The Raven's Seal

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The Raven's Seal Page 6

by Andrei Baltakmens


  Outside, Mr. Quillby was pushed and turned and stumbled from side to side, and his hat dropped off and had to be found before he came to the high oaken doors of the courts. But he extracted a few coins for the bailiff, and he too was let through. Behind him came Cassie Redruth and her brother. The boy made his way with elbows and a sneer, though he had his sister’s hand the whole time. They slipped behind the distracted bailiffs and mingled with the attendants in the hall. A few of those waiting there recognised Toby or the girl and called their names, including three hard-faced men lounging beneath a pillar who shared a grim joke with the lad. Finally, they gained the public stalls.

  Captain Grimsborough, in a corner of the court, observed all, undisturbed by the hubbub, and closely appraised who came and went.

  The doors were hauled shut. The stalls and the galleries were full, and the eye saw only heads and hats, feathers and shawls. Clerks and lawyers lined the benches amongst dusty books, papers, pens, inkbottles, and ribbons. The burr of voices rose to a high pitch. The bailiff hammered his staff upon the floor. The call for quiet went up for his honour the judge. The doors were barred.

  This cramped stage, where the same old acts passed and the principal players were well read in their parts, waited. The magistrate entered. Justice Prenterghast was a lean old hack in this drama, magnificent in his black robes and red trim, with a great horsehair wig on his bony head. He could joke with the defence, soothe the jury, and assume a grim and solemn air, at need. He was disposed to be bowed to, and bow in return, before sitting.

  The prisoner was brought up, rousing a mutter in the crowd, not unmixed with admiration. Mr. Grainger was very reserved but not downcast, dressed soberly but as a gentleman, and bowed very neatly to the bench. He looked over the courtroom with curiosity, as though it were the strangest place to hazard his fate.

  His honour addressed the jury. Twelve good men of the district: they had on their best lace and coats, and though one would nod off later, and another not leave off scratching his nose or toying with his buttons, for the moment they all attended the reading of the charge with solemn nods.

  “The prosecution,” his honour hinted afterwards, “may make a few remarks.”

  Mr. Trounce, of Trounce and Babbage—both of whom appeared for the prosecution—lumbered to his feet. Trounce spoke as if afflicted by an asthma, a short toad of a man, who gulped for air at every breath: “The charge is murder. Grievous crime. Prosecution will show the spite and animosity of the accused against the dead man. Will show that they quarrelled. That their quarrel was not resolved. Will present testimony of threats—dire threats—against the deceased. The defendant is convicted out of his own mouth. Will show how the accused sequestered himself, while in a rage. Will draw a line, plain and sensible, from this to the deed. Will submit that the deadly stroke can be traced to the hand of the accused, deny it and conceal it as he will.”

  Mr. Babbage nodded approvingly at every point. The prisoner at first restrained, straightened, contemptuous of this last strike, and looked eagerly to his defence.

  Mr. Fladger rose. It had grown warm in the court. He was a slight, active gentleman, with very bright eyes and a long nose. He pursed his lips and idly turned over some notes.

  “The defence,” he began, “will not contest these small crumbs of fact, though it heartily condemns the sinister cast attributed these facts by my learned friend. The defendant and the victim were engaged in an affair touching their honour. My client,” here he glanced askance at Grainger, “conducted himself as a gentleman, and there the matter ended. There is no case otherwise. I am heartily sorry for my learned friend, for he will attempt to add together somesuch scraps of suggestion and innuendo, and make a case of these. You will see there is no witness to the deed. No proof my client did not conduct himself without all propriety. No reason to dismiss the word of a most excellent, wellborn young man.”

  The prosecution had the first act. The Captain of the Watch was called. Some made bold, from the stalls, to hiss at the Captain. The judge called for order. Captain Grimsborough settled in the witness box and took the oath with iron calm.

  The discovery of the corpse was described, inspiring Babbage with deep fascination.

  “The wound, as you saw it,” asked Babbage, “was a deep one?”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “A single thrust?”

  “As near as can be told. And neat with it.”

  “There was no robbery committed?”

  “Deceased had three guineas, some shillings, and farthings about his body,” said the Captain.

  “No robbery, then,” concluded Babbage.

  Fladger stood, seemed momentarily at a loss, then recovered. “Weapon never found?” he began.

  “No weapon at the scene,” said the Captain.

  “My client’s house was thoroughly searched, and yet I see that no weapon at all is in evidence.”

  “A gentleman has no lack of fine swords to hand, and blood’s a thing that is pretty easily gotten off,” said the unshakeable Captain.

  It was a hit, inspiring a snigger in the stalls. Fladger bowed his head with a watery smile. The Captain was released.

  Harton stalked grim-faced to the witness box. He looked on the court coldly and seemed to take the oath as a challenge that he read off haughtily, but he rendered himself perfectly attentive when Trounce rose.

  “There was a quarrel between the two gentlemen, was there not?”

  “A bitter quarrel. Grainger,” he said, nodding towards the dock, “bore some malice towards Mr. Massingham, was always needling him on.”

  “Then the antagonism was long-standing?”

  “Grainger made no secret of his dislike.”

  “What was the cause of their latest quarrel?”

  Harton shrugged. “I suppose it was about that girl.”

  “What sort of girl?”

  “A common alehouse strumpet.”

  Trounce, learned counsel that he was, paused to recover his breath while a whisper, a mix of revulsion, surprise, and glee, passed through the court. In the stalls, standing and straining to catch every word, Cassie Redruth hissed and clutched her brother’s hand so hard that he flinched and shook off her grasp.

  “The two men fell out over this girl?” resumed Trounce.

  “Mr. Massingham was familiar with the girl. Grainger had conceived a passion for her, it seems. He was most offensive.”

  “That’s a lie,” whispered Cassie. “Damn his lies!”

  Trounce scratched under his wig. “I should be gratified if the witness would linger and answer any questions my learned friend can pose.”

  Fladger accepted his cue.

  “Let us be clear,” said he, “and most precise before this solemn court. This is no place for modesty or circumlocution. The quarrel you refer to was a matter of honour?”

  Harton looked at the judge, the ceiling, the rail. “It was.”

  “A duel, in fact.”

  “A duel.”

  “And conducted correctly, in a gentlemanly fashion?”

  “It was most correct,” said Harton, growing sullen.

  “And brought through and concluded honourably, to the satisfaction of both sides?”

  “Concluded honourably, though—”

  “Concluded honourably, then,” finished Fladger.

  Kempe was summoned and took the oath, white-faced and somewhat abashed to be presented before such a crowd.

  Babbage, with his straight brow, stoop, and gruff manner, directed a few questions to this witness, who answered briefly but often stammered or lost his place in his account.

  “Mr. Grainger, as it turns out that morning, was blooded?”

  “He was wounded in the leg.”

  “The hit was allowed?”

  “It was a fair hit.”

  “But the hurt was not serious?”

  “Mr. Grainger was assisted from the field.”

  “But able to walk thereafter.”

  “Able to wa
lk.”

  “But what was the demeanour of the accused?” asked Babbage, leaning closer.

  “I am sorry to say that he was angry.”

  “How angry?”

  “Incensed.”

  “And what were the final words of the accused?”

  Kempe looked down at the dark rail, clutched at by many hands before his. “He said, he hoped Mr. Massingham would get as much as he gave that day.”

  There was a mutter along the benches.

  “Which you took to mean?”

  “I suppose that he thought the attack was unfair, and that Mr. Massingham took advantage of his misstep—and that he should suffer some misfortune in turn.”

  “A severe misfortune?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Like being stabbed unawares, surprised in a darkened street?”

  “Your honour…” began Fladger, in a tone of reproof.

  “Quite right. Mr. Babbage, is this line of questioning at an end?”

  “I am content.”

  Fladger had only a few questions for this worthy gentleman. “You were with the deceased for the remainder of that day?”

  “Yes, I was.”

  “When did you part?”

  “At about six of the clock. I had a call to make, with an upholsterer, to my regret.”

  “To your regret, sir?”

  “If I had been with Piers—Mr. Massingham…”

  “And in the course of the day, you had no other meeting with Mr. Grainger?”

  “None.”

  “In fact, you saw him not at all.”

  “No.”

  “And when you parted, you did not happen to see him or anyone.”

  “No one I noted.”

  “And so for all you know, and all anyone knows, my client was, as he said, at home, consoling himself and invalided by a painful and distressing wound.”

  “I suppose so.”

  The light had paled behind the high, dusty windows, and the session closed for the day. The court emptied of onlookers, gowns, books, and papers. The stage was left bare; only the familiar old props remained.

  NEAR THE COURTS, the city had appointed a miserable little block of a house to hold wellborn or notable prisoners in the course of a long trial. It was here that Fladger directed himself. He passed a coin to the turnkey and went within, by a row of small cells, recessions in the walls fenced by heavily wrought bars. At the far end was a good crowd, admitted on fee to get a look at the famous prisoner.

  With a lively step, he cut his way through these gawkers, but he was stopped by a rather pretty girl (so he thought), commonly though cleanly dressed.

  “Please, sir, you must let me speak tomorrow,” she said.

  “Speak! How speak?”

  “I mean on the stand, sir. As a witness, or however you should put it.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “It ain’t true what he said. He had no passion for me, asides being decent.”

  Fladger was taken aback and not pleased to show it. He drew away from the girl, with a shake of his robes.

  “The witness-box, miss—”

  “Fladger, is that you?” Grainger called.

  “Stay here,” said Fladger to the girl.

  He went to the cell door and was let in.

  No outward change was yet marked upon his client, who still bore the same air of careless calm, but Fladger was practiced enough in his profession to know the worm of doubt that had settled in the mind and gnawed at all the strong foundations there. Grainger had not rested for many days, and weariness and apprehension were upon him.

  “Pray, do not rise,” he said.

  Grainger was in irons. There was barely room enough in the cell for him to stand to his full height.

  “I venture to ask if you are in good health and spirits,” said the lawyer.

  Grainger gestured at some folded papers scattered across a little bench. “Mr. Pears, Miranda’s father, writes to tell me that all connections between myself and his daughter are severed. Miss Pears encloses the whole of our correspondence; no note of consolation or expression of faith in me.”

  “You should be prepared for worse,” said Fladger. “Considerably worse.”

  “You play a pretty dangerous game on my behalf,” Grainger told the lawyer. “What are you about there?”

  Fladger seated himself on a little stool. “You are hanged, my dear fellow,” he said with great candour. “You are already on the path to the gallows. Blood has been spilled, and blood will call for blood, invariably. But I may yet claim you back from the hangman and restore a part of your honour.”

  “I should be obliged,” said Grainger.

  “You are ironical with me, but juries are deep things: we must have their sympathies as much as their common sense (a rare item, indeed, and much over-valued in the ordinary). Their outrage stands sensibly against you. That must be turned.”

  “Then how does it proceed?” said Grainger grudgingly.

  “Indifferent well.”

  “Can they not be brought off? You have enough monies of me already, to that purpose.”

  “Sir, you surprise me. The question does not become you. The bailiffs, the door-wards, the clerks and criers and recorder, the judge himself—they have all had their fees. I have placed monies in every hand, and the court is yours thereby. But there are others against you, considerable interests, and I tell you plainly: the jury is not within your reach. Keep the coins in your purse. They must buy you off the gallows.”

  At that moment there was a call from the door of the cell.

  “Is this person known to you?” said Fladger, with a dry sniff.

  Cassie Redruth had come to the door of the cell. Grainger rose and went to her. It was no great distance, though he was hampered by the chain.

  “Sir,” she said, “sir, they must let me speak. Let me give my word or something. There was nothing between us but that you acted like a gent by me. All the rest of it is lies. But you did me a service, and I would do you one in return if they’ll let me.”

  Grainger put his hand to one of the thick, rust-tainted bars. “Hush.” He turned to the lawyer. “This young lady must be called.”

  Fladger’s thin, lively face was not settled. “I am against it. I tell you plainly. Whatever she has to say, she will appear to take your part, and that will sit worse with the court than anything she can aver.”

  “But, sir, what they said in there was lies! And it put a black cast on everything.”

  “Come now,” said Grainger. “I would not have her connected to slanders. It is a simple matter of the truth. And it will tear down one of their assertions as to my motives. I insist on it.”

  Fladger drew a long breath. “Is that your instruction?”

  “It is. Let her appear for the defence.”

  “Then so it shall be. Against my advice, mark.”

  Grainger turned his face again to the bars. “I will be grateful, at least, to have one true witness take my part.”

  “You were good to me, sir. I don’t forget.”

  “It is some consolation. Otherwise, I would not have you see me so.”

  “Don’t think on it, sir. I’m sure the lawyers will bring you out.”

  “No doubt. No doubt.”

  The turnkey was calling to clear the hall.

  “Come,” said Fladger. “We have more to discuss.”

  Grainger’s hand fell from the bars. The girl was turning away; her brother tugged at her skirts.

  “Tomorrow,” she said. “On my word.”

  “I will take comfort in that.”

  He returned to his councils, and she to the clamour of the gates, cutting through the press of defendants, their families, advisors, retainers, visitors, and spectators—all the specific misery the cells could hold.

  RAIN RETURNED next morning, and an icy sleet swept City New Square and pelted the windows of the court. The petitioners, more miserable still, huddled about in the halls. The flower-girls, ballad-se
llers, and gawkers were sorely dampened. The mood of the court as it resumed was sombre; the bailiff shivered in the drafts that came in by the great doors, and his lordship the judge looked at all sides with a frigid eye.

  William Quillby was called for the defence. Fladger folded his hands beneath his arms to warm them.

  “Mr. William Quillby, of Tambourline Courts. You are, by profession, a journalist?”

  “That I am, sir.”

  “And by nature of your profession, you are privy to the news of the town, and known to a great many characters.”

  “I would not stretch the point too far. But in the main you are correct.”

  “Very well.” Having come this far, Fladger adjusted his gown and proceeded. “You warned the accused, did you not, against this confrontation with Mr. Massingham?”

  “I did, most heartily.”

  “With what reason?”

  Quillby cleared his throat. He was ill at ease and not accustomed to such attentions as the court. Fladger waited for his reply with a delicate smile.

  “To my certain knowledge,” said Quillby, “Mr. Massingham had engaged in at least two duels beforehand and come unscathed from both.”

  A hissing and chortling stirred across the court. Two or three made bold to whistle. Lady Tarwell sat rigid and composed as ever, but anger flashed about her head. Trounce and Babbage stirred to rise together and could not decide which would ascend first. His lordship forestalled all this by tapping sharply with his gavel.

  The judicial voice fell as a killing frost: “I hope, Mr. Fladger, you do not mean to speak ill of the dead in this court. The deceased is not on trial here.”

  “Of course not; much obliged to m’lud,” said Fladger humbly, but he had made his touch.

  “To move on. Mr. Quillby, you attended on your friend after the events of the morning of that fatal day?”

  “I had that honour.”

  “And occasion to mark Mr. Grainger’s injury.”

  “It was deep and painful. Mr. Grainger had difficulty walking. He could not reach home without assistance. The surgeon feared a blood-poisoning and recommended complete rest.”

 

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