The Cogspeare Conspiracy (The Cogspeare Chronicles Book 1)

by Valentina S. Grub

  “So?”

  “So, sir, the Earl is known for his famous house parties, chock a block full of decadence and debauchery.”

  “You sound wistful, Addison. What would your mother say?” Jim blushed, but continued.

  “This house party has a few guests who aren’t usually part of Dashington-Hill’s circle, including…”

  “…Philodendrington?”

  “Exactly, sir. Even a Lord Justice wouldn’t pass up the opportunity for some good old-fashioned debauchery.”

  “Indeed,” Magnus replied meditatively. “Dashington-Hill…didn’t I have an appointment with him a few days ago?”

  “Yes, sir. Monday, sir. Was it related to ‘decadence and debauchery’?”

  “It was related to confidential and private, Addison. And don’t use the word debauchery again. You use it far too enthusiastically.” He leaned back in his chair.

  “Am I to conclude that Lord Philodendrington has indicated the trial will use the swiftest form of justice because he wants to go to a house party?” he asked sceptically.

  “As far as I can tell, yes, sir.” Magnus shook his head in disgust.

  “Well, Addison, I suppose we’d better get on. Not that many papers to file at the House before the trial, but I like to get there early.”

  “I’ll go powder your wig, then, sir.”

  Chapter 36:

  Standing in front of a gilded mirror in the changing rooms of the House of Lords, Magnus stared at himself. Usually before a trial, he was infused with power and elation, knowing he was fulfilling his dream, his destiny. But this time, all he had was a sinking, sick feeling. And he realized that if he had a choice, he would rather go back to his office, have a cup of strong tea with lashings of sugar, do some paperwork and forget about the whole thing. After all, there really was no challenge here.

  He sighed and adjusted the freshly-powered wig, tucking his ginger hair underneath.

  “Pull yourself together, man,” he growled at himself. He tugged his ebony silk waistcoat into place, folded his jacket away, and donned the long, flowing robes of a barrister’s court dress. Taking his papers, he went armed into battle, summoning up all his confidence.

  As he strode down the elaborate hallways, passing colleagues with a nod of his head, it never ceased to amaze and fill him with wonder that he was a cog in the well-oiled, if at times overly-contrapted, machine of justice.

  He turned a corner into the small atrium behind the courtroom, where a small man was sitting behind a smaller, spindly desk.

  “Name of barrister?” the man squeaked as menacingly as possible.

  “Magnus Cogspeare.” He carefully inscribed his name in the records book with a ridiculously large quill.

  “Affiliation?”

  “Grimsby and Associates.”

  “Case number?” The barrister had always felt these were a series of ridiculous questions, remnants from a time when multiple cases would be heard at one session. These days, it was one, or perhaps two, cases per day.

  “Twenty-three sixty-five.”

  “You may enter,” replied the man grandly.

  “Thanks, Cerberus,” Magnus grumbled the nickname bestowed by young barristers two generations ago.

  He pushed open two sets of heavy, carved oak doors, and was suddenly in the heart of the judicial system, at the top of the hierarchy.

  Before him lay the Court of Lords. Set out much like any other courtroom in the realm, the Judge’s bench was placed front and centre, and high above all others. The clerk’s bench was set directly below him, and the clerk was already in position, sharpening his steel-tipped quills.

  In front of him were the benches where the prosecution and defence would sit, left and right, respectively. To the far left was the witness stand, and to the right, the docket for the defendant.

  But though the layout of the courtroom was the same as any other, the plushness and the comfort that gilded everything, from the polished rare woods to the soft, feathered seats of the docket, branded this a courtroom for only the most important and wealthy people in the land.

  Magnus much preferred the stark, smaller rooms of the civil courts. This court room was, to his mind, a gaudy inversion of the stern, vital work that it should carry out.

  As he approached the defence bench and made to put down his papers, he stopped short when he heard the murmurings behind him. He turned and saw to his horror that the gallery was filled to capacity.

  His eyes, his dratted eyes, were immediately drawn to Minerva. Of course, that wasn’t difficult, considering she was in the front row centre, pretty as a stark picture in pure white, with her tri-coloured tie and top hat.

  She was sitting between his mother, resplendent in chartreuse silk and tassels, and Twym, notebook in hand, speaking avidly about something, probably the law and women’s rights. But then he looked over, and on the left side, third row, were Declan, Amadeus, and Quintus. When they saw him, they waved, but Magnus just brusquely nodded and looked away.

  At first his eyes refused to process the implications of what he was seeing.

  His boss, Sir Nicodemus Grimsby sat next to a young gentleman dressed to kill, not an obvious choice for a neighbour. After a moment, Magnus recognized him as the Ear of Dashington-Hill. Standing and speaking with them was the dapper man he was defending, Lord Edgar Clinton. The three of them, standing together like that, turned his stomach into a pit of fiery acid. He quickly poured himself a glass of water from the pitcher provided.

  But not before Minerva saw where he had been staring.

  Suddenly the doors which Magnus had come through flung open and a young, scruffy man came stumbling through, papers spilling out of his arms. Magnus had to restrain himself from smiling and going to help him. But that didn’t stop some of the gawkers or the press from their comments and chortles.

  Dropping his bundle on the table next to his, the man wiped his brow and looked over to Magnus, paling. As was good form, Magnus held out his hand and said,

  “Magnus Cogspeare for the defence.” The man’s Adam apple bobbed as he swallowed nervously.

  “Ga-Gawain Dolts, pr-prosecution,” he stuttered. Magnus tightened his lips in a small smile and nodded, shaking the man’s wet hand, then quickly turning away to wipe it.

  This was going to be pitifully easy. Magnus now truly felt like a cad. A mentally astute and powerful one, but a cad nonetheless.

  “All rise for the Lord Justice Philodendrington” announced out the liveried caller.

  They all rose, and from underneath the gallery processed a rotund man in his late seventies with a grizzled beard and a leer in his eye, swathed in gold-embroidered black robes. Magnus suppressed a cringe when he thought of this man being decadent and debauched, as Jim would say. Jim, hiding in the wings with the other secretaries, was looking through the peepholes hidden in the woodwork.

  “Sit,” the judge grunted, and all assembled sat with a collective swish of cloth.

  “His Lordship will now hear the case of,” the caller looked down at his notes and said with distain, “the Port Prudence Miners versus Lord Edgar Clinton. Will the prosecution please stand.”

  Dolt, shaking with nerves at his first appearance in the Court of Lords, slowly got up and bowed ridiculously low to the judge. Philodendrington grunted.

  “It seems,” he harrumphed, “that the miners,” he sneered, “whom you represent are not here. Did they have something more important to do?”

  “N-no, your judgeship. Your L-lordship!” he stuttered as a few snickers snaked through the crowd. “T-there are over t-two hundred of them, and they w-wouldn’t all fit in the court room.”

  Now outright laughter filtered down from the rafters, and the judge leaned forward to bark,

  “Are you being impertinent, young man? Do you mean to tell me that not one of the miners would deign to grace us with their presence?” Dolt swallowed, eyes as wide as dirigible cogs.

  “N-no, sir. Your Lordship. W-what I mean is, t-two of t
-them did come, b-but th-they w-wouldn’t l-let t-them in, sir.” Dolt’s stutter was getting more severe by the moment. Here’s a barrister, thought Magnus, who should never have left his desk.

  “Harrumph. Well, they’re probably ruffians, anyway.” Philodendrington leaned back and folded his hands. “You’ll act on their behalf, and that’s that.” He nodded to the caller, who continued.

  “Will the defence please rise.”

  Magnus rose, feeling the eager eyes of the spectators singe his hair, and he had to force himself from patting his wig nervously.

  “Cogspeare, from Grimsby, eh? You know this case needs to be dealt with expediency, correct?” Magnus nodded. Yes, he confirmed to himself, Philodendrington is more eager for a house party than for justice.

  “Good man. Proceed with the trial.” Magnus sat, and they all waited for Dolt to begin his opening statement.

  There was silence, and Dolt nervously wiped his brow with a wrinkled, damp handkerchief.

  “W-well,” he squeaked, and everyone laughed. He blushed a sickly puce, but continued after clearing his throat, “Well. As we all know, three weeks ago a t-tragic accident occurred at t-the P-Port P-Prudence s-spesium mine.”

  He’s made at least four blunders already! Magnus shook his head. Calling it an accident when he’s trying to prove it wasn’t!

  “O-of c-course, we a-all know that…” And on he went, for another, excruciating forty-seven minutes, which Magnus just happened to be timing. Within a few minutes, murmurs began to funnel down from the restless crowd, and after another ten minutes Magnus could swear he heard snores coming from the back rows.

  “A-and i-in c-conclusion,” his stuttering had become worse than ever, “w-we, t-that is, the d-defendants b-believe t-that Lord Clinton is r-responsible f-for the mining accident.”

  The caller went carefully behind the judge’s chair and nudged him.

  “What?” he snuffled, quickly pulling himself together. “Of course, right, yes, well-harrumph! Mr. Dolt,” he loomed over the young barrister, “You are aware, are you not, that the point of this trial, which you have petitioned for, is to prove that Lord Clinton is personally responsible for the murder of the miners with malice aforethought and not just merely ‘an accident’.” It wasn’t a question but rather a statement of career execution.

  “Yes,” Dolt managed to squeak out.

  “Very well,” Philodendrington boomed. “And now, Mr. Cogspeare from Grimsby and Associates, for the defence. Please proceed.”

  Dolt sat down gratefully and moped his sopping brow.

  Magnus, ever cool even with the eyes of hundreds of onlookers boring into him, not least Minerva’s, he rose and adjusted his robes so that they would flow around him as he walked towards the judge.

  “Milord,” he began, his voice carrying well, “As I am sure the court is well aware, these allegations against Lord Clinton are ludicrous and libellous at best, and destructive to his character and business at worst. However, with the press’s interest in the case, the defence feels that it is best, not to ask for a dismissal, but rather we would proceed with the case, with the addendum of a countersuit clause.”

  He paused for effect, but only the clerks, the judge, and Minerva knew why. She drew her breath in sharply.

  “What the hell does that mean?” Quintus whispered, and Twym leaned closer, quill at the ready.

  “It means that, if the miners lose the case, they’ll be automatically held fiscally responsible for libel and damages.” Twym looked up even as his quill kept moving.

  “And what the hell does that mean?”

  “They’ll lose, and they’ll pay.”

  “It’s as though it’s a conspiracy to get the miners to fail,” Quintus whispered to Minerva and Declan.

  “But qui bono? And after all, would Clinton really conspire to kill his own miners?” replied his brother.

  Miners are cheap as tin coils, thought Minerva, but he could be conspiring to fraud…

  “Harrumph,” Philodendrington grumbled. “Well, seems reasonable to me. But since Mr. Dolt here took so bloody long with his opening arguments,” he took out a pocket watch, “it seems that it’s time for tea. We will break until tomorrow at two o’clock, when I will hear arguments and closing arguments from you both. And let them be succinct, Mr. Dolt,” he glared at the quaking barrister, “succinct!”

  He rose and waddled out of the court room before most of the audience had a chance to follow suit. Suddenly, the whole room was filled with eager chatter, as this would be the first trial in the House of Lords lasting more than a day in over twenty years. Swift justice was a key feature of the Lords, fitted as it was in between meals and social engagements.

  As Magnus pulled together his papers, he looked over at Dolt from the corner of his eye. The man was practically soaked with sweat and looked positively ill. He felt quite sorry for the man as he left and went to collect his things.

  “Dreadful,” replied Edwina to Minerva’s explanation of the proceedings, “simply dreadful. But I suppose it’s all legal and above board?”

  “As legal as exploitation and work camps are. Which is to say, perfectly.”

  “Mr. Glad,” Edwina turned and masticated Twym’s name once again, “you seem to be very busy. Are you writing an article about the proceedings?”

  Twym blushed.

  “No, Mrs. Cogspeare, I’m just a researcher. But I would like to be a reporter someday. I’m practicing on this case, so to speak.”

  “You’re much too old to be meddling around with practice. Write the article and submit it!”

  “Yes, indeed,” Quintus added, laconically lighting a cheroot, “tempus fugit and all that.”

  Magnus stopped in shock as he came down the hall and was met with the sight of most of his family en masse. Minerva, Edwina, Twym and Quintus were huddled together, while Declan and Amadeus were standing quietly behind them. None of them had ever come to see him in court. An icicle of hate and hurt begin to melt inside. It felt wet and mushy, and he was momentarily afraid it would show, and stain.

  “Darling!” called out his mother, and he tried not to wince as at least a half dozen passing barristers looked his way. “You were wonderful! I had no idea that you would be so eloquent! Now,” she grabbed his arm and pulled him towards the group, “you must tell us everything. Mr. Glisten here is writing a story on the case, but don’t worry, he’s a good reporter and will be absolutely truthful. Isn’t that right?” He nodded eagerly, quill aquiver.

  “Minerva was just explaining the proceedings to us, but I’m sure we’d love to know what will happen tomorrow.”

  “I’m afraid he can’t talk about that, Edwina,” Minerva stepped in quickly, “he must keep everything quite confidential for his clients. Isn’t that right?”

  There was stillness as they waited for him to reply.

  “Indeed. And besides, Mother, if I told you what would happen, where would the surprise and fun be in that? After all, anything can happen, can’t it?” he looked pointedly at Minerva.

  Twym could have knocked the Cogspeares down with his quill, they were so surprised at Magnus’s banter. Edwina was the first to recover, and took a firmer grip on her son’s arm.

  “Well, then, I believe that we should follow the Judge’s example and go have tea,” she began pulling him along the corridor towards the exit.

  “But I have paperwork to do, Mother, and then-”

  “- It’s no use, brother,” Quintus clasped his shoulder, relieving him of his burden of papers, and then quickly handing them off to a bemused Amadeus. “You know resistance is futile. Come along and have some tea, and then you can be off for another round of ‘prosecute the innocents’ and all that.”

  “May I just have a few words with you, Mr. Cogspeare?” added Twym hopefully.

  “Of course you can, dear,” she answered for her eldest son, adding “And you’re coming to tea, of course.”

  “No, I can’t mother! I can’t speak to him.” The doors o
pened, and they were met with an unprecedented sea of reporters, who immediately began shouting, calling for his attention. They were waving pieces of paper and their quills, sharpened to points that proved the adage that the quill was sharper than the dagger.

  A flash and boom went off, shocking Magnus and making him jump. Instinctively, the Cogspeares gathered around him, even as he felt himself begin to lose his grip.

  But just as suddenly as they swarmed them, the tide of tattlers turned as they saw Dolt trying to make a run for it. They all pelted after them, and the Cogspeare clan, Minerva and Twym in tow, quickly made their escape to a waiting carriage. Once inside the commodious, if old fashioned, conveyance, Declan leaned back and huffed,

  “Would you rather talk to them?”

  Chapter 37:

  Back amongst the fringed comforts in the Cogspeare parlour, Edwina asked Twym how he took his tea.

  “Just with sugar, ma’am. Four, if you please.” Steamins, hovering behind Edwina with a salver piled high with cakes and sandwiches, made his disapproval evident. The boys tried not to grin.

  “Don’t sniff, Steamins!” she chided. “The poor boy needs the sugar to keep him going. After all, he has a very demanding and stressful job as a reporter.”

  “I’m not a reporter yet, ma’am-”

  “Oh, mere etching on the brass, my dear,” she handed the other cups of tea around. “Of course, we have had a few reporters asking for interviews in the past years, but none made it past the gate, thanks to Steamins.” L.B looked up and barked.

  “And L.B, of course. Now, what did you want to ask us about? Or rather, ask my eldest son?”

  Twym paused, looking between the eager Edwina and reticent Magnus, and finally settled on a middle ground.

  “I understand that you cannot discuss anything about the court case, Magnus. But I would like to know; did you find out if George Talliburn ever made it to Port Prudence? I know that we found a ticket stub in his rooms, but nothing more than that.”