‘Oh, nothing to that, sir. Nothing at all. I have a perfectly natural and legal explanation for why the name on my birth certificate is not the name I am known by now.’
‘And that is all?’
‘It is surely enough.’
Sir Darcy sighed. ‘Until now, I thought that we were winning hands down. No matter. You seem singularly unruffled by all this. Which might mean anything—or nothing. You are sure that there is nothing else you have to tell me? This matter of the Heneage diamonds, for instance.’
‘Oh, that! Merely mud to sling at me, and hope that it will stick.’
‘I hope you are right.’
One of his juniors said, ‘Your time is nearly up, Sir Darcy. If you wish to see Mr Van Deusen…’
‘Briefly. You may return to the court, Mr Grant. I hope that Sir Halbert has no more unpleasant surprises for us.’
Cobie hoped so, too. Mr Dilley and Mr Horne were still in hiding—but for how long?
He returned to a room buzzing with excitement, to sit by Lord Kenilworth, who leaned over and said, ‘What the devil was all that about, Grant?’
‘You know as much as I do, Kenilworth. Sir Halbert’s investigators have lively imaginations—as I shall hope to prove.’
Rainey said, ‘Busy life you’ve led, Grant, hey?’ There was no malice in his tone, merely a mild approval.
Counsel was ready for Cobie when he was recalled to the witness box.
‘Now, Mr Grant, I am going to take you through the findings I have before me.’
Cobie nodded.
‘Let me begin with the problem of your name, Mr Grant. You are, I believe, illegitimate.’
Cobie said, still bored, ‘Is that a question, my lord?’
Lord Justice Coleridge said, ‘Rephrase that as a question, Sir Halbert.’
‘Is it true that you are illegitimate, Mr Grant?’
Cobie said, lying in his teeth, for like his grandfather, Tom Dilhorne, whom he greatly resembled, he followed his own rules, society’s, and other men’s meaning nothing to him.
‘No, sir. It is true, however, that I was adopted.’
‘I know that, Mr Grant. My information is that you are illegitimate, and have no right to the name you bear. Is that true?’
Cobie looked at the ceiling, and said to the judge, ‘Do I have to answer that, my lord?’
‘Yes, I think you do, Mr Grant.’
‘Very well, but the answer is lengthy. My father was Frank Percival, a lieutenant in the Union Army. He was married to Josie Henty, a respectable farmer’s daughter, and he was killed before I was born. My mother died giving birth to me. I was taken into care, having no other relatives, by my father’s old Aunt Percival, who was the distant relative and housekeeper of my present adoptive mother, Mrs John Dilhorne.
‘She was then Miss Marietta Hope, the late Senator Hope’s daughter. She adopted me formally because of my great-aunt’s age and lack of money, when she married Mr Avory Grant, another Civil War hero who was killed at Fredericksburg. He insisted that I take his name. On my adoptive mother’s marriage to Mr John Dilhorne, some two years after I was born, he became my adoptive father.’
He gave the judge and counsel his most dazzling smile. ‘I think that you can understand why I might be thought illegitimate, but my certificate of birth shows me to have been born a respectable and legitimate Percival—even though I have never used the name.’
Sir Halbert shook his head. ‘So you claim, Mr…er…Grant. I put it to you that you are, in fact, the illegitimate son of Mr John Dilhorne of Dilhorne and Rutherfurd’s, New York.’
Cobie’s smile was deadly. ‘I should be honoured if that were true, sir, seeing that Mr John Dilhorne’s reputation as an honourable man is known throughout the whole of the United States and I would be proud to be his son. Sadly, I must deny your claim.’
‘You do not deny, I trust, that you and Mr John Dilhorne, are and have been, at odds with one another—that he has disowned you.’
‘It is true that we see little of one another these days. Not true that he has disowned me, or that we are at odds.’
‘I put it to you that the real truth is that you have seen little of one another since you discovered the secret of your illegitimacy ten years ago and left home in consequence.’
Someone had been busy, but who? And someone had talked. Not Jack or Marietta, for sure. The courtroom had fallen silent. Sir Darcy jumped to his feet, but Cobie forestalled him.
He turned to the judge, and said not angrily, but as though he found the whole business a giant bore, ‘M’lud, this is mere idle gossip which counsel is offering to the court as evidence. I appeal to you for protection against it.’
Sir Darcy was on his feet. ‘I, also, appeal to your lordship to ask Sir Halbert to cease this line of questioning, unless he can bring real proof of what he is alleging against my client.’
Now this was daring, because Sir Darcy was not certain that his client was speaking the truth, but his absolute calm in the face of Sir Halbert’s allegations was encouraging.
‘I agree to your request, Sir Darcy. Move on, Sir Halbert. This line must end unless you have some documentary proof of what you are alleging.’
‘No documentary proof, m’lud, only what the whole world knows…’
‘Enough, Sir Halbert, or I shall hold you in contempt. Continue.’
‘Now, Mr…er…Grant, I must ask you where you were in the years 1880 to 1882?’
‘I was in the South West of America, in Arizona Territory. I believe that I may have strayed into New Mexico once or twice.’
He was fully in command of himself, giving off the impression of a great gentleman being harried by a boor.
‘During that time did you reside near to the town of San Miguel?’
‘No, sir.’
‘My information is otherwise. Were you not a member of a gang at a camp outside San Miguel, nicknamed Hell’s End, the leader of the gang being the infamous Blake Underwood, who was later hanged for his crimes?’
‘No, sir.’
‘My information is that you were. That you were going under the name of Jumping Jake Coburn, that you robbed several banks, blew up a train, and the mine at San Miguel, killed, or rather murdered, four men, one of them over a whore in a brothel…’
There was uproar in court. The only calm person in it appeared to be Mr Jacobus Grant, who was smiling gently. The Prince of Wales leaned over and began to speak urgently to Hervey Beauchamp. The grey man shook his head.
Once silence had been called for, the judge said angrily, when Sir Darcy rose to protest. ‘You are not here to make speeches, Sir Halbert, you are here to cross-examine the witness.’
‘I apologise, m’lud. I will take the matter more slowly. Is it not true, Mr Grant, that you were a member of Blake Underwood’s gang?’
‘Far from being a member of anyone’s gang, I was travelling around, recording the Territory’s scenic beauty. I would remind you that I was barely twenty-one—and a most unlikely bandit.’
He smiled winningly at the courtroom, ‘I had no idea that my South Western holiday, the mild adventures of a young man on the loose, could ever be relevant to a court case relating to a game of baccarat in a Yorkshire mansion, or I would have brought along a pile of affidavits to confirm what I was doing…’
‘Mr Grant,’ thundered the judge, ‘I will rule you in contempt of court, and have you barred from the courtroom if you persist in making such a speech again.’
‘Oh, I do apologise, my lord,’ he said sweetly, ‘It was merely my natural anger at having my reputation publicly traduced which caused me to forget myself. I promise that I won’t do it again.’
‘I will hold you to that. Now, Sir Halbert, you don’t seem to be getting very far with this line of questioning. I shall stop you shortly if I feel that you are merely making bricks without straw.’
‘Yes, m’lud. Now, Mr Grant, do you deny that you blew up a train in order to rob it?’
‘Yes, I
do deny it.’
Cobie had a sudden vision of himself and Underwood cheering and dancing with delight as the train, emptied of its passengers, rose towards heaven, wheels flying in the air, steam blowing from all its orifices. He could not prevent himself from smiling. Counsel pounced on him at once.
‘You find the thought of trains being blown up amusing, Mr Grant?’
‘Who wouldn’t, Mr Queen’s Counsel? We are all boys at heart, surely.’
His drawl was perfect, empty, unruffled and controlled. Walker, out of sight, was hugging himself with glee. The courtroom had erupted. Even the Prince was laughing. Sir Darcy, who had his own private opinion about Mr Grant’s supposed career as a bandit, thought his man the coolest customer he had ever come across. My God, he thought, for all his angelic looks he’s capable of anything. He could quite believe in the four dead men.
All the same, he leapt to his feet and protested again at Sir Halbert’s line of questioning.
Lord Justice Coleridge, who was privately enjoying himself as much as anyone in the courtroom, said severely, ‘I agree with you, Sir Darcy. This line of questioning must cease, Sir Halbert. You are merely trying to blacken the witness’s character without offering sufficient proof.’
Sir Halbert picked up the affidavits and waving them at the judge, attempted to speak again.
‘You heard what I ruled, Sir Halbert. I am unhappy at accepting affidavits from abroad on matters which occurred ten years ago where proof of identity must be obscure. The Court must address the facts of the case I am trying, not what might or might not have happened in cases long since tried.’
‘M’lud,’ began Sir Halbert, but he didn’t push too hard to continue. He was hopeful that some of the jurymen would be affected by his hints about Mr Grant’s supposedly shocking past.
‘You heard me, Sir Halbert. I do not wish to find you in contempt.’
‘Very well, m’lud. Mr Grant, I must now ask you about the theft of the Heneage diamonds…’
‘Sir Halbert!’ The judge had raised his voice. ‘I fail to see what this has to do with the baccarat game at Markendale. As I understand it, Scotland Yard has investigated this theft, is still investigating it, and no one has been accused or arrested. You will abandon this line of questioning, also. Confine yourself to the case I am trying.’
‘As your lordship pleases.’ Sir Halbert bowed.
After that all was anti-climax. Sir Halbert took Cobie through the events at Markendale again. He could not shake him, and knew it.
Sir Darcy rose to re-examine. He was short and sweet.
‘Mr Grant, is there any truth in the accusations about your supposed past made in court this morning?’
‘None, sir.’
‘You stand by the evidence you gave earlier as to Sir Ratcliffe’s cheating in the baccarat games you witnessed?’
‘I do, sir.’
And that was that.
The court broke for the luncheon interval. Sir Darcy met Cobie in the little room again. ‘You did very well, Mr Grant. You were almost too cool.’
Cobie bowed. ‘That is my way, sir.’
‘So I believe. I think that Sir Halbert’s lurid revelations might not help him so much as he had hoped that they would.’
Cobie smiled, and said with a thread of amusement running through his voice, ‘One almost envies the unknown Mr Coburn, doesn’t one? Such excitements—whorehouses, despoiled banks, murders, blown-up trains and mines. Do you think that your opposite number has been reading too many dime novels?’
‘I think that my opposite number is a little desperate, Mr Grant, and his agents in the United States were very anxious to supply him with something to use—and which Sir Ratcliffe will have paid dearly for. Which must, of course, raise another mystery since he is virtually bankrupt.’
Violet said languidly to Dinah, ‘I suppose that was all true. What a man Apollo is, to be sure! All that about killing a man over a…soiled dove…I believe they call them in the States.’
Dinah remembered Cobie telling her of the woman who had loved him who had died. Was that why he had killed a man? When he was barely twenty-one? Like Violet she could believe it—she could believe anything of him. She remembered, too, seeing him in her dreams in strange wild clothes, a six-shooter in his hand.
Appearances often deceive, Dinah, he had said. Well, his appearance certainly deceived. He always seemed so coolly civilised, not at all like a wild boy bandit in a savage country.
She was not the only person thinking such things. Ironically, the knowledge of what Grant might have done nearly ten years ago was not harming his reputation at all. One had to hope, as Violet was telling Kenilworth during the adjournment, that the jurors weren’t all Methodists and Baptists who, having heard the tale about the brothel, would feel a holy horror at the sight of him!
The court assembled again. Cobie took his place between Kenilworth and Dagenham. Sir Darcy was bending over his papers, talking earnestly to his junior, who had taken over only to question Dagenham. What would be coming next? He looked towards Dinah, and saw at once that Mr Hendrick Van Deusen was no longer sitting with her.
So! Sir Darcy was going to call the Professor! He grinned inwardly at the thought. Sir Ratcliffe was taking his place. He was looking singularly confident after his counsel’s harrying of Cobie.
‘I wish to call a fresh witness, m’lud.’ Sir Darcy was cool. ‘The question of Mr Grant’s past in the American South West has been raised. I wish to clarify the matter by calling on Mr Hendrick Van Deusen, who has evidence to offer concerning that.’
‘Very well, Sir Darcy. Seeing that your client’s reputation has been questioned, I will so allow.’
‘Hendrick Van Deusen,’ the usher bellowed.
Heads turned on Mr Van Deusen entering. He gave off the impression of total solidity. He was so broad that even his near six feet of height did not prevent him from looking squat. His ham-like face was its usual yellow-ochre. He looked the epitome of every middle-aged, respectable citizen which the USA had ever produced.
He stood in the witness box as though he had been born there. The spectators were whispering to one another— ‘Who was Mr Van Deusen? What part had he played in the drama being unfolded in court?’ They were soon to find out.
‘Your name, please, sir?’
The Professor said agreeably, ‘I am Hendrick Van Deusen, an American citizen.’
‘Now, Mr Van Deusen—’
The Professor interrupted Sir Darcy apologetically. ‘I perhaps ought to say that, properly, I should be addressed as Dr Van Deusen.’
‘You are a medical man, then?’
‘No, indeed.’ The Professor was a trifle vague in manner as befitted a true academic. ‘I do not have that honour. I am a doctor of philosophy who happens also to be a philosopher. It is not,’ he said, even more modestly, ‘a title I often use.’
‘I may call you Mr Van Deusen, then.’
‘By all means. Pray do.’
This agreeable and civilised interchange caused a ripple of amusement around the court. The judge glared, and the spectators settled down. A few ladies, Violet Kenilworth among them, trained their opera glasses on him. The frivolous man who lived inside the Professor’s stolid exterior wished that he could wave to them.
‘What is your profession, Mr Van Deusen?’
‘Well, I was an academic for some years—a don, I believe you call it, teaching philosophy at Harvard University. I am now a banker in Chicago, and am being considered as a prospective senatorial candidate for Illinois in the next elections.’
Another ripple went round the court. Cobie listened with some amusement. So that was what the Professor had been before he went to find his fortune in the South West! The nickname that the outlaws at Hell’s End had given him was truer than they knew.
Sir Darcy continued. ‘I understand that you were at Markendale at the time of the baccarat game on which this actions turns.’
‘I was. I was introduced to my host, Lord
Kenilworth, by my friend, Mr Cobie Grant, earlier this year. We discovered a common interest in a number of things.’
‘Your friend, Mr Cobie, Jacobus, Grant. Have you known him long?’
Mr Van Deusen considered, said, ‘Some ten years, I believe.’
‘When did you first meet Mr Grant?
Mr Van Deusen did not immediately answer. He fetched out a pair of gold-rimmed eye-glasses, put them on, and stared at counsel.
‘You heard my question, Mr Van Deusen?’
‘Oh, yes, indeed. Forgive me, my long sight is not what it was.’ He paused, and said in a reflective voice, ‘I first met Mr Grant in a small saloon in Arizona Territory. The name of the town escapes me.’
A buzz ran round the courtroom. An usher called for order.
‘A small saloon in Arizona Territory. What were you doing there, Mr Van Deusen?’
‘I grew tired of the academic life. A mid-life crisis. I had read Horace Greeley, he who said, “Go West, young man!” I was not a young man, but I went west to see that fabulous land.’
His eyes grew misty. He blinked, took off his spectacles and wiped them.
‘You met Mr Grant you say in Arizona. Can you remember the nature of the meeting? Why you befriended him?’
‘Oh, vividly, sir, vividly. Why not?’ He became reminiscent. ‘Such a strange creature to meet in that wild land. So much the Easterner, the tenderfoot, the greenhorn. You understand those words, sir? They convey naïveté. I was sorry for him. He was alone, a very cherub, only just twenty-one. He needed a guardian, a father. I flatter myself that for a short time I acted as one. We played chess together.’
He smiled towards Cobie, said, ‘He could almost offer me a game!’
What he was offering with such grave earnestness was a travesty of the truth so complete that it nearly convulsed Cobie, who was sitting there looking grave and earnest himself.
‘You offered to help him. What form did this help take?’
‘Oh, I had accommodated myself to Western living, and helped him to do so. He was too civilised, you see. I taught him to use a rifle, to play poker.’ He offered these remarkable lies with a straight face.
‘He was not a gunman, then, when you met him?’
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