Percy too looked about him but from his seat. He enjoyed the moments before an important case, when the battle was about to begin and the adrenalin was flowing. Especially when, as today, he thought he was on to a winner. ‘Rum lot of spectators,’ he said over his shoulder to his junior, Harold Welby, sitting directly behind him.
Welby did not bother to look. To him everything about court was distasteful, and he was wondering why on earth he had let his clerk talk him into getting involved in this unsavoury melodrama. For a junior counsel Harold Welby was an elderly man who could have taken silk many years ago if he had wished. But he had not. He was no advocate, and disliked appearing in a court even when he was, as today, sitting behind a Leader. He made an excellent living out of advising and drafting, rarely leaving his chambers in Lincoln’s Inn. ‘The frippery’ of court appearances, as he called it, he left to others. The law was his business; he was the lawyer, they mere advocates, into whom, when he was briefed with them, he pumped the law for them to present.
However, he had a soft spot for Percy Braythwaite; he liked the style with which Percy presented the law that Harold prepared for him. When his clerk, impressed by the size of the fee Michael Stevens had offered, was trying to persuade him to accept the brief as junior counsel to Sir Percy in the Caverel claim, Harold Welby had protested, ‘Braythwaite’s a gentlemanly enough fellow, but he doesn’t know any law.’
‘I assume that’s why they want you with him, sir, so that you can supply what he doesn’t know,’ his clerk had said diplomatically. So, to the clerk’s relief, Welby had agreed.
Michael Stevens had not briefed Harold Welby only for Welby’s knowledge of the law but also because his presence as junior to Percy Braythwaite would add to the standing of the Claimant’s legal team. The usual clients of Stevens and Co. were pop stars, fashion models or television personalities engaged in libel actions or criminal defences. The firm was unknown to the sedate and respectable world of Chancery, and it was to make up for this that Michael Stevens had been at such pains and gone to such expense to brief a team of ‘blue-chip’ counsel. Above all, he knew that they would be well known to the judge who was to try the case, Sir Robert Murray, the Vice Chancellor and Head of the Chancery Division of the High Court.
As his name implied, Sir Robert was a Scot, a well-built, craggy-faced man, the product of Edinburgh Academical and Oriel College, Oxford, where he had acquired a First and won sporting fame as the foremost Rugby Union international of his generation – the centre three-quarter who in his final year had, almost single-handed, won the Calcutta Cup for Scotland against England by scoring a trio of sensational tries. Robert Murray might have been expected to make his career at the Scottish bar in Edinburgh but instead he chose the south and London, influenced not a little by his surprising passion for the daughter of an English earl, Lady Freda Baronby, a young woman frequently in the gossip columns, her name linked to a series of playboys, gamblers and minor Hollywood film actors. Her background was very different from that of the Murrays of Crief in Perthshire. Her childhood had been passed on the family estate in the Welsh Marches; she had learnt her hunting at the family hunting-box in Leicestershire; she spent her summers at the family villa in St-Jean-Cap-Ferrat, and her coming-out ball had been held in the last of the great houses still in private occupation in Belgrave Square.
Robert had met her at a Commem ball at Oxford when he was at the height of his fame as a footballer. She was three years older than he, and she had been amused by the dog-like devotion of the serious young Scotsman. But it was his magnificent physique that impressed her most, and so she smiled on him and overlooked his social pawkiness. She began to bring him into her world of London and county society but, however splendid he looked, he remained awkward and gauche, and her friends secretly, and sometimes not so secretly, smiled at him behind his back, of which he soon became acutely conscious. But Robert Murray was in love. He was also a true son of the manse and his aim was matrimony. So, abandoning his homeland, he got himself called to the bar by Lincoln’s Inn, worked furiously at learning his profession and continued his high-minded but clumsy pursuit. To the surprise and consternation of her circle, Freda Baronby eventually accepted him.
What he only discovered after his marriage was that behind the poised manner, the fine, classical features and mask-like beauty of his bride lay an inordinate appetite for gin. When the early months of their marriage had passed, the serious and high-minded young Chancery barrister took refuge from the increasingly frequent scenes and tantrums at home by burying himself in his work, spending nights and weekends poring over the mass of legal papers which in a gradually increasing flood flowed into his chambers. That important and lucrative work came to him so early in his career was due to the Baronbys’ family solicitor, Stephen Plater, a man many years Robert’s senior who had always admired the famous athlete. His was a leading firm in the City of London, and he was happy to promote the career of his young sporting hero.
At the start of the marriage Freda found his dedication to his work tiresome and complained frequently. But it was not long before she found it a relief. For the physical passion soon faded and without it the two had little in common. In winter she began to spend more and more days hunting with the Quorn and, when she did come to London, in entertaining her friends and being entertained at dinners and parties from which she and the other hostesses happily excused her husband. Her friends, especially her women friends, now expressed quite openly their opinion about this mésalliance, and they became more and more condescending whenever they encountered him. He found them frivolous and contemptible; they found him a bore and a joke.
As soon as the London season was over, Freda took a party to the villa near Cap Ferrat which she had inherited on the death of her parents and she remained there until late September. During their first years Robert visited for a few days but soon never, spending his holidays in the Highlands in Scotland walking with his brother, a doctor in Edinburgh, and his brother’s family. There were no children of the marriage. Within a very few years they had grown to dislike each other intensely. But not for a moment did the strictly Calvinistic Robert Murray consider divorce. She did, but when she was approaching forty, she had an accident in the hunting field. She fell awkwardly on her neck, injuring her spine. From then on she was paralysed from the waist down and confined to a wheelchair.
Her smart friends faded away; the villa in the South of France was sold and her bedroom in the country house moved to the first floor. Later a lift was installed – and her drinking increased. Much of her money had gone on wild extravagance, whereas he was now earning very substantially at the bar. So she abandoned any thought of divorce. Robert moved to a flat in Lincoln’s Inn and only visited her one weekend each month.
At the Chancery bar his career went from strength to strength. He took silk early and after a few successful years he was appointed to the Chancery bench. He was a dour and solitary man and played no part in any of the social life of the profession. To the relief of the benchers of Lincoln’s Inn, he declined appointment as Treasurer. It was not long, however, before he was promoted to ‘Vice Chancellor’, the Head of the Chancery Division, and such was his prowess as a judge and a lawyer that it was prophesied that it would not be long before he skipped appointment to the Court of Appeal and be elevated to the most senior judicial rank as a Lord of Appeal in Ordinary with a peerage and a seat in the House of Lords.
On the bench he cut an awesome figure, renowned for his impatience with counsel who had insufficiently prepared themselves in the law, or who were long-winded, or who persisted in arguments which the Vice Chancellor had made clear he rejected. There was rarely any question of his being persuaded to change his mind or alter the view he formed early in the case, a view often formed solely from his perusal of the papers and before counsel had even uttered a single word in court. He was also very jealous of the prerogatives of the Chancery Division and had a marked objection to any counsel, even an experienced sil
k, straying from the Queen’s Bench or Family Divisions and appearing in his court. Thus when he heard that in the proceedings for ejectment which he was to try between Fleur Caverel, the plaintiff, and Francis Peregrine Caverel by his guardian ad litem, Andrea, Baroness Caverel, defendant, a Common Law silk, Mordecai Ledbury QC whom he had heard of but never met, was briefed for the infant, he had looked – so Robertson, his clerk, had told Braythwaite’s clerk – more grim than usual; and when he put on his plain black gown in his room on the morning of the start of the Caverel claim, that look had not altered. Mr Ledbury, Robinson suspected, was going to have a difficult time at the hands of his lordship.
This, then, was the man for whom everyone in the court was waiting when there arose a sudden commotion at the right-hand door which led to the court from the corridor. A voice was heard, an angry voice. Those standing beside the rows of benches were seen to be falling back, stumbling and pushing at each other.
Percy turned to Welby. ‘Ledbury,’ he said. ‘He’s cut it fine.’
27
Moving like a crab, thumping his sticks on the ground, ordering the spectators to make way and barging through them, Mordecai Ledbury made his entrance into the court. When he reached the front row, he flung his sticks on the desk with a clatter and levered himself along the bench, while his clerk deposited his brief and untied the pink tape.
‘Morning, Ledbury,’ Percy said, smiling. Mordecai looked at him grimly and nodded and then fell back on to his seat.
Oliver Goodbody, accompanied by Andrea and Nicholas, followed and they took their seats in the bench in front of Mordecai, separated only by a few feet from Michael Stevens and Fleur. Andrea was dressed in a floral dress with a black velvet head band. She looked to her right and caught Fleur’s eye. Fleur immediately lowered her gaze to her hands in her lap.
‘Silence,’ cried the usher, and everyone rose as the Vice Chancellor swept into court and took his seat on the bench.
Andrea looked up at the severe face under the grey, bobbed wig. She was surprised that he wore only a plain black gown. Somehow she had thought he would be in scarlet and ermine with a full-bottomed wig. But he looked impressive enough even in his plain robes and bob wig, although ill-tempered, she thought, and cross.
And Sir Robert Murray was cross. Chancery business did not often attract a crowd, and certainly not the numbers that had flooded into his court on this summer morning so eager to hear the claim about which there had been so much publicity. After everyone had resumed their seats, there was silence and then a slight noise of whispering began which ceased abruptly when the judge said loudly, ‘Sir Percy, you are accustomed to this court. Do you not find the place over-hot?’
Percy got to his feet but before he could answer the judge went on, ‘I find it inordinately hot. Too many people, far too many people.’
‘It is certainly very close, my lord,’ Percy said agreeably. ‘It’s a warm morning and I gather it’s likely to get warmer. Would your lordship like me to get the usher to turn up the air-conditioning –’
‘I find it tolerable enough,’ interjected Mordecai from his seat, ‘but then unlike my friend, I’m a cold-blooded fish. But if my learned friend and your lordship –’
The judge, ignoring him and looking fixedly at Percy Braythwaite, went on, ‘I was saying to you, Sir Percy, that I found the court inordinately hot, due I presume to the number of people who are present.’
He tapped with his pencil and bent down over the bench to the usher. ‘Require the engineers to improve the ventilation.’ He looked up. ‘The persons presently standing in the passage-way along the sides of the court must find seats, and if they cannot, they must stand still and to one side in order to allow easy passage to those who have business with the court. Above all I warn everyone to keep quiet during the proceedings.’ Then to the Associate, he said, ‘Call the case.’
The Associate stood and called out, ‘Caverel v. Baron Caverel of Ravenscourt.’
‘Who are the counsel engaged, Sir Percy, beside yourself? You are for the petitioner and who else?’ the judge asked.
‘I appear with Mr Harold Welby for the petitioner, Miss Fleur Caverel; and the infant, Lord Caverel, is represented by my learned friends Mr Mordecai Ledbury and Mr James Beatty.’
‘How do you spell that name?’
‘L-E-D-B-U-R-Y.’ Mordecai spelt it out loudly from where he sat.
Again the judge ignored him. ‘Sir Percy, I was asking you the name of the other counsel.’
‘Mr Mordecai Ledbury –’
‘Yes, I have that. But how is it spelt?’
From his seat Mordecai again spelt out loudly, this time both names. M-O-R-D-E-C-A-I L-E-D-B-U-R-Y.
‘Spell it for me, please, Sir Percy,’ said the judge.
A flush spread over Mordecai’s saturnine face. Oliver turned and put his hand out in a gesture to restrain him. Mordecai glared at him. Percy repeated the spelling.
‘Thank you, Sir Percy. Very well, you may now commence your opening, and I trust you will be able to do so’, and for the first time he turned his head and looked directly at Mordecai Ledbury, ‘without interruption.’
Standing very straight, his notes on the stand in front of him, Percy Braythwaite began.
As he spoke Andrea half turned to look at him from over her left shoulder. She saw how tall he was and she liked the sound of his agreeable voice and his attractive looks under his grey wig. Very different, she thought, from the man Oliver Goodbody had chosen to represent them. She knew Nicholas had taken an intense dislike to their counsel from the moment they’d met. Nicholas had told her that Oliver had only briefed him because he believed he was the best person to deal with those whom Oliver invariably called ‘the conspirators’. Nicholas had said he thought there was some rule about counsel not interviewing witnesses but Oliver said of course she, as Francis’ guardian ad litem, might meet counsel, but he did not recommend it. Ledbury, he said, was a difficult man and made a point of rarely agreeing to meet those he represented. So the first Andrea had seen of Mordecai Ledbury was for a brief moment in the corridor when she was introduced to him before she and Nicholas had followed him into court. She, like so many, was startled by his ugliness and the distortion of his body. Now as she watched and listened to Percy Braythwaite she wished that it was he who was their champion.
She cast another quick glance at Fleur sitting so demurely in front of Sir Percy. Andrea remembered the scene on the staircase at Ravenscourt. Play-actress, she said to herself, playing the innocent! In the corridor, Andrea had seen her with the man who’d brought her to Ravenscourt last September. She hoped he was going to be a witness, and she hoped she’d be in court when their ugly QC cross-examined him. For the first time she thought of Mordecai Ledbury with approval. She turned back and looked up again at the judge.
Sir Robert Murray was sitting back in his tall chair, now and then leaning forward to make a note or to take up one of the documents before him. How harsh and stern he looked, she thought. But would he be deceived by the lies the girl and her friends would tell him? From his face she could tell that no one would receive any sympathy from him. There’d be no sentiment on account of her and Francis’ situation. He looked the kind for whom human sympathy did not exist. But would the girl fool him, as she had fooled the press and the public? Was he the kind to be taken in by a pretty face? Already she was uneasy. Clearly the judge approved more of the other barrister; he had already snubbed theirs.
She bent her head and tried to concentrate on what the barrister was saying.
Percy Braythwaite was explaining that although he submitted that the court at the end of the day must find that the Claimant was the lawful and legitimate child of Julian, the elder son of Walter the 15th Baron Caverel, and thus the rightful heir, he wanted to make plain on behalf of the Claimant that when the younger son, Robin Caverel, had purported to succeed to the barony neither he nor any of the family nor their advisers knew of the existence of the true heir. There was no
suggestion that Robin Caverel or his wife, Andrea, or Mr Goodbody, the solicitor to the family, had behaved with anything other than complete propriety. The Claimant herself had no idea of her true identity until two years ago when she had her attention drawn to an advertisement in the Paris edition of the Herald Tribune. That had led her to return to Charleston in South Carolina which she had left as a child of fourteen, although she then looked older, and it was only at the age of twenty-six that she had discovered who were her real parents. It had been as much of a surprise to her as it had to the family. Her complaint, if she had a complaint, was that the widow of Robin Caverel had so peremptorily rejected the truth of what she was alleging.
‘My client well appreciates’, he said, lowering his voice a little and speaking kindly and sympathetically, ‘how hard it is for a mother, especially a recently widowed mother, to be confronted suddenly and unexpectedly with a stranger of whom no one had ever heard, a stranger who was now asserting a superior right to all that the widow thought had belonged to her husband and on his death had passed to her small son. Here was a stranger who claimed she was the true owner of the great house and estate where the bereaved widow had so recently made her home.’ He paused and looked towards where Andrea was sitting and bowed slightly. ‘The lady’, he said, ‘deserves every sympathy in the painful position in which she now finds herself. That she should feel resentment, even anger, is understandable.’
He turned a little to face the judge. ‘But, my lord, when you have heard the facts of Fleur Caverel’s birth and parentage and when you have heard her story, I submit that the court will have no alternative but to find that this unfortunate lady never was the Lady Caverel and never had any right to Ravenscourt. She is only the widow of the younger son of the 15th Baron whose true heir was and remains, my client, the Claimant, Miss Fleur Caverel.’
The Caverel Claim Page 15