Jeremy whispered, “Elly’s trial?”
Rory nodded, his throat tightening.
“Is she aware of what may be coming?”
“We’ve been pretending it’s not inevitable, but she’s too clever not to know.”
Jeremy looked up guiltily. “I have a confession to make.”
“What?”
“I’m glad to see you back in the law.”
Rory’s eyes bulged. His mouth dropped open. “Please sir, I am not ‘back in the law’. Not by a long shot. I shall never take the bar exam.”
The actor was skeptical. “The gentleman ‘doth protest too much, methinks’. You’ve the makings of a fine actor, I’ve said that many times, but I still think your true calling is elsewhere.”
“I was seldom happy, ‘elsewhere’. I’m very happy here.”
“I believe you, and I love having you in my stable, just …” he put a finger over his lips, “… don’t close any doors, not yet. You’re still very young.”
Rory blustered. “I’ll be of age in June.”
“Exactly.”
Chapter Six
Skipton, Yorkshire
Sir Douglas Thompson, KC, scowled under a white barrister’s wig, soiled from a lifetime of service. His worn silk robe was tied at the neck with a double-tabbed linen band, serving as a collar.
His junior Frederick Brown also wore a soiled white wig. His black alpaca robe was open in the front and along the sleeves. They sat behind a low wooden barrier on the first of many high-backed benches in the provincial courthouse. A row behind, dark-suited pupils Rory Cookingham and Theodore Gamesworthy sat surrounded by piles of papers. They were ready to produce necessary documents the moment Sir Douglas might ask for them.
Identically wigged and robed, Crown Prosecutor Andrew Milligan, middle-aged, tall, and self-assured, questioned the prisoner’s coachman. “Mr Sanford, how would you describe the relationship between your master and Father Laurence Folen.”
Unused to public speaking, the coachman nervously clutched the smooth wood railing in front of the witness box. He glanced at Anthony Roundtree, glaring from the dock. Above, in the full gallery, the coachman’s family and friends smiled with anticipation. The jury box was filled by fifteen wealthy Yorkshire farmers. Twelve were needed to render a verdict. Three were ready as alternates, should any of the twelve become unavailable. The black-robed, long-wigged assize judge scowled from the bench. The prosecutor waited patiently, and the coachman cleared his throat.
“Aye. Well sir. Beggin’ yer pardon, sir …” He shifted from foot to foot. “It’s not my place t’ be judgin’ …”
“No one is asking you to judge.” Milligan nodded graciously and smiled. “We simply need to know if the two gentlemen were pleasant together.”
The coachman stared at his hands.
“Did they appear to like each other?” He waited. “You are under oath, sir, and must answer the question.”
“Aye. Ah don’t know, what tha means by, ‘like’, sir.”
“Well, for instance, did Mr Roundtree smile when he greeted Father Folen?”
“Smile, sir?”
“Smile.” In a theatrical gesture, Milligan opened his hands and smiled.
“No, sir. Not as ah’d recall, sir.”
Milligan nodded. “You told us that in fair weather, you drove the gentlemen in an open carriage. Understanding that you would never eavesdrop on a conversation of your betters …”
The coachman vigorously shook his head.
“ … you must have been aware of the tone of their discussions.”
“Father Folen was always asking for brass … er, money. The master was always after sayin’ he’d given him enough.”
“Did the priest demand the money? Did he threaten your master?”
“Oh, no, sir, ’e used t’ beg, like. Mr Roundtree, ’e …” He stared at the floor.
“Pray, continue, Mr Sanford. You have nothing to fear.”
“Aye. Well, sir, t’ master used to call Father Folen a nasty name. A shockin’ name, sir. Him bein’ a priest an’ all.”
Milligan curiously tilted his wigged head. “And, what name was that?”
The coachman’s mouth dropped open. “Ah couldn’a say it, sir. Not ’ere in a public place.”
“Was it as bad as that?” He pretended to be shocked. “Well then, could you write the name?”
“Aye.” His eyes were wide. “Ah’ve never written the words, but, Ah could write ’m f’ thee.”
There were troubled murmurings around the courtroom as the prosecutor turned respectfully to the judge. “My lord, may the witness be given pencil and paper?”
The judge called: “Pencil and paper for the witness.”
A clerk ran up to the witness box and presented the items. As the coachman concentrated, the tip of his tongue sneaked out the corner of his mouth. Letter by letter, he painstakingly printed the forbidden words.
Rory glanced at Sir Douglas. Under his wig, his lined face was white and damp with perspiration. He whispered, “Sir Douglas?”
The old man looked back, over his shoulder.
“Are you ill, sir?”
“I am, but there’s naught to be done.”
Brown asked, “Should we call a recess?”
Sir Douglas shook his head and smiled appreciatively. Rory stared, willing some of his youthful vitality into his failing mentor.
The coachman finished writing his words. When the paper was handed to the judge, he lurched back in such melodramatic shock, Rory almost laughed out loud. The paper was passed along the jury and each man tried to outdo the others with scandalised gestures.
Sir Douglas stood wearily. “May I be permitted to see the paper?” The clerk brought it to the barrister who glanced at it, passed it to his staff, and sat down. Brown read it without comment. Gamie choked. Rory read the rough letters: ‘BUGRIN SODOMAT,’ and stifled a laugh. The clerk returned the paper to the judge.
The prosecutor asked, “Mr Sanford, did your master ever threaten Father Folen with violence?”
“Aye. Several times, he did.”
There was a flutter of fans from female spectators.
“I ’eard ’say, ‘I’ll kill you, you …’ them words.” He pointed to the paper.
The jurymen exchanged disapproving looks.
“Your master made this threat several times, you say?”
He nodded vehemently. “Yes, sir.”
“Thank you, Mr Sanford.” He turned to the Judge. “My lord, I have no more questions for this witness.”
The Judge nodded. “Your witness, Sir Douglas.”
The old barrister took a deep breath, slowly pulled himself to his feet, and smiled. “Mr Sanford, over the years, you have had occasion to drive your master with a variety of people.”
“Aye. I ’ave. Yes indeed, sir.” Grateful to speak of more pleasant things, the coachman shook himself and visibly relaxed. “It’s a busy house, like, sir. I drive his solicitor, his banker, his business associates, sometimes the ladies, his sister, Miss Lillian, his daughter, Miss Elisa …”
“In the company of all these different individuals, have you ever seen Mr Roundtree smile?”
“Smile, sir?” The coachman thought a moment and shook his head. “No, sir. Not that I recall.”
“Has your master called any of these individuals bad names?”
“Aye, sir.” He nervously bit the inside of his mouth. “He has bad names for everybody.”
“Even you?”
“Oh, aye, sir. For all the servants.”
Muffled comments echoed from the gallery.
Sir Douglas lowered his head. “Even for the ladies?”
“Especially for t’ ladies. He doesn’t like women, no how.”
The jurymen shook their heads in disapproval.
Sir Douglas nodded. “From what you tell us, Mr Sanford, it appears that your master is equally unpleasant with everyone.”
“Aye,” he scratched his head. �
��Aye. If tha’ put it that way, sir.”
“Has he ever spoken of killing anyone else?”
“Oh, aye, sir.”
There were gasps all around.
“The worst was his daughter. Said ’e should ’ave drowned ’er like a kitten.”
Outraged, the jurors sat up, commenting loudly to one another.
The coachman enjoyed the stir he was causing. “Another time ’e said she should ’ave died at birth, with ’er mother.”
A woman in the gallery fainted and was administered smelling salts. A cry of “Hang the bastard” was joined by a dozen more.
The judge waved his arm. “Sir Douglas, are you trying to defend your client or bury him?”
“My lord, I am simply trying to establish his character. I have only one more question for Mr Sanford, if I may, sir.”
The judge sat back. “Very well.”
Sir Douglas looked pleased with himself as he waited for the room to quiet. “Mr Sanford.”
The coachman stood at attention.
“Please answer this last question very carefully. In all the years you heard your master speak of killing his associates, his family, or his servants, has he ever attempted to actually kill anyone?”
“If ’e ’ad, I wouldn’t still be in ’is employ.” He sniggered at his own joke. One of the jurors chuckled. Others tentatively joined, until the courtroom echoed with soft laughter.
“My lord.” Sir Douglas turned to the judge. “Anthony Roundtree is a singularly unpleasant fellow. I am sure no one will challenge that opinion. What I wish to challenge, is that ‘unpleasantness’ is a hanging offence.”
There were more titters from the jury box. The judge scowled and the gentlemen lowered their eyes like guilty schoolboys.
Sir Douglas smiled like his joke. “If unpleasantness were a hanging offence, my lord, most of the members of parliament would be in the dock at this moment.”
The courtroom exploded with laughter. Rory laughed so hard, he had to hide his face between his knees. With every brilliant word, his admiration for Sir Douglas grew.
The judge leaned forward, shouting, “Order! Order, I say!” He glared at Sir Douglas. “Sir, you are turning my courtroom into a circus and I will not have it. Fortunately, the time is late.” He stood and everyone followed. “We will adjourn for the day and pray that tomorrow will return some dignity to my court.” As he stormed out, newspapermen were already fighting their way toward the doors.
Sir Douglas collapsed onto the bench, clutching his left arm. Perspiration dripped down his face. His whispered, “Where’s Fred?”
Frederick Brown slid close beside him. “Right here, Douglas.”
“I’m not well. Get me out of here.”
Brown took his left arm, Rory his right, and the two men helped him from the courtroom.
****
In their Skipton hotel, the men undressed Sir Douglas and put him to bed. When he was propped on a pile of pillows, he demanded his pipe. Rory found the pipe and tobacco pouch, but hesitated bringing them to the sick man.
“Damn it Cookingham, I don’t need a sodding nursemaid. I’ve few enough pleasures left. Give me my bloody pipe.”
“Yes, sir.” Rory handed it over.
The barrister filled the pipe, lit the noxious weed, covered himself with smoke, and coughed violently.
Rory waved away the sickening haze. “Shall I call a doctor, sir?”
“I hate doctors.” Sir Douglas sat back, pale and shivery. “Is there another blanket?”
Rory found one in the wardrobe and covered him. “I wish Lady Richfield were here. She’s a fine herbalist.”
Sir Douglas looked at him sideways. “You mean she’s a witch?”
Rory colored red.
“I like witches. They’re sensible.”
“Mr Brown is going to Sir William’s suite to talk to Elly, he could—”
“By all means, have him bring back a physician. Where’s Gamesworthy with our tea? I’m famished.”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer some broth, sir, or a custard?”
“Damn it, boy, I’m not an invalid. I need strength. I need meat.”
Brown took his papers. “I’m off to see the girl, then.”
“Wait, come in a minute. We had quite a surprise today.” The old barrister chuckled, “I’ve never saved a man’s life by proving him a bastard, but there’s a first time for everything. Tomorrow, the girl can say anything she likes about him. I’ll call Sam Smelling first. He has little to tell. Miss Roundtree will do her bit, then we’re through.”
He turned to Rory. “So far, the name John Garingham hasn’t even been mentioned. We may be in luck. I taught that prosecuting scoundrel too well.” He chuckled with pride. “Clever lad, Andrew Milligan. Had me running. But, unless he has a trick we haven’t anticipated, your girl may be out of the woods.”
Rory gasped. “Do you really think it’s possible?”
“In these rural assizes, dear boy, anything is possible.”
Brown smiled. “Anything else I need to tell Miss Fielding … uh, Miss Roundtree … whatever?”
“No.” The old man relaxed back and smiled warmly. “I’m glad you’re here, Brown.”
“So am I, Douglas. Haven’t missed a case with you in fifteen years. See you both later.” He exchanged worried glances with Rory and left.
It was near midnight when the doctor walked downstairs from Sir Douglas’s room. Brown and Rory were waiting for him.
“He’s a sick man.” Rory helped him with his coat. “Needs complete rest. I’ve given him a sleeping draught, so he’ll rest tonight. I’ve left a tonic, but it won’t do much good. The walls of his heart are paper thin. I’m amazed he’s been able do what he has. He said the trial may end tomorrow.”
Rory nodded. “We hope so.”
“Then he can rest?”
Brown smiled. “He can, but will he?”
“If he doesn’t, he’ll die.”
Rory gasped, “Are you sure?”
“It’s my professional opinion. Goodnight, gentlemen.” The doctor took his bag and left.
Rory raced back upstairs. Sir Douglas lay in a drugged, dreamless sleep. Rory pulled a divan close to the old man’s bed, wrapped himself in a blanket, and lay down.
Chapter Seven
Elly looked lovely, but pale and nervous. She and Sam Smelling had spent most of two days in the courthouse anteroom, waiting to testify. Per Sir Douglas’s instructions: “She should look like the sort of young lady the jurymen want their sons to marry”; she was dressed in an elegant, dark pink suit and a small matching hat perched at a flattering angle over her radiant copper hair. Her only jewelry was the comedy and tragedy mask broach, pinned to a tuft of lace at her throat. Sam Smelling was in the middle of a silly story when they heard:
“Mr Sam Smelling!” The bailiff appeared at the door.
“Aye, aye, sir!” Sam jumped up, saluted, and shook himself like a dog.
Elly’s eyes were huge. “Are you nervous?”
“Of course I’m nervous.” His thick brown hair fell over his eyes. She laughed as he pushed it back.
“You looked so calm. I thought it was only me.”
He stood comically to attention, and quick-marched after the bailiff. After only a few minutes, Sam’s laughing eyes peered around the door. “All done.”
Elly jumped. “Already?”
He shrugged. “I was standing outside, in the woods. I didn’t see anything. I had nothing to tell.”
“I didn’t see anything either.” Elly sighed.
“Miss Elisa Roundtree!” The bailiff stood to attention.
“Dear God!”
Sam held her by the shoulders and kissed her cheek. “Just smile, sweetheart. Those bored men won’t notice anything else.”
Elly took a deep breath, and followed the bailiff into the courtroom. Even with her eyes lowered, she was aware of curious stares and comments. She had been the centre of so much publicity, a few people
stood on benches, straining to see her. As the bailiff helped her into the witness box, she daintily climbed the few steps, held the rail, and slowly lifted her head.
The room hummed with admiration. Her eyes met her uncle’s. He glared from the dock, radiating hate. She quickly looked away. The sight of men in white wigs brought a giggle to her lips. She forced herself to stay serious, and glanced shyly at the judge and jurymen. Sixteen men smiled back. She lowered her eyes, took the oath, and promised to tell the truth.
Sir Douglas asked his questions exactly as rehearsed. She answered as rehearsed. The story was clearly and simply told. Sir William sat in the gallery, stiff and sweating. He mumbled a prayer as the prosecutor rose.
“Miss Roundtree,” Milligan smiled and nodded. Elly expected a contemporary of Sir Douglas’s. This barrister was a younger man. He was tall and quite good-looking. “You had run away from school approximately two weeks before the event. Only that evening, you had been returned home, under duress.”
“That is correct, sir.” She lowered her eyes and clutched the handrail.
“Why had you run away?”
She took a long breath to calm herself. “As I told Sir Douglas a moment ago, sir. I did not wish to marry.”
“And why was that? We are given to understand that your betrothed was a man of considerable wealth.”
“Once again, you are correct, sir.” She spoke slowly, remembering her scripted words. “It would have been a very good match. Childish whimsy sent me from a secure home to seek adventure. I have no excuse. I was foolish.” The lie sent blood batting into her cheeks. Thinking the blush was girlish modesty, the jurymen turned to each other and nodded their approval.
Rory was thrilled but tried not to show it.
Milligan continued. “Why did Father Folen refuse to sign the marriage licence?”
“As I have already said, sir, Father Folen said he would be committing a mortal sin.”
“Is it a mortal sin for a priest to lawfully wed two willing parties?”
Her stomach lurched. “No sir.”
“Well then, what might he have meant by that statement?”
“Objection!” Sir Douglas stood and addressed the judge. “My lord, are we to expect a young girl to understand the hallowed judgment of a priest?”
Beauty's Doom: The final instalment of the romantic Victorian mystery (His Majesty's Theatre Book 4) Page 6