Breaths of Suspicion (15 page)

Because this was to be theatre, pure, unadulterated theatre. The facts of the case, the evidence of the witnesses for the Crown, these matters were hardly relevant, and I had already decided that I would barely refer to them in my speech to the jury. I was to speak
on higher things: the freedom of the individual, the corruption of Government and the rights of every free-born Englishman; I would argue Dr Simon Bernard was a principled man of the people struggling against the might of a French despot and a weak English Government; I would refer again to the doubtful legality of the proceedings in spite of Campbell’s ruling and I would draw upon all I had learned in the stage training at John Cooper’s academy those many years ago with its grand gestures and declamatory manner, the cut and thrust of argument in the lower courts and the tension and passion that I knew could be aroused in jurymen proud of their English heritage.

Rabble-rousing? Why deny it? Demagoguery? Of course! But that was the whole point—I was appealing to the jury’s
emotions
, not the judge’s view of the law!

Even now, after all the intervening years, I feel a rush of emotion about that day. A tear of pride prickles in my eye. The speech—ah, I tell you it was a notable triumph! After the event I had my speech published. I have a copy here—let me read you some of my perorations, and you will understand how I
worked
the jury.

‘
I should have thought that when, under the dim twilight of that morning, Orsini and Pieri expiated their crime upon the guillotine at Paris enough had been done to vindicate the demands of French justice! And when the English Government was defeated upon the Conspiracy Bill introduced to please the Emperor that the Crown prosecutors would have been satisfied! But no! They seek to find the prisoner guilty of the charge of murder under an Act of Parliament which is not applicable to this case! It is a mockery—and a sham!
’

That put the cat among the pigeons, I can tell you! The infuriated shuffling among the Crown prosecutors, the brow-twitching grumbling and glaring on the Bench … but the jury was riveted.

I stood there, the sole champion of English freedoms in a corrupt court, my white-gloved left hand on my hip throwing back the skirt of my gown, my right hand extended as I had been taught
on the stage, pointing, calling for the support of the gods, the ears of all who had gone before in the pursuit of liberty, my voice raised to a thunderous roar meant to be heard not just in the Old Bailey but in all the towns and cities and hamlets and rural by-lanes of the entire country. I rolled out the final words in triumphant, declamatory tones.

‘
Let the verdict be your own, uninfluenced by the ridiculous fears of French armaments, or French invasion.…
’

Not that there had been any likelihood of such events, but that’s beside the point.

‘
Tell the prosecutor in this case that the jury box is the sanctuary of English liberty!
’

Stirring words, hey? And then there’s this bit, a little later. Here we are:

‘
Tell the prosecutor that on this spot your predecessors have resisted the arbitrary power of the Crown, backed by the influence of Crown-serving, time-serving judges!
’

There was a grand rustling of judicial ermine at that point, I can tell you! It was my finest moment! I was having the time of my life, believe me, and this was a moment that I was going to seize with all my power, with both hands, and I strained my lungs as I bellowed above the growing pandemonium in the courtroom,

‘
Tell the prosecutor that though six hundred French bayonets glittered before you, though the roar of French cannon thundered in your ears, you will return a verdict that your own breasts will sanctify, careless whether it pleases a foreign despot or no, or secures or shakes and destroys forever the throne which a tyrant has built upon the ruins of the liberty of a once free and mighty people!
’

When I sat down the noise was tremendous and I was bathed in sweat, and shaking. In truth I knew I had staked a man’s life upon an enormous gamble: ignore the evidence presented, make no attempt to overturn it, make no plea in mitigation, but merely appeal to the hearts and minds of the jury. A jingoistic gamble with
Bernard’s life—and my future career.

But the uproar continued in spite of the overwhelmed ushers; silence fell in the courtroom only when the Clerk of Arraigns called to the jury for their verdict. The foreman stood up. I did not even look at him; I was done.

In a firm tone, the foreman to the jury intoned, ‘We find the prisoner not guilty.’

T
here was a moment of stunned silence and then uproar broke loose. The loud shout of exultation began in the gallery where men and women stood up, roaring and fluttering handkerchiefs. Ladies of quality were on their feet hysterically waving their fans—except for two on the bench who had fainted—and Simon Bernard leapt up and shook his fist in triumph to his supporters in the crowd. I was immediately engulfed by a surge of enthusiastic well-wishers scrambling over the benches to embrace me as Lord Chief Justice Campbell rose from his seat, raised his hand, called vainly for silence. But he could not prevent the storm of applause, the hooting, the cheering, the shouting which was soon taken up in the crowded streets outside when news of the verdict reached the assembled throng eager to hear the result.

I was swept out of the courtroom, carried along on a tide of enthusiasm, hats being thrown in the air, street traffic at a standstill and a vast crowd insisted that I be hoisted on a succession of shoulders as I was escorted to Inner Temple Lane. Champagne bottles popped in the street, my name was chanted up and down the alleys and lanes and women threw open casement windows and waved kerchiefs and flags and—in a few cases—petticoats and other items of female apparel. By the time I reached my lodgings I was exhausted.

But next day the storm broke in another direction.

The verdict of
The Times
was that the jury’s decision had been a grave mistake.
The Saturday Review
commented gloomily on the effect the decision would have on relations between England and France. Outside England,
L’Univers
snarled that the whole episode was ‘disgusting’ and
Le Constitutionnel
vilified me personally for my ‘calumny and insults against the Emperor’. Nor was the English legal press very happy about the manner in which I had displayed my forensic talents.
The Solicitors’ Journal
declared it had formed ‘no exalted estimate either of the intelligence of the average English citizen or of the dignity of the English advocate’ and other journals such as
The Law Times
and
The Legal Observer
considered my address to the jury as tawdry, inconclusive, offensive in its effrontery, bombastic, blustering and improper! In other words they didn’t like it. They claimed I was openly approving assassination as a political solution. They claimed it had been a political speech that swayed the jury, rather than a considered peroration relying on facts in issue and the legal basis of the evidence.

And to some extent I have to admit they were right. On the other hand I had given the jury and the public what they wanted and I had saved Dr Bernard’s life. And when an excited, half-inebriated Lord Worsley dragged me out on Friday night to celebrate in Leicester Square we swaggered arm-in-arm to enter the Café Chantant. At that date the café was a popular night house where men and women gathered to smoke cigars, take coffee, eat mutton chops and Welsh rarebits along with pale ale, brandy and gin. We entered the large room, which was furnished in the French style with long mirrors, settees and marble-topped tables and as soon as the French proprietor realized the identity of the hero who had entered he dashed to the piano, mustered the small orchestra and began the singing of
Le Marseillaise
. In a moment all in the room were standing, waving champagne glasses in my direction and
singing lustily, roaring out a drunken chorus.

Free champagne was ordered for all—Lord Worsley paid the bill. And the French proprietor knew when he was on to a good thing: next day he issued placards announcing that I would be attending the café again that evening, accompanied by Dr Bernard himself and some of the jurors. In fact none of us actually made an appearance, but the proprietor did a roaring trade nevertheless.

The Bar itself was in turmoil. Some of the young hot-blooded barristers of a radical persuasion held a meeting at St Martin’s Hall where one briefless barrister called Slack issued a polemic in favour of rebellion, revolution and regicide. I had sneaked in at the back of the hall but when my presence was noted I was called forward to loud cheering to join the platform party, along with Simon Bernard.

And I fear, a little inebriated, I became somewhat carried away by the occasion. The reporters from
The Daily News
and
The Morning Star
were present, scribbling away industriously, and next day they printed what they claimed I had said,

‘
It is well known that I rejected the offer of the Crown to prosecute Bernard, a man against whom I believe an unjust and obsolete act of Parliament was put into force! Lord Chief Justice Campbell, as I told him to his face, never dared to tell the jury what an obsolete law it was.…
’

Next morning, when the effects of the inevitable hangover were still with me I realized I had gone too far by a distance, overstepped the mark, as they say. Spencer Walpole, the Home Secretary, sent me a note, invited me to his chambers and there we had a lively discussion. The Attorney General, pompous Fitzroy Kelly, had a stern word with me. I knew I had to back down and insisted that the newspapers, and particularly
The Morning Star
, had misrepresented what I had said.

I ate the appropriate humble pie in private and consequently when the matter was raised in the House the Home Secretary beat off the charges; Sir James Duke came to my support and
Lord Palmerston spoke valiantly in my defence. I received a stern wigging in private, but they all knew that my speech in the trial had caused a great wash of popular feeling in favour of Bernard, and against any kow-towing to the Emperor of the French. Political advantage could be made of that in due course.

So though the legal press still excoriated me it was another kettle of fish with the public and, equally importantly, with the attorneys. They clamoured to engage me, briefs poured into my chambers, I was called upon to act for aristocrats such as Lady Meux and Lord Dinorban and for less exalted personages such as the moneylender Truelove, an inflammable chemist sued for breach of promise of marriage, and a client who was constantly under the delusion that there was a blue pig under his bed. I gave each my full attention.

I appeared at Carlisle, Liverpool, Chelmsford, York, Guildford and Lancaster and on each occasion the courtroom was crowded with enthusiastic supporters who had come to hear me speak. A horse racing case here, a trespass there—wherever I went it seemed my fame had gone before.

It was a fame the Government could not ignore. They knew they
needed
me.

There was to be a by-election at Reigate and it was intimated to me by Spencer Perceval that I would receive ministerial support if I threw my cap in the ring. I did so.

Unfortunately, it turned out to be a financial fiasco.

After I had once again spent a considerable amount of money in canvassing it emerged that there was some doubt whether the Speaker of the House of Commons had been legally entitled to issue the writ for the by-election and while the wrangling went on I retired in disgust to the summer assizes, then went shooting in Scotland, visited Lord Petre’s country seat and then found, late in the day, the Speaker had finally issued the writ.

I dashed back to Reigate at more expense but I faced the
conditions I had seen at Southampton all over again: low class labourers and railway navigators who stormed the doors of the Town Hall, threw fruit and eggs and lighted fireworks and prevented me from speaking. It wasn’t political opposition; it was just the effects of drunken mayhem.

I didn’t even bother to appear at the hustings.

For I had been warned that Lord Ebrington, MP for Marylebone, might be on the point of relinquishing his seat as a consequence of ill health: in the middle of the Reigate debacle Lord Derby, then Prime Minister, had a conversation with me over cards at Brooks’ and I was offered the assistance of others present at the occasion: James Wyld MP, Colonel Dickson and Sir James Duke, all men of influence in the borough.

I realized this was my big chance.

You see, at that time Marylebone was perhaps the most important constituency in England. It was also the most expensive—but I was well known in London, echoes of the Bernard case still resounded in the streets and I had the experience gained at Horsham and Boston behind me. So, encouraged by the Government, I launched myself vigorously into the campaign.

The first thing I did was to get the licensed victuallers on my side by promising to hold my election meetings on their premises. I got the whole of St Pancras up in arms when the Vestry refused me the use of Vestry Hall: I denounced this as an aristocratic plot to keep me—a man of the people—out of Parliament and then I launched into tirades of complaint about political jerrymandering. My opponent was the well-connected Colonel Romilly, who suggested that a straightforward soldier was preferable to a tricky lawyer but that line cut no ice with the electors and I fanned the flames of prejudice and resentment, just as I had in the defence of Simon Bernard. I spoke of secret arrangements in Eaton Square drawing rooms, of aristocrats who wanted to treat Marylebone like a pocket borough, of betrayal of the principles of the Reform Act
of 1832. In short, I buried the political promises of Colonel Romilly under a welter of noble aims and principles on my part, I inflamed the minds of my audiences, I persuaded them they were taking part in an event of historic importance.

But I not only brought the electors to a pitch of indignant excitement, I
involved
them, encouraged them, drew them close with my sense of humour. I reminded them that unlike my opponent I actually lived in the borough—albeit as a bachelor. This brought forth ribald comments that on the contrary, I was well known for having at least three ‘wives’ in Westminster. Of course, this was not far from the truth so I encouraged the laughter, made jokes, brought the wave of feeling to my side.

And at the hustings, on the show of hands I was declared the choice of the voters on the day. A poll was, of course, demanded by Romilly, but as I waited for the result I felt confident: the electoral bruising I had suffered at Horsham, Boston, Hull, Southampton and Reigate could be forgotten.

I had tasted the aperitifs of professional success; now, I knew in my bones that I was about to enjoy the caviar of power.

And so it came about: the most important constituency in England had made up its mind and I was given the majority of the three thousand votes cast.

I remember
The Times
sighing with relief on my behalf. I kept the cutting. Here it is.

‘
MR EDWIN JAMES QC has been elected for Marylebone by an enormous majority. He has worked long and been rejected often; but his perseverance has received a rich reward at last
.’

Rich reward indeed: I saw it as my first step towards a
long-anticipated
progress to Solicitor General, Attorney General and, eventually, a judge’s wig, or the Woolsack itself as Lord Chancellor. Rich reward … but I have to admit it cost me a great deal to achieve.

How much? Well.…

Marylebone was known to be the most expensive borough in England. It was known that the seat had cost Lord Dudley Stuart £7,000 in 1847 while Lord Ebrington had expended £5,000 and Jacob Bell £3,000.
The Times
reckoned it must have cost me at least £5,000. That was, in fact, a considerable underestimate. When all the bills had come in I had to find in excess of £8,000.

How could I afford the enormous expense? I’ve already intimated, my boy, that I was now among the highest paid advocates of the day. My yearly income was in excess of £7,000 per annum!

You grimace. Well, yes, I agree my earnings, large though they were, could not justify or support such an election expenditure. Also, I was very unlucky. I took my seat in Parliament but only five weeks later, on All Fools Day, a political crisis was reached. Lord Derby, in his minority government, had brought in a Reform Bill. I voted with the majority but in a welter of confusion where no one seemed to know what the result of the vote was, the Bill was regarded as rejected.

Lord Derby immediately resigned. A General Election was called.

So I had to face the electors of Marylebone all over again. And that meant yet another crippling bout of expenditure.

I had good, supportive friends: Sir James Duke, Colonel Dickson, Sir John Shelley, Baron Watson and the other candidate for one of the two seats at Marylebone, Sir Benjamin Hall. They all gathered around to back me but the fight had to begin again. Things were made more difficult by a Tory barrister called Haig who nominated Lord Stanley for the seat, even though it transpired that that gentleman intended standing at King’s Lynn. It was nothing more than a scandalous attempt to embarrass the Liberals financially and
The Times
rightly denounced Haig by stating that he was merely out to put the two real candidates—Ben Hall and
me—to further expense of canvassing, eating, drinking, agency, carrying and polling.

I was furious, but could do nothing about it—and the expenses mounted again and we dug deeper into our pockets, Ben Hall and I.

I was not really worried about the result. The spectral contender, Lord Stanley, he obtained only 1,083 votes. Sir Benjamin Hall obtained 4,698. As for me, I garnered 5,199 and stood at the head of the poll. I would be a member of the House once more—this time with the possibility of a rather longer tenure.

I was buttonholed later that evening by John Delane, editor of
The Times
, who offered me his hand in congratulation. But looking me in the eye, he remarked, ‘You know, James, generally speaking, a man must be either very near a peerage or very near the judicial bench, or very near the Queen’s Bench, if he thinks Marylebone a prize worth going for.’

I made no response beyond a knowing smile, but I saw the gleam in his eye and I knew that he was aware soundings had already been made to me by the main men who would take their places in the new government.

‘Prince Albert won’t like it,’ Delane informed me. ‘He don’t like your style, James.’