Prince of Secrets

by Paula Marshall

  Yes, he thought that the matter had ended there.

  All in all, Cobie was impressed. Sir Darcy, equally deferential, but equally penetrating, rose to cross-examine the Prince. His main question was why he had agreed to a solution which kept the matter private.

  ‘It was my wish that leniency and mercy should be shown.’

  The whole court buzzed and stirred as a member of the jury raised his hand to ask that he might put a question to the witness.

  Order was called for, and at last the uproar died down.

  ‘I merely wish to ask the witness whether at the time he thought that the charges against Sir Ratcliffe were true.’

  Again there was uproar. The Prince remained calm. He looked at the judge, who directed him to answer.

  ‘Given that the evidence offered was unanimous, then, I repeat, I had to believe those who offered it—there was no other course open to me.’

  If that doesn’t spike Sir Ratcliffe’s guns, nothing will, Cobie thought, but later he realised that those who wished to believe that the Prince had behaved shamefully towards ‘the noble baronet’ were not so easily convinced.

  Finally it was over, and the Prince stepped down. For the time being the fireworks had ended. The next witnesses were all, so far as Press and the general public were concerned, nonentities who were willing to testify that it was impossible that Sir Ratcliffe would ever cheat at cards. They all attempted to put the blame on the American, Mr Grant, and were constantly reprimanded for introducing hearsay evidence.

  Again and again every eye, and all the opera glasses were turned on the handsome American whose name was already filling the evening papers because of his financial exploits.

  ‘They all visit the same brothels and have the same tastes as Heneage,’ whispered Kenilworth in Cobie’s ear. ‘Think what scandal would be caused if the right questions were asked, instead of the wrong ones!’

  It was now the turn of the defendants to present their case. Kenilworth was to go first. The ladies’ opera glasses immediately came into play again, but there was little to be excited about since all that happened was that the same sad facts were rehearsed all over again.

  Except, that late in the afternoon, Kenilworth, on being cross-examined by Sir Halbert, was asked, ‘You, m’lord, being so eagle-eyed as to see your friend and parliamentary colleague, Sir Ratcliffe, moving his counters in order to win more money, or lose less, will surely be able to tell us the value of the cards on which this supposed trick was performed?’

  Kenilworth stood there silent and shaken. He had seen Sir Ratcliffe moving his counters, but at this distance in time he had not the slightest notion of the value of the cards on which the sleight of hand had been performed.

  Sir Halbert saw his hesitation and leapt for the kill. ‘No, m’lord? You cannot remember? And it is on this flimsy evidence, your faulty memory, that you are prepared to destroy a man’s reputation, his social position and his parliamentary career?’

  Kenilworth said desperately. ‘I cannot remember the cards, but I know that I saw Sir Ratcliffe move his counters to increase his bet after his card was seen to become a winning one…’

  ‘Oh, indeed, Lord Kenilworth. You ask me to believe that on the one hand you cannot remember the cards on which this supposed trick was performed, but on the other hand—because it damages Sir Ratcliffe—you are able to remember him moving his counters. If you cannot remember the one fact, why should we believe that you can remember the other?’

  Goaded, aware that he was letting the side down, Lord Kenilworth, who had never before been submitted to such ruthless questioning in his whole life, said, ‘I know what I saw—and what others saw.’

  Sir Halbert pounced again. ‘What others saw. Does that mean that you were not sure of what you saw, or that others persuaded you of what they saw?’

  Lord Kenilworth looked at the judge and then at Sir Darcy for salvation—and found none. He said doggedly and unluckily, ‘I know perfectly well what I saw, and the clinching evidence was that of one of my friends who could remember the value of the cards which were the subject of Sir Ratcliffe’s cheating.’

  ‘One of your friends, Lord Kenilworth. Not you, but one of your friends saw the plaintiff cheating…’

  Lord Kenilworth interrupted counsel, saying desperately, ‘Of course, I saw him cheating, but…’

  Sir Halbert said, all greasy charm, ‘But…if you will allow me to finish, Lord Kenilworth…one of your friends convinced you.’

  He paused, smiling, then said savagely, ‘Which friend was that, Lord Kenilworth?’

  The unfortunate peer closed his eyes, and said stiffly, ‘My friend, and co-defendant, Mr Jacobus Grant, whose memory is excellent, and who could remember which cards were involved in the plaintiff’s cheating.’

  Kenilworth knew at once that he had done a foolish thing. Before the trial it had been agreed that all of the defendants would accept equal responsibility, none to be revealed to be more prominent in the accusation than any other.

  Walker, who had slipped into the court shortly before the day was due to end, chuckled to himself. ‘Mr Dilley at his magic tricks again,’ being his sardonic verdict.

  Sir Halbert pounced on Kenilworth’s reluctant admission. ‘So, if there was a ring-leader among you, then that man was Mr Grant, the American citizen.’

  The judge intervened. ‘I fail to see the point you are making, Sir Halbert.’

  ‘Oh, m’lud, we seek to prove malice in the bringing of this accusation. I am arguing that none of the defendants had clean hands in this matter, as I shall prove.’

  Goaded again, and trying to mend matters, Kenilworth made them worse.

  ‘You are mistaken, sir. The prime mover in this matter was not Mr Jacobus Grant as you appear to believe, but Mr Walter Ffolliot.’

  He knew as soon as he had spoken that he had made another gross error of judgement provoked by tiredness and having been three hours in the witness box, enduring the kind of gruelling questioning such as persons of his Lordship’s station were rarely subjected to.

  Sir Halbert pounced on him again like a terrier grabbing a rat by the throat, ‘What’s this, Lord Kenilworth? Here is a name we have not heard before. I see four defendants listed, but no Mr Walter Ffolliott. What was Mr Ffolliot’s role in this, Lord Kenilworth? I ask you to remember that you are on oath.’

  Lord Kenilworth, flushed and looking uncomfortable, muttered, ‘It was Mr Walter Ffolliott who first raised with me the possibility that Sir Ratcliffe Heneage was cheating.’

  Sir Halbert rolled his eyes to heaven dramatically, folded his arms over his chest, turned away, and then turned back to pounce on Lord Kenilworth again.

  ‘Then why is this the first we have heard of his name? M’lud, in the light of what Lord Kenilworth has just said, I ask that Mr Walter Ffolliot be subpoenaed so that he may be questioned as to his role in this dubious affair.’

  The spectators had grown languid, but these revelations woke them all up. Every eye had been turned speculatively on Cobie—but the sudden emergence into prominence of Walter Ffolliot had everyone whispering to their neighbour until the usher called for silence in court.

  Violet and Dinah were both wishing the whole affair done with, and that they would soon be free to go home and forget Sir Ratcliffe Heneage and all his works. But at this astonishing turn-up, as society was to dub it, Violet sat up and took notice.

  ‘Walter Ffolliot?’ she whispered to Dinah. ‘What the devil had he got to do with anything?’

  It was the first time that Dinah had heard of young Ffolliott’s involvement, and so she told her sister.

  Violet said nastily, ‘Has Cobie told you nothing about this wretched business, Dinah? Even I seem to know more than you do.’

  ‘Why “even I”?’ whispered back Dinah as coolly as she could. ‘You know I dislike gossip, Violet, and this whole wretched business makes me dislike it more than ever.’

  She did not say that she thought that Sir Ratcliffe might
yet get away with his preposterous case, if the four defendants were bent on committing suicide—not that she could imagine Cobie doing any such thing.

  But Rainsborough was a known lightweight, and Dagenham, though a sound man, had never been subjected before to the kind of pressure which had broken Kenilworth—whom previously, along with Cobie, had been considered one of the bulwarks of the case against Sir Ratcliffe.

  Sir Darcy was on his feet again. ‘M’lud, I must protest at counsel’s demand. The defendants in this case, who signed the paper to which Sir Ratcliffe chose to append his signature admitting guilt, are all before you. There is no need to call on anyone further.’

  Lord Coleridge’s expression grew, if possible, even more supercilious. ‘I cannot agree with you, Sir Darcy. Like Sir Halbert, I, too, wish to know how Mr Walter Ffolliot can be called a prime mover in this accusation, and yet his name is not mentioned until the third day of this action. Let Mr Walter Ffolliott be subpoenaed to appear tomorrow. Continue, Sir Halbert.’

  Sir Darcy sat down. He had interviewed all four principals, as he had thought, exhaustively, and not one of them had mentioned the name of Walter Ffolliott to him. He was compelled to listen to Sir Halbert dragging an admission from Lord Kenilworth that young Mr Ffolliott had been dropped from the affair because of his extreme youth.

  ‘The older and more responsible of us were of the opinion that he should not be exposed to any possible consequences where his inexperience might be a detriment to our case.’

  ‘Or was it rather,’ commented Sir Halbert, with a derisive grin, ‘that he might not be able to remember exactly what he ought to be saying?’

  Lord Kenilworth said angrily, turning to the judge, ‘M’lud, I do protest…’

  Sir Halbert said swiftly, before the judge could pronounce, ‘M’lud, I withdraw that remark seeing that we shall have the benefit of hearing Mr Ffolliott in court tomorrow. I have no further questions for Lord Kenilworth.’

  Sir Darcy re-examined his witness only briefly, merely asking him again to confirm that he had witnessed Sir Ratcliffe cheating, and had no doubts about what he had seen. In a private room outside the court he confronted all the defendants, saying testily, ‘I fail to understand why, if this whole business started with Mr Walter Ffolliott, not one of you saw fit to mention his name to me! I should like an explanation. Lord Kenilworth, perhaps you would care to provide one.’

  Kenilworth bowed his head. Minister of the Crown he might be, but he was well aware that he had, in his own words, let the side down. All along they had been prepared for poor Rainey to commit some bêtise, but not even the cynical Cobie had expected that when the bêtise came, it would be Kenilworth who would commit it!

  ‘I must ask you all to allow me to apologise to you,’ he said humbly, ‘particularly to you, Grant, since it was my mentioning your name inadvertently which caused the damage. That damned mountebank out there had my head spinning. Moreover, Sir Darcy,’ he continued, ‘Grant is not, I believe, aware of young Ffolliott’s role in this.’

  Cobie agreed that this was the first he had heard of Walter Ffolliot’s involvement, and, ‘Young Ffolliott?’ queried Sir Darcy sharply.

  ‘Yes, he is only twenty-two. He came to me most distressed because he had seen Sir Ratcliffe cheating. I spoke to Dagenham, my brother-in-law, about this, and he, too, was dubious about Heneage’s honesty. We decided to keep watch on him ourselves and we called in Grant, who said that, like us and Ffolliott, he also thought that Heneage was cheating.

  ‘We dropped young Ffolliott from the whole business because we thought that an inexperienced young man might be challenged on the very grounds of his inexperience. Mr Grant was asked to be one of the observers because of his remarkable memory—as has already been explained to you.’

  He stopped. ‘My folly has brought the boy into this, and I am afraid that Sir Halbert will make mincemeat of him.’

  Sir Darcy was brisk.

  ‘No good crying over spilt milk, but I must ask you gentlemen to be as brief as you can be when giving evidence. Say the wrong thing, try to correct yourself—and you see what will happen. A moment’s inattention, and we are in deep waters. The jury is sure to believe that your omission of Mr Ffolliott’s role throws a sinister light on the conduct of you all. Do I need to say more? Is Mr Ffolliott in London?’

  Lord Kenilworth nodded miserably. ‘He was in court today. I shall hardly know how to apologise to him for dragging him into the witness box.’

  Sir Darcy sighed. ‘So we can expect to see him in the witness box—and untutored. No matter. Mr Grant, you will be called last and your evidence is vital. You are ready for whatever may be thrown at you?’

  Cobie, who had so far said nothing while the other three had said everything, merely stood before Sir Darcy, the very picture of elegant attention. He wondered what Sir Darcy would say if he knew what might be thrown at him.

  ‘I am well aware,’ he said carefully, ‘that to say too much is a mistake. But in the witness box we are, as you must well know, Sir Darcy, at the mercy of our interrogator. He may say what he pleases, we are constrained and limited by the rules of evidence. No such constraints exist for him, other than the occasional intervention of the judge. I think we had all better remember that.’

  ‘He’ll not get more than yes or no from me,’ promised Rainey fervently.

  Cobie believed him. In a case like this, he thought sardonically, a fool might do better than an innocent, wise man!

  What a cunning bastard used to performing magic tricks might do was quite another thing—but it behoved him to stay humble. In this case counsel was the magician and the witness the poor stooge called on to the stage, to exit like PC Alcott, wearing a booby’s hat on the occasion when Cobie had entertained the poor children with his magic tricks!

  Chapter Ten

  Yes, Sir Ratcliffe was the winner at this stage in the action, no doubt about it! The papers said so. The Prince was pilloried again, and Kenilworth’s admission about Walter Ffolliott was pounced on with glee.

  ‘Who is Walter Ffolliott?’ one of them demanded in deep black headlines. The Education Act of 1870 had resulted in a literate working class, the newspapers had changed to accommodate their supposed taste, and since popular taste leaned towards the lurid, the lurid was what they were increasingly being given.

  Sir Ratcliffe’s defence pleased all the malcontents inside society and outside of it. The fickle mob, given to cheering Albert Edward, Prince of Wales, one minute, was also given to pillorying him the next. An underground Press had grown up in which cartoons of the Prince showing him as a ravening debauchee, unfit to become King, were frequently featured. It was eagerly read.

  In this atmosphere, with a noisy crowd gathering outside the court, to cheer Sir Ratcliffe, and boo the Prince and the four defendants, it was possible that anything might happen.

  ‘Did you know about Walter Ffolliott’s involvement, Cobie?’ Dinah asked him later that night after their game of cribbage was over, and they were preparing for bed. ‘Violet seemed to think that you did.’

  Cobie shook his head. ‘No, my dear, I only became involved after young Ffolliott had voiced his suspicions. I was asked to bear witness because of my memory and my knowledge of cards. And now I must ask you a question.’

  ‘Must you?’ smiled Dinah. ‘After today and yesterday I am a little sick of questions—even if I did ask you one. Particularly since none of the questions asked seemed to be connected with finding the truth—rather they obscured it.’

  ‘That’s why QCs command such high fees, We must hope that our QC’s questions have more effect on the jury than his—or perhaps I ought to say the answers they receive. And now for my question: are you quite well? You look, as my old nurse used to say, “a little peaky” these days.’

  ‘Oh, as well as can be expected,’ replied Dinah apparently carelessly, and not quite truthfully. She thought, rather ruefully, that she was becoming as devious as her husband. ‘I shall feel better when th
is is over. That is one thing I am sure of. If poor Walter Ffolliott can hold off Sir Halbert more successfully than Lord Kenilworth, that is.’

  The next day Mr. Walter Ffolliott was called to the stand.

  It proved yet another turn-up for the book!

  Cobie thought, listening to Ffolliott’s eager, ingenuous and truthful answers to Sir Halbert—answers which didn’t help Sir Ratcliffe at all—that Kenilworth might have done better to have left him as one of the group signing the paper. After all, he had started the whole thing. If anything, he damaged Sir Ratcliffe’s case more than Lord Kenilworth had unwittingly helped it.

  Asked by Sir Darcy, on cross-examination, what he thought about being left out of the enquiry into Sir Ratcliffe’s guilt, he replied eagerly, ‘I thought it damned bad form. I mean, there I was, sticking my neck out when I had seen him cheating as plain as plain, and then I was left out of all the fun. Other fellows got the credit for exposing a damned cheat. Sorry, my Lord,’ he said, turning his shining face on the judge.

  ‘Do not embroider your answer, Mr Ffolliott,’ the judge reprimanded him. ‘Stick to the plain facts. Your opinions are not wanted.’

  ‘Oh, indeed, m’lud. Yes, m’lud. But he did ask me what I thought, and that was what I thought. I saw him cheat on the other nights, too,’ he added helpfully, before Sir Darcy could as much as ask that question.

  Sir Halbert predictably bobbed up again. ‘M’lud, I ask you to instruct the witness not to answer questions which have not been asked.’

  ‘Oh, indeed,’ said my Lord drily. ‘But he’s your witness, Sir Halbert. You insisted that he be present to be questioned. Continue, Sir Darcy.’

  ‘And what did you see on the other nights on which you played baccarat, Mr. Ffolliott?’

  ‘What I’ve already told you,’ returned young Ffolliott irrepressibly. ‘He pushed his counters on to his cards when he was winning, and pushed them off when he lost. He used his pencil to do so. He even did it when he was supposed to be teaching Susanna Winthrop how to play—which I thought was damned bad form.’