that the Crown would start a piracy prosecution even if their own records showed the regent had issued Captain Tuttle a Letter of Marque?

  It seems he had.

  It had been a stupid notion.

  If the government didn’t issue a Letter of Marque, yet Solicitor Mortimer was satisfied that Captain Tuttle’s letter was genuine, what could he conclude? That the captain’s letter simply wasn’t properly recorded? That there was an excellent forger involved? If so, who forged it? Mandy Bristol’s so-called investors?

  The case spun him like a dreidel.

  Even if the document wasn’t genuine, did that matter? Wouldn’t Solicitor Mortimer’s certification of what he saw be enough for a jury to acquit? What jury would send a man to the gallows who had relied, in good faith, on an excellent forgery?

  He took another sip of the cooling tea. Where did this leave him? If he was so confident of the evidence, why hesitate to take the case?

  The politics, of course.

  Then if he was so uncertain of the politics, why was he so slow to walk away?

  Could his hesitancy be with Lady Jameson? She too had hovered in the back of his mind since her visit. Born into comfort yet facing terrible consequences. Unlikely to find another decent barrister if he declined the case. The first woman of upper society who’d approached him with such a case. Difficult to forget.

  He sensed it: that tune again. It rose unformed from his memory, as impossible to grasp as smoke. He knew it, but still it eluded him as no piece ever had. It was so . . . painfully familiar.