by Anne Perry
‘And if I don’t call him into question, somebody else will get the blame for killing Hinton: you will!’
Before Blackwell could reply, the door swung open. A remarkably handsome woman stood on the threshold. She was of less than average height, and time had added to her magnificent bosom and a certain amount to her hips. Her black hair was wound thickly at the back of her head, made the more striking by a streak of white at the front. Her olive skin was flushed with exertion, and probably temper, and her eyes flashed black fire.
She ignored Blackwell and looked straight at Daniel.
‘You’d better do something, young man! I’m not paying you to be charming. If charm would work, I could do it myself!’
Daniel rose to his feet. ‘Mrs Blackwell . . .’ he began.
‘Call me Mercy.’
‘Mercy.’ It was not a plea for clemency, it was an abbreviation of her name, Mercedes. She was Blackwell’s mother, and it was she who had engaged Daniel’s services, to the very mixed feelings of Mr fford Croft, head of the firm fford Croft and Gibson.
She closed the door behind her and came over to stand next to the table. Roman rose also, but she did not accept the chair offered to her. She was not going to accept courtesy or excuses.
‘Well? What are you going to do? How are you going to attack these miserable creatures?’ She did not need to explain herself. The brief adjournment for luncheon had come during the testimony of Park.
Before Blackwell could answer, and express his desperation, Daniel spoke.
‘We are going to attack, Mrs Blackwell . . .’
‘Good.’ she said. ‘Who?’
‘The man whose evidence is the most important, and who has every reason to lie,’ Daniel replied, trying to sound confident.
She gave a little grunt of agreement, but her eyes were cautious. She was going to need proof before she dared to hope.
Daniel knew what she was waiting for. He took a deep breath. ‘Park. He’s vulnerable, and now I know how,’ he answered.
She nodded slowly. Had they been alone, he was sure she would have demanded to know the details, but one quick glance at Roman told her how desperate he was, and how close to despair. Daniel knew that she would not have spared him anything. He was used to their banter, and he saw, beneath the mock fights, and the fierce arguments, that her long and deep loyalty was unquestioning and unshakeable. She would criticise her son in all sorts of ways, even slap him if tried sorely enough, but let anyone else find fault with him, and they would rue the day.
Before Daniel could explain himself any further, he was saved by the warder returning and telling him the luncheon adjournment was over. He was taking Roman back to the dock, where the accused sat throughout the trial. Daniel would go to the place in the courtroom he thought of as the arena. Mercedes Blackwell would go to sit in the public gallery.
As soon as Roman and the warder were gone, she turned to Daniel, her black eyes relentless.
‘Have you really got a plan, young man?’ she said. Her eyes seemed to burn a hole through his head, as if she could read his mind.
He thought it was her way of hiding how afraid she was. He had a mother, too, one who could be formidable if she wished to be. He had worked at least twenty of his twenty-five years at standing up to her. He also had an elder sister, Jemima, who had given as good as she got throughout their childhoods. So he was well accustomed to fierce women.
‘Yes, I think Park may well have killed Hinton himself. I intend to make the jury very well aware of why he would do that and then try to see Roman suffer for it. In fact, the more I think of it, the more it seems a reasonable alternative. That’s all we need: someone else to be believed guilty.’ He spoke with a confidence he did not feel, but he would make himself feel it by the time he stood up in front of the jury.
He smiled, and offered her his arm.
She hesitated for a long moment, then she took it. Her acceptance of him was conditional upon his success, he knew that. But for the moment, she was giving him her trust.
He could not afford to think of failing. He forced the possibility of it out of his mind and walked into the hallway, across the paved floor, and into the court exactly as if he knew he was going to win. He must conduct himself so that Park knew that, too.
Oscar Park stood in the witness box, well above the other people in the court. He was a tall man, smartly dressed. The height of the box above the floor, up its own set of steps, made him even more imposing. Daniel preferred to use, in his own mind, the word exposed. Perhaps vulnerable would be too much?
‘Mr Park,’ he began, ‘you say that the accused, Mr Blackwell, lent the victim, Mr Hinton, a very large sum of money.’
Park nodded. ‘Yes. On the surface, it looked generous – even extravagant.’ He was very calm. He looked down on Daniel benignly. Did he know how young he was? How very inexperienced?
‘Did it surprise you?’ Daniel asked. He must establish a trust with Park, if possible. Certainly, he must with the jury. They were the ones who mattered.
‘Yes. Frankly, it did,’ Park answered. ‘I didn’t take Blackwell for such a fool.’
‘You knew Hinton well enough to distrust him?’ Daniel asked innocently.
Park tried to look modest, and failed. ‘I’m a pretty good judge of a man, if I say so as shouldn’t.’ He smirked very slightly.
‘You were right about Hinton? That he was a small-time moneylender who took too many chances?’
‘Yes. Facts have proved me so,’ Park agreed.
‘But wrong about Blackwell?’
Park looked irritated and it showed in two pink spots on his cheeks.
Daniel saw a flicker of amusement on the faces of two of the jurors.
‘He seems to have lost his grip,’ Park said tartly, putting one of his hands on the railing of the witness box.
‘Agreed,’ Daniel nodded and smiled. ‘Losing your temper and shooting a man is no way to get your money back. It will go to his heirs now, won’t it? When probate is granted of the estate, of course. However long that takes.’ Daniel kept his face as sober as he could. ‘I suppose Blackwell didn’t take that into account.’
Park was irritated. ‘He just made a bad judgement about Hinton.’
‘And about shooting him, too?’ Daniel observed wryly.
Mr Sefton, the prosecutor, rose to his feet wearily. ‘My lord, the witness has already said he did not see that the accused was so dangerous. My learned –’ he gave the word a sarcastic edge – ‘friend . . . is missing the point.’
‘Yes, yes.’ The judge raised his hand in an elegant gesture of dismissal. ‘Mr Pitt, you appear to be questioning your own conclusions. Would you like to begin that train of thought again, with rather more guidance as to its destination?’
Daniel liked this judge, but he was wary of the edge of his tongue. ‘Thank you, my lord,’ he answered. His mind was racing. He was trying to establish Park’s own debt to Blackwell, but he had to do it obliquely. ‘Thank you,’ he repeated.
He faced Park again. ‘Would it be true to say you did not warn John Hinton of any danger from Mr Blackwell because you had no cause to believe there was any?’
‘I thought I already said that,’ Park replied, raising his eyebrows.
‘Yes, you did,’ Daniel smiled back at him. ‘Even though Mr Hinton was deep in debt and had no way of repaying such an enormous sum.’
‘I have said so,’ Park shook his head.
‘No danger, because Mr Blackwell was a man of considerable means, or so you believed, and great generosity.’
Sefton stood up again. ‘My lord, the court grants that this witness did not judge Mr Blackwell’s nature accurately. Mr Pitt is labouring the point to no purpose. I am sure Mr Park regrets that he did not warn Mr Hinton, but he is not at fault. The accused had given him no cause to think he would react violently, and self-destructively, towards him.’ He looked as if his patience was worn thin by such time-wasting.
The judge looked mildly
at Daniel. ‘Mr Pitt, have you a point?’
‘Yes, my lord,’ Daniel said quickly. He had made the opening, now he must get this exactly right. ‘I quite believe that Mr Park did not foresee such an extreme departure from Mr Blackwell’s usual behaviour . . .’
‘Then why belabour the point, sir?’ Sefton demanded.
The judge stiffened. ‘Mr Sefton, I will tell Mr Pitt what he may do. It is not your position.’
Sefton looked annoyed, but he apologised. He had no option.
‘Thank you, my lord,’ Daniel murmured. Then, before the judge lost patience completely, he continued, addressing Park, ‘You had reason for your judgement, did you not?’
Park blinked. Then slowly, his expression changed as he realised he was caught in something of a dilemma.
‘Sir . . .?’ Daniel did not let him have time to find a way out. ‘You did not warn John Hinton of Mr Blackwell’s temper, specifically in repayment of debt, because you yourself owed Mr Blackwell a considerable amount. Indeed, you still do! And yet you have not been shot—’
‘That’s a private matter between him and me!’ Park said, swivelling to look at the judge, and then at Sefton. ‘And it wasn’t that much. If my debt to Blackwell added to his . . . his violence . . . I’m sorry. But how could I know?’
‘Convenient, though, isn’t it?’ Daniel observed. ‘If they hang him for killing Hinton, he can’t come and collect from you.’
There was an uproar in the court. Now Park was leaning over the railing of the witness stand, face red with fury.
The jurors were looking at each other. One looked as if he were about to cheer.
Sefton was on his feet protesting.
Those in the public gallery were divided between outrage and hilarity.
The judge was demanding order in the court.
Daniel was very afraid he had gone too far.
It was at this point that he felt the tug on his sleeve, and he turned round and saw Apperly almost at his elbow. He was one of the clerks at fford Croft and Gibson, a man of indeterminate age and a sharper wit than most people gave him credit for. He looked untidy and out of breath as well, his frizzy hair all over the place. Right at this moment, he appeared profoundly unhappy. ‘I’m sorry—’ he began.
Daniel cut him off. ‘What? I’m in a mess, I know, but I’ll resolve it. I had to—’
‘You can’t,’ Apperly shook his head. ‘Dunham has had a motor accident. He’s rather badly hurt. Kitteridge is on a big case . . .’
Daniel was instantly sorry. ‘Poor devil. How is he? Is he going to be all right?’
‘Yes, yes, in time. A few weeks, or so. But he can’t assist Mr Kitteridge now. And it is a very serious case . . .’
‘I know,’ Daniel agreed. ‘Graves, or something like that. Murdered his wife.’
‘Yes,’ Apperly agreed. ‘It’s at the Old Bailey, and it’s going badly.’ He looked flushed and thoroughly miserable.
‘Well, I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do. If anybody can pull it off, it’s Kitteridge.’ That was true. He was the most gifted advocate in the firm, as he well knew and more than once had reminded Daniel. ‘As you can see, my case is . . . on the brink of disaster.’
‘All the same,’ Apperly insisted. ‘You’ve got to close it tonight, and then tomorrow go to the Old Bailey and take Dunham’s place. Mr fford Croft insists. I don’t know why, but this case matters to him deeply.’
‘Anyone could help Kitteridge,’ Daniel whispered. ‘He’ll do it all himself anyway. Poor Dunham just sits there and looks obedient.’
Apperly shook his head. ‘Mr fford Croft’s orders. Be there tomorrow morning.’
‘No.’ Daniel heard his own voice and scarcely believed it. You did not defy Marcus fford Croft – well, not twice, anyway. ‘I must finish this case . . .’
‘Blackwell’s a chancer,’ Apperly said firmly. ‘He couldn’t get away with it for ever. It’s not worth wrecking your career over.’
‘I don’t believe he’s guilty,’ Daniel insisted, aware that both Sefton and the judge were staring at him. ‘But even if he is, he deserves a decent defence . . . and I gave my word. I’ll come to the Old Bailey and fetch and carry for Kitteridge as soon as this case is closed.’ He felt his chest so tight he could hardly breathe, and the sweat stood out on his skin. Was he throwing everything away? His father would not forgive him. No – that was not true. He would be disappointed, profoundly, but even more so if he walked away. His father had taken many risks himself and understood the value of a man’s word.
The court was regaining order.
The judge was looking at Daniel with concern. ‘Are you ready to proceed, Mr Pitt?’
‘Yes, my lord. My company’s legal clerk has just—’
Apperly stepped forward. ‘Forgive me, my lord.’ He bowed his head, almost as if he were before royalty. ‘One of our barristers has had a serious traffic accident, and Mr Pitt is required to take his place.’
‘Now?’ the judge said with heavy disapproval.
‘No, my lord, tomorrow, early. I am informing him so that he can spend the night studying to catch up. I’m sorry, my lord. I did not realise I was interrupting.’
‘You are not, Mr Apperly,’ the judge said rather drily. ‘The interruption preceded you by several minutes. And now that order is restored, with your permission, we will continue the case of the Crown versus Roman Blackwell, in the matter of the unfortunate shooting of John Hinton. You may continue, Mr Pitt. You have about half an hour before we adjourn for the day. Make the best use of it you can.’
Daniel gulped. ‘Thank you, my lord. I would respectfully remind the court that the witness has admitted himself to having a considerable debt to Mr Blackwell, which he has not repaid; nor, as far as I know, is he in any position to do so. Therefore, I now suggest to the court that he is far from being as impartial in the matter as he has represented himself to be. I would like to exercise that doubt, my lord.’
The jury were all staring at him. They scented a fight at last.
Chapter Two
Daniel spent the last moments of the afternoon eliciting the details of Park’s debt. It was a frail thread to hang onto, but it was all he had.
He left the court with his mind in a whirl. The thought of assisting Toby Kitteridge, even if in name only, was both daunting and exciting. He did not like Kitteridge, who was approximately ten years older than Daniel and immeasurably more experienced. Kitteridge himself had made that advantage unpleasantly clear.
But it was an opportunity come far sooner than Daniel had expected. He might do nothing but run errands; however, he would sit beside Kitteridge in the Old Bailey, the central criminal court in London. Some of the most important cases in history had been decided there, beginning in 1585 with the medieval court.
He was so consumed in the thought he walked straight past his bus stop. He had to retrace his steps and wait for the next omnibus from Greenwich to his lodgings in James Street. It was not so very far away, but too far to travel on foot at the end of the day. He must find a way to help Roman Blackwell tomorrow morning. He had promised he would, and that was enough to hold him to the task. But he also knew no one else could do it this late in the trial. It was almost lost.
If only he could magnify the chink in Park’s armour and hope to raise some reasonable doubt. The more he thought about it, the more likely it seemed that Park himself, the chief witness against Blackwell, was the killer. But Daniel needed more than a slight possibility. Outwardly at least, Park was a respectable man.
So far, no question had been raised as to his honesty. It would be hard to introduce, unless he could be led into contradicting himself. The more he talked, the better chance Daniel would have of doing that.
He reached the bus stop again, and now the queue was lengthy! Three men were at the back of the line, two of them carrying briefcases, like himself, only theirs were not as new, nor as fine quality leather. Daniel’s was his father’s gift on gaining his degree, an
d carrying it still gave him pleasure, not only for itself, but remembering the look of pride in his father’s face. He wanted very much to live up to that. The fact that his father said nothing to push him increased the unspoken hope all the more.
The men in front of him shifted their weight impatiently. One changed his briefcase from his left hand to his right, as if it were heavy.
Wasn’t the bus ever coming? Had he just missed one?
He looked around the crowded street full of both motor vehicles and horse-drawn ones. He could not afford to make a habit of riding around in cabs. Very junior barristers, newly qualified, like himself, were paid little, and he refused to take an allowance from his father. He felt such a thing would place him under a moral obligation, not that his father would ever say so. There was a lot to be said for financial security, but just now there was even more to be said for freedom. It was a fine line.
He had half a day left in which to trip Park on his own words, and save Blackwell. It must be enough to turn the balance entirely the other way, against Park. What mattered to him? First of all, his own safety; second, money. It was money that had got him into this mess in the first place. And lies, of course.
Perhaps Daniel should ask a few more questions about who else owed money, and to whom? Among the men in the case, money seemed to form the basis of all the relationships. Daniel would go over all the papers he had and see what alternative ways there were to interpret them.
The bus finally came and he climbed on board. There was standing room only, but the passengers were wedged in too firmly to fall down, however much the bus lurched as they proceeded up Gray’s Inn Road.
He got off at the other end of his journey, walked the few hundred yards and turned the corner into James Street where he had rooms. It was quiet and very clean. Most of the time, it was also warm. Mrs Portiscale, his landlady, fussed over him a bit. At times it was annoying, but on the whole, he appreciated it. Having grown up in a family, albeit a small one, he was used to company. Then he had gone up to university in Cambridge where there was always company, whether he wished it or not. But most of the time, he was glad of it.