Edmund buried his head in his hands.
Obadiah groaned. “That can’t be true! He’s the rock of our case! Oh, Mr. Snopes, this is terrible luck.”
“Not a matter of luck at all, I think,” William said, taking his seat. He described the man who’d hired Solicitor Mortimer. “I’m sure I saw the same man the night I first visited the Padget. I believe he was following me that evening. I wonder if he hasn’t been ever since.”
Edmund sat up. “I saw the man too,” he joined in. “When I visited Newgate Prison the first time, I encountered him—twice actually. With that eye and scar, it has to be the same man.”
Lady Jameson had grown white. “This solicitor now absent. Obadiah informs me the first mate and crew are gone. That only leaves my cousin’s testimony. He’ll never be believed with the Letter gone. Who are these people? Why are they doing this? What do they want?”
William remained silent a moment, pained at the lady’s despair and having no good answer.
“Lady Jameson,” he began at last, “I’d hoped to achieve an acquittal by simply proving the existence of the Letter through Solicitor Mortimer and the first mate. Our opponents have contrived to deny us the solicitor’s evidence and, by releasing the crew, possibly the first mate’s as well. We have no choice but to try to unravel the mysteries surrounding the affair if we’re to convince the jury of your cousin’s innocence. Mysteries from the Letter’s theft to the identities of the strange investors to the reason the constables and soldiers were so eagerly awaiting the Padget’s return.”
“How do we even begin?” the lady exclaimed. “It’s all too preposterous. Who would fight so hard to prove my cousin’s guilt?”
“I wish I knew,” William answered.
“Just tell us what to do, Mr. Snopes,” Obadiah said. “You must have some thoughts.”
William took a breath to steady himself. “We immediately commence an intense search for the crew and particularly the first mate. This Ivars fellow is our last independent witness to have seen the Letter of Marque, while the rest of the crew must contain our thief. Obadiah, work with the Padget crew list Captain Tuttle generated. Visit shipping offices along the Thames. Review crew manifests for every ship planning to sail soon. Since the Padget crew was released without final pay, many will have already signed with other vessels. Find as many as we can to interview. Also visit the Central and Middlesex Courts to learn if any of the crew have been convicted of crimes—particularly theft.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Edmund, I want you to learn about the workings of the Lord Privy Seal’s office in preparing and recording official documents. Try to determine whether the absence of an entry of the Letter might have been deliberate.”
Edmund nodded. “So we’re assuming the Letter was purposely stolen to frame the captain as a pirate?”
“With all that’s happened, I lean with the captain in that direction. Though the Letter would hold value to forgers, and so we must at least consider the possibility of a thief simply stealing the Letter for profit once the Padget docked—with disastrous timing for Captain Tuttle. I’d also like you, Edmund, to inquire with any sources you have about forgers of official documents in London who might have coveted a copy of a real Letter of Marque.”
“But if the Letter truly was stolen to make Harold appear a pirate,” Lady Jameson said, “wouldn’t that mean the theft of the Letter of Marque and Harold’s arrest were planned even before his voyage began? Is that even possible? And if so, why?”
William shrugged. “I’ve thought the same. And consider this detail: I visited the Padget last night and talked my way aboard. I saw no signs that the lock in Captain Tuttle’s cabin had been picked. Would a thief intent on quick profit have gone to the trouble of acquiring a spare key? Would he also have relocked the cabinet when he was done? Those facts imply, however oddly, that the Letter may have been part of a larger plan for the captain’s arrest for piracy.”
Lady Jameson shook her head, looking as lost as he’d seen her at the bonfire.
“My lady,” William said, “that leads to a request I have of you: your aid in learning the identities of Mandy Bristol’s investors behind all this. Assuming the Letter was a forgery when provided to Captain Tuttle, it’s likely they had a role in acquiring or preparing it.”
“How can I help with that?”
“Whoever has influenced the newspapers must have money and power, an assumption made even more likely by the arranged departure of Solicitor Mortimer. If it is the investors, and they have resources and connections, they likely reside in your circles. Use any resources you have to plumb facts, rumors, or gossip about persons interested in the voyage of the Padget.”
The lady grew red. “It should be quite clear to you, Mr. Snopes, that I have no such connections anymore. None of my friends left in London will even associate with me. If not for the kindness of Mr. Cummings and his dear wife, Davidson and I would be in a hotel at present.”
William cleared his throat, regretting forcing the lady to more painful candor, especially before others. “Of course, my lady. But please try.” He turned to all of them. “We must all take a turn at visiting Captain Tuttle as well. We must keep the lady’s cousin alive and strong in that hellhole of a prison. When he testifies, he must present confidently and with strength about the Letter. Any other appearance risks being viewed by the jurors as a sign of guilt. Bring him supplies, but just as important, keep him involved in the case.”
“Once again, you’ve kept your own plans for last, sir,” Obadiah said.
“I’ll be busy with two tasks. Given that our judge refuses to allow us to prosecute the shooting at present, he’ll likely also exclude any evidence of the boy’s murder during Captain Tuttle’s defense. On this latter point, I want to change the judge’s mind and find a way to educate the jury about the shooting. To that end, I plan to go to Whitechapel and locate the murdered boy’s father.”
“And the second task?” Edmund asked.
“Even before Whitechapel, I will return to Mandy Bristol to learn more about his investors. When I last visited, I was able to confirm your story, Lady Jameson. This time, I’ll flush out more information if I have to strangle it from him.”
24
Edmund left Gray’s Inn with a hard, purposeful walk. The meeting just finished with Mr. Snopes, Obadiah, and the lady had set his mind on fire. Mr. Snopes had given him a task, and he’d get to it. But first he had to see to another errand.
Mr. Snopes was a powerful advocate. But he was a fencer, not a boxer. Even if his senior couldn’t see it, this was a fight of fists now. The man Mr. Snopes described, with the odd scar and the dangling eye, had to be the man he’d run into at Newgate when he’d first gone to visit Captain Tuttle. Even a passing glance proved this one was a thug. A tactic like shipping away Solicitor Mortimer was no contest of feints and thrusts. It was a fight of bloody noses and broken jaws.
He knew a bit about that kind of fight.
Seven years past, Edmund had been sixteen years and a month old the afternoon he was led by the headmaster to the small backyard of the boys’ home. Obadiah was with them, only a step behind, silent and taciturn as always. Edmund’s eye was swollen large from a fight the night before; Obadiah’s lip was split in two from the same contest. Both their backs bore welts from the beatings the headmaster had laid on them after the fight was broken up.
They’d stopped near a tattered garden at the fence line. Waiting there was William Snopes, Barrister at Law.
A barrister coming to the boys’ home usually meant a boy in legal trouble. When Edmund was told that this one had come to interview for an apprentice, he hadn’t for a moment believed he had a chance for the job. To the boys, barristers were “crispers”—dandies favoring high, tight collars with judgment behind their eyes, especially for a boy like Edmund who couldn’t hold his anger and whose only education since age twelve had come through the tutor at the boys’ home once a week.
S
tanding at the garden with both hands behind his back, Mr. Snopes had seemed younger and plainer than Edmund expected, dressed in a simple black suit with no wig or powder in his hair. As they approached, the man was tapping a toe and humming a tune in a low rhythm.
In the next few minutes, everything else about Mr. Snopes would surprise him as well.
“I’m told you’ve expressed a wish to apprentice to the bar,” Snopes had said, looking him in the eye.
The headmaster stifled a chuckle.
“Yes,” Edmund answered defiantly.
“You’ll address him as sir,” the headmaster growled, whacking Edmund’s back with the stick in his hand. The blow struck a wound, and Edmund flinched.
Snopes raised a hand. “It’s all right. He can call me whatever he wishes. He’s not my apprentice yet.” The barrister’s stare took in the injuries to Edmund’s face, and his chin held high. “Headmaster,” he said, “I’d like to have a word with the boys alone.”
The headmaster looked uncertain. “They’re fighters, these two. The tall one at least. And the short one never lets on what’s on his mind, but does whatever Edmund tells him. I’m not sure it’s a good idea to leave you alone with them.”
“I’m no such fighter,” Snopes said, looking Edmund in the eye. “I have no skills in boxing or wrestling, and while I’m good with a blade, I’ve left mine at home today. Still, I think I can handle these two. If not, you’ll hear my shout.”
The headmaster grunted a final protest, then walked away.
Snopes turned to Edmund again. “Why do you want to be a barrister?”
“I’ve my reasons,” Edmund said.
“Is one of them that your father died in debtors’ prison four years ago? You and your mother were living in the prison with him at the time, weren’t you? And your mother died soon after, I understand.”
Edmund’s rage at this barrister even mentioning his mother nearly bubbled out. He stood his ground and said nothing.
“Come on, boy. Talk to me. Was your father there lawfully? Was there anything illegal in his punishment?”
Silence.
“I take it from your reticence that you believe your father didn’t deserve his punishment. So now what? Do you wish to become a barrister to take out your sense of wrong on the whole of the judicial system?”
He couldn’t hold back at the taunt. “The system deserves it,” he said, hotly. “My father was the one wronged.”
“Oh? Why is that?”
“He never signed the note they jailed him for.”
“Really? I looked into the matter. I understand there actually was a signed promissory note.”
“No. My father signed the note for his boss, who claimed it had to be done while he was away and would be sorted out later. It was a fraud, mister. The boss took the money and left town, leaving the debt for my father. He never should’ve been the one jailed.”
“I see. Well, do you have any objection to debtors’ prisons in general? Apart from your father’s jailing? Something must be done with debtors, mustn’t it?”
“Yes, I’ve got an objection.”
“And what’s that?”
“There’s no crime in losing your job through no fault of your own, or running up a debt for having someone in your family sick. We call ourselves Christians. Well, that’s against every Christian notion. As I’ve read it, we’re supposed to forgive people in debt. But those that have the money not only scratch coin out of other people’s hides, they throw them in jail where they can never make it good.”
The barrister smiled gently. “Young man, do you realize that you’ve just offered at least three legal arguments? Fairly good ones too. You could strike more long-lasting blows with those arguments than in any fight of fists.”
The barrister turned to the other boy. “Obadiah. I’m told you’re interested in being a solicitor. Are you Welsh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Lost touch with your parents, who sailed for America, I was told. You were left with an aunt here in London, who died when you were eight?”
“That’s right.”
“Took up with a theft ring for a year or so in Piccadilly, before being arrested and sent here?”
Silence.
“We now have an inkling of why your friend Edmund wishes to be a barrister. Tell me, Obadiah, why you’d like to be a solicitor.”
Obadiah glanced at Edmund, who nodded back.
“It’s a very good job, sir,” Obadiah answered. “And quietlike.”
“True. Quieter than a barrister’s job.”
“And he’s very smart,” Edmund chimed in. “Smarter than me by a step.”
Snopes looked to Edmund, then back to the smaller boy. “And you wish to follow your friend Edmund here in choosing a legal profession? Is that it?”
Obadiah looked to the ground. “Yes, sir. I do wish it.”
“He just doesn’t think it’s possible,” Edmund burst out again. “Coming out of this home, there’s no decent profession will take us.”
Snopes grew silent for a moment before turning back to Edmund. “Are you prepared to work harder than you’ve ever worked before?”
Edmund began to laugh, then stopped as he saw that Snopes wasn’t smiling. “Harder than being hired out to street builders to dig ditches twelve hours a day?” he challenged. “Because that’s our lot in here.”
“Yes, much harder, though not in the same way. Penned indoors, looking out at sunlight you can’t enjoy, day after day, until you no longer believe the sun is real. Studying so hard and long you’ll think your head will explode, then studying more. Memorizing half of Black’s Law Dictionary. All of Sir Edward Coke. Boy, you’ve no idea how little you know—and how hard it will be to catch up. You’ll be derided by other students of the law mercilessly—for your background and for your ignorance—and you’ll be powerless to use your fists to stop it. Twelve hours of work in a day will be a holiday for the next six years of your life, and humiliation and self-doubt will be your daily companions. And in the end, even if you succeed in passing the bar, no matter how much you wish it, you’ll never right the wrong done to your parents.”
Edmund couldn’t believe his ears. Was he being offered an apprenticeship? After all these years telling himself it was what he wanted, could he really do it?
Snopes sensed his hesitation. “Your headmaster doesn’t believe you’re up to it. He laughed aloud when I asked if he had anyone here with the ability and desire to enter the profession. Perhaps he was right.”
“He wasn’t, sir,” Edmund said sharply. “I know I can do it.”
Snopes took his measure with a long stare. “Perhaps,” he said.
The barrister then looked at Obadiah with a note of sadness. “I admire your loyalty to Edmund, son. Truly I do. You’re well-spoken, given your background, and I fear the truth of your prospects. But I’m afraid I’ve no place for training a solicitor. It will be difficult enough to house and feed a single barrister apprentice.”
Edmund looked at Obadiah at his side, the split lip reminding him that Obadiah had earned it for jumping on the back of a boy twice his size, one of the four who’d pounded on Edmund the evening before.
“I can’t go with you if Obadiah doesn’t come.” Edmund could hardly believe he’d said it—though he intended every word.
Snopes’s eyebrows lifted. “Really? The headmaster told me you’ve claimed a wish to be a barrister’s apprentice since you arrived here at age twelve. Do you think barristers are rushing the gates of this boys’ home looking for candidates? Do you really think you’ll have another chance?”
“No. I know this won’t happen again. I don’t see how it could happen now. But Obadiah’s taken a beating more than once for me, as I have for him. The others will come after him once I’m gone. The same boys who did this.” He gestured to Obadiah’s swollen lip. “I won’t leave him to that.”
The barrister walked around the two boys, then stopped before them once more. “Well, we ca
n’t punish that kind of loyalty, can we?” he replied. “I tell you what, Edmund. You accept the barrister apprenticeship, and I promise my very best effort to locate a solicitor who can manage your friend. Agreed?”
Edmund looked to Obadiah, who nodded. “Agreed.”
“Good. Now go pack up whatever belongings you have while I speak with your headmaster. And both of you, be prepared to learn how to fight with your mind and your words instead of your fists from this day forth.”
The memory slid away as Edmund reached a familiar street. Well, he’d learned not to use his fists all right. Mr. Snopes had seen to that. But he’d never shed the fight inside that fueled them. He doubted he ever would.
Today he was glad for it.
Edmund turned into an alley and strode to the door of his favorite gambling hall.
Seated with a beer he’d nursed for hours, Edmund watched, in a mirror over the bar, the three tables hosting cards. The house was bursting tonight, the noisy dice games filling the room.
But at the card tables, players slumped silently, focused on their hands of brag. Half were known to Edmund—more by their sullen stares than by names. Edmund took another sip of beer to settle himself.
His target, Phineas Hardacre, sat to the left of the dealer. A beat-up top hat hung from a hook behind him. He wore a greasy blue suit. His luck at the table had risen and fallen twice since he’d sat down. Now nearly the last of his chips were again in the center of the table.
“You’ve been called, Mr. Hardacre,” the dealer said.
Hardacre dropped his cards faceup for those at the table to see. Another player grinned as he set down his own cards, and Hardacre let out a loud groan.
“You’ve been a lucky Irishman all night long,” he said and cursed. As the winner pulled the pile of chips toward him, Hardacre gathered his few remaining ones, grasped his hat and coat in disgust, and headed for the door—cashing out before he left.
The Barrister and the Letter of Marque Page 17