Death Called to the Bar (26 page)

Powerscourt felt rather disappointed. He wished suddenly that he had finished off the business of reading the rest of the wills. Edward had volunteered to do it for him, saying that it would be
good experience for his legal work. He felt he could not in all decency just stand up and leave now, it would look so rude to leave the man to his remote corners of the globe in less than five
minutes.

‘Can you tell me, Mr Bassett, exactly what the nature of your work at the Inn entailed?’

John Bassett smiled. ‘Seeing as I started there nearly fifty years ago, my lord, and the work didn’t change very much, I can do that right proper. Memory’s all right going back
to the Crimean War. Once up to them Boers it gets a bit hazy.’

He fidgeted about in his chair as if settling himself for some great speech.

‘Money goes in, money goes out,’ he said as if he had just discovered an eleventh commandment, ‘that’s the secret. Money comes in, that’s money for chambers,
cheaper if the gentlemen pay a year at a time, money for food, money for wine. Money goes out, wages for the servants, payments for the food and wine, payments for benchers, payments for the
gardeners, payments for painters and decorators. If the in and the out are more less the same, you’re fine. If the in is more than the out, even better. Only if the out is a lot more than the
in are you in trouble. And I can truthfully say that the out was more than the in only once in my time, my lord, and that was when we had to repaint everything unexpectedly for a visit from Queen
Victoria.’

‘That’s very clear, Mr Bassett,’ said Powerscourt, ‘and could you tell me what your relationship was with the bencher who looked after the overall financial picture? I
believe he’s called the Surveyor.’

‘That he is, sir. Just two of them I knew in my time. Mr James Knighton, he was the first, sir, and now Mr Obadiah Colebrook, why, he’s even older than me, sir, he’s eighty if
he’s a day. Funny how they don’t retire at Queen’s like they do in them other Inns, but ours not to reason why. I got on fine with both of them, sir, better with Mr Colebrook, I
think, definitely better.’

Mr Bassett leaned forward and began speaking in a confidential voice, as if he was betraying the state secrets of Queen’s Inn. ‘Fact is, my lord, that Mr Knighton, he was a Quaker or
one of those strange sects that don’t believe in washing or whatever it is, and he didn’t touch a drop. Completely teetotal. Mr Colebrook, sir, he was the wine steward as well for part
of the time, and he used to invite me to sample the latest stuff the Inn was thinking of buying. “If you like it, Bassett,” he used to say, “then the ordinary barristers will like
it too.” I was never sure whether that was a compliment or not, sir.’

‘I’m sure it was a great compliment to your palate, Mr Bassett. One of the best assets a man can have, a fine palate. Now tell me, did Mr Colebrook control a lot of money you never
saw? Money from investments, that sort of thing?’

‘There was two kinds of accounts, my lord. Both operated on the same principle, money comes in, money goes out. I was Ordinary Accounts, if you follow me, my lord. Mr Colebrook was Special
Accounts. I didn’t have anything to do with them, sir, nothing at all.’

‘You never even managed a peep at them, Mr Bassett? People can get curious sometimes.’

‘That was not my place, nor my position,’ said the little man indignantly, as if his integrity was being impugned, which perhaps it was. ‘I would never have done such a
thing.’

‘My apologies, Mr Bassett, I never meant to suggest that you might be party to some underhand action,’ said Powerscourt. Suddenly he remembered some of the bequests he had noted in
his basement. ‘Did you have anything to do with bequests for poor scholars like the ones Mr Dauntsey mentioned?’

‘That would be Mr Colebrook’s line of business, sir.’

‘I see,’ said Powerscourt. ‘And finally, Mr Bassett, was there anything you can remember about the finances of Queen’s Inn that might lead to murder, anything at
all?’

John Bassett was very quick to answer. ‘Nothing, sir, on my honour, nothing at all.’

The following afternoon Edward had promised Powerscourt a treat. For it would be the second day of the Puncknowle trial before Mr Justice Webster in a Court of the
Queen’s Bench. Maxwell Kirk, head of the Dauntsey chambers, leading for the prosecution, with Edward acting as his junior for this day, was expected to begin his cross-examination of Jeremiah
Puncknowle, the first day and a half having being taken up with the opening statements. Early in the morning the queues stretched out from the Royal Courts of Justice way down the Strand, almost as
far as Waterloo Bridge, as the British public waited for the chance to see Puncknowle in the dock. He had, after all, cheated so many of them out of their savings. So deep had he penetrated into
the lives of the working classes of Britain that four members of the jury empanelled to try him obtained exemption from service on the grounds that they had financial interests in one or other of
his companies.

Edward, Powerscourt thought, was looking even younger than usual in his wing collar and ill-fitting wig, as he brought Powerscourt past the afternoon crowds and into the court. He parked him
with the instructing solicitors one row behind the gladiatorial seats occupied by Kirk and himself, facing the jury with the judge on their right.

Kirk began in solemn fashion. He had outlined the nature of the prosecution’s case the day before. Now he intended to run the general headlines past Puncknowle at the beginning of the
cross-examination to try to establish fixed points of suspicion in the minds of the jury. Edward was partly responsible for this strategy. He and Kirk both believed that the technical aspects of
accounting practice and revaluation of assets, so crucial to their case, might pass right over the heads of the jury. Better, they had decided, to keep making the more intelligible points over and
over again.

Maxwell Kirk was not an emotional barrister. Not for him the histrionics, the dramatic gestures of a thespian advocate like the great Marshall Hall. But after a quarter of an hour it seemed as
though something was beginning to go seriously wrong. His voice grew lower. He began to shake slightly. He was sweating profusely. The defence barristers were exchanging notes with their
solicitors, Charles Augustus Pugh, shining out as the best-dressed man in the court, if not in London, with an Italian suit in light grey of exquisite cut, and a pale blue silk shirt. Edward turned
round and looked in desperation at Powerscourt. The spectators in the public gallery began to mutter to themselves. Was the man drunk? Was he having a stroke or a heart attack before their very
eyes? With a loud bang of his gavel Mr Justice Webster brought the uncertainty to an end.

‘Silence!’ he said, looking sternly at the public gallery. ‘This court is adjourned for fifteen minutes. If Mr Kirk is unable to carry on, his junior will continue in his
place.’

With that the judge swept away to his room. Two porters helped Maxwell Kirk out of the court into a waiting room at the side. One of them left to find a doctor. The spectators did not want to
leave in case they lost their places and had to go to the back of the queue. The prosecution team were looking up something in a battered law book. Edward had turned deathly pale. This was his
worst nightmare come true. He was busy talking to the clerk when Powerscourt summoned one of the runners who were lurking around the courts ready to take urgent messages.

‘Do you know Mr Kirk’s chambers in Queen’s Inn?’ The young man nodded. ‘Run as fast as you can to the top floor. Find a stenographer called Sarah Henderson. Tell
her Edward has to speak in court. She must come at once. My name is Powerscourt.’ The young man sped off. Powerscourt heard the clerk talking to Edward and the senior solicitor. ‘Until
we know precisely what has happened to Mr Kirk, Mr Edward has to carry on. We simply cannot ask for an adjournment. It would not be granted. Barristers present in court for one side or the other
are supposed to be able to continue if their colleague falls ill or breaks down. If Mr Edward does not continue, then the case will fall by default. Puncknowle will walk free. He cannot be tried on
the same charge twice. All of these villains may be free men before the end of the day. And Kirk’s chambers will never receive a brief from the Treasury Solicitor again.’

Powerscourt felt that encouragement would work better than threats. At that moment, Edward looked, if anything, more ill than the unfortunate Kirk had done just before the adjournment.
Powerscourt checked his watch. There were six minutes to go.

‘Edward,’ he said, holding the young man firmly by the elbow, ‘you wrote most of those questions for Mr Kirk, didn’t you?’

‘I wrote all of them,’ said Edward miserably.

‘Well, all you have to do is to say them yourself. You can do it. Think of all the people willing you to success, all the people in your chambers, your grandparents, Lady Lucy and Thomas
and Olivia and the twins, they all know you can do it. Think of Sarah – she’s on her way. Think of Sarah’s mother, wanting you to do well.’

‘I’ve never spoken in court before, Lord Powerscourt, never.’

‘Remember this, Edward. There was a time when Napoleon fought his first battle, there was a time when W.G. Grace played his first innings, there was a time when Casanova made his first
conquest. Sarah and I will be silently cheering you on when it starts, Edward. You’ll be fine, absolutely fine.’

This oration brought some colour back to Edward’s cheeks. Powerscourt saw he was digging his nails into the palm of his left hand. There was a rustle in court to announce the return of Mr
Justice Webster. Edward took a drink of water and picked up his notes. To his right Powerscourt sensed a hint of perfume and the swish of a skirt as Sarah squeezed in beside him. She coughed
discreetly and beamed a smile of intense, passionate devotion into the well of the court. Powerscourt thought that statues of the dead cast in bronze or marble might come back to life for such a
smile. Edward turned round and smiled back. Sarah was so nervous she seized Powerscourt’s hand and held it as if they were going down together in a sinking ship.

One person had been able to enjoy the confusion and wonder how to turn it to his advantage. Jeremiah Puncknowle, still standing in the dock, felt glad that the sombre and serious figure of
Maxwell Kirk had been removed from the scene. He patted his ample stomach and rolled his bright little eyes as he contemplated the callow youth being sent out to question him. How young the fellow
seemed! How innocent! How helpless! Jeremiah felt rather like the wolf who has not eaten for some days when he finds a herd of succulent sheep. Powerscourt remembered that Puncknowle had reneged on
his promise in Paradise. He had never been in touch about a possible threat to Powerscourt from any of his co-defendants in this case.

Mr Justice Webster glowered at the whisperers at the back of his court. ‘The case for the prosecution will resume. Mr Hastings!’

So that was Edward’s surname, Powerscourt thought. Hastings, a perfectly respectable name. He wondered if Sarah knew. For a terrible moment he thought Edward was not going to stand up. He
seemed to be rooted to his chair. Very slowly, like a tree falling in reverse, he attained the upright position and turned to face the jury. Powerscourt wondered if Edward had dreamt of this
moment, a great ordeal in court which would cure him of his stammer for ever. There was a long and terrible pause before he spoke. The judge was staring at him. Puncknowle was smiling at him as if
welcoming him into armed combat in some dreadful arena from long ago. The earnest gentlemen of the jury were mesmerized. The clerk had his head in his hands. Powerscourt closed his eyes.

‘Gentlemen of the jury,’ Edward began, slightly hesitant, but fluent, ‘you were hearing before the adjournment about the strange accounting practices of the defendant’s
companies. Mr P-P-Puncknowle.’ He turned to face the dock, struggling through the p’s but reaching the other side.

‘Objection, my lord,’ said Sir Isaac Redhead. ‘This youngster has neither the years nor the qualifications to continue this important trial which could result in my client
being falsely incarcerated for the rest of his days. The defence submits that the case be dismissed now.’

‘Mr Hastings?’ said the judge.

‘I have been published, my lord, as a practising barrister of my Inn as Sir Isaac has of his. I do not believe age has anything to do with it. Mr Edmund F-F-F-Flanagan, my lord, conducted
a defence in a murder case at the Old B-Bailey, my lord, in the year 1838, I believe, and he was only twenty-one.’

‘Objection overruled. Mr Hastings.’

‘Mr P-P-Puncknowle,’ Edward began, ‘I would like to draw your attention to various documents relating to the first of your p-p-public companies.’ There was a rustle as
judge, jury and defendant riffled through their papers for the relevant piece. Sarah Henderson wished the letter P could be erased from the English alphabet. Something told Powerscourt that things
might be all right if Edward could get through the next ten minutes and into his rhythm.

‘P-P-Page three, line seven, sir.’ Edward appeared to have decided to avoid using the Puncknowle surname altogether. ‘The figure for commission for the disposal of these shares
is some thirteen thousand p-p-pounds.’ Edward turned his absurdly young-looking face round to address the jury. ‘The normal figure for commission in the City for such a figure would be
between two and three thousand p-pounds. Why, sir,’ he turned back to face Jeremiah Puncknowle, ‘was the figure so large?’

Puncknowle smiled avuncularly at Edward. ‘I believe you must have been six or seven years old when that company was floated, young man. No doubt your expertize in its figures began at a
very early age. The figure was such, sonny, because nobody had tried to sell shares to this class of person before and the intermediaries had to be well rewarded. I don’t suppose they were
teaching you any financial lessons at school at the time. You were probably still learning to read.’

There was a low muttering from the public gallery. Powerscourt heard Sarah muttering ‘Disgraceful’ to herself several times. Her hand was still locked in his own. But Edward
didn’t seem very concerned.